Scrapbook of Secrets

by Mollie Cox Bryan

  She wasn’t ready to be a mother, she had told Bill all of those years ago.

  “But we can do it. We’ll get married and I’ll graduate in two semesters. I’ll pass the bar,” he said to her.

  “Bill, I love you. I truly do, but I’m not ready to get married and have a baby. I’ve been working my whole life to be here and work as a dancer. I can’t do this right now,” Vera told him.

  What she hadn’t told him was that it was only a fifty-fifty chance that he was the father. She had met a dancer from Brooklyn during her last show, and Tony was long gone by the time she knew she was pregnant. He was on the road with a Broadway show. He called her a few times and sent a couple of scorching letters.

  She and Bill had been going steady for years when she met Tony. From the minute she saw his huge, deep brown eyes, she knew she wanted to sleep with him, but she would not admit that to herself. It was the late 1980s, and she was in the thick of the arts and dance communities. Even though sex was everywhere—she had only slept with Bill. She always believed sex was part of love. It was the Southern good girl in her. She could never shake it. As much as she wanted to be young, hip, and loose, she was who she was. So love came with sex.

  But love had nothing to do with the way she felt about Tony. It was as if something reached inside her and made her insides twist. When they were partnered for a very sensual dance, every move was like torture. He held her hand and she felt sparks. He touched her hip and she just wanted to wrap her strong legs around him. When their eyes met, her heart leaped—just like in the romance novels she used to read. When he smiled, showing off deep dimples, it hurt so much that she sometimes could not look at him. When she leaned against him one night—they were all alone in the studio and it was late—she felt his erection. And there was no denying it. She reached up and touched his dark hair, which was soft, even though it was wet with sweat.

  “Tony—”

  “From the minute we touched, I felt something. Did you?” he asked breathlessly.

  She nodded her head. She was sweating and her heart was racing. They had been dancing all night. But as he lifted her to him and lodged her against the wall, her legs automatically found their place around him. Effortless. Sublime.

  There was a reason they were partnered in the show—their bodies suited one another’s. And as they found out that night, no partnering could have ever been more sweet.

  As she looked into her husband’s eyes now, she wished she could dwell in the comfort of knowing she had made the right choice. She touched his face, now streaming with tears. “Oh, Bill,” she said. Suddenly she realized everybody else had left the room, including her mother. He was the one she chose; the one who chose her. She made a life with him and never really regretted it, but she sometimes longed for the abandon she had felt in Tony’s arms. And now she would be blessed with a child. It was the child she should have had years ago.

  Chapter 17

  Ben and Sam were running around in the front yard with no clothes on. Completely naked. Annie couldn’t help but laugh as she saw her husband chasing them around the yard. He wielded a huge water pistol, which was squirting them.

  “Ahh,” he said, noticing her at the gate. “Finally. Help!” He fell down on the grass and the boys pounced on him.

  Annie opened the gate and jumped on her boys, rolling over the grass.

  “Mommy! Mommy!” She smiled, feeling the cool grass on her skin. It had been quite a day. The memorial service, almost passing out, visiting with Beatrice, and then heading to the hospital to see a pregnant Vera.

  “Who’s hungry?” she said to them. Of course, they all were.

  They started to file into the house, and Mike grabbed her, kissed her, and patted her on the behind. “I missed you,” he said.

  “I bet,” she said. “It’s been all of four hours, Mike. And I’ve had a day and a half.”

  “Really? I saw an ambulance and wondered about that.”

  “It was Vera. She passed out at the reception. It turns out she’s pregnant. Quite the miracle story,” she said, with her eyes meeting Mike’s. Having babies still felt like a privilege to them—whereas so many of their friends just took it in stride.

  It took Annie and Mike years of trying to get pregnant. Finally, after a diagnosis and treatment of endometriosis, Annie became pregnant, only to suffer a series of miscarriages. Finally her Sam was born. Such a blessing to carry him to term—and she wished for the same joy for Vera.

