“Oh, my God! Is this Chanel?” I ask, feeling the expensive wool with my fingers.
She takes my hand in hers and squeezes it, and her eyes are brimming with love.
Love, for me.
“I can never thank you enough, Tamra. I was at my lowest when I came here, and you listened—”
“Oh stop, it was my job.” I try to take my hand back, I’m embarrassed, but she hangs on.
“No! You were there for me. You helped me far and above what you had to do. You gave me hope, and you introduced me to your lawyer friend—”
“That’s right, I remember. So it worked out, hey?” I say, wiping my tears with the back of my free hand.
“Yes. It worked out. And it’s all thanks to you.”
I pull my hand away, finally, and flap it in the air, dismissing her gratitude; I push it away as quickly as I can.
“So thank you, Tamra.” She pulls a clean handkerchief from her purse and hands it to me.
I blow my nose. “I hope you took him to the cleaners,” I chuckle.
“Hank? No. I didn’t want to do that, I just wanted to be the same, like I was before, that’s all. We had plenty of money. He didn’t need to hide it all away, there was enough to go around.”
“Huh, so it was the new wife.” I nod to myself.
“Hank says it was his lawyer who made him do it. He’s not a strong man. That nice lawyer you put me in touch with? He spoke to Hank, and they sorted it all out. Hank even says he’s relieved that I’m taken care of. Things are as they should be.”
It’s the nicest story I’ve heard in a long time, and it brings a fresh round of tears. She pats me on the arm and leans forward. “And they’re having a baby! Hank and his young wife.”
“Is that good?”
She winks at me. “I don’t think Hank will like it after all this time. He wasn’t terribly keen on changing diapers the first time around. But that’s up to them. Good luck to him, I say.”
“Wow, I’m so happy for you, Joan. I really am. I do like a happy ending. So what are you doing here?”
“I volunteer here, just like you! As of today, in fact! I want to help other women like you helped me.”
I can’t stop crying. I blow my nose into her handkerchief.
“Oh dear. What’s the matter with you? Why so upset?”
“You don’t read the papers?”
“Nah, I have no time for that. It’s always bad news. What did I miss?”
“Oh, not much, I could be arrested for murder, maybe.”
She slaps her palm on her lap. “You? Ha! I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life! Who’d you kill?”
“I didn’t kill anyone, but the police think I did.”
“Oh, dear.” She takes my hand again. Pat, pat. I don’t take it away anymore. Then she unclasps her purse again and for a moment I think she means to give me some money and I feel myself flush with embarrassment. But instead she pulls out a small business card.
“What’s this?”
“My name and number, that’s all. I’m making new friends these days. Your nice lawyer friend Mario suggested I get these printed. It’s a good idea, isn’t it? So much easier that way.”
After she’s gone, I sit a little longer on the bench. I don’t feel so bad anymore. There are some people who can do that—their good fortune makes you happy. It gives you hope. I turn the card between my fingers, I’m glad to have it. Call it a premonition, but I have a feeling I’ll need it. Meanwhile, I brush my tears away and tell myself to woman up. I still have one card up my sleeve and it’s time I used it.
* * *
This time, I don’t get invited into Frank’s (I think you can drop the Pastor now) office. Instead I am asked by Mrs. Lawson, who has worked here since forever and knows me well, to wait in the lobby. I wonder if he told her after my last visit not to take me to the office anymore. Or more likely it’s because she’s seen the article about me, like everyone else in Greensboro and beyond. Mrs. Lawson retreats out of the room without a smile or offers of refreshments, not even a glass of water. I wonder if I should ask for our twenty thousand bucks back.
I sit down and look towards the beautiful windows. There are three of them, side by side, rounded at the top, with the middle one being taller than the other two. They overlook the garden and it’s a charming view. Very relaxing in fact, which is just as well since I find myself waiting for forty minutes. I suspect Frank hopes I’ll tire of it and go away. He doesn’t know I have nowhere else to go.
When he does show up, he doesn’t even attempt to hide his annoyance. He gives me a brief smile and a curt “Tamra”, then he sits in the other blue armchair, on the other side of the console table, and crosses his legs.
“I’ve come for absolution,” I tell him.
The relief transforms his features, and his mouth makes a little ‘O’ of surprise. Then I burst out laughing.
“I was joking! Sorry! But you should see your face!”
He shakes his head, wants to say something but I wave my hand to stop him. “I’ve come to talk to you about this other article,” —and I emphasize the word other—“I assume you’ve seen it?”
If he was offended by my little outburst, he doesn’t let on. “What’s going on, Tamra? Who is behind this—campaign of sabotage against you and Mike?”
“Mike thinks maybe you are,” I tell him.
“That’s just completely ridiculous! What on earth gave him that idea?”
“Because you endorsed Brad King when all this time, Mike was under the impression he was your preferred candidate. Mike thinks you changed your mind because Brad King made you a better offer—” I rub my forefinger and thumb together, the universal gesture for money— “and you used your knowledge to switch allegiance while keeping your hands clean. Something like that.”
