by Grace Greene
I closed my eyes and tried to count to ten, to control my breathing, but before I could, more words burst out. “I lost more than love and trust. I had dreams for our marriage, for our future—of us together. Our future. Our family. When you found out what he was doing, instead of telling me, you went to him. Did you truly believe he’d come to me and confess all? That I’d forgive him and we’d move forward? Ha. Not likely. No, you went to him. And you can tell me from morning to night—you can assert it until you are breathless and die of suffocation—that you weren’t thinking, hoping, he’d turn to you, and I won’t believe you. I suppose I can give you credit that you didn’t cheat with him, but you did cheat on our friendship in ways that are unacceptable to me. You’re right: I don’t give a damn about you. When I look at you, all I see is my lie of a marriage, the death of my hopes and dreams. I see lies, Victoria. You. You are the living embodiment of the lies that killed Niles, nearly killed me, and stole my hopes and dreams.”
I turned away and ran to the house. I’d exposed myself—and unnecessarily. I’d abraded my emotional wounds, so recently healed, but the flesh was tender, and now it was burning and screaming again. My head pounded, and lights were flashing in the backs of my eyes. I’d thought all that leftover crap, the physical manifestations from the accident, were gone—what I’d called the light-and-sound show. The accident that had taken Niles’s life and nearly my own had left those artifacts behind in place of my lost child. It all flooded back now. Summoned by Victoria’s reckless self-centeredness.
I headed straight up to my room. The early-evening light, still strong, streamed in. I flinched. The light hurt my eyes. Sharp pains shot through my brain. I rushed to the nightstand. This time it wasn’t about being alone or needing to sleep. This was flooding, overwhelming pain. I opened the drawer and grabbed a pill bottle. Twisting the cap off, I spilled the pills onto my palm and grabbed one of the white ones—the strongest ones. I tossed it into my mouth knowing I couldn’t dry swallow it, and I headed for the bathroom, drinking water straight from the faucet, choking and coughing when the powder still clung to the back of my tongue. I drank some more.
Did I think I could outrun it? The headache? The past? Mistakes? It didn’t work. The pain in my head grew worse. My thigh seized up, and even the long-healed injury to my arm chimed in.
I returned to the drawer. I knew better than to take a second pain pill, but desperate, I took it anyway, and then a blue one. Not much more than an over-the-counter sleeping pill, I told myself. It would add that little extra push to the white pills to get me past this.
Whatever that burst of frantic energy had been, possibly adrenaline, it was easing. My breathing had slowed, and my heart felt steadier. I stood at the top of the stairs, which looked hazy and seemed steeper than usual. I flexed my leg to ease my thigh—I needed to find my cane. Holding the rail, I limped carefully down the stairs.
The headache . . . the thigh . . . this was no more than a minor setback. A result of an emotional shock to my system that would soon pass.
Downstairs, especially here in the front of the house this late in the day, the light was dim. The wood floor, the wood paneling, it all seemed to ground me to my surroundings in a secure, reassuring way. In the cool dark of the sitting room, I stretched out on the sofa.
I tucked the throw pillow under my head, then pulled the sofa blanket down. I didn’t need the blanket because the air was chilly but because I needed to hug it to me, to cover my face and curl my body around it. In that semidark cocoon, I heard a car engine rev and then the sound of tires against the dirt-and-gravel driveway and knew Victoria was gone.
Good riddance.
Keeping my eyes closed, I tried to empty my mind of noise and light and ugly words. I heard the smooth, even tones of Seth’s voice telling me to make decisions only in the morning. After the morning, it was work, work, work, but no decisions. No questions. No doubts. I heard Will’s voice asking me if he’d done wrong to help Victoria find me this afternoon . . . and talking about medallions and gardens.
Good thing Seth wasn’t here. He would be very disappointed in how I was handling this. I didn’t want to see Niles either—my cheating, now-dead husband. And I certainly didn’t want to see Victoria.
