True Blend

by DeMaio, Joanne

  Amy looks over her shoulder toward the window. “I don’t know. There’s nowhere to sit at the swing. But it’ll be nice and cool beneath the tree.”

  “We can bring a blanket.”

  “Maybe. You’re not tired of pushing her in the swing?”

  “No.” Ellen takes the cone Amy holds out.

  “We could sit on the Adirondack chairs on the patio if you want.” Amy starts to fill a second cone. In between scoops, she samples a spoonful loaded with chunks of cookie dough.

  “That would be fine, too. Whatever you want to do.”

  The cone in her hand cracks as she presses in more ice cream. Amy furrows her brow and digs in for another scoop. “We could bring the lawn chairs out to the swing. I don’t know, though, because Grace likes to sit on the blanket with Angel and Bear.”

  “Well, Amy. Where do you want to have the ice cream?”

  “I can’t decide. Okay?” She presses the scoop on top of the loaded cone and it splits open in her hand, blossoming like the petals of a flower. “God damn it.”

  Ellen sets her cone in the sink and grabs a handful of paper towels. “What do you mean you can’t decide?” She leans past Amy and swipes up the mess, dumping it in the sink and returning with a damp cloth to wipe the table. “You can’t decide where to sit?”

  “That’s right, okay? Look what happens when I make decisions. I almost killed you, Mom.”

  Ellen stops wiping and sits beside her. “I know.”

  Every conversation they had today wound its way back to her holding a loaded gun on her mother. Amy holds up her hand in front of her face. “I couldn’t force my finger to shake right now, the way it did yesterday, even if I wanted to. I was at the mercy of my nerves. Control is such an illusion.”

  “No it isn’t. Don’t ever believe that. I’m still here, aren’t I? You have more control than you realize. So don’t be afraid to trust yourself and just live, Amy. And always remember that sometimes … How does that saying go?”

  “What saying?”

  “I saw it on a bumper sticker. Shit happens?”

  “Mom.” Amy stares at her mother. “Your language.”

  “Well sugar happens doesn’t quite say the same thing.”

  “Mom.” Amy pauses, then whispers, “Seriously.”

  “What?”

  She gets up and goes to the kitchen window, looking out at the yard. “I get so afraid sometimes.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of what’s happening. It’s like that armored truck came right at me and knocked me off my feet. My life’s unraveling. This isn’t me, this worried, indecisive woman. I can’t focus anymore, I’m nervous, I’m losing sleep.”

  Ellen finishes wiping the ice cream off the blue table without comment. “Where’s George?” She comes up behind Amy at the window.

  “George? What’s George got to do with this?”

  They both look out at the yard, Amy leaning her hands on the countertop, Ellen holding soggy paper towels. “Maybe everything.” Amy throws her a glance. “Come on, dear,” Ellen explains. “It’s been almost two months since that day at the bank. Grace is talking again, the police are still investigating the crime. You’ve got new deadbolts, a gun, a self-defense class and therapy. I’m staying as long as I can so you’re not alone with the stalking issue. You’ve gotten back to your bridal shop, part-time. You’re handling the effects of the kidnapping just fine. Better than fine.” She steps beside Amy, watching her face. “Maybe something else is careening right at you. Maybe someone is knocking you off your feet.”

  “George?”

  Ellen raises an eyebrow.

  Amy turns around, leaning against the sink. “He wanted me to have time alone with you. Which I almost effectively ended, I might add. I still don’t want to believe it, Mom. But I can’t get it out of my head. What if I pulled that trigger? I came so close.”

  “You’re changing the subject. Why don’t you call him?”

  Amy sits at the table again, lightly touching a petal of the pink rose. “He’s got a Chamber of Commerce meeting tonight.”

  Ellen watches her for a moment. “You miss him.”

  “He’s the best thing that’s come out of all this. It’s so strange to think that if that horrible morning hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t know him. I can’t even imagine that.” Angel jumps onto the kitchen table and sniffs at the ice cream. A melting dot clings to one of her whiskers, drooping it down. “I’ll see him tomorrow. He’s coming over for dinner.”

