“So he’s an identical twin,” she finally said. “Do you believe him?”
Her question angered me. “Aaron Hill, his twin brother, is still in prison,” I said. “It’s public record. It’s right there in the article. With all our genius, we somehow missed that little detail.”
“All my genius,” Carina said. “It’s my fault.”
“That’s why Andrew goes back to Colorado every Saturday: to see his brother. He drives almost ten hours each way just to visit with his brother for a few minutes. I should have sainted him, not demonized him.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Carina said.
“Yes, I could have. All I had to do was ask instead of jumping to the worst possible conclusion.”
“Honey, after what you’ve been through, no one can blame you.”
“I can,” I said. “And I’m pretty sure that he does too. I don’t think he’s ever coming back. I’ve lost the best man I’ve ever known.” Tears welled up in my eyes. “Maybe the best thing I’ve ever known.”
“This is my fault,” Carina said. “I should have just stayed out of it.”
I put my head in my hands. When I could speak, I said, “What do I do?”
“You need to go to him.”
“What if he won’t see me?”
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it.”
CHAPTER
Thirty-Seven
There is nothing more predictable than the law of the harvest. I’m reaping the pain of the hurt I’ve sowed.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
It was after dark on Friday night when I drove back to the Christmas tree lot. As much as I had replayed our conversation, I still really didn’t know what I would say to him when I saw him. Truthfully, I think I would have said anything to make him like me again.
I had previously been to Andrew’s lot only during the day; in the evening it was much busier than I had ever seen it. The parking lot was full, and I ended up parking at a drive-in across the street and walking over. The place looked different. The strands of Christmas lights that were strung above the lot were lit, and Christmas music played over a PA system. Everything felt more alive but me.
I looked up and down the rows of trees looking for Andrew. Twice my heart leapt when I thought I saw him, but both times it just turned out to be another customer.
I had walked the entire lot twice when I finally stopped Shelby, who was busy helping someone.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“I’ll be right with you, ma’am,” Shelby said, then he recognized me. “Oh, hey. It’s you.” The woman he was helping glared at me as if I had just jumped a line.
“I’m looking for Andrew. Is he here?”
“Negatory. He never works weekends.”
Of course, I thought. It was Friday. “So he’ll be back Monday?”
“Ah, not sure about that.” He shouted to someone I couldn’t see. “Hey, Chris, when is the boss back?”
“Eighteenth,” came the reply.
“Oh, gotcha, dude.” He turned back to me. “Yeah, he’s gonna be gone a while. Like until the eighteenth.”
My heart fell. That was more than two weeks away.
“Excuse me,” the customer said. “I’ll take this tree.”
“Gotcha,” Shelby said without looking at her. He continued, “So, the boss was, like, kinda noncommittal, you know what I mean? He said, like, maybe the eighteenth, but then, like, maybe not. I think it depends on how things go down. I heard his brother’s getting out of jail, and he’s gonna spend some time with him, get him readjusted to life outside, you know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean,” I said. I breathed out heavily. “All right. Would you please tell him I came by?”
“Gotcha,” he said, then added, “I can go one better. If you give me your number, I’ll text you when he’s back.”
I wasn’t sure that he wasn’t just trying to get my phone number, but it was worth the risk. I gave it to him and he dialed it into his phone. “Gotcha,” he said, which by now I figured was his catchphrase. “Oh, wait. I need to put your name on this. What’s your name?”
“It’s Maggie,” I said.
“I won’t remember that. I’ll just put Stacy’s Mom. That’s what Chris calls you. You know, like that song.”
“Gotcha,” I said. I walked back to my car, dragging my heart behind me.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Eight
Clive may have tied his noose with my heartstrings, but that doesn’t mean I have to attend the hanging.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
The next two weeks were miserable. It snowed, of course. I had given up complaining about it. In a way, that was true about my life as well.
It literally took me most of a day to get up the nerve to call Andrew. He didn’t answer, nor did he return my messages. I sent about a dozen texts before I accepted that I was just making myself look pathetic. For the first time, I was starting to believe that he really was done with me. I shouldn’t have been surprised. That’s what happens when you handle someone’s heart carelessly.
On December ninth I thought about him all day. (Who am I kidding? I thought about him all day, every day.) According to our last conversation, that was the day his brother was to be paroled. I wondered what that would be like for him. I wondered if he had ever told his brother about me.
On the home front, I couldn’t stand the isolation anymore and went back to work. Carina had done a good job taking care of the clients but not the business. It wasn’t her fault. She had never been trained to run the place, nor did she have the authority to pay bills. Our Internet service had been canceled, and we were just two days away from the power company turning off the kitchen’s electricity.
I worked at the bakery but none of the events. I still felt uncomfortable in public. Besides, there was enough to keep me busy with baking and preparation, let alone catching up with the business side of the company. I was glad when Carina stopped asking if I had heard from Andrew.
