The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense

by Laura Disilverio

  “Looks like it,” Iris said. Thank goodness she’d caught herself before she’d said, “I know” and invited all sorts of questions. Taking the first bite of the tart apples in cinnamony goo and flaky pastry, Iris pulled out the small sketchbook she always carried. Flipping past several pages with half-finished drawings of bracelets and necklaces, she found a clean page and began to list the people who might know what really happened the night she left Lone Pine. The list wasn’t too long … Matthew and Glynnis Brozek, Esther and Zachary Brozek, Jolene Farraday, her parents, Noah.

  She couldn’t talk to Matthew or Glynnis Brozek, for obvious reasons, and Iris drew a line threw their names. After a second, she erased the line through Pastor Matt’s name and traced over the letters. Was it possible Esther had lied about how uncommunicative he was? Or that he might respond in a new way if confronted with something unexpected, like her? Circling his name, she studied the rest of the list. No way was she tackling Marian again today, and Neil was unreachable without another trip to the prison, so that left the Brozek siblings and Jolene, since she had no idea how to get hold of Noah in Afghanistan.

  She should have asked Marian how much longer he was going to be overseas. She should also, she realized belatedly, have asked about his wife, Angel’s mother. Who had Noah married? Flipping through a mental Rolodex of the girls she’d gone to school with, she came up with no one who felt like a good fit for Noah. Last she knew, he’d been crushing on Esther Brozek, but he clearly hadn’t ended up with her. Thank God. Iris found herself thinking that when the situation with her dad was resolved, when he was freed, hopefully, she’d ask Marian if she could sit in on a Skype session with Noah. She was curious about the man he had become, and found herself wanting to reconnect with him, even though they hadn’t been particularly close growing up. But that had to wait. She had more on her plate emotionally than she could handle at the moment without adding another estranged (and possibly angry or resentful) family member to the mix.

  Becoming conscious of someone at her elbow, Iris looked up, expecting to see the waitress. Debby Ulm stood there, looking not much older than when Iris had last seen her, even though Iris

  figured she must be sixty or sixty-two, at least. Her hair was still a glossy brown with only a few silver strands, and her eyebrows, curiously straight, dominated a face that belonged on a cameo. The apron she wore with “Debby’s Café” embroidered across the bib showed off her slim waist and hid most of her simple blouse and denim skirt. Her eyes were fixed on Iris’s notes, and Iris instinctively covered them with her hand. Her expression clearly said she’d recognized Iris.

  “Mrs. Ulm! Is Gabby here?” She’d thought of Gabrielle Ulm off and on over the years, wondering how the girl had turned out.

  “Gabby lives in Denver,” Mrs. Ulm said, not returning Iris’s smile. Her voice was pitched low for someone so petite and she bit the words off in a way that let Iris know Gabby’s departure from Lone Pine had hurt or angered her. “Has done for almost twenty years now.”

  Iris lifted her brows. Gabby must have ditched Lone Pine two seconds after she graduated from high school. Before she could comment, Mrs. Ulm continued, “We heard you were back. You’re not welcome here, Mercy Asher. The Community passed judgment on you for your lies and you chose to run off rather than repent and be reconciled.” Her hand snaked out to snatch up Iris’s half-eaten pie and held the plate close to her chest. Ropy veins mapped the back of her hand and twined across her thin wrist, almost the only sign of aging Iris could see. Mrs. Ulm took a step back, clearly commanding Iris to exit the booth.

  Iris shouldn’t have been so surprised, not after her conversation with Zach, but she was. Astonished, angry, and a little embarrassed, she glanced around the café to see if anyone was witnessing her eviction. A pair of women two booths away stared openly and then leaned toward each other to whisper when Iris looked at them. The waitress hovered near the espresso machine, apparently entranced by its hissing and gurgling. She didn’t look up. Mr. Ulm, instantly recognizable, emerged from the kitchen and started toward them. No taller than Debby, he had a wiry build and rusty hair flecked with gray. His face had the leanness Iris associated with marathon runners, and he moved with the vigor of someone fifteen years younger.

