“George?”
“Well good morning,” he says to Amy while blotting the puddle of coffee with a napkin. He pictures her sleepy, beginning her day in the kitchen, the sun streaming in the paned windows, Angel at her feet waiting to be fed, Grace sitting with a bowl of cereal at the blue table.
“Good morning,” she says quickly, sounding distracted. “I’m glad I caught you.”
“What’s the matter?” He crumples the soiled napkin into a ball.
“It’s probably nothing, but I wanted to check with you first. Listen, did you happen to make a coffee here this morning?”
“At your place? No.”
“You didn’t put the water on and maybe forget about it?”
“Amy. What’s going on?”
“Well, it’s the funniest thing. It’s nothing, really, except that I was in bed and a noise woke me up. At first I thought it was you, downstairs.”
“What kind of noise?”
“The teakettle. It’s whistling. You didn’t heat water for an instant coffee?”
“Have you gone downstairs?”
“Not yet. It’s still whistling, but I wanted to call you first. George?” Her voice lowers to a hush. “I don’t remember going downstairs. Do you think—”
“Where’s Grace?” he asks, not letting her blame the odd morning on herself, just like she blamed her misplaced car on herself. Someone is at it again.
“She’s still in bed.”
“Get her, Amy. Get her now and wait upstairs until I get there.”
“Oh don’t be silly. I’ll go shut it off and be done with it.”
“No, don’t. And get Grace right now. Do you understand? Now.”
“George, you’re scaring me. Do you think someone’s downstairs?”
“Just sit tight. I’ll be there in no time.” He hangs up knowing damn well now that someone was in her yard last night. Dean isn’t due in until one o’clock, so he has to close everything up. He double-checks the meat grinders and bone saw and quickly puts a tray of Cornish hens back into the freezer before dropping a couple knives into the wash water. As he shuts off the coffee pot, Sinatra continues to play on the stereo and it’s like his father is there with him. The music’s always been a bridge like that; his father speaks to him through the lyrics. If he were still alive, George would snatch up the phone now and call him. His father would talk him through this, would tell him what to do, what to say to Amy.
And while Sinatra keeps singing of sacrificing everything for love, George knows. He’d tell his father that, too. That he finally gets it, gets how you know when someone is the right person. And he can just hear what his father would say, with a satisfied look on his face.
Well, George. Now do you understand why I never explained it to you?
“Yeah, Dad,” George answers as he rushes into the cutting room while lifting off his apron. “I get it. Because there are no words.”
That’s right. And that’s why my ring is so important to me.
George hangs the apron on a wall hook. “The ring?”
Sure. The ring says it all. Sinatra wore one, too. All the time. But it’s not like mine. His had the family crest. Mine? With that ruby? Don’t you know what that is? It’s your mother’s heart. That’s how you know when it’s right.
“Someone has your heart,” George says as he locks up the door and runs out to his pickup truck.
* * *
She looks a little disheveled waiting at the painted porch railing, barefoot in a floral tank and denim cutoffs, her hair in a ponytail.
“Hi sweetheart,” George says, climbing the steps and looking beyond into the house. “Where’s Grace?”
“In the kitchen.” Amy holds the door open for him.
George walks in and scans the living room, his eyes stopping on each window, already searching for the breached location. “I told you to wait upstairs,” he says.
“I thought the pot might burn if the water evaporated. And I didn’t want to hear it anymore. George, I can’t keep doing this, blacking out and forgetting. I’m afraid one of these times Grace will get hurt.” She turns away and moves toward the kitchen. “I’ve already put in a call to my doctor about it.”
George grabs her arm. “Amy. Listen to me.” He pulls her in close, holding tight. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You have to believe me. What if someone had broken into your house? There could have been a confrontation.”
She covers his hand with her own. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting? Why would someone want to break in and turn on the teakettle? Seriously? I mean, nothing’s stolen, nothing’s out of place. It was me, George, don’t you see?”
