Whether they’re the wrong twos has yet to be determined.
Chapter Fifteen
Days.
It had to have been days since I woke to that beautiful dripping.
I hadn’t heard it since. Not for real anyway.
Imagined it. Dreamed of it.
I mourned it. Became obsessed with it.
After trying so hard to stay awake at first, I’d gotten to the point that I couldn’t do much more than sleep. I didn’t know if it was a product of the fall, the drugs, the dark, my body drying up, or a combination of them, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open. And I knew it wasn’t good.
I dreamed about that damned dripping, though. More times than I could count, I’d jerked awake thinking I’d heard it. A few times I’d even crawled over to where I thought I’d found it that first time—on a diagonal line that started slightly to the right of my puke. The concrete had been dry, though. As parched as my tongue.
I moaned and rolled onto my other side. As if I could get away from that awful thirst. My hips ached with the movement. They were sore from the constant contact with such a hard surface. My bones were used to memory foam and Egyptian cotton sheets. My skin, too. There were several raw, tender spots that I knew would soon turn into sores. I moved around as much as I could, but it was hard. I was just so damned sleepy. And so damned weak. And so damned thirsty.
Thirsty.
That word, that feeling went through my head again. Thirsty. In big, gnarly, black letters. It was menacing, foreboding. And on a loop that was driving me crazy. It made me angry. And desperate. And despondent. And then angry again.
I liked the anger better.
With a growl, I pushed myself into a sitting position. I needed to get moving. Without water or food or movement, the drugs weren’t leaving my system like they should. I felt groggy, and it was only getting worse.
I leaned left. Tried to lever myself to my feet. I yelped as my weight rolled over my tailbone, grinding it into the cold slab floor. I swayed. Then used my hands to my balance myself. Before, my brain seemed to know which way was up and where my body was located in space, despite the lack of visual cues. Now, not so much. No matter what I did, nothing seemed solid or straight or steady. Unless I was asleep. Then, either I didn’t notice, or I just didn’t care.
Angrily, I pushed to my feet. I stood for one second. Two. And then dizziness hit me. Sharp and sudden. Like a gunshot. I dropped back into a crouch so I wouldn’t fall. I hunkered there for a couple of minutes before I tried again. The next time, I came up slowly. Waited. Counted. After fifteen seconds, my head seemed fine, so I started moving.
I swung my arms first, like a kid playing helicopter. My joints protested, probably from having been violently jerked out of socket not so long ago (or maybe it was so long ago), but I ignored them. I had to get moving. I had to keep moving. I had to be ready for whatever eventually came at me, because I was sure something would. Something or someone. Eventually.
I started jabbing at the air. Quick thrusts followed by snappy upper cuts. I’d taken a kickboxing class once. I didn’t love it, so I didn’t go back. I was regretting that decision.
The more I moved, the better I felt. I added some legs, driving each knee up and away from me. Strike, strike, strike, I could hear the instructor saying. I imagined my captor coming through a door I couldn’t see, grabbing me with hands I couldn’t detect, and me fighting back. Because I would fight. If it was the last thing I did, I would fight.
My body temperature rose. Got hotter than the scorching, stagnant air of my prison. Then my breath started to get choppy. My skin started to burn, like I was melting from the inside out.
Bile flew up from my stomach, surprising me. Warm, acrid fluid filled my mouth. I doubled over and hung my head between my legs.
I was nauseous, and so damned hot, but not sweating at all. Not one tiny drop.
My knees went soft and I staggered backward, trying not to fall. I lost my feel for what was up and what was down, what was right and what was left. I flailed my arms.
I heard a click. For a single inhale, I smelled cologne. Something with sandalwood. Then I smelled that strange chemical smell.
I couldn’t even catch myself before I blacked out.
Chapter Sixteen
Marcy is emboldened by her earlier success. Emboldened and even more determined.
She gets up early Saturday morning to take a shower and put on her makeup before starting her day. She has a plan, and she doesn’t want any delays.