  Iris stood and gathered her notes, slapping a ten dollar bill on the table.

  “We don’t want your money,” Mrs. Ulm said. “Just go.”

  Mr. Ulm put a hand on his wife’s arm and gave Iris an apologetic look. “Now, Debby—”

  She shook off his hand, not looking at him. “She doesn’t belong here.”

  Leaving the money on the table, Iris walked toward the exit, trying to make her stride nonchalant. She resisted the urge to slam the door. On the sidewalk, she let the rising breeze cool her flushed face. Coming back was a rotten idea. She’d known it, but had come anyway. If her mother and Debby Ulm thought their rudeness was going to chase her away, they had another think coming. Iris wondered if either of them was responsible for the threatening phone call. Surely her own mother wouldn’t—

  On the thought, a nondescript sedan passed her and made a left off Center Road. Almost certain the driver had been Jolene, Iris started across the street on impulse, trying to catch up. As soon as she reached the corner, she saw the car pull into the driveway of a lemon-colored house a quarter mile away. Delight had flashed through her when she glimpsed her old friend, and she’d started after her instinctively, but her footsteps slowed as she approached the house. The yellow house was farther than it looked and Jolene had almost finished unloading her groceries when Iris reached the mailbox at the end of the driveway.

  Her former friend had always been several inches shorter than her, and now she carried an extra ten or fifteen pounds on her hips and abdomen. Her hair was still blond and looked natural, caught up in a loose chignon. Wisps curled alongside her cheeks. She had on a peach-colored blouse and a challis skirt that skimmed her ankles. Her face wore its nearly forty years lightly, with only enough smile lines around her mouth and eyes to make her look adult, give her credibility in the classroom. Iris could suddenly see Jolene as a teacher and knew she was a good one. Catching her upper lip with her teeth, Iris wished she’d prepared something to say other than, “Let me help.”

  Jolene spun, skirt belling out, and an orange popped out of the bag she grasped, rolling to within a foot of Iris. The two women stared at each other, the silence seeming to expand, pushing them apart. Iris noted that the white rock chips in the beds edging the lawn were grimy, Jolene’s engagement ring was a small sapphire rather than the traditional diamond, and the sedan had rust patches and a loose bumper … all signs that her family lived with the simplicity the Community had always endorsed.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Jolene finally said, breaking the silence bubble and seeming much closer.

  “Me, either. It’s good to see you, I think.”

  Jolene half-smiled. “Ditto.”

  Stooping to retrieve the orange, Iris held it up.

  “Grab a bag,” Jolene said, nodding toward the open trunk. She headed through the one-car garage into the open door. Looping her fingers through four bags, Iris followed her, relieved that her former best friend didn’t seem to think that her unreconciled presence would permanently pollute her house. The kitchen continued the theme of reasonable austerity without deprivation with its plain oak cabinets, Formica-topped counters and tiled floor. Iris knew if she peeked in the cabinets she’d see Martha Stewart stoneware from Kmart, or the like, and a mish-mash of glasses and cups. Photos cluttered the refrigerator and Iris recognized younger versions of Rachel and Aaron from the co-op.

  “Tea, water?” Jolene offered.

  “I could use a beer.” Three-thirty wasn’t all that early for an adult beverage and Iris was about reunioned-out. Alcohol might make conversation with Jolene flow more smoothly.

  “We don’t drink.”

  Iris
felt faintly reprimanded, even though Jolene’s tone was, if anything, apologetic. “Ah, well, a glass of water would be great. I’d forgotten how dry it is here.” Unable to just sit, Iris began emptying the grocery bags, stacking canned goods on the table and putting produce near the sink.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Jolene said, plopping a couple of ice cubes in the water glass and handing it to Iris. As Iris took a long swallow, she continued, “Sooo … you’re Iris Dashwood now and you design jewelry. I like some of your pieces. Why do you make them so they irritate the wearer?”

  At Iris’s arched brows, she said, “I Googled you at school after Esther told everyone you were back.”

  “My pieces are wearable art.” Iris gave the answer she’d delivered many times before. “I didn’t want them to be ignored, treated like mere accessories.”

