by Lisa Jackson
She managed to swab the counter and toss the broken glass into the trash before walking through a mud room and slapping on the light of the garage. There, propped against a stack of wood, was a sign that said it all: FOR SALE BY OWNER. She picked it up then carried it to the end of her long drive. She hung the blue-and-white placard onto the hooks of the post she’d set into her yard late that afternoon.
“Perfect,” she told herself, even though she did have one or two twinges of nostalgia about selling the place. Hadn’t the little bungalow been the very spot where she’d tried once before to start over, a haven chosen as the ideal place to patch a broken marriage, a quiet retreat where she’d fostered so many hopes, so many dreams? She’d crossed her fingers when she and Luke had bought this house. She’d prayed that they would be able to find happiness here.
How foolish she’d been. Now, as dusk gathered and purple shadows crawled across the grounds, she glanced at the cottage—a cozy little clapboard and shingle house that had been built nearly a hundred years earlier. It sat well back from this winding country road. The original structure had been renovated, added to, and improved to the point that the main house consisted of two small bedrooms, a single bath, and an attic with a skylight that she’d managed to turn into her in-home office. The attached building had once been a mother-in-law apartment, which Abby had converted into her photography studio, dark room, and second bathroom.
Five years earlier, she and Luke had found this property, declared it “perfect,” and had spent several years here before everything had fallen apart. Eventually he’d moved out of the house and onto other women . . . no, wait. It was the other way around. The women came first. Starting with Zoey. Before the wedding.
Not that it mattered now.
Luke Gierman, once a respected newscaster and radio disk jockey, had become New Orleans’s answer to Howard Stern as well as a chapter in her life that was finally and indelibly over. It had been more than a year since the final papers had been signed and a judge had declared the marriage officially dissolved.
Snagging the hammer from the ground where she’d left it earlier, Abby stepped back to study the sign, to make certain it hung evenly, to read once again the words and phone number indicating that this home was on the market.
She had been determined to set her life straight, had heeded what all the experts had suggested, though, in truth, she’d thought a lot of the advice had been useless. She’d tried to give their marriage a second chance but that hadn’t worked. They’d split; she’d stayed with the house. Her friends had all warned her about suffering through the holidays and anniversaries and nostalgia alone, but those milestones had passed and they hadn’t been all that bad. She’d survived just fine. Probably because she hadn’t really handed her heart to Luke again. And she hadn’t been all that surprised when his old tendencies for other women had resurfaced.
Luke would probably always suffer from an ongoing case of infidelity.
Snap!
A twig in the underbrush broke. Again! Glancing sharply toward the shrubbery, the direction where the sound had occurred, Abby expected to see a possum or raccoon or even a skunk amble into the weak light offered by the single bulb hanging in the garage.
But there was only silence. She realized, then, that the crickets had stopped their songs, the bullfrogs were no longer croaking. Her heart rate increased and involuntarily she strained to listen, to notice any other sounds that were out of the ordinary.
She suddenly felt very vulnerable in this isolated area of the road.
Peering into the darkness, she sensed unseen eyes studying her, watching her. A tiny shudder slid down her spine. She chided herself for her own case of nerves. It was her birthday, she was alone, and just thinking about her mother’s death had left her edgy.
Relax, she told herself. Go inside. It’s dark now and the sign is finally up.
From the corner of her eye, she caught movement in the bushes, a rustle of dry leaves. She froze, her nerves stretched taut.
A second later a dark shadow slid beneath the undergrowth. Her heart kicked hard.
Then Ansel scurried from his hiding spot beneath the branches of a leatherwood and buckthorn. At her feet, he turned, stared into the bushes from where he’d been hiding, and hissed loudly.
She jumped, startled. “For God’s sake,” she murmured, putting a hand over her racing heart. “Cut that out! What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack? Well, you just about succeeded!” She reached down and tried to pick him up. “I guess you’re tense, too. How about a drink? Wine for me. Fresh H2O for you.”
Before she could grab him, Ansel raced the length of the driveway and through the open garage door. Nearly a quarter of a mile away, the neighbor’s dog began putting up a racket that could raise the dead.
Anxiety ate at her. Her fingers tightened over the handle of the hammer, and ridiculously, she felt again as if someone was observing her. Don’t get paranoid. Don’t. You’re not like your mother . . . you’re not crazy. So the Pomeroys’ Rottweiler was barking. So what?
Dismissing her case of nerves, she walked steadfastly toward the house, her shoes crushing the first few leaves of autumn. Inside the garage, she slapped the button to close the door, then walked through the mud room to the kitchen, where Ansel was seated on the windowsill over the sink, his eyes trained outside, his tail flicking nervously.
“What is it, buddy?” she asked.
The cat kept up his tense vigil.
“You know you’re not supposed to be anywhere near the counters.”
Still no reaction.
Abby stood at the sink and stared through the glass into the night. Looming black trees surrounded her small patio and garden. The window was open a bit, the sounds of the night and the breeze filtering inside.
