Even from a distance, she stood out. She was holding a basket and wearing faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and sandals, all of which did a lot more for her figure than the boring uniform had. A pair of sunglasses was propped on her head and aside from lipstick, she wore little makeup. Her hair swept the top of her shoulders in untamed glory. If I could picture Ms. Masterson earlier that morning, I thought she must have dressed, run her fingers through her hair, and applied a quick coat of lipstick before skipping out the door, the whole process taking less than five minutes.
She appeared to be alone and after a moment’s hesitation, I started toward her, almost colliding with an older lady who’d been examining a birdhouse. When I was getting close, Natalie turned in my direction. She did a quick double take, but by then, I was already by her side.
“Good morning,” I chirped.
I could feel her eyes on me, gleaming with amusement. “Good morning,” she responded.
“I don’t know if you remember, but I’m Trevor Benson. We met the other night.”
“I remember,” she said.
“What are the odds I’d bump into you here?”
“Pretty high, I’d say,” she remarked, “since I mentioned that I come here regularly.”
“After your recommendation, I thought I’d check it out,” I said. “And I needed to get some things anyway.”
“But you haven’t found anything to buy yet?”
“I had cider earlier. And there’s a doll made of straw I’m thinking about.”
“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who collects dolls.”
“I’m hoping it will give me someone to talk to while I’m having coffee in the mornings.”
“That’s a troubling thought,” she said, her eyes lingering on mine for a beat too long. I wondered if it was her way of flirting, or if she scrutinized everyone this way.
“I’m actually here to pick up some potatoes.”
“Feel free,” she said, waving a hand at the table. “There’s plenty.”
She turned her attention to the table, chewing on her lip as she studied the produce. Moving closer, I stole a peek at her profile, thinking that her unguarded expression revealed a surprising innocence, as though she still puzzled over why bad things happened in the world. I wondered if it had something to do with her job, or whether I was simply imagining it. Or whether, God forbid, it had something to do with me.
She chose a few medium-sized potatoes, sliding them into the basket; I opted for two of the larger ones. After counting how many she’d already selected, she added a few more.
“That’s a lot of potatoes,” I observed.
“I’m making pies.” At my questioning expression, she said, “Not for me. For a neighbor.”
“You bake?”
“I live in the South. Of course I bake.”
“But your neighbor doesn’t?”
“She’s elderly, and her kids and grandkids are coming to visit later this week. She loves my recipe.”
“Very nice of you,” I commended her. “How did the rest of your week go?”
She rearranged the potatoes in her basket. “It was fine.”
“Anything exciting happen? Shoot-outs, manhunts? Anything like that?”
“No,” she said. “Just the usual. A handful of domestic disturbances, a couple of drivers under the influence. And transfers, of course.”
“Transfers?”
“Prisoner transfers. To and from court appearances.”
“You do that?”
“All deputies do.”
“Is that scary?”
“Not usually. They’re in handcuffs, and most of them are pretty agreeable. Court is a lot more pleasant than jail. But every now and then, one of them will make me nervous, the rare psychopath, I suppose. It’s like something elemental is missing in their personality and you get the feeling that right after killing you, they could wolf down a couple of tacos without a care in the world.” Peering into her basket, she made a count before turning to the vendor. “How much?”
At the vendor’s response, she pulled a few bills from her handbag and handed them over. I held mine up as well and fished the cash from my wallet. As I waited, a brown-eyed brunette in her thirties waved at Natalie and began to approach, all smiles. As the woman weaved through the customers, Natalie stiffened. When she was close, the woman leaned in, offering Natalie a hug.
“Hey, Natalie,” the woman said, her voice almost solicitous. Like she knew that Natalie was struggling with something I knew nothing about. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’m sorry,” Natalie responded as the woman pulled back. “There’s a lot going on.”
The woman nodded, her gaze flicking in my direction, then back to Natalie again, her curiosity evident.
“I’m Trevor Benson,” I offered, holding out my hand.
“Julie Richards,” she said.
“My dentist,” Natalie explained. She turned to Julie again. “I know I need to call your office and set up an appointment…”
“Whenever,” Julie said, waving her hand. “You know I’ll work around your schedule.”
“Thank you,” Natalie murmured. “How’s Steve doing?”
Julie shrugged. “Super busy,” she said. “They’re still trying to find another doctor for the practice, so he’s booked solid all week. He’s on the golf course right now, which I know he needs, but thankfully, he promised to bring the kids to a movie later so Mom can have a break, too.”
Natalie smiled. “Cooperation and compromise.”
“He’s a good guy,” Julie said. Again, her eyes flashed momentarily to me, then back to Natalie again. “Soooo…How do you two know each other?”
“We’re not here together,” Natalie said. “I just happened to bump into him. He just moved to town and there was an issue at his house. Legal stuff.”
I could hear the discomfort in Natalie’s voice, so I held up my purchase. “I’m here to buy potatoes.”
