Ideal Image: Snapshot, #2

by Freya Barker

  “They think they might know who Kevin is,” I tell him, making room for him at the coffee machine, where he refills his mug. He turns his head to look at me.

  “The guy? That guy?” He jerks his thumb in the direction of the dining room table.

  I quickly fill him in, and he agrees to stay close to keep an eye on Mak, while I deal with Becca.

  “Girls,” I say, walking up to them, setting the coffee in my hand on the table. “Put your pencils down for a sec, I have to talk to you.”

  I purposely don’t single Becca out right away, giving me a chance to rest my hand on the back of her neck first. Still she looks up at me warily.

  “Uncle Ben will be here shortly,” I start, but am immediately interrupted by an excited Mak.

  “Yay!” she cries out. “We’re going fishing!”

  Throughout Mak’s outburst, I watch Becca, who continues to keep her focus on me. It’s heart-wrenching to see the difference between the girls; Mak instantly jumping to the best possible conclusion, while Becca appears to be waiting for that other shoe she just knows is going to drop. It only makes me more determined that this girl’s life will get a whole lot better, if I have anything to do with it.

  “The sheriff, too. He has some pictures he wants to show you, sweets,” I address Becca directly. “He’s going to ask you if you know anyone in those pictures.” I crouch down by the side of her chair so I’m at eye level. “Becca, honey? Do you think you can do that?”

  “Is it like Where’s Waldo?” Mak pipes up, and I have to bite back a grin. She draws Becca’s attention, who lifts her gaze to her friend, and a little smile tugs at her mouth.

  “More like Memory, silly,” Becca returns, and the two of them burst out in little girl giggles I don’t understand, but am thrilled to hear.

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, Ben has Mak in the kitchen, the low mumble of their voices comfortable in the background. Henry is back outside doing whatever it is he does, and I’m sitting at the dining table, at a bit of a distance from Becca and Drew.

  Luckily she remembered Drew and seemed reasonably at ease with him, until I was about to leave. Then she looked at me with panic in her eyes. Something that Drew picked up on immediately and he indicated for me to stay. I purposely am not sitting too close, because I don’t want any reaction I might have to influence Becca.

  Drew pushes a button on the small voice recorder, puts it down on the table between him and the girl, and states the date, the location, and all three of our names. Then he turns toward Becca.

  “Just start flipping them over, honey,” he says, tapping his finger on the stack of upside down photos in front of her. “When you find someone you know, put them aside.”

  Very slowly, as if whoever is in the picture could jump out and grab her, Becca flips the first picture over. I make it a point not to look at the picture, but at her reaction. There is none for the first picture, or for the second, or even the third.

  All the blood literally drains from the little girl’s face when she flips over the fourth sheet and shoves the paper as far away from her as she can.

  “Becca?” Drew prompts her, carefully touching her arm. She flinches as if someone hit her, and keeps her eyes closed after that.

  “Honey?” I try, hoping to God I’m not responsible for scarring that poor thing even further.

  “Do I gotta look at the rest?” she asks in a shaky voice.

  “No, sweetheart,” I jump in before Drew has a chance to answer. “You don’t have to.” My eyes find Drew’s over her head.

  “You don’t,” he confirms. “But do you think you could tell me why you put picture number four aside?”

  I glare at him. Sure, I know he’s got a job to do and it’s in all of our best interest, but I really, really hate seeing that little girl trying to pull herself together. She slowly opens her eyes and looks directly at Drew.

  “’Cause that’s him,” she whispers.

  “That’s who, Becca?” Drew pushes some more, and I’m about to launch myself over the table when she answers in a much clearer voice.

  “Kevin. He hurt my momma.”

  The thick silent tears that run down her cheeks as she continues to look straight in Drew’s eyes almost rip my heart from my chest. I’m about to get up and go to her when I hear Ben call out.

  “Mak! Stay here!”

  “Can I see now?”

  My daughter, who was supposed to stay in the kitchen, is apparently tired of waiting and rushes over before Ben can grab hold of her.

