by Dee Willson
In fact, several pieces fell into place. The day of the fall fair, when Thomas saw Bryce standing behind me, maybe that look wasn’t just jealousy. I think Thomas was shocked to see Bryce at the fair at all. I mean, why would he be there without his niece, who was supposedly home sick? I bet Thomas didn’t know Bryce had volunteered and would come without Sofia. Did Thomas pull the plug on Bryce’s day with Sofia when he heard I’d decided to take Abby to the fair? Was Thomas playing the game long before I imagined?
The lies just keep piling up, burying Thomas deep. Who the hell does he think he is?
A second wave of people crowds the bus, forcing me to make room. I shuffle down the aisle, trying desperately to protect the paper bag containing Abby’s masterpieces. The bus moves, heading to the main road, and I rise to my toes, hoping to catch a glimpse of Abby honing her flirting skills. All I can see is the fluorescent puff crowning her ear warmers as it bounces with the potholes.
Close to the school a toddler tugs my scarf. “Whath doth a new year mean?” he says between missing teeth.
I explain until the bus stops. We’re back in the school parking lot.
“Abby, wait outside the bus for me,” I yell around bodies.
People are gathering loose pieces of clothing, peering out windows to locate their cars in the parking lot, chatting with their kids. It takes forever to get off the damn bus, and when I do I search for Abby’s lime green parka and a head of red curls.
I don’t see either.
I stroll around the buses, calling, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
After the second lap I freak.
“Abigail Morgan, this isn’t funny. Where are you?”
I turn in circles, searching, inspecting anyone wearing green. I sprint across the parking lot, dodging cars blocking my path to Magic Carpet. When I get there, I don’t see Abby. A line of vehicles exits the parking lot. I run from child to child and car to car, bordering on hysteria, pushing people out of my way, no regard for pleasantries.
“Abby!” I run another lap around all three buses, pausing periodically to inspect the underbelly for hide-and-seek participants. There is no sign of her.
Climbing back onto bus six, I search under the seats, calling Abby’s name. She’s nowhere. “Abby!” My scream reverberates through the empty bus. Horrific thoughts bombard my head, visions too gruesome to absorb. I cover my mouth, my stomach threatening to explode.
I leap from the bus to run to the next one but stumble forward, falling into Ms. Bubbly. She flies sideways into a garbage can, shocked, and maybe hurt. I should care but I don’t.
Fuck resolutions.
“Abby!”
“Mrs. Morgan.” Ms. Bubbly says, righting herself. “What’s got you all worked up?”
I lower my head between my knees and suck a mouthful of air. The oxygen slows the spinning, enough for coherent thought. “I can’t find Abby. I’m an awful mother. I’ve lost her. I’ve lost her!”
“Your daughter was on bus six, Mrs. Morgan, she wasn’t left behind.”
“Abby was at the front of the bus and I was stuck at the back. She got off without me, and disappeared.”
“Well, she must be around here somewhere.”
“I’ve searched everywhere,” I say, breathing heavy. I might pass out.
Mrs. Bubbly peeks around the bus, tapping a headlight with her knuckles. “Maybe she’s hiding.” She climbs the stairs of bus six, calling out to Abby.
“I’ve already looked there. She’s not on the bus.”
My heart is beating a mile a minute. I’m trying to think straight but can’t. I’ve lost my scarf and gloves in the heat of the hunt. Where is my phone? I gotta call the police! I dig through coat pockets for my cell but only find car keys. The car. I left my cell charging on the passenger seat of Magic Carpet.
I run for the car like it’s a lighthouse in a storm, throw the door open, and lunge for my cell.
I’m begging my phone to hurry, to turn on faster, when Mrs. Bubbly rushes to my car out of breath. “Maybe Abby went home,” she says. “You live walking distance, don’t you?”
For a second I think that’s it, Abby’s walked home. How many times did I wander away from my mother when I was a kid? I need to get home. She’s there, safe and sound. Then I shake my head clear.
“Abby’s never walked home by herself.”
