by Edie Claire
She tore her eyes away. Yes, she had left the quilts. She had left the chest with Dee’s and her baby clothes. She had left the portraits her father painted when he was a teenager. Where could she have put it all at her aunt’s house? Or when she was at school? It hadn’t seemed important—the mementos had seemed safe enough. She figured she could get them anytime.
She had not. She hadn’t set foot on the twenty-acre fallow farm, the long and winding gravel driveway, or the wide wooden porch steps in more than five years. Even her trips before that had been hasty ones—periodic visits with her aunt to collect necessities, check up on things. She had no idea what shape the house was in now, and she was afraid to know, even as she chastised herself for failing to safeguard her parents’ property.
Her aunt had perceived how difficult being at the farm was for her. Karen had even thought she understood her niece’s reluctance. She hadn’t. No one could possibly understand the horror that house held for Sarah—the crippling fear that twisted her gut, even now, at the thought of it.
She could salvage no more of her family’s belongings. She couldn’t drive all the way to Alabama and back—she had just started a new job; she couldn’t ask for time off already. Flying was a problem in itself; but even if it weren’t, she knew she couldn’t face another visit. She had barely coped when her aunt had been there to support her, and since Karen had divorced Sarah’s uncle, the woman was technically no longer family. Going back to Alabama alone would be no catharsis. It would be a nightmare.
Pulling her fleece bathrobe tighter around her, Sarah walked to the thermostat and turned off the air. Not even a steaming hot shower had dislodged the chill that being in a hospital had driven into her bones. If a different emergency room in a different state could bring up such vivid memories of Dee’s suicide, what would seeing the house itself do to her?
She shuddered. Thinking of her family as they had been, putting her last days in Alabama out of her mind, was the only way she had eventually come to terms with what had happened. But she had come to terms with it. She was managing just fine.
The doorbell rang.
She jumped. She hadn’t heard it ring before, and it was amazingly loud. She made a mental note to see if the volume could be adjusted, but she made no move toward the door. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and she was not in the mood to buy Girl Scout cookies.
The bell rang again, and her resolve weakened. What if it was Rose, from next door? What if the woman needed something? Taking care to stay out of sight of the window, she approached the peephole and put an eye to the glass. It was Adam Carmassi.
She stepped back.
Why was he here? Surely all the necessary pleasantries of their business had been concluded. She didn’t want to talk to him again. She didn’t want to talk to anyone.
She returned to the living room. He would go away eventually. If pressed later, she could always say she was in the shower. It was almost true.
The third ring was a triple. She covered her ears. Surely chimes that loud could be heard even if one was in the shower. Now he was being rude.
Irritation surged, and the heat that came with it was welcome. Why was she cowering in her own home? If she didn’t want neighbors ringing her bell on a whim, she should make her wishes clear from the outset. She tightened her bathrobe another notch, stepped up to the door, and swung it open. "Mr. Carmassi," she said formally, "Do you have any idea how loud that thing is?"
He responded with another disarming grin. "Sure I do. That’s why I knew you’d answer."
She stared at him. His knowledge of the inner workings of her house was disconcerting, but it shouldn’t surprise her. She had spied him conversing in friendly terms with half the neighborhood already. Why would the previous occupant be any exception?
"What do you want?" she asked flatly, determined not to encourage him.
"I wanted to make sure you were okay," he said, his own voice remaining pleasant. "That you didn’t get any bad news after I left. Are you all right?"
She swallowed. "I’m doing fine, thank you. The tests all came back normal." Her fingers found the door handle. "I appreciate your concern, but please, don’t feel like you have to keep checking on me." She watched his reaction carefully as she spoke. She needed to get her point across, but she didn’t want to make an enemy of him—or any of the neighbors.
"I was glad to see you got home safely," he continued. "It must be convenient to have a friend who works for a cab company."
Her face paled. She cleared her throat. "Yes," she confirmed, "very convenient."
