by Grace Greene
The next day was overcast, and the clouds spit rain on and off. In the morning, Colton called to say he was inspecting interior work today at the jobsite and wouldn’t be coming by. It reminded her of the interior work she’d planned to do in her aunt’s house, which had taken a backseat to the work on Honey’s garden.
She stood in front of the refrigerator. While cleaning, she’d found a listing of emergency numbers for Louisa County and had stuck it under a magnet on the fridge.
Colton had recommended she call the sheriff’s office. She liked that idea. She’d called them every day when she’d been searching for Honey, and they’d been patient and helpful. Calling them would help her peace of mind.
A woman answered. Sandra cleared her throat and identified herself.
“I’m Sandra Hurst, out on Shoemaker Road. You might remember me. I was looking for my lost dog, Honey.”
“Yes, ma’am. I do remember. I heard you found her. I hope she isn’t missing again.”
“Oh, no. She’s doing fine. I wanted to thank you all for helping me with that.”
“Happy to.” After a short pause, the woman asked, “Is there another problem?”
“Oh, well, maybe. I’m not sure, but I thought I’d ask. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” Sandra couldn’t find the words.
“I’m Deputy Wilkins, Ms. Hurst. Please feel free to say whatever you’d like to share. I’m happy to help if I can.”
She sighed. “My husband. We’re estranged. He followed me here. I told him to leave, and I think he did, but I’m not sure. A friend suggested it might be a good idea to let you know.”
“Are you feeling threatened?”
“Not at the moment. Honestly, he’s never been violent. I don’t want to misrepresent anything.”
“Why don’t you give me his information? We’ll keep an eye out for him. But if anything changes or he returns, and you’re concerned, please call us.”
She gave Deputy Wilkins Trent’s information, and when they disconnected, she congratulated herself on taking a big step forward. Trent, if he found out what she’d done, would be very angry. She pushed away any second thoughts. If Trent didn’t like what she’d done, then he should leave her alone.
Making the call had provided an adrenaline boost. There was no way she could spend the day going through more of Barbara’s papers or magazines. She had other plans.
Her bedroom needed help. A few creature comforts. A chair and table would be nice. Maybe a dresser. Items that declared she wasn’t an overnight guest. Ultimately, her choices would be guided by what she could reach and what she could move.
She opened the doors to the three storage rooms upstairs and tried to guess what was in each one. Was there a theme or a hint of organization? It made sense that the most recent things to be put into storage would be in the former bedroom rather than the gable rooms.
Honey joined her. Other than a few quick off-leash trips outside, she seemed content to lounge on the smooth, cool wooden floors of the hallway, even rolling over onto her back for a while. She looked like she was airing her belly. Sandra was pretty sure she heard a soft snore or two.
A wooden chair was in the front, and she moved it out of the way. Beyond that was a dresser and an upholstered chair that she wanted. She thought they’d be perfect if she could maneuver them out of the room, but first she had to move smaller items stacked against the legs and sides of the furniture.
A stack of worn, dusty books was in the way. Hardy Boys books with some Nancy Drews mixed in. Sandra set them against the wall in the hallway. Next, she moved the picture frames that were leaning against the side of the chair. These weren’t fancy frames. They were old and tarnished. There might be a few faces she’d recognize if she tried hard enough, and she’d take a closer look later. One was different. It was a thick, rough frame, like a homemade shadow box. There they were—the orange monarchs. Someone had pinned several perfect butterflies into the display.
She remembered these from her trip upstairs that day long ago, the day she thought she’d heard her name called from inside the house and had left the porch and her dolls. She’d gone in and followed the voice up the stairs and down the hall, into her grandmother’s room. Mrs. Shoemaker. The first Cassandra.
It had been shocking to be in the room. Hot. Dark. The bright spot had been those butterflies.
