by Abbi Cook
Gossip she hears at that club where they’re members. Tidbits of tawdry stories that make her wish she had a little more excitement in her life like her friend who exercises like a demon to keep that body so her husband won’t leave her for someone younger and hotter.
And then, one touch of a stranger’s hand on hers and she thinks she can trust someone she’s just met.
I bet she’s even silently wished something would happen to shake up her existence so it isn’t so dull. Then one day, a man appears at her window offering to help her, a knight in shining armor willing to get his expensive clothes dirty all for her, something her husband would never do.
Just as I guessed, it doesn’t take long for her to get out of the car and walk back to join me. I lift the spare tire out of the trunk and see her stop at the corner, shyly watching me as I assist her so heroically.
“I hope you don’t get dirty,” she says sweetly, and I have the sense she genuinely means that.
I smile and shake my head to dismiss her worries. “I’ll be fine. It’s the least I can do for a beautiful woman stuck all alone on the side of the road.”
For a moment, I worry that sounded far too predatory. A seasoned ear would have picked up the cynicism in my tone, but I watch for her reaction and see no hint of understanding that my words meant anything more than the kind words of a helpful soul.
At the mention of being beautiful, her cheeks turn a soft shade of pink I have to admit makes her even more attractive. The memory of her husband’s easy way of casting her off in our conversations flashes through my mind, and my bad opinion of him is reinforced when I look at her now.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks hopefully.
Grabbing the jack from its hiding place in the trunk, I turn to walk toward the flat tire. “No, but you can keep me company, if that’s okay.”
Nothing but kindness there, and she eagerly follows behind me to do as I asked. “I guess I should know how to change a tire if I’m going to drive a car. I could have been stranded out here for God only knows how long.”
I look back at her and flash her a smile. “I sincerely doubt that. I can’t be the only man who thinks chivalry can’t be left to die.”
Before she can answer, I crouch down to take off the wheel cover and begin loosening the lug nuts on her nearly completely flat tire, inwardly cringing at that comment. I need to watch I don’t lay it on too thick on our first meeting. The woman may be naïve, but I doubt she’s an idiot. Her husband did say she was well-educated, which means she can sense a line of bullshit, even if she’s not used to hearing them.
“Well, since it’s the twenty-first century, I’m guessing the chivalry meetings are a very lonely place,” she says from behind me.
I loosen the third lug nut and turn my head to look back at her staring down at me. She is smart, and she did pick up on how insincere that line sounded.
“Maybe, but I’m still glad I can help.”
She sticks her hand out next to my shoulder and nods. “I can hold them, if that helps. I remember seeing that in that holiday movie on TV.”
I have no idea what she means, but I return to focus on loosening the last lug nut before standing up to put the jack under the car.
“Don’t you have to take those off first?”
“What?” I ask as I finish with the jack.
“Those things I offered to hold.”
Looking back at her, I shake my head. “The lug nuts? Not until I get the tire up off the ground.”
In her embarrassment, she giggles. “I bet you think that’s pretty stupid. See? I have literally no idea how to change a tire. I’m so lucky you came along.”
Luck has nothing to do with this, Natalie.
“Not at all, and I wouldn’t let you hold them anyway. You’d get all dirty.”
And with that little hint of dominance, she falls into line, lowers her head, and goes silent. Adam Anchoff has his wife trained well. Not that I enjoy a woman that easily put under my heel.
A few minutes later, I finish putting the spare tire on her car and storing the flat one in its place. Natalie has said nothing in all that time, but I sense she’s wanted to.
I find a rag and wipe my hands of a few traces of grease before tossing it back on top of the damaged tire and closing her trunk. Turning to look at her, I smile and slide my suit coat back on.
“You should be okay for a few miles, but I’d get that to a mechanic to get a replacement today,” I say as I escort her back toward the front of the car.
When we stop next to the driver’s side door, she looks up at me with such appreciation in her eyes that I almost feel guilty knowing what I will do to her soon. Almost.
“Can I give you anything for your trouble? Your hands are all dirty, and I’m sure you’re late to work now.”
“No. It’s my pleasure. Just be careful driving on that spare tire. It’s not meant for long term use or speed. I’d hate to see you get hurt.”
“I will. Thank you, Alexei.”
Natalie extends her hand to shake mine, and for a second, I think I should be that chivalrous man I pretended to be just a few minutes ago. He wouldn’t want to make her hand dirty. He’d politely decline like a gentleman.
But I see something in her expression that tells me she wants to feel my hand against hers again. Is that husband of hers so cold that she craves the mere touch of a stranger so desperately, no matter how filthy it may be?
“Take care, Natalie,” I say as my hand envelopes hers.
And once more, her eyes light up with excitement.
Chapter Nine
Natalie
My mother's house looms large in front of me as I drive up the long road that winds along the front of the estate in an almost purposeful attempt to dissuade people from actually visiting her. It's not an enormous property, but my father clearly wanted to make it a challenge for guests to actually come to the house.
