“No,” she whispered.
“No?” Rhett gave her a distrustful smile. “You hurt my sister. More than once. I’ve talked to Brad and Vicki. I know about you.”
Heidi stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rhett’s hand tightened on the doorknob of the open front door. “You’re all about yourself.”
This time Heidi bit her cheek. The bad habit of biting the insides of her mouth was her war against the senselessness of panic. But this—this was worse. It was hearing the statement her parents, her sister, had drilled into her through her growing-up years as she rebelled against strong restrictions and battled against anxiety defined as lack of faith.
You’re selfish.
You’re not submissive.
You’re only concerned about yourself.
You need to just realize everything is fine and get over it.
Heidi opened her mouth to respond, but her lower lip trembled. She bit down and cleared her throat, finally able to level her gaze on the man.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered.
Rhett met her eyes. “No?”
“No.” Heidi shook her head. “And you don’t deserve to know. Not any of it.”
Rhett gave his head a distinct nod toward the door. “Then you can go.”
Heidi gave a swift glance over her shoulder. Toward the room where Emma rested with Ducie.
“I don’t want to go.” Heidi’s voice shook.
“Why?” Rhett asked quietly, not even frustrated anymore, just challenging her for an adequate answer that she refused to provide him.
“Because—” Heidi shook her head, catching a glimpse of strands of her blue-dipped hair. She glanced at her wrist. Fly free. She should’ve tattooed Fly Away instead. “Never mind.” She hurried to the kitchen table where she’d tossed her bag, snatched it up, and jerked the strap over her shoulder. Fleeing toward the door, she went to exit. But Rhett nudged the door just enough that there wasn’t room for her to pass through.
“Why?” That Rhett was insisting on an answer instead of letting her leave when he’d just told her to confused her. He seemed to circle around her. Cautious, a bit threatening, but almost as if he knew something that she didn’t. Something about herself.
His voice was low, calm. It tore through every part of her that lacked self-confidence. Every part that was afraid, wounded, torn apart. Rhett Crawford didn’t belong in those places, and he hadn’t earned the right to scale those walls with one word and a half-closed door.
Fine. She would give him an answer. If it would make him back away, release her from the cornered trap she was in, and let her flee.
“Because with Emma—I actually feel like I belong.” Heidi jerked the door against his grip and it opened. She slipped through the entrance and didn’t look back.
She should be used to it. The never staying in one place. The always moving on. Only, for the first time in a very long time, she ached to look back.
It was a rash decision, but then she was known for them. Heidi parallel-parked her car on the main street that ran through Pleasant Valley. Most of the buildings were attached, with only a few having narrow alleys between them. They were two-story, flat-front buildings from the turn of the century, constructed of brick or wood. Some of them had been restored to their original vintage charm, while others were covered over with siding reminiscent of the 1970s.
Heidi ignored them as she hiked down the sidewalk, swiping at her face and praying the tears she’d let fall freely in the seclusion of her car hadn’t left dried, salty trails down her cheeks. She could suck it up with the best of them, and she was doing it now. Her feelings spiraled from desperation to anger to offense because of Rhett Crawford. But, her path was clear. It was obvious—as it usually was.
There were only a few things to wrap up and then she’d leave. Leave Pleasant Valley and leave her mother, whose confusing letter seemed like a dance with an old woman’s confusion rather than anything legitimately serious. She would leave Vicki and her brother-in-law behind—gladly. There would certainly be no love lost for the mysterious messages of implied madness. She was crazy? This place was crazy. Rhett Crawford included. Emma, the major exception.
She paused in front of the antique shop and looked up its brick face to the second story and darkened windows. Heidi held the photo album to her chest, drawing her gaze back to the picture window, its display creatively stocked with an old rocking chair with a quilt draped over its back. A Victorian side table with curved legs. A doily hanging over it and a porcelain vase displayed on its center. A rag rug on the floor along with a basket filled with dried bouquets of lavender.
It was charming. It was homey. It was peaceful.
Everything Pleasant Valley wasn’t.
