The Moment Between

by Nicole Baart

  “But he—”

  “But nothing. You got in a fight!” Abigail nearly shouted. “What were you thinking?”

  Hailey didn’t even bother to shrug.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  Abigail glowered at her and suddenly caught sight of a rosy purple bruise that was beginning to form on the delicate line of Hailey’s well-defined jaw. She reached out, unable to control the spontaneous, motherly gesture. “You’re hurt.”

  Hailey swatted her hand away. “I’m fine.”

  “I should see the other girl, right?”

  Hailey laughed.

  “Is she okay?”

  “The other girl?”

  Abigail groaned in exasperation.

  “She’s fine,” Hailey answered.

  “What happened? If you don’t tell me, I’ll go back and ask that security guard.”

  “She called me crazy.” Hailey laughed suddenly, twisting her face up and spinning her finger around her temple as if to underline the other girl’s point.

  Abigail stared at her, trying to penetrate the thick wall of sickness, the jumble of her confused mind. “You’re not taking your pills, are you?”

  “No,” Hailey admitted freely.

  “You haven’t found a new psychologist, have you?”

  “Dr. Madsen didn’t really do anything anyway.”

  “Yes, he did. And you can’t be off your meds. You need them.” Abigail threw her shoulders back a little and tried to live up to the promise that she had made the security guard: I’ll take responsibility. “You have to take your medication. That’s not a request.”

  Hailey’s eyes flashed with a spark of ice blue fire for a split second. Then she smiled calmly and reached into her purse. Extracting a pack of Camel Lights, she tapped out a single cigarette, placed it between her full, pouty lips, and lit it with a hot pink lighter. She took a long drag, then gracefully pulled the cigarette from her mouth and winked at Abigail. “Make me.”

  I knew it could be potentially ruinous to let myself be dragged down into the mire of questions that surrounded Hailey. And yet, sitting in the dusty, filtered light of her tomblike apartment with the magazine that boasted her dreams in my hands, I suddenly knew that I could not go on until I had at least spoken to her boyfriend. Former boyfriend? Where was he?

  Will you marry me? The words swept across the bottom of the bridal magazine as if in imitation of the question Hailey had obviously longed to hear. Were they merely a wish? or an actuality? I suspected that Tyler had formally asked her no such thing—there was no ring for proof, no gleeful call to anyone she loved—but it was not impossible to imagine that they had talked about it. Didn’t he know her well enough? Didn’t he know enough about her to realize that toying with her emotions in any way was flirting with disaster?

  I surged off Hailey’s bed and sought out the black purse that I had earlier avoided. Turning the bag upside down, I unearthed a small bottle of lotion, two tubes of lipstick in Red Rebellion and Soft Nude, a leather-bound calendar that proved to be all but empty, a crumpled napkin, a purse pack of tissues, Hailey’s faux snakeskin wallet, and her cell phone. The charge on Hailey’s phone was completely dead, but I would plug it in and check her missed calls and her address book later—I would find him, track him down, make him tell me why. But not just now.

  For now, her wallet contained exactly what I was looking for. Folded between a coupon for a local spa and a coffee shop receipt, I found a photograph with rumpled edges. It was a snapshot that had been cut down so it could fit in the slender pocket reserved for business cards and notes. The background had been completely trimmed away, and the only thing that remained inside the frame of the white, curled border was my sister’s lovely face and the profile of a slightly disheveled man.

  Hailey was gorgeous as always, but my eyes were instantly drawn to the man. He had a surfer-boy look to him; his dark tan and sun-highlighted hair

  were accented by blue green eyes the color of the ocean where the sand dropped down and away, into the deep. There was a shock of maple gold hair that looked like it was about to fall over his eyes, but he wasn’t paying attention to it—his gaze was fixed on Hailey. His lips were slightly parted, as if he was just about to say her name or maybe kiss her.

  This was the man, I knew it, and all at once I wanted to reach through the photograph and grab him. I wanted to spin him around, wipe that little half smirk off his lips. I’d demand to know what happened.