Tuesday night, the thirteenth, as I was getting ready for bed, Clive paid me a visit. He had probably lost twenty pounds, and his clothes, which looked like they hadn’t been ironed in weeks, hung on him. He looked like an underfed scarecrow. In spite of everything, I felt sorry for him.
“May I come in?” he asked humbly.
“Yes.” I stepped aside and he walked in. “Are you hungry?”
“No. You wouldn’t have any vodka, would you?”
“I’ve got apple juice.”
“Close enough,” he said.
I poured him a glass of juice, and he sat down at the kitchen table. “In light of, recent revelations”—that was his way of saying the discovery of another wife without actually saying it—“the prosecution has decided to move the court date to January sixth.”
“Have you pled yet?”
“My second arraignment was last week.”
“What did you plead?”
“Same as the first time. Not guilty.”
“But you are.”
“It’s a strategy. Once you plead guilty, you have no leverage.” His eyes looked hollow. “With all the media attention, the prosecution is grandstanding. They’re pushing to put me behind bars. I could do up to five years.”
I looked at him sadly. “Are there more, Clive?”
“More women?”
I nodded. He looked down. “No other wives.” Then he softly added, “There’s a woman in San Diego. We weren’t married . . .”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Why, Clive? We had such a good life. Why wasn’t I enough?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that out myself. Yesterday, I read something on the mating rituals of primates. It said that once a male chimpanzee establishes his alpha position, he immediately starts collecting a harem. He can’t help it. It’s hardwired into the male’s psyche for the protection and growth of the species.”
“I wouldn’t use that arg
ument in court,” I said.
He took a slow drink of juice, then rolled the cup between his hands as though he were thinking. He looked at me and asked, “Do you still love me?”
Sadly—or tellingly—I wondered if he had asked that to set me up for a request. Finally, I answered, “I loved the man I married. More than you know.”
He looked like he didn’t know what to do with that.
“Is that why you came, Clive? To ask me that?”
He scratched his forehead. “No. I came to tell you that I’m sorry. You were the best thing in my life. I didn’t know it then, but I do now. It took me some time to figure that out. Too much time. A day late and a dollar short, right?”
“Nine years late,” I said.
“Yeah.” He stood. “At least.” He exhaled. “I just wanted you to know that. Take care of yourself, Mag.” He started toward the door, then stopped. “By the way, how’s it going with that guy you’re dating?”
I don’t know why he asked me that. I don’t know why I answered him. “He’s gone.”
“Is that your doing or his?”
“It was his.”
“Then he’s a fool.”
“He’s not a fool.”
“Anyone who gives you up is a fool.” He stepped outside, then turned back and said, “I’ve got someone coming to replace your window tomorrow afternoon. I hope that works for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” He turned and walked away.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Nine
He came. He. I don’t even know his name anymore.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
The next night there was an ambulance in the Stephenses’ driveway. I walked out onto my front porch to see Mrs. Stephens being wheeled out on a gurney, with Mr. Stephens walking at her side.
It turned out that she had suffered a stroke. I planned to visit her in the hospital but never got the chance. She suffered a second stroke the next morning and passed away.
Saturday night I went to her viewing at a nearby Mormon chapel. Mr. Stephens was completely bereft, standing next to his wife’s casket. He had lost the whole of his family in just one winter. I hated this winter.
In spite of his grief, Mr. Stephens seemed glad to see me. “First my son, then my wife,” he said. “Leisa was my life. Why couldn’t it have been me?”
We cried together. I think that’s what love should be.
Every day I thought about Andrew. I kept hoping I would hear from him when he got back, if not sooner. The eighteenth came and went. I drove by the lot several times but didn’t see his truck. I felt like a stalker. Maybe I was a stalker. Why couldn’t I just accept that it was over? I guess because, for me, it wasn’t over. I needed something more definite. I needed an axe to fall on something. Maybe my heart.
Around noon on the twentieth I received a text message from an unfamiliar number. All it said was,
555-5964
Boss is back
It was from Shelby. The hipster had actually come through. I drove immediately over to the Christmas tree lot. It was different from the last time I’d been there. The parking lot was nearly empty, and Andrew’s truck sat up front near the trailer. I parked my little Fiat next to it, took a deep breath, said a mantra three times—If you give fear legs, it will run away with your dreams—and then walked into the lot.
There was only one customer, and Andrew was helping him at the trailer. I stood at a distance, waiting for him to leave. Then Andrew saw me. He glanced up at me, then turned away nearly as quickly.
He finished the transaction. As the customer was leaving, I walked up to him, our eyes locked on each other. When I got close, he said, “What do you want, Maggie?”
“You,” I said.
He didn’t say anything, which made my heart feel like a truck had parked on it. He just stood there.
