by S W Vaughn
The more I talk, the worse I feel about myself. I can’t believe I’m sitting here gossiping like a mean girl about a woman I hardly know. And I’m stretching the facts to fit some half-formed narrative that’s too crazy to be true.
But Jill is into it, wide-eyed and nodding along. “That’s so insane,” she says. “I mean, even the name is almost the same. Alice, Alyssa. It’s like she made up a daughter just so she’d have something in common with you. Did you tell her about Alyssa before or after she mentioned this?”
“She, uh …” Suddenly I can’t remember. Who mentioned which child first? I try to mentally replay meeting Hannah at the Quintaine property, remember the conversation before we went into the house. “She was first,” I finally say.
Jill raises her brow. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” I nod, confirming it to myself. “I asked her if she had any kids, because she was looking at this huge house by herself, and she told me all this stuff about her daughter. Then I said wow, that’s just like my daughter.”
“Celine,” Jill says carefully. “Maybe she knew about Alyssa before she talked to you.”
My blood runs icy cold, and I squeeze my eyes shut against a pulse of panic. But that’s a truly insane idea. Total paranoia. I’m not going to give in to that, especially since I’ve already embellished a lot of my ‘logic’ that points to Hannah having a made-up child. I’m sure Alice is real. “No, she couldn’t have,” I say. “She doesn’t know anything about me, or Alyssa.”
Jill makes her eyes wide and waggles her fingers in the air. “Unless she’s rich … and psychic,” she intones. “Look into my crystal ball, dahling. Madame Bead Babe sees all.”
I choke on a laugh, and soon we’re both giggling. I guess I’m a little more buzzed than I thought.
Things will look better tomorrow.
Chapter 7
At least I’m not hung over the next morning. But I’ve got a lot on my mind when I take Alyssa to school, and I give her an extra-long hug on the sidewalk before she goes inside. She squirms out of it impatiently, smacking a kiss on my cheek before she runs off to join her friends.
I watch her growing up so fast, and I know I have to tell Brad. I can’t put it off.
There’s no way I can make this call from the office. I don’t want to be alone at home, either, because I’m going to have an emotional reaction no matter what happens. Maybe if I’m out in public, I won’t have a complete breakdown.
I head for the Coffee Stop Café, all the way across downtown from the real estate office. For some reason I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing, as if contacting the man I once thought I’d marry is some kind of dirty secret. But there’s so much about Brad and I that no one knows, sometimes it feels that way. Like a secret I’m ashamed to tell.
I have too many of those.
The café is on a corner lot next to an office building, which means it’s likely to be fairly busy even this early in the morning. I park at the curb on the side street and leave my briefcase in the car, walking inside to join the line of impatient people waiting for their morning dose of caffeine. It takes fifteen minutes for me to reach the register and place my order, but only a few before my name is called and I’m handed a hazelnut cappuccino and a blueberry muffin on a plastic tray.
I find an empty table for two near the front windows and sit down, slowly tuning out the noise and chatter of the café while I stare outside at the passing cars and the pretty façade of this town. I never thought I’d be here, doing … this. I was supposed to get out. From the college in the city, where I’d been working on a degree in photography and digital cinematography, I’d planned bigger and better things. With Brad. Maybe after college we’d move to Nashau, where he lived before he came to Wolfsbrook, or maybe we’d head to New York City or even California. Somewhere fun and exciting. But then the argument happened, and the accident. From that point on, he had to be dead to me. It was the only way I could deal with the aftermath.
I love my daughter more than life itself, and I wouldn’t trade her for anything. Not even all those dreams I used to have. But she wasn’t exactly planned.
And her father has no idea she exists.
My hands shake slightly as I take out my phone and stare at it. I still need a few more minutes. I take a sip of my cooling coffee, tap the screen and swipe my password, then pull up my texts out of habit. The message at the bottom catches my eye, the last reply from the unknown number: Wouldn’t you like to know? Yes, I think bitterly, I would like to know who you are. I haven’t received any more veiled threats since this brief exchange, and I should probably delete the message and forget about the mystery nutcase who sent it, but I don’t want to erase the evidence.
