“Ambulance?” she asked. She touched the top of her head, feeling the wet towel and her soggy hair. “Why do I need an ambulance? Is that blood?” she asked, waggling her fingers in Maeve’s face.
Maeve pointed to the shelf. “The shelf came down and hit you in the head. You may need a couple of stitches.” Or a couple of dozen, she thought.
Jo looked at Maeve, her eyes glassy and unfocused. “Stitches? Oh, I hate needles.”
Two police officers came in through the back door, three local EMTs behind them. The officers hoisted the shelf up to make way for the stretcher, kicking the broken bags of sugar and flour to the side.
She moved to the side of the stretcher and touched Jo’s arm. “I’ll meet you at the emergency room,” she said.
Jo pointed over her shoulder at the mixer, picking the perfect time to become cogent. “Keep baking. You’ll never make the delivery if you don’t get that cake made.” She smiled at Maeve. “Remember: baptism. Not Batman.”
Maeve recognized one of the cops; he did crowd control at the big soccer tournament every fall. “Can you wait for her and drive her home when she’s done?”
His look said it all, but he added, “Do we look like a taxi service?”
“No,” Maeve said, “but I have to get this cake done and delivered in the next two hours. How long do you think it will take for her to get stitched?”
“Lady,” he started, “I don’t know what you thought you were getting when you called 911, but in addition to not being a taxi service, we are also not prognosticators. I know you pay a lot of taxes to live in this town, but seriously?”
Someone’s jockey shorts were too tight. “Fine,” she said, turning back to Jo. “Listen, I’ll get the cake done and head straight to the hospital. Wait for me, okay?”
Jo was resting on the stretcher, the blood seeping through the makeshift bandage that one of the EMTs had placed on top of it. “I’ll call a cab.”
Maeve grabbed her chin and pulled it gently so that Jo was looking at her. “No, you won’t. I’ll be there in a little over two hours. You may not even be done yet, but I’ll wait for you in the waiting room.” Maeve had been in that emergency room enough times to know exactly how it was laid out. She also had been there enough to know that the staff at the admitting desk wasn’t the most agreeable, sort of like the cop who was using precious time to tell her what wasn’t part of his job description.
Jo lifted her hand and put it on Maeve’s shoulder. “Fine. I’ll wait for you.” One of the EMTs put the sides up on the stretcher and prepared to roll Jo out into the ambulance. “Hey,” she said, grabbing Maeve’s arm. “What do you have in your purse, anyway? That thing weighs a ton.”
CHAPTER 16
The icing barely had time to set, the cake was still warm, but Maeve made it work and managed to get it into the car and over to the baptism lady’s house in under two hours. The woman had softened a little bit, but not as much as Maeve would have hoped.
“On the house,” Maeve reminded her, feeling as if she were glued to the front porch of the beautiful Colonial, not moving forward to hand it to the woman, unable to take a step back and get away from the woman’s stink-eye glare. Cars lined the driveway, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see a tent in the side yard, the party well under way. When the woman made no move to take the cake from her hands, Maeve rested it on a wicker table next to the door and lifted the lid. “Take a look. I hope you like it.”
In spite of the circumstances surrounding her creation of the cake, Maeve thought it had come out pretty well. And if the woman didn’t think so, well, there were three dozen cupcakes to sweeten the deal; that box was already on the chair next to the table. The woman peered into the box, and even she had to admit that it was pretty damned good given the amount of time Maeve had had to make it happen.
“It’s beautiful,” the woman said. “Listen, I’m sorry…”
Maeve held up a hand to stop her. “No apologies necessary. My fault entirely. I hope you’ll come back to The Comfort Zone soon so I can continue to make this up to you.” She resisted an urge to look at her watch, her only thoughts with Jo, hopefully still at the hospital and not in a cab on her way back to Farringville. “Enjoy the rest of your party,” she said to the woman, now smiling, before scurrying down the porch steps and walking to her car as fast as she could without breaking into an all-out sprint.
