Caught Redhanded

by Gayle Roper

  Curt sat still for a moment, processing those astounding words. Then he pulled me close and began rubbing my back. “I’m so sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.”

  Maddie patted my knee and stood. “Your guy’s got great possibilities, Mer. And you—” she walked to Doug and climbed in his lap “—you did very well.”

  We sat quietly for a few minutes. I don’t know what the others were thinking, but I was thanking the Lord for the people He’d put in my life since my move to Amhearst.

  Then the phone played the opening bars of “Finlandia” and the doorbell rang. For the next couple of hours there were calls that Doug handled and visitors who Maddie welcomed. I sat on the sofa with Curt and tried to be gracious, though I had become so sleepy I could hardly keep my eyes open. Too much crying.

  At ten o’clock Maddie opened the door to my parents and Sam, and I ran into their arms. The four of us stood in what we used to call a huggle, a combination hug and huddle, while I cried again.

  “Thank you for being here for her,” Dad said to Curt when we finally broke apart. He grabbed Curt’s hand and shook it. I was surprised to see tears in Dad’s eyes.

  Then he turned to me. “All right, Merrileigh. What’s going on here?”

  We sat down and I told him everything that had happened.

  “But we have no idea why!” I finished.

  “So you lost everything at the apartment.”

  I nodded. “Thankfully I’d taken some of my things to Curt’s already.”

  “At least your wedding gown’s safe at the shop,” Mom said.

  Teary-eyed all over again, I shook my head.

  Mom looked wonderfully horrified. “It’s gone?”

  I nodded. “Gone.”

  “Oh, Merry!” Her cry was full of anguish.

  “Now, Barb,” Dad said. “We’ll get her another. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

  Mom and I both glared at him and he got that what-did-I-say look.

  “Mars and Venus, Dad,” Sam said. “Though I have no idea why. Personally, I thought that was a good suggestion.”

  “I think, Mr. Kramer,” Curt said, “they don’t want fix-it lines. They want commiseration.”

  Mom looked at Curt with approval. “Oh, Merry, this one’s definitely a keeper.”

  I smiled. He was. And Pittsburgh looked closer than ever.

  By midnight I was tucked away in the guest room of Maddie and Doug’s home. Mom, Dad and Sam had gone home with Curt. I wasn’t sure I’d sleep, but after a couple of false starts, I wasn’t aware of anything until sunlight falling across my face woke me. I stared at the ceiling for a few blinks, trying to remember where I was and why. When I remembered, I heaved a huge sigh. So much gone. And whoever was doing this would probably try to hurt me again.

  Hurt you? Get a grip, Kramer. Kill you.

  I shuddered. If I lay there and thought about my situation any longer, I’d expire from fear and save my unknown enemy the trouble. Forget that. If he wanted me gone, he was going to have to do it himself.

  Action. Movement. That’s what I needed. I sat up and reached for the phone by the bed. I called Leslie at the Primrose Salon.

  “I heard last night,” she said when I identified myself. “Jolene called. We’ve been on the Internet all night looking for another gown just like yours. I have a couple of possibilities and so does she. Looks like the best bet is one Jolene found. It will be shipped from the UK first thing Monday.”

  I was going to have a wedding gown from England?

  “It will arrive here late Wednesday. I’ll fit it on Thursday and have it ready for you by late Friday afternoon even if I have to stay up all night. So relax. You’ll be just the bride you wanted to be.”

  After offering my profuse thanks, I hung up, amazed and weepy, but this time the tears were happy ones.

  Curt, Mom, Dad and Sam came over for breakfast and Maddie made delicious French toast with just a hint of cinnamon. Holly, all blond curls and blue eyes, sat in her high chair and made google eyes at Sam, who appeared smitten back.

  “A girl could do worse,” I told Holly as I smiled at my little brother who was now more than six feet tall.

  “In about ten years you can have one of your own,” Dad said to Sam, forkful of toast halfway to his mouth. “That way you’ll have your college loans paid off before you get stuck with a mortgage.”