I never knew my father. He died a few months after I was born, so all I have of him is the description of what kind of man he was and how much he loved my mother and me. She rarely talks about him anymore, even though she's never remarried or dated since his passing. Over the years, he's become larger than life in my mind, a man of great wealth and power who died too soon.
After traveling up the long driveway, I stop the car in front of the house. It's a large home like the kind you see in every film about wealthy British people who aren't royalty. When I first saw a picture of the house Queen Victoria lived in before she took the throne, I instantly thought it reminded me of my home. Then again, I was only twelve, so I might have been a bit biased, but considering my mother's fortune, it's exactly the kind of house you'd expect a wealthy woman like her to own.
The heavy stone façade lets any visitor know this is the home of someone substantial. That's the whole point of that look, after all. It's why banks always have had stone and marble in their buildings. Strength you can trust. My mother's house is an extension of the person she is. Strong and powerful.
I walk up the large stone steps as all of this runs through my head, but the truth is, this house for all its imposing features always felt warm and welcoming. It's why I wanted a house just like it when Adam and I married. He prefers American colonial style, so I didn't get my stone house, but I did get some brick on the façade and slate just inside the front door.
"Mom!"
I call out for her while I walk through the dark foyer to get to the great room. "It's Natalie! Where are you?"
I listen for her to answer but hear nothing. I know she's home since I saw her car parked in the garage as I drove up. Where could she be?
For a moment, a horrible thought flashes through my mind. Lauren's leaving has affected us all tremendously, and I've been waiting for her to exhibit some emotion other than the unrelenting anger she's shown about my sister's running away. What if she's finally moved past her anger and has done something horrible to herself?
As I march through the
house searching for her, I dispel that thought with a shake of my head. My mother is capable of many things, but suicide is not one of them. She turns outward with her emotions, not inward. Claire might hurt herself out of despair, but I doubt my mother could ever even feel such a thing.
"Mom! Where are you?" I yell again as I peek my head into the kitchen and still don't find her.
With every passing moment, I try to convince myself that Elizabeth Tarrigan would never do something like hurt herself. Then again, I never would have thought in a million years that Lauren would have been capable of doing what she did either.
"Mom, I swear to God I need you to answer me! Where are you?" I scream at the top of my lungs as panic begins to set in.
Just as I step onto the grand staircase to head up to the second floor, I hear her say behind me, "What is all the yelling about, Natalie? You'd swear the house was on fire, which it clearly isn't, so why don't you explain what you're so upset about?"
I turn around and see my mother standing there, her arms folded across her chest and a familiar look of irritation on her face. Elizabeth Tarrigan doesn't so much frown as she glares. Frowning would create wrinkles and lines, and she's far too obsessed with beauty to let that happen.
"You didn't answer when I yelled hello the first time, so I got worried. That's all," I explain as I step forward to hug her.
"What in the world would you be worried about?" she asks as I back away from our embrace, her expression now less glaring and more disgusted confusion.
"Nothing, Mom. How are you?"
My mother looks like a slightly older version of me with her long brown hair and blue eyes. Unlike other fifty-year-old women, she still wears it long so it hits halfway down her back. All those years of babying her skin have resulted in a complexion that looks like it belongs to someone my age. The only hint of her real age I've ever seen resides in her eyes. She can dye the grey in her hair and moisturize with the finest creams from around the world to keep her skin supple and wrinkle-free, but there's nothing to be done with eyes. They show the effect of all someone's seen in their life, and in my mother's eyes, I can see the pain she's experienced losing my father and from Lauren’s leaving, even if she doesn't want to admit it.
As much as I wish she'd express some tiny hint of sadness about my sister, she doesn't and instead launches into an explanation of what she's planning to do with the garden now that she's found a landscape architect who knows his job. I listen and nod to show my interest, but in truth, I'm waiting for a chance to broach the subject of Lauren.
"So that's why I didn't hear you when you were yelling like a banshee in here."
"Oh, okay. I guess I was just worried. It's been a hard time for all of us, so I didn't know what could be wrong."
Once again, disgusted confusion settles into her face. "Is that why you came over? To talk to me about your sister again? I don't want to discuss it, Natalie. I've made myself perfectly clear about this subject. God's will is done, and that's it."
"I just thought if you talked about how you're feeling, you might find it helpful," I meekly explain, withering under her angry stare. “Have you heard anything from the police?”
"I have nothing to say. If that's all you came here for, you can leave because I won't be talking about this anymore."
And with that, my mother marches away toward the back door, leaving me standing at the foot of the staircase feeling like I handled that poorly, to say the least. As much as I think her talking about what happened would help her, I have to accept she isn't ready.
I know merely thinking about Lauren exhausts me, and being there in the house just one floor below where she left that note and ran away makes the sadness of it all come flooding back once again. Maybe my mother's attitude toward it all is the right one.