  “And I also chatted for a while with Vera’s mom. You know, the woman who owns that beautiful pink-and-blue Victorian house? We sat out in her garden. Speaking of gardens, I’d like to plant one.”

  “What? What kind of garden?”

  “A hummingbird garden. We sat and watched them on her porch. It was fascinating. Oh, and she lent me this book,” she said, and held up the book as they walked into the house. She glanced around her home and looked at her husband. “Quite a day, huh?”

  Clothes and toys were scattered all over the living room, and dishes were piled in the sink—why not the dishwasher? It was less than a foot from the sink.

  Mike looked at her sheepishly. “I wanted to spend time with the boys,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t pick up, but we had good quality time together.”

  Annie wanted to scream. Did he not think she had good quality time together with the boys? How did he think the dishes got into the dishwasher? The towels got folded and put away? She managed to do that stuff when they were napping or eating or in front of the television. It took careful maneuvering.

  She took a deep breath. “I’ll get supper as soon as I clean up the kitchen a bit,” she said flatly, and left Mike standing in the living room.

  “C’mon, boys,” she heard him say. “We need to pick up these clothes and toys.”

  Why did she have to get angry in order to force him into action?

  She started running water over the cereal bowls, with bits and pieces of cereal already hardened on them, and the sippy cups, smelling like grape juice. Sweet, sickening smell, she thought. And the stickiness drove her mad. After she placed the dishes in the dishwasher, she looked out the window.

  Yes, that’s where I’ll plant my hummingbird garden, in that corner. Just a small space at first. Nasturtiums along the fence. Foxgloves. Cosmos.

  What else did Bea tell her? Dahlia. Oh, yes, Annie loved dahlias. She thought she’d get some red dahlias if she could find them. A bright little red feeder in the middle of it all.

  “Annie, I wanted to tell you that I enjoyed looking at that scrapbook,” Mike said as he brought in more dishes and handed them to her. She stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “Dishwasher,” she said, pointing to it.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, and smiled weakly. “But you’re standing right there.”

  “So are you, Mike,” she said.

  “Well, okay,” he said, and put the dishes in the dishwasher. “Ta-Da! There.”

  “So,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm, leaning on the kitchen sink, “you liked the scrapbook.”

  “Yes, I thought you did a great job on it. I liked the way you tore off pieces of postcards that related to the things in her book. The wedding journal entry was a classic, eh?”

  “Yes, sort of heartbreaking, considering that her husband probably beat her,” she said, turning to fill a pan with water.

  Spaghetti, she thought, is going to be my savior tonight. Everybody will eat it. It’s easy to make, and it will go really well with the bottle of wine I’m going to down.

  “She had to know that before she married him,” he said.

  “I dunno. You’d think so, wouldn’t you? They were married right out of college. She was probably already pregnant.”

  “Aha,” he said.

  “Maybe it all just happened after they were married, living in the same place together, with all of the stresses of—” she began to share her observations, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. The boys ran, giggling, to the door. They hardly e
ver received company.

  When Annie and Mike came to the door, a stranger awaited, wearing a sharp dark-blue suit. Had Annie seen him at the memorial service? He held up a police badge.

  “Good afternoon, I’m Detective Adam Bryant. May I come in?”

  Chapter 18

  When Annie told the Cumberland Creek scrapbookers that Detective Bryant was coming to the next crop, they decided to meet a little earlier than usual. Sheila ordered Chinese and they skipped out on dinner at home.

  “Now, can someone fill me in on what happened at the reception? I mean, all I remember is talking about murder, feeling like I needed fresh air, and then nothing,” Vera said.

  “Murder?” DeeAnn said, placing her plastic fork down.

  Sheila grimaced. And the women looked at one another.

  “You and your big mouth,” Sheila said under her breath, brushing a noodle from her burgundy Virginia Tech sweatshirt.

  “Sheila?” Annie said.