Especially since I don’t know what it’s evidence of.
I frown and swipe away from the text screen, then open my Firefox app and tap to Google. As I start entering Hayhurst in the search bar, the full name of the hospital pops up and I select it before I can change my mind. The main result includes a linked phone number for hospital information. I take a breath, tap the number and hold the phone to my ear.
After two rings, a pleasant female voice answers. “Hayhurst Memorial Hospital, how may I direct your call?”
My stomach twists, and I almost hang up. I don’t want to do this. “Hello,” I stammer anyway. “I’m looking for a patient, I think. Brad Dowling?”
“I can help you with that. One moment,” the woman says, and I hear her typing in the background. After a minute she says, “I have his room number and direct phone line. Would you like that information?”
“Uh, yes. Please. Just let me …” I dig in my purse for a pen, and then grab the café receipt I stuffed in my pocket and smooth it out on the table. “Okay, go ahead.”
She tells me he’s in room 548 — apparently he’s been moved up a floor — and then reads off a phone number. I write everything down. When she’s finished, I say quietly, “Can you tell me how he’s doing?”
“Well, I can transfer you to the fifth floor nurse’s station,” she says. “I’m not sure how much they’ll be able to share, but you can ask.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
There’s a click, and the line buzzes a few times before another woman answers. “Fifth floor,” she says.
“Hello,” I begin, but then I hesitate, not sure what I’m going to ask. Or if I want to hear the answer. Finally I say, “I was wondering if you could tell me about Brad Dowling. If he’s … awake.”
After a brief pause, the woman says, “Are you family?”
“No. I’m sorry.” I have no idea why I apologize for that.
“I can only give out patient updates to family members,” she says. But her voice softens as she asks, “Are you a friend of his?”
My heart lurches. The news is either very good, or very bad. “Yes, I’m a friend,” I say. “I want to visit him, but I don’t know if he’s …”
When I don’t finish, the woman speaks with a smile in her voice. “That should be just fine,” she says. “Our visiting hours are from ten AM to nine PM. And frankly, Mr. Dowling is doing miraculously well, though you’ll have to ask him for any details you’d like to know.”
“Thank you,” I say, not sure whether I’m relieved or afraid. Probably both. “I guess I’ll just call his room, then. I have the number.”
“All right, dear. You do that.”
I say goodbye and end the call, staring at the stark black numbers I’ve scribbled on the back of the white receipt. Brad is at the other end of those numbers — alive, awake, and ‘miraculously well.’ After all this time. I just can’t believe it, and I might not even after I hear his voice. I’m torn between what’s easy and what’s right.
After a long five minutes of indecision, I dial the number.
The phone rings three times before someone says, “Hello?” The voice is an older woman, and I close my eyes and pray it’s a nurse, even though I know it must be Willa Dowling. Still the mother bear to
a child who’s nearly thirty.
“Mrs. Dowling?” I half-whisper. “I was wondering if I could … talk to Brad.” Maybe she won’t ask for my name.
“Well, I don’t know. He’s barely awake yet.” I hear a rasping voice in the background, raised in faint protest, and tears spring hot to my eyes. Brad. Oh God, it’s true. I still recognize him in that weak, awful murmur, even though I can’t make out a word he says.
I have a pretty good idea, though.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I’ll call back later, but if I wait much longer I’ll lose my nerve. “If it’s okay with Brad, I’d really like to speak to him,” I say. “Please.”
“Who is this?” Willa nearly barks.
Damn it. I consider using someone else’s name, or making one up, but I know I’ll have to confront him face-to-face soon. I need him to know that I tried to call before I spring what may be the biggest shock of his life on him.
“It’s Celine,” I say. “Celine Bauman.”