  “But call him later.”

  “Why the sudden interest?” Amy asks while lifting the cat off the table.

  “Listen,” Ellen begins. “It took a whole year for you to get back on your feet after Mark died. Then, you’re right, another terrible day came through your life. But when the dust finally settled, who was left there? George.”

  Amy watches her mother, waiting for her to finish the thought she knows is coming.

  “The kidnapping is behind you, but you’re telling me you’re afraid of what’s happening.”

  “So?”

  “Maybe it’s a man you’re afraid of.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re saying my falling apart isn’t post-traumatic stress?”

  “Not anymore.” Ellen looks straight into her eyes. “You’ve got that ordeal under control. I think you’re afraid of what’s next.”

  “Afraid? Of George?”

  “No, of course not. But of loving him.” An easy smile comes to her face. “Being unable to decide where to eat your ice cream is not post-trauma stuff. It’s jitters, dear. Because I believe you’ve gone and fallen in love.”

  Twenty-five

  MRS. TREWIST, PLEASE HAVE A seat,” Detective Hayes says as he leads her through his office door. “Can I get you a coffee? Water?”

  “No, thank you.” Amy sets her straw tote on the floor beside the chair. The office is cramped and the detective seems to fill all the space. A computer monitor hums on his desk, ringing telephones and muffled voices leach in through the closed door.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks as he pulls in his chair. “Any more stalking incidents?”

  She tells him about the porch light. “So was it stalking or just a fickle light bulb? Either way, it scared me just the same.”

  “I understand. We’ll definitely keep the patrols coming around.”

  “And I really appreciate it.” She presses a wrinkle from her black tank dress and folds her hands in her lap. “But the reason I’m here is that I haven’t heard anything about the investigation and I wanted to touch base.”

  “Of course,” Hayes answers, pulling a thick manila folder from his desk drawer. He opens it flat in front of him. “Let’s look at the developments and see where we’re going with this.”

  Words, words, words. Nothing to hold on to, to clench, to celebrate. To quell her fear. He reviews the psychological profiles, explains how they tracked George’s movements that day in an effort to duplicate the perpetrators’ trail, how no suspects could be deciphered on the casino surveillance videos, how the fingerprints on Grace’s shoe have been definitively identified as hers and George’s.

  “George did rescue Grace at Litner’s Market,” Hayes adds. “And from the few prints lifted, we could only match yours and his.” He folds his hands over the open folder and looks at her. “A few leads also came in when the updates made the headlines. Our next move is to up the reward money.”

  “Money talks?”

  “It’s amazing how much. We’re also cross-referencing the evidence with similar crimes nationwide to flesh out our leads.”

  “But what you’re telling me is that right now, you have nothing.”

  “No. We do. But only up to a point. Then everything seems to drop off the map.”

  “Great.”

  “Seems to, Amy. Trails don’t evaporate like that. We just haven’t sniffed it out yet. I know it’s discouraging, but keep in mind that there is good to be found here. In many crimes of this nature, so
me sort of critical injury is inflicted. We’re thankful that you and your daughter, as well as the armored truck employees, came out of it unscathed.”

  Amy stands and walks to the window. Waves of heat rise from the street outside. “Have you seen Grace’s medical records? Would you like to see the therapy appointments blocked off on my calendar? Or how about my prescription tranquilizers? And what about flashbacks, Detective? Have you ever had one and nearly fainted afterward? Have you?”

  Hayes shakes his head. “No, I haven’t, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that you haven’t suffered. I just meant that no guns were fired. I meant you’re all lucky to be alive, and I’m not just saying that. You really are.”

  Amy takes her seat with a deep breath, scanning the papers in the folder. “Listen. I brought my sketch pad.” She leans over for her tote and pulls it out. “I’ve been coming back again and again to the one incident when Grace lost her shoe.”

  The detective opens the pad to the latest sketches.

