Saving Tess

by J. Lynn Bailey

  It’s quiet for a moment.

  “So, what’s up with you and Tess?” Garrison has heard about Tess for years. “You shacking up in that little place in Alaska?”

  “Nothing like that. A business venture.”

  Garrison lets out a howl. “A business venture? Is that what you’re calling it now? Come on,” he says. “I know that girl has had your heart since way before we were friends. Just time you stop lying to yourself, bro.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, pick me up tomorrow. I’ll text you the flight time.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Hey, Garrison?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s all right.”

  We hang up, and I return to the kitchen and see two glasses of wine poured.

  “For me?” I ask, motioning to the wine.

  “For you,” she says.

  Not sure how much more wine I can take, but I don’t have the heart to tell her wine isn’t my favorite, so instead, I chug it down like a cowboy would. Quick.

  “So, who’s Garrison?” she asks, curious, sitting down on the stool.

  “Travel buddy. Started the circuit together. He’s more of a loose cannon, an in-the-moment kind of guy, guess you could say. But a damn good bull rider.” I set the glass by the sink and grab a Coors Light from the refrigerator.

  I see her grow uncomfortable under my stare.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She sighs and puts her wineglass to her lips. “This—I don’t know—seems to be our MO. We make dinner, drink some. Then, the night sits upon us, and the alcohol takes control. Then, we do things that—I don’t know—maybe shouldn’t happen among business partners.”

  I eye her and take a long swig of my beer. “Business partners?”

  Tess nods.

  I shake my head and move so close to her that her only choice is to stand from the stool.

  “Business partners?” I whisper.

  With her chest to mine, I can feel the power with each beat—either her heart or mine.

  I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend, and I can’t walk away anymore.

  “Let’s just get it over with and see where it goes,” I say.

  And with that, she takes my face in her hands and gives me her mouth.

  I take her ass in my hands and lift her up. Her legs wrap around my middle.

  Like we’ve done this before.

  Like our bodies are only meant for each other.

  “What about dinner?” she asks against my lips.

  “There’s only one thing I want right now, Tess—and it’s not dinner.”

  I hold her against me, and she feels me harden. She quietly whimpers.

  Our mouths explore each other’s as if we’d just met.

  She nips at my neck, and I melt under her taste.

  Holding her against me, I walk us to the back bedroom—her bedroom—and lay her down on the bed.

  After unbuttoning my shirt, I take hers off, and I see the lace of her bra and her panties as she shimmies off her pants and I put my body to hers.

  “Pants,” she says as she paws at my belt buckle.

  I almost crumble under her touch as I spring to attention in my boxers.

  She tugs me to her, and I groan in her ear.

  “Tess, I’m not sure how long I’m going to last.”

  I rest my head against her chest but can’t help myself. I take her breast in my mouth and tug at her nipple with my teeth.

  Her legs loosen around my hips.

  Tess reaches down and attempts to take my boxers off, but I stop her and moan.

  “Are you sure?” I pant. “Tess, this is what you want, right? The aftereffects of who we are too.”

  I look down at her. Her dark hair is sprawled across the pillowcase. She looks up at me with the same green eyes she did when we were kids and the first time I made love to her.

  “Yes.”

  Thank God.

  My mouth falls to hers as she finishes the job of getting my boxers off. Taking myself in my hand, I sit back on my knees and stare down at her.

  Her cheeks pink. I stroke myself and watch her as she takes her breasts in her own hands and watches me.

  I was good and hard before, but now, I’m aching for her. I move inside my hand as I watch her.

  “I’m afraid I’ll lose my shit, Tess, and I won’t get this view back again.”

  Pushing myself into my hand again, I gaze down at her. I run my free hand against her stomach and lower it to her middle.

  “Is that for me, Tess?”

  She’s completely wet.

  Tess pushes against my finger, which has made it into her folds.

  Before I dare give myself pleasure, I watch her shudder under my touch. I remove my hand from my shaft and bury my mouth between her legs.

