by Lorena May
Mrs. Goodall gasps, a kind of shrieking, guttural sound. “What?”
Matthew continues. “The police were dealing with it. Something must have gone wrong.” He looks at Em, his eyes full of questions.
Em clenches her fists, and breathes in, her eyes bright with fear. “They threw a rock through the window.”
All three faces stare, agape. “A rock through the window?” Matthew exclaims.
Em nods, looking down at her hands. Ashamed.
“What kind of girl was your sister?” Mrs. Goodall’s voice is hard and cold. “What trouble has this – this woman – brought on our family?”
Em feels a surge of wrath fill her chest, but she takes a deep breath and remains silent.
Matthew glances, red-faced, at Abi. His voice takes on an imploring tone. “The thing is, Mom. Abi is nothing like her sister.”
Em feels her teeth clench.
Matthew continues. “But if we don’t come up with the money they want, Abi is in great danger. I saw the guy. He is not someone to mess around with.”
Suddenly, Em is filled with a steely strength. She surprises herself as the words rush from her lips in a kind of fury. “My sister had to raise us. She was the most giving person I’ve ever known. If she was in trouble, there is a reason. And I have most of the money. I only need a few thousand dollars.” She glares at the older woman sitting across from her. “Which I will pay back with interest.”
It’s as if Mrs. Goodall has been hit with a brick. She shakes her head rapidly, her eyes blinking. “I’m washing my hands of this,” she mutters. Rising from her chair, quaking from head to toe, she rushes from the room.
Matthew winces, clears his throat, looks longingly at Abi who is sitting stone-faced, staring straight ahead. “How much?” he asks Em.
She has run the numbers over and over. “I’m going to try to take the ring back as soon as the store opens. I still have the ten-thousand dollars Scarlett put in an envelope. I’ll need whatever the balance is.”
He nods his assent, moving to kneel by Abi, who lays her head on his shoulder, defeated and sorrowful.
Em stands. “Thank you, Matthew. I will pay you back.”
He waves his hand dismissively. “Let’s just get this done. I’ll transfer the money to your account as soon as you find out how much you need.”
THE AIR IS FRESH AND crisp as Em walks down the sidewalk to her truck. First the jeweller, then the bank, then to a glass repair shop . . .
Her phone rings. It’s Sergeant Greer from the RCMP. Is there news?
“Hello?”
“Hello, Em. How are you doing?
“Okay.”
“Em, I’d like to take a look at Scarlett ’s room today. Can I come out to your place? Are you at home?”
In her mind’s eye Em sees the words, “NO POLICE!” She feels her heart race. “I’m not home today, no.”
It’s tacit, but she can almost hear Darby’s hesitation. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Em wavers a moment. “Yeah.”
“How about we meet for lunch? I can fill you in on what’s been happening on our end, and we both need to eat.” She is insistent. “Can you meet me at the Hogshead at noon?”
“Sure.” It’s crazy, but it will be comforting to see the kindly policewoman. I just can’t divulge anything.
THE JEWELLER IS BENT and withered, a kindly, older man. He smiles at Em, peering over thick, wire-rimmed glasses. “That’s a very nice engagement ring,” he says.
“Did my sister buy it here?”
“Yes,” he holds the ring in his fingers, looking closely at it, examines it through a tiny magnifying glass, sets it on a scale. “Yes, yes, this is it. I remember her well. Such a jovial, friendly girl. I hope the engagement isn’t broken?”
Em could kiss the dear old man. But, of course, she doesn’t. She looks at him through glossy eyes. “I’m afraid it is. Can we return the ring?”
He frowns a little. “It really should be your sister . . .”
“She died.”
Em’s face says it all. His face puckers with compassion. “I’m so sorry. Yes, yes of course.” He turns to his computer, scanning a moment. “Here it is. She paid four thousand ninety-nine dollars for this ring. I remember thinking, ‘what a lucky man’.” He mumbles his sympathy, his sorrow, and goes into a back room, returning with his hands full of bills. “She paid cash. Five-thousand dollars.”
Em reaches toward him, a loonie in her hand, her eyes brimming. “Thank you, Sir. She was jovial and friendly. Thank you.”
He is still muttering his sympathies as she walks out the door, turning and nodding as she goes. She texts Matthew. ‘I need $5000.’