Ms. Rainer takes a hold of the car door. “You’d be surprised what a five-year-old can do,” she says. “They get a taste for independence and make decisions adults find rash.”
I study her, desperation clawing my gut. But for the teachers and parents searching the buses for Abby, the parking lot is almost empty.
“I’m calling the police.”
My phone finally comes to life. It beeps. There is a message, left a minute ago, titled Abby. Someone’s found Abby! Please tell me she’s somewhere safe. Please! The phone trembles in my hand as I listen to the message.
“Tess. Bryce here. I got your number from Karen. Look, ah . . . I’m hoping you know this . . . Abby’s at my place playing with Sofia. Abby said she asked for permission, but now I’m not so sure.” His voice wavers. “Anyway, she’s here. And if by chance you didn’t know that she . . . I’m sorry. I’ll call you again in a few minutes if I don’t hear from you first. Or come by whenever you wish.”
I grip the steering wheel for support. Bryce took Abby. He took her. He took her!
But Abby is safe. She lied about asking permission. She’s safe.
I turn and stumble from the car, landing on all fours beside Ms. Bubbly’s boots, where I puke, candy sprinkles and all.
The drive to the estate is a blur. I only know that I’m here and relief floods every vein. Abby is somewhere on the other side of this door. Before I even knock the door swings open.
“You!” I thrust a fisted hand at Bryce’s chest.
Bryce braces the doorframe. “I’m so sorry,” he says.
I storm past him into the foyer. “Abby, where are you?”
“She’s upstairs with Sofia,” says Bryce. “Nanna, my housekeeper, is watching them play. Look, you’re obviously upset and—”
“Upset? Upset? You have no idea how fucking upset I am!”
I prod his shoulder, pushing him backwards. He doesn’t say a word. I cup my face. It’s hot, flushed. My coat has disappeared. I should be cold but adrenaline has me heated to a sweat.
Bryce inhales deeply then releases it in a dramatic whoosh.
“Abby and Sofia told me they asked you for permission to come play here,” he says. “Abby claimed you said yes. I looked for you, but when I didn’t see you I figured you’d already gone home.” I just stare at him, trying to envision this scenario while making a willful effort to calm my nerves. “I didn’t think anything of it until we got here. I bought Sofia a dollhouse and the kid’s ran upstairs to play. I went to check on them and overheard them talking. Sofia was teaching Abby to say the word permission in French. Only then did it dawn on me that you might not have understood what she said if she asked you in French. Or that she might not have asked you at all.” He stops for a moment, catching his breath. “I called you immediately and left a message.”
He reaches out to me and I back up, banging into the wall. He flinches, his hand dropping to his side. “You have no idea how sorry I am.”
“Abby . . .”
“Abby is fine. Come in and relax a moment.” He motions for me to lead the way inside. “I don’t think you should drive in this state.”
I don’t move. I hear the faint sounds of children laughing but fury has a hold of my muscles.
“I know it’s no excuse,” says Bryce, “but I am new at this play-date thing. Sofia said her father lets her play with Abby all the time, so I thought it was okay. She begged to have Abby over to see her new dollhouse. You should see it. It’s cute. It’s got windows and these little wooden shutters that open and close, and a doorbell that chimes.”
I stare at him.
“She was beside herself with excitement, and I got caught in the moment, totally losing my wits.”
He attempts to take my hand but I pull away.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I never meant to scare you.”
“I should have you arrested.”
Bryce just looks away, obviously crushed.
I’m wrapped like a mental patient in a straitjacket, arms clinging to my chest, hands in fists so tight my knuckles are white. How appropriate. I draw a gust of air then hesitate for a moment, counting to ten.
Okay, I have control, I think. I lead the way into the kitchen, bypassing Bryce’s hand still floating midair.
“I need to speak to Abby,” I say. The oven’s heat reaches out to touch me as I pass. The smell of roasting poultry fills the room, but short of a dirty pot soaking in the sink, the kitchen is spotless.
“Of course.” Bryce attempts to draw my eyes. “May I suggest you take a moment first? You could blow any minute.”
