She spotted the lawn tractor, barely visible, behind the hedgerow, the wagon filled with brush. Noah had said he was going to the Pinot field to pick up a load of weeds and branches they'd pulled from the center rows between the trellises, but he must have decided to swing by the hedgerow and fill up the remainder of the wagon with brush cut the day before.
"Noah, Noah, where are you?" Rachel cried, hearing the panic in her own voice. She ran along the hedgerow. "Noah!" She almost tripped over the new machete she'd purchased the other day at the hardware store for him. She leaned over to pick it up, and when she drew it closer, she saw what could only be blood on the blade.
"Oh my God," she breathed throwing the machete down and running along the hedgerow, trying to peer inside. It was a tangle of an old hedge with a fence buried in the middle, engulfed over the years by greenbriars, vined morning glories, and weeds. As she neared the end that abutted a small stand of silver maple trees, she saw a sneaker lying in the knee-high weeds.
"Noah!" She raced forward, tripping in her sandals. The sneaker was attached to a foot, to a leg. She threw herself down on the ground grasping Noah's shoulders. He lay on his back, arms out. There was a tear on the right leg of his jeans, and blood stained the area in an almost perfect rusty-colored circle.
"Noah, are you—"
He blinked and opened his eyes, looking dazed.
She leaned over to smell his breath, the first thing going through her mind being that he'd drunk himself into a stupor and fallen on the machete. But his breath only smelled faintly of toothpaste.
"Noah, what happened?" She leaned over him, staring into his eyes.
He appeared groggy, almost as if waking from a deep sleep. "I... I don't know." He sat, running his hand through his hair, looking at her, looking around him. "I was cutting some brush and—"
"And what?" she asked, still kneeling over him.
"And..."
"You were drinking, weren't you?"
"No, no, I wasn't drinking, Rachel."
"You promised me, Noah." She leaned forward, even closer this time to smell his breath again. "You swore to me you haven't had anything to drink since you—"
"It was a blackout, Rachel."
It took a moment for what he said to register in her mind. "A blackout? I don't understand."
"Neither do I."
"You're still having blackouts after all these years?"
He looked away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I hadn't had one in years, not since I first went to prison. And then after I was released..." He looked at her again. Kneeling beside him, they were eye level. "It started again after I got home."
"And you haven't been drinking?"
He shook his head.
She covered her mouth with her hand, thinking for a moment, and then dropped her hand. "How many times, Noah?"
"I'm sure it's nothing. I just—"
"How many times has it happened, Noah?" she repeated angrily. But she wasn't so much angry as she was scared. She'd never heard of an alcoholic suffering from blackouts this long after he'd taken his last drink. Sure, she knew he'd suffered from them the last six months before he went to prison. It was why he remembered nothing of the night the Marcuses died. But blackouts didn't happen after a person stopped drinking. They just didn't.
"I don't know," he confessed quietly, hanging his head.
"Guess."
"I've been home a month. Eight, ten times? Maybe a dozen."
She grasped his hand that was scratched and bleeding. He wore a work glove on the other hand. "Noah, you have to see a doctor."
"Rachel, I—" He didn't finish his sentence. "OK," he said, quietly.
"OK," she repeated as if making a pact. She looked down at his leg. "You're bleeding."
He looked down as if seeing the wound for the first time, and when he put his hand to it, he flinched. "Ow. It hurts."
"I guess it does." She got to her feet, offering her hand to help him up. "It looks like you either sliced yourself with the machete or fell on it."
He took her hand and got to his feet, closing his eyes for a moment.
Rachel thought she saw him sway and put out her arms instinctively—like she was going to be able to catch him if he went down. "You OK?" she murmured.
He opened his eyes and looked down at her, surprising her with a silly smile. "Yeah, I'm good. I'm fine. Just dizzy there for a second."
She looked down at his leg, almost reluctant to release him. "It's starting to bleed again. I wonder if you need to go to the hospital. It looks like a pretty good-sized gash; you might need stitches."
"Don't be ridiculous. It'll be fine, and I had a tetanus shot last year." He started toward the tractor, forcing her to let him go. "What time is it?" He walked slowly, limping slightly.
