Marriage Mistake

by Lively, R. S.

  "Not exactly," I say. "That's usually how it works, but this is a unique circumstance."

  "Unique?" she asks.

  I start walking around the perimeter of the crumbling foundation, trying to envision what the building looked like when it was standing here. I've seen pictures of it during my research, but the old images are faded and distorted. Actually seeing the bricks and cement that once supported the rooms of the school is surreal, and it feels like I’ve crashed headlong into something that was abstract only minutes ago.

  "Do you remember what Mr. Kleinfelder said about Eleanor's family and this property?" I ask.

  "He said he doesn't think her family still lives here," she says. "That her grandparents died a long time ago, and they didn't have anybody to leave it to. Eleanor's father had died, and the rest of her family moved away from Falls."

  "Exactly," I say. "So, what happens when there's a piece of property someone is living on, but doesn't own, and the owner of that property dies without it being passed on to someone else?"

  "I don't know," Emma says.

  "And neither does the family who lives here," I say.

  "So, the family living on the property now is definitely not related to Eleanor?" she asks.

  "Right," I say. "They are, however, related to the people who her grandparents rented to when they were still alive. There were two houses. The main house for the Bellamy family, and a smaller cottage they rented out."

  "So, when the Bellamys died, the family just stayed?"

  "Yep. The Robinsons.”

  "But why have they been refusing to let people on the land?"

  "Apparently Eleanor’s family was very vocal about not wanting anyone out here. At first, the family followed through that out of respect for the Bellamy family. Then they must have realized they didn't actually have any claim to the land. They weren't paying rent or anything and were just going about their lives. As things changed and the police force got better at actually enforcing the law rather than just going along with what people wanted, they started worrying about their future. It occurred to them that someone out there probably has a claim to this land, and if there isn't, it belongs to Magnolia Falls. Since the land was never owned by the city, it isn't subject to taxes, but they were worried if they started letting people roam around on it, someone would start asking questions, and they might lose their cushy, rent-free home."

  "And you didn't have a problem confirming that, did you?"

  "Not necessarily confirming, but not discounting, either," I say. "I went to their house and told them I was interested in seeing the land but would be sure to keep it between us."

  "And they went along with it?"

  I hold my arms out to indicate the space around us.

  "Here we are," I say.

  "But why?"

  "At first it was just that I wanted to see it. I've gotten curious. But when I was talking to the Robinsons, they had something interesting to share with me."

  "What's that?"

  "I asked them if they knew anything about the Bellamy family, or where they might be now. I didn't mention Eleanor by name, or anything about Mr. Kleinfelder. They said they didn't know much about them. It's been a couple generations since Eleanor's grandparents died. But, they did have an interesting family legend. A skeleton in their closet, so to speak."

  "Oh, please tell me they don't have Eleanor's skeleton in their closet," Emma says, closing her eyes as if to brace herself for what I'm going to tell her.

  "No," I say. "Not literally. What they do have is a story. The woman I spoke to said it was her husband's great-grandmother who lived here when the school burned. She says several weeks before the fire, she saw what looked like a young girl running across the property. She was worried and followed her to an old barn near one of the fields. The girl hid something, then ran away."

  "Eleanor?"

  I shrug.

  "She couldn't see her face. After the fire and finding out that Eleanor was missing, though, she got curious about it, and went to the barn to see what the girl left. She said there was still a lot of stuff in there, but the most interesting item was an antique jewelry box that looked out of place. Inside was a stack of letters."

  "Letters?" Emma asks. "Did she read them?"

  I shake my head.

  "No. She thought that would be an invasion of the girl's privacy."

  "But she was missing," Emma argues. "How could she not at least bring them to the police?"

  "She didn't want to get involved. She put them back but couldn't stop thinking about them. She went back for them. She put them in her hope chest and essentially forgot about them until years later, after the Bellamys had died out. She was taking a walk through the property like she did almost every morning, and when she got close to where the barn had been, she saw a woman standing there. She was looking around like she thought she might just be disoriented and not know where she was, but, as the story goes, the great-grandmother knew it was the same girl who had hidden the letters. She had come back for them."

  "Did she talk to her?" Emma asks.

  "No," I say. "The woman rushed off before she could decide how to approach her. She never saw her again."

  "So, what happened to the letters?" Emma asks.

  I grin and reach into my pocket, pulling out the thick sheath of crisp, antique envelopes.

  "They got passed down to me."

  Chapter Twenty

  Emma

  I can't believe what I'm looking at. I keep staring at the envelopes, telling myself they can't possibly be real. The stack of letters is tied with a blue satin ribbon, the edges frayed, and the color faded from the years.

  "Did you read them?" I ask.

  "Yes," Grant says.

  "How could you invade their privacy like that?"

  "Aren't you the one who said you couldn't believe Grandmother Robinson didn't read the letters as soon as she found them?"

  "Well," I hesitate, "yes. But that's a different situation. That was when Eleanor had just disappeared, and what's in those letters could have helped find her."

  "It wouldn't have," Grant says. "Not then. There's nothing in these letters that would help anyone find her all those years ago. But with what we already know, it might help her now."

