by Nancy Naigle
She hiked up to the next block and placed a to-go order at the diner. Then she headed back to her apartment to get down to work.
She juggled the flimsy chef salad container in one hand and a cup of sweet tea and the folder from Jack against her chest as she worked the key in the lock to the apartment.
Kicking the door closed with her foot, she unloaded her arms on the desk and hit the Power button on her laptop.
One quick minute to scan her e-mail for anything critical while she’d been out was all she spent on it. Evelyn had responded to her note about filling in on the police blotter while she was here. She didn’t mind. Savannah had known she wouldn’t, since it would help with the articles she was working on for Evelyn anyway.
“Good deal.” She opened the folder and started flipping through the handwritten pages of the police blotter notes. She’d give her right arm to get the whole story on each of the summarized events. Most of them were worded in a way that left a lot open to interpretation. She wondered if the vague nature of the content was on purpose. Did they mean to make it funny?
6/5 5:15 p.m. A grandson is continually breaking into his grandfather’s locked cabinet and stealing his quarters for the laundry.
6/6 9:36 a.m. A fireman’s ladder was reported stolen from the side of a house on Magnolia Street.
6/6 12:49 p.m. A dog was seen panting inside of a red Toyota in front of the Piggly Wiggly. It may be suffering. Turned out to be the taxidermy remains of the family pet.
6/6 12:57 p.m. A woman is trying to figure out what’s behind an odd poem taped to her front door that says “Every door that opens is one closed for someone else.” She found that the same poem had been left at houses all over her neighborhood. The neighborhood watch has engaged in an all-nighter.
6/6 3:23 p.m. A former mother-in-law was chagrined to receive a letter from her ex-daughter-in-law.
6/6 5:10 p.m. A woman reported that a homeless man was approaching people during the parade on Saturday preaching about a dangerous message in a painting at the yoga studio.
6/7 6:28 a.m. An injured cat was reported on Bleeker Street. When the officer arrived to check on its condition, the cat suddenly jumped up and climbed a tree. The fire department was dispatched to perform the rescue.
6/7 9:57 a.m. Mac’s Bakery received two threats from an unknown female for making her fat with their bear claws.
6/7 10:18 a.m. Called out to Hunters Lane about a nuisance dog. New resident stated that the barking dog case has followed him all the way from Florida.
6/7 3:25 p.m. A man is getting around a trespassing order against him by making harassing phone calls to his ex-girlfriend.
6/7 8:42 p.m. A resident of Purdy Manor wants to complain to a neighbor about his barking dog, but the neighbor is never at home.
Since the paper only came out twice a week, she really would only have to spend an hour or so twice a week on the task, even with all the typing. It was actually proving to be pretty entertaining. She was nearly done with the stack when her phone whistled.
That was the sound she used for texts from Aunt Cathy. Like a cuckoo bird, which seemed fitting. Momma used to say Aunt Cathy was plumb crazy. Her momma would always follow it up with—“but the good kind.” Was there really a good kind of crazy?
Momma had never meant it unkindly. She and her sister, Cathy, were so close it was like they were twins. When Momma and Dad died that night, the only thing nearly as bad as losing them was the fact that Aunt Cathy had withdrawn from Savannah so completely.
It had been a clear night, and there was no weather-related reason why Dad had lost control of the vehicle. Although Savannah had remembered the headlights of the oncoming car, there wasn’t any evidence of it. Having no answers was hard for Aunt Cathy. She needed answers. She’d even asked Savannah if she’d been arguing with them when the car had gone off the road. She hadn’t been, but the fact that her parents would have never been on the road if she hadn’t been drinking that night made Savannah feel responsible anyway. She’d never been able to forgive herself, and she knew the town wouldn’t either.
The sheriff had questioned her a thousand times over. So many that there was a point when she began to question what happened herself. In the end they called it an accident, but the tongues were already wagging. The damage was done.
Savannah grabbed the phone and absently thumbed in the code to check the message.
Pictures from the wedding.
She only recognized about half the people in the pictures. People changed a lot in eight years.
She could almost imagine the hushed whispers about her since she didn’t attend the wedding. Maybe it was just as well that she didn’t go. The stares. The questions. There’d still have been those “bless her heart” whispers even if she’d been there. You can’t change the past.
Everyone in the pictures looked so happy.
She’d never even met her cousin Winnie. Technically, they weren’t related at all. She was Uncle Stu’s third wife’s daughter. She hadn’t even lived in Belles Corner when Savannah lived there. But they all probably accepted her more than they ever would Savannah after all that had happened. Aunt Cathy certainly had accepted her stepniece. That stung.
Tripp looked good. Really good. And happy.
The smiling faces she did recognize were people she’d gone to school with. Aunt Cathy had aged. A lot. Funny how in her mind everyone had stayed exactly the same as they were the day she’d left town . . . well, even younger than that, in a way.
