Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense)

by Therese Heckenkamp

  * * *

  Like all storms, this one eventually passed. When we came back upstairs, the house was a maze of darkness. Sporadic thunder continued to rumble in the distance, but I liked it—it made me feel safe, hearing it so far away, knowing it had passed over and could no longer reach me. I heaved open a window and paused to drink in the delicious rainwater smell.

  Eventually, I wandered back to the kitchen. “How long do you think the power will be out?” I asked, flipping a light switch uselessly.

  “Depends,” my uncle replied, shoving the forgotten, half-thawed pizza back into the freezer. “Might be an hour. Might be a week.”

  I stood eyeing the melting candle, the wax solidifying on the taper in long pearly droplets. He has to be joking, I thought. No way it will be out for a week. But even an hour was too long, I realized, because I was hungry. Now. And I wasn’t going to sit around and wait for the power to come back on.

  “Well,” I said, tossing on the green apron I’d used that morning, “I guess I’ll see what I can do about dinner.” I bent down to open a cupboard and started shuffling noisily through the pots and pans. When I finally stood up and looked over my shoulder, my uncle was gone. I turned back to focus on dinner. Anything will do, I told myself, as long as it’s edible, and as long as it’s not pizza.

  If the power stayed out for more than several hours, I knew a lot of food in the refrigerator would spoil. So I decided to be resourceful and make a big omelet, using plenty of eggs, milk, cheese, and whatever fresh vegetables were left from my last shopping trip. I found I could use the gas burners on the stove simply by igniting them with a match. I grabbed two slices of wheat bread, spread both sides with butter, and fried each side until dark golden brown, making toast to accompany the eggs.

  I worked in the gloomy dimness of candlelight, and I discovered I liked it. The atmosphere was just on the border of mysterious, making it cozy. It’s something you have to experience—along with butter frying, candle flame shifting, and smoke mingling with the savory smell of cooking eggs—to understand.

  “We’ll eat in the living room tonight,” my uncle informed me, sticking his head into the kitchen just at the moment when everything was ready and I was sliding the eggs onto plates. “I’ve started a fire in the fireplace,” he said, and I shivered in anticipation. The late May evening was definitely cool enough for a fire.

  We ate in front of the crackling fire, entertained by the orange glow and leaping shadows. My eyes followed the flames, fascinated by their continuous writhing dance. Words lay absent between me and my uncle, yet nothing seemed missing. Nothing, that is, but the tension that had existed earlier. Where had it gone? Perhaps it was washed away by the rain, consumed with the meal, burnt in the flames.

  Warm, fluffy eggs on fried toast—I’d never had that for dinner before. And I was sure my uncle hadn’t. When the meal was eaten, he hoisted himself up from his chair. “Well, we might as well finish whatever ice cream is in the freezer. It won’t last long with the power out.” He winked. “And we can’t let it go to waste.”

  Digging into the half-gallon carton, we mounded two blue porcelain bowls high with French vanilla ice cream. We ate while sitting in front of the fire, the giant scoops gradually softening into creamy mounds, drowning in a lake of vanilla liquid.

  “It’s Memorial Day tomorrow,” my uncle said after a while. “The bookstore will be closed, of course. It looks as if we have another day off.”

  “Mmmm,” I said by way of acknowledgment. My eyes were growing heavy and my vision was wavering. There was something mesmerizing about the erratic, snapping fire. Warmth saturated my skin and soaked through my bones. Cold ice cream, hot fire—the contrast of temperatures converged in a satisfaction of senses. Sighing, I thought of how no other flavor of ice cream was quite as enjoyable as vanilla.

  “They’ll be celebrating in town tomorrow,” my uncle continued.

  For a second my vision cleared and I noticed how the fire reflected in twin flames on the lenses of his glasses.

  “Every year I watch the Memorial Day parade. It’s only small, starting at the high school and continuing down Main Street, but it’s as patriotic as any parade you’ll find. You should come along and see how a small town celebrates. Who knows? This may be your only chance . . .” The sentence faded off, unfinished. Or maybe it was finished. Though sleepy, I was conscious enough to realize what my uncle was implying. Perhaps he suspected I didn’t intend to stay in Lorens much longer. Maybe he’d never expected me to.