"After twelve."
"I'm sorry. We're going to be late."
"I don't care about that, Noah. I care about you."
Rachel picked up the machete, and they walked back to the lawn tractor in silence, where she tossed it in the back of the trailer. When Noah climbed into the seat and slid over to make room for her, she hesitated and then got on beside him. "I'm not kidding," she warned him, shaking her finger the way she did to Mallory sometimes. "You're going to see a doctor."
"Yes, ma'am." He surprised her with a grin, then threw the tractor into gear, and they lurched off.
Chapter 15
They arrived at the benefit picnic at the home for pregnant teens fashionably late. Maria's Place was located in a 1940s farmhouse set on an acre and a half lot, less than a mile from town but outside the city limits. The original farm's acreage had been sold off years ago, but the square, white two-story house with a large front porch was nestled in a beautiful grove of silver maple trees with sweeping front and backyards and plenty of places to picnic. The Benedictine sisters did their best to keep up the property, which included a detached garage and several outbuildings, all in various degrees of disrepair, but it was obvious more money was spent maintaining the house and its program rather than the buildings. Still, the entire place had a certain nostalgic charm.
Rachel parked along the road at the end of the long line of cars belonging to earlier arrivals and then began to unload the back of the Volvo. She handed Mattie an old-fashioned-style picnic basket she'd bought from one of those home basket parties years ago. To Mallory, she passed off the pan of brownies. "No snitching," she warned, reaching into the trunk again.
Mallory giggled, hopping up and down in nervous anticipation as she clutched the foil-covered pan. As they had approached the house in the car, she had spotted one of those large blow-up playhouses available at all the rental stores for parties. Even at this distance from the house, they could hear children laughing with glee as they bounced inside.
"How about me, can I snitch a brownie?" Noah took the canvas bag from Rachel's arms, leaving her nothing but the old quilt they would use to sit on when they had their lunch.
"No, you may not." Rachel locked the car and dropped the keys into the canvas bag. "Or you'll be in trouble, too," she warned playfully.
After they returned to the house earlier, after Noah's blackout episode, he had taken a quick shower, put a knee-sized Band-Aid on the gash on his thigh, and dressed in jeans and one of the new T-shirts she'd bought him. It was a golden yellow that looked good on him with the summer tan he was acquiring. On his head he wore a light blue UCLA ball cap, which was fashionably frayed around the brim, bought when they traveled to California for a college reunion. With his hair shorter again, today he looked so much like he had ten years ago, as if no time had passed, that it was eerie. It was almost as if none of the terrible tragedies he had experienced had ever taken place. But Rachel had only to look at the tiny lines around his eyes and mouth to know that they had.
"Can I go in the bouncy thing, Mama?" Mallory asked, dancing along behind them as they walked back down the road toward the driveway.
In the end, Rachel and the four-year-old had compromised on Mal
lory's picnic attire, at Noah's gentle suggestion. Mallory had shed the polka-dotted shorts for denim ones and sneakers replaced the rubber boots, but she was still wearing the tie-dyed T-shirt and ball cap that was too large for her head.
"I suppose you can ride the bouncy thing." Rachel tugged on one of her daughter's pigtails.
"And a pony ride?" Mallory looked up at her mother, her big eyes shining bright. "Noah said there was going to be pony rides and games for chiwldren."
"Well, thank you, Noah, for informing my daughter of all the ways she can spend my money today." Rachel cut her eyes at him, exaggerating her annoyance. Truthfully, she was so relieved he was okay that she couldn't really be annoyed with him about anything right now. She was very concerned about the blackouts, and she fully intended to make a doctor's appointment for him first thing Monday morning. She hadn't realized, until after it was all over, just how close she had been to panicking when she couldn't find him, how close she was to believing something horrible had happened to him as had happened to Johnny and Pam. Rachel knew it made no sense, but that terrifying, ominous feeling she kept experiencing in her dreams was now seeping into her real life, leaving her more than a little bit uneasy.
