“What do you want Val to do?” Charlene asked Maureen.
“Find a comfy spot to lie down.” She motioned to a Turkish rug and a pile of pillows.
“No, thanks, I’ll stand,” Charlene said, and pointed to her knees. “These babies don’t bend the way they used to.”
“I meant Val,” she said. “And Charlene, Val might want some privacy.”
Charlene gave me an outraged look. “What about Frederick? He wants to see how it ends.”
On her shoulder, Frederick wasn’t seeing anything but the back of his eyelids.
“It’s fine.” I found a soft-looking Persian rug and lay on my back, my head on an over-sized throw pillow, my fingers laced atop my stomach.
“Uncross your ankles,” Maureen said, draping a blanket over me. “And put your arms at your sides.”
Repressing a grumble, I did. I’d done a lot of crazy things in my life—mainly with Charlene—but this had to take the prize.
Maureen led me through a relaxation exercise. “Now,” she said. Her voice was soothing. “I’d like you to close your eyes, and imagine you’re on a beautiful forest path. It’s a warm day, and as you walk down the path, you see a beautiful bubble. You walk closer, and see a door in the bubble. Open the door, and step inside.”
Either I was a visualization powerhouse, or Maureen had the gift, because the forest leapt to my mind’s eye.
“Inside,” she continued, “there’s a comfortable lounge chair in front of what looks like a TV screen. Sit down. The TV screen turns on, and you can see everything that’s outside. You feel the bubble zoom backwards, back through time, and you see your life passing on the screen.” She paused for a long moment. “Now I want you to go back to the first time you felt your fear of being taken.”
My breathing quickened.
“You’re safe,” she murmured. “These are only memories. They can’t hurt you.”
Duh. So why was my heart racing? A bubble wasn’t even scary.
“The first time you felt this way . . .” she prompted.
I always had that fear. I couldn’t have been born with it. Something must have happened when I was young. Did I have it in kindergarten? I thought I might, so it must have started sometime before then.
“Are you there?” Maureen asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said, my eyes still closed. “It was before kindergarten. Sorry, I just don’t remember.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “Trust the process. Know that you’re at that point in your life when you first encountered this fear. What do you see?”
I thought of the light pouring through the front window of my tiny home, and my mouth went dry.
“You’re safe,” she murmured. “This is only a memory.”
“Light coming through a window,” I blurted. That hadn’t happened when I was young. It had happened a few days ago. This wasn’t working.
“Light. What sounds do you hear?”
“Men’s voices.” I frowned. Why did I say that? I hadn’t heard men’s voices when the yurt builders had arrived. If I had, I wouldn’t have panicked, thinking UFOs were on the attack.
“Men’s voices. More than one man?”
I imagined the light, feeling my way. There were voices. My bedroom door banged open, and a strange man grabbed me from my bed. My stuffed animals tumbled to the thin carpet while my mother screamed, and—
I jolted upright, breathing hard.
“It’s all right,” Maureen soothed. “You’re all right. You’re home and in the yurt.”
“What did you see?” Charlene asked, leaning closer. “What happened?”
I stared, uncomprehending, my chest heaving. “Charlene, I was taken.”
CHAPTER 27
Charlene grabbed a notepad and pen from the pocket of her quilted brown jacket. “Taken?” Frantically, she flipped through the pages. “What did they look like? Tall and gray? What was the spaceship like? Were you probed?”
“Not by aliens, by people.” My heart thudded against my chest. The red skeleton of the yurt’s roof now seemed a cage. I stumbled to my feet, accidentally kicking one of the over-sized throw pillows.
“You were probed by what looked like people?” Charlene scratched her head with the end of the pen. “Could’ve been fairies.”
“What do you remember?” Maureen asked. “If you’re open to sharing.”
“Of course she is,” Charlene said.
Maureen rolled her eyes. “Good grief, Charlene. We don’t know—”
“It’s fine,” I said quickly. “I think I do want to say it out loud before it slips away.” The memory was distant but clear. “It was night. I was in bed. My mother was shouting, and that scared me. And then a man burst through the door and grabbed me from my bed. He took me from the house to a room with cinderblock walls. He gave me ice cream—”
Charlene snapped her gnarled fingers. “So that’s why you never eat pie à la mode. You connect ice cream to the trauma.”
“No, I love ice cream.” I glanced at the circular hole at the top of the yurt, the wooden strips bending toward its apex. “But ice cream changes the texture of the crust.”
“That’s true,” Charlene said. “And the crusts are the best part.”
“Anyway,” I said, “I was too scared to eat it—”
“That doesn’t seem like you,” Charlene said, and patted her stomach meaningfully.
“Anyway . . .” My eyes narrowed. “The ice cream didn’t have time to melt before my father showed up. He took me home, but . . .”
“But what?” Charlene asked.
Uncertain, I hesitated. “I remember there was a police car out front. Frank asked me to play a game, and we went inside through a window. Instead of putting me to bed, Frank put me in my toy box. Then he shouted, and my mother and a policeman were there.”
Charlene’s ivory brows lowered. Frederick lifted his head off her shoulder and gazed at me, his arctic eyes serious.
