Wanted Wed or Alive: Thyme's Wedding

by Melissa F. Miller

  She’s wearing a faded t-shirt that reads ‘Ask me about Baby Book Baskets!’ and her light pink hair is braided into two long plaits that hang over her shoulders. From behind a pair of round, oversized black-framed glasses, she blinks at the sight of us, arrayed behind the counter like a line of soldiers facing an advancing force.

  She drops the plastic garage door clicker in her right hand. As the opener clatters to the driveway, she stares at us and screams.

  “Shhh!” Sage admonishes her.

  The screamer pays no attention, and continues to emit a loud, high-pitched wail. It might be worse than the air raid siren.

  “Crap,” Dave mutters. He shifts his weight as if he’s considering breaking away and … what? Confronting her? Identifying himself as law enforcement?

  I don’t know what he has in mind, but I do know that we really don’t need to draw more attention to ourselves. So, I break rank and zip forward out into the driveway before he has a chance. I bend and retrieve the door opener, pressing it into her palm. For a moment, I think she’s paralyzed with shock, but eventually she closes her fist around the device and clamps her mouth shut, stopping the endless, Edvard Munch-worthy scream.

  I smile encouragingly. “We didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Her eyes, magnified behind her thick lenses, dart from me to the crew in the garage and back to me.

  “Uh, it’s okay. Sorry I yelped.”

  ‘Yelped’ is a ridiculously benign description of the aural assault we just sustained, but I let that slide.

  “No problem. Listen, why don’t you come inside so we can talk?”

  I scan the street. Apparently, the dreadful siren is the town’s way of announcing the start of the First Friday Frenzy. All along Holly Branch Court, garage doors are raised and people are milling around in groups of three and four. The smell of kettle corn is explained by the presence of a red and white striped cart parked on the sidewalk. A sign on the cart’s awning reads ‘kettle corn, 2 snowflakes, hot dogs, 3 snowflakes.’ On the other side of the street, a similar cart is set up, its vendor hawking lemonade for 1 snowflake.

  Everyone in sight seems to be focused on the goods arrayed in the garages. From what I can see, the imposter Thyme’s set up, while unique in my personal experience with suburban garages, fits right in. Directly across the street, I can see into a brightly lit, two-bay garage that looks as if a cardboard plant has exploded. Every square inch of space seems to be occupied by a precarious tower of corrugated cardboard boxes. The presumptive owner of the stuff is perched on a chair behind a white card table set up at the top of the driveway. A sign taped to the front lip of the table proclaims ‘First Friday BOGO!’

  Despite the bustling commerce, I feel exposed out here. I watch the young woman’s face, hoping she won’t take much convincing to retreat into the house with us.

  She gnaws on her lower lip. “I dunno, you’re going to miss the early birders if you aren’t out here manning your table.”

  “It’s okay,” Sage assures her in her soothing nanny voice. “We’d really like to talk to you.”

  The woman’s eyes are all over the place. Her nervous gaze darts around the garage and lands on Mona Lisa, who’s watching the stranger with interest. I know that look: she’s wondering if this lady’s good for a treat—or, even better, a belly rub.

  The answer appears to be yes, because the woman squeals in delight and makes a beeline for Mona Lisa.

  I exchange glances with Dave, who hits a button on the wall near the door leading to the house. The garage door begins its descent.

  With Mona Lisa in the lead, we lure the woman inside the house. Okay, ‘lure’ sounds excessively creepy. We don’t mean her any harm, of course. But we do need to keep a low profile, what with the armed dentists and irate shopkeepers out looking for us.

  Our visitor is obviously familiar with the house. She heads straight for a white ceramic jar on the counter to the left of the stove, removes the lid, and peers inside.

  “Oh, I thought there might be a few left in here,” she says, speaking into the jar in an echoey voice. She reaches into the jar and takes out a bone-shaped biscuit. Mona Lisa’s butt goes down on the floor in record time, as she sits and wags her tail in anticipation.

  “May I?” the woman asks the entire room.

  Of course. She has no idea who any of us are and which of us owns the dog.

  “Sure,” I say. “Her name’s Mona Lisa.”

