It was October, but winter was making its intentions known with light snow and freezing temperatures. She started her vintage Mustang to warm it up. She scraped the heavy coating of frost off the back windshield of the 1965 Caspian Blue Ford, which Patrick had restored for her as a gift to celebrate her graduation from Pineville Community College the previous May.
She heard Maxine, a neighbor, calling to her. The older lady, wearing a floral housecoat and curlers in her white hair, was leaning out the door of her trailer, waving to get Melissa’s attention. Melissa walked over to the edge of the rickety porch Maxine’s husband had built (not well) onto their mobile home many years before.
“I guess you heard about the wreck,” Maxine said.
“No,” Melissa said. “What happened?”
“Coal truck run into a light pole up on Rose Hill Avenue,” she said. “You know my Bruce is a night owl; he heard the crash and went up to see what happened. I turned on the scanner and got the details. The driver said he swerved to avoid a white SUV, but there weren’t no SUV anywhere when Bruce got up there. Either that man was hallucinating, high on drugs, or the other driver must’ve run off.”
Melissa was relieved to have a reason for Patrick’s late arrival home.
“That's a shame,” Melissa said. “Was the driver hurt?”
“Not too bad, but the fella he run over died at the scene.”
“Who did he run over?”
“Some fella standing on the sidewalk there,” Maxine said. “Although why anybody would be standing on Rose Hill Avenue after 3:00 in the morning, I don’t know. Them college kids got more money than sense, and no matter what they do the law in this town just looks the other way.”
“Was that when it happened? At three?”
Maxine nodded.
“I heard on the scanner the fella had no ID on him; they don’t know who in the heck he was or where he comes from.”
“That’s odd,” Melissa said, although she thought that if Maxine was right about the time, Patrick had just lost his alibi.
“I’m surprised your man didn’t tell you all about it,” Maxine said.
The older woman’s expression had turned sly.
“I was asleep when he came in, and I didn’t wake him up this morning,” Melissa said.
“Well, I don’t like to gossip,” Maxine said, “but Bruce said there was somebody with Patrick–a woman–but he only caught a glimpse of her. He didn’t know who she was.”
Melissa’s chest hurt, and she felt like she might throw up.
“That’s odd,” she said and looked away so Maxine couldn’t see how she felt.
“I didn’t know whether to say anything or not,” Maxine said. “I hope I done right.”
“No worries,” Melissa said, and waved as she turned away. “Have a good day.”
Melissa made herself calmly walk back to her car and finish scraping the melting ice off of her windshield while she held back her tears and willed herself to be strong, to be made of stone.
She got in the car and gripped the steering wheel. She could go back inside and confront Patrick, but she would be late for work if she did. She couldn’t very well meet a reporter with the swollen cry-face she anticipated she would be wearing as a result.
She had a choice to make.
She had been ignoring the signs for weeks, possibly months. Could it have been going on for years?
For the past three years, Melissa had been working full-time in the law office while also going to school to become a paralegal. Patrick worked at the family-owned service station all morning and the pub from noon until two in the morning. Consequently, she and Patrick hadn’t spent a lot of time together, and their love life had suffered, but she had thought it was just a bump in the road, like all grown up relationships were supposed to have, and if they were strong, to survive.
If Patrick had been having an affair with Ava all this time, it meant he had never stopped being in love with her, and that Melissa hadn’t ended up with him as she assumed she had. He apparently (allegedly, her interior paralegal reminded herself), didn’t have the loyalty to Melissa that she had toward him. Patrick was (allegedly) happy to cheat and lie, and not even hide it very well. He loved Melissa, she knew he did, but evidently, she (allegedly) could not hold a candle to the love of his life, Princess Ava.
It now seemed possible to Melissa that (allegedly) he had only been using her to cover up his relationship with Ava.
She wondered how many people knew.
Patrick’s sister Maggie hated Ava, and would not have covered for her brother. Maggie’s cousins, Hannah and Claire, were friends of Melissa’s, and she hoped one of them would have told her rather than let her find out this way. Her boss Sean was Patrick’s brother, but the brothers were not close. His mother Bonnie couldn’t know, or she would have taken after him with a rolling pin. If Patrick’s best friend Sam knew, he wouldn’t tell anyone, including his wife Hannah. Sam was a dark horse.
Three years previously, Ava and Will had eloped and immediately left for a month-long honeymoon in Europe. At the time, Melissa had wondered if that was so no one in the Fitzpatrick family could attend a wedding ceremony. She had wondered if Patrick would have stood up in the church and declared himself. He had certainly been a moody son-of-a-bitch that month, but Melissa had been patient, which she knew how to do better than most. Sometimes, she knew, a heart has to wait for a long time, standing outside in the cold and dark, looking in at the warm fire of its beloved burning for someone else.
Hadn’t she waited all this time to be his one and only? Hadn’t Ava finally marrying someone else broken the spell? She had thought so. She had believed him when he said he loved her, that she was the most important person in his life.
All lies, apparently (allegedly).
