by Nancy Moser
“I want you to have—”
She shook her head. “I know why you’re working so much, and it has nothing to do with money.”
“It doesn’t?”
“It has to do with fear.”
He tried to laugh. “What am I afraid of?” Want to see a list?
She moved her index finger close to her face, looked toward the garage, and pointed.
“My shop?”
“Your art.”
“My hobby.”
“Your grandpa’s legacy.”
He had no response to that. “Grandpa never sold anything. He dinked around, making furniture for fun.”
“He taught you what you know.”
Bobby hooked her hair behind her ear, to better see her profile. “That he did.”
“He’d be proud of you.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You’ve sold a few pieces.”
“Stuff I had around, just sitting. To friends.”
“You could do more. Make custom pieces. You will do that. If you give yourself permission. If you give yourself time.”
“Even if I do make furniture, how would I ever sell it to strangers? How would I get people to know I exist?”
She stopped his words with a soft kiss. “I don’t know those answers, but somebody does. God does. He’s already made you a carpenter like his Son, and I think he wants you to share that gift with others. I know it.”
“How do you know it?”
She put a hand to her heart. “I just do.”
He couldn’t argue with her. Becky knew such things. She and God were close.
“I also found out about our savings account today,” she said. “I didn’t realize we had one.”
He felt horrible for withholding these things from her. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was saving for repairs and trips I hoped we’d take and… I don’t know.”
She grinned. “I was really mad at first. But then I thought about all the men who keep debts secret from their wives, and I realized it was kind of unique that you have secret savings. She looked at him, willing him to meet her gaze. “The repairs can wait, but your talent can’t. Quit a job, Bobby, one job. I don’t care which one. Then use that time to be with us and pursue your art.”
“What if nothing happens?”
She kissed his forehead and with his help, managed to stand. “To have faith, have faith.” Once on her feet she looked down at him. “It’s not that hard, Bobby. I promise.”
Bobby wasn’t so sure but took solace that Becky never broke her promises.
***
Ken set his shopping bags down in front of the display of Ralph Lauren polo shirts. He picked up a yellow one. It felt like butter in his hands.
“Excuse me, sir. But don’t you already have at least one yellow polo shirt?”
Ken turned around to see Ronnie, his ex-wife. “You got your hair cut,” he said.
She put a hand to the nape of her boyish hairdo. With her red hair and pale skin she looked ten years younger than forty-five. “Do you like it?”
“It’s drastic.”
“I wanted easy care.”
“Why?”
She cocked her head and looked incredulous, as if he should know something he didn’t. He thought about asking for details but didn’t want to get into it. Since their divorce six years previous, they’d agreed to let their personal lives remain personal. Actually, that had been Ken’s intent throughout the entire marriage. If only a few of his personal indiscretions hadn’t ceased being discreet, they might still be together.
“You look pale compared to your usual George Hamilton tan,” she said. “You’re still the pro at the club, aren’t you?”
He didn’t tell her that his gaggle of private students had tapered off. “I’m on jury duty right now. A murder trial.”
She moved her purse to the other shoulder. “How did you manage that?”
“I didn’t manage it. I was chosen. As a citizen.”
Ronnie stifled a laugh. “When was the last time you voted in an election?”
He couldn’t remember. He held the polo shirt toward her. “Feel this fabric.”
She complied, though half-heartedly. “Uncle Davey died.”
The shirt was forgotten. He’d always liked her uncle Davey. “When?”
“Last Friday.”
“His heart?” There’d been a few scares over the years.
She shook her head. “A small plane crash in Wyoming.”
Ken’s mind grabbed on to flashes of newscasts from the weekend. “I think I saw it on the news. Could I have seen that on the news?”
Ronnie shrugged. “He was going deer hunting.”
Ken nodded. “His annual trip. I went along that one time.”
“I know. He still talks—or talked—about how you nearly caught your shoes on fire.”
“I’m not a campfire kind of guy.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Ron. I always liked Davey.”
He watched her face as she struggled for control. With a deep sigh, she kept the tears at bay. “Since I ran into you, would you go with me to the memorial service Friday evening?”
It was not how he liked to spend his Friday evenings.
“Please?” she said.
“Sure.”
***
All the way home from jury duty, the psychologist’s words about the accused hung around Deidre like birds waiting to land. Needy. Meek. Nonaggressive. Non-confrontational. She knew from experience that these traits, which were most often construed as negative, could also be positive under the right circumstances. It was very confusing and she didn’t want to feel confused right now. Not more than she already was.
She slammed the car door shut, hoping to trap the words inside.
No such luck.
She hurried into the house and flipped on the kitchen light, hoping its cheery brightness would make the words fly away.
Nope.
Even a handful of M&M’S didn’t do the trick.
And though Deidre usually didn’t mind coming home to an empty house, today she would have relished Sig’s questions, Karla’s effervescence, and even Nelly’s adolescent rambling.
But it was Wednesday and Nelly and Karla were at choir practice and Sig had a board meeting and would be home late. She checked the clock. She had time to enjoy the silence.