  “Tyler,” I said thickly, “what have you done?”

  XIV

  After she found the gun, Abigail paced like a caged animal for days. Never before had she felt so trapped at Thompson Hills. She felt chained, bound by her sham of a job and the false relationships that she had allowed herself to form. But that was only a part of it. The cause of her entrapment was ultimately Hailey, and Abigail was sick to death of trying to right impossible wrongs. She was sick of living like an imposter, sick of lying and scheming, of trying to feed a fading hate for Tyler even as she questioned her own ability to follow through with any vicious plan she managed to concoct.

  Two months of her life had been spent in British Columbia, and in that time Abigail had accomplished nothing. Nothing. Eli had carved a somewhat-tender spot for himself in her heart, and she genuinely and rather curiously enjoyed her job and the small town of Revell, but who was she trying to fool? Herself? She couldn’t stay here in this heartbreaking limbo. This couldn’t go on. Abigail admonished herself for not having the courage to confront Tyler, to utter Hailey’s name in his presence and hear what he had to say. And she resented the discovery of the mysterious gun, the way it mocked her with the means to do what she hardly even dared to think about.

  Abigail’s life was an awkward suspension, a careful balance between where she was and where she wanted to be. The truth was, she wasn’t ready to go back to Florida, but it was becoming too painful to stay.

  “What’s up with you?” Paige asked one morning when Abigail slumped up the steps to Thompson Hills.

  “Nothing,” she grunted because that one word seemed to sum up her entire life.

  “Liar,” Paige accused. “You look like Eli chewed you up and spit you out.”

  Abigail threw her arms up. “What is it with everyone vilifying Eli? He’s a decent guy, you know.”

  Paige narrowed her eyes as if considering whether or not Abigail was serious. Finally she said, “You’re right. Eli’s okay. It’s just part of the culture around here. We pour wine, we smile nice, and we complain about Eli.”

  “Then the culture around here sucks.”

  “Maybe a little. Maybe we just need to be countercultural, eh?” Paige smiled and snapped her fingers. “I know what you need. You need to get away. Have you had a single day off all summer? Eli works you like he owns you.” The smile fluttered on her pretty face. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Good.” Paige threw a sly look over her shoulder and then unzipped her purse in one fluid movement. Snaking her hand inside, she groped around until she emerged victorious with a set of keys clutched in her fist. “You don’t look well, Abigail. I think you are definitely coming down with something.”

  “I feel fine,” Abigail protested.

  “No, you don’t. You feel awful.” Paige thrust the keys at Abigail. “My car is the silver Honda. You’d better take it into town and get yourself something for that pounding headache.”

  “But I—”

  Paige grabbed Abigail’s wrist and turned her hand palm up. “And then I think you’d better put your feet up somewhere. A little R & R will do you a world of good. You’ll be a different person tomorrow.” She dropped the keys into Abigail’s hand and forced her fingers to curl around them.

  “Eli will—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, get in that car before I smack you.”

  Abigail tried to scowl but couldn’t stop herself from smiling instead. “Thank you.”

  �
�No thanks needed. I’ll just add it to your tab. Covering for you with Eli breathing down my neck should be worth a small fortune at least.” When Abigail raised a cautionary eyebrow, Paige amended herself. “Not that he’s not a nice guy and all.”

  “You’re such a nonconformist,” Abigail teased.

  Paige gave her a little shove. “Get out of here before he sees you looking all healthy and put together. Disappear.”

  Disappear. The perky waitress couldn’t have said anything more inviting. “I will.” Abigail’s words were as solemn as a promise.

  Paige’s car was immaculately clean and smelled of watermelon. Somehow it felt homey to Abigail; it reminded her of her own little Passat and the strawberry air freshener that her mechanic sprayed under the floor mats when she had it serviced. The scent, the feel of the car lanced Abigail with a sharp pang of homesickness that she quickly stifled under the thrill of skipping out of work.

