by Webb, Debra
It was not my fault.
Even now that statement doesn’t quite ring true. It feels like my fault. I know that Helen secretly feels the same way—that Natalie’s disappearance was somehow her fault. I heard her crying as she said those very words to Dad countless times in the weeks and months after the bus crash. His deep voice reverberated through the walls. “Now, Helen, you know that isn’t true. You were and are the best mother any little girl could ever want. What happened wasn’t your fault any more than it was mine. We did the best we could.”
The pain of dying with cancer is nothing to compare with knowing you’re going to die without finding the truth. Dad said those words to me the day before he died. The misery in his eyes broke my heart.
The drone of the paint shaking machine drags me from the tender thoughts. I take a breath, glance around, and wish I was out of here already. No reporters waited outside the house this morning. A miracle or perhaps a warning from Sheriff Letty Cotton. I wear my dad’s Crimson Tide ball cap again today. I doubt anyone will recognize me.
I drove to the Home Depot on the south side of Huntsville, the one farthest from Jackson Falls. The chances of running into anyone who remembers me are slim to none. All I need is the lumber and the paint to get started on the repairs. Dad’s tools and brushes are in the storage shed exactly the way he left them. Restoring old houses was close to his heart, he poured himself into restoring the one that became our home—maybe that was his way of coping with the despair—and this is the least I can do while I’m visiting. In the long run Helen will appreciate it as well. Hiring someone to do the work is never as good as doing it yourself as long as you’re capable.
“Here you go, ma’am.” The guy in the orange vest plops two gallons of well-shaken exterior white paint onto the counter. “Can I help you with anything else?”
“That’s it. Thanks.” I lug the paint onto my panel cart and head for the lumber aisles.
Today I’ll start with three or four one-by’s for replacing the damaged fascia. Once I’m satisfied with how those work out I can order enough for the entire project and have them delivered. I was pleasantly surprised Dad’s truck fired up as if he’d driven it just yesterday. Helen explained that she asks her friend Howard to drive the truck around the block at least once a week and she keeps the insurance and license plate up to date. I don’t know how I feel about Howard. Then again, Dad has been gone for four years. Of course Helen is lonely. Dad wouldn’t have expected her to ignore her own needs. He wasn’t that selfish.
I suppose I shouldn’t be either.
Climbing behind the wheel of Dad’s truck and backing out of the driveway this morning I experienced a moment of déjà vu. The year I turned fifteen he taught me to drive in this old Chevy the same way he did Natalie those last few months before she disappeared. I’m glad Helen didn’t sell the truck after he died. To my knowledge she hasn’t sold or given away anything that belonged to him. I haven’t looked but I’ll bet she still has his favorite shirt hanging on her side of the closet.
I suddenly wonder how my golden years will play out. Growing up I assumed that my life would proceed similarly to that of my parents beyond the fact that I would travel the world first. So far the traveling is the only part of that assumption that has come to fruition. Aspects of my life have been fantastic. Far more opportunities, education and occupation wise, were available to me. But my personal life is an entirely different story. At my age Helen had already been married for more than a decade, had Natalie and was pregnant with me.
Not only have I never been married, I have no prospects of entering into wedded bliss in the foreseeable future. I wouldn’t be the first old maid in the family. Aunt Vivian never married. No children. She always said her favorite companions were Jack Daniels and the Marlboro Man. She died alone and inebriated in her neat little historic cottage over on Grand Avenue. The house still sits empty. Dad said Aunt Vivian left it to me for when I grow weary of traveling the world.
I don’t see that ever happening any more than I do the husband and the kids.
Giving myself a mental kick in the backside for going down that road, I cruise along the aisle until I find the one-by-eight stock boards. This happens whenever I come home. I find myself wondering about my life and the paths I chose not to take. I blame this on Helen—she makes me wonder about things I don’t want to consider. Being home makes me second-guess who I am and all I’ve done in my life.
Exiling the subject, I load four boards on the cart and reverse course, heading for the checkout counter. So far, so good. Not a single face registers in my memory banks. The cashier is quick and I am on my way out the big sliding door in record time.
This might be my lucky day.
Outside the sun beats down on the asphalt and the dozens of cars filling the slots like colorful Lego blocks in neat lines. Dad’s truck is a slightly faded blue. Other than the need for a good wax job to return some luster to the paint the body and engine are in mint condition. Even the air conditioning works like a champ. I stow the paint in the passenger side floorboard. The one-by’s go in the bed. The nylon rope Dad kept behind the seat for tying down a load is still there. I secure the boards, push the cart into the corral and head to the driver’s side of the truck. That’s when I notice a blur of royal blue plowing toward me. It’s the same WHNT reporter from yesterday racing in my direction, blond hair flying behind her like a silky cape. Her hulk of a cameraman is right on her heels.
I execute an about face and head back toward the store entrance. The faster I walk, the faster they walk. I feel them closing in. How she moves that quickly in high heels and a tight skirt is beyond me.
“Emma! Emma, I have a few new questions for you.”