To let the words land.
It made little sense that the description of an uneducated, needy dishwasher would bother Deidre, a socialite whose idea of having zeros in her bank account brought to mind something far different from the zeros that most likely plagued Patti’s. Deidre was a woman who was far from meek, plenty aggressive, and not averse to confrontation. Most confrontation.
Deidre got a Perrier out of the fridge and took it, along with the entire bowl of M&M’S, to the deck off the family room. The deck swing beckoned.
She and Don had installed a swing on the front porch of their fixer-upper Victorian. They used to sit there for hours, talking, or even not talking, just being.
“You and Nelly are everything to me, Dee-Dee.”
She smiled at the sudden memory of Don’s words. Somehow with him as the father, with herself as the mother, and with little Nelly as the daughter, they’d been a family who needed each other—in a meek, nonaggressive, and non-confrontational way.
She stopped swinging a moment, letting the notion sink in. Maybe that’s why she’d been so bothered by the testimony. Years ago, these character traits, presented as negative when possessed by Patti, had made Dee-Dee feel strong. She’d come into her marriage to Don needing plenty. Yet in his household she’d let go of her intense desire to take and had been able to shove aside the bad things in her past. Under Don’s love and care she’d grabbed on to a life where aggression and confrontation were unknown. Unacceptable. Unnecessary.
They’d been a family in the finest sense of the word. There had been no need for one to be above the
other or control the other or wield power over the other. Each of them had possessed a unique function and they had come together as three parts of a whole.
“A triple-braided cord is not easily broken.”
She blinked. Where had that come from?
It didn’t take long to remember. It was a Bible verse Don used to quote. Like his mother, Karla, he often quoted the Bible. Deidre had even learned a few verses, though she didn’t have their knack for remembering.
It was Wednesday night. If Don were still alive it wouldn’t be just Nelly and Karla at church. All four of them would have spent the evening there, at the weekly congregational dinner, and at choir rehearsal.
“‘O God, our help in ages past.’”
Hearing herself sing was a surprise. Deidre had a good alto voice and always preferred harmony to the boring melody. Why had she stopped singing in the choir?
Deidre knew very well why. With Don’s death the song had gone out of her. As had God and all things church. As had all things that involved finding strength in the middle of a peaceful life. There was no peace in the panic and desperation she’d felt after his death, after losing a level of happiness she’d never imagined possible. She may have gone into her marriage to Don harboring ulterior motives, but Don had broken through her tough facade and had allowed a new, gentler Dee-Dee to emerge.
Then he’d left her alone and the toughness returned out of necessity. Her neediness increased, and her ability to sit back and enjoy the serenity of all Don had shown her was buried with him.
But now she was married again. Financially, her life with Sig was even more stable than it had been while married to Don. In that respect, she certainly wasn’t needy anymore.
So where was the peace? Where was the freedom to be meek, nonaggressive, and non-confrontational? Where was the freedom to just be?
She felt the vibration of the garage door opening.
Sig was home.
And Don...
Was not.
***
“Can I talk to you a minute, Deidre?” Karla asked later that evening.
Deidre already had one foot on the stair, heading to bed. “I’m really tired.”
“It will only take a minute.” She looked upstairs where Sig and Nelly were. ”How about we go downstairs to my apartment?”
“This sounds ominous.”
Karla didn’t answer.
They went downstairs to the basement where Deidre had created a space for Karla to call her own: a bedroom, sitting area, kitchenette, and full bath. There was also a rec room and pool table area that Nelly and her friends often used, but Karla didn’t seem to mind sharing. In truth, the space was far better than what she’d been used to. Deidre had loved taking Karla furniture shopping and telling her she could get whatever she wanted. Get new, not used.
They headed to the sitting area. Deidre sat on the couch.
Karla did not. She stood with the coffee table between them. “I want to know what’s going on.”
“With what?”
“With this trial.”
“I can’t talk about the trial, Karla. You’re the one who said—”
“I’m not asking you to talk about the trial. Not directly. I’m asking you to explain why Sig is so overly interested in it.”
“He’s not. He’s just—”
“He is. The other night I overheard you talking in your bedroom.”
“You were eavesdropping?”
“No, of course—” Karla sighed. “Well, yes. Guilty as charged. When Nelly and I got home from errands and you two weren’t downstairs, I went upstairs to find you. I heard you. The door wasn’t closed.”
“Because we thought we were home alone.”
Karla shrugged. “I should have made my presence known. I admit it. But the point is, I overheard a few odd comments from Sig. Him saying some testimony didn’t help you, and reminding you that you needed to swing the jury vote your way. Your way, Dee-Dee. What does that mean?”
Deidre’s throat was dry. “It’s complicated.”
“I suspect so.”
Deidre pulled a pillow into her lap. “You don’t need to concern yourself thinking about the trial, Karla. For one thing, Brett Lerner doesn’t deserve your concern. He was a heel, a creep, and an evil man. No one should care two hoots if he died or not. If I had my way I’d let Patti go free and make sure no one took any blame for his death. The world is a better place without him.” When Deidre stopped talking she noticed her breathing was heavy and there were wads of pillow clutched in her fists.