  “You want to control people’s reactions.”

  Jolene’s observation was a new one and it took Iris by surprise. She sidestepped it. “I met your kids yesterday. At the store.”

  “Do you have any—?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Jolene sighed, “I wouldn’t trade them for anything, but there’s no denying life is very different once you have kids. Full of love, but hectic and tiring and emotionally draining, especially once they get to be teenagers. No Broadway openings or jetting around the world getting ideas for jewelry designs.”

  Surprised by the note of dissatisfaction—even jealousy?—in her former friend’s voice, Iris said, “I’ve never been to a Broadway show and jewelry-making is more painstaking than glamorous.” She held up hands burned and scarred from working with sharp tools and solder.

  “My goodness.” Jolene inspected Iris’s hands. “I didn’t mean to imply—. I’d like to watch you work sometime.”

  “You’d be bored.” Silence fell and Iris felt compelled to break it. “You must have had Aaron about ten minutes after I left. I didn’t even know you were pregnant.” Aiming for a tone of mild interest, she was proud of herself for not sounding aggrieved.

  “I found out the day before you left,” Jolene said, her voice muffled as she stowed orange juice in the refrigerator. Cold, vaguely strawberry-scented air drifted out. She straightened and gazed directly at Iris. “When I told Zach, we—”

  “Zach? Zachary Brozek? You married Zach Brozek?” No wonder Aaron looked familiar. “I didn’t even know you and he were … I was your best friend!” Iris could hardly have been more shocked if Jolene had admitted that George Clooney fathered her baby.

  “Well, I guess we both had our secrets, didn’t we?” Jolene’s face closed down and she thrust a bottle of salad dressing into the refrigerator with more force than necessary. The open fridge door brought the photos closer to Iris and she now saw that several were of Jolene and Zach together and with the kids and Esther, and one featured a smiling Zach with his arm slung across the shoulders of a slighter, darker man who might’ve been a cousin.

  “You are not comparing dating a guy your own age with my being molested by his father, are you?” Iris asked, tired of dancing around the elephant in the room all day. Irritated as she was, it was a relief to say the words aloud. She held up a bottle of cumin and Jolene pointed toward a narrow rack beside the stove.

  Her jaw tight, Jolene bit out, “I’m sure you got some … satisfaction out of the relationship.” She looked appalled by the words the minute they left her mouth. “Iris, I’m—”

  Iris spun, the spice bottle slipping from her suddenly nerveless grasp to shatter on the floor. The aroma of cumin made the kitchen smell like a Delhi bazaar. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

  “We don’t use that kind of language in this house,” Jolene said, retreating behind primness.

  “Well, good for fucking you!” Iris’s chest ached with the strain of holding back tears and rage and confusion. Seeking an outlet, her hand closed over another bottle on the spice rack. She hurled it at the floor and it exploded in a cloud of glass splinters and cinnamon. It felt good.

  Jolene let out a tiny shriek.

  “I was fourteen when your father-in-law seduced me. Did you know that? Fourteen. He lured me to Outback Cottage, praised my drawing abilities, and talked me into working on a project with him. Those altar tapestries. You know the ones. He was always standing too close, rubbing up against me, but he was Pastor Matt, so I shoved aside my reservations. During our third rendezvous, he kissed me. He told me I was beautiful and talented. Classic pedophile technique, I’ve since learned.” She spit the words bitterly. “Isolate a child who feels ugly or unappreciated and make them feel special. Loved. Well, by our fourth meeting his tongue was in my mouth and his hands were down my pants. He—”

  “Stop!” Jolene’s voice cut through Iris’s words like a shrilling teakettle. “Stop. Please.”

  Iris clutched at the counter behind her to still her shaking hands, gazing at the mess on the floor. She felt ashamed about losing control and herded the bigger chunks of glass into a pile with her foot. Raising her eyes, she fixed them on Jolene. “Your daughter’s, what, sixteen? You should give thanks every day that her grandpa has been in a coma for twenty-three years, and not free to do to her what he did to me.”