Today, Marcy is making Belgian waffles to take over to the neighbors. Unannounced, of course, but it’s Saturday morning. If she gets there earlier enough—early but not too early—she should catch Jill before she gets going with whatever plans she has for the day, and maybe even before she’s had breakfast. Marcy has thought about it at length, and she decided eight o’clock will be just the right time.
She smiles despite the nagging voice of her grandmother in the back of her mind, saying that it’s impolite to call or visit before nine in the morning or after nine at night. Marcy has lived by that strange, random principal most of her life. Until now. She’s going to bust that rule wide open and it’s going to serve her well. She’s already made up her mind. This is going to go off without a hitch. End of story.
John is the first to come downstairs. Marcy is elbow deep in flour, but not a single speck of white mars the robin’s egg blue shirt she’s wearing. She grins as he comes shuffling into the kitchen, hair sticking up at odd angles all over his head. Only her husband can make bed head look sexy.
John stops across from Marcy, eyeing the finished batch of waffles on the plate to her left. “Are those for me?” he asks around a yawn, his eyes still heavy with sleep.
“Some of them are, yes. I’m taking some to the neighbors, too.”
His expression shifts from sanguine to wry without missing a beat. “This again?”
Marcy knows exactly what he means and doesn’t try to pretend otherwise. “Yep. I just want to get an idea of what it’s like over there.”
“Loud, messy, chaotic. Probably insane sometimes. A lot like it is over here. Minus the ulterior motives.”
Marcy’s hands still and her gaze snaps up to John’s. Green sparks shoot from her eyes. “Everyone has ulterior motives. We both know that.”
“I don’t know that.”
“Yes, you do. Neither of us is naïve enough to believe otherwise.”
John sighs and shrugs, veering off toward the coffee pot where his mug is waiting, face down on the counter.
Marcy watches him from the corner of her eye as she ladles a portion of batter into the waffle maker. He takes three cautious sips of his coffee before he speaks. And when he does, there is no malice in his voice. Only patience. John has a neverending supply of patience. Marcy knows this first hand.
“So, as long as you’re like a bloodhound on the scent of absolutely nothing, can I expect good food to abound?”
“Are you saying good food doesn’t normally abound?” There’s still an edge to her voice.
Another deep sigh. “Now everything I say is wrong, is that it?”
It’s Marcy’s turn to shrug. “For the next couple of hours, probably.” Brutal, maybe, but she’s just being honest.
“Fair enough. How about I come back when you’re done and get plates for Caroline and me, and take them upstairs? She might like to have breakfast with her dolls at the little table up there.”
“Good luck with that, but sure. Knock yourself out.”
She hears him mutter okie dokie as he meanders away, the two words laden with enough sarcasm to fill a bucket. She lets it slide. She doesn’t want to fight with her husband. She just wants him to either get on board with Operation: Crack the Neighbors, or leave her alone until she can get it worked out for herself. Right now, there is no middle ground. Better if he figures that out early and saves them both some drama.
She goes back to her preparations, taking time to sprinkl
e some fresh blueberries in one set of waffles, chunks of sea-salted caramel in another. This would win her neighbor of the year if there was such an award. Friend of the year, too. Even though her motives aren’t exactly pure, it’s still a nice gesture, and Marcy thinks Jill will agree.
Now Mark, on the other hand…
His reaction will be anyone’s guess. He seems to have more hidden under the surface than Marcy had originally thought.
Thirty minutes later, the plate full of crisp waffles is already starting to condensate under the plastic wrap when Marcy heads upstairs to check in on her daughter before she goes. Caroline is up and out of bed, her hair a tangled halo around her face, and she’s pushing the Barbie sedan—the same one as always—back and forth on the color-block rug in her room.
“Good morning, sleepy head.” Caroline doesn’t bother looking up, or even pausing in her car pushing. “Are you hungry?” Still no response. “Dad thought maybe you’d like to have breakfast with your dolls up here. Would you like that?”
