Silent Pretty Things
Page 26
CHAPTER XXII
Two months had passed since Michael left Anna at the airport in Toronto. Outside, the yellow maples and the red oaks were still wearing some of their best fall colors, but winter had already claimed its first night. That morning he had woken up to find his little world covered in an inch of snow. The first snow of the season, and he didn’t have Anna to enjoy it with. He could see himself with her in a coffee shop downtown, flurries falling outside, the smell of pumpkin spice and nutmeg, and her smell—oh, her smell! How he longed to bury his face in that piece of heaven between her neck and shoulders. And kissing her; how he wished he could kiss her right now.
He had kept in touch with Frank, and through Frank, Michael had come to know how it all panned out for everybody else. Though Detective Wozniak continued to harass each and every one of them for the two days that followed Anna’s escape, they put up a wall of silence, and Wozniak didn’t seem to have enough evidence to put any of them under arrest. It all died down after that. Life went on just fine without Victor Goddard. Nobody felt the need to mention his name anymore.
By virtue of the prenup that Lydia had signed when she married Victor, none of his properties, including the house, went to her directly. Ironically, the mighty wolf had never bothered to consider his own demise and therefore had left no will. State law determined that Frank and Anna were the rightful heirs, but with Anna being a wanted fugitive who had fled who knows where, the entire Goddard estate went to Frank. He wanted none of it, though, not a penny from his father, and therefore transferred all assets to his mother. Lydia, in turn, had been busy selling everything off, turning it to cash. She had already found a buyer for the big house and had moved to one of them colorful houses in the town center. A locally famous painter had lived there. It suited her perfectly. As a matter of fact, she had taken up painting again, a hobby she had long forsaken.
Frank himself was doing quite well. He had, after much insistence from his mother, accepted a modest contribution from her to expand his music school, which was already attracting customers from neighboring counties.
About Marlene and Diane, he didn’t know much, only that Lydia had talked to her sister briefly once or twice in the last few weeks. It was a start. Frank remained optimistic that as their new lives took shape, the old scars could begin to heal. Recently Michael had given some thought to the possibility of calling Diane, just to check on her. Perhaps, he would.
Michael had not remained stagnant either. He felt like Anna was somehow always in a corner of his mind, egging him on to be daring. His article had just been accepted to be published in a reputable history journal, and that had only inspired him to start writing another. He had been casually researching graduate programs, and he had drafted his resignation letter to the Blake County Historical Society—three weeks ago. If Anna was here, he thought, she would probably push him to do it. “Today, do it today. You know you want to,” he imagined she would say.
He went downstairs to get a cup of coffee. It was starting to look like another long day of doing nothing. Well, he had his books. “Hey, Michael,” said a museum employee as he dashed through artifacts and pictures of slave owners. “This came for you. It’s a package…from Russia! How very strange. Did you order some kind of rare item online?”
His heart skipped a beat. He felt a jolt of excitement that no cup of coffee could have given him. Everything seemed brighter all of a sudden. Trying to conceal his emotions, he casually went and took the package. It really was from Russia! The return address was from a café in Sadovaya Street. The postage stamps had Moscow’s Red Square on it. It was surreal.
He wanted to run upstairs, but walking would have to do. Once in his lonely realm, he used his car keys as a serrated knife to cut through the tape and open the box. Inside, he found a gorgeous ceramic rendition of St. Petersburg’s instantly recognizable Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. “St. Petersburg,” he muttered to himself. He admired it and inspected it from every angle, and then he turned it over. There was an inscription under the base, and it read, “Is the professor craving some adventure?”
Without a thread of doubt in his heart, Michael corrected the date on his resignation letter, printed it, signed it, and left it on his desk. He didn’t explain himself to anyone; he didn’t say goodbye. He walked out the door for the last time, jumped in his car, and let the wind ruffle his hair a little.
THE END