It wasn’t like she’d never thought about reaching out. A few times, in the days following the rape, she’d lifted the phone to call, tell them what had happened. Each time, though, she’d put the handset down. The reasons for silence held great power over her.
She pushed aside the past and opened his second e-mail, sent to her two hours ago.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: The past and lyrics
Back to our conversation…
I’m not a big fan of self-help books, but maybe I should get the one you’ve been reading. This past week, my life has been flipped upside down. Since we agreed not to tell anything too personal in our e-mails, I’ll only tell it’s job related and I’m facing a personal challenge.
I once read a quote by Oscar Wilde—“The only difference between a saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.” Let’s say I look forward to my future.
Veronica mulled over the line “every sinner has a future” several times. Had Ry done something bad? Did it matter? At least he appeared to deal with whatever he’d done. She continued to read.
I’m curious (no pressure)…any luck with lyrics for my latest piece? I’ve dabbled in a few lines, but lyrics aren’t my strong suit. If between the two of us, we can’t come up with any, then I’ll have a nice fall instrumental, my favorite season. What’s yours?
Ry
The lyrics. They weren’t forgotten. Quite the opposite. Out of nowhere she’d catch herself dwelling on his response; he’d meant the piece to be about “hope.” This latest quote about sinners and saints showed some deep emotion and issues ran through Ry’s life.
She stood, went to the kitchen, and poured a glass of orange juice, mulling over everyone’s bravery but her own. What if she told someone about her attack? Cassidy seemed relieved after they’d talked. A real confession might do wonders for Veronica.
But to whom?
Dumping the details on her family would raise all sorts of chaos because she’d kept a secret from them. Her friends would discuss the topic to death. Bernadette might even suggest revenge or a lawsuit, always one step from lawyer-mode thanks to her job.
Then it hit her. There was a low risk way to stick her toe in the waters of complete honesty. A place where she might hide, especially if this turned weird after she let the so-called cat out of the bag. She returned to her computer, put down her juice, and hit reply.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Lyrics and courage
I’m still thinking on those lyrics. I’m honored and thrilled to help with the song. Only the mood has to strike. As an artist, I’m sure you understand.
Whatever your challenges, you should be damn proud of yourself for facing them. This weekend, a teenager I know showed me bravery, too. A boy in her school was sexually harassing her, even may have crossed the line into sexual assault. I marveled at her courage in telling me. Especially because I’ve hid the truth about a similar thing that happened to me close to twenty years ago. This young lady’s confession forced me to admit one thing—I’ve lived in denial for far too long.
She lifted her fingers from the keyboard and reread what she’d typed. She licked her lips, suddenly dry. Carefully and thoughtfully, she typed.
A man sexually assaulted me years ago. A horrible assault. I’ve never told anybody. Ever. Now I’ve told you. I hope you don’t mind, but I needed to take this first step in admitting what happened to me so long ago. Fixing how it has ruled my life will be the hard part.
Before she lost her bravado, she typed Etta and hit send. The split second the e-mail vanished into cyber-space, a wave of regret rolled across her chest. The real message sandwiched between her lines was the four-letter word she’d avoided…rape.
Even after all this time, the word still made her feel dirty. Despite all logic, including her understanding that the act of rape was about violence, not love.
Remorse over the hasty confession rushed her like a 250-pound linebacker. A confession she now couldn’t take back.
Chapter 8
“I look forward to the book group.” Veronica smiled at the local historian, always a draw when he spoke at the library.
“Me, too.” The curly haired man clutched his work of historical fiction to his chest—a Revolutionary War saga set during the battle of the Connecticut Farms. “I’ll be in touch before the event.”
She turned into her office just in time to hear the muted chime of her cell phone in her desk drawer. She grabbed it fast and answered, settling in her chair.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Ronnie.”
She recognized Gail’s bubbly voice, always one step from the edge of excitement. “Hi, Gail. Home from vacation?”
“Not yet. We’re at the airport now, with two hours to kill. First good cell service we’ve had all week. Leave it to my husband to find a vacation place where I can’t talk to my friends. The house-sitter said you called?”
“It wasn’t important. I’ve been meaning to touch base since the library luncheon.” Veronica played with ways to bring up the real reason she’d called Gail, but the idea of asking about Carin and Gary left her tongue in a twisted mess. “You’d have loved the keynote speaker.”
“I wanted to go, but the week was crazy. Packing for vacation, picking up Josh at camp—oh, I saw you RSVP’d to the party. Hold on.” Gail’s voice faded as she moved away and spoke to one of her kids. A second later, she returned. “People have been slow to respond.”
“Sophie’s tasting room has its grand opening the day after your party. If you guys are free, you should drive over.”
“Sounds fun.”
“I noticed Carin on the list this year. What’s with that? She hasn’t come in forever.” Veronica’s heartbeat bobbed with terrified urgency, the prospect of answers about Gary’s emergence a truth she almost didn’t want to face.
“She sent me a Christmas card for the first time in ages. Seems she divorced the lawyer who dragged her out to the West Coast and has moved back to her hometown. Stamford, I think.”