Julie turned her attention to me. “You just moved here? Where are you from?”
“Most recently, Florida. But I grew up in Virginia.”
“Where in Virginia? I’m originally from Richmond.”
“Alexandria,” I said.
“How do you like it here so far?”
“I like it. But I’m still settling in.”
“You’ll get used to it. There are a lot of great people here,” she said, before focusing on Natalie again. I half listened while Natalie and Julie continued with a bit of additional small talk before their conversation finally wound down. Toward the end, Julie leaned in for another hug.
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to scoot,” Julie said. “The kids are with my neighbor, and I told her that I wouldn’t be gone long.”
“It was good seeing you.”
“You too. And remember that you can call me anytime. I’ve been thinking about you.”
“Thank you,” Natalie answered.
As Julie wandered off, I noted a trace of weariness in Natalie’s expression.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Natalie said. “It’s fine.”
I waited, but Natalie added nothing else.
“I was hoping to pick up some strawberries,” she finally said in a distracted voice.
“Are they any good?”
“I don’t know,” she said, beginning to come back to me. “This is the first weekend they’re being offered, but last year, they were delicious.”
She moved ahead toward a table filled with strawberries, sandwiched between the table with birdhouses and the one displaying straw dolls. Farther up, I saw Julie the dentist speaking with another young couple; I figured Natalie must have noticed her as well, though she gave no indication. Instead, she sidled up to the table of strawberries. When I came to a stop beside her, Natalie suddenly stood straighter. “Oh, I forgot I needed to get some broccoli, too, before it’s all gone.” She took a step backward. “It was nice chatting with
you, Mr. Benson.”
Though she smiled, it was clear she wanted to extricate herself from my presence, the sooner the better. I could feel others’ eyes on us as she continued to back away.
“You too, deputy.”
She turned around, heading back the same way we’d just come, leaving me alone in front of the table. The vendor, a young lady, was making change for another customer, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Stay here? Follow her? Following her would probably come across as both irritating and creepy, so I remained at the strawberry table, thinking they resembled the ones I could find in the supermarket, except less ripe. Deciding to support the local farmers, I purchased a container and made my way back slowly through the crowds. From the corner of my eye, I saw Natalie browsing near a stall selling apple butter; there was no broccoli in her basket.
I debated heading home before noting again the beauty of the morning, and decided that a cup of coffee would hit the spot.
Leaving the market, I walked to the Trent River Coffee Company. It was a few blocks away, but given the pleasant weather, it felt good to be out and about. Inside, I listened to customers ahead of me order their half-decaf mocha chai lattes, or whatever it was people ordered these days. When it was my turn, I ordered a black coffee, and the young lady at the counter—sporting an eyebrow piercing and a tattoo of a spider on the back of her hand—looked at me as though I were still living in the 1980s, the decade in which I’d been born.
“That’s it? Just…coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“Name?”
“Johann Sebastian Bach.”
“Is that with a ‘Y’?”
“Yes,” I answered.
I watched as she wrote Yohan on the cup and handed it to the ponytailed male behind her. It was clear the name didn’t ring the faintest bell.
Taking my cup outside, I wandered over to Union Point, a park at the confluence of the Neuse and Trent Rivers. It was also, according to the appropriately located historical marker, the site at which a group of Swiss and Palatine settlers founded the town in 1710. The way I figured it, they were likely heading for warmer climates—South Beach, maybe, or Disney World—and got lost, thus ending up here, the captain being male and unwilling to ask for directions and all.
Not that it was a bad location. In fact, it’s beautiful, except when hurricanes come roaring in from the Atlantic. The winds stop the Neuse from flowing toward the sea, the water backs up, and the town starts pretending that it’s waiting for Noah’s ark. My grandfather had lived through both Fran and Bertha in 1996, but when he spoke about major storms, it was always Hazel he referred to, back in 1954. During the storm, two of the beehives were upended, a catastrophic event in his life. That his roof blew off as well wasn’t nearly as important to him as the damage to his pride and joy. However, I’m not sure that Rose felt the same way; she went to stay with her parents until the house was habitable again.
There was a large gazebo in the center of the park, as well as a lovely bricked promenade that ran along the river’s edge. I strolled toward an empty bench with a view of the river and took a seat. The sun sparkled off the lazy waters of the Neuse, which was nearly a mile wide at this point, and I watched a boat slowly glide downstream, its sails billowing like a pillow. At a nearby boat launch, I saw a group of paddleboarders getting ready to hit the water. Some were in shorts and T-shirts, others in short wet-suits, and they were clearly discussing their plan of action. At the far end of the park, a few kids were feeding ducks; another pair was playing Frisbee, and still another kid was flying a kite. I appreciated that people around here knew how to enjoy their weekends. In Kandahar—and before that, while in residency—I worked practically every weekend, the days running together in an exhausted blur. But I was getting better at kicking back and relaxing on Saturdays and Sundays. Then again, I was doing pretty much the same thing every other day of the week as well, so I was getting a lot of practice.