The air was thick with pain and despair, and with a stink that the open windows couldn’t overcome. The sick, elderly woman was lost amid the pile of blankets and pillows, still calling out. Young Cassandra had stood near the bed, disoriented and frightened. She wanted to run. But from among the jumble of blankets, a hand reached toward her, the thin fingers grabbing at the air, as her grandmother spoke garbled words. The only words Cassandra understood were her name and the plea to come closer.
Cassandra wanted to move closer, but her feet were fixed to the floor. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t help.
That memory had stuck with her like a permanent mark. As an adult, Sandra still felt guilty. Her grandmother had been dying. Seven-year-olds could feel compassion. Shouldn’t that have been enough to overcome the fear?
Her mother had found her within moments and had taken her daughter’s arm to pull her out of the room, but the old woman’s hoarse, mumbling voice continued to call after her. Mom had paused in the doorway. She knelt, asking Cassandra if she wanted to go back to the bedside and speak to her grandmother. She had shaken her head no, but the word had also escaped her lips, loud and panicky. She still remembered the feel of it, the frightened “no,” and the old woman going silent. Mrs. Shoemaker hadn’t passed that day, but the silence and her own childish refusal had firmly woven itself into her memory and mixed with her memories of the first Cassandra’s death.
Mom had ushered Cassandra out of her grandmother’s room and down the hall. As they descended the steps, her mother, still clutching her daughter’s arm, spoke in harsh, low tones. “Why did you go in there? Why did you leave the porch?”
“Someone called me. I heard my name.”
Her mom stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked at her. “Nonsense. Who would call you up there?” She put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “Please be a good girl and stay on the porch as you’re told.” Mom opened the screen door and motioned her out.
She remembered hearing her mother call out, almost breathless, as she ran back up the stairs, “I’m coming, Mother. I’ll be right there.”
Who could blame a child for being afraid? No one, not even her mom. But each time she heard her name, she remembered her grandmother, and she felt the guilt and fear again. In retrospect, she suspected her discomfort with her name, Cassandra, had contributed to her being teased about it. It had made her a target.
Later, after her grandmother had died, when Mom was going out to the homeplace, she’d ask Sandra if she’d like to go, too. Sandra declined, and Mom hadn’t pushed her.
Sometimes it wasn’t what you’d done that stuck with you. It was what you hadn’t. Mom had said many times you couldn’t reap what you hadn’t sown, but that wasn’t true—you could reap without sowing, but the result was often hollow and unsatisfactory. It was more commonly known as regret.
All these years later, here she was sleeping in this very same room. It looked so different. It felt different. Far different from that memory. But that was life—an uneasy blend of chance and fate. If she’d never heard her name called that day, she would never have come up here on her own, been frightened, and carried the encounter with her into her future.
In fact, holding the frame, she saw the butterflies weren’t real.
Someone had painted fake monarchs. They were exquisitely done; the colors and markings looked real. Maybe better than real. The wings were thin, perhaps painted onto parchment or tissue paper, something that could be delicately shaped to mimic the fluttery shape of the insects’ wings.
The artist had wanted to capture the beauty of the butterflies, but perhaps not the butterflies t
hemselves, and had mounted them in the frame as if they might fly away at any moment.
Sandra hugged the frame to her. She used her sleeve to wipe the tears from her eyes, then carried the frame to the bedroom. As she set it on the bed, she saw words on the back panel. To Mama, it read, and it was signed by Clifford Shoemaker Jr. Not in a childish scrawl, but youthful, like the penmanship of a young adult. Uncle Cliff?
Her mother had another question to answer.
She turned the frame back over again, admiring the butterflies and touching the glass, then laid it on the bedspread and returned to her work.
Next, a stool. It was old but cute. The chair was stuffed and plump and looked comfy. She worked it out of the room, then put a blanket under the claw-and-ball feet to slide it. Hopefully, the cushioning would protect the floors. The wood floors were scratched and stained, but the old scars contributed to the floor’s patina. She wanted to avoid new damage.
Honey had moved, and Sandra was pretty sure she’d gone down for a drink and snack. No barks, so she wasn’t asking to go out yet.