She had lied about calling a friend to drive her home. She had moved to Pittsburgh only seventy-two hours ago—she didn’t have any friends. Other than her new coworkers, the only people she knew by name were the woman next door and her real estate agent. She had planned to call a cab all along. She hadn’t planned on having her homecoming spied on.
She stepped out of the way of the door. If he was sharp enough to know she had lied to him, he should be sharp enough to figure out why.
"Did you move from someplace else nearby, or are you new to Pittsburgh?" He inquired, firing off the question as if he feared it would be his last.
He was correct. "I’m new to the area," she admitted, adding no details. She pulled the door up to her side.
He moved backward. "I see. Well, if you ever need anything—directions, pizza coupons, extra-strength Tylenol—don’t hesitate to ask, it’s a friendly neighborhood. Any of us would be happy to help."
The door began to close. "Thanks for the advice," she responded. "And for your help this morning. Goodbye."
His return goodbye was muffled by two inches of wood. She turned around and leaned her weight against the closed door. Adam Carmassi wasn’t stupid. He would get the message and leave her alone. Maybe his gregarious nature would be an asset. Maybe he would tell everyone else to leave her alone, too.
She let out a breath and crossed to her bookshelves. It had been a harrowing day, and she was still on edge. But there was nothing wrong with her that couldn’t be fixed by some down time with a good read. She had done little else the last week besides pack and unpack boxes, many of them loaded with books. Perhaps she had overdone it.
Her fingertips grazed the spines of her favorites, then came to rest on Watership Down. Perfect, she thought, removing it. An escape into fantasy would be welcome.
She turned toward the bedroom, and her gaze moved again over her collection of family pictures. Their visibility was no accident. She had shelved the pictures as she always did, prominently at eye level. Her childhood had been a happy one, and the early images—especially her parents’ wedding portrait and the picture of her and Dee with Santa Claus—always brought comfort. Her nuclear family was gone now, but her uncle and three of her grandparents were living; and their portraits, if not their communication, reminded her that she was still a part of something.
The small photograph on the far right was different. It had been taken at Dee’s high school graduation, and though Sarah had been careful to replace it in its proper position each time she moved, she could seldom bring herself to look at it. Now, with the memory of her sister’s suicide fresh in her mind, she found her eyes drawn to the smiling, eighteen-year-old face.
Dee had died just a year later. She had suffered emotional problems even before their parents’ deaths, and she hadn’t had the strength to cope. She had been counting on Sarah, but she hadn’t trusted her. If she had, maybe things would have been different.
Sarah turned from the picture and clasped the book to her chest. She couldn’t change the past. All she could do was remember her sister fondly. That, and keep her promise.
Don’t worry, Dee, she thought, repeating the assurance that had, over the years, unwittingly become her mantra.
I won’t tell anyone.
Chapter 4
With one arm, Adam Carmassi launched a foam basketball across his living room and up toward the plastic hoop that hung off the top of his
coat closet door. The ball missed the basket by a good ten inches, dropped silently to the floor, and rolled out of sight.
He made no move to fetch it. He hadn’t even noticed he’d missed.
Instead he rose and walked into the kitchen, where the leftovers he had been heating up sat in the microwave cooling down. The buzzer had gone off five minutes ago. He hadn’t noticed that either.
What he had noticed, and the source of his continued restlessness, was the look in Sarah Landers’ eyes.
She had beautiful eyes. Large and almond shaped, with deep-blue irises that shown brilliantly against her pale skin and dark hair. But the emotion he had seen within them was anything but beautiful. At first he told himself it was anxiety—over her health, the fall, the sight of her own blood. She was alone in an unfamiliar city. Of course she would be uneasy, even frightened.
But he knew it was more than that.
He popped open the microwave door, but didn’t remove the plate. He simply stood, staring sightlessly at the mound of macaroni and cheese inside, the image of her eyes still front and center in his brain.
Terror.