Again the dog barked. At the same moment Abby’s cottage settled, the old timbers creaking. Unnerved, Abby shooed the cat from the ledge, slammed the window shut, and flipped the lock. Though she wasn’t easily frightened, every once in a while she felt edgy, the isolation of living alone getting to her.
But that was about to change.
If she accepted Alicia’s invitation to move to San Francisco, they’d be roommates again, just like in college—except for the fact that they were both now divorced and Alicia had a five-year-old in kindergarten.
“Tempting, isn’t it?” she asked the cat, who, rebuffed from his perch on the window, slunk to a hiding spot under the table. “Fine, Ansel, go ahead and pout. Hurt me some more.”
The phone rang. Still feeling guilty about ignoring her sister’s call, Abby swooped up the cordless receiver without checking caller ID. “Hello,” she answered as she walked into the living room.
“Happy birthday.”
She stopped short and her heart nearly dropped through the floor at the sound of Luke’s voice. “Thanks.”
“You’re probably surprised to hear from me.”
That was the understatement of the year. “More like stunned. You were the last person I expected to call.”
“Abs,” he said, drawing her nickname out so that it was almost an endearment. “Look, I know this is a difficult day for you because of your mom.”
She wasn’t buying it. She’d known him too long. “You called to make me feel better?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m fine.” She said it with complete conviction.
“Oh. Well. That’s good,” he said, surprised, as if he believed she might still be an emotional mess, falling into a bajillion pieces. “Real good.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
“Wait! Don’t hang up.”
She heard the urgency in his voice, imagined his free hand shooting out as if to physically stop her from dropping the receiver into its cradle. He’d made the same gesture every time he wanted something and thought she wasn’t listening. “What, Luke?” She was standing in the living room now, the room where they’d once watched television, eaten popcorn, and discussed current events.
>
Or fought. They’d had more than their share of rip-roarers.
“Look, do you still have that stuff I left?” he finally asked, getting to the real point of his call.
“What stuff?”
“Oh, you know,” he said casually, as if the items were just coming to mind. “My fishing poles and tackle box. An old set of golf clubs. Scuba gear.”
“No.”
“What?”
“It’s gone. All of it.”
She glanced to the bookcase where their wedding pictures were still tucked away with the rest of the photo albums.
There was a short pause and she knew she’d taken all the wind out of his sails.
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” he asked and she imagined his blue eyes narrowing. “You didn’t give my things away, did you?” His voice was suddenly cold. Suspicious. Accusing.
“Of course I gave them away,” she responded without a shred of guilt. “I gave you six months to pick up your stuff, Luke. And that was way longer than I wanted to. Way longer. When you didn’t show, I called the Salvation Army. They took everything, including the rest of your clothes and all that junk that was in the garage and the attic and the closets.”
“Jesus, Abby! Some of that stuff was valuable! None of it’s ‘junk.’”
“Then you should have come for it.”
There was a pause, just long enough for a heartbeat and she braced herself. “Wait a minute. You didn’t get rid of my skis. You wouldn’t do that. The Rossignols are still in the attic, right?” She heard the disbelief in his voice. Walking back to the kitchen, she threw open the refrigerator door and hauled out the wine bottle again. “Jesus, Abby, those things cost me an arm and a leg. I can’t believe that you . . . oh, Christ, tell me that my board is in the garage. My surf board.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m pretty sure that went, too.”
“I bought it in Hawaii! And the canoe?”
“Actually I think that went to Our Lady of Virtues, a fund-raiser.”
“Our Lady of Virtues? The hospital where your mother—”
“It was for the church,” she cut in. “The hospital’s been closed for years.”
“You’ve completely flipped out, Abby,” he accused. “You’re as nuts as she was!”
Abby’s stomach clenched, but she waited. Didn’t respond. Wouldn’t rise to the bait. Pulling out the cork while cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear, she felt her injured thumb throb. She wasn’t crazy. No way. The only time she’d been close to mental illness was when she’d agreed to marry Luke. Those “I do’s” were major points in the off-your-rocker column. But otherwise, knock wood, she was sane. Right? Despite the sense of creeping paranoia that lurked around her at times.
“This is a nightmare! A fuckin’ nightmare. I suppose you even tossed my dad’s thirty-eight?” When she didn’t reply, he clarified, “You know, Abby, the gun?”
“I know what it is.” She didn’t bother with another wineglass, just pulled her favorite cracked coffee mug from the open shelf.
“That gun was my dad’s! He—he had it for years. He was a cop, damn it, and . . . and it’s got sentimental value. You wouldn’t give it away!”
“Hmm.” She poured the wine, didn’t care that some splashed onto the counter. “Kinda makes you wonder what the Salvation Army would want with it.”
“They don’t take firearms.”
“Is that so?” She took a long swallow of the wine. “Then maybe it was the nuns at Our Lady. I can’t really remember.”
“You don’t even know?” He was aghast. “You gave my gun away and you don’t know who has it! Jesus H. Christ, Abby, that pistol is registered to me! If it’s used in a crime—”
“Now, I’m not sure about this, so don’t quote me, but I don’t think the Mother Superior is running a smuggling ring on the side.”