Absolute, frigid silence responds.
“Mrs. Dowling?”
“You little bitch,” Willa hisses suddenly in a strained voice.
My breath catches, and the tears start flowing as I absorb what feels like a physical slap. I’d expected anger, but this is undiluted hatred.
“How dare you?” Her voice rises to that shrill tone I remember from the last time I saw Brad, when he’d already been unconscious for two weeks and I thought that was a long time. “You are not entitled to speak to my son, do you hear me? I won’t have you upsetting him after he’s finally come back to me!”
Mom! Who is it? This time I make out the background words, delivered in a ragged gasp that’s painful to hear.
“If you come near him, I’ll kill you.”
Willa Dowling speaks those words with a terrifying flat inflection, and then hangs up.
Just like the first time I heard Brad was awake, I can’t breathe. The phone clatters from my numb hand and falls on the table, and I stare at nothing as my eyes flood and my chest burns. God, this can’t be happening. What am I going to do?
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there when a hand brushes my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Figuring it’s a concerned employee, I turn my face away and grab a napkin to swipe at my eyes. I’m probably smearing mascara all over myself. I heave a shaking breath, grab another napkin and try to determine the best way to head for the bathroom.
“Celine, honey, are you okay?” a voice says.
I blink in surprise and turn to see Missy Wilson standing there, with a blond-haired young man I don’t recognize hovering nervously behind her. “I, er … hi, Missy,” I mutter inanely. Of all the people to catch me bawling, it had to be her. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I always come here in the mornings. They make a fabulous mocha espresso,” she says breezily, and then slides uninvited into the chair across from me, leaving her companion to stand awkwardly alone. She leans across the table and arranges her face into something like sympathy. “It always hits at the worst times, doesn’t it?” she says. “Poor Rosalie. I’m still in shock, myself.”
My airways loosen a little. I’m more than happy to let her think I’m crying for Rosalie, because she’s the last person I want to talk to about Brad. “Yes, it’s just terrible. Poor Rosalie,” I say as I grab a clean napkin and mop blindly at my face. “I’m sorry I left early the other day.”
“Don’t worry. I understand, with Brad and everything.” Missy unzips the little clutch purse at her side, and hands me a compact and a single-wrapped moist facial wipe. “Here you go, honey. I’ve practically bought stock in these things since the day I heard, so just shout if you need more than one.”
I’m surprised and a little touched by the gesture. “Thank you,” I say, and open the compact. When I get a look at myself in the mirror, I blurt out a watery laugh. The hollows under my eyes are smudged completely black, like the grease football players wear, and black lines radiate down my cheeks. “Oh, my God. I think I might need more than one.”
“Well, I didn’t want to mention that you look awful.” Missy laughs a little as she ducks her head to go through her purse again, and I catch the shine in her own eyes. She takes out two more pre-moistened wipes and looks away briefly before she puts them on the table.
It’s obvious that no matter what she acts like, she’s truly devastated by Rosalie’s death.
I clean myself up in silence, half afraid to say something that might set us both off. When I hand the compact back to her, she smiles, a little more in control. “Have you met my fiancé?” she says, gesturing at the blond guy who’s still hovering around like he’s not sure where to stand.
Fiancé? I’m pretty sure that Missy had gotten married right after college to some older man she met there. But maybe I’d heard wrong — or maybe things just didn’t work out for them. Either way, I wouldn’t bring it up. “No, I don’t think I have,” I say, turning a polite smile toward the blond. “Hello. I’m Celine Bauman.”
The man clears his throat and smiles. “Dan Voltaire,” he says. “Hello.”
I can feel my eyes trying to bug out and work to keep my features neutral. Danny Voltaire, the world’s most scatterbrained lawyer and the bane of Jill’s existence, is engaged to Missy Wilson. Oh, boy. I can’t wait to tell Jill about this one.
