by Sloan Archer
Vanessa traced a finger through the condensation on her glass. She sat back and tucked her feet underneath her rear, which Cash couldn’t help notice was perfectly heart-shaped. She rubbed her eyes sleepily. “If it wouldn’t be any trouble for you . . .”
“Not at all.” Cash sense her lingering apprehension, which made him think that he’d been right earlier when he’d suspected that she wouldn’t want charity. It also made him feel better about extending a helping hand. If her character had changed and she’d become the sort of woman conniving enough to use him only for grunt labor, she would have snapped up his offer the second he’d extended it.
Still, he wanted her to feel wholly comfortable in his presence. He imagined it would be nerve-wracking for any woman, being confined with an unfamiliar man inside a big house that sat at the end of a quiet road in the middle of nowhere—it was like a horror film waiting to happen. While he was hesitant to bring up their past again, he wanted her to know that she was safe in his company. He said, “And, I’m sure you don’t remember this because it was so long ago, but you and I palled around one summer when we were kids. So it’s like we’re already friends.”
“Okay, okay, you’ve twisted my arm,” Vanessa laughed with a big smile. She waggled a finger at him. “But I don’t want you to cut back on any of your own work just to help me. This is a free time only kind of gig.”
“Deal.”
Vanessa let out a loud yawn and then threw a hand over her mouth. “Oh! Excuse me! I swear, you’re not boring me. I’m just jetlagged. New York is a couple hours ahead of Dunblair Ridge.”
“Just Dunblair.”
“Huh?”
Cash grinned. “If you want to sound like you’re from around here, just say Dunblair. Only the tourists use the full name.”
“Got it.” She placed a hand over her mouth as she yawned once more. “Sorry!”
Cash drained the rest of his drink and then got to his feet. “I should be heading home, anyway. Still got a couple things to do around the farm.” He didn’t, but the poor thing was so tired that she could hardly keep her eyes open and was obviously too polite to say that she wanted to turn in for the night.
They exchanged phone numbers as they headed toward the door, and Vanessa once again thanked Cash for the care package. As they stepped out onto the porch, she said, “I do remember you, you know—from when we were kids.” She stunned him with a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Goodnight, Cash.”
She stepped back into the house and shut the door, leaving Cash standing alone on the porch, his skin radiating from the heat of her lips.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Vanessa felt ridiculous driving around her aunt’s gargantuan truck. It was, hands down, the largest road vehicle she’d even ridden in, let alone driven. She’d forgotten the specifics of it, but she did know that it was a newer Ford model that had the letter F in its name followed by a series of numbers, that the only way to get into the thing was via a step ladder fused permanently to its side, and that a group of teenaged boys at the gas station had deemed it “sick.”
At the start of her journey downtown—and that was how driving the truck felt, a journey—she’d nearly taken out a neighbor’s mailbox making a right-hand turn. Then, she’d earned herself more than a few irritated sideways glances after unintentionally taking up two parking spaces at Hinkle’s Foods, a family business operated by Gary Hinkle’s brother, Bert. Later, as she’d mounted the beast with a bag of groceries clutched precariously in her arms, her skirt had blown up and she’d flashed her butt cheeks at a few of Dunblair Ridge’s finest, including a grandfatherly old man, a young mother, and a pimply-faced bag boy. Unfortunate, given that there didn’t seem to be too many other grocery markets around town.
Next time, she’d plan ahead and wear pants.
Vanessa wasn’t earning herself any new friends now as she chugged toward home at a steady fifteen miles per hour, her hands white-knuckled around the steering wheel. She let out a long breath once she pulled onto her driveway, realizing that she was sweating from tension. She hadn’t mowed anyone down, though, so she at least she had that going for her.
There was a seafoam green SUV sitting at the end of the driveway, all four of its windows open. At the corner of the back window was a bumper sticker shaped like a bone. It read: MY CO-PILOT IS A GREAT DANE. Groceries in her arms, Vanessa glanced into the car as she walked past. There was nobody inside, but a large bag of Cheetos sat on the passenger seat, which was coated in animal hair—dog, she was guessing. The steering wheel was smeared with orange fingerprints.