Karla’s eyebrows had risen into alert mode. “What’s got you so riled? Neither the paper nor the TV has portrayed Brett like that. He was the victim.” Suddenly she put a finger to her mouth. “Did you know him? Did you and Sig know him?”
Sig didn’t know him.
“I’ve never heard you mention his name .” Karla was not going to let up.
Maybe Deidre could tell her part of it, but she’d have to be very careful.
“Yes, I knew him. Ages ago. Before Sig. Before Don.”
“Did you date him?”
An odd laugh escaped. Did it reveal too much? “Sort of,” Deidre said. But then her hatred swelled. “The Brett Lerner I knew was an arrogant, despicable, horrible man. If anyone deserved to die, he did.”
Karla looked aghast. “Do you hear what you’re saying?”
Deidre forced herself to calm down. She couldn’t let her emotions take over like that. She set the pillow flat on her lap and stroked it once before letting her hands settle on top of it. “Please don’t tell Sig I knew him. He doesn’t know anything about my past before Don.”
“Actually, neither do I. Well, just the one thing, but nothing else.”
“That’s all you need to know.”
The way Karla stood there, looking at her…
Deidre stood. “If we’re done I’m going upstairs.”
Suddenly Karla took a seat beside her and pulled Deidre into a hug. “You don’t need to feel badly for things that happened years ago, Dee-Dee. God returns to us the years the locusts have eaten.”
Deidre pulled back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He forgives the past, the years that seem stripped of anything good. He lets us move forward, unencumbered.”
I don’t think so.
“You can count on it.”
Although Deidre didn’t believe what Karla said about being unencumbered, she did what she always did when memories begged for attention. With practiced skill she shoved the past into a storage room and flipped the dead bolt. Then she stood, ready to go upstairs. That wasn’t so bad. So she knows I knew Brett. No harm done.
“You don’t believe me,” Karla said. “You don’t believe you can be free of all that.”
Deidre was done. “It sounds nice.”
Karla looked at her skeptically. “You’re patronizing me.”
Completely and utterly.
Deidre moved away from the couch, her need to leave increasing. “I’m tired. I really appreciate your concern, but there’s nothing to be worried about that a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
“When did you last see him? see Brett?” Karla asked. “Your anger is so fresh. I mean, did you see him recently? Right before he died?”
In the twist of a moment Karla had reopened the door to the past that Deidre had just locked away. So much for receiving forgiveness for any locust-ravaged anything.
Deidre’s mind scrambled as she tried to determine if telling more of the truth would be advantageous. Long ago she’d learned it was often best to tell the truth as far as it would go. And in this case it might go a little further. “Remember the bad argument Sig and I had last winter?”
“You never did tell me what that was about—not that it’s any of my business.”
Sig’s infidelity was not Karla’s business. “When I left the house the morning after the argument, I drove to a resort, to get away for a few days. Brett worked there. I didn’t kno
w that, of course, and would never have gone there if I had, but when I went into the restaurant, I saw him and he recognized me and wanted to talk.” She took a fresh breath. “And that’s that.”
“Did he contact you after that?”
“I wanted nothing to do with him.” Deidre walked toward the stairs. “You want more details, ask him.”
Luckily Karla couldn’t ask Brett.
Because Brett was dead.
A good thing, all around.
FIVE
Let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone.
JOHN 8:7
“The defense calls Patti McCoy.”
Abigail glanced at the other jurors. Although they hadn’t been allowed to talk to each other about the trial, she guessed she hadn’t been the only one wondering whether Patti would testify. She was glad to see it. The prosecution’s case wasn’t ironclad, but with the witnesses testifying about Brett and Patti’s rocky relationship and Patti’s outbursts, the girl needed to tell her story.
For Patti’s sake, Abigail hoped the defense had coached her well. So far, Stadler hadn’t done a bang-up job with his costuming choices for the girl. Up until now Patti had sat at the defense table in nondescript skirts and tops, not wearing enough makeup to reach even her attorney’s notice. When the psychologist called Patti meek, Abigail had nodded, based solely on her appearance.
But today, during her one chance to set the record straight, Patti made an attempt at being a glamour girl. She wore a shorter skirt than was appropriate, one that was unflattering to her slightly chubby legs. Her first act in the witness box was to tug on it. And her top, though not maternity, should have been. It pulled across her midsection, implying that Patti was in the awkward stage of pregnancy where she appeared more overweight than pregnant, that stage where people might wonder if she was expecting but would be wary about asking.
The mousy brown hair that had always been pulled into a low ponytail was loose and fluffed like a Texas beauty queen’s, hair spray mandatory. The makeup was also worthy of beauty queen status. Even from a distance Abigail could see rouge on her cheeks and blue eye shadow. And bright red lips, a la Marilyn Monroe.
What was Stadler thinking? If it was his doing, he’d turned the innocent girl who’d been duped by a slick man into a pitiful femme fatale who was quite capable of doing her own seducing.
