by Julie Hyzy
I sat up. I exchanged Christmas cards with Arlene. And as far as I knew, she was happy and healthy and still living out in Seattle, where they’d moved when I was in college. Would Arlene know if my mother had had an affair with my uncle? More important: If she did, would she tell me?
I dug out her number and picked up the phone.
Arlene didn’t answer so I left a message. “Hello, this is Grace Wheaton. How are you? Hope everything is great. If you have a minute, could you give me a call? I have a question I’d like to ask you about my mom.” I left both my home and cell numbers.
Cryptic? Possibly. But if Arlene knew the truth, she’d probably suspect why I was calling. If there was a secret, would she share it with me because I asked, or would she keep it hidden away out of solidarity with my mother?
I willed the phone to ring.
In the meantime, I returned to my digging. I had some time before Bruce and Scott’s potential contractor would arrive. Plus, I had dinner with Joe tonight. My stomach did a somersault thinking about what the evening might hold.
• • •
My mother kept shoeboxes of letters. A half-dozen dusty shoeboxes of letters. As well as folders full of files. I had no way of knowing if she’d kept every single bit of correspondence she’d ever received, but it certainly seemed as though she had. Hours later, I’d gotten through about half of the boxes, skimming most of them, fully reading some, but not one of them provided any insight into Aunt Belinda’s allegation of an affair.
Bruce had taken off to meet Scott and run a few errands before their meeting, so Bootsie was the only one keeping me company in the big house this afternoon.
I stopped to grab a quick ham and pickle sandwich then washed it down with lemonade before returning to my dusty task. Bootsie folded herself into a cat-loaf atop one of the photo albums I’d been poring over the other day—Liza’s baby book. When I resumed my seat on the floor, Bootsie gave a wide-mouthed cry, then stood up and rubbed against my forearm.
“Oh, all right,” I said to my little tuxedo cat. “I’ll take another look.”
I dragged the album onto my lap, leaned back to bolster myself against the front of the wing chair, and began paging through once again. I took it slowly, examining the backgrounds of each candid, looking for clues.
Of what? My mother’s infidelity? How could a photo prove or disprove Aunt Belinda’s accusation?
Whatever “it” was, I told myself again that I’d know it when I saw it.
I’d gotten through about half of Liza’s baby book realizing that although my mom’s photos in this album understandably focused on my little sister’s progress from birth to age one, I appeared in plenty of the shots. It made sense. While there were pictures of Liza alone taking her first steps, there were many with us together, such as infant Liza and three-year-old me posing with our dad and a Halloween pumpkin. The two of us on Santa’s lap—Liza howling, her little round face red and sweaty. They’d taken pictures of us together wearing silly hats on New Year’s Eve. Normal sibling shots. Nothing unusual.
Bootsie nuzzled my arm again.
“What are you trying to tell me, sweetie?” I asked.
I turned back to page one. Our first family photo with Liza. My mother didn’t look particularly tired. Not like she had in her hospital pictures immediately after I’d been born. But then again, second births were rumored to be easier.
And then it hit me.
I’d been focusing on Liza’s pictures. Maybe I should be focusing on mine.
“Good idea, Bootsie girl,” I said, even though she hadn’t made a noise.
I stood, tiptoeing around the piles of albums, shoeboxes, and files that I’d strewn all over our parlor floor. Ignoring my baby book this time, I sorted through until I came up with one of our family albums.
My mom had kept first-year books for the two of us, but after that, she’d maintained family albums. I paged quickly through one, then another.
“Here we go,” I said when I opened the one that started in the summer before I turned three. I knew what I wanted to see, or rather, what I didn’t want to see, so I took my time.
As always, my mother had dated each and every photo. I pulled out one—dated mid-June—of me at a leafy green resort where we’d vacationed that year. They’d put me in a bright red swing and my dad had posed behind me, smiling. No photos of my mother, though.
Anxious now, I gave up the idea of taking in the photos slowly and zipped through them, looking for any shots of my mom. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Until.
My third birthday party.
There she was, standing by with a knife and serving spatula, waiting for me to blow out the candles on my birthday cake, out on our backyard patio.
My mother was wearing a summer dress. But the frock wasn’t form-fitting enough to define her shape.
I counted on my fingers. Liza would be born in twelve weeks.
My mom would have had to be six months pregnant in this shot.
Maybe my birthday had been celebrated earlier that year?
I peeled out the photo and checked the back for the date.
My birthday. Exactly.
I squinted at the puffed-out cheeks of little-me trying to blow the candles out. I hadn’t ever been around children enough to easily determine their ages. Could this be my second birthday and not my third? Could my mother have dated the photo incorrectly?
That’s when I noticed the number three candle in the center of the cake.
The only other option was that my mom had hosted this party a few weeks earlier that year and simply recorded my actual birth date on the back.