  Sam looked horrified, whether at the idea of babies or mortgages I wasn’t sure. “I think I’ll just wait twenty years for Holly to grow up.” He reached over and chucked the baby under the chin. “Right, sweetie?”

  She grinned so broadly that the mouthful of stewed peaches Maddie had just shoveled in dribbled out and down her chin.

  Sam frowned at her. “In the meantime you can work on your table manners, okay?”

  Holly beat happily on her high chair tray with a spoon.

  I was struck by how normal everything seemed, yet how weird.

  We weren’t nearly as cheery a group a half hour later as we stood in a semicircle in the parking area of my apartment and looked at my rental and Mrs. Anderson’s spiffy red car. I should say, formerly spiffy. Both vehicles were scorched and had windows knocked out, whether by the heat of the blaze or flying debris at the time of the explosion, I didn’t know.

  Curt glanced at me with a quick grin. “Poor Mr. Hamish. Another car bites the dust.”

  Poor Mr. Hamish indeed. He and I had a long history in which I destroyed the cars he rented me. “It’s a wonder the man even speaks to me.”

  “He thinks you’re fascinating.” Curt squeezed my shoulders. “Me, too,” he whispered.

  We took the front walk past the lilac, its leaves curled and brown at the edges from the heat of the fire. Then we stood outside what was left of my apartment. The building stood, but my half was pretty much gutted. The feelings of loss and violation were so strong that I had to swallow repeatedly to stay in control.

  Why is this happening to me, Lord? And why now?

  Yellow crime-scene tape sagged under the intense heat of the sun. Smoke and the rank odor of wet charcoal hung in the humid air. I pressed against Curt and he held me close.

  “At least most of my honeymoon clothes are in a suitcase at your house,” I said.

  He nodded. “I wish I could tuck you away there, too.”

  “Only a week,” I said, but those seven days stretched out like forever. A terrible thought struck me. “What if I bring this trouble with me? What if something happens to your house? To your paintings? To you?”

  He shrugged. “Just so nothing happens to you.”

  As we stared at the mess, two questions filled all our minds. Who and why?

  “You must have seen something when you found that girl,” Sam said.

  “I’ve been over it a million times. I didn’t see a thing. And Jolene was with me. No one’s going after her.”

  NINETEEN

  Now that they were sure I was all right, Mom and Dad and Sam left midafternoon to go back to Pittsburgh.

  “We’ll be back at the end of the week for the wedding,” Mom said as she kissed me goodbye. “Curt, you take care of her for us.” She gave him a fierce glare, and he quickly nodded agreement.

  She must have been satisfied, because her pique reared its unattractive head. “I still have a hard time getting my mind around the fact that you’re getting married. It’s probably because I didn’t have much to do with the planning.” She smiled bravely as Dad darted her a cautionary look. I don’t know whether she saw him, but she said nothing else.

  Poor Mom. She was disappointed that the wedding was to be here in Amhearst rather than back home, but she had been very good about keeping her opinion to herself, at least most of the time, a fact that both Curt and I appreciated. I knew she felt cheated that she hadn’t gotten to do much of anything in the preparations. Mom loved to organize and what better thing to organize than your daughter’s wedding?

  I knew she felt I was robbing her of one of life’s privileges,
an admirable attitude considering the complaining I’d heard her friends do about the headache of getting their daughters’ or sons’ weddings together.

  Curt and I had chosen to have a small wedding in Amhearst for several reasons. We’d met here. Our mutual friends were here. And since Curt had no family, his parents and sister having died, I wanted him to be where he felt comfortable, not the outsider.

  “We love you, sweetheart.” Mom kissed me goodbye.

  “Love you, too,” I said.

  “And you, too, Curt.” Mom gave him a hug and a buss on the cheek. “Keep her safe, you hear?”

  Curt slung an arm over my shoulders. “I will.”

  “We’re counting on you, son,” Dad said as he climbed behind the wheel.

  “No pressure, though,” I assured him as we waved them out of sight.

  “Yeah, right.” He hugged me. “Come on. Let’s go for a ride. I want you to myself for a while.”