Heidi entered the small alcove and reached for the brass door handle. As she pulled it open, a tin bell announced her arrival.
Facing Connie Crawford would bring closure to a book Heidi had opened but barely started.
She wove through an array of old clocks, books, drawers of antique doorknobs and printing-press keys. While the room smelled a bit musty, there was a tiny hint of cinnamon wafting through the air. Something that hinted of orange and nutmeg too. Essential oils perhaps.
Connie was at the counter and lifted her head, her eyes growing serious, a slight thinning of her lips as she drew them tight.
Heidi didn’t know if that was a bad or a good thing. She approached anyway, the photo album her only shield between herself and Emma’s mother.
“Hello,” Heidi ventured. She couldn’t afford much more. Her veneer of self-confidence and proper reticence had been stretched thin and threatened to bust at any moment.
Connie’s lips softened into a smile. One of gentle empathy. Something Heidi had not expected.
“I got a call from Rhett,” Connie began.
Heidi stopped, the vintage bar counter a barrier between them. She gave a small nod. A tiny knot formed in her stomach. “I’m sure he more than filled you in. I wanted to apologize and return this.”
At Connie’s raised eyebrows, Heidi hurried to explain. “I don’t need my money back, I’m just—I don’t really want the album. And . . .” She set it on the counter and took a step back. “And I’m heading out. So . . .”
Connie nodded, placing her hands on the album’s cover. “I see.”
“Thank you for your hospitality. For allowing me to be Emma’s friend—even for a short while. I’m truly very sorry for the chaos I’ve brought to your family.” Heidi gave a chuckle that was more of a scoff—directed at herself. It was either that or cry. She was done with tears. Rhett had squeezed them all out of her. “Don’t worry. I’ll be out of everyone’s way real soon.”
Connie nodded. She ran a finger over the velveteen of the album, then looked at Heidi, holding her gaze. “Do you always run away like this?”
Heidi blinked. She cleared her throat and clutched at the leather strap of her bag that ran across her chest. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Connie tapped the book. “You came here a little more than, what, two weeks ago? And we discovered this curious and creepy photograph in the album. When you left that day, I immediately called Rhett and told him the strangest thing had just happened. And after I shared about you and the photograph, I told him that I bet you were the type to sink your teeth into something until you figured it out. You had that sense of intrigue in your eye. A bit of the devil-may-care about you.”
“It’s the hair and tattoos. An age-old stereotype.” Heidi flicked her colored hair and offered a fake laugh, her lame attempt at dissolving the tension with humor.
Connie leaned forward, her arms cradling either side of the album, her palms pressed down on the counter. She tilted her head as if to study Heidi. “But you’re afraid, aren’t you?”
Connie’s words of truth sliced through Heidi with the clean edge of a well-sharpened blade. She blinked, took another step back and toward the door. Yet if she excused
herself now, it’d be a fulfillment of Connie’s astute observation. That she ran. Ran away from things.
Well, yes, Connie Crawford. Yes. That was what she did. It was either that or be completely and totally enveloped in the belief that she was an unwanted afterthought, a disappointment, and a failure. It was either that or be consumed by a darkness—a weight—no one could understand or comprehend, because it was the demon that lived inside of her.
“Why did you take to my Emma so?” Connie’s gentle question broke into Heidi’s thoughts. “Circumstances haven’t been particularly conducive to building an attachment, and yet even she has been drawn to you. I’m just curious. Why?”
Hadn’t she just had a similar conversation with Rhett? The big Why question just wouldn’t go away.
Heidi gave Connie a sad smile. “Your daughter is kind—she’s a breath of fresh air. And, I like playing Risk,” she added with a laugh.
“And that’s all?”
Heidi winced and eyed the ceiling with desperation. It wasn’t any help, so she looked back at Connie. “I’m sorry. I really am. I’ve always messed up since I was a kid. Nothing earth-shattering, just—you know—D’s and C’s in school. I didn’t like church, and my dad was a pastor. I listened to Fall Out Boy when my parents wanted me to listen to Steven Curtis Chapman. That type of thing.”
Her answer had nothing to do with Emma.