  I let my tongue run over the cold steel of my spoon, lingering on the sweet film of ice cream before I spoke. “I might,” was all I said.

  In the fireplace, a log settled, shooting embers.

  We sat holding empty bowls on our laps, each thinking our own thoughts as the fire diminished into a steady orange glow. I was too relaxed to get up, too content in this comfortable interlude. Too aware that that’s all it was, an interlude. In the back of my mind I knew my problems remained, tangled and waiting; but I didn’t want to touch the knot tonight and provoke it into tightening. With the power out, I would not be able to return to the diary unless I wanted to read by flashlight. And I didn’t. Some of me was sorry, but more of me was relieved. I wondered what part of me that was, then smiled at how I was thinking of myself as if I were a jigsaw puzzle.

  “That ice cream sure hit the spot,” my uncle said suddenly. “Vanilla’s my favorite flavor.” He smiled, then added thoughtfully, “Of course, the best way to have it is with a slice of rhubarb pie.”

  “I bet!” This time I had no doubt what my uncle was implying. The funny thing was, I didn’t care, and I laughed.

  * * *

  The peaceful spell my uncle and I had formed in front of the fireplace dissolved during the night. I’m not sure when, maybe when the power came back on. All I know is, when I awoke the next morning, I sensed, through the haze of sleep, that something was not right. Though I knew night was over, the world hung deadly quiet. I opened one eye and squinted to read my wristwatch, tilting it in the dimness to catch a glimpse of the golden hands. Nine-thirty. I’d slept so soundly that it was much later than I’d intended to get up. An odd sense of urgency gnawed at my heart.

  With my eyes still partially closed, I stood, stumbled to my window, and snapped open the shade. Unfortunately, that’s not the way to open a shade, and the whole roll disconnected and bonked me on the head. Not a good way to start the day. Now in a thoroughly bad mood, I dragged the desk chair to the window, stood on it, and spent a frustrating five minutes trying to wedge the roll back into place. Just when I was about to throw the shade out the window, it decided to stay.

  I stepped off the chair. When I looked out into the dull morning, hot and annoyed, I finally remembered today was Memorial Day. The outside world was draped in mist. Below my window, the weedy, overgrown garden caught my eye. It looked forlorn, waiting to be turned over, enriched with fertilizer, and planted with cheerful, blossoming, sun-thirsty plants. And though this wait was not my fault, I felt guilty.

  I heaved the window open for my morning dose of fresh air and heard a car rumble past, then fade into silence. Such silence…not even interrupted by a single bird. Sing! I wanted to yell.

  I closed the window on the depressing quiet and hurried to switch on the bedside clock radio, only halfheartedly realizing, when I saw the blinking 12:00, that the power had returned sometime during the night.

  “Monday mornings make me miss you . . .” floated drearily from the radio. Spare me! I thought, switching the radio off.

  I felt worse when I entered the kitchen, only to be greeted by the large, ticking clock. My uncle had already gone into town. Why hadn’t he wakened me? Oh, yeah, I’d never promised to go with him . . . I’d only said “maybe.”

  I might as well join him, I thought. I have nothing better to do, and I guess it’s where everyone else is. That must be why everything felt so lonely, why when I looked out the front window past the long lawn to the r
oad, all that I could see and hear of the world was deserted and silent.

  But I do have something I need to do, I remembered. The diary. And I felt a sudden sense of responsibility fall on my heart like a deadweight. It sat there, heavy and painful, making breathing difficult. How could I face the diary this morning? I imagined what it would be like sitting alone in that desolate room steeped in the past. I imagined the room swelling with echoes, heard them playing off the walls, tormenting me in that room that was not my room. It was my mother’s—Tiffany’s. And it would never let me forget it. At that moment, I believed she haunted the room—if only through her diary and memories. But haunted, nonetheless.

  So I escaped, to join the crowd assembled for the parade, hoping to lose myself and my thoughts in their midst.