  We drove south out of town, meandering along the winding roads to Doe Run, enjoying the scenery, the animals in the fields and each other. Eventually we rounded a curve on one of the back roads, and there sat a covered bridge spanning a sturdy stream.

  I was charmed. “I’ve seen the bridge over on Harmony Hill Road in Downingtown, but this one’s so pretty out here in the countryside.” Its sides were painted barn-red and its roof wore gray shingles. We drove through it on a continuation of the macadam road, the roof momentarily shutting out the sun, the sides blocking our view of the softly undulating fields all around. Openings high in the walls just below the roof line allowed for air to circulate.

  “It should be raining rather than sunny so we can take protection from the elements,” I said, thinking about the past generations of buggies, wagons, riders and animals who had sheltered here, waiting for a storm to pass. “Beep your horn.”

  Curt hit the horn and the honk was wonderfully resonant in the confines.

  “The keeping out of the elements had a downside to it,” he said. “In the old days when it snowed and people traveled by sleigh, they had to shovel snow into the bridges so the sleighs could pass over them.”

  I laughed. “There’s a catch to everything, isn’t there? Bet they never thought of that when they were building the bridges in high summer.”

  When we’d passed through, Curt pulled to the side of the road. “They didn’t really cover the bridges to protect the people and animals,” he said. “They did it to lengthen the life of the bridge itself. It must work. This one was built in 1881.”

  “Over one hundred and twenty-five years old.” I swiveled in my seat and looked back. “Impressive, though I’m sure there’s been much repair work done since back then. And why are we stopping?”

  Not that I minded. Open fields spread out on either side in a green carpet. White daisies and wild mustard bloomed in profusion and a Louisiana blue heron, disturbed in his search for fish by our arrival or maybe our horn blowing, took off from the stream, huge wings thrumming the air, slender neck retracted, long legs trailing behind.

  Curt reached onto the backseat and picked up a camera. “I’m doing a series of paintings of the covered bridges of Chester County. I like to photograph them so I get all the details right.”

  I followed him as he walked down the road and took several shots of the bridge head-on. Around us honey bees buzzed from yellow flower to yellow mustard flower, and pollen floated in the air. Honeysuckle grew along the verge of the road, its scent a sweet perfume in the warm air. Red-winged blackbirds perched on reeds that looked too slight to hold their weight. A fat groundhog looked at us over his shoulder, then waddled away, his fur shimmying over his well-rounded rump. In a distant field, a pair of horses stood nose to tail, idly flicking away the flies. The silence was deep and comforting.

  Next we climbed over the fieldstone approaches to the bridge and Curt took shots of it on an angle. Personally I thought this vantage point would be wonderful for a painting with the wedge of field in the foreground and a few wildflowers thrown in for color, then the red bridge and behind it the vivid green trees set against the brilliant blue of a summer sky, a strategic cloud thrown in for good measure.

  Next we made our way down to the stream, where Curt took several shots of the supports of the bridge.

  “They’re like stilts set in concrete pads,” I said, but bridge supports didn’t really interest me. I stood on a rock and stared down into the run, watching the water flow on its way to the—“Where does this stream flow? Into the Brandywine Creek?”

  “Probably. Then the Schuylkill River, the Delaware River, Chesapeake Bay and finally the Atlantic.”

  “Busy stream.” On the far side of the bridge my eye was caught by a cluster of raspberry brambles draped over the stone approach. Suddenly my mouth watered for raspberries.

  “Come on.” Curt took my hand and pulled me along the stream away from the bridge and the raspberries. Every few steps he glanced back but didn’t stop until he was satisfied. I turned and saw why. The full span of the bridge was visible with the stream curving beneath it. Curt shot several more pictures.

  We started to walk back toward the bridge and my eyes went to the raspberries again. I pointed. “Let’s pick some raspberries.”

  “Sure.” He tucked the camera in his shirt pocket, then sat on a rock and took off his sandals. He stood, tucked them in his shorts at the small of his back, and stepped into the water. “What are you waiting for?”