  I see his eyes drift over to the blackened foundation. I feel a shudder move through me as images of flames consuming the building fill my mind. At least we know now that Eleanor didn't die in the fire. She wasn't even here that day.

  "So, what do we do now?" I ask. "You told the Robinson family you weren't going to say anything about being here. So, do we just pretend we never came?"

  "For now," Grant says.

  "What does that mean?" I ask.

  "You never know what might happen."

  I have the feeling he knows more than he's telling me, but I don't pry. If he's holding something back, there's probably a good reason for it.

  "You came in early this week. I wasn't expecting to see you until I got home from work," I say, feeling compelled for some reason to change the direction of the conversation. "Are you staying the whole weekend?"

  "Actually, I'm only here for today," he explains. "I have to go back tomorrow morning. I thought it would be beneficial to be in town more consistently closer to the prom, so I got in touch with some of my clients to see if they were receptive to moving up their events. As it turns out, they were more receptive to it than I expected, so the next few weeks are pretty packed. I'll try to come back whenever I'm close to the area, but I don't know how much I'll be here."

  "For how long?" I ask.

  "About two months."

  The answer makes me feel like the wind is knocked out of me, but I force my face to stay neutral. I remind myself that this is what I wanted. I'm the one who said I needed us to take space from each other. This is just another reminder of why I made that choice. Grant's business is the most important thing in his life, and nothing will ever change that. I would never want to stand in his way,
but I'm also not going to be the dutiful, bored wife who sits at home and allows my life to drift by while he dedicates all his time to fulfilling clients’ dreams. He's always going to have his eyes focused ahead, striving for the next step in his success.

  "That will only leave two weeks to get all the final details in place," I say.

  Grant nods.

  "I know," he says. "But I also know you can finish most of it yourself. There really isn't much left at this point. I'll send you the finalized guest list when I get the latest copy from my research team, and you can send out the invitations."

  "Oh, good," I say.

  That came out a bit poutier than I intended. At least Grant has the grace to not point it out.

  "Are you ready to go?" he asks.

  "Sure," I say.

  I start to walk away from the foundation, but he hesitates.

  "Before we do." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box. "I want to give you this." I take it from him and open the top. "You didn't think I'd completely ignore Valentine's Day, do you?"

  Inside the box is another tiny charm for my bracelet. Grant reaches into the box and takes the sparkling fork from the velvet pad. He connects it to the chain around my wrist, and I can’t help but smile at it.

  "Then, I guess I’ll let you eat the homemade waffle cones waiting for you on the kitchen counter instead of saving them all for myself," I say.

  "You made me waffle cones for Valentine's Day?" he asks, sounding touched.

  "Ice cream too. Even some chocolate and sprinkles," I say.

  Grant presses his hands dramatically to his chest and smiles.

  "Be still my heart," he says playfully.

  * * *

  I'm trying to cling to that playfulness a month later during my school-mandated lunch with the students. The table is empty except for my tray of uneaten ravioli. I didn't even realize I picked it up as I was going through the lunch line. My brain was on autopilot, and I blindly grabbed what was in front of me. My eyes focus blindly ahead of me, and my fingers play absently with the charms on my bracelet. The ice cream cone. The fork. And then the little star that showed up at the school with a messenger the opening night of the spring musical.

  "Please tell me whatever is making you space out so far you could high-five the man in the moon is at least juicy?"

  Judy slides her tray onto the table at her usual seat and sits down. Her eyes meet mine expectantly as she picks up a potato chip and expertly tosses it into her mouth.

  I straighten and try to look casual as I pick up my fork. The tines dig into the squishy meat-filled pillows but go no further. There is no way those atrocities are going anywhere near my mouth. My stomach is just not having it today.

  "I’m just obsessing over this whole prom thing," I say.

  I have officially said the word 'prom' more than any grown-ass woman in history. I'm going to be so glad when it's over, and I can pretend it will never happen again. And then book a vacation far, far away from any U.S. high school next May.

  "I call bullshit. What are you really thinking about, Em?"

  I stammer for a few seconds, trying to come up with a convincing lie. I'm relieved when I see Mrs. Burke heading our way. Turning away from Judy, I smile at the vice principal.

  "Hi, Mrs. Burke," I say.

  "Emma, I'm so glad you’re here." Because there are so many other places I'd be when you've commanded me to eat amongst the teens. "Have you spoken with Grant in the last few days? I know he's away on business, but has he gotten in touch with you?"

  She sounds almost frantic, and I worry something's wrong.

  "Not since the beginning of the week," I say. "The last I heard, he was heading into the woods, and wasn't going to have cell reception for a while. What's going on?"

  She gives me a slightly breathless smile.

  "Oh! Nothing. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you. I just got off the phone with Mr… one of the vendors for the… project, and he got in the order Grant and I talked about." Her eyes shift to look around at the tables of students as if she's trying to gauge whether they overheard her or not. "I wanted to let him know."

  "I'll tell him when I talk to him," I tell her. "Which vendor?"