From the moment she had first looked at him, even as she still stood by her mailbox, she had been oddly hesitant, and wary. When she regained consciousness after the fall she had been nothing short of terrified—and for all he knew it was his own approach, his misguided attempt to break the ice, that had pushed her over the edge.
She had been afraid of him.
He slid the plate out of the microwave, jabbed a finger at a tepid shell of macaroni, and slid the plate back in.
Afraid of him.
He touched a button. The microwave began to whir.
There were people who didn’t like him. It was inevitable in his line of work, no matter how hard he tried. Anyone who expected him to be perfect was bound to be disappointed. But overall, he had a way with people. He prided himself on being able to get along with most anyone, even those who disagreed with his views. He had a short temper which occasionally got the better of him, but as far back as he could recall, even when he had been a hulking grade schooler—big for his age with wild curls down to his shoulders—no one had ever been afraid of him.
Why was she?
The words she had uttered repeated themselves in his mind. Go away! Stop it! Dee, where are you?
He couldn’t shake them. Couldn’t dispel the sour twinge of worry that had obliterated his appetite. She wasn’t his problem. Not technically. He had done what any responsible person would do for a neighbor, and he’d been summarily thanked and dismissed. No further action was required. Yet his stomach remained in knots.
It shouldn’t, he reasoned. Sarah was a stranger to him; her situation had nothing to do with what had happened with Christine. He should not even be reminded of it. The two women had nothing in common, either in appearance or personality. Sarah was unaffected and independent. Aloof. Witty. Proud.
Terrified.
Just like Christine had been.
The microwave buzzed.
Adam breathed out heavily. The fear that had haunted his wife’s eyes would always be his cross to bear. He had seen it; but he hadn’t paid attention. He had been too distant, too self-absorbed, too willing to pass it off as more baseless, effeminate drama. He could never forgive himself for that.
Sarah Landers was afraid of something, too. Deathly afraid. He knew that with certainty, even if he did barely know her. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed.
Stop hitting me!
He jerked as if someone had struck him, opened the microwave door, and pulled out the plate.
"Someone hurt her," he said aloud, confirming the suspicion he had been loathe even to contemplate. The thought of any woman being brutalized by a man sickened him. Yet the theory made sense. Such a history would explain her wariness, her fear of a well-meaning stranger. Perhaps even her loss of consciousness. She could have moved to Pittsburgh just to get away from someone. She could be hiding from him right now.
Adam sunk a fork into his macaroni, but made no move to take a bite. Instead he left the kitchen, crossed to his desk, and picked up the phone. He couldn’t contact Sarah himself again—not tonight, nor even tomorrow. Any more overtures from him would only alarm her further.
But that didn’t mean he was powerless. He wouldn’t let himself be.
Not this time.
Chapter 5
Sarah gazed out her front window the next afternoon, scanning the cul-de-sac for signs of life. She saw none; not even at Adam’s house. She chastised herself for spying on her neighbors and turned away.
It was a dreary Sunday, with constant, sticky rain choking the stagnant air. For the sake of her health she had sworn she would do nothing strenuous, including more unpacking, but the vow was proving difficult to keep. She couldn’t walk outside; she couldn’t garden. Worse yet, a stubborn residual headache made her eyes hurt after even a few minutes of reading, and her cableless television offered nothing besides baseball and two-star movies—diversions far too weak to displace the grim replays of yesterday from her mind.
The clang of the doorbell surprised her. She stepped over and peered through the peephole.
Her eyes were met with a bold splash of fuscia—a shiny running jacket with matching shorts. The legs exposed were lean and tanned, and from the waist down, one might have guessed the woman attached to be a fit forty-something. The deep crows’ feet and sagging cheeks on the face above were more telling, but if the woman hadn’t announced her age quite proudly at their first meeting, Sarah would never have guessed her neighbor to be seventy-three.