“Wow,” I said, more to myself than him, “you really are done with me.” My eyes welled. I looked at him, fighting back the weight of his rejection. I finally said, “Before I go, would you do me just one kindness?”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Tell me that you don’t have any feelings for me—that everything you once felt is gone.” I wiped my cheek. “I need to hear it. It’s the only way I can start to move on.”
He looked down for a moment, then said, “I can’t, Maggie. It wouldn’t be true.”
“Then why are you torturing me?”
His brow furrowed. “Why can’t you see that I’m protecting you?”
“From what?”
“From me.”
“I don’t want to be protected from you. I don’t care what you’ve done, or what your brother did. None of that matters to me.”
He looked even more upset. Actually, he looked lost. He raked his hand through his hair. Then he said, “All right. I get off in an hour. We’ll talk.”
“Do you want me to wait?”
“No. I’ll come over to your place.”
“Thank you,” I said softly.
“Don’t thank me,” he said.
I drove home with my chest aching. There was a fierce battle going on inside between fear and hope. I’m not sure which was more dangerous.
CHAPTER
Forty
He came. He. I don’t even know his name anymore.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
Andrew arrived at my house ninety minutes later, half an hour later than I’d expected. The extra thirty minutes felt like days. I wondered if he had changed his mind.
I met him at the door and let him in. This time he hugged me. I didn’t know what kind of hug it was, one of love or condolence, but I wasn’t picky. I was just glad to feel him. We sat down together on the couch—the same couch where he had comforted me and I had first fallen in love with him. Same couch, different world.
For a moment we sat in awkward silence, not sure how to begin. Then I said, “May I go first?”
He nodded.
My voice was soft and strained. I couldn’t look at him as I spoke. “Andrew, I love you. I know I really screwed up and I don’t deserve you, but I’m just hoping that you can somehow forgive me and give me a chance to show you how much I love you.” A tear fell down my cheek. “My heart is broken.” He still didn’t speak. I looked up into his eyes. “Do you care that it’s broken?”
His eyes welled up. Then he shook his head. “You’re right, you don’t deserve me. But not in the way you think.” He gave a heavy sigh. “It’s time you knew the truth.” He pulled back slightly, squaring himself to me. “Of course I care that your heart’s broken. My heart’s broken too. But that doesn’t change reality. What you need—what you really deserve—is the truth. And the truth is, you don’t know who I am.” He looked me in the eyes. “Maggie, I can’t fake it anymore. I love you too much for that.”
I took his hand. “I know who you are. You’re the man who held me when my world was falling apart. You’re the man who takes food to the poor. I know you. I know you’re good and generous and kind. What more do I need to know?”
“A lot,” he said softly.
“Tell me, then. What am I missing?”
He was quiet for a long time. Then he looked into my eyes and said, “Ask me my name.”
I just looked at him.
“Ask me my name, Maggie.”
I had no idea why he was asking me to do that, but something in the way he said it frightened me. I swallowed. “What is your name?”
“My name is Aaron Hill.”
I just looked at him. “I don’t understand.”
“Andrew is my brother. I’m Aaron. I’m the one who stole millions of my clients’ dollars. Not my brother.”
“But your brother went to prison.”
“I took the money, but my brother took the time. He went to prison in my place.”
His words took a moment to sink in. “I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t believe me, or you don’t want to
believe me?”
“Either.”
“What would you have me do to convince you?”
“Tell me what happened.”
He rubbed his chin. “All right.” He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I told you about the trial. It lasted almost two weeks. Most of it was technical, the state laying out exactly where the money had gone, how many illegal transactions had actually been made, all my criminal details. They didn’t have to work for the information, since I provided them with most of it. You could say I helped build my gallows.
“It was the worst time of my life. It was as difficult as when my parents died. In some ways, worse. There was no shame with my parents’ death.
“Every day I thought of taking my life. Several times I planned it out in detail. Every day I fought that battle by myself. I was completely alone. My friends, or at least the people I thought were my friends, deserted me. My cheating wife had already divorced me and was using my weakened position to make false accusations of abuse, hoping to take everything I had.” He looked at me with despair. “Kick them when they’re down, right?”
“What about your brother? Where was he?”
Aaron shook his head. “I hadn’t seen Andrew since he helped boot me out of my own company.”
“Your brother was involved with that?”
Aaron nodded slowly, and I could see that it still hurt him. “It couldn’t have happened without him. Together we owned the majority of the stock. It wasn’t his idea, but he made it possible. The truth is, the investors played him. But he went along.” He slowly exhaled in anguish. “It’s like I said: I was betrayed by everyone.”
I just looked at him with pity.
“It was the morning of what was likely the last day of my trial. I had hardly slept, and when I got out of bed, I was so anxious that I threw up. I was literally counting down my last minutes of freedom, anticipating the fear and humiliation of life in prison. I can’t begin to describe what that was like. I’d been on trial for almost two weeks by then, and all that was left were the attorneys’ closing arguments and the jury’s deliberation.
The Noel Stranger Page 17