  She calls out as I take all of her in my mouth. I flick my tongue against her knot, unhurriedly at first.

  I grow harder, and it hurts, listening to her pant.

  Tess takes the sides of my face and holds my head.

  Just at the peak of her arousal, I stop and only put the tip of me inside her. I slowly push in and out, only giving her a small taste of what she needs.

  She pulls her knees to her chest so that I have full access.

  Again with my tip, I tease her, and her eyes burrow into mine.

  “Oh God,” I say as I watch. “Wait. Wait. Wait.” I sigh, as this feels way too good, and when we orgasm, I want it to be from being inside her.

  She lays on her side. “Enter me like this. Wait. Wait. What about a condom?” she asks, and it almost kills me.

  I know why she wants the condom, and it isn’t because she doesn’t trust where I’ve been.

  I grab my wallet from my jeans, and she takes it from me, opens it, pinches the top, and rolls it on while I kiss her mouth.

  She assumes her position on her side and opens herself up from behind, and I slide inside her.

  “Casey!” she calls out against the pillow.

  “You’re so wet, Tess,” I hiss against her hair.

  Reaching around her, I get my fingers inside her folds and lightly rub the knot.

  I need to watch her when she comes, so I pull out. She moves to her back, and I slide inside her again.

  We watch each other move and break and bend. We make love against the night, against everything that’s wrong and everything that’s right.

  Friday morning comes too quickly. I feel for her in bed, but there are only cold sheets, remnants of our lovemaking.

  “Tess?” I sit up, only to find an empty room. I rub my eyes, trying to cling to the memories we made last night.

  I get out of bed, throw on my boxer shorts, and walk out to the kitchen.

  In my shirt, she’s making breakfast, and I allow my heart to fall even harder. She looks beautiful.

  “What on earth are you doing?” I smile, walk toward her, pull her hips to mine, and give her a long, slow kiss.

  “Waiting for you,” she says as I pull away. She eyes me up and down. “Looking good, Mr. Atwood.”

  “I could say the same to you, Ms. Morgan.”

  “Coffee?” she asks.

  I nod as she makes me a cup and slides the mug to me as I sit at the island.

  “I remembered all the little things,” she says.

  “Little things?”

  “I remember all the little things you used to do for me. Like bring me a coffee when you knew I was working late at the Dillon Creek Movie House. Or walk me home at night if I was helping out at The Whiskey Barrel.” Tess laughs. “It was Dillon Creek, and I was quite safe to walk alone, but now, I know why you did it.”

  I take a sip of coffee. Smile against the memory.

  “I remember the night after we made love for the first time.” Her voice grows hoarse. “You took a fall off a bull that cost you a sprained ankle.”

  I remember.

  “And now, I can’t believe I did this to you, Case. You
’re preparing for the finals, and I can’t be the mistake that allows it all to slip away.”

  Wait. What?

  “Mistake?” I blurt out because I’m pissed she’d use a word like that to describe us.

  “We can’t let that happen again, not until you’re done with the finals. I can’t—” But she can’t finish the sentence. I see the tears fill her eyes and the vulnerability. “I can’t lose you this time, Casey. No matter how we feel, we lost—”

  Before she can finish the sentence, I come around the corner and take her into my arms, and she melts into me.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me, Tess.”

  But truth be told, something could, and it might.

  23

  The Ladybugs

  Erla is up early, as she always is. She’s up before the sun and in bed well after she should be.

  It felt good to talk to Dr. Cain. Just to talk to someone. Millie, the dog, knows far too much for her own good, and she’s a good listener. She’s curled up in Don’s chair when Erla comes out to the living room, coffee in hand.

  She sees the card the doctor gave her from the grief group next to her chair.

  “Good morning, old girl.” She gives Millie’s head a pat and then makes her way to her chair.