  A roadblock stood on Main Street, and the sidewalks were lined with people. People holding flags, people holding children, people holding food and drinks, people holding hands. I walked along trying to blend into the crowd, yet feeling detached, as if I were the only real person and the others were a mirage. I wanted to reach out and touch someone, anyone, to prove to myself that they were real and I wasn’t here alone. But I restrained myself. A solemn air hung over the crowd, and my heart felt no eagerness for festivities.

  Not wanting to stand still, I continued up the sidewalk, taking in the patriotic decorations. Red, white, and blue streamers twined around the usually stark black lampposts and fluttered at me teasingly. From the front of almost every shop and business a flag protruded prominently, flapping noisily in the cool wind. As I walked, I dodged children, teenagers, parents, and grandparents. Young mothers pushed babies and toddlers in strollers. Some of the strollers were decorated with ribbons.

  I saw these people in as much as I realized they were there, yet I didn’t really see them; their faces meant nothing to me, and mine nothing to them. Even in this crowd, I felt alone. Maybe I was the one who wasn’t real.

  When I found myself following a curving sidewalk up a gradual hill, I realized I’d left Main Street behind and was heading for the high school and the start of the parade. On my way, I passed through a residential area. With their tidy gardens, trimmed bushes, and children’s toys scattered through the yards, the houses struck me as model “happy family” homes. On a front lawn, Barbie dolls stood in what looked like a miniature parade. A bike was propped against the side of another house. Farther on, the windows of a blue house displayed childish artwork consisting of cut and pasted stars and stripes forming a construction paper flag.

  My steps slowed. A smile brushed my lips, but not without a twinge of sadness. These houses represented the cheerful, normal family life that I realized I wanted—had wanted for a long time—but had never dared admit: a home with a real family, with both a mother and a father, in a house like one of these.

  But a house doesn’t make a home, I told myself, and left them behind.

  A large cemetery swept up the hill on my right, and I walked along the metal-linked fence on my way to where a cluster of people gathered near the hilltop, awaiting the parade. I searched the crowd for my uncle’s face, and when I spotted him standing off a little distance from the main group, I walked over to join him.

  We waited together for the parade to begin, not saying a word. I shivered every time the wind swooped by. The sky was still cloudy, and I doubted the sun would emerge today, which would not be nice for the family picnics that I supposed many people had planned. But I had to stop thinking about other people’s plans. I reminded myself I had my own plans, the diary.

  A gunshot pierced my thoughts and startled me back to my surroundings. The people lining the sidewalks, noisy a moment ago, instantly hushed.

  “The seven-gun salute,” my uncle said quietly.

  Six shots followed. Then the band began playing a sad military song. Sad, yet somehow majestic. I stood straighter. As the mournful strains of music filled the air, the band began marching down the hill. “Taps,” my uncle explained. “They play that when a soldier dies, and at military funerals.”

  The song finished on a significant note. One, I imagined, that would stay in my head all year. Then the band struck up a blaring tune and the parade really began as a festive mood took over. An assembly of high school girls marched down the hill, twirling dazzling batons in perfect time. A sleek, dark-haired girl caught my eye, and she flashed me a bright smile of recognition. Snow White.

  Boy scouts and girl scouts filed by proudly, followed by an old car with some uniformed person waving. Everyone around me waved, so I waved, too. This car was followed by an ambulance, a flashing sheriff’s car, and a fire truck shrieking so loudly I had to hold my hands over my ears as it passed.

  The last car scattered candy to the crowd, and I smiled as screeching children scurried forward, their tiny fingers fumbling eagerly. When a long Tootsie Roll landed at my feet, I picked it up and handed it to a little girl who held only a single lollipop. She turned big eyes and a shy smile on me, and I smiled back, feeling strangely happy inside. As if I had done something wonderful.

  Finally, the last straggling children with decorated bikes and wagons rode by, and the parade left us behind as it moved on to Main Street. Many people trailed after it, others dispersed to go back to their homes or on picnics, while some chose to roam the graveyard, perhaps paying tribute to friends’ and relatives’ graves . . . or just wandering curiously.