“So has she remarried?” Veronica cleared her throat, the words suddenly stuck. “I noticed a man in her profile picture.”
“He’s her new husband. You know our girl Carin.” Gail chuckled. “Always a guy on her arm, and if there wasn’t, she’d find one soon enough.”
Veronica forced a fake laugh. “How’d she meet this one?”
“Get this small world story. She joined some singles group in Westport and a guy she met there had attended the same grad school as us. Same years, too, only he’d been in the school of business.”
“Oh?”
“His name’s Gary Tishman. Do you remember him?”
“Doesn’t sound familiar,” she lied. “Will they be coming?”
“She hasn’t replied yet, but I hope so. It’s been too long since…”
The words dissolved to a hollow ring as the loud drum of Veronica’s heartbeat thrashed in her ears. She squeezed her eyes tight and wished away the horror closing in on her, leaving her trapped as a caged animal.
“Ronnie?”
“Sorry, Gail. Can I call you back? Someone just stopped in my office.”
“Sure thing. We’ll catch up soon.”
“Have a safe flight.” She hung up and leaned back in her chair, numbed by the reality of the party.
After all these years, she’d never dreamed she’d have to face him. She needed something to help her cope. The blockade keeping her afloat and feeling safe for so long was coming loose, one brick at a time. Cassidy had said she’d love to take a self-defense class and Veronica’s sister had agreed. Veronica wasn’t a hundred percent sold on the idea, but reminded herself that not only could her niece benefit from taking the class, she could, too.
Or a simple lie could get her out of Gail’s party,
an easy way to avoid Gary.
But what about the next year? And the year after that? How long could she hide?
* * * *
Come on! You’ve done this before!
Trent’s internal pep talk did little to move him from the driver’s seat of his car. Instead, he stared at the Congregational church’s towering bell steeple and fiddled with his cell phone.
A little extra support was all Trent needed certain days. Like today, although he couldn’t say why. Some days, you just did. At those moments, AA did the trick—a place where others understood the urge to turn to a substance. The sheer number of AA meetings in Connecticut blew him away. Proof he wasn’t alone with his struggles.
A sedan pulled into the space next to him, and a man got out. Trent pretended to be absorbed in his phone as he watched the guy disappear into the church’s side door.
Based on cars, it was a big crowd for eight AM. This meeting, in New Scotland, would hopefully offer privacy from his life in Northbridge and give him support to remain on a clean and sober path.
A few minutes later, he approached the building, coffee cup in hand. He opened the doorway the others had gone through and crossed the threshold into a musty foyer. At the bottom of a short flight of stairs, fluorescent lights and the low hum of voices showed him the way.
He quietly entered the large room, his footsteps making the faded wood floor creak. Rows of metal folding chairs faced a small oak dais, where a woman with salt-and-pepper hair spoke to the group. About half the seats were filled, maybe around twelve people. He quickly sat and exhaled a relieved breath to have made it this far.
Fifteen minutes later, the speaker finished and asked if anybody new to the group wanted to speak. Trent’s leg jiggled. He’d grown accustomed to the crowd where he’d first joined AA in Manhattan, even returning there for meetings when Duncan moved the firm to Hartford. Remaining silent, Trent stared at his cup and opted to just observe this time around.
Another person stood and went to the dais. Trent sighed, relieved he wasn’t the only new guy on the block.
Someone from behind touched his shoulder. Trent turned around.
“Welcome.” Cliff Rogers, Sophie’s former boss who he’d spoken to at the birthday party, sat behind him.
“Oh, hey,” Trent said quietly, trying to hide his surprise. “Nice to see you.”
He turned back to the speaker. The brief conversation with Cliff at the party wasn’t forgotten, nor how it had made Trent feel unexpectedly welcome that night. For the first time this morning, Trent relaxed.
Either the world had just gotten smaller, or fate was finally dealing a decent hand.
* * * *
Jay pushed open the door of his truck, and the hinges squeaked. He pointed to a large, dated brick building with a dome in the center and said to Trent, “There’s the municipal building, where Marion works. Used to be the only school in town. I’ll be about a half hour. I want to get back to the farm by four. I’m expecting a phone call. Does that give you enough time?”
“Plenty.”
They went separate directions. Trent crossed Main Street, heading toward a strip of stores located in some old clapboard and brick buildings, probably dating back to the 1920s, some even earlier. He passed a dirty-brown small brick building, with crooked letters spelling out “United States Post Office, Northbridge, Connecticut.” The building needed a makeover, probably a low priority in this small town.
On his way past the glass door, he caught his reflection. A Yankees cap, tucked out T-shirt, and faded jeans. He chuckled to himself. Without much effort, he fit right in, although Jay grumbled about his team loyalties.
Trent turned up a walkway leading to the municipal building. In the center of the lawn, an American flag flapped from a gentle breeze.
After entering the building, he rounded a corner and—
“Oh, Trent.” Buzz stood nearly nose to nose with Trent. The town’s first selectman gave the appearance of a man hard at work, his dress shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. His short breaths hinted he’d been walking fast. He pressed his lips tight, and the cracked lines of his face tensed further. “Marion said you’d be stopping by.”