I squinted at the photo. I’d heard the myriad stories of women who didn’t gain much weight, who had no outward signs, who never knew they were pregnant until the day they gave birth. Could that be what had happened here?
The room spun and my head hurt. I leaned back against the chair and stared at the ceiling. “What does all this mean?”
Chapter 24
With painstaking care I went over the albums of my life leading up to, and including, Liza’s birth, jotting notes and dates and including commentary about my mother’s figure. There was not one picture in any of those my mother had kept where I could say with certainty that she’d appeared pregnant.
Aunt Belinda’s voice nagged in the back of my brain reminding me that, in order to appease my father, my mother would have taken great care to make sure there were no photos in any albums with her pregnant with Liza.
“Grace?”
Startled out of my reverie, I raised my voice to answer Scott. “In here,” I called.
He and Bruce came in from the kitchen. “How’s it going?” Bruce asked.
“Wait until you see what I found,” I said as I got to my feet and brushed dust off my jeans. I bent to reach for the family album with photos from my third birthday.
At that moment, the alarm on my cell phone rang.
“I didn’t realize the time,” I said as I silenced it. “I’m meeting Joe in an hour. And look at me.”
“What did you find?” Bruce asked.
“It’ll have to wait,” I said as I tried to rearrange the albums, boxes, and notes into some semblance of order. “What time is your contractor supposed to be here?”
“Any minute now,” Scott said.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang.
I pointed. “Good luck. I’m running upstairs to change and then I’m heading out.”
As I got dressed, my cell phone rang. Thinking it was Joe, I snatched it up, only to be disappointed to see a Marshfield Inn number on my device’s display. The chances of this being Aunt Belinda or Liza calling to complain that I’d canceled today’s appointment were sky-high. I declined the call. A few moments later came the signal indicating a voicemail.
I listened to the fi
rst few seconds of Aunt Belinda berating me for my inconsiderate behavior. Apparently their attorney had waited until just now to deliver the news that our negotiation meeting had been rescheduled.
“You’re welcome,” I said as I clicked out of her angry diatribe and tossed the phone onto the bed.
Thirty minutes later, I took the stairs down to the main level at a more leisurely pace than I’d hurtled them going up. With the weather changing for the better every day, I’d changed into a summery cotton dress, silver flats, and sweater for when the night turned cool.
My roommates and their contractor were discussing plans in our dining room, which, unfortunately, provided a wide-open view of our cluttered parlor.
I could have easily slipped out without interrupting. But I had plenty of time to walk to Hugo’s and still be early. I didn’t want the boys to think I wasn’t interested in the preparations and plans for the reimagined Amethyst Cellars. While I may be their silent partner, I didn’t have to remain invisible.
“Hi,” I said as I stepped into the room. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Bruce and Scott sat on one side of the table with their backs to me. The man opposite them leapt to his feet the moment I walked in.
“Not at all,” Bruce said. “Grace, let me introduce Jeremy King of JK Contractors. Jeremy, this is Grace.”
He came around the table to shake my hand as Bruce made introductions. “Very pleased to meet you,” he said.
About the same height and build as my roommates, Jeremy had bright, dark eyes and an engaging smile. Frances wouldn’t put him in the same category as dreamboat Neal Davenport, but he was an attractive man.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I said. Because it seemed polite to continue the conversation slightly before taking off, I asked, “I can’t say that your company name is familiar. Is your firm local?”
“Almost local,” he said with a smile. “We’re located just outside of Piedmont Springs.”
I knew where that was. “This isn’t too far for you?”
He shook his head and smiled again. “For a job this size, not at all. This is a fabulous opportunity to partner on a stellar project, and I’m lucky we connected.” He gestured toward Bruce and Scott. “I was just telling them that I could see this one winning awards. I will always make time for a chance like this.”
“That sounds great.”
“But I don’t want to get ahead of myself,” he said. “The guys have a big decision on their hands and it may make more sense to use someone closer. For cost containment. Totally understandable.”
“I agree,” Bruce said. “As much as we want to make the new Amethyst Cellars a showplace, we will want to keep our out-of-pocket expenses reasonable.” From behind Jeremy, he winked at me. Apparently they hadn’t told him of our financial arrangement.
“And,” Scott said, “Jeremy hasn’t had a chance to actually tour the space yet. Until he gets a look at the bones of the location, we can’t make any real projections. Those fumigators.” He waved a hand in front of his face. “At least we can get back in there tomorrow.”
“Unfortunately, I have a commitment tomorrow.” Jeremy nodded thoughtfully. “I’m looking forward to seeing the building, though. From the few pictures you’ve shown me, it looks perfect for your purposes.”
“Speaking of pictures,” I said to my roommates. “Do not let me forget to show you what I found this afternoon. But for right now, I need to run. I don’t want to be late.”
Jeremy reached into his pocket and drew out a business card. “Here.” He handed it to me. “In case you have any questions. Or anything.”