  The woman bends her knees. “Hi, Mona Lisa. Shake?”

  Mona Lisa offers a paw, and is rewarded with a peanut butter dog treat and a pat on the head.

  “Oh, no … is there a dog living here?” Sage looks around, worried that the dead fake Thyme has left a pet behind.

  Our guest straightens to standing and smiles sadly. “No, the woman who lived here used to keep some biscuits on hand for my Paulie. Paulie’s a bit high-strung, so I don’t bring him out during the frenzy. Otherwise, he’d love to play with Mona Lisa. He likes dogs. Crowds of people, jockeying for the best deals … not so much.”

  I smile back. “Where are my manners? I’m Rosemary and this is my sister, Sage. The tall guy over by the fridge is her husband Roman, and this cutie is my husband Dave.”

  Dave, who’s been eyeing the woman with what I can only describe as his ‘cop look,’ seems less than enthused by his introduction. Tough dog biscuits. He’s going to intimidate her if he keeps staring at her that way. I need to soften his image. Besides, he is ridiculously cute. That’s a fact.

  The woman nods. “Nice to meet you all. Rosemary and Sage, ha, that’s funny.”

  Sage blinks. “It is?”

  “Sure. You know, Rosemary, Sage, and Thyme?” She drops her gaze to the floor and continues in a subdued voice, “Oh, maybe you didn’t know. The woman who lived here … her name was Thyme.”

  No doubt sensing her sadness, Mona Lisa cranes her neck and gives the woman’s hand a long lick.

  The woman giggles and lifts her head.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” Sage says gently.

  “Thanks. I can’t quite believe she’s gone.”

  She gets a distant look in her eyes, and I can tell she’s lost in a memory.

  After a moment, she pulls herself back to the present. “Anyway, I guess you’re thinking about moving in here?”

  “Um—”

  Before Sage can tell her the truth, I jump in. “Is this house for sale? I didn’t see a sign.”

  She cocks her head and gives me a curious look. “Of course not. Didn’t anyone explain? The cooperative owns all the houses. You can live here rent-free, but no, you can’t ever buy it.”

  “Right, of course,” Roman interjects. “We’re just, you know, not used to how it all works.”

  She nods. “I understand. It does take some getting used to. I think having mentors would be helpful to new residents. I’ve suggested it more than a few times. But some of the others vehemently oppose the idea.”

  “Why?” Sage asks.

  A small shrug. “Too close to the structure of a lot of their systems, you know?”

  No, I don’t. I don’t have the faintest idea what this woman is yammering about, but I nod anyway. “Sure, I can see that.”

  “So, Miss …” Dave begins in an obvious effort to prompt her to tell us her name.

  And it works, too.

  “Oh, geez, I’m such a ditz! I’m Car—Dora. It’s nice to meet you all.”

  “Cardoora? That’s an interesting name,” Roman observes.

  “Haha. No, it’s just Dora. I get tongue tied sometimes.” She blushes and looks away.

  She’s totally lying, and she’s terrible at it. I catch the look that passes between Roman and Sage, which confirms that they share my view: there’s exactly zero chance Dora is this woman’s real name. In all likelihood, she’s stolen some poor sap’s identity, like her pal, dead, fake Thyme.

  “So, Dora, why were you opening Thyme’s garage door, anyway?”

  Sh
e studies me for a second before answering. She’s trying to decide if I emphasized her name to let her know I’m on to her. Yes, Dora, yes, I did.

  After a beat, she says, “I wanted to sell some of her stuff for her. The First Friday Frenzy is the best time to move product. And you may have noticed, Thyme had a lot of it.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Roman offers.

  She shrugs. “No more than most folks around here.” She does the head tilt again. “Don’t you?”

  “Don’t we what?” he counters.

  “Have a stockpile? I mean, everyone who lives here is garage qualified. Obviously.”

  Garage qualified has a faint, familiar ring to it, but I can’t quite place it. I’m still trying to recall where I heard it when Sage clears her throat.

  “Well, that’s kind of you to do that for your friend … er, her estate. But don’t you have your own products to sell?” Sage nods at the message emblazoned across Dora’s t-shirt. “The, um, baby book baskets?”