Rachel forced herself to rein her thoughts back in, looking down at Mallory, who waited patiently for an answer concerning what Noah had said about pony rides. She didn't know when Mallory had stopped calling him Mr. Noah, a tradition unique to the area, and started just calling him by his first name. But what else was she supposed to call him? Mr. Gibson? How silly would that be, especially since it was her surname as well. Uncle Noah? He wasn't her uncle.
Mallory giggled. "Do you think Mattie can bouncy-bounce too?"
"I don't know," Noah told her. "We'll have to check out the weight limits. Mattie's a pretty husky boy."
Mallory dropped back to pat Mattie, who was slowly bringing up the rear, carrying the picnic basket as carefully as if it were spun glass. "Don't worry, Mattie," she said with great seriousness. "If they won't wet you bouncy-bounce, I won't do it either."
Mallory's words brought a tightness to Rachel's throat. She was such a sweet little girl, her love so immense for a child so young. Rachel caught Noah's gaze and was surprised by the emotion she saw in his gentle brown eyes. The very same thought must have just crossed his mind.
Rachel focused on the blacktop driveway beneath her sandals, feeling foolish as she fought to hold back tears, thankful she was wearing sunglasses. Noah's growing attachment for Mallory had touched her in a way she hadn't anticipated. She just hadn't expected him to develop such an attachment to the little girl so quickly. It was almost as if...
She pushed the thought aside, thinking she must be PMSing to be so emotional today. First it was the scare with Noah, then this insignificant moment that almost seemed earth-shattering to her.
It was becoming more obvious to her with each passing day that she was going to have to rethink some decisions she had made before Noah was released. She was going to have to figure out what she wanted to do, and stop thinking about what she thought she needed to do. Life was too short not to embrace every possible glimmer of happiness; she of all people should know that.
As they walked up the driveway, they heard the sounds of a local bluegrass band playing from a makeshift platform built in the open area to the left of the house, where Sister Julie and volunteers usually parked. There had to be at least two hundred people milling around the property, all laughing and talking, adding to the old-fashioned hometown fair atmosphere.
As they walked up the driveway's incline, Mallory began to dance in and out of them, squealing with excitement. "Easy, there," Rachel warned "or the brownies aren't going to make it to the auction table. You want me to take them?"
Mallory pushed the pan into her mother's hand and darted around her, weaving her way in and out of Noah and Mattie in a mad frenzy of anticipation.
"Rachel, there you are!" Mandy Thompson, one of the mothers who served on the preschool board at St. Paul's with Rachel, rushed forward before they reached the front yard. "Gretchen has the best idea for the first day of pre-K in September. Come here. She's manning the raffle ticket table right now."
"We just got here. I really need to—"
"No, you've got to hear this," Mandy gushed, gesturing with both hands, not paying a bit of attention to what Rachel was trying to say. "If we're going to do it, we've got to get right to work, but I just know you're going to love this."
Rachel looked to Noah, the brownie pan and blanket still in her hands, unsure what to do. She'd intended to grab a spot, lay out their blanket, and get Mallory and Mattie settled before she mingled.
"Give them to me," Noah said at once, taking the blanket and pushing it into the bag on his arm before reaching for the brownies.
Rachel looked to Mandy and back at Noah, still undecided as to whether to go now or just tell Mandy it would have to wait a minute. It had been so long since she hadn't had sole responsibility of Mattie and Mallory that she didn't know quite how to pass the baton, even for a few minutes. "I thought we should get a place in the shade before—"
"I'll take care of that," Noah insisted. "We'll find a perfect spot with shade, without ants."
"Without ants," Mallory sang, grabbing Noah's elbow and swinging around him as if she were square dancing.
"Well... all right." Rachel reluctantly followed Mandy, looking back over her shoulder. "Watch her," she warned. "She's as slippery as an eel at something like this. Before you know it, she'll be in the creek fishing for tadpoles or on the stage strumming a banjo."
"Go." Noah waved her off. "We'll be fine. We'll come find you later."
"OK, you," Noah said the minute Rachel was out of earshot.
"Me?" Mallory poked herself in the chest, turning to trot backwards in front of him.