She found the driver on the porch, peering through a sliver of window that wasn’t covered by curtain. The woman cupped her hands over her mouth and called through the glass, “Yoo-hoo! Anyone home?”
Vanessa felt as if she was sneaking up on the woman, which was ridiculous, given that it was her house. She cleared her throat. “Hello? Um . . . Hi?”
The woman didn’t seem to hear her, which wasn’t surprising. If she hadn’t heard the roar of the truck’s diesel engine coming down the driveway, then a little throat clearing would be like a flap of butterfly wings. Vanessa tried louder this time, with no success. “Hello? Excuse me?” she said and then coughed noisily.
Well, she wasn’t going to stand out there all day making throat noises. She walked over and tapped the woman on the shoulder. The woman wheeled around and screamed in her face. Vanessa jerked back, dropping the grocery bag.
The woman threw a hand over her lips, which were painted with frosted pink lipstick the color of bubblegum. Her fingernails matched perfectly. “Oh my! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m sorry if I scared you, too,” Vanessa said as she bent to pick up the bag. Luckily, it only contained canned goods and cereal, so nothing inside had broken. “I tried calling to you, but you didn’t hear me.”
The woman tapped her ear. “Worked around industrial machinery most of my life—sewing machines—so the hearing’s shot.” She was wearing jeans, tennis shoes with hot pink laces, and a butter yellow t-shirt that went almost to her knees. On its front was an image of an English Bulldog that sported sunglasses, a studded collar, leather vest, and a black hat with a chain across the bill that was meant to look bikerish. Above it was a caption: DON’T MAKE ME GET RUFF WITH YOU.
Vanessa didn’t know how to respond to that—Sorry you can’t hear from those sewing machines?—so she opted for an introduction. “Hi, I’m Vanessa. Jeanie was my—”
“Vanessa! Of course I know who you are! I knew you back when you were just this high.” She held a hand up about hip level. “But you’re all grownup now!”
“I am,” Vanessa said, just to say something.
The woman seemed disappointed. “Guess you don’t remember me.”
What was it with everyone in town knowing her? Okay, technically this woman was only the second person after Cash who’d claimed to be acquainted with her prior to any sort of introduction, but it was still strange, learning that there were people out in the world who knew all about her when she couldn’t even recall their name.
Then again, there was something about the woman that did seem familiar . . .
“Wait a second . . .” Vanessa cocked her head and peered at the woman’s face. “Donna?”
“You do remember me!” The woman seized Vanessa in a bear hug, squishing her and the bag of groceries against her ample bosom. She took a step back and gave Vanessa the once-over. “Now, let me get a good look at you—you’re just so beautiful now! Were you this pretty way back then?”
She laughed and said, “Doubtful. I was a pretty scrawny kid. Little body, big tangle of hair.”
“You’ve certainly filled out!”
“Um . . . Thanks. Would you like to come in?”
They went inside and Vanessa directed Donna to take a seat on the sofa while she brought in the rest of the groceries, declining Donna’s offer to assist. After she finished, she went into the kitchen, filled two glasse
s with ice, and then poured in some pink lemonade from a bottle she’d bought at the store.
“You remembered lemonade is my favorite!” Donna sang as Vanessa handed her a glass.
Well, that had been a lucky guess. “Of course! So, what brings you around, Donna?” The question came out sounding ruder than Vanessa had intended, sounding closer to What do you want? She blamed the New Yorker in her.
Vanessa had been lightheartedly warned by Gary Hinkle that people in these parts had a tendency to drop by unannounced, which was a huge no-no to New Yorkers and, Vanessa imagined, anyone else who lived in a major city. This was something she’d have to get used to, though it would be a struggle because of how much she valued her privacy. Drop-bys made her feel ambushed. What if she was right in the middle of something—about to get in the shower or on the phone about a potential job? Gentler, Vanessa said, “I mean, how have you been?”