Caroline doesn’t make a verbal response, but she stops pushing the car, waits a beat or two, and then gets up and trudges past Marcy. Down the hall and then down the steps, she makes her way to the kitchen. She does every morning at some point. Never right after she wakes up. She can’t be rushed. She can’t be persuaded or coerced either. She follows some internal schedule that only Caroline can see. A drumbeat only she can hear. She will eat when she’s ready. Not one minute before.
Clearly, she’s ready.
Marcy glances down at the steamy plastic wrap and tries not to think of her wilting waffles. Instead, she plasters on a smile and follows her daughter so she can fix her breakfast. John enters the kitchen just as Marcy is tying on her apron again.
“Go. I’ll get this.”
He isn’t smiling. He isn’t frowning either. Marcy knows the look of hurt feelings when she sees it.
“Thank you,” she says sincerely, stroking his cheek. “You’re so patient with me.”
“I love you. You know I’d do anything for you.”
She knows. Because he has. He has stood by her through thick and thin. Through the glorious and through the unthinkable. John has proven his love and devotion for her many times over.
Guilt washes through Marcy. She knows deep down that she doesn’t deserve a man like him, a love like his, but sometimes she reacts on pure emotion before she thinks things through. She acts and reacts and spouts off before giving it a second thought. It is one of her biggest flaws. One of the hardest to change, too. She’s much improved since Caroline’s change in condition, but she still has a ways to go.
“I know you would. And I hope you know I’d do anything for you, too. This family…it’s everything to me. Everything.”
John smiles now, but there’s sadness around his eyes. It’s like he can read her mind, knows precisely what she’s thinking. “I know, baby. I know. It’ll all be okay.”
“Yeah, it will.”
John brushes his lips over hers and then steps back to let her gather her waffles. Caroline hasn’t moved. She’s standing near the doorway, watching them from beneath the fringe of her bangs. Her eyes are dark pools in the landscape of her face. Dark and unfathomable. Marcy would give anything to know what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling.
“Love you, pretty girl.”
Caroline doesn’t reply and Marcy doesn’t wait for one. For once, she brushes off her daughter’s lack of reaction and focuses on other things. She’s got some investigating to do.
Marcy glances at her watch. Twelve minutes past eight. The corners of her mouth twitch up into a smile.
Just right.
She rings the doorbell and waits. She glances around, letting the hot plate of waffles warm her palms against the unusually cool morning air. Marcy’s eyes scan the shrubs along the front of the house. They’re already in desperate need of a trim. She takes in the wilting flower basket on the table to the left of the door. They’re in desperate need of a drink. She notes the open garage bays, all three doors raised to reveal three vehicles inside. There is a black SUV, a black sedan, and the navy car Jill was driving the morning she stopped by before work.
So Jill is definitely home.
Marcy smiles in satisfaction. Yes, this plan is going to go off without a hitch.
The sound of the locks turning draws Marcy’s gaze back to the front door. Just before it opens, she does a double take, sneaking one last peek at the garage. Something about that black car looks vaguely familiar, but Marcy just can’t put her finger on it.
The thought leaves her mind altogether when movement and a slightly disheveled Jill brings Marcy’s attention back to the task at hand.
“Marcy. Good morning.”
“Good morning, neighbor. I know it’s early, but I made some waffles and I thought I’d bring some over. You’ve worked hard this week, and sometimes it’s nice not to have to cook on the weekend.”
Behind the drab black-framed glasses, Jill’s brown eyes soften. “That is so thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just some extra batter. May I come in?”
Marcy knows the direct approach carries risk, but she’s done trying to be circumspect and sneak her way in. Jill will either let her in, or freeze her out.
Marcy’s relieved when Jill steps back and opens the door wider. “Yes, of course. Please come in.”
