I Think I Love You

by Stephanie Bond

  She removed the cartridge from the grip to find one round inside, then pulled back the slide to make sure the chamber was empty. Mica hesitated, then slipped the gun into her big shoulder bag—she didn’t intend to use it, but it wouldn’t hurt to know its whereabouts during what promised to be an unpredictable few days.

  A check of the time hurried her movements. She trotted to the phone to write a message for Dean in case he came home while she was gone. Her stomach pitched when she lifted a smelly pizza box to uncover a pad of paper. Then she frowned down at the note in Dean’s handwriting:

  Call your sister at work

  No question which sister. Mica pursed her lips.

  Or was there?

  Regina had never called her from the office before. Meanwhile, Justine had been preying on her mind all morning. The image of her flame-haired sister was so clear in her mind, she could almost hear Justine’s voice calling out to her. Obeying her premonition, she picked up the phone and dialed directory assistance.

  “Shively, Pennsylvania, please. Cocoon Cosmetics.”

  Chapter 4

  DO be honest, because your past always catches up with you.

  The land line telephone was ringing as Regina unlocked the door to her condo. Mica? She swung open the door and dropped keys, mail, briefcase, groceries, and dry cleaning on the sofa, then grabbed the portable phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, dear,” Cissy said, and the tone of her voice sent a quickening to Regina’s stomach.

  “Mom, is everything okay?”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  She closed her eyes. “Yes—tell me.” Her father? Justine? Mica?

  “No one’s dead if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Relief bled through her. “What, then?”

  Her mother burst into tears. “Your father and I are separating.”

  Regina sighed and stepped out of her shoes. “Again?” Growing up, she’d lost count of the times her father had moved his clothes and portable television into the apartment over the antiques store, only to pack them back to the house a few days or weeks or months later. In the beginning, she had hoped his return would result in a wedding—a ceremony that would make her and her sisters legitimate in the eyes of the townspeople. It hadn’t happened.

  Cissy sniffled. “It’s different this time. We’re selling the business.”

  Regina blinked. “You’re selling the business?”

  “And the house.”

  She sat down hard. “You’re selling the house?” A one-hundred-thirty-year-old Victorian with original ceiling murals.

  “Actually, we’re going to auction off everything. Your father believes we’ll make more money if we sell it piece by piece.” Her mother’s voice wobbled.

  Regina touched her temple. “But… what happened? Did you and Dad have an argument?”

  “Yes, but it’s been a long time coming. I decided I’ve been playing house with your father long enough.”

  “Playing house?” Regina struggled to keep her voice steady. “Thirty-eight years and three children is more than playing house, don’t you think?”

  “John is a good father to you girls, but he isn’t good husband material.”

  “But you’re not married.”

  “Exactly. And I wouldn’t marry him.”

  Regina squinted. “Did he ask you?”

  “He knows better. Besides, John agrees that splitting up is for the best. Our relationship is over, Regina, that’s all. Nothing lasts forever.”

  Her mind reeled. She hadn’t visited often enough. She hadn’t been able to mend the breach between her sisters. She hadn’t given her parents grandchildren. And now their entire family unit was disintegrating. No possibility of a big, happy reunion, Norman Rockwell-style. No multigenerational family portrait. No matching Tshirts. “Maybe you and Dad should see a marriage counselor.”

  “We’re not married, dear.”

  “A family counselor, then.”

  “We’re past counseling, Regina. I know you think that everything is fixable, but it isn’t.”

  “Most situations are fixable,” she insisted. “Unless you give up.”

  “You sound like one of your books, dear. Life and people are far too complicated to manage with an emotional checklist.”

  Your Emotional Checklist. The author had dedicated the book to her, and she’d sent a copy to her mother thinking Cissy would be proud of her accomplishments. Regina swallowed the stinging barb. “But you and Dad have worked through rough times before.” She stood and paced. “I’ll come home. We’ll all talk.”

