He was almost to the willow tree when he heard a phone ring in the mint-colored house. A new family was supposed to move in soon, but right now there was just some guy living there. Mister Mystery, the grown-ups called him.
Charlie knew the stack of firewood in the backyard was surrounded with spiky weeds and crawling with spiders, but it was right by an open window, making it the perfect spot to spy from. Some other kids had filled the cubbyholes of the log pile with Lite Brite pegs, crusty old Play-Doh, and even a little fire truck. Charlie pocketed a few of the Lite Brite pegs to play with later, then looked through the window.
The kitchen inside looked like someone had tried to turn it into a library. Both the table and countertops were covered with papers, folders, books, and black-and-white pictures. Charlie was creeping closer for a better look when Mister Mystery suddenly rushed in and picked up the phone.
Startled, Charlie fell backwards into the wall of firewood, but he was just quick enough to stick his arms out and keep the logs from falling.
“Hello? Ida, hi. How are you?” Mister Mystery tapped a cigarette stub into an ashtray and slid into a chair at the table, his back to the window.
Charlie’s heart raced from the excitement of eavesdropping and the strain of holding up the logs. A bead of sweat rolled down his spine.
“Yeah, I went to a party last night. Lischka was there, but I didn’t talk to him. I figured it’s best to just keep watching for now. I tried not to talk to too many other people, but I guess everyone’s a little curious about me, so I had to make some stuff up. They think I’m a writer…”
Now a bead of sweat ran up Charlie’s back. Sweat didn’t do that. But spiders did.
He screamed and shook his shirt, spilling a daddy long legs into the grass. The logs and toys he’d been holding fell and crunched noisily on the lawn.
The phone conversation inside the house stopped.
Charlie froze, and listened. He heard only the phantom whistle of a distant freight train, moaning over the low buzz of cricketsong. Slowly, he raised his chin.
Mister Mystery was peering out the window, phone cradled to one ear. Charlie and the firewood stack were just outside the kitchen’s spill of light. He was safe, as long as nothing—
A teetering log fell onto the toy fire truck, triggering its light and siren.
Mister Mystery dropped the phone and dashed toward the back door.
Running with the speed of someone being chased, Charlie reached his house in record time. He quietly closed the back door, raced up the split-level stairs, and plunged into his parents’ big bed, breathing heavily.
He heard Aunt Francine get out of her bed. A moment later, her head peeked into his doorway.
“Jump into that bed any faster and you’re gonna leave a crater. Did you have fun outside?”
He nodded.
“You want to sleep in your parents’ room?”
He nodded again.
“Okay. G’night, Bubba.”
“’Night, Aunt Francine.”
She went back to the guest room, leaving Charlie to think about what he’d heard at Mister Mystery’s house. “They think I’m a writer.” It seemed like a weird thing to say.
He carefully slipped out of bed and looked out the window.
Down by the willow tree, Mister Mystery was picking up the colorful Lite Brite pegs that had fallen out of Charlie’s pockets. He looked confused, and extremely worried.
Chapter 6
I do many things that I regret afterwards.
[ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE
Francine rolled over on the butterfly sheets and groaned in the late morning light. Uninvited dreams of Ben had filled her sleep. Pushing someone out of your head was possible with tremendous discipline, but the heart healed on its own time and dreams were its favorite expression.
Her gaze found the skull and crossbones VHS tape lying by her suitcase. She shouldn’t watch it. When had it ever helped?
Rolling onto her stomach, she saw a certain stack of papers below the bed. The MMPI had never helped much either, but Francine pinched the corner of a page and pulled it out into the light for a quick, mental Q & A.
I am very seldom bothered by constipation.
How was that relevant to a personality group?
It does not bother me that I am not better looking.
First, that bothered everyone on the planet. Second, weird phrasing. And third, rude.
I sweat very easily, even on cool days.
This was getting way too personal.
What had been Ben’s point in giving her the ridiculous quiz, anyway? Did he think it would give her insight into who she was, and that would somehow make everything that had happened less painful? Would she be able to find someone new in a hurry, just like he had?
She tucked the page back under the bed and rolled onto her side to face the shelves of clocks, which made her think, unsurprisingly, of time. What if coming to Hawthorn Woods didn’t change anything? What if she’d just given her problems a new zip code? What if the only progression in her life was one of dwindling time, draining her of looks, energy, and hope that a positive future was still possible? No direction, no vibrancy…
Nope. Francine hopped out of bed. She had to externalize her negative emotions in a productive way, get those dead-end thoughts out of her head and out into the open, where they could be identified and rejected.
She peeked into the master bedroom and found it empty. It was a good thing kids still possessed the special power of waking up early as long as they didn’t have to go to school or church, because Charlie didn’t need to see her like this. But she needed to talk to someone. Anyone.
Down in the kitchen, she grabbed the phone and dialed Laura Jean. It rang on the other end several times before going to an answering machine. Laura Jean and Mark were probably out getting supplies for the barbeque. Oh God, the barbeque. How was she supposed to go out tonight and look happy?
Francine hung up and tried the long international number Ellie had taped above the phone. A choppy back and forth with the impatient front desk clerk of a Parisian hotel revealed that Ellie and Pete were also out.
