by Nicole Young
My eyes went back to the array of plates and glasses strewn across my normally clean sink. It was hard to accept that I’d been such a poor judge of character with that hunky Brit who’d lived two doors down from me in Rawlings. But enough time had passed that I could forgive myself and allow a fresh start.
Brad’s bicep rested across my back. His hand draped loosely around my upper arm. His guy scent wafted my way. The air was filled with the male pheromones that make women do and say stupid things simply so they can breathe in more male pheromones. It was like an addiction. But I didn’t care. I rolled against his body and basked in the amazing feel of him. Softness and warmth as I nuzzled my face against his chest. Strength and security as he wrapped his arms around me. How could I have held a grudge against this? What form of self-hatred had made me walk away from Brad in the first place? From now on I vowed to be humble, the first to reach out, the first to offer forgiveness. Whatever it took to make it work this time.
“I love you, Tish.”
The words cascaded over me like a fountain of sweet, warm life.
I gripped him more tightly and looked up into his eyes. “I love you too.” It was strange to hear the words come from my lips. What did I know about loving a man, or any person? But for once I trusted myself. I believed myself. I spoke the truth, with all the accuracy of the moment.
He crushed me in his arms. His deep laughter sang in my ears and I laughed with him.
“I’ve been thinking about it and this is what we can do.” He set me back from him, serious once more. “You come back to Rawlings with me.”
I stiffened in his grip.
“Just listen. We’ll keep this place as our summer home, but in the meantime, I’ll apply for a position in this area. When the right offer comes along, we’ll move up here. You can use the money from the sale of my house in Rawlings to renovate something nearby.”
I smiled. He’d overcome every obstacle with his suggestion. “But,” I squeezed his biceps, “your house belonged to your grandmother. I’m sure you don’t want to part with it.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
I rubbed my lips together. He would really sell the family homestead to be with me? The gesture certainly showed his willingness to commit to our relationship. And what had I done? What conciliations had I made? His plan required nothing of me, except to accompany him back to Rawlings.
It was a beautiful plan.
“So I guess there’s something you want to ask me, huh?” I said, looking into his eyes.
“Yes there is.” His fingers squeezed mine. “But I want to do it right. Take a drive with me to Escanaba tomorrow. Please?”
I nodded and smiled a big yes.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ve got to get back down to your grandfather’s. I promised I’d help him in the barn.”
I watched him drive off. A random tune escaped my lips as I headed upstairs. I shut my bedroom door and jumped, landing on my back on the bed. What a wonderful day this had turned out to be. So what if Candice had done a terrible thing a quarter century ago? It wasn’t my place to tell on her. And as for her more recent crime . . . well, the cops could do their job and arrest Candice if they felt like it. As for me, I gave myself a giddy squeeze. I think I’d just been proposed to. And not by some con-man seeking to use me for his own gain, but by a wonderful, gentle, caring, loving—my list of modifiers could have gone on and on—man who I was going to get to spend the rest of my life with. I was about to get the very thing I longed for, and nothing could stand in the way of it. I giggled and stared into space, imagining the ceremony, the guests, the honeymoon. I dozed off somewhere between the airport and the Fiji Islands.
36
It was still daylight when I woke from my nap. Downstairs Gerard snoozed on the sofa. Andrew slept across his chest. A combination of rumbles and wheezes came from the sleeping giant and his tiny ward. Where were Samantha and Missy? And who was in charge of Hannah? I stepped into the kitchen and gasped at the sight.
Hannah had found the black box I’d left down there earlier. Photos were strewn across the countertop where she’d made rows and columns and piles.
“Hi, Aunt Tish,” she said. “What is this a picture of?” She held out a 4x6 print.
I took it from her and stared at what looked like a kitchen science project. Bunsen burner–type stuff and tubing formed some kind of contraption photographed inside an old camper or trailer. I flipped the image over and read the label on the back, written in tidy handwriting. METH LAB/HIAWATHA NATIONAL FOREST. A row of numbers and letters looked like GPS coordinates.