He replies immediately. ‘Okay. I’ll do an e-transfer to your account.’
A trip to the bank, and Em has twenty-thousand dollars safely stowed in her parka’s inner pocket. She’ll make arrangements to have the kitchen window repaired, have lunch with Darby, go home to place the money in her mailbox and this nightmare will be over. The John Smith part, at least.
IT IS ONLY AS SHE PULLS into the Hogshead parking lot that Em regrets the lunch location. Will Luka be working? She steps from her truck, bracing herself. He’s the least of her worries right now. Darby is sitting in a booth near the entrance, and she waves as Em enters. From the corner of her eye Em spots Luka, who has stopped mid-step to stare at her. Determinedly, she marches across the floor to join Darby at her table.
Darby leans toward her with narrowed eyes. “You look tired. Are you getting any sleep?”
Screwing up her face to hold back the tears she replies, “A little.”
Darby touches her forearm lightly. “I want you to know that we’re concentrating very hard on finding out what happened to Scarlett.”
Em nods. Her throat filling with a large lump.
“I’ve talked to your dad.” Darby waits and watches the younger woman’s eyes well up. “I liked him, Em.”
“Me too,” she manages to squeak.
“We haven’t been able to find the guy who calls himself John Smith.”
Em’s hands tighten into fists and she stares straight ahead.
“But we are working on finding out what the money was all about - what kind of trouble Scarlett must have been in.” Darby watches Em’s face. It remains stony.
“She wasn’t a bad person,” Em blurts.
“Oh, Em. I know that. We all fight different battles. I know how she took over when your mother died. I know she was a good person. A special person.” Darby’s eyes blaze with compassion. “And so beautiful.”
Eagerly, Em releases her hand and digs into her pocket, grabbing her phone. She fiddles with it a moment, and hands it to Darby. “This is the last picture of her. She took it that night.”
Darby’s mouth twitches as she looks at the photo. Two heads together, one blonde, one chestnut-brown. Long, flowing waves against short, bushy hair. A sparkling smile fills Scarlett’s face, while Em’s hasn’t quite made it to the upper corner of her lips.
Em’s phone pings, and a message comes up. It’s from Matthew. ‘Were you able to get everything together?’
Darby reads it, and hands the phone to Em. “Now I’m snooping,” she laughs. Anything to do with Scarlett?”
Em takes a quick breath. “I – he – we’re cooking a birthday dinner for Abi tomorrow.”
“Good to have something fun to focus on,” Darby nods
“Good morning, Ladies.” Luka stands by the table and, though his words come out lightly, his body droops. He’s not his usual jaunty self.
Em lowers her eyes. Darby turns to grin up at him. “Hey! Luka!”
“Do I interrupt you?” he asks, looking from one to the other.
Em shakes her head. No.
“Not at all,” Darby says. “It’s good to see you. Our little friend here can use some cheering up.” She gives Em a sad half-smile.
Taking a deep breath, Em looks up at Luka. He gapes down at her with sad eyes. “I c
an take orders. Or maybe later? But, Emily, can I see you tonight?”
She gives him an incredulous stare. “Okay.”
“I can come pick you up?”
She gasps. Her eyes flash panic. “No. No, I’ll meet you.”
“Come to my place. I’ll make good Serbian dinner. Sarma.” His smile is one of relief. “Six o’clock?”
“Yes. Good. Six o’clock.”
Chapter 22
~ Em~
The gravel road up to her house is covered with a sleek coating of ice, and Em sticks to the centre, driving slowly. Every nerve in her body is on high alert. Is he watching? Waiting? There’s no new snow. No telling if someone has been in the yard while she was gone. No car is parked nearby. Not that she can see, anyway. She grips the steering wheel tightly, hands clammy, her body wound like a tight spring.
Sheba rushes to greet her as she enters the house. A good sign. “Everything okay here, old girl?” She bends to hug and pet her dog, a myriad of emotions surging through her mind. Unconditional love as Sheba licks at her face. Little spurts of frenetic laughter as she dodges the dog’s tongue. Excitement and trepidation. Luka wants to see her. But why? Why the sudden change of heart?
The house is dark with the kitchen window boarded up. Monday morning they’ll come fix it.