Who else could she call?
All of her connections in California either knew Ben or were more acquaintances than actual friends. Her parents, who had had her and Ellie in their forties, lived in a Florida retirement community. Both were hard of hearing and not so great on the phone.
Through the front screen door, she watched what looked like a fluffy white cloud trot contentedly down the street. It was the husky, Ajax. Francine never forgot a dog. But what was his owner’s name?
The elderly man came into view a moment later, moving at a more leisurely pace than his four-legged counterpart.
Roland something. Gerber. Roland Gerber.
He’d seemed pretty nice at the party, and eighty-plus years were apt to leave a person with a healthy reserve of know-how and a wanting social calendar. Maybe Roland Gerber wouldn’t mind playing therapist for the day.
There was one way to find out.
Chapter 7
I am so touchy on some subjects that I can’t talk about them.
[ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE
The elderly man answered her knock with a delay reasonable for his age. “Ah. Francine, yes? Nice to see you again.”
“Hi, Mr. Gerber.” Instead of following with, “I’m experiencing persistent, acute emotional trauma brought on by a divorce you know nothing about, and you don’t know me at all, but you’re old and sweet and stereotypes have taught me you probably have lots of advice to dispense in folksy tidbits, so I’d like some of that, please and thank you,” Francine simply said, “I thought I’d come over and meet your dog.”
Dogs were the best social shortcut on the planet.
“You may indeed meet Ajax, but only on the condition you join me for some mid-day tea and cookies.”
Bingo.
“Sounds like a good deal to me.”
“Excellent. With the day’s fine breeze,
I think the back porch would do nicely. I will meet you there with all the comforts I can manage. Ajax is around back.”
Francine started around the charming little cottage, more excited than ever to talk with Roland Gerber. The guy spoke like he was from another century, which he technically almost was.
She spotted Ajax sleeping soundly in the crosshatched shade of a hammock. The husky roused at her approach and bounded happily over. His clean white fur was absurdly soft, melting through Francine’s fingers as she repeatedly reassured Ajax that he was, in fact, a very good boy. The two of them entered the porch, its old-person musk landing somewhere between mothballs and caramel. Francine sat on one of two identical loveseats patterned with gold and brown stripes. She thought the sofas looked a lot like the Samoa cookies the Girl Scouts sold, though it was possible Mr. Gerber’s mention of cookies had influenced her thinking.
Luckily, he made good on his promise a moment later, dipping his head around a low hanging planter as he carried a tray of tea and cookies in through the double doors of the house.
“Your thumbs are definitely greener than mine,” Francine said. And while that was true, she also figured it might not hurt to butter the guy up a little. “I only have one houseplant alive back in San Francisco, and it survives exclusively on accidental splashes of dishwater.”
Mr. Gerber sat on the loveseat opposite Francine and set the tray down on the coffee table between them. “I admire a survivor. It is a quality easily appreciated when one reaches my age.” He unbuttoned his navy blue sport coat, which was perfectly fitted and probably older than Francine.
Her breakfast-deprived stomach audibly grumbled.
Mr. Gerber smiled and gestured to the plate of cookies. “Please don’t be shy.”
“Never have to offer me a cookie twice.” She bit into one of the tan cookies and tasted black licorice. Ugh. Why did people this evil exist? She threw down the cookie, then quickly picked it back up again.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, I just…I’m sorry, but this thing is disgusting,” she admitted, wincing at her own rudeness.
Mr. Gerber, however, looked delighted.
“Aniskrabeli,” he said with a chuckle, before biting into a cookie of his own. “A legacy of my Swiss heritage. They are made with anise, which tastes of licorice, a flavor not so popular in this country. I pray you’ll forgive my test, but I often serve them to guests because it tells me something important.” He poured fragrant black tea into cups accented with the gold outline of a mountain range. “The tea is strong and licorice-free, I promise.”
She accepted the cup and saucer he offered her. “I wish all my tests were given in cookie form. What does it tell you?”
“It almost always produces a telling reaction. Usually politeness, which should be admired. But occasionally it reveals honesty, which should be revered. In that spirit, tell me your troubles.”
Francine drank down half her tea to wash away the taste of the cookie. “My troubles? Just like that?”
“Allow me to return the respect of your honesty. It is clear to me you are a troubled woman. While an interest in Ajax needs no further justification, I suspect something more in your visit. Perhaps the idea that wisdom comes with age, which if true, would make me nearly prophetic.”
It is clear to me you are a troubled woman. Damn. She’d come for insight, but hadn’t expected to get it so readily.
Sharp and straightforward. Exactly what she needed.
✶ ✶ ✶ ✶
Francine opened her mouth to tell Roland Gerber all, but abruptly stopped at the edge of the conversational diving board.
She and Laura Jean had spoken the same language right off the bat. But Mr. Gerber’s manners and poetic vernacular left her with an odd desire to please, like she was in the presence of a friendly but imposing authority figure.
“Sorry. I kinda feel like I’m in the principal’s office.”
“Ah!” Mr. Gerber lamented playfully. “I have failed in my duties as a tea and cookie host.”