  “Hey,” she says, staring at the picture on the table. “I know him. I’ve seen him before.”

  I’d been too preoccupied with Becca to even glance at the picture but now my eyes drop down.

  “You saw him? Where was that?” I hear Drew ask, as my eyes register the familiar face in the picture. Becca picked out the Kevin Borland I remember.

  “At the school,” Mak says, and suddenly I shoot up straight. “It was when Uncle Ben was at the school to pick me up, Mom. Remember?”

  “The day school was out early?” I ask her and she nods her head.

  The day of the bomb threat.

  DREW LEFT ALMOST RIGHT away, eager to hunt down his lead, and Ben and the girls had gone fishing.

  I wanted to keep them home, but Ben convinced me it would be much better to give them something normal and fun to do. I wasn’t too sure I was on board with his idea of fun, but the girls sure were.

  By the time Henry came in to start on dinner, something he refused to allow me to even attempt, I had all the laundry done, every sheet in the house washed, the two bathrooms scrubbed, and the floors mopped.

  “Christ, it smells like a laundromat in here,” he says, pulling what looks to me like random supplies from the fridge and cupboards and dumping them on the counter.

  “I did laundry,” I offer, adding as an afterthought, “And I cleaned.” He turns to look at me with an eyebrow raised.

  “No shit. Going a little stir crazy, are we?”

  “You have no idea,” I sigh dramatically, making him chuckle. “I’ll be so glad when this is over and I can start earning my keep again.”

  “I hear ya,” Henry commiserates, before handing me a bowl. “In the meantime though, I’m gonna teach you to cook.”

  I put the bowl down on the counter and back away, my hands raised defensively.

  “I appreciate the thought, but you’re not the first one to try. I’ve even taken classes, but I just don’t have the touch.”

  “Bullshit,” he spits out, picking up the bowl and shoving it in my midriff, so I have no choice but to grab hold. “You need talent to be a gourmet chef, which is what you’re lacking.”

  “Thanks,” I scoff, rolling my eyes.

  “Don’t give me that,” he warns me, but with a sparkle in his eyes. “You’ve been aiming too high. I’m not interested in turning you into a gourmet chef, but I’ll teach you to cook, because that just requires skill, and skills you can learn.”

  I’m covered in flour by the time the girls walk in, followed by my brother, carrying a tray.

  “I could kiss you,” I tell him, snatching the cup marked Stacie from the cardboard holder. “You went to Jen’s.” I take a long sip from the pure nectar Jen makes me.

  “We did,” Mak answers for him. “And we got hot chocolate with whipped cream.”

  “Before dinner?” Henry points out sternly. This time it’s Becca who pipes up.

  “Yup,” she says, smiling bigger than I’ve ever seen her smile. “Because we catched a fish.”

  “That so?” The old man makes a big show of searching around for said fish, making the girls giggle. “I don’t see it.”

  “We set it free,” Mak offers, making Ben chuckle with her choice of terminology. “Uncle Ben said it still had some growing to do.”

  “Good thing your mom made us a chicken pot pie then,” he says, smiling at Mak’s scrunched face.

  “Not so sure about that,” my brother adds to the mix. He’s
fast losing any goodwill the caramel macchiato bought him. “Looks like she’s wearing most of it.”

  In the end, he stayed for dinner and liked it. I figure it’ll take me a while to outlive the bad rap I gave myself over the years.

  Nick: I won’t make it home tonight. Couldn’t change tomorrow’s 2 pm flight to earlier.

  Miss you.

  I DIDN’T SEE THE MESSAGE until I slipped between the clean sheets on Nick’s bed, after tucking in the girls. I turned off the sound when Drew came by and never bothered turning it back on.

  One glance tells me I missed a few calls as well.

  I miss him too. I’ve been spoiled sharing a bed with him all this time and it feels empty now.

  Stacie: I miss you too. Sorry I missed your calls. Phone was off.

  Have much to tell you.

  Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. ILU

  It took a while for the response to come but when it did, it left a smile on my face as I drifted off to sleep.