I wanted to see my dad. No, he hadn’t been perfect, but he would’ve helped me as he always had, to the best of his ability. Who could ask anyone for more than that?
In my half sleep, I felt the gentle pressure of hands on the blanket where it was stretched, entwined around my arm and over my head. Even in that half-dream state, I didn’t believe they were real hands but rather more of a wished-for comfort. I was an adult, a grown woman. But still young. And my life was empty. Alone.
Empty. Alone. Those thoughts didn’t even feel like my own. More like shared thoughts, shared experiences—like those hands—and as whispery as that sensation had been and as swift as their absence, those thoughts, too, felt like something left behind, perhaps in haste, and abandoned.
I tugged the blanket down, freeing my face and arms. There was no sense of anyone else here. Just me. I rolled over and pushed myself upright, scouring my face roughly with my hands. It felt a little numb. Definitely cotton mouth. A small wave of nausea rushed through me. A medication hangover. The headache was mostly gone. But I was utterly embarrassed by my weakness and my fear.
It was pitch dark. What time was it? How long had it been since I’d shrieked at Victoria and fled into the house?
Because yes, in all honesty, I had shrieked and fled. Victoria had been right—I would’ve done almost anything to make her go away, to avoid reliving bad memories over and over. I greatly resented that she’d made me say those hard words and hadn’t left on her own. If she had, we could each have moved on with a little dignity.
I stood too quickly, and the world flipped; I fell, hitting the wood floor hard. After a long moment of rolling nausea and shock at my legs failing me, I pushed myself upright, keeping my hands flat against the floor.
More of those pills, and I might’ve had a bigger problem. Overdose seemed too strong a word, and yet here I was . . . sitting on the floor where I’d fallen and trying not to puke. A new low. How proud my father would be. How lucky I was not to have a witness.
I tried to orient myself amid the ladders and tools. They looked foreboding in the dark, almost like they had secret identities I wasn’t supposed to see. The light around me was weak, but enough starlight filtered in to show me the general outlines of the chairs and other furniture. The floor was hard and cold. Dad and I were supposed to have shopped for rugs together. He’d written it on his list, and then he’d put it in his pocket along with a stubby little pencil that looked like it had come from a golf course.
I rubbed my eyes. This time I stood slowly and carefully, testing my legs. I was okay. I steadied myself against a wall. A dull headache and a touchy stomach remained. There was no clock here in the sitting room, and I’d left my phone somewhere. I was hopeless about keeping track of it. Maybe it was a subconscious desire not to be in touch or accessible to the outside world. I’d intended that thought as a silent jest but shivered, suspecting it was truer than not.
Was it the middle of the night? Early middle or late middle? Bracing myself with a hand against the wall, I trudged along the hallway to the kitchen. I pulled the fruit water from the fridge. I didn’t need a glass. I stood there and drank it straight from the jug. It dripped down my chin and onto my shirt.
Not like me, I kept thinking. And then I’d think, Just like me. This was me in the middle of the night in a vast, empty house after yet another angry encounter with my one and only old friend. Former friend.
I’d been willing to do or say whatever it took to make her leave me alone. And I’d run to that drawer and those pill bottles. So willingly. Maybe even eagerly.
The nausea rolled through me again.
I slid down. The back of my shirt snagged against the rough doors of the lower cabinets. I continued holding the pitcher and d
idn’t spill it, but it was a wonder. I felt as boneless as a puddle. Was this my lowest point? Could I go lower?
Probably. I didn’t want to find out.
I pushed my hair out of my face and wiped my wet chin against my forearm.
Self-pity? Guilt?
How much of what Victoria had said was true? Some of it. Did that mean I was in the wrong? I asked myself, Did it matter?
Dangerous, she’d said. But if people saw something in me that wasn’t there—something that gave me a . . . a presence that they misunderstood—then that was on them. Not me.
Not my responsibility.
