by Melissa Tagg
“If she’d ever stop mothering him, she might figure it out.”
Mara’s attention darted to Sam. He’d said it with an air of irritation—and maybe a little amusement too. She pulled her napkin from her lap and bunched it on her plate. “Figure out what?”
Sam didn’t answer. But maybe he didn’t have to. She glanced into the kitchen again. Now Lucas was holding plates while Jen dished out dessert, laughing at whatever she said. Mara thought of how he’d run out to the truck last night, pulled Jen into a relieved hug. How, later, he’d plopped down beside her onto the loveseat in the den before anyone else could. Capitulated when Jen had asked him to come to church today.
She looked back to Sam. “Jen doesn’t have any idea?”
“That Luke is a lovesick puppy? Not a chance, though he’s getting worse and worse at hiding it. Why does she think he came home from Mexico a month earlier than planned?” Sam pressed his palms to the table. “Jen pampers him. Heckles him. Constantly asks him to permanently move back. Even flirts with him now and then. But the guy could finally cut his hair, put on a suit, and show up on her doorstep with a rose in hand and she still wouldn’t realize there’s a lot more going on.”
Or she did but was scared of messing up a friendship.
Mara glanced around the dining room. The four chairs at the unoccupied other half of the table were piled with books and magazines. It just didn’t fit at all—Jenessa, who always seemed so put together, living in a house that felt not just cluttered but almost stiflingly crowded.
Sam must’ve read her mind. “It was her parents’ house. Luke and I have been trying to get her to put it on the market for a year now. She says she will eventually but I think she just doesn’t want to deal with all the stuff. Junk, most of it.”
“Her parents?”
“Her dad died almost two years ago—emphysema. Her mom passed a year later from liver failure. She struggled with alcohol for years.” He turned his head toward the kitchen, but not quickly enough for Mara to miss the compassion in his eyes. “Jen had a pretty rough go of it there at the end. She stays busy these days.”
He talked about Jenessa with the same tone of care and empathy in his voice that Jenessa had when talking about Lucas’s scars. Maybe this was why Mara had really stayed for dinner—because this small group of friends had something she wanted. They were knit together. They knew each other’s wounds. They saw deeper and held tighter.
Lenora had said once that she believed God had led Mara to the Everwood. If that was true, could He have led Mara here too? To this band of friends who’d so quickly adopted her into their circle?
She could almost hear Lenora’s affirming answer. He knows what our hearts need, Mara.
“The three of you have something special,” she said.
Sam gave a nonchalant shrug, but it didn’t hide the caring man she was beginning to discover underneath. Come to think of it, this was the most congenial conversation she’d had with the police chief.
“Well, there’s more than one kind of family,” he finally said.
She wanted to ask Sam about his daughter. About the woman who’d dropped her off at the Everwood a couple of afternoons ago. In all the fuss of Marshall passing out in the bathroom, she’d never had a chance to ask that day. But Jenessa and Lucas were returning with plates of blueberry pie now.
And Mara’s phone dinged with a text. She slipped it free and glanced down. Marshall.
Coming home soon?
I’m about to start boxing up the creepy dolls.
She read it once. Twice. No mention of Penny. And he’d called the Everwood home.
“I hope you’re not thinking about trying to sell those on eBay or anything. Technically, Lenora owns them, remember.”
Mara was back. He’d known it when he’d heard her steps over groaning floorboards, but it was her voice from the guestroom doorway that sent relief spooling through his tired body.
Penny’s intrusion had entirely upended him, shattering whatever tranquility he’d found at the Everwood. But maybe now that Mara was here, he’d find his equilibrium again. He turned from the cardboard box half-filled with porcelain dolls bundled in bubble wrap. “Even if I did post them on eBay, who would buy them?”
Mara moved into the room. She wore a long gray sweater over a pink shirt and leggings—and a grin. “Some people collect stuff like this.”