She pulled the chair carefully down the hallway and through her bedroom door to the fireplace. She pushed it near the window. It would be a wonderful spot for reading or daydreaming, especially in the winter.
Well, but she wouldn’t be here come winter. Never mind, this was a cozy spot for summer, too, here next to the window. She put the framed butterflies on the mantel. It was the only spot of color in the room. She’d have to do something about that, too. She had a lot of work to do.
Honey had rejoined her. She’d settled herself half-under the chair and had resumed napping.
Late that afternoon, Sandra kicked the small suitcase sitting next to the stairs in the foyer. The kick was accidental, and her foot was bare, so she jumped around for a few moments holding her toes. Honey was waiting in the kitchen for her supper and appeared unimpressed. What could be more important than supper?
Sandra had forgotten about the suitcase. Her mother had left it when she’d stopped by. They’d argued. She felt badly about the harsh words she and her mom had shared. Probably, she’d been avoiding that memory, and as part of that had stopped seeing the suitcase.
She stared at the case. It was scuffed and looked familiar. Her mom had given it to her when she was a kid. Sandra carried the case over to the sofa and sat down. She flipped open the two locks and lifted the lid.
Her favorite doll, Felicity, was on top. Someone must’ve stored her in the case with Sandra’s other childhood friends. Rather, Cassandra’s friends. Her Barbies were layered below Felicity, neatly lined up on top of the assorted clothing.
Sandra’s hands stopped. They hovered, her fingers spread, hesitant to touch.
Mom must have packed these away, probably after Sandra left home for college. She’d arranged each doll with care and consideration, and she’d stowed the case safely away. Sandra had never missed them. Hadn’t given them a thought in years, except in an occasional memory.
She smoothed the doll’s hair and touched the fabric of the dress. Honey had come from the kitchen to sniff the case and its contents. How many memories could Honey smell? Was the air, the scents of the days spent on the Shoemaker porch trapped in here? Along with much of her childhood?
“Careful, Honey. Watch your nose.” She closed the lid and snapped the locks. She carried the case upstairs, but Felicity rode in the crook of her arm.
After such a solitary yet pleasant day, Sandra gave no thought to the distress of the night before. She saw last night as an overreaction, a product of too much happening in her life, good and bad. The garden work was moving along, and Colton and Aaron’s help with that was invaluable. Their friendship, too. Trent’s appearance had added to the emotional mix, except that he didn’t fall under the good category.
She bathed to get rid of the dust she’d collected from the storage rooms, pulled on Aunt Barbara’s white cotton nightgown, and then did the nightly pre-bedtime tour of the house, of the doors and such. Honey was already asleep on her pillow and didn’t join Sandra on the rounds.
When she tucked herself in, she sat up in bed with her history book. She’d left off while reading about Queen Elizabeth and had marked the page with a scrap of paper, but her heavy eyelids told her pretty quickly that she wasn’t reading tonight. Still, she sat awhile, propped against the pillows, admiring her effort at decorating.
The upholstered chair, the round table beside it, and a leather footstool with colorful sections, like pie slices, created a pretty grouping in a space that had been too empty. She’d found a colorful fringed scarf in a box and had draped it over the table to pick up the orange of the butterflies and the burgundy and green of the footstool.
This was the first time in her life that she didn’t have to follow anyone else’s rules. Not her mom’s, not her husband’s. She could do it her way. By the time she left here, she’d be a stronger person. In fact, she already was.
Her old friend, her doll friend, sat in the chair. Sandra felt a solitary tear in her eye and a warmth in her chest. She pressed her hand over her heart, struck by a sudden vision of the hands, her mother’s hands, lovingly packing away the toys of her grown daughter and saving them for her. Returning them to her.
She set aside the book, closed her eyes, and fell gently into sleep.
Sandra slept, and maybe her dreams were especially charming, because when she woke during the night, she simply rolled over and went back to sleep.