  It’s been a few weeks since she talked to Doc. Since then, bright yellow sticky notes—reminders, as she likes to call them—adorn the refrigerator, the coffeepot, cupboards, countertops, canisters, and stove.

  Two nights ago, she left the stove on and wondered why her house was burning hot when she got up in the morning.

  Erla retrieves her yellow legal pad from the small shelf underneath the table that separates her and Don’s chairs.

  Dying, most days, just seems like a better option.

  But Scarlet and Devon—what would they do without her? It would break Scarlet’s heart, but eventually, she’d move on; she’s young enough. Devon? Erla isn’t so sure. She is already angry with Erla for not telling her that Toby Lemon is her biological father. She was so furious with Erla that she didn’t even attend Don’s service. But Erla also knows her daughter, and regret is an awful thing to carry on one’s shoulders.

  There’s a million and one ways to die, but Erla wants to be discreet, cause the least heartache, in making her exit from this world. Erla likes the drowning idea, as morbid as it is.

  1. To do before accidental drowning in Eel River.

  —Find car that no one can trace back to me.

  —Cement blocks.

  —A rope.

  —Pay up all bills to the first of the month.

  —Update will with Twila.

  —Donate all junk to Tabitha’s.

  Tabitha’s is a Seventh-day Adventist thrift store in Fortuna, but she knows her church, her pastor, would understand. Everybody knows there’s one God in religion—for the most part. And besides, First Christian Church doesn’t have a thrift store, so Tabitha’s is the next best thing.

  Erla runs into a problem. Eel River gets fairly low in the summertime, and she could get found out. They’d know it was a suicide when they discovered the cement blocks and the rope. But maybe by then, when the river begins to dry, all that will be left of Erla Brockmeyer is a pile of bones and no DNA to trace back to her. What if her DNA was left behind though? The whole town would be talking about Erla’s suicide. And she sure doesn’t want to be one of those souls that gets stuck between the real world and heaven because of unfinished business.

  Erla winces. And not to mention, suicide is a sin! Oh Lord. Wouldn’t that be just her luck?

  All she wants is to be with her husband again.

  As the sun begins to rise, Erla realizes this plan must have every inch of detail covered, and if she can’t, then she ought not carry it out.

  Her phone rings, and it scares the wits out of her. It’s just after six in the morning. Who could be calling her at this hour?

  “Hello?” Erla whispers into the kitchen phone.

  “Hello? Erla? Why are you whispering?” Mabe asks.

  Erla isn’t sure why she was whispering.

  “Are you in bed?” Mabe asks.

  “No.”

  “Are you up?”

  “Now, I am.”

  “Were you up before I called?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I interrupt you?”

  What in the world would Erla tell Mabe if she asked what she’d interrupted her from?

  So, she lies instead, “No.”

  Boy, she has really been pushing it with God lately.

  “Can I come over for coffee? I can’t sleep.”

  “Sure.”

  It’s not five minutes later that Mabe arrives in the dark.

  Mabe takes one look at the kitchen. “Why do you have sticky notes everywhere?”

  Erla panics. “Reminders.”

  Erla pours Mabe a cup of coffee, praying she won’t ask any more questions. She adds a splash of creamer, just like Mabe likes it.

  She hands the cup to Mabe, and they go into the living room.

  Thank goodness Erla hid the legal pad back in its rightful spot.

  Mabe picks up Millie, sits down in Don’s chair, and sets Millie back down on her lap.

  “Why can’t you sleep?” Erla asks.

  “A lot on my mind, I guess.”

  Mabe really can’t sleep because she’s convinced Chief McBride knows it was Mabe out there in the field that night. She should turn herself in. But did she really do something wrong? Sure, it was despicable, what she did. Selfish. Awful really. But the nightmares that arrive every night are Mabe’s punishment.

  Could she go to prison?

  She was on the scene, yes. However, she wasn’t driving the Jeep. She might know more than most know. There was a third person, and that person was driving—the person who was never discovered after the accident, who walked away from the scene somehow. But in order to come clean with all this, Mabe must face the music.