Stepping through the door, Marcy turns to close it. “If you’ll point me toward the kitchen, I’ll make you breakfast.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
“No arguments. This is what friends do.” Without waiting for Jill’s indication, Marcy starts off in the direction she assumes the kitchen to be. It’s really the only place it can be, considering the size of the house and the portion she’s already seen.
“Right through there,” Jill confirms belatedly.
Marcy sends Jill a wink back over her shoulder. “I figured.
“Good call.” Jill’s smile is small and tight, slightly uncomfortable, but Marcy is confident she can turn that around over warm waffles, hot syrup, and a steaming cup of coffee.
“Are Mark and Cheyenne up? I’d be happy to fix them one, too.”
“Uh, no. They’re still asleep. They’re both night owls.”
Marcy stops in the doorway to the kitchen. It’s so neat it looks like it’s never been used. Every surface is perfectly polished and still appears brand new. Marcy is a good housekeeper herself, but only a complete maniac could keep a kitchen looking like this.
“Wow, your kitchen is so clean! I can’t keep mine this spotless.”
Jill reaches up to push her lifeless hair away from one pale cheek. Now that Marcy can see her in better light, she looks tired. Very tired. “Oh, thank you. Mark likes a neat space since he’s home all day. Well, when he’s here anyway.”
Marcy slides surprised eyes to Jill. “He keeps the house?”
“Oh, God no! He just likes it clean. He doesn’t actually clean it or keep it clean.”
“I was gonna say. Wow!”
“Yeah, no. I’m not that lucky.”
Marcy shakes her head. “Men, right?”
Jill’s lips pinch into a grin, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. And rather than commenting further, she redirects to the waffles. “These smell amazing.”
Marcy doesn’t resist the change of subject. She has every intention of getting Jill to open up about her husband before she leaves here today. “It’s a recipe I stumbled on when we lived in Texas. I’ve tried two or three others, but this one is by far my favorite.” Marcy claps her hands together. “Now, which cabinet are your dishes in?”
Weakly, Jill points toward a cupboard behind Marcy’s head. “Last one on the right.”
“Perfect. You sit and I’ll do the rest.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“I want to. Since we didn’t get our wine night, I thought we could catch up over some coffee if you weren’t too busy this morning.”
“That sounds good. You’re so kind.”
Marcy waves her off, even though, secretly, she’s basking in the glow of the well-deserved compliment. “It’s no trouble. Really.”
The women chit chat about casual things as Marcy moves around the kitchen, preparing Jill a plate, warming syrup, collecting butter, making coffee. Within ten minutes, she’s setting a full plate and mug on the table in front of Jill, and taking the seat across from her.
“So, how are you all adjusting? Everything going well? Work, home. Life.”
“I think we’re all doing well.”
“Did Mark tell you I dropped off some mail the other day?”
“Yes. And he told me it was you who brought the roses. You have to be the best neighbor anyone could ask for. Have to be.”
Marcy swells with pride, but shrugs in false modesty. “Every woman should be greeted by beautiful things.”
“I appreciate the gesture. After the week I’ve had, it was very much appreciated. Even Mark was impressed.”
“Speaking of Mark, is he liking it here? In the Coves, I mean.”
“He seems to, yes.” Jill nods, but her attention is on her fork as she cuts a thick, fluffy, syrup-covered bite. She raises the dripping confection to her mouth, closes her lips around the fork, and pulls it out clean. She chews for one second, two, and then her eyes drift closed and she lets out a happy sigh. “Oh my God, these are delicious.”
“Thank you. I’ve had some practice with them.”
“One thing husbands are good for.”
“Yes, one of them. So, how long have you and Mark been married?”
Jill’s eyes flicker up to Marcy’s for no more than a split second, but it isn’t lost on Marcy. Jill is uncomfortable talking about Mark. Marcy just wants to know why.
“Six years.”
“That’s something to celebrate. I’ve always heard the first five are the hardest.”
Right Next Door Page 8