“Just somebody’s dirty kitchen,” I said to answer Hannah’s question, hoping she wouldn’t require more detail. I picked up another photo. Two men, one holding a clear plastic baggie containing white stuff. I didn’t flip it over to see the details. I threw it on the counter with the other pictures and with a sweep of my arms gathered the photos into a messy heap and stuffed them as best I could back into the box. “Sorry, Hannah. These aren’t toys. Try these playing cards instead.” I found a pack in my drawer of inherited junk and tossed them on the counter.
I carted the collection of drug art up to my room.
Candice wanted my grandfather to have the assortment because he would know what to do with the information revealed. But now more than ever, I wished she’d given the box to him personally. I scratched at my forehead. Somehow having the photos in my possession made me imagine a yellow, red, and blue bull’s-eye between my brows.
I flipped the lock on the bedroom door. I sat on the bed with the box and stacked the photos in neat succession so I could fit the lid on. A series near the back caught my attention. I stared at the scene—the youthful face of my mother sitting at a round table with a man who looked remarkably like my dark-haired cousin Gerard. Could it be my father? Neither looked at the camera, but rather, at each other, seemingly unaware of the photographer’s presence. The setting seemed to be a bar of some sort. The walls were filled with beer advertisements disguised as décor. A sign with an arrow said restrooms. My hand started to shake. It was the scene that Homer Johnson had described, of the night my mother had died. Who had taken the picture? Candice? But she’d said she hadn’t been there. I flipped through the stack and found a picture of a twenty-some-year-younger-looking Homer and his buddy, Cody Baker. They stood in a corner of a bar by a window, near an entry door. The same round tables and tacky décor from the picture of my parents placed them at the same scene. Were Johnson and Baker the men from the past that my father had been afraid to confront that night? If so, maybe they’d lied about not being at the scene of my mother’s crash.
Another shot showed a fuzzy view of the back end of a truck. Circles of light, like spotlights, illuminated the vehicle. Rescue workers wearing longish coats covered with reflective tape hovered around the wreck.
I slammed the picture facedown on the quilt. My mother’s Ford. I tried to breathe. I flipped to the next shot. The profile of a crowd gazing at some sight on the ground below. In the foreground was a twisted and broken guardrail. Perhaps the spectators stood on the edge of a quarry and looked with horror or curiosity at the sight of a truck that had just crashed to the bottom. I squinted, recognizing the Johnson/Baker duo in the mix.
What did all of it mean? I stuck the last stack in the rear of the box, fit the lid, and set it on the floor beneath the window, next to the one Candice had given me earlier—the box with the photos of me and Mom and our short years together.
I opened my cell phone and dialed Candice’s number. Endless ringing. Of course. She had caller ID and wasn’t about to answer. Though she’d said she would be going away—Canada, wasn’t it? Perhaps she’d already left.
Brad would know what to do. I craned for a peek out the bedroom window, kicking the photo boxes aside to get a better view. Brad’s vehicle was missing. He must still be down at Puppa’s barn.
I scooped up the photo box nearest the wall and headed downstairs. The mix of voices ind
icated the women had returned. I stopped in the archway. Samantha and Missy worked at putting a meal together. Hannah did card tricks at the counter. Gerard was awake and leaning back against the sink with Andrew clinging to one hip. The sight seemed incongruent with my former impressions of the man. Yet over the weeks he’d become increasingly more comfortable with the Mr. Mom thing. Now he looked like a natural.
“Hey, Tish.” Samantha glanced at me in between measuring flour and dumping it in a bowl.
“Hey.” I gripped the box to my chest and headed toward the kitchen door. “I’m going to Puppa’s for a while. See ya.”
I scooted out before anyone could question my mission.
Just before I reached my vehicle, a voice called my name.
I turned. Melissa walked toward me.