The hospital was twenty minutes away on a stretch of road with too many stoplights, all of which were red when Maeve hit them. She had texted Jo at one of them, taking care to make sure there weren’t any pesky cops in the vicinity, and instructed her to “WAIT.” She tapped the steering wheel impatiently at the third light, unable to think of anything but her friend, blood pouring out of her head, and the gun that was starting to cause too many problems despite its lack of use. Where to put it? That was something she was going to have to mull over when she had more time on her hands and fewer details in her head. When she thought about it that way, she had to laugh. The day she had more time on her hands and less to think about was a mythical day far in the future and probably would never come to pass.
Jo was still getting stitched up when Maeve arrived, lying on her side on a stretcher in one of the ER bays, her face as white as the sheet covering half her face and the right side of her body, doing her best to look brave. She wasn’t successful. She looked terrified. Maeve knew that Jo hated being in the hospital; something like this brought out her darkest fears even though it had nothing to do with cancer. Jo had kept a gallbladder filled with stones rather than go through elective laparoscopic surgery, so getting her head sewn up had to be unearthing some of the feelings that she tried to bury under a thick layer of sarcasm and black humor.
Maeve ignored the doctor sitting behind Jo, even though he was youngish, cute, and exactly Jo’s type. She grabbed her friend’s hand instead. “Hanging in there?”
Jo looked up at her miserably. “I think he’s sewing my entire head back on.”
The doctor pulled a long thread away from a bald patch on Jo’s head. “Almost done,” he said. Maeve didn’t think it would be the appropriate time to ask Jo to tell the guy something about herself, something related to her gymnastics background or her amazing pot roast. Jo treated every situation as a potential for a hookup, but even this scenario had its limits in that regard.
“That’s what you said fourteen stitches ago,” Jo said. “Yes, I’ve been counting.” Whatever painkiller they may have given Jo had done nothing to quell her ire over being hit in the head with the world’s ugliest purse. “And seriously? What the hell did you have in your bag?” she asked.
Maeve didn’t answer, preferring instead to put a hand on Jo’s sweaty brow. “Stay still and be quiet. You’ll get out of here faster.”
The doctor fiddled around at the back of Jo’s head. When he was done, Jo looked like one of those Revolutionary War reenactors, the one who had to wear a bandage wrapped around his head while playing “Yankee Doodle” on a flute, marching with a pronounced limp. “And we’re done!” the doctor said, helping Jo into a sitting position. “I’ll go write you a prescription for Percocet so you can get through the next few days. You should come back and see me in a week just so we can check on how we’re progressing and get your stitches out.”
“We?” Jo said. “Why? Are you going to get stitches in your head in the next few hours? Because otherwise, this is all about me. We are not in this together.”
The doctor looked a little shocked, then broke into a smile. “Okay, Ms. Weinstein. Come back in a week. How’s that?”
Jo slid off the bed and slowly straightened up. “That’s better,” she said.
Maeve gave the doctor a sympathetic smile behind Jo’s back, shrugging slightly. She noted that he was still chuckling to himself as they left the ER bay.
The hospital was a hotbed of activity on this Saturday afternoon. In the next room was an elderly man accompanied by a much younger woman, presumably his granddaugh
ter. Jo, her tongue loosened by the painkillers she had been given prior to the first stitch to her head, hooked a thumb in the old man’s direction as they exited the emergency room. “See that old guy? They gave him a catheter,” she said.
Maeve looked over at the man, sleeping peacefully, his granddaughter flipping through a magazine.
Jo walked through the door that Maeve held open for her. “While he was awake.” She put a hand to her head. “Get me the hell out of here. This place is the worst.”
Maeve didn’t tell her that it could have been much worse. Her own visit to a city emergency room when she was seven, her arm broken, was forever etched in her mind. That was the first time Jack had been accused of something he hadn’t done (and would never do), explaining that his daughter, in the care of her cousin, had fallen off a swing. She was clumsy. An ER in a suburban hospital in a wealthy county paled in comparison with the one at the formerly named Misericordia Hospital, a place she had been taken by one of Jack’s police officer colleagues after an “accident” on the playground. You wanted hell? That place made hell look like the Botanical Gardens.
