On Blue Falls Pond

by Susan Crandall

  Eric immersed himself in appreciating the moment. Scott was being relatively cooperative, Tula was beaming in her sunglasses, the food was excellent and the weather agreeable. The only fly in the ointment was Glory’s distant reserve. And that actually had benefits of its own. No small talk, no unpleasant subjects.

  Tula had made Scott the only food he was currently eating: a peanut butter and banana sandwich, white bread, crust trimmed, cut into four perfect triangles. It was served on a paper napkin, not a plate. The napkin had to be square with the edge of the table. His Sippy Cup of milk positioned just off the upper-right-hand corner of the napkin. Any variation of this resulted in refusal to eat and a crying fit that took an hour to abate.

  Since the divorce, Eric’s life had been a steady, monotonous grind of work and worry—and Scott wasn’t the only cause for the latter. Eric really looked forward to Thursday nights with Tula. He glanced at Glory over his iced tea glass. Her reappearance was forcing him to think about things he’d kicked under the bed eighteen months ago. Things his conscience would rather not reexamine.

  Trying to sound offhand, he asked, “So, Glory, are you back here for good?” He took another bite of fried chicken to emphasize the casual nature of the question.

  Glory’s gaze cut to Tula. “Yes.”

  The look the two women exchanged—even with Tula wearing sunglasses—made Eric suddenly feel as if he were balancing on a beehive.

  Tula huffed. “Glory’s got the notion in her head that I shouldn’t live alone.” Her lips pressed together the way she did when she was particularly peeved. “I shouldn’t have call—”

  “I was coming home anyway.” Although the retort was quick, the tone in Glory’s voice was less than convincing.

  “Bullhonkey! Don’t think you can fool me, missy. You had no ideas a’tall about comin’ back here ’til I called you.” Tula was bristling now. “I won’t have it. I’m fine. And if the day comes that I ain’t—I won’t be having you come home and babysit me!”

  Glory’s back visibly stiffened. She drew herself up for the fight, just the way he’d seen Tula do more times than he could count.

  “I told you that I’d been thinking about leaving St. Paul. The winter—”

  “Had nothin’ to do with you comin’ back here. You explained it all to me afore you left—you cain’t live here now.” She paused and appeared to rein in her temper. “I was just scairt is all. Jumped the gun; shoulda waited. Ever’thing is fine; my eyes ain’t no worse than before.”

  Eric shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t need to worry about Glory thinking his question held ulterior motives with all of this going on. Still, he felt responsible for the confrontation. He chanced a comment. “I’ve been reading up on MD; Tula could get along fine indefinitely. It might not progress.”

  The fiery look Glory shot him could have melted a hole in plastic. Lucky for him he was made of steel. He said, “I’m just saying there’s no need to get worked up over this right now.”

  “And I’m saying that’s not why I came back,” Glory directed more toward him than Tula. “I’m here because it’s time to come home.”

  Time to come home? The haunted look in Glory’s eyes and her nervous posture said otherwise.

  And Eric was afraid he just might know why.

  Eric shot further holes in Glory’s assumption that he was taking advantage of her grandmother when he got up from the table and started doing the dishes. He settled Scott in the kitchen with his plastic ship and filled the sink with water; Granny didn’t own a dishwasher.

  Glory was further astounded when Granny made herself a cup of tea, leaving the dirty kitchen to Eric.

  She paused and smiled at Glory. “It’s our way; I cook, he scrubs.”

  After a moment, Glory said, “Since I didn’t cook, guess I clean too.”

  “Reckon that’s fair. Eric could use the help. He doesn’t get another beer until he’s finished, and it’s hotter ’n blazes in here.” She took her cup and headed toward her front porch swing. “Got to hurry or I’ll miss the fireflies comin’ up out of the grass.”

  “You two have quite the routine.” Glory was slightly ashamed of the jealous edge in her voice. Luckily, Granny didn’t seem to notice and kept going. But, out of the corner of her eye, Glory caught Eric pause as he scraped chicken bones into the trash and look at her.