“No, sweetheart, I don’t.” He releases her arm and moves into the kitchen. Angel sits straight on the floor in front of the refrigerator, her radar ears turning to every sound while Grace spoons a mouthful of cereal at the table, still in her pajamas and swinging her legs beneath her. The green sand pail and red horse are beside her bowl. “Hi there, Gracie,” he says, patting her head before turning to the stove.
Amy comes up behind him. “I turned off the flame a few minutes ago.”
George sets the blue kettle on the cool front burner and lifts the silver cover. A couple inches of hot water remain, so whoever had gotten into the house did so not too long ago. He jiggles the back door handle against the deadbolt and the door doesn’t budge; all the glass is intact in its small panes. Over the kitchen sink, the blue and white checked curtains are pushed aside, the windows looking out to the backyard. “Were these open all night?”
“No. I just opened them now. It’s so warm today.”
He moves into the dining room and immediately notices not so much the window, which is closed, but the screen that is jimmied off the frame and hanging slightly askew. So it’s starting to happen. The cracks from one day, from the crime, begin to show.
Amy stands at the kitchen sink, her back to George. She tips her head up with a long swallow of water before he notices there’s a prescription bottle in her hand. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Dr. Berg prescribed these. They’re a mild tranquilizer.” She leans against the sink and wraps her arms around herself. “I have to stay calm with Grace. I can’t risk her safety. Look what happened at the mall when I lost control.”
“How many did you take?” George asks. Because anything goes now, anything, and he has no way of knowing if the pills had been tampered with this morning.
“Just one.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“No. I’m not. I don’t remember doing any of this. How can I forget moving my car at the mall or turning on the teakettle? I could’ve burned down the house, for God’s sake.” Angel walks between her feet and so she pulls the cat food from the cabinet and adds more to the bowl, handing it to Grace to set on the floor. “Will I forget in ten minutes that I fed the cat? That I made the beds?” She sinks into a kitchen chair. Grace hooks the pail of shells on her arm and climbs into her lap.
George sits beside her. “We have to talk, sweetheart.”
“You know something. I’ve done something else, haven’t I?”
“No. You haven’t done any of this. That’s why we have to talk.” He takes Grace’s hand and winks at her, not wanting to upset her with his urgency. “Is Celia home?”
“I doubt it. She’s on deadline with a few houses to stage this week.”
George checks his watch. “Listen. I’ve got to stop at Dean’s place and see if he can open up the shop. Then I’m coming back here. In the meantime, get Grace dressed, have something to eat. Pull everything together for me. Can you do that?”
“I don’t think I’m liking this, George.”
He looks long at her, loving her to pieces, his heart breaking into as many. “Me either. Just trust me, please Amy. We’ll talk as soon as I get back.”
“But I’m going in to work this morning, so many gowns came in. Grace and Angel were coming too. Really, George, I just can’t—”
/> “You’ll go later. Lock up behind me and leave it locked.”
Amy sets Grace on the chair and follows him to the front door. When he steps outside, he turns back and kisses her quickly.
“George? Are Grace and I safe?”
He nods. A stalker moved closer to his victim right in step with George, right into her house after he spent the night. The game rules have been laid out. The closer George gets to Amy, the closer the stalker gets, too. “Lock the door, though.”
Amy closes the heavy wooden door. When he hears the deadbolt turn, he hurries off the front porch and around to the dining room window to right the screen before she has a chance to notice it. Try as he might, George finds no other cracks, nothing else out of place.
* * *
Amy dresses Grace in blue shorts and a flowered top, then puts two ponytails in her hair. Never before did she have to stop mid-ponytail and clasp one hand inside the other to stop the trembling. Will she turn around and find the television on or a faucet running, not remembering going through the motions? What’s next? Will she forget she dressed Grace and reach into her closet for another outfit?