“I’m not responsible for your husband’s deeds, Tamra, but I can assure you that I did not talk to the press. That would have put me in a precarious position, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, I would. That’s why I’m here.”
I can see from the look on his face that he doesn’t like where this is going. I lean forward a little. “I don’t think your comments about me to the Tribune were terribly helpful. I mean, really? You’re actually suggesting I may have something to do with her death? And that I should confess my sins? By the way, Frank, I always wondered, are you bound by the seal of confession even if it’s murder?” then with a wink I add, “I’m asking for a friend.”
For some reason, that makes him blush. He wants to say something, but I wave him off. “I’ll stop fooling around. I really need your help, and that’s why I’m here. As you can see from this morning’s Tribune, I am well and truly in the cross hairs of the investigation into Charlene’s death.”
“I really don’t see how I can help, unless maybe you’d like a character reference? I could possibly—”
I want to tell him that if he keeps this up, he’ll be the one looking for character references. “Frank, the police know that I drove Charlene to the clinic—”
He rubs a hand over his eyes.
“But there’s no proof that I dropped her off. As far as the police are concerned, I took her straight to the place where she … was found! It’s not a big leap to conclude that I killed her. You see the problem?”
“What do you want me to do about it?” he asks.
“What do I want you to do about it? How about telling the truth, for once! It’s not me who should be going to confession, Pastor Frank.
I’m almost shouting now, half standing, I’m losing control. Frank is pushing back against his chair, both hands clasping the armrests.
“Did you kill her?” he asks. I guess from my behavior right now, he thinks I’m capable of it.
“No.”
His eyes flick to the door, which he has made sure is closed. Still, no doubt Mrs. Lawson will have heard me by now. I close my eyes, take a second. Then I lift my hands, palms facing out. “Sorry.”
“Look, I still don’t know what you want me to do.” His mouth is trembling a little.
“If Mike would confirm that she was pregnant, and that he asked me to take her to the clinic, and you thought that was a good idea, then at least it would show I’d have nothing to gain by killing this poor girl.”
“We’ve been over this before—”
“I don’t think so, I wasn’t about to be accused of murder back then. You have to convince him.”
“I told you last time and I’m telling you again. There’s nothing to be gained by bringing up the whole sordid mess.”
“Except it’s been brought up already, and I’m right in the middle of it.”
“Look, Tamra, you’re right, that I changed my mind about endorsing Mike. Not because of a better offer, but because the publicity surrounding his past sin is too much for our good folks. You don’t need to be a genius to know that. It’s very unfortunate. I would have loved Mike to come on this journey with us, but God had other plans, and here we are. But that is not to say that I want to see his life ruined.”
“What about me?” I ask.
“What about you?”
“What if I get arrested?”
“If you didn’t kill this poor girl, then you have nothing to fear. Stop worrying, please, Tamra. Everything will be fine. Just pray that they catch the man who did this.”
“Is praying going to help? Because otherwise, I will have to explain your involvement, Frank. You do see that, right? I’ll have to tell the truth.”
He lifts his eyebrows, just a little. Something shifts in the room, and in that moment, I know what he’s going to say.
“What truth, Tamra? These… issues between you and Mike, that’s between the two of you. I’ve had no involvement whatsoever beyond receiving Mike’s confession. And that, as you pointed out, is sacred.”
“You did tell him about the clinic, the very private clinic.” I make air quotes around the word.
“You must be joking. I have no knowledge of any clinic, and I certainly wouldn’t advise Mike or anyone to encourage a young woman to do such a thing. Quite the opposite. What do you take me for?”
I make a show of looking toward the door, as if to make sure it’s still closed, that there are no ears pointed our way, and very slowly, and softly, I say, “Frank, you must have forgotten, but you and I spoke at the time. It was your advice to Mike that I should be the one to take her there. You said it was best if Mike was not seen with her, even in the parking lot. That was the only way to guarantee anonymity. Those were your words.”
“Tamra, I think it’s you who must be mistaken. I have never had that conversation. Not with you, not with anyone.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lauren’s house is completely different from mine. I love my house, or I used to, back when I felt welcome there, but I love Lauren’s place too. Ours is a typical North Carolinian colonial house with a beautiful large porch where I love to sit and watch the sky turn red in the evening. Lauren’s house is this weird, French Tudor timbered thing with tall windows and a pointy slate roof. I always think of the Grimms’ fairy tales when it comes into view.
But inside, it’s all French country: flowery cushions on the fabric sofa, plush, colorful carpets and whitewashed timber walls. Just being here is like a vacation.
In the kitchen, I help myself to a Yadkin Valley Cab Sav and settle on a stool at the kitchen island. Her kitchen is all white cabinets and timber tops, over a floor of large black and white tiles, and I tell myself yet again how much I envy Lauren’s good taste.
I take my glass of wine and treat myself to a private tour. I know the downstairs areas really well; I’ve been here often enough, but I want to check out the rest of the house. I’m sure she won’t mind. If I thought she did, I wouldn’t do it. In the quiet gentleness of the house, I feel safe and I begin to relax. I take my shoes off and feel the softness of the carpet under my toes.