  “Actually, I was hoping you’d agree to come home for a few days. We’re going to need help sorting all the property, and of course I want you to select whatever things you’d like to have for your own home.”

  Her own home. From this one spot Regina could see her entire living, working, eating, sleeping, and bathing space. She didn’t have room for a footstool, much less any of the hugely ornate pieces of period furniture crammed into her parents’ gargantuan house. Her heart pounded at the prospect of having her childhood memories ripped out from under her, but she reasoned that if she were home to talk with her parents face-to-face, she could help them over this bump in their relationship. Her father was probably drinking too much, and her mother, who was a high-maintenance creature by design, wasn’t the easiest person to live with. When Regina was younger, she’d always been able to concoct little schemes to get them talking again.

  “Of course I’ll come,” she said, mentally fast-forwarding through the workload shift at the office, the travel arrangements, the packing. “I’ll be there sometime tomorrow, depending on the flights.”

  “Thank you, dear. There’s just so much to be done.”

  “Have you talked to Justine or Mica?”

  “I left a message for Justine, and your father left one for Mica.”

  “Were you planning to ask them to come home?”

  “Oh, no. They’re much too busy.”

  Regina poked her tongue into her cheek. “Well, I can only be away from my office for a few days.”

  “Of course. Shall I have your father pick you up at the airport?”

  For all her mother’s feminist beliefs, she still delegated chauffeuring duties to the male species. ‘“No, I’ll get a rental car and drive in. Mom, promise me that you won’t make any rash decisions between now and then.”

  “Sweetheart, some of the happiest moments in life result from rash decisions. You should try it sometime.”

  She sighed, perpetually mystified by her free-spirited mother. And sisters, for that matter. “I’ll see you soon. Give my love to—” But Cissy had already hung up. Regina looked at the phone in her hand and muttered, “Dad.” And in the odd way that one’s brain works, she remembered she hadn’t asked Cissy about old Mr. Calvin.

  She sagged into the chair, biting down on her tongue to keep the tears at bay. The afternoon meeting with legal had droned on until after six, then the trains were delayed, and her errands had taken forever. Her feet hurt and her head hurt and now her heart hurt.

  The sun was setting on a cloudy summer day, the light further diffused by the half-lowered shades over her four precious windows. The grays and browns and slate blues of her simple decor faded into the shadows, the lines of the furniture exaggerated against the pale walls. It was a widely known but scarcely admitted fact that it is easier to cry in the dark, and she didn’t have the strength to carry herself over to the light switch on the wall. The clap-on light from television she’d once deemed ridiculous now seemed like a missed opportunity.

  The tears fell down her chin and she ached with helplessness. And loneliness. And regret. So many secrets and falsehoods in the nooks and crannies of her family. She always believed that time would smooth the rough edges of hurtful deeds and unspoken concerns. That they’d all come together someday for a long weekend and she’d look around the table and know that the people she belonged to cared about
her and one another.

  Regina cried boisterously until her nose ran. When she dragged herself up to get a tissue, she flipped on every light along the way. In her tiny bathroom, she blew her nose and washed her face. She sighed into the towel and peered into the mirror. Laser surgery had corrected her vision to better than perfect, but she’d looked so hollow-eyed without her frames, she’d had the prescription lenses replaced with clear glass and still wore them when she was around others. She leaned into the sink and squeaked out a laugh at her reflection—she was not a pretty crier, not like Justine, who could release big smiling Julia Roberts tears, or Mica, who dribbled perfect Demi Moore tears. Either one of them could turn on the waterworks and bend Cissy and John to her will. She, on the other hand, did not cry willingly, and her face revealed the squinchy, painful effort to unfortunate effect.

  She pulled the combs from her hair and worked her fingers through to the ends as she walked back to the bedroom, her mind spinning in all directions. Off went the tailored suit; on went the most consoling jeans she owned and a “How to Sleep Alone” promotional nightshirt. She backtracked to the living room, scooped up her mail, and absently sorted bills while she pondered the trip back to North Carolina.