After finishing my coffee, I tossed the empty in a nearby garbage can and wandered to the railing. Leaning over, I admitted that small-town life had its charms. I especially thought so a couple of minutes later, when I saw Natalie meandering in my direction, the basket trailing at her side. She seemed to be watching the paddleboarders as they worked their way toward deeper water.
I suppose I could have waved or called out, but considering our recent encounter in the farmers’ market, I restrained myself. Instead, I continued to study the slow-moving current until I heard a voice behind me.
“You again.”
I peeked over my shoulder. Natalie’s stance and expression telegraphed that she hadn’t expected to find me here.
“Are you talking to me?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m enjoying my Saturday morning.”
“Did you know I would be coming here?”
“How would I have known where you were going?”
“I don’t know,” she said, suspicion seeping into her voice.
“It’s a beautiful morning and a great view. Why wouldn’t I come here?”
She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again before speaking. “I guess it’s none of my business, anyway. I’m sorry for bothering you.”
“You’re not bothering me,” I assured her. Then, nodding toward her basket: “Did you find everything you needed at the market?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Just making conversation. Since you’re following me, I mean.”
“I’m not following you!”
I laughed. “Kidding. If anything, I have the impression that you’re trying to avoid me.”
“I’m not avoiding you. I barely know you.”
“Exactly,” I agreed, and feeling like I was suddenly back in the batter’s box, I decided to take another swing. “And that’s a shame.” I gave her a mischievous smile before turning back toward the river.
Natalie studied me, as though uncertain whether to stay or go. Though I thought she would opt to leave, I eventually sensed her presence beside me. Hearing her sigh as she set her basket on the ground, I knew that my third swing at bat had somehow connected.
Finally, she spoke. “I have a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Are you always this forward?”
“Never,” I said. “By nature I’m quiet and reserved. A wallflower, really.”
“I doubt that.”
In the river, the paddleboarders upstream were now hovering in place.
In the silence, I saw her clasp her hands together at the railing. “About what happened earlier,” she said. “In the market, when I walked away. If that seemed brusque, I apologize.”
“No apology necessary.”
“Still, I felt bad afterward. But it’s just that in small towns, people talk. And Julie…”
When she trailed off, I finished for her. “Talks more than most?”
“I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.”
“I understand,” I said. “Gossip is the bane of small-town life. Let’s just hope she went home to the kids instead of coming to the park, or she might really have something to talk about.”
Though I said it as a joke, Natalie immediately scanned the vicinity and my eyes followed hers. As far as I could tell, no one was paying us any attention at all. Still, it made me wonder what was so terrible about the thought of being seen with someone like me. If she had any idea that she knew what I was thinking, she gave no indication, but I thought I noted an expression of relief.
“How do you make sweet potato pie?”
“Are you asking for the recipe?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had sweet potato pie. I’m trying to figure out what it tastes like.”
“It’s a bit like pumpkin pie. In addition to the potatoes, there’s butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, evaporated milk, and a little bit of salt. But the key is really the crust.”
“Do you make a good crust?”
“I m
ake a great crust. The secret is using butter, not shortening. There are strong feelings on both sides of that debate, by the way. But I’ve experimented with my mom and we both agree.”
“Does she live in town?”
“No. She’s still in La Grange, where I grew up.”
“I’m not sure I know where that is.”
“It’s between Kinston and Goldsboro, on the way to Raleigh. My dad was a pharmacist. Still is, in fact. My dad started the business before I was born. There’s a store, too, of course. My mom manages that and works the register.”
“When we first met, you said it was a small town.”
“It’s only about 2,500 people.”
“And the pharmacy does okay?”
“You’d be surprised. People need their medicines, even in small towns. But you already know that. Since you’re a doctor, I mean.”
“Was a doctor. And hope to be a doctor again one day.”
She was quiet for a moment. I studied her profile, but again had no idea what was going through her mind.
Finally, she sighed. “I was thinking about what you said the other night. About you becoming a psychiatrist to help people with PTSD. I think that’s a great thing.”
“I appreciate that.”
“How do people even know they have it? How did you know?”
Strangely, I had the impression that she wasn’t asking for conversation’s sake, or even because she was particularly interested in me. Rather, I had the sense she was asking because she was curious for her own reasons, whatever those might be. In the past, I likely would have tried to change the subject, but regular sessions with Dr. Bowen made talking about my issues easier, no matter who was asking.
“Everyone’s different, so the symptoms can vary, but I was pretty much a textbook example of the condition. I alternated between insomnia and nightmares at night, and during the day, I felt on edge almost all the time. Loud noises bothered me, my hands sometimes trembled, I got in ridiculous arguments. I spent almost a year feeling angry at the world, drinking more than I should, and playing way too much Grand Theft Auto.”
The Return Page 6