If I reach the store, I’m certain she won’t dare follow me inside. Maybe I should have climbed into the truck and driven away but there were so many cars and pedestrians milling about that backing out of the slot and driving away would have taken forever. And then she would only have followed me home. I need an alternate egress. Maybe Howard will come pick up the truck for me. I’m certain he will be more than happy to do me a favor since he’s courting my mother and no doubt desires my approval.
“Emma, what are you afraid of?” the tenacious woman asks as she follows me through the store entrance.
More posters of the missing girls mock us.
I keep walking. Take a right and cut through the gathered crowd in front of the paint department. I rip off my cap, shove it into my back pocket as I emerge from the other side of the throng of bodies awaiting their shaken cans. Then I dart down a side aisle and rush back toward the lumber department. A quick look behind me ensures I’ve lost her for the moment. A left and then a few more aisles over and I hide behind the rolls of chain link fencing stacked in the farthest corner of the huge store.
My pulse is pounding and a sheen of sweat coats my skin. “Shit.” I don’t know Howard’s number. Calling Mother would only worry her. Then it hits me and I realize exactly who I need to call. I slip my cell from my back pocket and tap the name listed as Dangerous, which is code for my sponsor.
“Hello.”
His deep voice is instantly soothing. Idiot. This was a very bad idea. “Mr. Beckett, this is Em—Beth Taylor.”
“Beth.” Pause. “Are you all right? You sound upset.”
Deep breath. “Actually, I’m in a bit of a bind. My car won’t start and I need a ride. You’re the only person in the area I know. Would you be able to give me a lift?”
More lies. Jesus, I’m becoming so good at this that maybe I should go into politics.
“Of course. Where are you?”
The announcement that a customer needs assistance in plumbing echoes over the loudspeaker system, forcing me to wait before answering his question.
“Hold on, are you at Home Depot?”
A frown nags at my forehead and I stare at the screen for a sec. “Yes, why?” Then it hits me that he just heard the same announcement as I did. I roll my
eyes. Get it together, Emma.
“So am I. Where are you?”
I glance around. See the sign for the restrooms. “Meet me at the restrooms.”
Carefully checking in both directions first, I slip from my hiding place and hurry along the aisle until I reach the sign. A quick sidestep into a short corridor and I’m standing at the drinking fountain between the men’s and the ladies’ room doors.
Joey Beckett appears, his expression confused, but he smiles and I feel the frustration about the reporter seeping away. Mercy, this man is gorgeous.
“So, you work for Home Depot?”
I blink, suddenly as confused as he looked five seconds ago. “No, I…” Then I smile. “Actually, I’m a quality control inspector. I do spot visits all over the country.” I shrug. “I look for store cleanliness, interact with personnel as if I’m a customer, and report back to headquarters.”
“Wow. You’re like a spy.” His smile widens to a grin. “I guess I should watch my P’s and Q’s around you.”
Emma Graves, this is your life—a tower of lies. One slip and the whole thing could fall apart like a game of Jenga.
“That’s right.” I force a smile. “So, thanks for giving me a ride. I’m really in a bind. As you can imagine, I can’t ask anyone who works here.”
“This way,” a female voice shouts. “I’ll check the ladies’ room.”
I spin around and catch a glimpse of long blond hair bouncing around royal blue clad shoulders. For the love of God, that reporter is still looking for me.
“Shit.” I turn to head for the men’s room but abruptly realize I cannot leave the man I called to rescue me standing here without an explanation. So I grab him by the arm and haul him into the men’s room with me. The reporter won’t expect me to make this move.
I hope.
The door closes behind us and I brace myself before turning to face him. This is where things will get tricky.
Surprise and then amusement flickers across his too handsome face. “Beth, are you,” he glances at the urinals nearby, “having an identity crisis?”
At least he didn’t ask if I’ve been drinking. For the record, I would give anything for a double shot of tequila right now.
“Okay.” I draw in a big breath. “The truth is my car is fine, but I’m being followed.” It is the honest to God truth, as ridiculous as it sounds. Sadly, I can’t rally a follow up or explanation to the statement.
Those assessing blue eyes peer straight into mine. “Who’s following you?”
Exactly the question anyone would ask. I should have thought of that.
“A disgruntled employee.” I immediately latch onto a way out that allows the two of us to part ways before I have to dig myself anymore deeply into this hole. “May I borrow your hoodie?”
The fact that he’s wearing jeans that mold flawlessly to his muscular thighs just as he did the first time I laid eyes on him and that the Life is Good tee that contours to his equally well defined chest has not escaped my attention. My shoulders sag with a kind of defeat that’s all too familiar. Do not go there. All I need is the gray hoodie that rounds out the trendy and somehow intensely sexy wardrobe.
I blink away the idea of how good he looks. “I’ll get it back to you, I promise. I just have to ditch this…creep.”
He’s shouldering out of the garment before I finish the statement. “Sure.” He hands me the hoodie. “No rush. I have others.”
“Thanks.” I drag on the hoodie. It falls warm and smelling like clean soap against me. “I’ll…I’ll explain another time.”
He smiles again. “No rush.”
“Really, I appreciate this more than you can imagine.”
Before I can reach for the door behind him, he puts his hand on my arm. “Remember, if you need anything I am always just one phone call away.”