Maeve pulled up in front of the fence that surrounded the little cottage that Jo lived in, a few steps away from the larger house where a mutual friend of theirs lived with her husband and four daughters. When Jo had had nowhere to turn, Maria had offered the cottage, a supposedly short-term solution that was now in its sixth month. Jo put her hand on the door handle, starting to get out, but changed her mind.
“I’m coming in with you,” Maeve said. The weight of what had happened was dawning anew on her, and she felt completely responsible for her friend’s injury.
Jo protested, but only slightly, letting Maeve help her out of the passenger side of the Prius and hold her hand as they navigated the uneven bluestone treads that marked the way to the one-bedroom cottage. In the distance, over a beautifully manicured expanse of lawn, lay the Hudson, the sun sparkling on its surface. Maeve could see why Jo had lingered; what would be better than this little clapboard-sided cottage with its spectacular view?
Inside wasn’t as charming as outside, but it was cozy. Maeve had been here only once—when Jo had moved in—and was surprised to see that not much had changed. Obviously, Jo had considered the situation temporary as well, and a testament to that—two unopened moving boxes—was pushed against the far wall under a big picture window that allowed her to take in the view every day. Jo had come away from the divorce with a large sectional sofa and her grandmother’s bed frame, but not much else. She seemed to have filled in the gaps with finds at flea markets and antique stores; even though it was cheaper stuff than she had acquired when she was married and had a bit more disposable income, she had managed to pull together an eclectic look that spoke of her reverence for the past.
In the cottage, Jo caught sight of herself in a large mirror hanging by the door and gasped. She lowered her head, raised her eyes, and took off the bandage against Maeve’s protestations, taking in the shaved patch at the top of her scalp, pink, raw, and held together with thick black stitches. “Shit.” She quickly covered it again.
Maeve led her to the sofa and pulled over a large trunk, the one that served as the coffee table. She placed a pillow on it and told Jo to put her feet up. “Do you want tea? Ice water?” Maeve asked, going into the galley kitchen. “I think you can probably take another pill now so you can get some rest.”
“It was a gun, wasn’t it?” Jo asked from the other room.
In the split second she had to respond, Maeve considered lying, then realized that there was no point. Jo could sense a lie a mile away, which was how she knew, with barely a clue, that Eric had been cheating. “It was,” Maeve finally said, almost relieved that the truth was out. She didn’t know how Jo knew it was a gun and didn’t want to ask. The sooner this conversation could come to an end, the better.
“Jack’s?” Jo asked. “Or yours?”
“Jack’s,” Maeve said. “I don’t know where to put it. I had to take it away when I moved him, and I haven’t been able to think of a safe place to stow it.”
“You moved him awhile ago,” Jo said.
Maeve waited a beat, staring at her hands growing cold under the water running from the tap.
“So where’s it been since then?”
“I had it at home, but I want to get it out of there,” she said. That was almost true. She walked into the living room and handed Jo a glass of water. “You want a pill now or do you want to wait?”
“Will it make me forget everything that’s happened today?” she asked.
Maeve gave her a little smile and shrugged. “Maybe. Probably.”
“Then give me a pill,” Jo said.
They sat in silence for a while, and when it appeared that Jo would soon be drifting off to sleep, Maeve unearthed an old quilt from the bedroom upstairs and covered her with it. “Don’t come back to work until you’re ready,” she said, spreading the quilt over Jo’s long body.
“I won’t.” Her eyes closed, and she let out a loud yawn. “What will you do without me?” she asked, only half-kidding.
“I think I’ll manage,” Maeve said, quickly adding, “But only barely.” She loved her friend and the company she provided in the store, but they both knew her skills as a counter person and part-time baker were a little lacking.
“As soon as I can think straight, I’ll come back,” Jo said, drifting off.
Maeve washed a few dishes in the sink and took inventory of what was in Jo’s refrigerator, something that didn’t take too long; she didn’t have much. Since the bakery was unexpectedly closed for the day, she figured she’d take advantage of the extra time and stock Jo’s pantry. Maybe she would swing by Buena del Sol and pick up Jack while she was at it; the old man loved wandering the aisles at the local supermarket, hectoring Maeve to buy him things that were definitely on his list of banned food items, like cheap domestic beer and crappy prepackaged cakes and sweets. The beer she could understand, but the Devil Dogs and Yodels were another story. With the stuff she turned out at the bakery, she couldn’t comprehend why he would want mass-produced items, but there you had it; the guy had a taste for crap and there was nothing she could do about that.