• • •
I made it to Hugo’s about ten minutes early and Joe hadn’t arrived yet, so I put my name in for a table. I debated waiting outside, but the air had begun to turn cool. I decided to sit at the bar to wait for him instead.
What with all the digging I’d been doing into Liza’s life, sorting through letters and photos and such, I hadn’t had much time to think about what Joe had promised to divulge tonight. Whatever it was, it was related to the car accident that had necessitated his using a cane and it made him uncomfortable to talk about. I was convinced that someone had died. Based on his ring finger tan line, it was probably his wife.
I imagined that he still carried guilt for her death and that he’d relocated to Emberstowne after the tragedy in order to make a fresh start.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
I ordered a glass of Amethyst Cellars’s cabernet even though there were cases of that exact wine sitting in our basement this minute. The more orders Hugo’s took for my roommates’ wares, the better for future business.
My wine appeared a short while later. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll close out now, though, rather than run a tab.”
The bartender tilted his head to the far end of the bar. “Compliments of the lady down there,” he said.
Surprised, I turned to look where he indicated. A woman, several years older than me, lifted a beer bottle in greeting.
“I don’t understand,” I said to the bartender, but he’d already moved on to take care of someone else.
By the time I turned back to the woman, she’d vacated her chair and was making her way over. She was shorter than I was, maybe five foot three, with freckled olive skin, short blond hair, and a hard body. Black jeans and a matching turtleneck snugged slim curves. She didn’t smile.
“Don’t worry,” she said as she slid into the empty seat to my left, “I’m not trying to pick you up. I like guys.”
“I wasn’t worried,” I said.
“Tell your face that.” She took a swig from her beer bottle. “Meeting your doctor boyfriend here tonight, are you?”
My stomach made a fist. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh no?” Her mouth turned up at one corner and she gave me a sideways stare. “That’s not the way it looks from where I sit.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Yolanda,” she said. “I’m a private investigator. We’ve been shadowing the good doctor these past few weeks. Gotta say, we find his activity—particularly as it relates to you—very interesting.”
“What are you investigating, may I ask?” I’d had enough experience with imposters in the past that I wasn’t about to swallow her line without substantiation. “Has he done something wrong?”
“You tell me,” she said easily. “Exactly how close are the two of you?”
I pushed my wine away. “This conversation is over,” I said as I gathered my purse.
“Not so fast.” She gripped my forearm. When I glared, she loosened her hold but didn’t let go. She brought her face close to my ear. “He’s got a wife. Did you know that?”
Startled, I jerked away.
“No, I guess you didn’t,” she said. “Because of him, she’s unable to walk, can’t do anything for herself. And what does he do? As soon as she could no longer take care of him the way she used to, he up and left.”
The car accident. I’d asked him if anyone else had been injured. That was the moment he’d gone silent.
The woman continued, “She’s heartbroken. She’s been begging him to come back. But he’s a cruel man, your doctor. Left her with nothing. The only hope she has now is to catch him trying to worm his way into some other unsuspecting woman’s heart.” Yolanda shrugged. “Maybe it gives her grounds for a settlement in their divorce. Something that allows her to pay her food and hospital bills. Maybe it just makes her feel good to save someone else from getting her heart broken.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said. True, I didn’t know Joe well, but this description didn’t jibe with what I knew of the man.
Yolanda was ready for me. She whipped out a photo, placed it on the bar top, and pushed it toward me. Joe was utterly recognizable in his wedding picture—with a radiant wife. S
he wore vivid pink lipstick, a perfect complement to her pale hair and porcelain skin. Her wild, ecstatic expression seemed to shout, “We just got married!” The two of them seemed so young, so happy. My inexpert guess dated the photo from about five years ago.
“Now this one.” She offered another picture, this one of Joe’s wife in a hospital bed, hooked up to a myriad of machinery. She was unconscious.
“That was taken shortly after the accident for insurance purposes,” she said.
I didn’t touch the photo but I couldn’t look away.
“This one was taken last week.”
The final shot was again of Joe’s wife. This time she was seated in a wheelchair in what looked like a home’s living room. Her once beautiful face had grown gaunt, her hair stringy. With an afghan draped over her legs, she stared into the camera from sad, troubled eyes.
Yolanda collected her pictures and slid off her chair. “I’ll leave you to your date now,” she said. “Have fun.”
For a long few minutes I stared at my wine debating my next move. Part of me wanted to get up and leave before Joe got here, but that was a coward’s way out. I reminded myself that every story has two sides, but images of those photos swarmed, clouding my brain. Did I really have such bad luck with men? Was this always to be my lot in life?
Again, the urge to leave overwhelmed me. But—I’d learned—the easy choice was rarely the right one.
My cell phone rang. Aunt Belinda again.
I silenced the device, pulled my wine closer, and waited for Joe to show up.
Chapter 25
Joe’s first words to me were, “Sorry I’m late. I was on the phone with a patient.” His next were, “Something’s wrong. What happened, Grace?”