  “I’m not sure why, but there’s something about that part of the ordeal I seem to be missing and my mind won’t let go of it. Most of my flashbacks center around it.” She points out the last two sketches, the curve of the cross-hatched hand covering hers, the shadow of a scar, the gritty pavement penciled beneath. “Something’s missing, I just know it. Some detail that I feel could help the investigation.”

  “The details in these are very astute, especially the gun sketches, and as accurate as could be expected, so I’m not sure what it might be. Something with his hand, maybe? Or a detail on his sleeve?” When he glances at her, she shrugs in frustration. “Well definitely let me know if it comes to you.” He slides the pad back her way. “I’m expecting an update from the FBI. We do this weekly conference call thing. I’m sure they’ll have something more.”

  It must be hard to admit that all your efforts are ineffective. That your professional training, your investigative techniques, your psychological analyses, they all come up empty. That the evidence, the vehicles, the fingerprints, the eyewitnesses, the victims, they all amount to nothing unless you put a spin on it. These thieves are smooth. Amy reaches into her tote and pulls out a candy wrapper. “I was moving the outfit Grace wore when they kidnapped her and found this in her jeans’ pocket.” She hands him a green plastic wrapper covered by white snowflakes, knowing full well it once covered a chocolate truffle, the same chocolates George carries in his shop. “Is it possible that the men who did this are local?”

  Hayes takes the wrapper. “Doubtful.”

  “But I see this type of chocolate in different shops around town.” Could the kidnappers have bought some while George wrapped two pounds of pork chops for them, Sinatra crooning on the stereo? “I know it’s only a candy wrapper, but can’t this mean there’s a chance they’re from around here?”

  Hayes toys with the paper wrapper, turning it over. “If they were, their absence would be noted. See, they wouldn’t be expected to stick around with that type of bankroll. They’d hit the islands or set up brand new lives somewhere else. Family members, employers, neighbors, someone would notice their sudden absence. It’s more likely that they were pros moving in and out of the area just for the duration.”

  * * *

  Still, Amy can’t help but wonder. In the grocery store, she watches the produce stocker with renewed interest. What did a man who spends his Tuesday afternoon stacking hundreds of one-pound bags of carrots, being careful not to start a carrot landslide, have to lose? Isn’t picking bruised peaches from a summer display shelf, or sweeping spilled blueberries off the floor, enough motivation to consider another way?

  She pushes her cart through the aisles, half watching the other shoppers while she looks at the stocked shelves. Someone has to stack all these cans of tomato paste. Every day. Or at least rearrange them, pulling the inventory forward, turning dented cans. She sets four cans in her cart, along with a large can of whole peeled tomatoes. Who notices when it is time to reorder the paste? When inventories are low? Is tracking cans of tomato paste enough to push someone over the edge? Will it drive that person to hold a kidnapped child hostage? How much resentment leads to showing a forty-five to keep the mother back? What makes it worth it?

  A shopper leaves his carriage smack in the middle of the aisle as he studies the mayonnaise. He looks old enough to have grown children entering college, his mortgage only half paid off, his house needing a new roof, his car three years old already. What is he? An electrician, maybe? An accountant? Did he sit in his den at night, papers spread over the coffee table, carefully planning a May morning outside the local bank? A bank with which he is familiar because it holds his accounts? Did his neighbor, maybe a state employee, help with visions of a new driveway, new vinyl siding on his Garrison colonial? Then the two families could take a week at Disney World?

  “Excuse me,” she says, waiting to pass.

  “Oh. Sorry,” he answers, barely moving the carriage out of her way.

  Amy winds around to the specialty cheese case. She picks a chunk of Parmesan and adds it to her carriage. Her heart pounds as she turns to the registers.

  Shoppers’ faces loom close, their features distort. Has the kidnapper been in her midst all along, blending right in? What better cover than normal routine? She checks her gold watch and bumps a rack of sale toothpaste, knocking half a dozen boxes to the floor to disguise her panic. No one needs to know that she has to bend over just to catch a breath, bending her head to her knees to merely breathe.

  * * *

  “Amy. What’s wrong?” George asks.