  She ignored him, pulling a ponytail holder from her pocket and tying her hair up off her neck. Without another word to him, she shuttled the rest of the dirty dishes in from the backyard.

  By the time she was folding the tablecloth, he had a stack of dishes ready to be dried. She picked up a towel. “You do pretty good work for a man.”

  He looked at her and raised a brow. “A fireman. Lots of downtime at the station.” He tilted his head from side to side as he listed, “We cook. We clean. We polish.”

  She completed his unfinished accounting. “You rescue cats from trees. Clean up toxic spills. Administer lifesaving measures at accident scenes.” She paused, then added softly, “Carry women out of burning buildings.”

  At that his hands stilled in the water, but he didn’t look at her again. “All in a day’s work,” he said, with what sounded like forced lightheartedness.

  “Was it?”

  “Was it what?” Now he turned to face her, his eyes holding her motionless as her heart raced.

  “Just another day at work?” She bit her lip but held his gaze, unsure why she was pursuing this at all. Maybe it had something to do with the odd way he had looked at her as she and Granny had argued over her returning to Dawson. It hadn’t been pity in his gaze—she’d seen enough of that to identify easily. He seemed to be . . . speculating. She couldn’t shake the notion that something was on his mind. “I mean, in a town this size, stuff like that doesn’t happen every day.”

  He simply looked at her with an unreadable expression for a long moment—long enough that she thought he wasn’t going to answer. And as she looked into his eyes, eyes the shade of fine aged bourbon, she felt herself leaning slightly toward him, as if coaxing his response. Suddenly she needed to know. Had the destruction of her life been just another day on the job? It seemed impossible the same event that was so significant in her life could be ordinary to others who had been drawn into it.

  Finally, he said, “No. That night still haunts me.”

  His admission snatched Glory’s breath away. Not only by what he said, but by the way he said it. It was as if he too suffered nightmares and dark hours filled with doubt.

  Just as she overcame her surprise and opened her mouth to ask why, he closed the subject by returning his focus to the dishwater. “You’d better get busy with that towel. You’re way behind.”

  Chapter Five

  FRIDAY MORNING GLORY was awake before the sun but lingered in bed, contemplating how she wanted to attack the day. Suddenly she realized that was the way she had begun to think of each and every day, as if she were embarking on a carefully planned military maneuver. Instead of outflanking an enemy, she worked to avoid anything that reminded her of what she had lost.

  She was analyzing that realization when she heard a car roll to a stop in front of the house. She glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even six-thirty yet. A short time later she heard the kitchen door open and close, then Eric’s unmistakable voice speaking to her grandmother. There was something infinitely comforting about the timbre of his voice as it sifted through the floor and echoed through the ductwork.

  There was another thing she was going to have to deal with, she thought. Eric. They had been friendly acquaintances before she left Dawson. But now every time she looked at him, it was impossible to separate him from the night of the fire. And it was definitely going to be difficult to arrange her daily battle plan in a way that their paths didn’t cross.

  Now that she’d come home, she was going to have to revise her thinking. She couldn’t avoid everything that provoked feelings of loss. She was going to have to find a way to face the town with
an eye toward the future.

  Well, she didn’t have to start this morning. She curled deep into her covers, pulling them over her head.

  She chastised herself for behaving like a reluctant child. Still, she didn’t get out of bed until she heard the back door open and close and Eric’s car start.

  To avoid the appearance that she had just been waiting to hear him leave, she took a long shower and got dressed before she went downstairs. When she entered the kitchen, Granny was reading to Scott. She sat on the floor across from him, not holding him in her lap as she’d done with Glory and all of the other grandchildren.

  Scott didn’t seem to be paying any attention to her as she changed the pitch of her voice to imitate the different characters and gestured with her hands to show a bird’s flight.

  She looked up. “’Mornin’, Glory.”