I rubbed my eyes. I wanted to sob. I wanted the pain, the hurt, to build to the point where I could release that pressure, but it wouldn’t happen. My crying time was past. Assigning fault was a fool’s game. I had to find a way to move on, but Victoria . . . she wouldn’t let go. Right and wrong and common sense didn’t seem to play much of a part in it.
She’d said she wanted to apologize, and she’d waved that stupid book at me. I understood she wanted forgiveness. She didn’t need forgiveness from me or anyone. Forgiveness was meaningless. You still had to live your life one way or the other.
Stuff happened, and you just had to find a way to move on. Right?
Seth had said to make decisions only in the morning. Before or after that—ignore them. I repeated that concept like a lifeline and gave myself permission to put any questions or introspections aside until true morning arrived. I was done in.
The clock over the stove said morning would be arriving in a few short hours. It was after three a.m., and Moore Blackwell was going to be here around eight.
I groaned. Why was it that some people attached a weird sort of virtue to beginning their day so soon after dawn? Barbaric practice.
The fruit water was working its hydrating magic. I felt it reaching my brain and the cells throughout my body and drank more. At first the nausea increased, but then it rapidly subsided. After a few minutes my mouth and throat felt more acceptable. I made it to my knees and then to my feet. I left the water jug on the counter.
My phone was on the top of the piano. I set the alarm then and there. In the morning, other than by the purplish circles under my eyes, no one would know how truly dark my night had been—unless I overslept and the wallpaper crew couldn’t get in or the kitchen renovator was locked out. Will might even have a question about the work outside. Three hours or so of civilized sleep in my bed instead of crumpled up on the sofa wasn’t much, but it would have to do.
As I turned toward the foyer and the stairs, I heard a tiny squeak from outside. It sounded suspiciously like the bench.
I stood in the dark and listened. Hearing nothing more, I walked softly to a window facing the porch. The night outside was well lit by moonlight and starlight. I stared out and saw a large shape move on the bench.
A bulky figure. But so like a dark shadow that I wouldn’t have been able to distinguish it if the figure hadn’t moved.
Victoria. She’d never left.
I wanted to pretend I hadn’t seen her. I was too tired. I needed to go upstairs and get some sleep. Ignore her. Take care of myself. I could deal with her later.
I flipped on the porch light, opened the front door, and stepped out.
Victoria had squeezed herself into a cramped sleeping position on the bench. Various clothing items were half-pulled across her, and a mostly empty duffel bag was abandoned on the porch floor. After a quick scan of the scene, I shook the bench. Hard. Victoria stirred, and the clothing covering her shuddered and slid. She rose up on her elbow. Her dark hair was in tangles. The yellowish glow from the porch light gave her flesh a sickly cast.
“What?” she said, startled and pushing the hair from her face. “Oh. You.” She pushed herself the rest of the way upright with a loud groan. “Don’t yell,” she said. “I have a headache. And a neck ache. And an everything ache. I also have a broken car.”
I tried to process her last words. “Broken?”
She was sitting upright now. She rubbed her hands over her face. “I was leaving yesterday after . . . after our talk, and the car stopped halfway up your driveway. I called a repair shop, but no one could come check it out until today. I walked back here thinking to ask for help, but you never came outside, and frankly I didn’t have the nerve to knock on the door.” She dropped her hands and fixed her stare on me. “I sat here to wait.”
“On my bench.”
“Where else? Nothing is within walking distance around here.”
I gave a long, disgusted look at the clothing that was now spread from her to the bench and the floor.
“It wasn’t cold,” she said, “but I had no protection from the gnats and moths and mosquitoes and other things I don’t want to think about. I was their banquet. So I pulled all this stuff out to cover myself with.”
I knew what I must say but couldn’t speak the words aloud. They lodged in my throat. Instead, I went to the door, held it open, and gestured silently and begrudgingly toward it.
“Seriously? Do you mean it?”