  Nick: Tomorrow. With all my heart.

  CHAPTER 23

  Nick

  Amazing how time crawls when you have to wait to get where you want to be.

  It’s noon on Saturday, and for some reason, it’s an absolute zoo at Denver airport. I know I’m early, my flight doesn’t leave until two, but I had to be checked out of the hotel at eleven. I didn’t really want to go anywhere except home, so I came straight here.

  Marx had been pleasantly surprised when I ended up showing at the ballpark after all. That afternoon, I’d explained that although I really appreciated the gesture, I had some pressing issues at home to take care of and wanted to try and catch a flight that night. Of course that didn’t happen, since whatever flights were heading into Durango were already overbooked. Weekend commuters, the woman at United called them.

  I finally talked to Stacie this morning, when I couldn’t wait any longer to hear her voice, and ended up waking her. She didn’t seem to mind, though. Last night she’d messaged that she had a lot to tell me, and she wasn’t lying.

  Sounds like they had quite the day. She told me about Drew’s call and the photo lineup. I ground my teeth when she mentioned Becca’s distress, but Stacie was adamant that once it was done, the little girl seemed to have an extra bounce in her step. I sure as fuck hope so, or I’ll have a word with our good sheriff for springing that on her.

  Despite my concern, her sleepy rendition of Pops when she told me about the cooking lesson had me chuckling. She was dead on with her intonation. So by the time I reluctantly got off the phone, after promising her I’d be home soon, I was smiling.

  “BOARDING OF PREMIER Class passengers flying United Airlines flight 4584 at gate B81 will commence shortly. All other passengers please remain seated until your section is called.”

  I smile at the attendant when she scans my boarding pass, hands it back, and waves me through. Luckily, I have a single seat by the window, with no one beside me. I pull out my phone and turn it to airplane mode, before I lean back in my seat. Not a fan of casual airplane chats. I’d rather sit with my eyes closed, lost in my own thoughts, and those travel inevitably to the girls.

  Even last night, while enjoying a couple of beers and some appetizers in a glitzy private box, all I could think about was how the girls would really get a kick out of that. I even mentioned it out loud to Marx, who smiled and told me to call him anytime I wanted to bring them to Denver and take in a game.

  “Newspaper?”

  I open my eyes to find the flight attendant standing beside me with the Denver Post in her hand. Smarter this time around, I gratefully accept and fold it over my lap, just in case. Leaning my head back and closing my eyes, I let my thoughts drift back to Stacie, the sound of her sexy, raspy, sleep-tainted voice this morning, and how I can’t wait to be home to wake up to that tomorrow morning.

  “Business or pleasure?”

  The woman seated on the other side leans slightly into the aisle. Her gaze is open, friendly, and definitely interested. I wonder what it is she sees.

  “Business,” I answer politely.

  “Are you staying in town?” she asks, and I realize she thinks my business is in Durango.

  “Actually, my business was in Denver. I’m heading home.”

  “Oh? Lovely place, Durango. One of my boutiques is on Main and Eighth, just a block from the Strater Hotel, so I’m there often,” she says, a small suggestive smile on her carefully painted lips.

  The woman is probably in her late thirties and well put together. If I wasn’t already living my dream, I might have considered taking her up on what she was offering. It’s the kind of uncomplicated, no-ties encounter I used to prefer. Interestingly enough, everything about Stacie has been complicated from the get-go, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

  “Actually, I just fly in to Durango, I don’t actually live there,” I explain, trying not to be too obvious with my rejection, but I’m clearly still too obtuse.

  “I hear it’s beautiful,” she says, reaching out semi-casually to brush my sleeve with her long fingers. “I’ve always wanted to explore but haven’t had the chance. Perhaps you could tell me what places I should visit—over a drink at the Strater?”

  Bold. I clearly have to shut this down.

  “Nice hotel. Was there not too long ago with my girls for a charity gala.”

  She doesn’t need to know that we barely knew each other then.

  “Your girls?” she echoes, pulling her hand back as if it is burned.