  Pap had always said that to Glory at every opportunity, always with a chuckle. After he died, Granny had taken up the greeting.

  “’Morning, Gran.” Glory helped herself to coffee and toast, skirting widely around the little boy. Again she thought there must be something fundamentally wrong with her. Before the fire, she would have been on the floor herself, playing with any young child. Children and animals—she’d never been able to resist either one. But for some reason she felt as if she and this boy were two negatively charged particles, the very force of their being insisting upon not occupying the same space.

  “What do you think the three of us should do today?” Granny asked brightly. “Scott normally goes to school on Friday mornings, but he’s got today off.”

  Glory shot a glance at the little boy over the rim of her coffee mug and mentally scrambled for an out. “Actually”—she set the mug down and fiddled with her coffee spoon—“I thought I’d drive into town today.”

  Granny looked surprised. “Why not wait ’til tomorrow, and I’ll go, too. I got some shopping to do.”

  “Make me a list; I’ll be glad to pick things up for you.”

  After a pause, Granny said, “You sure you want to go alone?” Her tone was filled with unformed questions: What if you panic like you did when you saw Eric? What if you REMEMBER?

  “Yes . . . I think I am.” And she was surprised to realize it was the truth. Perhaps it was because if she did fall into a million pieces, she could sit alone in her car until it passed and not have to worry about the reaction of those who would be spectators. After her reaction to Eric that first moment, she knew she didn’t want to have witnesses to what could very well be so much worse.

  Granny laid down the book and came to sit at the table. She grasped Glory’s hands. “I’d feel better if I was with you.”

  “I’ll be all right, Gran.” She squeezed Granny’s hands. “I probably won’t even go . . . there. Not yet anyway.” Maybe not ever.

  “I don’t like it.” She got up and grabbed a pencil and paper from next to the phone. “Here’s Eric’s number. He’ll be at the firehouse—close by. Promise me you’ll call him if you—”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s been a long time—”

  “Promise me!” She held the slip of paper so tightly it trembled in her hand.

  “Okay.” Glory had never seen Granny so adamant. “Okay, I promise.”

  Tula watched Glory’s Volvo disappear around the curve in the lane. A lump of worry sat in the pit of her stomach. There was so much that Glory hadn’t faced. So much in her past that she’d hidden away from herself. So much talk after she left—talk Glory knew nothing about. People called her “the rich widow,” not knowing anything about how Andrew had left her with nothing. And when she up and left town, it had been like pouring gasoline on a fire.

  The talk had died down quite a while back. But the memories of those who thrive on gossip are quick to recall. What if today, while Glory was alone and unsuspecting, somebody said something hurtful?

  Tula was no fool. She knew she couldn’t keep Glory hidden in the hollow forever. But she didn’t want Glory to face awful truths alone.

  This morning there wouldn’t be anyone to catch her when she stumbled—unless she called Eric.

  Please, Jesus, let her call Eric if things go bad.

  Tula sighed and turned away from the window. Maybe it would have been better if Glory hadn’t come back at all.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, heralding a break in a long string of sweltering days. Eric closed his office door. Storms usually meant lightning strikes and car accidents, maybe even a flash flood. It looked as though a busy day loomed ahead for the department. If he was going to have an uninterrupted hour, this would be it.

  Hands on his hips, he circled his desk, staring at the file folder lying between his untouched coffee and a stack of mail that needed his attention. It had been over a year and a half since he’d opened this particular file. He should leave well enough alone.

  He inched closer, then paused, staring at the folder as if it were a wild animal and he was prey. No quick movements, no posture of fear, or it’d all be over.

  Slowly he reached out and settled the fingertips of one hand on the folder, but went no further. There was no sensible reason to open it. He’d run a by-the-book investigation. The report was complete. The state fire marshal had signed off on it. End of story.