She touched my free arm. “I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done. I didn’t realize when I first talked to you back in February what a savior you’d be. Because of you, I’m safe. And my kids are safe. When I told Hannah that her daddy was dead, do you know what she said to me? ‘Now he can’t hurt us anymore, Mumma.’ Even a four-year-old had more sense than me.” She raised her brows and looked at me intently. “Thank you. For everything.” The last word dripped with meaning.
I looked at her pretty face, beaming with future hope, and realized from her tone that she thought I killed Drake. She assumed, like everyone else must, that once a murderer, always a murderer. I backed away from her, wordless, and got in the Explorer. In my rearview mirror I watched her practically skip back to the house. I turned the curve out of sight of the lodge and gunned the engine, flying through potholes and testing the durability of my shock absorbers.
I turned onto the highway, then a few minutes later veered left at the cider mill sign, turning down to Candice’s house. I pounded on the front door. No answer.
“Candice?” I called, walking around to the back. The porch door hung open. I went in. Muddy feet had trekked through the place. I went from room to room, horrified at the chaos scattered throughout the once spotless farmhouse. The office had taken the brunt of it. Camera equipment, photos, and bills scattered the floor. Drawers had been pulled open and left askew. The pictures from the walls had been smashed against the desk, leaving a pile of glass and twisted frames on the carpet.
Someone had searched the place—no doubt looking for the black box. My heart thundered in my chest.
I raced toward the back door, but slowed at the sound of an approaching vehicle. I peered around the back corner of the house. It was Jim Hawley’s rusty diesel. I made a snap decision and headed to his truck.
“Hey, Jim,” I greeted him as if nothing were wrong.
“And how is Miss Amble today?” His posture and voice were laid back.
“Good. Are you looking for Candice?”
“Nope. She left earlier for a trip. I’m just here to shut the water off and check the locks.”
“Someone got here before you, Jim. The place is a mess.”
He swore under his breath. “Some people just can’t let the past be past. Always got to be dredging up old stuff. Even when Candice is doing her best to make things right.”
I wondered if he knew Candice had shot and killed somebody not long ago. Maybe in his mind that fell in the category of making things right. “Who do you think would do something like that?”
“Majestic, probably. Ever since you showed up around here again, he’s been getting his undies all in a bundle. Candice kept trying to tell him you’re no threat, but he quit listening to her when he figured out she was angling to fold up her end of the operation and turn him in.” He blushed under his gray beard. “But you won’t tell anyone I told you that, right?”
“Not a soul. Gotta go!” I waved and ran for my SUV. I put the pedal to the metal, narrowly missing an oncoming car as I blew onto the highway toward my grandfather’s house.
Steam billowed out my ears. Candice hadn’t so much lied to me as much as she’d sheltered me from a few important details, such as the fact that Frank Majestic—the man my father had turned in so long ago—also considered me a threat. It sure would have been nice to know that information before I took the box from Candice with a promise to deliver it to my grandfather. And what about her claim that she was a professional photographer? I hadn’t realized she meant behind the lens of a spy-cam.
I glanced at the box of photos on the seat next to me. Candice had obviously catalogued a couple decades of incriminating evidence, including the night my mother met with my father at the Watering Hole. I wish Candice would have told me she’d been there. She must have known that Baker and Johnson were the men my dad saw waiting for him before he ran out the back door. And the two deadbeats had been at the edge of the quarry when there was nothing but taillights showing at the bottom. No wonder Homer Johnson had been so certain my mother had killed herself. He’d actually witnessed the crash and had the gall to lie about it.
I took the curve past Port Silvan. The pictures in the black box had been Candice’s life insurance policy. What would happen now that they were out of her hands?
I stared at the road ahead. Why did I even care?
The lake house looked serene as ever against the blue backdrop of Silvan Bay. I parked in the circle drive, one front tire cockeyed on the curb. Inside, Great-Grandma Olivia sat on her high-back chair in the living room.
“Hi, Grandma.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Have you seen Puppa around?”
She looked at the box under my arm. “What’s in there? A gun? Have you come to kill your old grandmother as well?”