  Does he mean besides rising with the sun, hanging two gowns on the clothesline before going in to work to revamp her tired window display? Besides suspecting the poor produce guy of kidnapping Grace? Besides pressing Hayes for answers? Besides wondering if George actually spoke with the perpetrators in his shop? Besides holding at arm’s length, all day, her mother’s words? You’re afraid of what’s next. Of love. Amy stands at George’s door. Is that what this is all about, that she’s afraid of love? All day, her body resisted the idea, running any which way it could until there was nowhere left to go. There is only here.

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  George steps outside into the sunshine and takes the grocery bags from her arms. “I just wasn’t expecting you. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes.” She looks at this man who worries about her. At his dark hair still damp from showering after work. At the casualness of a pair of jeans, black tee and brown leather running shoes. At the heavy watch on his wrist and at the jaw that hasn’t been shaved. At anything but the eyes that love her. “No. Well, I don’t know.”

  George tips his head down, trying to catch her eye. “Is it Grace?”

  “No. No, she’s fine. She’s home with my mom.” She takes a quick breath. “George. Would you mind if we had dinner here tonight?”

  “Here? You and me?” He shifts the bags to one arm and lifts her chin up.

  “I brought some food.”

  “By all means.” He holds the door open and she feels a rush of cool air-conditioned air pressing outside into the heat. “Come on in.”

  She’s never been in his home before. If her mother saw her hesitate, she’d say There! See how you did that? You’re holding back. She shakes her head, wondering if all women have these silent talks with absent mothers, and follows George into the kitchen. He sets the bags on the dark granite counter and she moves beside him, carefully pulling out lettuce, tomatoes, carrots and cucumber. Control is what it is all about. Yes. Controlling everything except what stands beside her.

  “We should probably get this started,” she says without looking at him. “The sauce will have to simmer. Can I just use the phone to call my mom first?”

  George motions to the cordless. “Go ahead.” He steps out of the room while she talks. Afterward he sets a large pot on the stainless steel stove, pulls olive oil and spices from the cabinet and opens two cans of paste while Amy chops the
sauce tomatoes. She feels him working close beside her, handing her a sharp knife, their fingers touching in the exchange, their words quiet. All the while, he watches her.

  “What did you do today?” he asks. He rinsed and shredded the lettuce and reaches over for her knife.

  “Not too much.” Beside her, his arm rhythmically slices tomatoes for the salad. “Worked with my gowns this morning, changed the mannequin displays, added flowers and summer decorations to the window. You know.” She pours olive oil in the pot and fusses with the sauce, adding garlic, stirring in water and adjusting the flame. “Ran errands this afternoon and my feet are killing me now.” She slips off her wedge sandals and turns then to the salad ingredients, shaving carrots and slicing cucumber, dropping the pieces into the wooden salad bowl George already filled with lettuce. With that done, she reaches for the chunk of Parmesan.

  “Do you have a grater?” she asks, waiting for a moment before closing her eyes when there is no response, when she has to admit he’d left the kitchen. Every nerve ending senses his absence. Eventually she turns and walks barefoot out of the room, seeing for the first time his home. It is all a part of him: the sloppy pile of books on the coffee table, the painting of a thoroughbred horse, a sweatshirt tossed on the dark furniture. This is all new, her eyes touching upon small details.

  She sees him before he sees her. Or at least before he acknowledges her. He sits alone at his dining room table. The leaf is still in place since his last poker game with the guys, but instead of poker chips and cards and ashtrays and liquor glasses covering the tabletop, a calculator and neat piles of invoices and quarterly statements from his shop take their place. An empty coffee cup sits amidst it. She sees scraps of his life when she keeps her eyes from his.

  George sits at the far end of the table beside the sliding glass door, looking out at the warm summer evening, a half-full wine glass before him, the bottle of Chianti beside it. Behind him, there is the large living room, a stone fireplace on the far wall.

  A lone bird still sings outside and a mourning dove perches on the edge of a birdbath, burying its beak in the clear water before tipping its head skyward. George watches it flap off in a flurry and its sudden flight seems to release him. He lifts the wine bottle and fills another glass, for her.