I glare at him, rage bubbling to the surface.
“See,” he says, my instant indignation proving his point.
“You took my daughter.”
He frowns. “Let me get you a glass of wine. It’ll help calm your nerves.”
He escapes through the double doors.
My ears prick at a muffled voice. I raise my chin to the ceiling, my mind’s eye spying Abby through layers of plaster and flooring. That little lady is in big trouble.
Bryce enters the room with two glasses of white wine.
“My nerves are shot as well,” he says, raising a glass. His jaw muscles twitch. “I’ve never had a woman storm my house, guns blazing.”
He presents me with a glass. I don’t move so he places it on the granite beside me. He takes a swig and sighs, allowing me my silence.
The quiet grants me the chance to conduct a physical assessment. Stress has knotted my muscles into thick clumps that ache with the slightest of movements and a raging headache assaults my sinuses. My temper has subsided leaving an empty cavern that quickly fills with humiliation over my display of aggression. I lean forward, resting my forearms on the cool countertop. I close my eyes. Bryce allows me a moment, but his presence does strange things to my insides. My body pulls him in, an invisible array of connecting wires that feed off each other’s energy. Even in the utter quiet, I sense him inching closer.
“Hey now, relax,” he says, his voice a whisper.
The heat of his breath on my skin is euphoric. Gentle hands slide over my fists, their warmth alleviating tension. His fingers move in slow circles kneading taut skin and muscles, his chest rests against my back. A distant thought comes to me, foggy, something about another man, but serenity overwhelms my senses, forcing the images to dissolve into nothingness. Tranquility seeps from his body to mine, his existence coddling frayed nerve endings. I sink into him, resting the back of my head against his chin.
“Feel better now?” he asks.
I float within Bryce’s personal space, the stone countertop absorbing anxiety through my flattened palms. “You have no idea what I was thinking.”
“I might,” he mumbles.
“I couldn’t help but picture the worst. I thought I’d lost her. I thought someone had taken her. That I might never . . .”
“This is my fault. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
“Abby and I are going to have a serious talk about strangers.”
I have no clue what I’m going to say. My mother’s lectures usually had something to do with finding strangers to help me when she couldn’t, not avoiding them.
Bryce’s body deflates around me. “I’m not a stranger, Tess.”
He’s right, he’s not. But what is he exactly?
“I would never intentionally hurt you or Abby,” he says, pain entwined in every word. “Please tell me you know this.”
I don’t know how or why but I know this to be true. It’s a feeling from deep within my belly, a quiet, content feeling. I didn’t realize I was still holding tension, but it releases and I ease back the last bit into Bryce’s embrace. He lowers his head to my collarbone and rests his lips on my skin. It should feel intimate, too intimate, but it just feels natural, his breath warm and welcome. His hands gently grip my waist and in one fluid motion I’m turned and lifted, effortlessly, into a sitting position on the counter. My body tucks into his like a puzzle piece. We’re silent for a while, both of us taking quiet, controlled breaths.
Now, face-to-face, I can see silver sparks dance in his eyes. They’re beautiful, intoxicating, but not real. I’m about to say something but the subtle texture of his hand cradling my face brings thought to an abrupt halt. A stray tear slides down my cheek only to be caught by his caressing thumb. Exhaustion takes over my body, and my limbs feel too heavy to hold up. More tears follow the contours of my face, gathering at the base of my chin. Bryce wipes the collection with the back of his hand. His eyes lock on my wet lips. He leans in, softly gliding his lips over mine. The sensation draws my breath and he pulls back slightly, just enough for me to witness his mesmerizing silver-gray eyes.
I think he expects me to pull away but my body is paralyzed and I have no desire to move. This is all so new, yet familiar, like I’ve kissed these lips for a lifetime. I close my eyes, allowing other senses to govern my emotions. I take in the smell of wine on his breath, the feel of his hands on my lower back. I swear I can hear his heart pound through his shirt.