  “Makenna is nine.”

  I’m well aware that I am purposely misleading her, but I haven’t lied. Plus, it seems to do the trick. She sits back in her seat and pretty soon is engaged in conversation with someone on her other side.

  I lean my head back again and close my eyes, letting my mind drift. I do think of them as my girls, even if they aren’t. Not yet anyway, but I’m going to change that.

  Soon.

  IT’S WELL AFTER THREE by the time we land. I pull my phone from the pouch on the back of the seat in front of me and tuck it in my pocket, grab my bag from the overhead compartment, and rush off the plane.

  Durango is one of those airports where you literally walk from the plane to the terminal over the tarmac, and my long legs are eating up the distance. I’m eager to get home and I walk right through the terminal, straight out the other side to the parking lot.

  My father’s car is exactly where I left it. Made more sense to leave the truck at home for him to use. I climb behind the wheel and figure I’ll make it home by five, hopefully in time for dinner.

  Stacie mentioned this morning that Pops taught her to make chicken pot pie last night. Today they had plans to process some of the apples weighing down the fruit trees along the driveway. Pops makes apple jelly, apple chutney, apple pie, and fresh applesauce every year. The cold storage in the basement holds years’ worth of canning, and still every year he adds.

  The pies and applesauce never last, though. He tries to freeze some, but inevitably by the time we leave Christmas behind, the last of the pies and applesauce are gone.

  I’m hoping whatever is for dinner—it comes with apple pie for dessert.

  STACIE

  “What did you do?”

  I take one look at Henry, stumbling in the backdoor, and drop the towel I was drying dishes with, rushing to his side. I help him over to a kitchen chair, where he sits down heavily.

  “Well?” I push, because he hasn’t answered me yet.

  “It’s nothing,” the stubborn old coot bites off, but I clearly saw him wince every time he put weight on his right foot.

  “Bullocks, it’s nothing,” I fire back, kneeling down and carefully pulling off his boot.

  “Doggone it. Son of a pup!” His yelp brings the girls running from the living room, where they’d been watching Saturday cartoons.

  “What happened?” Becca asks sweetly.

  Henry looks up at her and the grimace he was wearing instantly smoothes out.

>   “Just twisted my ankle, little one. Saw the prettiest apple on a top branch and reached a little too far. Toppled that stepladder right over.”

  “You went apple picking without us?” Mak accuses, less concerned about his injury than she was about his perceived betrayal. “You said we could help.”

  Letting Henry deal with the girls is a great distraction, I have his boot and sock off with only one dirty glare in my direction.

  “That may need an X-ray,” I point out. His ankle is already swelling and turning color.

  “No way. In my almost eighty years, I’ve had enough sprains to know that’s just what this is. Don’t need no expensive tests to tell me that. Ice and elevation, that’s all I need,” he grumbles.

  I don’t bother arguing, knowing it would be a moot point. Instead I decide to wait for Nick to come home, so he can try and strong-arm his father.

  With the girls’ help, I get Henry settled on the couch, his foot on a throw pillow on the coffee table. Mak shoves the remote in his hand.

  “We were done watching anyway,” she says magnanimously, and in the brief moment where my eyes meet Henry’s over Mak’s head, I see humor light his eyes.

  “I’ll get the ice,” I announce, leaving him in the care of the girls.

  In the kitchen, I wrap a bag of frozen corn in a tea towel and glance out the window. The ladder is lying sideways, partially in the driveway, not too far from the house, the abandoned bushel basket still by the tree.

  In the living room, Henry has found something to watch and only hisses lightly when I put the ice pack on his ankle.

  “Is it hurting? Can I get you some ibuprofen?” I offer him quietly, but he declines with a sharp shake and a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “That won’t do a damn thing,” he gripes. “Medicine cabinet in my bathroom. Bring me the prescription bottle.”

  “Sure thing.”

  There’s only one prescription bottle in his cabinet and I check the label. Percocet. The date of issue on the label is eight months ago, and there’s only two tablets left, so I figure it can do no harm.