“No, no,” she says as she slips a butterfly barrette in front of Grace’s ponytails. One day can’t keep taking pieces of voice, of memory, erasing everything in a different kind of kidnapping. Amy sits Grace and her green sand pail on the bed and slips her matching butterfly sandals on her small feet.
“There. You’re all dressed. You look so pretty, now I could never forget that,” she says while lifting Grace off the bed and standing her on the floor. “We’re twins today, wearing the same outfits.”
Grace lifts her beach pail and the seashells clatter as she pours them out onto her bed. Angel jumps up and walks slowly between clam and mollusk shells, whiskers stiff, eyes wide. She’s never smelled the sea before.
“George says we have to stick together, you and me.” Amy crouches beside Grace. “He must be pretty smart, because he knows I’ll always stay with you. Always, always.” She hooks a finger beneath Grace’s chin and lifts her face. Morning sunlight coming through the lace curtain touches wisps of her ponytails. “You know that, right? You always stay with Mommy. Even if Mommy is upset and you feel afraid. Do you know Mommy loves you?” She looks directly at Grace’s mouth, willing words to form. “Answer me, honey. Please,” she whispers. “Just a little bit. Do you know I love you? Say yes, Grace. Tell Mommy yes.” Her hands frame Grace’s face while her thumb strokes her lips. “Come on. Try to say it. Yesss. Hear Mommy make silly sounds?” Her thumb presses at Grace’s mouth. “Ssss. Like a sssilly sssnake.” Tears rise in Amy’s eyes as she wills her daughter to speak. One spills down her cheek and Grace’s eyes follow it. “Now Mommy’s crying tears. Tearsss.”
Grace lifts her finger to Amy’s mouth and touches it to her bottom teeth as Amy hisses. Amy tries to do the same to her, moving Grace’s bottom lip and touching her little pearl teeth. “Knock-knock.” She taps lightly on a tooth, waiting.
It doesn’t work. Nothing works. Grace turns to her scattered shells. Some are chipped, some still damp with the sea, most are sandy. The scent of tangy salt catches in their intricate whorls. After a second, Amy stands up and her hand moves to bless herself in one sudden, fluid motion.
* * *
When she walked onto the front porch holding Grace’s hand, he knew the sight of Celia would silence her. She’d figure if he went out of his way to find her friend at work staging some remodeled colonial or three-bedroom cape just to watch Grace for a while, things are bad.
George takes her hand after Celia and Grace leave and walks her to the backyard. “My mother called,” Amy tells him. Two dragonflies hover over the grass; a robin doesn’t stop toodling; the sky is hazy with the day’s heat; Amy walks barefoot in her denim shorts and a pretty tank top. So all should be easy, he thinks, just like this summer day. “She wants to visit in a couple of weeks.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” George says. He feels that perspiration has dampened his white shirt to his back.
“She still worries about me. First it was because I was widowed. Then when I decided to keep the house, she worried if I could take care of the property. Then after Grace was kidnapped, she worried about everything. She wanted me to move back home until they caught the men who, well, you know. I haven’t heard from Detective Hayes for a few days. Do you think he’s made progress with the investigation? If he had anything to report, I’m sure he’d call. I guess the more time goes by, the colder the trail gets. Sometimes I wonder if they’ll ever catch them. I think my mother wonders, too. That’s why she wants to spend time with me.”
“Amy.” They had walked to the tire swing the whole time Amy prattled on. She pushes the tire gently as though it holds her daughter.
“Grace is her only grandchild, you know. I really don’t mind indulging her.”
“Sweetheart,” George says quietly.
She turns to him with angry tears in her eyes. “Mom can help me in my boutique. I need to put out more summer dresses. I have a Starlight Special going on, for the summer evening weddings. Celia helped me decorate the shop for the sale, with twinkly lights everywhere. Just like stars.”
“Shh.” George sits in the shade beneath the tall maple and tugs her hand to sit, too.
“It’s not fair,” Amy says.
“What isn’t?”