She skipped back to the picture of Tripp. He’d been good to her. He deserved a wife who loved him more than she ever could. So why did it make her feel just a little bit jealous to see him so happy? It had been her idea to end the marriage. He was so miserable in northern Virginia, and she didn’t really love him the way a wife should love her husband. Not that she realized it at the time. When her parents died, it was Tripp who was by her side. He shielded her, gave her reasons to live on while the whole community seemed to stare at her in pity, or blame, or . . . heck, she still wasn’t sure. Even Monica, her very best friend, had seemed to get wrapped up in all the talk and speculation, and that made her dive even closer to Tripp.
He’d always said he wanted out of that town, so his dream became her rescue. She couldn’t wait to go on his adventure, but when it came down to it, he hated the hustle and bustle of the big city. And when his dad got sick, it was all the excuse he needed to move back home to Belles Corner. He’d promised to come back, but she knew once he left, she needed to let him go.
Tripp had begged her to at least visit and try to work things out, but she just couldn’t bring herself to go back. And maybe it wasn’t even that she wanted to be in a big city. It was just that she needed to be out of that small town. She needed to leave that history behind.
He was married. She wasn’t. He’d finally found happiness . . . and she was still afraid to even look for it.
Compromise had never been her strong suit. She dated, and she’d had plenty of opportunities for relationships, but she’d managed to keep all of them at arm’s length ever since the divorce. Tripp had been the only one who had ever even gotten close to getting past the bulletproof shield she kept up in front of her heart.
It was probably best that way anyway. Especially for the last two years, as she continued to hide her connection to the Advice from Van column. That would have been nearly impossible if she’d had a spouse, or even a serious guy, in the picture.
The column wasn’t that long, but it took an incredible amount of time to get through all the stuff to put it together. The amount of mail she got each week for that column was crazy. What didn’t practically take down the server in the form of e-mails came in big tubs, sometimes even huge cotton USPS sacks, every single week. There were two people to pre-sort some of it, but she still went through the final review, because finding the letters that weren’t from
the true nut jobs, that had potential for the next column, was just easier to do on her own. They’d tried hiring interns in that role, but the letters had to spark something in her to make the humorous impact that folks had grown to expect.
Savannah’s phone did a vibrating dance across the table, followed by the sound of clicking typewriter keys.
It wasn’t a total surprise to hear Evelyn’s ringtone.
Even if it had been Evelyn’s suggestion that she try to enjoy some downtime while writing those stories, it was highly unlikely that she’d be able to wait to hear how things were going. That woman never rested. They were alike in that way. She and Evelyn had gotten into such a routine of talking on the phone every morning that the line between friendship and employer/employee had blurred and stayed blurred.
Besides that, Evelyn had taken her under her wing when she first hit DC, and she was the closest thing Savannah had to a parent figure now. She’d never do anything to put that relationship at risk.
Savannah snagged the phone and punched the button to answer. “Tell me you absolutely adore that story I sent you yesterday.”
Evelyn’s bubbly laugh was enough to confirm her agreement. “I do adore it.”
Savannah raised her hands in the air in a little happy dance. Evelyn never pulled a punch. Savannah always knew exactly where she stood and exactly what Evelyn was thinking. There was no candy coating. Savannah loved that about Evelyn. “Now tell me how awesome I am for knocking it out so quickly.”
“Amazing and awesome.”
“Thank you.” Making Evelyn proud always felt good. “What’s up?”
“Checking in. How’re things going?”
“You got your story, didn’t you? I’d say they’re going well.”
“Got any angles for the others yet?”
“No, but I’m having tea with a sweet old lady on Tuesday. She knows everyone and everything around here. I’m sure I’ll get something good from that.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yep.”
“What’re you doing today?”
“I just met with the guy over at the paper about the police blotter. Thanks for letting me do that. It’ll give me some good details for the articles, but they really needed the help too. It’s just an old guy and his sister running the little paper down here. Nothing much else planned, but I’ll maybe get my brakes checked out, but that won’t take much time. Why?”
“Nothing big. I’ve got a courier on the way to your place.”
“Here? In Adams Grove?” Whatever on earth for? Maybe she was sending a fruit basket or something.
“Yes, there. Wouldn’t do me any good to send you stuff at your apartment up here.”
“With what?”
“The Van letters.”
“Ev—”
“Don’t worry. I know what you’re thinking. I’m going to hold up my end of the bargain, but if you’d seen Andrew’s face when he saw all that mail . . . He didn’t even know where to begin. I just need you to dig out a week’s worth of good ones to get him started.”
I’ll never get rid of this. Andrew Jones will never pull it off.
“I promise that’s the end. I told you we’d talk about it when you get back and we will.”
She sure hoped so. She let out a sigh.
“I heard that. Don’t get stressed out on me. I’ll extend the lease on your little home away from home an extra week and throw in a little bonus of use of the Nats box seat tickets if you do.”
Savannah loved a good hot dog at a Nats game. “Deal, if I can use the box seats this month and next month.”
“Done,” Evelyn said without even a second of hesitation. “He should be there shortly.”
Of course he would. Evelyn wasn’t calling to ask. She’d already set those wheels in motion hours ago. Heck, if Savannah knew Evelyn, she’d set it up during the parade!