  That she was there.

  That she’s the one who walked away.

  The whole town would blow up in smoke. An idea, a split between town—who was driving the night and who wasn’t. Quietly, sides were taken after the accident. The Morgans blamed the Atwoods since it was assumed that Conroy was driving because it was his Jeep. Mabe didn’t really make out the third person, but she definitely noticed the features were more womanly than manly.

  Millie’s movement in the chair brings Mabe to the present moment.

  “Four hours of sleep is my limit these days,” Erla sighs. “I’m tired, Mabe. Do you ever feel like you’re exhausted from life and all you want is to go to sleep and not wake up?”

  Mabe is quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” she says, remembering what it was like when John and Francine died. Most days, she just wanted to die too. But a quiet voice inside her kept saying, There are big plans for you. You need to stay put.

  “It’s been a good run. I’ve had a great life, but I’m awfully tired.”

  Mabe is hesitant. She needs to tell someone. Someone she trusts. Someone who won’t breathe a word to anyone else. Mabe thinks maybe this, her telling Erla, could be a practice run for if and when she talks to the chief. But everybody will know that Mabe Muldoon let the boys die in the field that night. Her heart becomes overwhelmed with sadness. Guilt.

  “Do you think that we make it to heaven even if we made some wrong turns in life, Erla?”

  Erla feels the panic begin to build. Does Mabe know she’s contemplating suicide? She must know or else why would she have asked such a real question?

  “I don’t know. But I’d like to think so.” Erla feels as though she might be sick. “Excuse me, Mabe.” And Erla goes to the bathroom.

  Mabe takes this opportunity to set Millie back down on the chair. She walks into the kitchen to read Erla’s sticky notes.

  Pay water bill on the 25th of each month.

  Did you turn off the oven?

  Does Millie have food?

  Is your car in t
he garage?

  Derrick is the name of the guy who mows your lawn. He drives a red pickup truck.

  Pay the cable bill on the 15th of each month.

  Pay the mortgage on the 1st of the month.

  Have you taken Millie out to go potty?

  Give Millie her flea pill on the 10th of each month.

  The Ladybugs meet on the last Tuesday of the month.

  And when Mabe reads the last sticky note, she knows there is something awfully wrong with Erla: The Ladybugs meet the first Tuesday of every month at noon sharp.

  When Mabe hears the door open, she quickly walks back to the living room and scoots Millie over, and when she leans to the left, she sees a legal pad of paper underneath the table. Accidental drowning in Eel River with notes below it.

  Dear God, Erla, what are you doing?

  Mabe feels her heartbeat accelerate. Her mind begins to spin with questions.

  Would Erla Brockmeyer off herself?

  Does she have a drinking problem too?

  Was it written by someone else?

  Erla comes back into the living room, sits down, and sips her coffee.

  Would a normal person in their right mind sip coffee after writing something like that?

  Mabe’s face grows hot when she thinks about asking Erla about it. She reflects on a time when Erla helped save Mabe’s life.

  “Erla?” Mabe says.

  “Yeah?”

  Silence sits between the two old women like fog. It hangs, looms, hovers.

  “Never mind.”

  Mabe knows better than to ask Erla this. Of course it isn’t Erla’s legal pad. It didn’t look like her handwriting.

  “Your coffee is getting cold,” Erla says.

  Mabe already asked once about the sticky notes. She’ll wait for Erla to say something about it—if she does. Mabe sips her coffee and waits for the world to light up once again.

  That’s what Erla needs, Mabe thinks to herself. She just needs some light.

  Later that day, Mabe is pruning her prize-winning flowers when the phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Mabe. It’s Patty.”

  “Hello, Patty.”

  “Listen,” Patty says. Her voice is so soft that a church mouse can squeak louder. “My husband wants to take me on a getaway for the weekend.”

  Mabe listens.