She waited only a second before apparently deciding that my wordless response equaled assent. She grabbed up the clothing, snagged the duffel bag, and hastened inside. She paused at the foot of the foyer stairs and looked at me.
“You know the way.” I hoped my face expressed the distaste that I might not have conveyed strongly enough in my tone.
She looked away but climbed the steps. She did know the way. Apparently she even knew the way to get invited into the house.
Not fair, Kara.
Had her car really broken down? Would she have slept on the hard, cramped bench if she’d had a choice? Why not sleep in her car?
Because I wouldn’t find her there and feel pity . . .
I might be foolish, but I wasn’t stupid. Not generally.
She could leave in the morning—either in her repaired car or by begging her mother or brother for a ride. In the meantime, however stubborn I could be, this was the middle of the night, and I was too exhausted to fight.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Things did look better come morning. I was up early enough—just barely—to grab a shower and dress before any of the workers arrived. I would waste no time fretting over Victoria. There was no need for me to even speak to her. She’d be gone as soon as her car was moving—whether under its own power or being towed.
I’d done the decent thing. I’d helped her without having to forgive her or even be kind. Just the basic courtesy of helping someone in need. She might have been a stranger. And that was how I chose to think of it.
Despite the awful night and some lingering ill effects—a slight headache and a touchy stomach—my heart was lighter. It made no sense, but I went downstairs feeling pretty good about things.
And found the front door already wide open.
The floors had long been covered with tarps and paper, and the scaffolding felt almost like a house fixture. I didn’t recognize the young man carrying a ladder inside. He smiled cheerfully, deposited the ladder, and waved before ducking back out. I thought he must be working for Moore.
Looking at the gear, hearing men’s voices outside, I stood on the last stairstep, assessing.
No one had been able to get inside before without me unlocking the door and inviting them.
And then it hit me—Victoria. She’d let them in.
Victoria was surely already up and out—probably at her car with, or waiting for, a mechanic. I walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. I needed coffee. I caught the aroma of it wafting past me on its way out the open door.
It was already brewing. It smelled wonderful.
Victoria again.
I was pouring myself a cup when Moore Blackwell joined me.
“Coffee?” I offered.
“No, ma’am. Swore off it a couple of years ago. The caffeine amps me up too much, and I don’t see the point in the decaffeinated brew. Gave it up when I gave up smoking.”
&nb
sp; “Really? That must have been a difficult time.”
“Expect it was. Perhaps more for my wife than it was for me.” He gave a short sandpaper-sounding laugh. “When it’s convenient, let’s take a walk and talk about where we’re at with the wallpaper?”
“Now is fine.”
“Are you doing well?”
I frowned, and then it cleared. “You mean about my father?”
“Yes, ma’am. I know the loss isn’t as fresh as it was, but I don’t want to be tripping any live wires, if you know what I mean.”
“No worries.”
“Glad to hear it. If you need to avoid certain topics or whatever, just give me a wink, and I’ll veer off.”
My lips twitched. A wink? I wouldn’t laugh, though the image of me winking at this tall wrinkled man with his gravel voice to warn him away from sensitive subjects just about tickled me into fits of laughter. How long had it been since I’d had a good laugh?
The unexpected. The ironic. I’d always had a taste for it. I’d be able to laugh at myself, too, once I got back into control of my life.
Moore said, “Dining room is done. Chip is about done with the parlor paper. He’ll float plaster over what can’t come down without damage. You’ll never know the difference.” He pointed at the sitting room. “We’re about to start in there. Unless you’ve changed your mind about it.”
“Take it down.”
“Those vignette scenes are nice. If I can save some larger pieces of it, might you want to use those in some way? Maybe frame them or such?”
“I love that idea, Moore. Anything else, I’ll be working in that room for a while. Just yell.”
I shut myself into the middle room. I felt safe here. Safe from what? From emotional upheaval and fights and whatever else might come at me. The morning was half-gone before I wondered again about Victoria. I got up to stretch my legs and walked out onto the front porch.