“This isn’t funny!”
“Sure it is, Luke. It’s damned funny.”
“I’m talking about my possessions. Mine!” She pictured him hooking a thumb at his chest and jabbing frantically, angrily. “You had no right to get rid of anything!”
“So sue me, Luke.”
“I will,” he said hotly.
“Look, my name isn’t U-Store-It, okay? I’m not a holding tank for your things. If they were so valuable, you should have picked them up around the time we were splitting up, or, you know, in the next six or seven months, maybe?”
“I can’t believe this!”
“Then don’t, Luke. Don’t believe it.”
“Getting rid of my things is low, Abby. And you’re going to hear about it. I think the topic of the next Gierman’s Groaners is going to be about vindictive exes and how they should be handled.”
“Do whatever you want. I won’t be listening or calling in.” She hung up, teeth clenched. She kicked herself for not checking caller ID before picking up the phone. “Never again,” she promised herself, taking another sip of Chardonnay, wishing the wine would hurry up and dull the rage she felt boiling through her blood. Luke had the uncanny ability to make her see red when no one else could. She’d half expected to feel some sort of satisfaction when he finally learned that she’d tossed out his treasures; instead she felt empty. Hollow. How could two people who had sworn to love each other come down to this? “Don’t let him get to you,” she warned herself, walking into the living room, where, despite the heat, she grabbed a long-handled barbecue lighter and started the fire.
Flames immediately crackled and rose, consuming the newspaper and kindling she’d stacked earlier. She’d always kept logs in the grate, ready to light in case there was a sudden power loss, but tonight was different. She had a ritual she’d planned long before Luke’s unexpected call. Though it was still sweltering outside, she had some trash to burn.
From the shelf near the stone fireplace, she pulled out her wedding album. Upon her friend Alicia’s advice, she’d kept the photographic record of her big day for a year after the divorce, but now it was time to do the nasty and final deed. Luke’s call had only reinforced her original plan.
She opened the leather-bound cover and her heart nosedived as she stared at the first picture.
There they were, the newly wedded couple, preserved for all eternity under slick plastic. The bride and groom. Luke with his athletic good looks, twinkling blue eyes, and near-brilliant smile, one arm looped around Abby, who was nearly a foot shorter than he, her untamed red-blond hair framing a small heart-shaped face, her smile genuine, her eyes shining with hope for the future.
“Save me,” Abby muttered, yanking the picture from its encasement and tossing it into the fire. As she slowly sipped wine from her cup, her thumb ached, its throbbing measuring out her heartbeats. She watched the edges of the paper bake and turn brown before curling and snapping into flame. The smiling, happy couple was quickly consumed by fire, literally going up in smoke. “Until death do us part,” she mocked. “Yeah, right.”
She glanced down at the album again. The next picture was of the family. A group shot. She with her father and sister; he with both proud parents and his two, shorter, not-as-successful, nor-as-handsome, brothers, Adam and Lex. His sister, Anna, and her husband were also in the picture.
“No time for nostalgia,” she said as Ansel trotted into the room and hopped onto the sofa. She tossed the picture onto the logs. Eager flames found the new dry fuel and the page quickly curled and burned.
Another sip of wine and the next picture, this one of Luke alone, standing tall and proud in his black tuxedo. He was good-looking; she’d give him that. Frowning, she realized she’d loved him once, but it seemed a lifetime ago. He’d been a newscaster in Seattle, his popularity on the rise. He’d come into her little studio for a new head shot.
The attraction had been immediate. He’d joked and she’d been irreverent, not impressed that he was somewhat of a local celebrity. It had been her feigned disinterest that had intrigued him.
Only late
r, six months after their initial meeting, after he’d proposed and she’d accepted, did she learn the reason he’d shown up at her photography studio. He’d gotten her name from a coworker, an assistant producer, her sister, Zoey. No one had mentioned that they’d been lovers. Oh no. That had slipped out later, nearly a month after the nuptials—the nuptials where Zoey had caught Abby’s bouquet. Abby had first learned of their affair in the bedroom no less, when Luke had uttered the wrong name. Though both Luke and Zoey had sworn the affair was over long before the wedding, Abby had never trusted either of them about that particular bit of shared history.
“Isn’t that just perfect,” she said now to Ansel. He climbed onto the back of the little couch and settled onto the afghan her grandmother had made. Yawning, he showed his thin teeth, and Abby quickly stripped the rest of the photographs from their jackets. One by one, she tossed the pictures into the fire, watched them curl, smoke, and burn.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” she muttered as the fire began to die. Finishing her wine, she silently vowed that tonight her life was going to change forever.
Little did she know how right-on her words would be.
He slipped between the boards of the broken fence and stared up at the edifice where it had all happened so long ago. A surge of power sizzled through his bloodstream as he stepped through the overgrown bushes. Moist spiderwebs pressed against his face. He inhaled the humid, dank scent of earth and decay.
Insects thrummed and chirped, causing the night to feel alive. The wan light from a descending moon washed over the landscape of broken bricks, dry, chipped fountains, and overgrown lawns.