  “Oh, no!” Jolene looked as if the idea had truly never crossed her mind. “He wouldn’t—”

  “Pedophiles don’t stop with one. I got too old for him, after all. He was losing interest by the time I got up the nerve to tell him if he touched me again I’d tell. I’m pretty sure he was doing Gabrielle Ulm by then. Where’s a broom?”

  “Little Gabby?” Jolene swayed. Her mouth opened slightly and her face twisted in a way that made Iris think she was going to reveal something important.

  When she closed her mouth again without saying anything, Iris said, “What?”

  Jolene shook her head. “I think you should go. I can clean this up.”

  Iris hesitated. “Look, I’m sorry.” For making a mess, for telling the truth, for upsetting your perfect life. “This isn’t the way I wanted things to go. I really came over to ask you about the night Pastor Matt was hurt. My father didn’t do it. He doesn’t belong in prison. I—”

  “I can’t do this right now, Iris,” Jolene said, pulling a broom from the pantry and wielding it so wildly that the spices tornadoed up. She coughed. “Not now. Rachel will be back any minute.”

  “When?” Iris’s tone said she wasn’t budging until she had a commitment.

  “Monday,” Jolene said. “I can meet you during my planning period.”

  twenty-three

  jolene

  Jolene shut the door behind Iris, and looked at the brown film of spices coating her kitchen with dismay. Tears leaked as she broomed up the mess. What a disaster! It had started out so well, the two of them talking civilly, like strangers meeting at a party. “What do you do?” “Do you have any kids?” But then … history intruded. Pastor Matt had come between them again. She’d made that stupid remark and Iris had, with some justification, gone through the roof. She’d wanted to hear what Iris’s life was really like, what had drawn her to jewelry design, whether she’d gone to college, who the important people in her life were. Instead—

  Rachel came in through the garage door and Jolene hastily wiped her eyes. “Whoa! Did I miss an earthquake?”

  “Some spices fell off the rack while I was putting the groceries away,” Jolene said, stooping to whisk the anthill of powder into the dustpan. “No earthquake. Don’t walk through it, though,” she said, as her daughter walked through the spice dust, leaving athletic shoe imprints.

  “Sorry,” Rachel said. She grabbed an apple from the crisper, polished it on her sleeve, and took a bite. “Homework. Later.” She disappeared down the hall and up the stairs.

  “Sure, later,” Jolene sighed. She considered reminding Rachel that her chores were still undone and her shift at the co-op started in an hou
r, but she didn’t have the energy. She had long suspected that good parenting was ten percent wisdom, ten percent patience, and eighty percent energy—enough to play with the kids when they were little, take care of their physical needs, listen to them, and make them toe the line with chores and manners and behavior and values. Exhausting. Now that Aaron and Rachel were older, it took a different kind of energy than the physicality required to lug strollers and change diapers—it took emotional energy—but it was still draining.

  She had mopped the floor, finished putting the groceries away, and was chopping onions to make black bean soup for dinner when Zach came in.

  “Mm, smells good in here,” he said, kissing the back of her neck.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and let the feel of him against her back stabilize her. His solidity was reassuring, comforting. Why did she sometimes find their domesticity and routine so confining? She said a prayer of thanks for her blessings and turned to kiss him on the lips, holding her oniony hands down and away. They pulled apart, both of them saying, “Guess who I saw today?”

  “Mercy Asher,” Zach said.

  “You mean Iris Dashwood. Let me finish this, you change, and we can talk on the deck. I’m getting a headache from the smell.”

  Zach kissed the top of her head and went upstairs to change. She could hear him greet Rachel, but couldn’t make out what Rachel said. With the soup simmering, she washed her hands, smoothed on the grapefruit-scented lotion that was one of her few indulgences, and poured two glasses of iced tea. Zach clomped down the stairs and they settled into the chairs on the deck. Jolene tried to let the peace of the evening sink into her, but found she couldn’t relax. While Zach filled her in on his time with Iris, she refilled the birdfeeder attached to the deck rail.

  “She wanted to know about that night, but I put her off,” Zach said, after describing their talk on the way to Mrs. Dorfmann’s. “I didn’t feel it was respectful of your privacy to tell her—”