He had to slow down to prevent running into her and knocking her over. "Yes, you. You stay with me and no taking off. I love you and I'll be in big trouble with your mama."
"I wost my dino in the sandbox." She faced forward, falling into step beside him. "I wasn't in big troubwle with Mama."
Noah glanced over his shoulder to be sure Mattie was still following. He was, of course, as faithful as a pup.
"Not exactly the same thing, I'm afraid" Noah said, returning his attention to Mallory.
"Good to see you, friend."
Noah looked up to see Joshua Troyer approaching. He was a little surprised to see Josh here as he and his wife didn't usually attend town gatherings such as this one. His social life was based on his church life, and he and his wife rarely socialized outside of the church. He was dressed the same as every day in simple khaki work pants, a plain button-up short sleeve shirt, suspenders, and work boots, but he wore his wide-brimmed "Sunday" straw hat.
Noah accepted the hand Joshua offered and shook it. "Good to see you here," he said, genuinely pleased. "Your wife here, too?"
"Eeh-ya. Trudy's idea we come. Gone to get us lemonade." He stuffed his hands into his pockets, looking down at his boots. "Not much for parties."
"But it's a good cause, right?"
"Best there can be, protectin' God's little children."
"Can we ride the bouncy thing?" Mallory sang, circling Noah, arms at her sides like a toy soldier. "Can we? Can we?"
Noah looked down at the little bobbing blond head then back at Joshua. "I better get this stuff put down and these brownies on the table before I have a mutiny on my hands."
He started to lead Mallory away. "But maybe I'll catch you later."
"Eeh-ya." Joshua nodded as he walked away, hands in his pockets.
Noah cut across the freshly mowed front lawn to the grassy plot that ran alongside the house, on the far side from the largest part of the crowd and the band, which was taking a break. Sometimes Mattie could get overstimulated at an event like this, with so many people and so much noise, so Noah wanted to be able to get him away from the bulk of the crowd if he needed to.
"How about here?
" Noah halted at the base of a cluster of tangled lilac bushes that, untrimmed, had to be twelve foot tall. There were a few blankets spread out, scattered on the side lawn, but it seemed like a spot that would be less congested. It was past the time of year when lilacs bloomed, but he could have sworn he could still smell their faint scent in the air. Imagined or not, he loved the scent of lilacs, and this seemed like the perfect spot for his family to relax and share their picnic.
"Can we go bounce on the bouncy-bounce now? Can we, Noah?" Mallory tugged on his arm, jumping up and down as if she were already on a giant inflated pillow.
Noah set down the bag, took the basket from Mattie's hands, and pushed the brownie pan into them. "First help me with the blanket, then we'll find the dessert auction table—"
"Then we will jump on the bouncy-bounce?"
"Then we'll bounce," he assured her, unfolding the old patchwork quilt and giving it a shake before he allowed it to flutter to the ground. After placing the bag and the picnic basket on the blanket, he offered his hand to Mallory. "Ready?"
"Ready!" She grabbed his hand, bobbing up and down beside him.
As they came around the house, Noah spotted Snowden, dressed in his uniform, standing on the front porch. He was talking to Sergeant Swift, who was perched on the white porch rail, wearing cutoff shorts and a tank top, her back to Noah. As Noah crossed in front of the porch, Snowden nodded, watching him pass.
The way the police chief followed Noah with his gaze irked him. Like he was some kind of criminal or something. Well... he had been a criminal, but he wasn't one any longer, and he didn't appreciate that glare that Noah thought ought to be reserved for drug dealers, armed robbers, and Johnny and Pam's murderer, who very possibly lived in Stephen Kill and was possibly even at the picnic today.
Noah nodded coolly and kept walking. "Keeping up, Mattie?" he called over his shoulder.
Head down, almost cowering, Mattie followed, brownie pan clutched in his hands.
Noah looked back up at Snowden, then quickly glanced at Mattie again. He got the impression that Mattie didn't much like the police chief, either. Or that he was afraid of him. But why on earth would he be afraid of Snowden? Though they were all nearly the same age, the man probably hadn't spoken to him more than half a dozen rimes in the last ten years.
Unspoken Fear Page 18