I shook my head. “Don’t be silly. I haven’t killed anyone.”
“That’s not what I heard. It’s all over town. Drake Belmont’s dead and you killed him because of that Melissa woman.”
I plunked onto the couch, the box of photos burning a hole in my lap. “Oh, Great-Gram. It’s all just a bunch of gossip. Why do you even listen?”
“I make it my business to know what’s going on in this town. The Belmonts and Russos were among the founding families. It’s my duty to see that Port Silvan stays civilized.”
I looked at the frail old woman. Her shoulders were hunched with the weight of her obligation.
“Grandma Olivia,” I said softly, “did you overhear me telling Puppa about Melissa that day in your bedroom?”
She nodded and looked to the floor. “I knew a good girl like Melissa would never leave her husband. I made an anonymous call to the state police and told them what Drake was doing—and what he was doing to her.” She played with the gold locket dangling from her neck. “I remember how hard it was to look in the mirror every morning when someone you loved was so cruel.”
“Making that call must have been hard. But it gave Melissa the chance she needed to try to get her life together.” I set the box of photos aside and kneeled next to her, patting her shoulder.
She clenched a fist in her lap. “I didn’t know I’d start all this trouble. I just wanted to help Melissa. But then you tried to help and now you’re in trouble too. First they burned down your little barn. Now Drake’s dead. It’s just like the time your mother tried to help Jacob. Look what happened to her.” She wrung her hands in her lap. “I feel so terrible, Patricia. I know your mother didn’t turn in Sid. I’m the one that made that phone call. I figured time in jail would convince him to stay out of the drugs. How was I to know Sid’s drug boss would start that house fire? The police didn’t even have a chance to arrest him or he’d still be alive today.”
“No, Great-Gram, that fire had nothing to do with you. You aren’t to blame for any of that. Okay?”
“I’ll always feel responsible. And now I’ve put you in danger too. I should have learned.”
I couldn’t tell her about Candice’s part in the fire and Drake’s death without upsetting her more. “Listen.” I took Olivia’s hands in mine and looked her straight in the eye. “I’m a Belmont and Russo too.” It felt good to claim my full heritage. “How abou
t if I take over your job? If you hear of anything going wrong in this town, you tell me about it and I’ll fix it. Okay? You deserve some time off.”
Olivia’s lip quivered. Her eyes teared up. “Yes. I think that will be okay. You handled Drake, didn’t you? And that was the right thing to do. Melissa shouldn’t have had to live like I had to all those years.”
I hugged her from the side. “You’ve been so brave your whole life. You made it through so much. I’m so proud of you.”
She was all tears by now and couldn’t even open her eyes. She clung to my shoulder. “Thank you, Patricia.”
After she calmed somewhat, I grabbed some tissue from the dispenser on the end table and helped her dry her face. “I’m so lucky to know you.” I dabbed at the deep crow’s feet around her eyes. “I’d like to hear more about your life sometime. How about Thursdays we get together?”
Olivia nodded.
Then, despite the crushing urgency of the box of photos, I boiled water and made two cups of tea.
We were laughing over a horse named Sarge that once belonged to Olivia’s father, when Puppa, Joel, and Brad walked into the room.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
My grandfather answered. “I just got a call from Candice.”
“Is she okay? I was just at her house, and—”
He cut me off. “She says you have a box that belongs to her.”
“Yes. She asked me to give it to you. I have it right there.” I pointed to the sofa.
Grandfather’s eyes darted to the box and back to me. “Did you look through it?”
I swallowed. “That would be like opening somebody else’s mail.”
“We’ll take it from here. You better get back to the lodge,” Puppa said.
“Why? What’s going on? Is Candice going to be alright?”
Brad gently steered me out the front door and to my vehicle. “I’ll drop by later and fill you in. Everything’s going to be okay.” He dipped his head and kissed me. My lips tried to keep his as he pulled away. He slammed the door shut. “Hurry home, Tish.”