“Do you know the signs that someone is emerging from grief? Well I’ll tell you.” She takes a quick breath. “First. Reinvesting in other people’s lives. Like I did in Grace’s.” She looks up at the blue sky, fighting back those tears. “That’s why I decided to keep this house alone, for her. What a beautiful home my daughter has. And having new dreams and goals, that’s a good sign. And I did, I reinvented my bridal shop with the vintage angle, decorating it with stars. Because what bride doesn’t go into a marriage full of wishes? But the strongest sign of emerging from grief?”
George waits for a quiet second. “Tell me.”
“I know that one, George. I reached it. Feeling a sense of joy with life. Coming out of grief feels like a budding spring that follows a long, nasty winter. Like a rose unfolding to the sun.”
“You’ll get there.”
“But I already did!” she insists. “I felt all those things. Every one of them. On the morning when I walked out of that bank … I had new goals, I was reinvesting in life and I felt so happy. Then a monster took it all away from me.”
“Amy, stop.”
“No. No, listen. Because then? Then I got it all back again.”
She looks straight ahead, down over the gentle sloping hill to her farmhouse. But George knows she isn’t seeing her small garden off to the side of the yard. She isn’t seeing the zinnias growing taller in front of the fence. She isn’t seeing the closed-up gown room with June sunshine reaching in its window, waiting for her to get back to the business of brides. Because the silent tears streaming down her face tell him that she knows. She knows his next words will change everything.
“I got it all back with you,” she explains. “This weekend. I was reinvesting in us.” She turns to him then, her eyes welling. “Last night, joy came spilling back into my life. I never thought I could trust again, but then? Then I trusted you. Did I tell you what a perfect night I had? That I’m so happy you came into my life? And you’re going to change that now, aren’t you? You’re going to scare me and take it all away. That’s how it goes. I take a baby step forward and life sends me a giant step way, way back, until I just can’t move anymore.”
George takes her hand. “Nothing’s going to change last night, do you understand? Nothing. We’ll get through this together. And it is scary, but it’s more dangerous for you not to know.”
“Dangerous?”
“I hoped it would blow over, that it was all just a prank. But when you called me this morning, I knew someone had been in your house when you were sleeping. It wasn’t a flashback, Amy. It wasn’t you who turned on the stove. And you did park y
our car in V-3 last week. I didn’t know until now what I should do with this.” He pulls the photograph from his shirt pocket. “When I saw you taking tranquilizers, I knew I had to tell you. You don’t need the pills, your mental health is fine, and you’re not blacking out and losing your memory. Grace is very safe with you. You’re a wonderful mother to her.”
“Then what is it?”
He looks at the picture of Amy crouched in the mall parking lot and hands it to her. “I think you’re being stalked.”
Nineteen
SOMEONE TOOK A PICTURE OF me that day?”
“Apparently. All the little things that you thought were memory lapses? They’re not. They’re stalking, Amy.”
She looks up from the photograph. “George, you’re scaring me. Are you sure about this? Because memory problems are a symptom of PTSD.”
George reaches over and traces a soft line around her face. The day is summer still, with only the buzz of cicadas and the call of a blue jay moving through the warmth. “Your memory’s fine. You’re a good mother to Grace.”
“But why would someone just take out Mark’s coffee cup, or leave my radio on? And the teakettle? I don’t get it.”
“It’s complicated. They seem like simple things, but they aren’t. Someone’s playing a serious mind game by trying to undermine your confidence. It’s not getting into your home that matters to them, it’s getting into your head.”
“Why though? What have I done?”
“Nothing, sweetheart. It’s got to all be connected to the heist, somehow.”
Amy studies the photograph again, then hands it back to George. “Do you really think that’s it?”
“I don’t know. If they’re setting things up to make it seem like Grace is in jeopardy in your care, then that throws you off the heist trail and on to something else. It takes the heat off.”
“Oh my God. I’ve got to tell Hayes.”
George folds up the photograph. “Let’s think this through, first.”
True Blend Page 17