  Dora looks down at her chest. “Oh, well, yeah, sorta.”

  Almost as if we’ve planned it, all four of us fall silent and wait. She scratches Mona Lisa behind the ear as she tells us her story.

  “I was never really a big seller. My mom is my upline. So I bought exactly enough inventory to help her meet her quotas, you know? I actually managed to sell most of it off once my college friends started having kids. So, I usually kept Thyme company during the neighborhood sales. She always seemed sort of lonely.”

  “Didn’t she have family?” Sage probes.

  Dora flushes again. This time it’s not embarrassment, it’s fear. I can tell by the way her eyes dilate. Dave sees it, too.

  “Something wrong, Dora?”

  She inches away from us, pressing herself against the kitchen wall. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but you’re not recruits, are you? If you were, you’d know once you move to Snow City, you can’t stay in touch with relatives on the outside. That’s the rule.”

  We’re all so busy exchanging perplexed looks that none of us notices when she grabs a knife out of the block on the counter and brandishes it at us with a shaking hand.

  Dave takes a step forward, his hands outstretched and his movements deliberate.

  Having been stabbed once upon a time, I’m not eager for him to spook her. And she seems easily spooked. She slices through the air with the knife like she’s auditioning for a role in a slasher flick.

  “Listen, Dora, it’s okay. I’m a po—”

  “Step back!” she shrieks at him, jabbing the knife toward him for emphasis.

  “We aren’t going to—”

  His words are cut off by the sound of the doorbell ringing. Persistently. As if someone very impatient, or perhaps being chased by a maniacal dentist, is leaning on it.

  Mona Lisa barks at the familiar sound and runs toward the front of the house.

  “It’s Thyme,” I call over my shoulder as I follow the dog to the door.

  In the kitchen, I can hear Dora stammering, “But … but … it can’t be. Thyme’s dead.”

  “We have a story to tell you. And I think you’ve got one for us,” Sage tells her.

  I unlock the door and fling it open. Thyme and Victor stumble inside, winded and wide-eyed, but seemingly unharmed.

  “Am I ever glad to see you,” I breathe.

  My baby sister flings herself into my arms and breaks down sobbing.

  Chapter 18

  Thyme

  I surprise myself with my emotional outburst. I mean, I am a graduate student in psychology. I’m fully onboard with the importance of accepting and allowing my feelings. But I guess I didn’t realize the intensity of my feelings about being held against my will and then shot at—at least not until I see my big sister’s worried face.

  At which point, I’m not ashamed to admit, I dissolve into a puddle of tears.

  Rosemary holds me, rubbing my back and making shushing noises. I inhale the scent of her bergamot and lime body lotion and focus on the space between my in-breath and out-breath until I can get myself back under control.

  My shuddering sobs slow, and then stop.

  She pulls back, holding me at arm’s length, and inspects my tear-stained face. “You okay?”

  I nod.

  “Okay. Then, let’s get out of this doorway and close the door before someone sees us.”

  I nod again. Victor closes and locks the door, then he takes my hand. I lean against his shoulder, and the contact warms and re-energizes me instantly.

  “Were you followed?” Rosemary directs the question to him.

  He presses his lips together in a thin line. “I don’t think so. But I can’t be sure.” His voice is strained, and his olive skin is unusually pale and ashen.

  I realize that my dramatics are overshadowing his emotional reaction to our close call, and a wave of guilt splashes over me.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him in a low voice.

  “No. If I’m being honest, I’m scared half to death.” His voice is steady and serious.

  “That makes six of us,” Rosemary says with an understanding smile as she leads us toward the back of the house.

  The adrenaline coursing through my body makes concentrating a challenge, but I try to take in the furnishings and decorating choices of the woman who stole my life, or at least my name. None of it feels like me. This makes sense, of course, because there’s no reason why it should. And yet, I sort of expected to have some connection to the home environment of the woman who called herself Thyme Magnolia Field. I intellectually realize this makes no sense, but it disorients me all the same.

  “Actually, it makes seven of us,” Sage says from the doorway to the kitchen.