Connie seemed to understand that. “And . . . ?”
Heidi glanced at the front door again.
“Listen to me, dear.” Connie drew back from the counter and came around it. She then leaned back against the counter, like Rhett had in the Crawford kitchen just a few hours before. Connie’s understanding smile was still there. Her graying hair framed her cheeks and her gray eyes—very much like Rhett’s, only warmer—more sincere.
“Rhett is extremely protective of Emma. Sometimes more than he should be, really. But when you grow up in a small town with a special-needs sister, it can get claustrophobic. You hear everything everyone says and maybe what they think. That’s made Rhett very sensitive.”
Heidi blinked. Sensitive was not the word she would ascribe to the Incredible Hulk.
Connie ignored the raised eyebrow above Heidi’s left eye. “My husband is a hunter. He took the kids out bowhunting with him when they were both old enough to walk. We learned something important about Emma. Emma sees the world in blacks and whites. If you introduce grays, it’s upsetting at a minimum, catastrophic at its worst. If there was a deer, she expected Murphy—my husband—to shoot it. She had no concept of distance or a clear shot. She’d get very upset when he’d let the deer walk away. So, we learned to construct life with black-and-white in mind and prepared ourselves to help her step through the inevitable grays. Through that, growing up and being the older brother, Rhett became a rescuer of sorts.”
“A rescuer?” Heidi couldn’t hide the skepticism in her voice.
“There was a specific time when he was thirteen and went hunting with Murphy. The yardage was perfect, the line of sight unencumbered, so Murphy released the arrow and, well, it was a bad shot. There wasn’t much blood to track. It didn’t seem like the deer was fatally wounded and yet it was difficult to tell. They had to wait a bit, because in some situations, if you try to find a wounded deer, it will keep running, and putting it out of its misery is not possible. Rhett didn’t agree—he wanted to find the buck. But Murphy taught Rhett that day, that sometimes, when an animal is frightened or wounded, you need to pull back, give them space, maybe even let them go.”
“That doesn’t sound remotely like rescuing.” Heidi swallowed against empathy for the poor deer.
“That’s what Rhett thought too,” Connie said. “They went back the next day and tried to track the buck. Unfortunately they didn’t find any more signs of him or a blood trail. But here’s the funny part to the story: Murphy has trail cameras in the woods. The next spring, they checked the images and guess what they saw?”
Heidi waited. Expectantly.
“The buck. He’d survived. Now, if they’d done what Rhett had wanted, they would have pushed him too fast. He might have been injured enough where he’d have bled out and never been found. A complete waste. But by being patient, the deer was able to bed down and heal.”
Heidi nodded. “It’s a strange story, Connie, but I’m not a hunter. I don’t see—”
“We’re not going to chase you, if you want to run. But it’s always been Rhett’s instinct to push forward and rescue the wounded. He sees that in you. That frightened, hurt look in your eyes. The same thing he sees in Emma when she’s overwhelmed. It’s why he pushed you so hard today. He wants you to admit there’s more to your desire to be friends with my daughter. That it’s deeper than you taking Emma to the asylum ruins, regardless of why you did it. That every time someone comes close and maybe could help you heal, you’re skittish. You jump up and it reopens the wounds and something chaotic happens and you keep running.”
Heidi could see the parallel now. She could sense it by the tightening in her stomach. She looked out past the rocking chair and through the front window.
Connie reached out and laid her hand on Heidi’s elbow, drawing Heidi’s attention back to her. “Rhett’s a boorish, backwoods country boy with the conversational skills of a bear. But he’s also a Crawford. We can spot someone who’s been injured. We’ll let you run if you need to, because keeping you here won’t help if in your heart you don’t want to stay.”
The woman’s motherly hand raised and cupped the side of Heidi’s face. It was a foreign feeling. This nurturing gentleness. This forgiving care in spite of her horrendous error in judgment.