“Dan and I were just stopping by for coffee before he goes to work,” Missy says almost apologetically as she stands. “But then I saw you, and … well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you did,” I say with genuine warmth, getting up myself. “It’s fine, I have to go to work too. Thanks for the wet wipes.”
“Any time,” Missy says, and hugs me. This time I hug her back.
Once she and Dan leave the café, I gather my stuff and head to the bathroom. I need to wash my face and touch up my makeup before I go to the office, and I’m still more shaken than I want to be. I feel bad about Rosalie all over again, especially when I remember the bizarre suicide note. The one that claimed she couldn’t live without Brad.
And I can’t help wondering whether Brad knew that.
Chapter 8
Life has been strangely normal for the past few days. Not that I want to complain about things being normal, but a return to the status quo means I haven’t done anything more about Brad. I admit it: I’m terrified of his mother. I absolutely believe she might try to kill me. If anyone ever hurt Alyssa, I might do the same thing.
I’m even starting to think that maybe she’s the one who sent that text.
But today, it’s all quiet on the Bauman front. Alyssa still loves school, and I’m still pinching myself every time I remember that big commission I’ve got coming. I’m at the office, it’s around ten in the morning, and Sabrina and I are the only ones here — not counting Courtney at the reception desk, who ignores everyone anyway. Even the looming possibility that my coworker might wind up the snark-wagon at any moment doesn’t bother me, though.
Right now, I am the world’s okay-est real estate agent.
As I’m passively browsing the MLS, looking for potential matches for one of my sellers while I daydream about the money, my phone rings. The caller is in my address book — it’s one of the two home inspectors I usually work with, the one who’s doing the final inspection for the Quintaine property. I answer hoping for good news, and I get it. His report is finished and sitting in my inbox. Everything’s good to go.
We can close on Monday.
I’m smiling as I dial Hannah. The phone rings four times, and then I get a voicemail message — just a standard, prerecorded ‘the person you are calling is not available, please leave a message after the tone.’ For a second I think it’s strange, because she’s been immediately available every time I’ve spoken to her.
Then I realize that I’ve never actually called her. She called me first to ask about the house, and has preemptively called me to check in on things every time si
nce.
The voicemail tone sounds, and I give my name and ask her to call me. But just as I set my phone on the desk, it rings and Hannah’s number flashes on the screen.
Okay. That’s exceedingly weird.
“Hello, Hannah?” I say as I answer. “I must’ve just missed you.”
“Oh, no. I never answer calls,” she says almost breathlessly. “I don’t trust them.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. I think ‘eccentric’ might be too mild a word for this woman.
“I’m so sorry. I said something strange, didn’t I?” Hannah gives a nervous laugh. “I guess I still need to work on my sense of humor. It’s not very good. Honestly, I was in the bathroom when you called. What I said was just a silly thing from a movie.”
I don’t know if I believe that, but I decide to let it drop. I only have to deal with her until Monday, and then I’ll never see her again. “Well, I called to tell you that everything’s ready for Monday,” I say. “If you can be here at the office by one PM with your cashier’s check, we’ll go over and sign the paperwork. It’ll take about an hour, and you’ll leave with the keys to the house.”
“Really?” Hannah says, sounding delighted. “That’s wonderful. I’m so excited! Celine, will you …” She trails off and clears her throat. “I’m sorry. This is embarrassing, but I wondered if you’d come and have a drink with me tomorrow night, to celebrate. At that bar where I saw you and your friend. I … I don’t know anyone else in town,” she finishes in a small voice.
I absolutely want to turn her down. But she sounds so pathetic, and I know she’s telling the truth — about this, at least. She really doesn’t know anyone else. Besides, I only have to keep up being friendly until Monday, and then she’ll move into her big house with all her money and do whatever rich people do.
“Sure, we can do that,” I say. “Do you mind if Jill comes with us?” I almost feel bad asking that, but I’m not sure I want to be alone with Hannah. Tons of awkward potential there.