“Some people aren’t creeped out by ghost-white faces and glass eyes, I guess.” He lifted a doll with a green dress. “But don’t worry. All I’m doing is packing them up.”
Except for a few of them. A few that Mara just might find waiting for her in her bedroom whenever she ventured down there. One under her sheet. Another atop her dresser. The last one hiding behind her shower curtain.
A silly prank, for sure, but it’d distracted him from Penny for a little while at least. She’d stuck around for a few hours this morning, but by lunchtime she’d given up on reviving their earlier conversation. She’d hit the road after an awkward goodbye in the entryway. No hug or physical touch of any kind, the few feet between them feeling like a stretching cavern.
She’d tried to bridge the distance one last time. “I know why you’re staying here, Marshall. I saw the magazine ad on your nightstand. Even if I hadn’t, it would’ve clicked eventually. You’re staying here for Laney, and if it’s healing something inside of you, then I’m glad.”
He’d opened the door for her, but she wasn’t done.
“You can’t spend the rest of your life living solely for her memory, though. You just can’t. Remember her, yes. Treasure the years we had with her, of course. But if all this”—she’d gestured to the freshly painted entryway, the new light fixture overhead, the tarp still covering the floor—“is merely keeping you locked in the past or distracted in the present, then it’s only a Band-Aid.”
He hadn’t been able to find the words to argue. Because there weren’t any to find. They might not be married anymore, but Penny still knew him better than anyone.
And as he’d stood on the porch and watched her drive away, for the first time since their divorce, he’d let himself acknowledge the piercing truth—he missed that. Missed having someone who knew him. Someone who didn’t just see past his damaged surface but who was willing to walk into the deep waters.
Beth and Alex, Mom and Dad, Captain Wagner—they were all supportive. But it wasn’t the same as having a true partner in every sense of the word. Would he ever have that again?
Mara picked up a piece of bubble wrap and started swaddling one of the larger dolls.
“How was church?” he asked.
“I thought it might feel weird—going back to church after so long. But I felt strangely at home.” She cast him a curious glance and he braced himself for the questions he knew were coming. “Marshall, we’re, um, we’re friends, aren’t we? I know you’ve barely been here a week now but it feels like longer.”
“We’re living in close quarters. I’ve seen you in your pajamas. You’ve seen me passed out on a bathroom floor. I think we can safely say we’ve passed the stage of mere acquaintances.”
“So then, as your friend, is it okay if I ask . . . why was she here?”
“She’s getting remarried.” He stuffed his doll into the box. “I guess she wanted to clear the air first or something.”
Mara’s pause communicated as much as any sympathetic words would’ve. “That’s quite the effort to go to,” she finally said, “tracking you all the way to Iowa.”
“Well, I wouldn’t answer her calls, so . . .” He shrugged. “She’s as stubborn as me. Probably why we ended up together in the first place.”
“Were you married long?”
“Ten years. Actually, want to know how we met? I’d just joined the precinct and there was this reception during my first week. A fancy little shindig for a long-time officer’s retirement. She’s there. I’m there, in uniform, feeling like a fish out of water. At some point I look over at the food table and see
this woman sneaking a napkin filled with canapés into her gun holster.” He’d laughed at the time. Almost laughed now. “She’s got this thing for fancy appetizers. Caviar, mushroom puffs, shrimp. It’s weird.”
No, what was weird was how that’d just slipped out. As if it was completely normal to discuss his ex-wife in everyday conversation. “I have no idea why I just told you that.”
Mara set her wrapped doll next to the one he’d laid down. “I’m a natural listener.”
His words from the other night in the attic.
Penny’s words from long ago.
“Well, we ended up a statistic.” At Mara’s raised brow, he went on, picking up another doll. “Couples who lose a child—they’re that much more likely to separate. When she first left, I didn’t realize it was for good, but then . . .” He shook his head.