  She tried to get home a couple of times a year to see her folks, although the Monroeville city limits sign never failed to put a stone in her stomach. And disturbing images in her head. She had last been home over New Year’s for two days. Justine had breezed in long enough to have brunch on the arm of a smarmy guy named Fin who drank like a fish and didn’t bother to hide his wedding ring. No one had mentioned Mica, who hadn’t been home since she’d flown the coop with Justine’s fiancé all those years ago.

  Since Justine was especially close to Cissy, and Mica to John, the girls’ enduring rift had put a strain on John and Cissy’s relationship over the years. Indeed, Regina had seen unsettling signs in January that repercussions of the incident still hovered just beneath the conversational surface.

  “Justine will never grow up until she comes to terms with the past,” her father had muttered.

  “At least she comes to see us occasionally, unlike our youngest daughter,” her mother replied in a voice that told Regina they’d exchanged similar sentiments many times. She had bitten her own tongue to keep from reminding them that they could visit Justine or Mica anytime they chose, but to Cissy and John, roads only led into Monroeville.

  And even though her parents seemed appreciative of her own visits, she had the distinct feeling that if they could have traded her company for either Justine’s or Mica’s, they would have. At the moment, however, they seemed receptive to accepting her assistance through this difficult time, whatever that entailed. But the thought that her parents’ relationship might also become a casualty of her sisters’ discord was almost too much to bear. Especially since the trouble between Justine and Mica had begun to snowball soon after that fateful summer day overlooking Lovers’ Lane….

  Her appetite had fled, but she recognized that she needed something on her stomach. While a pasta entree rotated in the microwave, she put away her single bag of groceries and stowed her dry cleaning in her bedroom closet. Keep busy, don’t think. When the beep sounded, she peeled the layer of clear film back from her dinner and poured herself a glass of skim milk. She’d always defended her parents’ decision to remain unmarried—they didn’t need a marriage certificate to be committed to each other, she’d parroted over and over. If Cissy and John split up now, all those people who gave the Metcalfs sideways glances would be right.

  And she really needed those people to be wrong.

  She carried the steaming plastic tray to her desk and sipped the bubbles from the top of the milk. While her computer booted up, she flipped on the evening news and eyed her briefcase. She’d brought home the manuscript from the carpooling women in Atlanta to finish reading, but in light of her last-minute vacation plans, she needed to tackle a progress report and several sets of blurbs that would be due during her absence. She’d have to take the manuscript with her to North Carolina in the event she had some free time on the plane or once she arrived.

  The penne marinara wasn’t bad once she got past the first couple of gluey bites. After she logged onto the Internet, she checked her personal e-mail account. There was a coupon from an on-line cooking site, which she deleted. The Flying Solo in the Kitchen cookbook notwithstanding (three printings to date), she rarely fixed something completely from scratch, and when she did, her palate didn’t command gourmet ingredients.

  There was a notice of travel deals from the site she typically used to book accommodations, but unfortunately, Monroeville hadn’t made the discount list this week. She sighed, clicked over, and paid a ridiculous price for a short-notice round-trip ticket. She seriously hoped someone topped her bid for the antique ivory letter opener on the Internet auction site she frequented, since her “play” money for the month had just been seriously compromised.

  While it was on her mind, she clicked onto the Web site and checked the auction, which still had two days to go. She remained the high bidder, but the picture of the carved ivory letter opener cheered her. Worth more than what she’d bid, it would be a nice addition to her collection, even if she couldn’t easily afford it at the moment.

  Considering the past, it was an absurd collection, even macabre. But satisfying in the sense that it forced her to remember. She’d spent so many years trying to forget about what she’d seen that summer, only to realize that she felt better, less guilty, when she remembered. She and her sisters had never talked about what they’d witnessed that day, not even to voice relief when Aunt Lyla’s pool man had been arrested and convicted of her murder. But she suspected they’d wrestled with their own demons after walking away from the crime scene.