  “It’s all right. You should hear the way she talks to me sometimes. God knows why I put up with her,” Vera said, smoothing over her place mat.

  “Don’t try to change the subject,” DeeAnn said. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s just that after we found out that Maggie Rae’s husband hurt her, we wondered if he more than hurt her, you know?” Vera said.

  “It’s a long way from beating to killing—if he, indeed, beat her. Hurting could mean anything,” Paige said.

  “Is it a long way?” Sheila wondered. “Can you pass me the fried noodles, please?”

  They sat in silence eating their Chinese food when Detective Bryant rang the doorbell. Sheila glanced at her watch. “He’s not supposed to be here yet.”

  “We have nothing to hide. Just let him in,” Vera said.

  Greetings exchanged, the detective walked into the room filled with pretty scrapbooking doodads, paper, and food. He was a large man, tall, about six-five, and broad at the shoulders, narrow at the hips. He was manly-looking enough to look out of place in this group of women, who were all looking at him—a decent-looking, clean-shaven man in a blue suit, with eyes to match. Shoes polished to a shine. Spiffy. Maybe an ex-military man? Hadn’t Vera seen him at the funeral?

  “I’m Detective Adam Bryant,” he said, flashing his badge. “I just have a few questions for you. Now, what’s going on here?” He gestured at the table.

  Vera cleared her throat. “Dinner,” she said, smiling. “Would you like some?”

  “No thanks. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” he said, smiling politely, revealing one deep dimple on the left side of his mouth.

  “He knows everything,” Annie said. “One of the family members saw us taking the scrapbooks.”

  “Well, now, if that don’t beat all,” Sheila said, setting down her fork. “Saw us taking the scrapbooks, yet never said a word. That’s how much it meant to them!”

  “And you are?” he said to her as he held up his recorder in her direction.

  “Sheila Rogers. I own Creative Scrapbooking, where Maggie Rae bought those supplies from. We saw the boxes on the street for the trashman and we took them. If that’s illegal, then I’m sorry. We just wanted to make some scrapbooks for her family!”

  “Calm down, Sheila,” Vera said, touching her arm. “Please sit down, Detective.”

  He pulled up a chair and glanced around at the stacks of scrapbooking materials.

  “Well, now,” the detective said, lifting one of his eyebrows. “I’m not so much interested in you ladies stealing the trash as I am in what’s actually in her stuff, and what you are doing with it.”

  Annie cleared her throat. “I’ve made a folder for you of her letters, notes, and other personal papers. I’d like it back at some point, if it’s possible. There may be things I can use in her scrapbooks.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Chamovitz,” he said. “And what about the rest? The photos?”

  Vera shrugged. “I’ve already finished a dance scrapbook for Grace. Annie’s finished one about Maggie Rae, and the others are almost done, too. We’re making scrapbooks to give her children. Her papers just happened to be in the pile of stuff waiting for the trash—later, the very same day she died, I might add.”

  “Bastard,” Sheila said.

  The detective lurched backward, eyebrows shot up. He folded his arms. “Such strong language, Ms. Rogers.”

  “I think he killed her,” Sheila said.

  “Now, wait a minute. You’re making a lot of assumptions,” Detective Bryant said. “Dangerous assumptions.”

  “But it does seem suspicious,” Annie said. “Why would he get rid of that stuff the day she died? That’s odd.”

  “If he actually killed her, it would be an incredibly stupid move on his part,” Bryant said.

  “Could you pass me the duck sauce, please?” Vera asked. “Robert doesn’t strike me as being very bright.”

  Sheila rolled her eyes. “I know what you mean.”

  The detective crossed his arms.

  “That’s a mean thing to say. The man is obviously grieving,” DeeAnn said, glancing at Bryant and smiling.

  “Maybe,” Vera said. “Maybe that’s it. But he gave me a weird feeling. I don’t know. He’s just odd.”

  “Hmm,” Bryant said, leaning forward. “How well do you know him?”