There was no middle-of-the-night toilet trip outside with Honey. It was broad daylight when she woke with the feel of eyes on her and warm breath brushing her arm. A cold nose touched her hand. She opened her eyes slowly to see Honey’s warm brown eyes staring into hers.
Sandra groaned, too cozy to get up, but Honey’s message was clear.
“OK, you win.”
Honey yipped and bounced back, moving like a puppy again and wagging her tail. Amazed, Sandra was certain the day-long rest yesterday had done Honey a lot of good.
Her heart ached, in a good way. She could love this. Maybe Aunt Barbara would want to stay in Florida longer than planned? She tossed back the blanket and went to the bathroom. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she didn’t flinch or turn away. Her hair was a smidgen longer, and her face had lost the gaunt, haunted look.
The Shoemaker eyes. She recognized them now. Her eyes—like her mom’s and her aunt’s—marked them as family.
Honey barked to remind Sandra that she had responsibilities, including a dog waiting at the kitchen door to be let out.
Sandra flipped the locks and let her go. Honey was in a hurry. Was Sammy out there? What was Honey after?
She followed, stepping barefooted out onto the stone. The morning breeze caught her white nightgown and the hem fluttered. She touched the skirt as it billowed, and then she saw him, standing under the oak tree, waiting for her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Honey was already there sniffing around his shoes. His hand hovered above her head, fresh from petting her. He wore a familiar grin, the one that heralded a lesson.
The old battle again—it flared inside her. Old habits of default cooperation versus internal rebellion. She wasn’t a child now. Not a student. She was an adult, and she could refuse Trent’s world.
Not angry or in fear, she squared her shoulders and calmly called her dog. “Honey,” she said.
Honey barely glanced at her as Trent knelt and scratched the furry neck. He murmured soft words to Honey and then looked back at his wife, smiling as he offered a treat to the dog and she accepted it from his palm.
“These are her favorites,” he said.
“Let her go.”
“Let her go?” He moved his hand a few inches from Honey’s body. “I’m not restraining her. In fact, we’re good friends after all those middle-of-the-night rendezvous.” He gave her another scratch. “Isn’t that right, girl? She loves her treats, doesn’t she?”
In that cool voice, he added, “Dogs are such good ju
dges of character, aren’t they? They like to know who’s boss. The alpha, you know what I mean? They want to be trained. Dogs are smart. Smarter than most people.”
He rose partway. His fingers snagged Honey’s collar, and he pulled. She whimpered as he stood, lifting her by the collar until her front paws barely touched the ground. She tried to move away, but Trent tightened his hold.
Sandra stepped forward instinctively, but Trent fixed his eyes on her, this time with cold intent, and she froze. He released Honey’s collar and knelt again, hugging her, apologizing. He returned his attention to Sandra.
“See? Dogs are smart, and they have a loving heart. A forgiving heart.” He ruffled Honey’s fur and then gave her a shove toward Sandra.
The puppylike quality was gone. Her tail drooped. She ran to the kitchen door and pressed her body up close to it. She wanted in. Sandra didn’t blame her.
“No more, Trent. We’re not doing this again. Shame on me for taking you back, for believing you when you apologized and made promises that things would be different. I wanted to believe you, and I gave you another chance. That won’t happen again. I don’t want anything that has anything to do with you.”
“You ran away in the night.”
“If you somehow didn’t get the message before, believe me now—we are done. Don’t come back here.”
“Be careful, Sandra. Watch who you toy with. Don’t play with me and don’t play with . . . what’s his name? Colton? And the kid? Aaron?” He made a breaking motion with his two fists. “The problem with caring about people is that it makes you vulnerable. Even an attachment to a dog is a—”
“A point of failure?” she interrupted. “Really, Trent? Give it a rest. Caring can make you vulnerable, but it also makes you stronger. Or it should.” She felt a sinking sensation. She was getting drawn into his head again. She spoke more forcefully. “What about Leo? You love a dog.”