“Oh, I’ve been great!” In a more somber tone, she said, “I just wanted to come by and tell you face-to-face how sorry I am about Jeanie. She was my best friend, you know.” Her eyes misted and she pulled a wad of tissue out from her handbag, which was large enough to hold a small child. “I would have said something at the funeral, but I didn’t see you there . . .”
There was a tone of judgment in the comment that got Vanessa’s hackles up. Donna looked around the house, as if to imply: You got all this but you couldn’t be bothered to come to the funeral?
Stiffly, Vanessa said, “I actually didn’t hear about the funeral until after it took place.”
This seemed to surprise her. “Oh?”
“I didn’t even know that Jeanie had passed until I was called about the inheritance.”
“Is that right?” Donna asked in the sort of tone one uses when they’re not quite angry but are preparing to be. “Didn’t your mother tell you? I was the one who tracked her down and told her about Jeanie.” She took a sip of her lemonade. “It took some searching, but I found her.”
“No. She didn’t.”
“Damn her,” Donna muttered with a shake of the head. Being Jeanie’s best friend since forever, she’d undoubtedly heard all sorts of delightful Marissa stories throughout the years. Jeanie, Marissa, and Donna had all grown up in Dunblair Ridge together, though Marissa had taken off when she was barely seventeen. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say that. She’s your mother.”
“No, I understand. Trust me. I was pretty furious when I found out that she hadn’t told me about Jeanie’s passing. I had to hear it from Gary Hinkle.” Vanessa took a sip of her drink, which was tart enough to make her lips pucker.
Donna looked like she’d been slapped. “I’m so sorry, Vanessa! I would’ve called you, too, but your mother said she’d let you know. I should have known better. That was stupid of me.”
That’s my mother, ladies and gentleman, Vanessa thought bitterly. What made her feel even bitterer was that she didn’t feel the need to defend her mother, which is something any decent daughter should want to do. But nothing Donna was saying was unjust. She only wished that Donna had listened to her gut and called her directly.
Vanessa imagined how it must look from Donna’s perspective, and it didn’t seem fair. Why should she be the one to inherit so much from a woman she’d known for so little? Why had Jeanie left everything to her, when she could have left it to her best friend?
And it made Vanessa sick and embarrassed, having not attended the funeral. She wondered how many other people around town were making assumptions similar to the one Donna had made, wagging their tongues about a situation they knew absolutely nothing about. That good for nothing niece of Jeanie’s, didn’t you hear? Left everything but doesn’t bother showing her face until after the funeral. Flashing her butt cheeks at Hinkle’s like a tart, taking up two spaces in the parking lot—no shame whatsoever. I heard she’s from New York. And they’d say it just like that, too, with their faces twisted in revulsion. New York, like that explains everything. Or, they’d just cut straight to it and point out that she’d been raised by Marissa, which disclosed more than ten million words ever could.
“It’s not your fault, Donna,” Vanessa said. “I’m sure you remember what she was like. She probably would have found a way to spoil things no matter what you did.” It hurt, speaking about her mother like that, but it was only the truth.
Donna opened her mouth and then snapped it closed, as if she was holding her tongue from saying something nasty. Yah, she remembered, alright. “How are things with your mother?”
Oh, where do I even begin? Vanessa thought. “I don’t really speak to her anymore. As you know, she’s always been . . . challenging.”
“Mm-hmm.” Donna reached into her handbag, as if to pull something out, but only left her hand inside it like she was wearing a giant mitten. “The reason I ask is because I have something I want to show you. From Jeanie.”
“Okay.”
Donna seemed to be hesitating. “But . . .”
“But what?” Another thing Vanessa would need to get used to, the way people took their time in conversation in Dunblair Ridge. She’d thought the woman in line behind her at Hinkle’s Foods was going to lose her mind when the cashier kept chatting away about the delicious-looking peaches she’d picked out, but she’d only chimed in with a peach cobbler recipe she’d gotten off Martha Stewart’s website. In New York, it was get to the point or get out.