  “I don’t know him at all. He never came into the studio or came to any of the recitals,” she told him. “I’ve gotten to know many of the other fathers, but not him. The first time we spoke was at the reception.”

  “Still, just because we think he hit her, and he is a bit strange,” Annie began, “I mean ... to actually kill her?”

  Chills crept up Vera’s back. She felt the blood drain from her face. “You know,” she said, “I just remembered something. On the night before Maggie Rae supposedly killed herself, she called the dance studio to set up an appointment to talk to me about the youngest daughter taking dance class. I thought it was odd, because a woman who’s planning to kill herself probably wouldn’t be doing that.”

  “That may be true,” Bryant said. “But everything is fine sometimes and then one thing happens to set a depressed person off, you know? Did you happen to save that message?”

  “I think so. Come down to the studio anytime,” Vera said.

  “I think you need to be careful, ladies,” Bryant said. “Nobody’s talking about a murder investigation. People don’t like being accused of murder.” Just then, his beeper went off. “Excuse me, ladies. I’m sorry,” he said, getting up from the table. “I need to get going. Thanks for the information, ladies.” He held up the envelope and walked toward the door. “I’ll be seeing you around.”

  “Good Lord,” DeeAnn said after he left. “I hope so. What a man to feast your eyes upon.”

  “DeeAnn! Really,” Sheila said, then laughed.

  Chapter 19

  Vera sat back on her couch and took another sip of her decaf. Damn, she already missed coffee, but she was determined to eat and drink what was best for her unborn baby. Her mind sifted through the possibilities this child brought to her and Bill. Was it true that babies brought couples closer together? Was it true that pregnant women craved strange food, and their husbands hunted down whatever they wanted at all hours of the night? Was it true that pregnant women couldn’t get enough sex?

  She smiled as she heard Bill coming down the stairs.

  “Morning,” he grumbled. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, but it’s decaf. I can make you some,” she said, picking up the paper to read more about Maggie Rae’s husband, Robert Dasher, who evidently was a person of interest in what was now a murder investigation.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, leaned over, and kissed her forehead. “I’ll get it.”

  She loved the way he looked in the morning, unshaven and unkempt. His stubble now as much gray as brown, and with a little bit of a double chin since he’d gained a bit of weight and was working on quite the beer belly. It took at least a cup of strong
coffee for him to get that spark she loved into his green eyes.

  She heard him scrambling around in the kitchen as she read over the newspaper. He was emptying out the leftover coffee from the decanter, putting the pot back in its place; now he was pitching the grounds and scooping in new coffee. God, could she smell that from here? It seemed as if all of her senses were heightened with this pregnancy.

  Her attention snapped back to the newspaper. She skipped to the part about Robert:

  Thirty-two-year-old Robert Dasher, Maggie Rae’s husband, has a history of domestic violence. He is currently not an official suspect in the case. According to statistics on murder cases within the home, the partner is usually the first suspect.

  Dasher, a former long-distance runner, holding statewide titles, works as an accountant for Brett & Hughes. A spokesperson for the company said he is a model employee, rarely missing a day’s work.

  “According to the Cumberland Creek Police Department, Dasher was questioned and let go,” Vera said out loud as Bill entered the room with a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, his fingers curled through the blue handle.

  “For what?” Bill said, spilling his coffee as he set it down on the table. “Damn. I’ll be right back.” He went off to get a towel.

  “They are now saying that Maggie Rae’s death was a murder, not a suicide,” she said, raising her voice as he left the room.

  “Murder?” he said, cleaning up the spill. “Really?”

  His eyes were suddenly bigger and brighter. It was the lawyer in him, she supposed, excited about the possibility of a murder case in their sleepy little town.

  “And—and did you say they let Robert go?” he asked, stuttering.

  Goodness, he is excited.

  “They have no evidence to hold him, I suppose. They are calling him a ‘person of interest’ and they mention several other ‘persons of interest.’”