She pats the thick packet of money that still sits in her parka pocket. Should she leave it in the mailbox before going to meet Luka? Thank goodness she has somewhere to go. She doesn’t want to stay here. Would he mind if she brought Sheba with her? Is it safe to leave that much cash in the mailbox? No one ever comes and checks it at night. It should be okay . . . She’ll be so relieved when this nightmare is over. Will it be over? Will they ever be safe? Can they risk Abi’s return? She stifles a sob. And Scarlett is gone. Forever.
She kicks her boots off, and steps up into the kitchen. The floor is ice-cold. Shivering, she stands there a moment looking around. All is as she left it, but the intrusion of the rock has left her feeling violated and vulnerable. The house offers her no comfort now. It’s like a trap waiting to close on her. A trap some lurking evil has control over. She looks at the clock on the wall. Four-thirty-eight. In just over an hour she can escape to the comfort of Luka’s apartment. Will he let her stay past midnight? She does not want to be here tonight.
She texts. ‘Can I bring my dog with me?’ Then she feels a need to explain. Hate to leave her alone.’
His answer is immediate. ‘Yes! Bring her.’
She runs herself a bath and, spotting a bottle of Scarlett’s perfumed bath-oil, pours some in. Laying back, breathing deeply, she tries to shed the ugly wretchedness that’s taken hold of her. Scrubbing her body and washing her hair; she emerges feeling fresh. She wanders into Scarlett’s room and feels an urge to become that girl. The girl Scarlett was. Inexperienced and clumsy, she tries a dab of Scarlett’s face cream, rubbing it into her skin. She’s watched Scarlett with her ministrations and now she copies the way her sister once applied eye-liner, blush, mascara and finally, plummy-colored lipstick. Blowing her thick, unruly hair to fluff outward, the way Scarlett did, she stares at herself in the mirror. Does she look like Scarlett? Not at all. But the results are not too bad. She cocks her head one way and then another. Actually, she looks kind of pretty.
Opening Scarlett’s closet, she fingers the dresses hanging there. Soft, silky, lovely. Like the woman who wore them. She holds them against her face, willing her sister back. Tonight she’ll wear one. Pulling a dark green sheath from a hanger she holds it up in front of Scarlett’s full-length mirror. Yes, that will do it. The color brings out her eyes. She slips it onto her naked body, and gasps. She’s never seen herself this way before. Scarlett liked her clothes tight, so this dress hugs Em’s waist and hips fetchingly. The v-neckline shows off her collar-bones and – when she retrieves her bra from the bathroom and puts it on– a little cleavage. The length is perfect for her – longer than Scarlett would wear it, just above the knee. A comfortable fit. Em stares, mesmerized. She does a little wiggle, green as she is at that kind of thing. Yes. There’s a little of Scarlett in there after all. She’s ready. Luka, here I come! A new woman.
Marching down the stairs she pulls the thick envelope from her parka, shoves her feet into Scarlett’s too-big fancy boots and gingerly pulls Scarlett’s fluffy, white jacket from the rack. She calls Sheba, who is standing hopefully nearby. The dog comes running, grateful not to be left behind. Em pops the envelope into the mailbox and heads to her truck without looking back.
LUKA IS STANDING IN his doorway holding a bottle of merlot as she reaches the top of the stairway. He looks at her with a lop-sided smile, his eyes a little wary. He holds the wine aloft. “I’m prepared this time,” he says.
Suddenly, she’s flustered. Awkward. Her old self.
“Jamila! How beautiful you look.” He bends to pet Sheba. “How are you my fine, four-legged friend?” And he stands back, beckoning them in. Slipping off her boots and jacket, she toddles in, gawkily standing in the entrance of his beautiful suite.
The pungent smells of onions, chicken and vegetables - sweet and spicy - and the warmth of the place envelopes her. Serbian music, eastern-sounding and lovely to her ear, plays in the back-ground. On his little table candles radiate a soft glow. Cozy. Safe.
He leads her to the couch, and pours two glasses of wine, handing a glass to her with his natural aplomb. “My lady.”
The wine works its magic. It’s tart and fruity, and sends a lovely glow throughout her body. She leans back, remembering to cross her legs below the knees in her sister’s dress, sighing inwardly.