She reminded herself, as Sean so often cautioned his clients, not to let her emotions take the place of facts and evidence. So far, all she had to go on was gossip from a nosy neighbor married to a senior insomniac who did not have perfect eyesight. There were lots of people in the small town of Rose Hill who knew the old gossip about Patrick and Ava, and Lord knows, they did so love to stir something up whenever they could, if only for their own amusement. Maxine and Bruce were no different.
To confront or not confront?
“To hell with him,” she finally said to herself.
This morning, she would do what was best for her and no one else.
“Are you excited?” Sean asked Melissa.
“I’m nervous,” Melissa said. “When I’m upset or worried I sometimes forget my grammar.”
“You’ll do fine,” Sean said. “Telling your story may inspire others to believe in themselves despite their circumstances. You’ll probably never know how many people you’ll help.”
“That’s the only reason I agreed to do it,” Melissa said. “I sure don’t need to stir up old gossip.”
The reporter from the Pendleton Press arrived, and Sean and Melissa greeted her and shook her hand. Although from her wrinkled hands Melissa could tell she was in late middle age, she was dressed like a much younger person, her hair long and blonde, her shoes the highest of heels. Her face looked a little meddled-with. Her eyebrows were hiked up in a permanent expression of surprise, her upper lip was much larger than the bottom one, her forehead was unnaturally smooth and shiny, and her cheekbones stuck out too far to be believed. Melissa wondered what was worse, being pitied for trying to look younger or being pitied for looking your age. It seemed like either way a woman couldn’t win.
“I’m Sabrina Dowd,” she said. “You may have heard of my husband, Melvin Dowd.”
“He owns most of the car dealerships in this county,” Sean said. “I’ve seen the commercials and the billboards.”
“Five dealerships over the whole northern part of the state, actually,” Sabrina said, as she flipped back her hair. “This column is my hobby; I don’t have to work. I certainly don’t need the money.”
“This is Meli
ssa,” Sean said. “Your subject.”
Sabrina looked her up and down.
“Well, aren’t you pretty as a picture?” the woman said, but her smile did not reach her eyes.
“Thank you,” Melissa said. “May I get you some coffee?”
“Nothing for me,” Sabrina said. “I’m all about protein smoothies these days.”
“I’m going to leave you ladies to it,” Sean said. “Melissa, why don’t you use the conference room? I’ll stay up front to catch the phones and anyone who comes in.”
Melissa waited for the older woman to seat herself at the conference table before she sat down. Sabrina took a little notebook and a gilded pen out of her large logo-covered handbag, which was accented by chunky, shiny gold hardware and a gold metal logo dangling from one strap. That logo was one Melissa certainly couldn’t afford to have dangling from anything she owned.
“The photographer will be along in a little while,” Sabrina said. “We’re stretched pretty thin right now, what with budget cuts, so he’s at a crime scene down the street. Did you bring a few outfits to change into?”
“I’m sorry,” Melissa said. “I just have what I’ve got on.”
Sabrina raised a critical eyebrow.
“I guess that will do, although black is not ideal for newsprint,” she said. “How tall are you?”
“Five-two,” Melissa said.
“So petite,” Sabrina said. “What’s your dress size?”
“Four, I guess,” Melissa said. “Sometimes two.”
“What designers do you prefer?”
“I can’t afford designers,” Melissa said. “My friend picked all this out.”
“So we’ll say you have a stylist,” Sabrina said. “Where does she shop for you?”
“Online,” Melissa said. “I don’t have an eye for stuff like she does.”
“What handbag are you currently carrying?”
“A canvas tote for my files,” Melissa said. “I also have a laptop bag that used to be Sean’s.”
“You’re not making this easy,” Sabrina said.
“I’m sorry,” Melissa said. “I thought this story was about my paralegal degree.”
“Sure, I’ll mention it,” Sabrina said. “But my column is about fashion. It’s called The Fashionista Report. Haven’t you read my column?”
“I’ve been going to school and working full-time for three years,” Melissa said. “The only things I’ve been reading are textbooks and legal case studies.”
Sabrina’s face reddened, and her lips tightened.
“Do you even care about fashion?”
“Not really,” Melissa said. “I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time.”
Sabrina put her pen away and closed her notebook. She smirked at Melissa.
“That’s all right, my dear, I’ve only wasted my whole morning driving to this godforsaken place when there are plenty of other women who’d be thrilled to be in my column,” Sabrina said. “It just goes to show, I guess, that you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
She stood up, slung her handbag over her shoulder, and looked Melissa up and down.
“It’s a shame you don’t make more of what you have,” Sabrina said. “A woman who looks like you shouldn’t have to work. You could catch a wealthy husband.”
“I want to work,” Melissa said. “I want to support myself.”
“That’s sweet, honey,” Sabrina said. “When you’re older you may wish you’d been more sensible about it, but who am I to tell you anything about how the world works? You have a degree!”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Melissa said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Sabrina rolled her eyes.
“Right, well, I’ll be off then,” she said. “Good luck with your career.”
Melissa felt her eyes fill with tears, although she wished with all her might that she wouldn’t cry at work. Her female classmates had all agreed that was the worst thing you could do. No one would ever let you forget it. You had to be tough. You had to demonstrate the fierce determination to surmount all obstacles, outwit the competition, and soundly defeat all who opposed you.