  Driving Paige’s car was different from driving Eli’s. She felt free to have a little fun with it, to drive it like it was her car and not a loaner. Best of all, the silver Honda had a standard transmission; the clutch was just a smidge stiff but the gears were fluid. As Abigail pulled out of the parking lot of Thompson Hills, she decided she might never come back. The thought excited her, but somewhere buried deep she had to acknowledge that she would actually miss Eli when the day to leave did finally come.

  The light feeling carried Abigail for several kilometers as she drove back the way she had come to Revell—winding up the rocky cliffs and heading toward the crisscrossing web of mountains. When she had coasted into town all those weeks ago, it had been dark and Abigail had missed the charming fruit stands and profusion of cheerful signs. Billboards proclaiming fresh cherries, apricots, peaches, plums, pears, and apples dotted the countryside, competing for attention with bolder, brighter colors and asserting that they were all the consummate best.

  Since it was the beginning of August, Abigail knew that peaches and apricots were just hitting the peak of their season. She drove past nearly a dozen fruit stands before she turned into a field driveway and headed back for the smallest, most nondescript of the bunch. The middle-aged caretaker helped her select three perfect peaches, which she carried over to a picnic table for breakfast à la carte.

  There was a small hand pump near the picnic table with a green produce basket turned upside down beneath it. A wooden sign hung around the neck of the faucet, declaring, “If you just can’t wait...”

  Abigail put two of her peaches on the table, then primed the pump once or twice and washed the final piece of fruit beneath a spray of ice-cold water. She ran her fingers over the soft fuzz until the peach felt smooth; then she wiped it on her shirt and ate it like an apple.

  Peach juice trickled down her chin and ran in rivulets along her hands and arms until it dripped off her elbows. For some reason, Abigail didn’t mind the sticky sweetness. In this one moment, away from the winery and separated by thousands of miles from her father, her job, her obligations, she was more than content to play the part of a child. Abigail licked her syrupy fingers instead of scrubbing them under the pump.

  Although she was happy for the break, when Abigail got back into the car, she realized that she had no idea what to do next. The beach seemed out of the question—she couldn’t stomach the thought of lounging in the sand with nothing to distract her mind from all the things that troubled her. Shopping? No, the only shops in and around Revell were touristy T-shirt joints that sold flip-flops and cheap clothes with mass-produced witticisms like “My grandpa and grandma went to the Summerlands and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.” A spontaneous grin twisted Abigail’s lips at the thought of buying something like that for Lou. But no, she had no desire to shop. Or eat or sightsee or drive down long, lonely roads. What, then?

  It was never Abigail’s intention to pull into the parking lot of the Sunny Grove Inn and RV Park, but as she drove past the distinctive L-shaped building, she found the tug irrepressible. Suddenly she was stepping on the brakes, spinning the wheel, and coasting into the only territory other than Thompson Hills that she could consider truly familiar in Revell. She hoped Jane was around.

  Abigail found the older woman sweeping a long-handled net over the surface of the outdoor pool. The accountant-cum-sommelier smiled unreservedly, happy to find things as she had left them, happy to have something even marginally recognizable that she could sink into for a while. She unlatched the heavy gate and stepped beneath the grapevine arbor, where she found the exact same chair that she had sat in at the beginning of the summer. Abigail sank into the plastic-banded lounger with a sigh.

  “You’re lucky,” Jane said without turning around. “You’ve got the pool to yourself for a while. Seems like all those families with the little kids went down to the beach for the day.”

  “Perfect,” Abigail exhaled. “I was hoping for some peace and quiet.”

  Abigail was sure that there was no way Jane could possibly recognize her voice, but the motel proprietor spun around instantly as if she did. “Abigail?”

  “You remembered my name!”

  “Of course I did! I’ve been waiting for you to stop by for weeks. What happened to getting ice cream together?”

  “I’m sort of partial to wine now.”

  Jane laughed. “Well, how about lemonade instead? Could I talk you into a glass of lemonade? It’s Country Time—you stir the powder into some water—but it tastes okay on ice.”

  “Sounds great.”