It had been too long since she’d been to a Nats game. Evelyn was not a fan. Her husband had been, and one of his friends had gifted her those box seats in his honor when the team first came to DC. Evelyn mostly just dangled them as a bonus to inspire the behavior she wanted out of people. Call it manipulation, bargaining, whatever . . . it was what Evelyn did best. For just a tiny moment she allowed herself to imagine sitting in those box seats next to Dad. He probably wouldn’t have been proud of her for the contents of the Advice from Van column, but he would have absolutely flat-out loved watching a pro ball game from those seats. He was the whole reason she’d ever fallen in love with the sport.
A loud knock on her door sent Savannah tumbling back to the present.
The courier.
She scrambled up from the couch, and without bothering to look through the peephole first, she swung open the door and said, “You can just put the boxes over there.” She used a sweeping motion of her hand toward the sofa.
“Excuse me?”
Savannah peeked around the man standing in front of her. There were no boxes, although he’d have had no problems lugging some up the stairs with those arms.
“I’m your neighbor.” He held out his hand. “Mike Hartman.”
“Oh?” Savannah shrank back, embarrassed, then shook his hand. Well, he wasn’t at all what she’d pictured him to be. He was about the farthest thing from an old, stodgy, cigarette-scented private investigator as you could get. His grip was firm, and that was no surprise by the curve of his bicep. This guy was in great shape, and if he had a vice, it was probably sit-ups, not cigarettes. “You’ve got great taste in music.”
“Sorry about that.” He looked embarrassed. “Connor didn’t tell me anyone had moved in until this morning. I don’t normally crank it up like that. I thought no one was around. Sorry.”
“No worries. I enjoyed it.”
“Glad you didn’t hear me singing.”
She laughed. “No. Can’t say that I noticed. I guess the walls are better insulated than we thought, or you can carry a tune pretty well. Trust me, if I had sung, you’d have known it. The dogs would’ve howled and the paramedics would have probably raced up to save me from myself.”
His face relaxed into a smile.
“Well, I just wanted to introduce myself. If you need anything, let me know.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“And if I get too loud . . . just pound on the wall.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.” She meant it, but her attention was redirected at the sound of clomping up the stairway.
A familiar voice said, “Hey, girl. You had to be upstairs, didn’t you.”
She immediately recognized the guy carrying a wide corrugated USPS bin full of letters. This wasn’t just any courier. It was the mailroom guy, and he had a GINN tote over each shoulder too. “George? She let you out for the day?”
“Yeah, thought it was a sweet deal until I realized how far away you were, and how heavy these are without a cart! Where do you want these?”
“How many are there?”
“Six.”
She caught the scrunch of lines forming in Mike’s forehead. How the heck would she play this off?
“Just drop them in the living room. I’ll take care of them.”
George turned sideways and shuffled past her. The bin dropped to the floor with a thud. Then he whisked past them and ran downstairs to get the rest, which she could now see he’d left stacked at the bottom of the stairs.
“Need help?” Mike called down after him.
“No!” Savannah grabbed his arm. “No. He’s got them. He does this all the time.”
“What is all that?”
“She’s famous.” George was huffing, but it sure wasn’t stopping him from talking. She’d like to kill him about now. He knew it was supposed to be hush-hush.
“I’m not.” She rolled her eyes, playing it down with her new neighbor. “He’s kidding aroun
d.”
Mike didn’t look so convinced. “Fan mail?”
The courier busted out laughing.
She gave him the stink-eye and he immediately swallowed the rest of his hardy-har-harring.
She turned her back on George. “No. Not fan mail. It’s just part of my . . . research.”
Mike looked like he was trying to get a read on her. “Research?”
“Yeah.” If she were researching what made people crazy-mad, sad, or just downright combative . . . She had about all she’d need to make one helluva graph out of all this data. Of course, she didn’t really give two hoots about all that. She just did it for the paycheck, and for Evelyn. Evelyn had given her a chance at that paper when she really had no right to even earn an unpaid internship. For some reason Evelyn had believed in the little country girl.
Savannah would never be able to repay Evelyn for all she’d done for her. She remembered the outfit she’d worn to that interview. It was actually the dress she’d worn to prom. Bright purple, her favorite color, and shiny. Aunt Cathy had cut it off to make it short so she could wear it to the Valentine’s Day dance one year. It was the nicest dress she’d owned at the time. And entirely inappropriate for a business interview. But it must have touched Evelyn’s heart because she’d hired her on the spot.
She’d even hired Tripp to do some handiwork around the old building when she heard he was out of work. Once Tripp left to go back to Belles Corner, Evelyn made quick work of moving Savannah out of the awful neighborhood they’d lived in, saying it was one thing when she was married and it was all they’d been able to afford, but no place for a young woman on her own.
Yes, Evelyn had been a true blessing for her. It just proved over and over again that moving to DC had been the right thing to do.
Mike leaned against the doorjamb. “That’s an awful lot of mail. Sure seems to me that it would be easier to just do your research online.”
He had no idea just how much baggage she carried around, but she wasn’t about to get into that with him.