“It’s like you disappeared into yourself, Marsh. You were drowning yourself in sleeping pills. You wouldn’t talk to anybody, not even me.”
His lungs squeezed at the remembrance of her words. They’d felt like an accusation hours ago, but she was just being honest, wasn’t she?
And if he was honest, too, he could admit that in those first months after Laney died, Penny had tried. She’d asked him to go to counseling with her, to find a grief support group, return to church. But instead of being willing to traverse their loss together, when she’d waded in, he’d only pulled her under until they were both sinking.
She’d had to break free to save herself. He was the partner who’d failed first.
“Marshall?”
He was staring at the doll in his hand, locked on its glass eyes and empty expression. “Anyway, Penny’s on her way home now.”
“Already? That’s a long drive to make back-to-back. She could’ve stayed.”
“She has a baby to get back to.” He set down the doll. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for things to get back to normal around here.” That is, if a never-ending list of repairs and to-dos plus a couple of mysteries to solve counted as normal. He’d already taken too long of a break yesterday, spending time Christmas-ifying the house. Speaking of which . . .
“Hey, we never got around to presents last night.”
Mara was popping plastic bubbles now instead of wrapping dolls. “What?”
“Christmas in March. There were presents.” Or, at least, one present. He’d thought it was a good idea at the time, but then, with everyone else around, he’d felt too dumb or embarrassed—something—to give it to Mara.
He latched on to the welcome diversion. “Downstairs.”
Mara followed him down to the den where the tree was still lit and the room still smelled of spice and pine. Probably from the Christmas candles he and Sam and Lucas had dug out from the boxes of decorations.
And under the tree, the gift he’d wrapped. He grabbed it and held it out to Mara. “Sorry it’s wrapped in newspaper. You’d think with everything else we found in the attic, we’d have come across wrapping paper, too. But no such luck.”
“You got me a Christmas gift?”
“Trust me, it’s nothing that exciting. Open it.”
She had the package open in seconds. The spread of her smile was slow and filled with wonder. “Photos of the Everwood?”
When she looked up at him, her eyes were so lit with delight, he could almost forget Penny had ever been here. Almost.
They were old black-and-white and sepia photos—a few five by sevens, some eight by tens, all framed. All it’d taken was a little dusting, Windex on the glass, and he was pretty sure they’d make a cool wall decoration somewhere downstairs.
More than that, he was pretty sure Mara would like them.
“I assume a past owner framed them and had them on display at some point,” he said.
“I love them.” She held the whole stack in her arms, struggling to look at them, one after another.
“Here, let me help.” He reached for the frames, handing her one at a time. Honestly, he hadn’t looked that closely at any of them yesterday. Only enough to see that two of them showed the Everwood’s exterior—one taken during winter, as snow covered the lawn and the bushes that lined the porch, and the other likely in the spring or summer, the mass of leaves on the giant elm filling the corner of the photo.
The other four showed rooms inside the house. The kitchen, the dining room, a guestroom, and the den.
Now, as Mara handed each photo back to him, he looked closer. “I wouldn’t know when these are from, except that one of the photos has a scribble on back. It says 1965.”
“Not long after Lenora’s parents disappeared.” She handed him the photo that featured the den. It showed the fireplace, stone reaching all the way to the ceiling, a wingback chair in the corner—possibly the same ripped one he’d sat on in the attic the other night. And . . . huh. There was a faint square on the wall above the chair and an end table. As if a piece of artwork once hung there, the rest of the wall around it faded by the sun.
“Hey, Mara, you know that photo you found in the attic? The couple—Arnold and Jeane. Do you still have it?”
“Yeah, it’s in Lenora’s—uh, my room.”
“Can you get it?”
She cast him a curious glance, but she handed him the last frame and crossed the room to the door leading into hers. A second later, her squeal rang out.
She appeared in the doorway, a doll in hand. “Really, Marshall?”