Anger was all right. Crying was for losers. Everyone knew that.
Melissa couldn’t help it, though. Her son Tommy had gone away to college in August, and it was now the end of October; she missed him like someone had pulled off her arm. That combined with her worries about Patrick, plus a looming financial decision she needed to make had drained the fight out of her.
“What happened?” Sean asked from the doorway.
Melissa wiped her eyes, trying not to smear her mascara.
“It was supposed to be a story about my clothes and pocketbooks,” Melissa said. “Not about my degree or my history. Plus I think she called me a dirt-poor pig.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“It’s probably my fault,” Melissa said. “I guess I misunderstood.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sean said. “I’ll call the editor.”
“No, Sean, please don’t,” Melissa said. “I’m embarrassed enough. You’ll only make it worse.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Melissa said. “I just want to forget it ever happened.”
They heard the front door open, and Sean left to see who it was. When he came back, he said it had been the paper’s photographer.
“I told him the story was canceled,” he said.
“Good,” Melissa said. “Now we can get back to work.”
Just after lunch, Ava’s husband Will came in. He had dark shadows under his eyes, his cheeks were sunken, and his clothes hung on his tall frame.
“Hi Melissa,” he said. “Is the contract ready?”
“Sean has it on his schedule to review this afternoon,” Melissa said. “I’ll call you as soon as he approves it.”
“I’ll be glad to have that property sold,” he said. “It’s been nothing but trouble.”
“Could I get you some coffee or something?” Melissa asked. “Sean should be back any minute, and you could wait for him.”
Will sank into a chair and rubbed his face.
“Thanks, yes,” he said. “I’ll take you up on that.”
Melissa made a fresh pot of coffee while Will checked messages on his phone. He thanked her when she handed him a large mug.
“You remembered how I like it,” he said. “You’re good. Sean’s lucky to have you.”
“Are you feeling okay?” Melissa asked him. “I hope you don’t mind me asking. You look sorta peaked.”
“I have terrible insomnia,” he said. “The medicine I take lets me get a little sleep, but then I have the worst hangover the next day. It’s a vicious cycle.”
“Worrying about this sale probably hasn’t helped.”
“We’ve been through this so many times in the past three years,” he said. “It was on the market for almost eighteen months without any offers. The first offer fell through, the second buyer lost her financing at the last minute, and then I had to drop the price way below market value to get any further interest.”
“It’s a beautiful house,” Miranda said. “You’d think someone would want to run a B&B business here. There are always people looking for a place to stay in Rose Hill; students, their parents, skiers, tourists. I guess nobody wants to take the financial risk.”
“These people both just retired from federal jobs in DC,” he said. “I don’t care if they’re making a big mistake or not; I just want it off my hands.”
“It should all be fine,” Melissa said. “How are Ava and the kids?”
“Charlotte’s at Oxford now, studying Art History,” he said. “Timmy’s settling in at Exeter; the first few months are always difficult, but I have no doubt he’ll do fine. Ernest is in the grade school here in town, and he seems to be doing well. Olivia’s in the preschool at Sacred Heart; she’ll have put herself in charge there by Christmas, no doubt; she certainly rules our household.”
“An
d Ava?”
Will appeared forlorn for a moment, but then took a deep breath and gave Melissa a rueful smile.
“She’s a little bored, I think,” he said. “I wonder if I shouldn’t give her a job of some sort. She says she’s fine, but I think she could do with a project.”
“We don’t see her very often these days.”
“If the city had let me put the bridge to our property at the bottom of Pine Mountain Road like I wanted, you’d see her all the time,” he said. “Unfortunately, I lost that battle, and because I didn’t want to lose the P.R. war, I let it go. It still galls me that it takes a half hour to get to Rose Hill by car, even though I can see it from my back deck.”
“Unless you use your boat.”
“I don’t mind the dinghy, but Ava’s not keen; she worries about the little ones going overboard.”
“Your house is so beautiful,” Melissa said. “I saw the Christmas tour photos in the Pendleton paper last year.”
“We like it,” he said. “I tell Ava all the time that we should have the Fitzpatricks over for a house-warming. We’ve meant to do that ever since we moved in; my schedule is just so hectic now that I’m running my father’s business as well as my own.”
“What was it he did?”
“Lots of things, actually,” Will said. “He and my uncle would buy factories, make them profitable, and then sell them. My uncle eventually left to start his own business, as a defense contractor to the government. By the time my father died he’d sold all of the businesses he’d purchased except the one they had started with, the one my grandfather had owned. It’s a boiler manufacturer, commercial and residential. I could sell it, but it employs a lot of local people in our hometown in New Hampshire, and I didn’t want a new owner to sell it for parts or move production out of the country.”
“Everybody I’ve talked to that works at your bicycle factory only has nice things to say,” Melissa said. “I guess that’s just small potatoes compared to your other companies.”
“It’s the smallest, but it’s my favorite,” Will said. “The happiest I ever was in my life was when I went to Eldridge College and mountain-biked the trails here with my friends.”
Pumpkin Ridge (Rose Hill Mystery Series Book 10) Page 3