Bryce’s lips touch mine again, not really kissing, just sliding, tasting. His hand inches up my spine before becoming tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck. I’m torn between leaning into his mouth and surrendering to his hand. His breath catches and his lips follow the line of my jaw, dusting my ear. My head falls back, yielding of its own free will. The heat from his mouth makes me dizzy.
I can hear . . . what is that . . .?
Footsteps and laughter resonate off the walls, coming down the stairwell toward us.
Bryce’s body stiffens, hand dropping to the counter with a thud.
Abby bounds into view having passed over the bottom step entirely, and Sofia tumbles to fall in line beside her, both girls taking in our intimate stance, tension filling the air like a sentient being.
The cloak of serenity is suddenly gone, and I recall why we’re here.
“Time to go,” I say, pushing Bryce away and sliding from the counter.
“Mom—”
“Not a word.” I grab Abby, steering her toward the exit.
Bryce paces forward, not blocking my way but positioning himself to get my attention. “Please stay,” he says. “Join us for dinner.”
Anger is returning with a vengeance, so I need to leave before I do or say something I’ll regret. Bryce is no good for me, or Abby, and this fiasco only proves it. I escort Abby down the hall to the foyer where a quick scan shows no sign of her coat or boots. I lift her into my arms, throw open the door, and barge down the steps.
The crisp air bites but I barely feel a thing. I’m numb, confused.
Not another word is spoken . . . to Bryce or Sofia.
Talk to Me
New Year's Eve
I tuck Abby into bed, give Grams and Gramps a kiss goodnight, and hop into the taxi. Covering my bases, I hand the driver a ten before confessing our destination. Cabbies don’t like coming so far out of the city for such a small fare and ten dollars is generous considering the fare won’t be much more than two. Still, the driver gets pissy when I tell him the address of the party and that it’s technically eight houses down the street.
“The houses are far apart and nothing but acres of snow, dirt, and tree debris lies between them. To walk in the dark would be downright dangerous,” I explain.
He thinks I can trek the distance and is still idling in my driveway when I show him my Jimmy Choo red satin heels.
“Lady—”
“Cops found a dead woman around the corner less than a week ago. Unless you plan to drag my ass from your cab, I suggest you drive beca
use I am not walking.”
This shuts him up.
Every New Year’s Eve Karen and her husband throw a memorable bash. Well, Karen does. Her husband sulks in the corner nursing a gin and tonic while the hostess directs the festivities herself. I had wondered if Karen would cancel this year’s celebration due to Sonia’s murder investigation, but apparently the show really does go on and life resumes for the living. Even so, my attendance was in question until Karen called pleading. “You absolutely must come,” she said. “This is what friends do, they show up.” I wasn’t really in the mood for a party, but as far as friends go, Karen has been a good one, so I agreed to be there for her. “Besides,” she said, “if your best friends don’t show for your party, what does that say about you?”
Karen’s house is more of an estate. Not quite the size and grandeur of Bryce’s or several others in Carlisle, but large enough to deserve the title. A winding driveway lined with cedars ends at two stories of sand-gray brick and over six thousand square feet of designer style. Everything inside, outside, and around Karen’s house is the best. She has a world famous interior designer on retainer and a budget that allows her to purchase almost anything she wants. And she does just that.
I leave the driver with little fanfare and make my way to the front door, unlocked and labeled with a sign that reads, Party’s here, come on inside! The glass dining room table is covered with coats and more hang on chairs. The credenza holds a smorgasbord of party favors, the gold and silver tiara’s glittering in the candlelight. I add my coat to the pile and knowing my way around Karen’s house, head for the living room.
The place is packed.
“Nice turnout,” I say, sliding in beside the hostess.
Karen shrieks, throwing her arms around me for a hug. Her gown is emerald stones, to die for, the color making her dyed auburn locks pop.
“Chickpea,” she says, “you sure you’re going to be okay with the men here?”
“The men” would be Bryce and Thomas. Karen invited them weeks ago, long before the games. I don’t foresee a problem. I’ve had a reconciliation of sorts with Bryce, the kid thief, and Thomas the liar, well, if he shows I’ll avoid heavy conversation, saving it for a more appropriate time and place.