He chuckled as he set down the frames. That was the doll from the dresser. Just wait until she got in bed tonight. “Couldn’t help myself. Sorry.”
“Something tells me that apology was not entirely sincere.”
“Not entirely, no.”
She marched across the room, doll tucked under her arm, and held out the photo. And . . . yep. That’s what he’d thought.
“What is it, Marsh?”
“This may be the loosest, flimsiest hunch ever, but I have an idea why Lenora wanted to talk to that art history expert.”
13
Lenora
Sometimes in my dreams, they call me Eleanor.
Mom and Dad, that is. They call me Eleanor, and they remind of the little room—the one hidden behind the fireplace. Dad shows me where to step behind the pile of logs and find the handle. And Mom’s hushed words repeat the instructions I’ve heard before.
“Eleanor, if ever anything bad should happen, climb into the secret room and wait for us. Don’t come out until one of us comes for you.”
In one particular dream, I obey. It’s a dark, snowy night and one of our guests has twin sons. I don’t see their faces nor know their names or ages, but I know they aren’t nice.
So I find a flashlight in a drawer in the kitchen, wait until the den is empty, and I face the open mouth of the cold fireplace. I ruin my frock in the ash and soot until I find the metal handle. I tumble into the room and click on the flashlight.
That’s when I see the painting leaned up against a corner. I wander to it, shining the flashlight over the bright colors of the scenic landscape—a tree with deep pink blossoms that remind me of one of Mom’s dresses. I wonder how it got here and why I didn’t notice it missing from the den wall before.
But it’s not enough to hold my interest, not when I’m bravely hiding in a secret room and the flashlight isn’t the only thing I found in the kitchen. I reach into my pocket for a cookie and nestle against one wall.
Hours later, Dad finds me in the secret room. I’ve had my nap in here, it seems, and he finds it hilarious. Though he scolds me soundly for giving him and Mom a scare. He whisks me from my hiding place, and I forget to ever ask about the painting.
He calls me Eleanor.
“Is there such a thing as a tree doctor?”
It was the first day of December and I’d grown wonderfully accustomed to Mara’s voice echoing about the house. She came loping into the den where I sat staring at the fireplace, remembering only in blurry scraps. As if my memory were a photo album of pictures so faded and
yellowed I couldn’t quite make out the images.
Just before she entered the room, I’d had the thought that maybe it was time to give up my quest. After all, I still didn’t know what I was searching for. The room behind the fireplace was as void of answers as the attic. And I needed to focus on the present. The kitchen renovation had ended up far more expensive than I’d planned, and I was beginning to worry about paying January’s mortgage installment.
Mara dropped onto the window seat. She was barefoot, of course, and wearing an overly large sweatshirt. I could tell by the brown smudges on her hands she’d been polishing woodwork again.
“A tree doctor?”
“The way that old elm tree out front leans and groans worries me. Plus, have you noticed the faint reddish tinge to the bark of that tree in back by the garden shed? I think it may be a magnolia tree. We should ensure it’s healthy because those things can be beautiful. Who do you think we should call?”
I looked away. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll Google it. And maybe whoever we get out here can give us some ideas for planting some bushes and maybe a few more trees. Just two or three. Don’t you think it’d be pretty in the spring to have some flowering trees up front? I’m thinking of pink and purple blossoms.”
I dragged my gaze from a blank space on the wall—unsure why I was staring at it in the first place—and noticed the way she was leaning forward, legs crossed and hands on her knees. Mara Bristol had come alive. It didn’t matter if she was sweeping snarled leaves from the porch or clipping stray threads from a rug or dusting furniture in too many unused rooms—she’d found such joy in taking care of this old house.
And I didn’t know how to tell her there wasn’t money for a botanist or horticulturist or whoever it was that doctored trees.
“I’m so happy you’re happy here,” I began, thinking to broach the topic. But something else came out instead. “If you hadn’t come to the Everwood, Mara, where do you think you might be now?”