That is definitely my cue to go. “I won’t forget.”
I do the right thing. I grab the door, but I can’t for the life of me follow through with the necessary action. All I have to do is pull and yet I cannot. I tell myself it’s because I’m concerned the reporter whose name I don’t even know could be waiting just on the other side of the door. That maybe I need to give it another few seconds.
It won’t be the first time I’ve lied to myself.
I pivot, reach up and grab this gorgeous man—my AA sponsor—by the face before going up on tiptoe and locking my lips with his. I melt against him and escape my current dilemma for a few mind-blowing seconds before I regain my senses.
As quickly as I latched on, I let go and retreat, bumping into the door I should have fled through half a minute ago. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I have a habit of doing the wrong thing.” Big breath. Square the shoulders. “But now that it’s out of my system, you have my word it won’t happen again.”
Before I can run away there comes that smile again. God, help me. This was a bad, bad idea.
He crosses his arms as if he, too, must ensure he doesn’t go for a repeat performance and studies me for a moment, his expression bemused. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Sometimes you have to do the wrong thing to make the right thing happen.”
“Good point.” I think. At any rate, I lift the hood over my hair. “Thank you…again. I’ll call…”
I hurry away, uncertain which represents the greater threat—spending one more second alone with him or going out there and potentially facing the reporter. Since she and her cameraman now likely wait at my dad’s truck, I decide for the moment that she is the least of my worries. So I hurry to the outdoor garden department and take a position where I have a good view of the truck.
Half an hour later the reporter and her cameraman give up and climb into the station’s van and drive away. Probably to Helen’s house.
I guess I’m not going home for a while.
10
The school I attended in Jackson Falls looks exactly the same as it did when I graduated fifteen years ago. Two-story Greek Revival with bride white siding punctuated with fluted columns flanking the entrance and a copper topped dome perched like a crown above it all. The first settlers in Jackson Falls were quite wealthy. They had no intention of sending their children to school in anything less than an architectural wonder. Despite the boom of business and newcomers to the surrounding area, Jackson Falls remains a small town, leaving no reason to expand or to divide the k-12 school then or now.
One of the oldest schools in the state and inarguably of historical and architectural significance to the community, the building has been maintained in pristine condition. Any and all additions have been in keeping with the architectural integrity of the original structure—primarily due to the trusts left behind by wealthy benefactors. The school was and is populated by people, teachers, staff and students alike, who all know each other’s history from birth. Good, bad or indifferent, labels and destinies are set by the time a child reaches kindergarten age.
The curse of small town life.
Case in point, I will forever be frozen in the image shaped by tragedy.
Slowing to hardly more than a roll, I pass the front of the school. It faces Bank Street, the main business thoroughfare in Jackson Falls. The small front parking area is for school visitors only but today it’s packed to overflowing with people carrying signs. People stand on the steps to the grand front entrance, on the sidewalk, on the grass and on the narrow strip of asphalt that serves as a drop off lane. The gathering extends all the way to the street. An older man looks out over the crowd from the top of the steps. Those assembled appear to hang on his every word.
Easing over to the curb, I roll the window down and listen. I can hear his voice but can’t make out all the words. I hear the terms failure and police repeatedly. Each statement is followed by chanting from the crowd. Jackson Falls PD uniforms linger around the periphery of the throng.
A protest of some sort, I decide.
Then I spot the feisty news reporter that has been following me around. Her van i
s parked in a visitors slot in front of the building, surrounded by the crowd. She and her cameraman are a few steps down and off to the right of the man speaking. So this is why she abandoned her pursuit of me.
I pull out my cell and give Letty a call. Her rich voice makes me smile. “Hey, Sheriff,” I tease.
She laughs. I know she is overwhelmed so I should be quick. “What’s going on at the school? Looks like a rally or a protest of some sort.”
“Delbert Yarbrough. Poor guy. He’s been raising hell since before the Shepherd and Baldwin girls went missing. It’s like that twenty-fifth anniversary documentary WHNT did set him on a mission. He’s pressuring all of us to finally solve…you know, the old case. With this new case, he’s taken his frustration to the next level. The Shepherds and Baldwins are probably there, too.”
I know from personal experience that the twenty-five-year anniversary business reopened old wounds. It certainly played havoc with my mental well-being. “Can’t fault the man for trying to find justice for his daughter.”
God knew my dad and mother hounded the police and the FBI for years. Mother was relentless in doing all she could. Stacy’s mother had died the year before. I can’t remember if or what Mr. Yarbrough did back then, but I’m certain he was as vigilant as my folks. Frankly, I blocked as many of those details as possible. It was too painful.
“I know,” Letty admits. “But we’re doing all we can.”
“Deep down, I’m sure he’s aware of all you’re doing,” I say. “Emotions, you know. They make us do things sometimes and sometimes it’s not the right thing.”
“Yeah, I know.” She was quiet for a moment. “So, do folks look pretty calm over there?”
I scan the crowd. “I don’t see any issues.” I want to ask her what she’s doing but I remind myself again that she doesn’t have time to keep me up to speed. “Hey, did they find those missing cavers?”