I don't know. There are so many things I don’t understand, like how the police could have not a single lead on where she may be or why it seems like my mother has accepted all of this so easily.
What I do know is her insistence that God had something to do with Lauren's leaving isn't helping, though. A relic from her years in the Church of Genesis back when we were kids, the excuse seems strange interjected into our lives so long after she left that behind when I was a young teenage girl.
But I didn't come here to fight with her about her feelings on my sister, so I walk out to the garden to find her standing by a yellow rose bush wearing a big pink sun hat and gardening gloves like some old southern woman. The sight of her like that makes me smile.
"Your roses are coming in beautifully, Mom. You have a gift for them," I say as I sit down on the black metal garden bench nearby.
She puts her nose next to one and inhales deeply. "I do have a gift for flowers, if I do say so myself. Now with that new landscaper, I'll have the garden I've always dreamed of."
Suddenly as I sit there surrounded by all her rose bushes in various colors, I feel awkward asking her what I came to discuss with her. I have to, though.
"Mom, do you remember the first time Adam and I met?"
My question makes her turn to look at me, and I see her eyes are narrowed to squints. My mother has preached how a woman should never do anything to make wrinkles appear since I was a small child, so her expression surprises me for a moment.
It quickly changes, however, and she answers in a kind voice, "I do. It was quite a night. He was a perfect gentleman, if I remember correctly."
I nod and mutter something about that being true before I attempt to nudge her to give me more of her impression of that night. "Did you think I liked him right off the bat?"
Without thinking, she answers, "Oh, yes. Definitely. And he very clearly liked you. When the two of you left the party to take a walk, I knew you must like him. I remember you saying later that he was very nice."
All of this sounds similar to what Adam said last night but doesn't help me much with remembering the night for myself. But the question remains, why can't I remember that night?
"Mom, are there any known incidents of early onset of Alzheimer's disease in our family?"
My mother lowers her head and levels her stare on me. "What kind of question is that, Natalie?"
"Just wondering. I've never really asked you about our family health history and it's on my mind, so I figured I'd ask. I know you mentioned my father died of a stroke, so I know there's that in our family. I was just curious to know if there are any other issues you know of."
"Knowing your health history is good, but why ask about Alzheimer's?" she asks as she continues to stare at me like I've asked if we're related to aliens.
I shrug, trying to make it seem like it's no big deal. "I saw something on TV about it the other night, so I just wanted to ask. Do we have anyone in our family who's had Alzheimer's?"
She screws her face into an irritated expression for a moment before rolling her eyes. "No. As far as I know, no one in our family has ever had that. We have stroke and heart disease, and that's it, I think. But you're a young woman. Why do you care about that now?"
"No reason. Just good information to know."
"Adam told me you fainted last week. Any chance you're pregnant?" she asks, quickly changing the conversation to something I don't want to discuss.
Now I want to roll my eyes. Every single time I come to her house I get that question. It's as if all I'm good for is having a child.
"No, mother. I'm not pregnant."
"Well, you can't blame me for hoping. I'm sure Adam was hoping too."
That sounds like my cue to leave. Having this discussion with her is the last thing I want to do today.
"I think I'm going to go, Mom. I need to get home and do some things."
Mainly what I need to do is escape this conversation before she begins lecturing me on how important it is to give your husband a child, especially a husband who wants nothing more in this world.
As she busies herself with cutting more roses to create a bouquet, she says, "Okay. Tell Adam I said hello."
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I stand and walk over to the rose bush, leaning in to kiss her goodbye. "Love you, Mom."
And with that, I successfully dodge having the tired conversation about giving my husband a child that's happened more than a dozen times just this year alone. As I walk through the house, I wonder if I'm not just like my mother in that way. She doesn't want to talk about Lauren, and I don't want to talk about my not having a child yet. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
Just as I pass the staircase, I look up and think about Lauren and how she took my room when I left home. We weren't as close as Claire and I, but she had a way of being passionate about so many things I admired. I miss her being in my life.
Before I know it, I'm halfway up the stairs heading toward her room. I don't know why, but I feel like I need to be where she spent so much time. I haven't been in that room we both called our own at one time since she left.
I take a deep breath and slowly turn the doorknob, hesitating as I open the door. Maybe I shouldn't be here. It feels eerie, like I'm trespassing.
My gaze is directed to the bed in the middle of the far wall. Perfectly made in the pink comforter our mother bought her last year, the full size bed beckons me into the room, making me want to sit down for a minute.
I gingerly lower myself down onto the comforter as a feeling that I don’t belong here comes over me. She told no one what she planned to do and just left after writing a simple note to say she wouldn’t be back. One day she was with us, and the next she was gone.
The last time I saw her she was on this very bed sitting cross-legged and scowling at me as I tried to convince her to go downstairs to speak to our mother. I didn't know what they'd fought about and neither one of them would tell me, but I tried for nearly thirty minutes to coax her out of her room. She flatly refused over and over, shaking her head as she frowned and repeated her single-word answer.
No.