  The tab read: 11632 LAUREL CREEK ROAD. It sounded like an idyllic place for a newlywed couple to build their storybook cottage. And that’s what Andrew and Glory Harrison’s house had appeared to be, something from a fairy tale—of course, it was the updated, Southern Living version of happily-ever-after, spacious and new, nearer castle than cottage. It had been tucked into the fold of a wooded hillside. In Eric’s mind’s eye he could still see it: a white-painted Carolina house, with steeply pitched gables, forest green shutters, and a deep verandah with red geraniums in huge pots flanking the front door. A brick drive led to a quaint carriage house garage in the rear.

  Jill had lusted after the Harrisons’ house, had asked Eric to drive past every time they were on that side of town. Which was probably why he could recall it so vividly now; that, and the fact that those drive-bys often led to a point of contention. Jill had always taken notes and clipped magazine articles, planning on how they would build their new house.

  As far as Eric had been concerned, the 1920s crafts-style bungalow they owned (without a gargantuan mortgage), set on quiet, tree-lined Montgomery Avenue, left nothing to be desired. It had a big fenced yard. It had hardwood floors. It had character.

  Jill had said it had other people’s dirt.

  Instead of the old adage: location, location, location, Jill’s motto had been: new, new, new. That had been part of their undoing, Jill’s overriding desire to have the best, her worry over everyone else’s opinion of her house, her car, her clothes. He’d never been able to figure out where her insecurity had come from, but it had loomed larger with each passing day of their marriage. She had refused to quit work after Scott was born, as they’d originally agreed—and not because she was a career-minded woman, but because she’d wanted that house more than she wanted anything in her life.

  Eric closed his eyes and forced Jill away from his thoughts. Best to keep focused on one bothersome issue at a time.

  He drew again on the memory of the Harrisons’ house. Idyllic; nothing described it better. Only the discreet sign noting the security company that guarded the house had marred the image of peaceful perfection.

  But the storybook cottage had turned into a house of horrors. And Eric couldn’t ignore his suspicion that it had begun to transform long before the night of the fire. He recalled one day in particular:

  It was Eric’s first day back on duty after Scott’s birth. Jill called with a list of things for him to pick up at the drugstore on his way home. It was only late afternoon, four-thirty or so, when he pulled into the Walgreens at the edge of town.

  He didn’t waste time with a cart; he figured he could handle the five items easily enough. Anxious to get home after eight long hours of separation from his ne
wborn son, he dashed up and down the aisles, looking for unfamiliar things like Desitin, nursing pads, baby wipes, newborn diapers, and sanitary napkins. He was down to the last item. He juggled the load in his arms and ventured into the uncharted territory of the Feminine Hygiene aisle. There he stopped dead in his tracks.

  What appeared to be several thousand varieties lined a multitude of shelves. Hundreds of combinations of shapes and sizes, fragrances and various “duty” ratings stretched endlessly before him.

  Feeling as out of place as he had when he’d accompanied Jill to the obstetrician and been the only male in the crowded waiting room, he glanced up and down the aisle. He was alone.

  Scanning the labels quickly, nothing jumped out and said “obvious choice.” So he stepped closer and began to read more carefully. He leaned forward and the box holding the tube of Desitin tumbled off his stack. When he stooped to pick it up, the nursing pads bounced onto the floor. He picked them up, and while he was down there, decided to read the packages on the bottom shelf.

  “You look about as comfortable as a cat in a car wash.” A soft, teasing voice came from behind him.

  He looked over his shoulder, his cheeks warming with embarrassment—which was ridiculous after all of the things he’d been through with Jill in the past few weeks.

  Glory Harrison stood there with a smile on her face. Not an “I’m laughing at you” smile, but a sympathetic “I can get you out of this” smile.

  “Out of my depth,” he admitted.

  “Did she say what brand?” Glory asked matter-of-factly.

  He stood up, managing to keep his load from toppling to the floor. “She did . . . and I can’t remember. It seemed easy enough when she told me.”

  She stepped around him and quickly selected a package and handed it to him. “This should be middle-of-the-road enough to get her by.”