  She shakes her head, putting a finger up to her lips to quiet me.

  "Just tell him it's for the boutique."

  I don't know what she means, but I decide to humble her and go along with it.

  "I will," I tell her.

  Mrs. Burke smiles, shaking her head in that way older people do when it seems they are surprised the younger generation has managed to survive, much less make a good decision.

  "That husband of yours," she says. "He’s something special. But I bet you know that."

  Judy and I exchange glances, and I force my face into a smile.

  "Yes," I say. "Grant really is… something."

  Mrs. Burke sighs dreamily, then steps closer, lowering her voice to stop anyone around us from hearing what she's going to say next.

  "All he's doing for these kids – not to mention us adults – who want to enjoy the prom. And to think, he’s refusing to take a single cent for it, and is paying for the extra expenses himself. You got a good one. Hold on to him."

  She gives a little wave and walks away. I'm stunned. I'm not sure what to think or how to react to what she just said.

  "What was she talking about?" Judy asks, leaning across the table toward me. "What does she mean he's not taking a cent for the work he's doing? I thought he was getting paid an insane commission."

  "I thought he was, too," I say.

  Judy looks at me questioningly again.

  "Are you sure you're ok?" she asks. "You look like you're not feeling well."

  "I'm fine," I say. "Just tired. Feels like everything is happening so fast."

  When I get home that afternoon, I'm still thinking about what Mrs. Burke said. I decide to stretch out on the couch for a while before getting started on the prom invitations. Maybe this will help quell my nausea. Choosing the couch over the bed makes it feel less like a nap and more like a little break. My eyes have only been closed for a few seconds, however, when my phone goes off, startling me. I need to remember to turn the notifications off when I want to rest. Reaching for it, I check the screen.

  "Grant? I thought you were off in the woods somewhere and weren't going to have service."

  "My client found a tick and insisted on being taken to the local emergency room," he says.

  "For a tick?"

  "It was a big tick."

  "So, the rest of the experience is off?"

  "No," Grant says. "He says he wants to go back, but it's going to be at least a couple of days before we can."

  "Why?"

  "There's something else I need to do, and I want you here with me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm sending a car for you. The plane will pick you up on the mainland, and I'll see you in the morning."

  I sit up straight, shaking my head.

  "What?" I ask again. "Car? Plane? I don't understand."

  "I need you to come out here for one day. Just one. I've already talked to Mrs. Burke, and she’s arranged a substitute for all your classes tomorrow."

  "You talked to Mrs. Burke? Without asking me first?"

  "I thought you would feel better if you knew things were already arranged, and you didn't have to do anything. Just pack a bag and be ready for the car. It should be in front of the house in about twenty minutes."

  "You’re pretty damn confident in yourself, aren’t you?" I snap.

  "Always."

  He ends the call before I can get out a response. I glare at the phone for good measure, then scramble to the bedroom to throw a few things into a bag. He said it would only be for one night, but I want to be prepared in case it stretches longer than that. I'm grumbling under my breath and sweeping makeup from the counter into my bag when I hear a sharp beep outside. I do a cursory check of the bedroom and bathroom one more time befor
e heading outside. Locking the door behind me, I walk over to the car, toss my bags into the backseat, and climb in after them.

  "Hello," I say.

  "Hello, Mrs. Laurence."

  "Do you know what's going on?"

  "I was told to pick you up. That's all I know."

  I nod, and remain silent the rest of the trip to the small private airport where Grant's plane waits. I've flown in it several times now, but this is my first time alone. Settling into my usual seat, I fasten my seatbelt and prepare for takeoff.

  The flight is surprisingly short, a relief as I walk down the stairs on wobbly legs, fighting waves of nausea. Another car is waiting for me, and I walk toward it as the driver holds the door for me. I'm anticipating a cool, comfortable leather seat, and maybe an opportunity to lay down for a little bit. Instead, when I climb into the car, I find Grant waiting inside.

  "Hi," I say.

  "Are you ok?" he asks.

  I nod as I settle beside him.

  "What's going on?" I ask.

  "Did you get a chance to read the letters?" he asks.

  I nod.

  "Most of them. They were beautiful. So sad, though. I couldn't stop thinking about how their story ended."

  "Did you bring them with you?"

  "Yes," I say, reaching into my purse to pull out the envelopes. "Why?"

  "Because I think Eleanor would like to have them back."

  * * *

  Tears well in my eyes when Eleanor's hands begin to tremble as they run over the envelopes. She pulls the letters to her chest and hugs them before looking up at us.

  "I can't believe you have these," she says. "I never thought I'd see them again. Especially not after I went back for them and they had vanished."

  "So that was you," I say.

  She looks at me questioningly.

  "What do you mean?"

  I glance at Grant, feeling like I shouldn't have said anything, but he doesn't seem bothered.

  "The woman who gave us these letters," Grant says. "She told us about how she came to have them. Years ago, one of the Robinsons saw you stashing them in the barn. She left them there, but then went back for them. She told her family that many years later she saw a woman wandering around near where the barn had been but didn’t get a chance to talk her."