  Perhaps it was a morbid inclination, but I felt an urge to follow this last group. My uncle was already wandering down the sidewalk, but I turned off, passing through the open cemetery gate, and when I called to him that I’d see him later, he nodded and continued down the hill.

  Some people, probably most people, consider cemeteries to be depressing, lonely places, and I’d always assumed this to be true. But as I roamed slowly through that stone garden, scattered with hundreds of unique headstones, I realized I had been wrong. Intrigued by the atmosphere, I felt my pulse quicken. The thought of how so many different people, from so many different birthplaces, had come together for their final resting place, was almost too much to handle.

  I had a vague impression that I was more a ghost than a person as I flittered from headstone to headstone over the rambling, pitted land. It was a vast cemetery, trailing down the hill to meet the back of St. Catherine’s. As I wandered, I admired the flowers, shrubs, trees, and interestingly engraved headstones. A Blessed Virgin Mary statue stood enshrined beneath an archway of white flowers, looking gentle and loving with her hands placed together and a rosary trailing down from her fingers. Even though clouds blotted the sun, the world no longer looked so dark.

  While absorbed in my musings, I neared an immense stone at the crest of a hill, and the sudden voices startled me. They sounded deep and furious, but were coming from far enough away that I couldn’t make out the words.

  My curiosity made me creep closer and crouch carefully behind the large, polished marble stone. It was a monument bearing some family’s last name, a name I don’t remember because it wasn’t important. The voices had my full attention.

  They grew stronger, traveling up from the valley below. I began to hear snatches of words. I peeked slowly around the side of the stone and saw, at the base of the hill, two people absorbed in what was obviously an argument. They were so intent on each other that I had no fear of being discovered.

  I stayed watching cautiously from my hiding place, straining to hear their words. Needing to hear them. Because the two people arguing were Justin and Philip.

  Chapter Twenty

  I stayed crouched behind that massive marble stone for what seemed like hours. When I developed a painful cramp in my leg, I didn’t even consider moving. Something vital was taking place and I needed to know what it was.

  I studied their faces. Philip was scowling, looking angrier than I’d ever seen him. In fact, I’d never seen him angry, and the expression was so unnatural it frightened me. Justin was standing sideways, so I could hardly see his face, but I could tell fr
om the tightness of his muscles, the tenseness of his jaw, and his resolute stance, that he was angry, too.

  I strained my ears to catch what they were saying, but all that reached me were stray wisps of words. Disconnected. Meaningless. Fragments of sentences I could only hear when suddenly stressed louder.

  “Stay away . . .”

  “ . . . hurting her . . .”

  “ . . . warning!”

  The words were spoken with such wrath, it hurt my ears to hear what little I did, but I had to stay and listen. What did this mean? I trembled in my hiding place. The very fact that these two guys—the only two guys I knew in this whole town—were together, alerted me that something was up. Hadn’t both Justin and Philip told me they didn’t know each other? So why were they here together? It had to concern me in some way. Uneasiness worked its way from my heart out to the tips of my fingers and toes, where it stayed throbbing like a miniature heartbeat.

  Was it possible that Justin and Philip were fighting over me? Quick as this thought came, it was followed by a shameful rebuff. Don’t flatter yourself. Justin would never lower himself to such a level. He’s too proud.

  Yet it was Justin’s voice I heard last as Philip turned and stomped away, and it rose sharply, so I caught every word. “I won’t let you. Just remember that. Leave her alone or you’ll regret it!”

  The forceful words resounded through the cemetery stillness. There was no answer, and with no rebuke to counter them, Justin’s words took on a permanence as irrevocable as if engraved on a headstone.

  I ducked behind my large stone as Justin swung around to stalk up the hill in the opposite direction Philip had taken. In my direction. I waited, my mouth dry and my heart pounding.

  To this day, I wonder what gave me the strength to do what I did next. But I guess it wasn’t really strength. Rather, it was one of those unexplainable impulses—an instant decision, made so fast it didn’t seem like a decision at all. When I heard Justin’s heavy strides and saw his long shadow stretch alongside me, I set my teeth and stepped from the shelter of my stone.