“Heidi,” Connie’s voice drew her in. “You love being with Emma because Emma accepts you for who you are. Just like she accepts herself. That girl has more confidence than some of us the world of science would deem ‘neurotypical.’ Without special needs. You must understand, Heidi, we’re all okay if you make mistakes. Just don’t run away. You came here to Pleasant Valley for a reason. Maybe it’s the photograph in the book. Maybe it’s whatever you thought you’d find at the asylum. Who knows? But I see purpose in you. A purpose your Creator designed in you. Let us help you find it.”
Connie removed her palm from Heidi’s cheek and stepped back. But there was pleading in her eyes.
“Please stay. We want you to stay. To try again.” Connie shrugged and gave a small, apologetic chuckle. “You don’t have to let Rhett in. Although he may kick down the door with the finesse of a lumberjack. But Emma really does have an innate judgment about people, and in an extremely brief period of time my black-and-white girl put all her black-and-white trust in you. And that, my dear”—Connie’s words wrapped around Heidi’s turbulent soul—“that’s enough for us.”
Chapter 18
Thea
The iron gate opened, soundless. Its height surpassed her by at least a head, and once Thea had stepped beyond it, walking in the footsteps of Simeon, she regretted her decision. Whatever Mr. Amos’s investment in this small hospital hidden in the woods, no matter Simeon’s compelling request to assist him, Thea knew that neither of those reasons were good enough for her to risk upsetting her own future. Yet she was hard pressed not to. Tempted by fate, perhaps, or more likely than not, the deep, compelling need to know why? Her mother had disappeared. Ragged hemline, bluish outline of a lithe and dark frame, and then dusky memories that, as Thea grew, became vague impressions that she questioned if they were even real.
There was no reason to assume with such certainty that entering the asylum would be opening the musty tome of her own story. But there was a foreboding in Thea’s soul, the living kind that refused to let go, but instead sank villainous claws of trepidation into her spirit. She knew. For no other reason than that ominous twist of one’s stomach before truth was finally given a voice. She knew that, somehow, she was tied to this place. This place in the woods.
“Over here.” Simeon’s voice was low as he rounded the asylu
m, the wooden camera box clutched in his hand, the tripod in the other. Tree branches swayed over the roof. Oak trees that reached toward the attic gables, and a few thin, white trunks of poplar spearing their way toward the sky. Any pine was held to the boundaries outside the iron fence, as if unwelcome. A gardener’s shed stood in the backyard of the asylum, and Simeon strode toward it. His steps were familiar and confident. He didn’t seem afraid, and oddly, Thea sensed he was more at peace here than anytime she’d seen him before.
The shed’s door opened quietly. He disappeared inside the darkness while Thea stayed behind. She wrapped her arms over her dress, drawing her crocheted shawl tighter around her body to ward off a chill that rose from within and matched the breeze rustling the leaves. She dared not look at the asylum. At its wide windows on both floors, geometrically in a row and measured identically. Thea was wary of what she would see inside—who she would see inside.
She could understand why family members ended up not paying a visit to the ones they’d left behind here. It wasn’t a welcoming place. It was dark, even outside, and for certain the inside would be sterile and hollow of life. For the patients were, for all intents and purposes, all but dead.
Simeon exited the shed, a small burlap sack in his hand, the photographic equipment missing.
“Where is the camera?” Thea’s heartbeat quickened. That was what they were here for, after all. Simeon had explained that while Dr. Ackerman had requested a photographic log of every patient, Simeon had managed to acquire only four. There were fifteen more patients, and it was laborious to take their photographs. They didn’t understand how they must sit still and not move. Some rocked back and forth, moaning. Others stared into the distance in their chairs each day, but when moved from their routine they became violent. Striking out at anything new, anything strange.
Simeon hadn’t answered her. Instead, Thea watched him walk away, the sack swinging from his hand. She shook herself from her position of pause, waiting for a response that wasn’t forthcoming, and hurried after him. Mr. Amos was still teetering on the edge of getting better or turning for the worse. If for no one else but him, Thea pushed forward. Somehow the old man had won her loyalty in a brief time. Maybe it was the tiny squeeze he’d given her hand last night when she’d stopped to visit his convalescing bed.
The Curse of Misty Wayfair Page 16