“Good to see you again.” Trent offered his hand.
Buzz reluctantly took it and shook. He tilted his head. “Head that-a-way to her office. There’s a sign outside the door. Says parks and recreation.”
He walked away in the opposite direction.
Buzz’s reaction needled him. He shouldn’t care about this guy’s approval when all that mattered was how he and Marion got along, and yet, as he made his way to Marion’s office, the negative karma followed.
He found the Parks and Recreation department. They visited the gym where he’d teach his self-defense class tomorrow night, and she handed over a preliminary student roster, explaining how she might be adding names of any late enrollees. They returned to her office.
“Hold on a sec.” She reached into her desk, removed another paper, and handed it to him. “This was my dad’s. I think he’d want you to have it.” Though alone in the office suite, she whispered, “He’d want his grandson to have it.”
Trent studied the hand-scratched sheet music, overwhelmed to be holding something created by a grandfather he’d never know. “Wow, thanks. I’m really touched.”
Marion’s eyes watered, but she blinked away the wetness. “It’s not much.”
Trent hugged her, an act that came easily with her gesture, and left to go meet Jay.
He’d never dreamed by moving here at the age of forty-five, the missing chunks of his life might come together so quickly. On his way back to the truck, his mind remained cloudy with thoughts of what might have been if he’d never been adopted.
The blaring horn of a passing car made Trent look across the street. While watching the angry driver gesture at another car, Trent’s peripheral vision caught the hurried gait of a person on the sidewalk.
Veronica Sussingham walked fast and with purpose toward the old white colonial with a sign reading “Northbridge Public Library.” Her flowing white skirt hugged her lean frame at the hips but blossomed like petals at her knees. A sleeveless top revealed beautiful long arms; arms she’d looped around his neck on Saturday night.
Caught up in a whirlpool of emotion, he stopped, suddenly thankful he and Angie had discussed keeping things casual between them going forward.
A long strand of pearls jiggled against her chest. Pearls. He liked the nickname, even though she didn’t seem to. The gem name suited her. Classy. Tough on the outside, yet on the inside… Who knew what was on the inside? Her soft lips had cast a magic spell on him and their one dance ended too quickly.
A passing minivan beeped. She smiled, raised her arm to wave to the driver as it flew past. As she lowered her arm, she slowed her pace, then stopped. From across the street, she stared back at Trent. Her smile for the driver of the car vanished, making him freeze in place, his usual certainty with woman disabled.
She hurried to the library and disappeared through the doors, without even a short greeting.
“Hey!” Jay yelled. He headed in Trent’s direction. “Ready to go?”
A wave of disappointment ambushed Trent. “Sure.”
Chapter 9
From the driver’s seat of Gabby’s sedan, the feisty reporter—whose petite frame and sweet demeanor belied her unyielding gumption—debated with Charlotte. Veronica sat in the passenger seat and tuned out the discussion about the correct tempo for a new number their choral director had selected for the upcoming Harvest Festival.
Tonight’s chorus practice had gone well, especially solo try-outs. She felt positive she’d get the part. Her cell phone vibrated inside her purse, and she dug through until locating the slim edges in the bottom of the bag. A text from Cassidy read, What do I wear for class? Veronica replied, Comfortable, like for exercise.
Tomorrow night’s self-defense class had stirred all kinds of e
motions, one minute threatening to undo the tightly secured ends of Veronica’s calm exterior, the next offering some welcome relief. Confessing to Ry was a first slip of the secret. Ry’s judgment-free response left her with no regrets at what she’d shared. For the first time in twenty years, the statement “confession is good for the soul” held some truth—even if she’d spoken through the Internet veil that kept her safe. She almost believed this class might not only boost Cassidy’s confidence, but her own.
“Oh, guess what I heard at the station this week?” Charlotte’s head appeared between the front bucket seats, her blond layers falling forward. “I mean, it’s pure gossip, so maybe I shouldn’t—”
“Don’t you dare clam up now.” Gabby glanced into the rearview mirror. “Now I’m way too curious.”
“This won’t end up in the Gazette, right, Miss Senior Staff Reporter? It’s off the record.”
Gabby chuckled. “Char, all our conversations are off the record.”
“So you say. But I’ll tell anyway.” She inched closer to the front seat. “Buzz Harris came to the station to talk to the chief the other day. He said some new guy in town who works at the vineyard is a troublemaker.” She turned to Veronica. “Didn’t Duncan just hire his brother?”
She nodded. “He did. Shouldn’t you be wearing your seat belt?”
Charlotte rolled her eyes and leaned back.
Gabby glanced at Veronica. “Was he the tall, nice-looking guy with the va-va-voom sexpot at his side at Sophie’s party? The one my husband kept gawking at until I finally asked him to stop.”
“That’s the guy. She was quite a sight, wasn’t she?”
Charlotte’s seatbelt clicked in the backseat, and Veronica turned around. “You know Char, just because Buzz doesn’t like someone, doesn’t mean what he says about them is true. Did he give any concrete reasons?”
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