“Mr. Gerber—”
“Please. Roland.”
“Roland.” Francine smiled. “I’m all for being direct, but I don’t know if I should spill all my heartache on our first meeting.”
“Ah, of course. A matter of the heart. They are among the most devastating.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to start with something easier, like the weather?”
“Hot and humid, as it was yesterday, as it will be tomorrow. Let us leave the daily forecast to those with time to waste while we assault that which distresses you most.” He brought out a marble ash tray from a drawer in the coffee table, set it in front of her, and sipped patiently at his tea. “Separated or divorced?”
Francine smiled at the ash tray. Either she smelled like a walking bowling alley, or Roland Gerber was as perceptive as a certain famous teenage sleuth. She pulled the Camels from her shorts pocket and tapped one out. “Divorced.”
He leaned forward and lit the cigarette with a handsome metal lighter. “You still wear the ring. The name too, I presume?”
Francine exhaled deeply, hoping to create a smokescreen for her sudden feeling of vulnerability. “I still use his name, yes.”
“A curious anachronism,” Roland noted. “But who am I to judge? I still own a phonograph.”
Annoyed at the deplorable lack of petting, Ajax nudged his snout under Francine’s non-cigarette hand. She scratched the dog’s wealth of snowy fur to delay a conversation she was still having trouble jumping into.
“Is he named after, um…” Francine couldn’t place the reference she’d planned on making and wished she hadn’t started the sentence. “The…Roman guy?”
“The Greek warrior,” Roland corrected kindly. “A grand hero of the Trojan War. But this Ajax gets his name from the bleach powder I use on my kitchen sink. Perhaps you’ve credited me with too much cleverness.”
“That’s exactly the kind of thing smart people always say.” Francine continued to pet the dog, who nudged her hand each time she stopped.
Roland snapped his fingers. “Ajax, platz.”
The husky yawned and laid down, splaying himself flat in instant comfort.
“I guess I’m just confused,” Francine said at last. “I was kind of cool on my ex when we first met. I had a funny feeling I couldn’t shake that he was…off, somehow. But he won me over, and it was like the second that happened, he started to lose interest.”
Roland ate another anise cookie and chewed thoughtfully. “We must remember that people are remarkably poor at harmony, and relationships are dynamic things tied directly to the heart. It should come as no surprise that they produce the grandest emotional fireworks. In an ill connection, you’re either hurting or being hurt. I say this not to excuse the behavior of the other party, but rather as encouragement for you to allow yourself negative feelings. But be careful not to take the false bait of good and evil. We cause pain because we feel pain.”
“Jesus.” Francine dragged hard on her cigarette. “You’re a fortune cookie with a heartbeat. But I am a little worried your advice might be…too polite to be useful.”
“You’d prefer something a bit more raw.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Bed another man as soon as possible.”
Francine coughed on her cigarette in laughter. “Bang a stranger? That’s your raw advice?”
Roland smiled wryly. “Perhaps too raw, but yes.”
“This better not be a come-on.”
Now it was Roland’s turn to laugh. “Goodness, no. I would recommend someone at least adjacent to your own generation. My point is only that the past is complex and sometimes inexplicable. The present, however, can be as simple as you allow it to be, and actionable goals can be marvelous crutches in the growth process. Your story is undoubtedly much deeper, but I won’t be too nosy just yet.”
Francine relaxed into her loveseat, feeling infinitely better than she had lying in her bed. The tea was ta
sty. The dog was soft. The toxic thoughts threatening her day had been waved away by a fragile, aged hand.
“Roland, if you didn’t serve licorice cookies, you might’ve just become my favorite neighbor. Laura Jean still holds the coveted spot for now. Are you going to her barbeque tonight?”
“I am indeed. But if I may be so bold as to impose one last bit of advice before we move on to less strenuous topics.” His face grew serious as he leaned forward in his loveseat. “The tortures of an unsettled mind carry tremendous weight. You would do well to expel them with terrific prejudice as expediently as possible.”
“You mean talk to more people about this?”
“The specific method you choose is of no consequence. What is important is that you do what is required to survive.”
“I will. Thanks, Roland.”
“Now, then.” He relaxed back into his loveseat, his tone light once again. “How is it said? ‘Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger across a crowded room.’ Perhaps this evening will prove enchanted for you.”
“Perhaps it will.”
She smirked doubtfully, but was surprised when a certain stranger came to mind. One with wavy black hair who smoked in the company of fireflies. A stranger whose invitation to the party that night was dependent on whatever Francine did next.
Chapter 8
I enjoy gambling for small stakes.
[ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE
Francine had told Laura Jean the truth. She hadn’t “bedded” anyone since the divorce. Hadn’t even considered it. But on Roland’s vague suggestion, she found herself crossing the middle of the block and knocking on a stranger’s front door in the lingering heat of the afternoon.
“Hello?” The voice came from somewhere behind her.
Francine walked to the open garage and peeked inside.
Reading a book on a lounge chair in the middle of an otherwise empty space was Mister Mystery. He quickly put the book under the chair and stood to meet her.
“Hi,” he said, almost as a question.
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