  I pulled my sandals off and followed him. The water was cool on my feet, but it felt good, relaxing, cleansing. Here with only the occasional caw of a blackbird, the burble of the brook and the murmur of insects, I felt far removed from the trauma of the last few days.

  The water inched its way to my knees, wetting the bottoms of my cropped pants, but I didn’t care. It was sunny and hot and they would dry in no time. We reached the other side and clambered up the slight incline to the raspberry patch. Sure enough, red fruit waited for us. We picked carefully, watching out for thorns, and popped the fruit into our mouths. It was sweet and tart, its seeds and flesh a fascinating contrast.

  When we had stripped the patch, we returned to the stream and dangled our hands in the water to wash away the sticky juice. The tackiness that wanted to glue my fingers together disappeared, but the red stains didn’t. I held my hands up for Curt to see. “Caught redhanded again.”

  He held up equally stained hands. “At least we’re a matched pair.”

  Laughing, delighted to be together, we waded across to the side where we were parked. As I climbed out and sat to put my sandals back on, I said, “We should have brought a picnic.”

  Curt dropped beside me, our shoulders touching. “Another day. I need to come back again to get pictures in the rich light of approaching evening as opposed to the harsher light of midday.”

  I looked around. “Will we be here to come back? We’ll be in Pittsburgh.”

  “Or North Carolina.”

  I fixed my eyes on the bridge. “Tony Compton said he’d move to Pittsburgh for me if he were my fiancé. There is always room for another good lawyer in such a town, he said.”

  Curt leaned back, supporting his weight on his elbows. “Thinking about trading me in, are you?” He didn’t sound too worried about the possibility.

  I turned and wrapped my arms around his waist. “No,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder. “I’m not in love with him.”

  We stayed like that for a few minutes, wrapped in each other’s arms in the middle of a beautiful meadow by a historic bridge and a burbling rill, and I wondered how we were ever going to resolve our dilemma. I thought again of the people who had sheltered in the bridge or sledded through. They probably didn’t have to face two job offers, lucky them.

  “I’m going to fly down and visit the art institute Tuesday,” Curt said and kissed the top of my head. “I’ll be back Wednesday.”

  “What?” I pulled away from him and stared. And what was with the kiss on the head as he made the grand
announcement? Was it supposed to make me feel better somehow?

  His eyes were bright and excited behind his lenses. “They’ve made all kinds of arrangements for me to meet everyone from the president of the school on down. I’ll get to see the facility firsthand and learn how they see me fitting into the picture. I’ll see the area, look for places we might live and learn what the benefits of moving there would be for us.”

  “You’re going to North Carolina?” I couldn’t believe it. I probably sounded as distressed as the fiancées in the early 1940s when they said, “You’re going to the South Pacific?”

  “Merry, I’m not going to the moon. It’s a short flight. And you can come with me if you want.”

  I didn’t want.

  “Maybe if you see it, you’ll like it.”

  “I don’t have any vacation time left. I’m using it all and more for our honeymoon.” I was glad for a legitimate excuse not to go. I wasn’t interested in seeing the place, in liking the place. I tried to ignore the little voice that tried to tell me I was being just a tad immature here. But I’d been praying so hard about Pittsburgh, I couldn’t believe he hadn’t caved yet.

  “Sweetheart, I’ve got to check this out. How can we make choices if we don’t know anything about one of the possibilities.”

  But North Carolina’s not a possibility! “You don’t understand. I have to let Mr. Henrey know by Tuesday.”

  Curt shrugged. “You’ll have to tell him you need more time. If he really wants you, he’ll give it.”

  “What do you mean, if he wants me? Of course he wants me. That’s why he called.” I heard my anger and took a deep breath. “Sorry.”

  Curt took my hand. “Merry, I know you want to go home, but I’m not sure that’s a good place for us to start our marriage.”

  I stared at him. “You’re kidding. How could it be bad?”

  “It’s not that it would be bad. It’s more that starting off somewhere where we’re both in the same position seems wiser. If we go south, neither of us would know anyone. There’d be no family to worry about, no old friends to keep introducing me to.”