Donna sighed. “It might upset you. And it’ll make you mad at your mother.”
Vanessa had to bite her tongue so that she wouldn’t shout, Get to it, woman! “I’m upset that Jeanie is gone, so I’d rather you tell me while I’m still grieving. And, as far as my mother is concerned, I’m already mad at her. Trust me when I tell you that nothing you say could possibly disappoint me more than I already am with her.”
Donna shrugged, as if to say You asked for it. She extracted a stack of papers from her handbag. “Here you go.”
No, not papers. Envelopes, Vanessa saw. There was a fat stack of them, tied together with a faded piece of yarn. “What’s this?” she started to ask, but then she understood as she untied the yarn and sifted through them.
“Jeanie wrote to you after you left,” Donna said softly. “There’s some regular letters in there, but it’s mostly birthday and Christmas cards, that sort of thing. Many were returned because you and your mother moved around so much. But some of the other ones—”
“My mother sent back,” Vanessa said through clenched teeth.
The envelopes were faded and so worn that the edges on many were disintegrating. Across the front of at least half was the same recognizable sloppy scrawl, written in bright, childish colors: hot pink, neon green, turquoise. RETURN TO SENDER. Marissa always said that life was too short for “boring” blue and black ink.
Vanessa’s insides were churning with an unpleasant combination of rage and grief. “I can’t believe my mother would do such a thing—well, actually, I can.”
Donna looked devastated. “Jeanie suspected that your mother was jealous of the relationship you had with her.”
“She was jealous about more than that,” Vanessa spat, absently swiping an angry tear off her cheek with the back of her hand. How could her mother live with herself, doing such a thing to her only child and sister? “She’d always go on and on about how her parents showed Jeanie more love because she was a suck up or a goodie-two-shoes or some other garbage. She blamed them for the way she turned out—it was their fault that she was broke or a druggie or having difficulty staying in a relationship.”
Donna threw her hands up, nearly spilling her lemonade. “That’s ridiculous! I knew your grandparents. They never gave Jeanie special treatment.”
“Oh, I believe you a hundred percent. That’s how it is with my mother—it’s never her fault.” Donna looked away discretely while she wiped tears from under her eyes, which Vanessa appreciated. “I can’t get over the fact that she did this—this and so many other terrible things.”
“I know. It
’s despicable. Your aunt loved you so much. It just broke her heart when your mother took you away.” Donna clicked her tongue. “Jeanie told me that each time she sent you a letter, she’d think Maybe it’ll work this time. Maybe Vanessa will beat Marissa to the mailbox. She held on to her hope of reaching you for many years. She tried calling you, too, of course. But your mother always refused to put you on.”
Vanessa shook her head. “My mother never let me go near the mail. And the phone, too—when we had one. She was always so protective of both. Now I see why.”
“I think—well, I know—that Jeanie finally had to accept that she wasn’t going to be able to reach you. Every time one of her letters came back, her heart broke all over again. It wasn’t good for her.”
“Why didn’t she reach out to me when I was an adult?”
“I think she was afraid of revisiting the pain. Like I said, it was hard on her after you were taken away. I was really worried about her for a while. She wasn’t eating or sleeping, and things started to slip around the farm. To her, losing you was the same as losing her own child.”
“I wrote to Jeanie, too. When I was a kid. Did Jeanie ever get any letters from me?” Vanessa asked, though the look on Donna’s face had already given her the answer.
Donna shook her head. “Not a one.”
Vanessa clenched her fists in her lap, suppressing a desire to scream. It crossed her mind to call her mother and unleash the fury on her once Donna left, but what good would it do? As she’d learned in the past, the only person who’d leave that conversation hurting was her. A leopard doesn’t change its spots. All she’d get from her mother would be an earful of tired, illogical excuses.
Vanessa said, “I gave all my letters to my mother. She promised that she’d sent them. I feel terrible! What Jeanie must’ve thought—that I’d forgotten her. I wish I could somehow contact her and tell her what really happened.”