Their bedroom is just as I remember, from the couple of times I’ve been in here, all plush and white and honeyed floors. Just looking at their bed makes me want to draw the drapes, jump in between the sheets, and close my eyes.
I check out the huge master bathroom, with one of those bathtubs with curly feet and gold faucets, although probably not real gold, and the walk-in closet—ha! Mine is better organized and larger, but hers has natural light—and then I go up the last level of the house, to the attic.
I’ve left it for last because I’m sure it’s going to be the most exciting room in the house. God knows why I’m expecting a lush decor of Arabian nights and old trunks overflowing with treasures, and to say it’s a disappointment would be an understatement. It’s essentially a boring old attic with a carpet, an old, battered sofa, and a couple of storage boxes.
Back on the landing below, at the door of their bedroom, something tugs at my mind, and it takes me a few minutes to figure out what it is.
There’s nothing of Dwayne here.
I retrace my steps and I’m back in their bedroom. His walk-in closet is locked. Is that strange? Who has a lock on their walk-in closet? Is that where men hide their secrets? The equivalent of a woman’s lingerie drawer? Maybe I should have checked Mike’s before I left.
While I can’t check in there, there is nothing in the master bathroom that suggests Dwayne lives here. Not in the various cabinets, not the shelves, no grooming products that would belong to a man. The bedroom is more or less the same. It’s easy to see which side Lauren sleeps on because her bedside table overflows with magazines and hand moisturizers and a whole lot of other knickknacks, but Dwayne’s side has only a crumpled Kleenex and a couple of headache tablets.
I check the tall dresser, and it’s the same. There’s a framed photo of Lauren with her parents, but none of Dwayne. No matter where I look, I can’t see a single trace of him.
“Hello! I’m home!” she sings out from downstairs. I rush out of the room and remember that I left my glass of wine in her bathroom. When I grab it and rush out, a little of it spills on my fingers and then onto the beige carpet in the bedroom.
“Where are you?” she shouts.
“Coming down!” I shout back. I make my way down the stairs to meet her, trying to quiet the confusion that has taken hold of me.
“I’m sorry I’m so late, I meant to be back in time to cook something for dinner, but I got sidetracked at work.” Lauren slides two pizza boxes on the kitchen bar.
“Don’t apologize, this is great.” I grab a slice loaded with some kind of sausage and dripping with cheese. “You eat like this all the time?” I only ask because she’s like a gazelle, a size minus one, all legs and no hips.
“No, but one slice isn’t going to hurt, right?” she replies, nibbling at the edge of the crust. With her free hand she reaches behind her and retrieves a bottle of white wine from the fridge.
“Hey I was upstairs just now, checking out your room and I spilled just a teeny weeny little drop of red wine on your carpet. I mean, in my defense, who has light beige— what’s the matter?”
She’s gone pale. Her hand is still around the neck bottle, like she’s frozen.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. Sorry, everything’s fine.” But now she colors a little. She lifts the bottle in my direction in a silent question. “What about you? You’re feeling better? You’re okay?” she asks.
I shrug. “I wouldn’t say I’m okay, but you know, I’ll live.” I must have imagined the awkwardness. I’m still nursing my glass of red, but what the heck. I tip my head back and drain the rest of the contents before handing it over. “And don’t be shy, I’m self-medicating.”
We’re both silent for a minute, because we have manners and we don’t speak with a mouth full, basically, then without looking at me, she says, “Any news?”
I reach for a paper napkin and wipe my mouth. “Like what?”
“Like… the police? Have they been in touch?”
“No
t yet, but after that piece of tabloid trash this morning, I expect them any minute.” And I do. Every time I saw a squad car today, I was sure it was for me. I even hid behind a construction dumpster and fell over a homeless guy who was sleeping. I felt so bad waking him up, I gave him fifty bucks.
“What about Mike, have you spoken to him?” she asks.
“You must be joking.” I reach for my third slice of pizza. “What about Dwayne?” I ask, without looking at her.
She snaps her head up and stares at me. “What about him?” There’s something in her tone that tells me something is wrong here.
“Just wondering how he is, that’s all. I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“He’s fine. He’s good.”
“Okay. When is he coming back?”
“Next week, I think.”
“You think?”
“No I mean, I know, he’s coming back next week. How was the Center?” she says, changing the topic. “That’s where you were today, right?”
It annoys me that she won’t talk to me about what’s going on. I can feel something isn’t right, but as usual lately, Lauren just deflects.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, a little petulantly, because two can play that game.
“Oh, okay.”
“Can I have more wine?”
She obliges me and refills her own. “What are you going to do, Tamra?”
“I don’t know!” I snap. “How would I know? You don’t plan for things like this to happen. I don’t have an exit strategy, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m just waiting, going with the flow, I guess.”
“How’s that going to help?”
“I have no idea.”
“What does Mike think?”
I roll my eyes. “I just told you, I haven’t spoken to him.”
“Why not?”
I lean forward on my forearms. “Trust me, Mike is not my friend here, okay? There are things you don’t know.”
“So tell me.”
The Loyal Wife_A gripping psychological thriller with a twist Page 16