Jo was muttering in the living room, her ramblings the product of a head wound accompanied by some excellent opioids. “Maybe you could kill Eric for me,” she said, able to articulate her hatred for her ex-husband more than any other thought in her head. “Yeah, kill him. While you still have the gun.”
Maeve opened her mouth to speak but didn’t say anything in response. It wasn’t as if the thought hadn’t crossed her mind.
CHAPTER 17
After she left Jo, did a quick grocery shop without Jack, and returned to her friend’s to put some items away, Maeve picked the girls up at home and brought them to Cal’s. Maeve usually dropped the girls off and drove away, not wanting to spend any more time in the presence of her ex, his new wife, his third child, or the splendor that was the 1920s stone Tudor that Maeve had always worshipped from afar. She’d spent years hoping that one day she might know someone who lived there and that they would invite her in and give her a tour along with a glass of Chardonnay. Be careful what you wish for, the old adage went, and in this case it was entirely apropos. She had gotten the tour, but not the Chardonnay, and the whole experience had left her more than a little bereft. She had nearly been brought to tears when she saw the original and gorgeously maintained white subway tile in the bathroom that surrounded a cast-iron claw-foot tub situated in the perfect spot for a panoramic view of the river. Then there was the fireplace in the master bedroom, one of six in the entire house. She tried not to dwell on the fact that Cal slept in that bedroom with someone other than her, someone she had thought was a co-conspirator in the game of life but who had turned the tables on her and upended everything she knew about her world.
Heather, seated in the front seat after a heated negotiation with her sister, stormed off the minute Maeve stopped the car, s
lamming the door as hard as she could to make sure everyone within a hundred feet knew how angry she was at being grounded, this time for a new offense: a zero in math. Maeve looked in the rearview mirror and gave Rebecca a weak smile.
“She’s such a bitch,” Rebecca said in an uncharacteristic display of profane honesty.
Maeve bit back a response; she couldn’t let on that she agreed with her oldest. It was days like this when she thought that she was lucky—as was Jack—that she had been an only child. “Good luck on the lit test on Monday,” she said.
“Thanks,” Rebecca said, leaning over the seat and giving her mother a hug from behind. “It’s Chaucer. What could I possibly forget?” she asked. “It’s only the hardest thing I’ve ever studied.”
“From what I remember, no one in Chaucer has real names. So if you forget any characters, just make one up.” She leaned into her daughter’s hug. “For instance, I would be the Baker. And you’d be the Good Student.”
Rebecca pulled her backpack to her chest and slid across the seat. “And Heather?”
Maeve laughed. “I think we’ve already established that.”
“The Bitchy Sister?”
Maeve touched her daughter’s hair. “You said it, not me.”
She blew a kiss as Rebecca walked up the sidewalk, then prepared to drive away; but Cal, running down the sidewalk toward her, made her hesitate. He had seen her see him, and that made her stop. Although he had broken the vows of their marriage, she would never want him to think her rude.
She rolled down the passenger-side window. “Remember. No party,” she said, knowing he needed a reminder or three that Heather was grounded again. There were parties every weekend in Farringville, and Maeve’s goal was to keep Heather away from as many as she could.
He brushed that off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I got another call,” he said. “Detective Poole?”
At the mention of his name, her blood ran cold and she couldn’t figure out why. Was it that she didn’t need a detective in her life right now—or ever—or was it the exceptional role-playing that they had both done at the speed-dating event, making it seem that Detective Poole was someone who was interested in her beyond the details of the case? She tried not to look unnerved, but she had known Cal a long time and if he was good at one thing, it was reading her face. He gave her a quizzical look, so she rearranged her features into something approximating neutral concern, thinking that this turn of events couldn’t be good for Jack. Or her. “And?”
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