Sarah stood still a moment, hesitating. She liked Rose, and the prospect of having some intelligent—and unintimidating—company to converse with was tantalizing. But she was not in the habit of inviting guests inside her home. She had always guarded the privacy of her apartments with zeal, instructing visitors to meet her in the lobby or, better yet, scheduling social meetings elsewhere. But she had no lobby now. And she could hardly entertain in the rain.
She took a breath. There was no need to be defensive. Surely, in a house this large, she could accommodate one elderly guest without feeling vulnerable. The foyer could serve as a lobby, and she could offer Rose a seat on one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter. The sunken living room and bedroom beyond could remain private.
She swung open the door with a smile. "Rose! How are you? Won’t you come in?"
The older woman smiled back, displaying a set of teeth far too perfect to be real. "I hope this isn’t a bad time to visit, but I just wondered if you’d gotten moved in all right." She stepped inside and extended a foil-wrapped parcel.
Sarah shut the door and accepted it.
"It’s zucchini bread," Rose explained. "I’m overrun with zucchini this year. Consider it a belated housewarming gift."
Sarah studied the heavy loaf in her hands dubiously, not sure what to do with it. Potato pancakes and carrot cake she had heard of, but making bread out of a vegetable was new to her. Nevertheless, the gift afforded the perfect opportunity to steer Rose toward the bar stools. "Thank you, but it’s hardly belated. I haven’t even finished unpacking yet."
She led her guest toward the kitchen and placed the concoction on the counter. But when she turned around, Rose was no longer behind her. The other woman was already stepping down into the living room.
"I’ve always loved this floor plan," Rose mused, surveying the area with admiration. "Harold had no decorating sense, of course. Martha didn’t either, for that matter. But this house has its own sense of character."
Sarah’s heart pounded, even as she cursed her paranoia. She knew that by most people’s standards her desire for privacy was over the top. No matter how uncomfortable Rose’s prying eyes made her, she could hardly scream at the woman to get back up the steps. She needed to relax. Everything would be fine.
"Would you like a drink?" she offered hopefully.
"No thank you, dear," Rose replied pleasantly. Her
eyes scanned the full wall of bookshelves, then fixed on Sarah’s collection of family portraits. She smiled broadly and stepped toward them.
Sarah froze in place.
"Are these your grandparents?" Rose asked, pointing to the nearest frame.
Sarah took a breath, forcing herself out of her trance. Everyone had family pictures; there was no reason hers had to be kept behind closed doors. Inquiring about a hostess’s family was a perfectly ordinary thing to do.
She put one foot in front of the other until she reached Rose’s side. The portrait in question was an old photograph of her father’s parents, taken before he had been born. The bright young faces in the picture bore little resemblance to the maniacal couple who had swooped into Sarah’s life at her father’s funeral, bemoaning their agnostic son’s certain descent into hell. She preferred not to recall the latter.
"Those are my father’s parents," she explained. Then she pointed to the portraits nearby. "My mother and father are in the middle, and her parents are to the right. My parents died when I was a teenager." She kept her voice even. Whenever anyone brought up the topic of parents, she attempted to beat them to the punch—before they put their foot in their mouth.
To Sarah's relief, Rose did not overreact to the revelation. She merely nodded, letting her eyes drift over the rest of the photographs for a few more seconds before speaking again. "My own mother died when I was twenty. My father married again, but my stepmother and I never got along. In retrospect, it was my fault. I was hell on wheels."
Rose’s tone was casual, matter-of-fact. Sarah felt herself smile a little. "Surely not."
The older woman flashed a wicked grin. "You have no idea, my dear. Get to know me better, and I’ll tell you all about it." She leaned forward, taking a closer look at Sarah’s parents’ wedding picture. "Was it a car accident?"
Sarah swallowed. Most of the time, she didn’t mind talking about her parents. Deep down she knew that being open—at least about the things she could be open about—was therapeutic. But today her baseline of anxiety was already high. "No. It was a private plane, piloted by a friend. They were on their way back from a conference—they were both university professors. Some combination of pilot error and mechanical failure. We never knew for sure."