Luka sits on the edge of his chair, facing her, stroking Sheba who has come to lay beside him. “Emily, I must explain,” he says anxiously.
She shakes her head. “No need.”
He leans forward. “No. You don’t understand. I – what’s the word – hurt you. I humiliated you. I want to explain.”
She takes another sip of wine.
His clear, grey eyes take on an intensity as he gazes at her. “I was promised in marriage,” he begins. “From a young age my parents and hers arranged it. I only knew her as a child.”
Em’s eyes widen as she stares, uncomprehending.
“They were making plans to send her – Anja - here. But I met you. I couldn’t . . .” He jumps to his feet, shaking his head, arms crossed over his chest. “I’ve upset my family. My mother is so angry.”
Em stares. He is clearly distraught. She stammers, “Luka, I’m confused. What are you telling me?”
It’s as if she’s pinged him with an arrow. One that stops him in his tracks and stabilizes him. He laughs an embarrassed kind of snicker, and comes to kneel by the couch she is sitting on, looking up at her through lustrous eyes. “I care for you, Jamila. Very much. And I thought we’d just be friends.” He stops, looking at her entreatingly. “Because my parents and close friends in Syria had arranged a marriage between their daughter and I.”
“Oh!”
“And I was the obedient son.” He grins. “A mama’s boy. Until you.” He reaches up and takes her hand. “I told my mother I could not marry Anja.”
Stunned, she’s lost for words.
“And she was angry. But I need to stand up to her. Needed to for a long time.”
“Because of the arranged marriage?” Em stammers.
“Not only that,” he muses. “I love my mother, but I must stand on my own two feet.” He tucks his feet to the floor and rises smoothly, taking Em’s hands and pulling her up to look deeply into her eyes. With one hand he strokes the back of her head. “I want to be more than friends, Jamila.”
“Me too,” she whispers. His lips are soft and sensuous as he kisses her. He smells of soap and she wonders, do I smell like Scarlett’s bath oil? She wraps her arms around his neck. Oh, how she needs this. His fingers press against the small of her back, and she feels a jolt of electricity burning a clear path of desire up her belly and through her limbs.
“Sarma
is waiting,” he mumbles as he trails soft-lipped kisses down her neck and throat. His voice is hoarse and raspy. She has never felt so hungry. Em will not be going home tonight.
Chapter 23
~ Darby~
“Hup!” Darby leans forward, practically standing in the stirrups, her face brushing Bojangle’s withers, wiping tears of joy from her eyes. The wind blows against her face, whooshing through her hair, blasting in her ears. She feels the vibration of Bojangle’s hooves throughout her body. They’re flying. The world hurtles by. Freedom. Nothing else matters.
As they reach the foothills they slow to a canter. Darby feels the power of her horse beneath her. They are of one mind; one heart. She grasps Bojangle’s mane. “I love ya, Buddy,” she says. They move like a soothing, flowing wave of water.
The four of them trot along the hillside, their faces rosy, lashes and brows tipped with frost. Puffs of white vapour escape their lips.
“That was friggin’ fantastic!” Darby chortles.
“Nothing like it!” Jim agrees as they gather near a tumbledown shed out in the middle of nowhere. “You kept up amazingly well.” He grins at Ravneet, who is smiling like a brightly lit Christmas tree. “Are you sure you haven’t been riding all your life?”
Her black eyes sparkle. “We lived in the country in India,” she says shyly. “I did ride a horse there. Before we moved to Delhi.”
“Aha!” Jim laughs. “And we all know that Skye was born on a horse. You two make a great pair.”
They stop to tether their horses to a copse of poplars. Darby has brought egg salad sandwiches, pickles, apples and a blanket that they spread on the snow by the shed. Leaning against the weathered boards, feeling the sun warm their faces, they dig their heels into the snow, making little furrows. They take their gloves off to eat, setting them on their laps, heads back, enjoying the view. Endless mounds and drifts of untouched snow lay before them, broken only by pine and spruce thickets and barren birch with rusty-leaved brush popping up here and there. The light blue sky is riddled with ribbons of wavy clouds. The air is, fresh and crisp. Huffing and snorting, the horses paw the snow to nibble at the green grass beneath it. Jim passes around a bag of oreo cookies, and they munch happily.