  Abandoning the net by the side of the pool, Jane crossed over to where Abigail was sitting. For a moment the two women struggled with the strange impulse to hug each other, but then Jane merely extended her arm and took Abigail’s hand in both of her own.

  “You smell like peaches,” Jane commented with a wide smile. “It’s nice to see you. I’m glad you came to say hi.”

  “Me too.”

  Jane hurried over to the motel office and came back a few minutes later carrying two mismatched glasses and a squat pitcher that tinkled merrily with ice cubes. She set them down on a table near Abigail and pulled up a chair beside her.

  “The pool is usually packed by this time every day. If you would have stopped by yesterday, we wouldn’t have been able to hear each other over the din.”

  “Has it been a good summer?” Abigail asked, gesturing toward the line of rooms. She didn’t know what else to say. Only moments ago it had felt so right to stop at the Sunny Grove, but now that she was here, Abigail didn’t know how to make conversation with this woman who was a virtual stranger. She smiled awkwardly, but Jane didn’t seem to notice.

  “Oh, it’s always a good summer. People come; they go. . . . I clean the pool and take their money.” Jane laughed at her own joke as she poured a glass of lemonade. “How about you? Has it been a good summer?”

  Abigail cocked her head, considering. “I suppose so. It’s beautiful here.”

  “Yes, it is,” Jane agreed. “Where are you these days? Are you still in Revell?”

  “I’m a bit embarrassed to tell you where I am,” Abigail admitted. “I don’t think you’re a huge fan of my boss.”

  Jane took a sip of her lemonade, raising her eyebrows above the rim of the glass in obvious interest.

  “I’m working at Thompson Hills,” Abigail said in response to her unspoken query. She studied Jane’s face for any sign of surprise, but the older woman didn’t seem shocked at all. Nor did her eyes flash with any betraying emotion about Elijah Dixon. Abigail was confused. Hadn’t Jane warned her about Eli?

  “What makes you think I’m not a fan of Elijah?” Jane wondered.

  “We talked about him. Remember? You said . . .”

  “I said he was a miserable old bear. If you’ve been working with him all summer, you know full well that he’s a bit of a bear. As for miserable, well, I think you may have misinterpreted my meaning.”

  Abigail was speechless. She had assumed that Jane meant Eli was miserly, unpleasant, and mean.
Her conjecture was underscored by her coworkers, but Abigail had never really taken the time to wonder why Eli was the gruff perfectionist she had come to know and respect.

  “I haven’t seen him in well over a year,” Jane admitted. “But the last time I spoke with Elijah, he was a very miserable old man.” She looked pointedly at Abigail. “And by that I mean sad. Depressed.”

  “Why?” The question was out of Abigail’s mouth before she could stop it. She didn’t mean to pry, but it was hard not to wonder what sort of sadness shaped her boss.

  “I don’t think it’s my place to tell Elijah’s story,” Jane said. “But he has much to regret, as I’m sure we all do.”

  The women were silent as they took turns staring into the foggy depths of their lemonade and looking off over the cool face of the sparkling blue water. Abigail could see white puffs of clouds reflected on the smooth surface of the pool. She looked up and saw the mirror image floating in the expanse of sky above her. For a moment she wondered which clouds were real and which were merely reflections—they were the same: white on blue and white on blue.

  Jane eventually asked Abigail another question and they moved to less uncertain ground, chatting about safer things. They talked for almost an hour, and by the time Abigail’s glass was nearly empty, she felt a sort of defiant calm settle over her as if she intended to wrench a little relaxation out of her day even if it meant she had to ignore the doubts that crowded her mind. Regret, misery, secrets . . . Abigail drowned such thoughts with one last gulp of sandy-textured lemonade.

  As Abigail handed Jane her glass, a minivan pulled into the Sunny Grove parking lot.

  “Good timing,” Jane commented, indicating the well-traveled family that all but fell out of the still-moving van. “I needed something to get myself in gear. I could sit here and chitchat all day long.”

  The two women watched as a trio of kids spotted the pool and let out a series of excited cries. They raced over to the gate in direct disobedience to their father’s command to “Stay here!”