  Out of curiosity, she clicked on the “see similar items” button. There were new listings for antique executive desk sets, several letter holders, pencil holders, memo pad holders, and two letter openers. She scanned the first description—a common brass letter opener distinctive because it had once belonged to Frank Sinatra. Allegedly. She glanced at the seller’s name to estimate the legitimacy of the claim and saw that anteeklady23112 was rated high for customer service. Still, since Regina wasn’t into celebrity memorabilia, she moved to the next listing:

  RUSSIAN STERLING-AND-GOLD LETTER OPENER, GREEN-LEAF ENAMEL INLAID HANDLE.

  RUSSIAN HALLMARK AND SILVERSMITH MARKINGS.

  Her heart dipped, and she bit her tongue mid-chew. In the ensuing pain, she wiped her mouth and relaxed a bit. There was more than one, of course. Still, her palms were moist as she clicked on the photo link. The grainy picture loaded quickly, innocently, and hurled her back to the scene of Lyla’s murder.

  The silver-and-gold letter opener on a plain white background pulled forgotten details from the recesses of her brain—blood caked in the green enamel inlay, bits of flesh on the blade.

  She stood and sent her chair crashing to the floor. Her mind chugged at the bizarre coincidence. Same shape, same design. She hurried to her bedroom closet and fell to her knees. The floor was stacked with storage boxes, some of which she hadn’t opened since two moves ago, some not since she’d left home. She dragged out the carton marked: “Misc. Keepsakes” and tore aged tape from the box seams. The odor of dust and old paper rose from the contents. Pictures of school friends she vaguely recalled, a little jar of arrowheads she’d collected at the creek, a rabbit’s foot key chain. After rummaging, her fingers closed around a small chalk box in the shape of a treasure chest.

  She blew dust off the box and raised the lid to survey various pieces of childhood jewelry—the little self-piercing loops that had produced the crooked holes in her ears, a Cinderella watch that had stopped with both of her arms pointing backward to nine, a bracelet made from soldered pennies. She lifted the divided tray and dumped strands of fake pearls and tarnished rings onto the floor. Loose beads rolled in all directions. On the bottom of the tray she’d fastened a little man
ila envelope with Scotch tape, now yellowed and brittle. She pulled away the envelope, slid her nail under the tiny flap, and withdrew a folded index card. Her parents had maintained a simple inventory system for their antiques business.

  On the card in block print was the description of an item:

  Silver-and-gold letter opener; green enamel leaves, Russian hallmark spread-wing eagle (RH1004 in hallmark registry), silversmith I.J., mid-nineteenth century, bought from H.S., $50

  According to the newspaper reports, Lyla’s murder weapon hadn’t been found, but the coroner had concluded the wounds had been made with a blunt knife. The case against the Gilberts’ pool man, ex-con Elmore Bracken, had been made when the police discovered that Lyla Gilbert had fired him the day before the murder and he owned numerous knives. In fact, Regina remembered the brawny, balding man coming into the antiques store to purchase collectible knives. Dressed in black motorcycle gear, Bracken had always made her nervous, so she had no trouble believing he’d stolen the letter opener from the store’s display case and used it to stab her aunt. And she’d spent many sheet-soaked nights imagining what would’ve happened if the man had returned for the murder weapon before she’d made her escape.

  Her parents had never missed the letter opener—not unusual considering the thousands of items in the store, plus the fact that she’d swiped the inventory card as soon as she’d gotten home that awful day. And hidden it in a place that Nancy Drew herself would have been hard-pressed to find.

  She carried the index card back to the computer and reread the description on the screen. Was it possible that the letter opener listed on-line was the murder weapon? That someone had found it after Bracken had disposed of it? Or that Bracken had given it to someone for safekeeping? Or that someone else had happened upon the scene and taken the weapon?