  “Sage,” I squeak, still high-strung, still a bit shaky.

  “We were so worried, Thyme.” She runs toward me and gathers me and Victor into a tight hug.

  I relax into her embrace for a few quiet moments, then ask, “Seven?”

  Dave and Roman appear behind her, flanking a woman I’ve never seen before. She seems friendly enough—young with a funky librarian vibe. For some reason, Dave is also holding a large kitchen knife.

  “This is Dora,” Dave explains. “She knew the fa—other Thyme. For a second, when she heard Thyme was coming, she thought you were a ghost, or maybe a zombie.”

  Dora ducks her head and laughs.

  “Nope, I’m very much alive,” I assure her. Then I remember my predicament and frown. “I mean, unofficially.”

  “For now,” Victor adds grimly. “Alexis Pridemore doesn’t seem to be the type to let things go. We’re going to have to deal with her at some point.”

  Dora’s mouth forms a little ‘O’ of surprise, and she gasps. “You’ve tangled with Dr. Pridemore?”

  “You could say that.”

  “This is bad. Really bad. She’s fierce.”

  I eye the well-worn furniture in the living room off to the right. “Yeah, we noticed. Why don’t we all have a seat and talk about it?”

  She nods and heads for the corduroy recliner. She sinks into it and offers a shaky smile. “Thanks for the hand.”

  The rest of us arrange ourselves on the remaining seats. Victor and I squeeze into a small loveseat together. After the day we’ve had, I have no intention of letting him out of arm’s reach. Rosemary, Dave, and Roman take the couch. Sage perches over the arm nearest Roman. I almost suggest she sit in the other recliner instead—she’s going to break down the armrest that way. Then I remember this isn’t my furniture, and its owner has no use for it anymore, and let the words die in my throat.

  “Before Dora tells us about Dr. Pridemore, does anybody want to explain this massive yard sale?” Victor asks.

  I chime in, “You probably didn’t see it because you’ve been holed up in here, but it’s bonkers. We parked the truck outside the entrance gate, like you suggested, so we got to see the Friday Frenzy up close. These people are serious about their garage sales. There’s so m
uch stuff.”

  “And some of these folks have commercial set-ups, with conveyer belts and scanners, the whole deal. It’s wild,” Roman says.

  Judging by the blank expressions on their faces, we’re doing a terrible job of conveying the surreal nature of the frenzy. I open my mouth to try again, but Roman jerks a thumb toward the back of the house.

  “Yeah, we know. Go take a look at fake Thyme’s garage.”

  “Um, okay?” I start to rise from the sofa, but Dora clears her throat, and I lower my butt back to the cushion.

  “Can I tell you my story first? I think it’ll clear at least some things up.”

  “Sure.”

  She exhales. “Thanks. But first, I want to be sure I’m understanding correctly: you’re Thyme? The real Thyme Magnolia Field?”

  “In the flesh.”

  She gives a frustrated little head shake. “I don’t understand how this happened. They’re only supposed to assign new identities from people who have already died. This is a pretty big mix up.”

  “Oh, you’re preaching to the choir,” I tell her. “We’re supposed to be getting married tomorrow. And while I’m not dead, as you must know the pretend Thyme is.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, her death’s been entered into some official database of deceased people. And guess who can’t get a marriage license?”

  “A dead woman,” Dora says slowly. “Oh, no …”

  “Bingo.”

  “What a mess,” she moans. She plants her head in her hands and closes her eyes.

  I happen to agree wholeheartedly, but I have to say I find Dora’s reaction to be unusually strong. I mean, this disaster doesn’t affect her. Does it?

  I exchange silent looks with my sisters. Sage shrugs, and Rosemary shakes her head.

  After a long pause, Dora lifts her head and meets my eyes. “This is really bad.”

  “So, you all know what multi-level marketing is, right?” Dora asks.

  “Sure,” I answer for everyone.

  I know my sisters know about MLM. I mean, we’re women. Living in the United States. With social media accounts. I assume their husbands have at least a passing familiarity with the concept. Victor is acquainted with the world of home-based, person-to-person sales through his economic reporting.