“I’m guessing at some point when you were still young,” Maureen said, “you saw a TV show or movie about UFOs. Then you put the lights and experience of being taken together with the stories of alien abduction.”
“When did your father leave you and your mother?” Charlene asked.
“I’m not sure. I was so small when all this happened—I think around three? But he must have left shortly afterward. Maybe that’s why I’d forgotten it all. I was so young . . .” I stared down at the brightly patterned carpets. Had it really happened? Even now it was hard to believe. I’d heard of false memories, but I didn’t think Maureen had been leading me. And the knowledge felt true.
“How do you feel now?” Maureen asked.
“Feel?”
“About UFOs.”
I thought about it. “The thought still makes me queasy, but I guess the idea doesn’t bother me as much.”
She nodded. “That’s to be expected. You’ve taken a big step by uncovering the source of your fear. That fear may fade away on its own, or you may need to do more work.” She pulled a business card from the voluminous sleeve of her caftan. “Call me if you’d like to work on this more.”
“Thanks.”
We stumbled together over a cushion. Weaving slightly, we left the yurt.
Charlene followed me inside my tiny house and shut the door. “Do you know why your father brought you in through the window?”
Frederick was still staring at me. It was unnerving.
“No. Why? Do you?”
“Maybe I have my suspicions, but . . .” She gripped my shoulder. “No. It wouldn’t be right for me to guess. Not about your father. When you figure it out, call me.”
“What suspicions?” I jerked my vest into place. “If you know something, tell me.”
“We’ll talk later. Just don’t do anything rash.” She squeezed. “At least not without me.”
“But—”
She turned and left, banging the door behind her.
Irritated, I drew the blinds, kicked
off my shoes, and curled up on my futon behind the bookcase.
Gordon found the police report about them finding me in my toy box. I rubbed my temple. Strange that the report had stayed on file so long.
Had the policeman suspected there was more to the story? There must have been, or my father wouldn’t have snuck me inside the house. He hadn’t wanted the police to know the truth.
I sat up, my pulse thudding in my ears. It must have been Frank’s fault I’d been snatched. Had I been taken to force him to pay his gambling debts? Was that what had ending things between my parents? It would explain why my mother had made him leave.
And then Frank had shown up in my pie shop like nothing was wrong. A slow fuse of anger burned up my spine and into my brain. My mother had been right to kick him to the curb.
Someone knocked softly at my door.
I rose and opened it.
Maureen stood on the ground beneath me. “I didn’t feel good about the way we left things. May I come in?”
I stood for a moment, unsure, then stepped away from the door, and she climbed the two steps and came inside. “Would you like some tea?”
“I’d love some.”
She sat at the dining nook table while I heated water in the microwave.
“I’ve got chamomile and cinnamon ginger.”
“Cinnamon ginger,” she said, tossing her red hair.
I took the same and brought the steaming mugs, spoons, and a plastic bear filled with honey to the table.
She stirred honey into her tea. “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?”
“That loan sharks kidnapped me to get my father to pay his gambling debts? I’ll say.” I sat down across from her.
Her brown eyes widened. “What?”
“It’s the only answer that makes sense,” I said bitterly. “Especially when you know my father.”
“Maybe you should ask him before jumping to conclusions.”
“There’s not much point. He’s lied to me about everything else.”
“Hm.” Looking away, she sipped her tea.
“You disagree?”
“I don’t know your father,” she said.
“Consider yourself lucky,” I muttered.
“And I don’t know you very well either. But I wonder if avoiding your father is coming from strength or from fear?”
“It’s coming from anger.” I studied my tea, the movement of the spoon clanking against the sides of the chipped mug.
“Which comes from . . . ?”
I sighed and set the spoon on the table. “Fear.” I’d heard Yoda’s speech in Star Wars too.
“Instead of developing strategies not to be afraid—like avoiding your father—you might consider if you’re willing to be afraid and move forward anyway.”
I held the mug beneath my nose and inhaled its cinnamon-ginger scent. Contrary to what Charlene might think, I did plenty of things that scared me. Risking everything to open a pie shop. Stumbling around in the dark on one of her Big Foot hunts. Chasing after killers. I was willing to be afraid. Was I willing to take that risk with Frank?
“This is different,” I muttered. “I barely know him, and the things I’ve learned aren’t good.”
“There are people who aren’t healthy to have in our lives. But if you don’t really know your father, can you be certain he’s one of them?”
I pondered that. “No, I guess not.”
“In that case, isn’t the real question, can you set healthy boundaries with your father?”
I snorted. “Oh, yeah, boundaries. That’s easy.”
She smiled over her mug.
She was right. I could storm off and refuse to talk to Frank again. Or, I could ask him for the full story, even if I wasn’t quite willing to trust it. Maybe I already had the story. Maybe everything people were saying about him was true.
What if it wasn’t? I had a chance to reconnect with my father. If I didn’t make the attempt, I might regret it later.
“Thanks for the tea,” she said. “I’d better get back to my gals.” Rising, she ambled outside.
I sat on the steps and watched the bonfire—listened to the drumming and the laughter. When the women began to dance, I didn’t join them—and no one asked me to. I was content to sit and watch as the fog lifted and a waxing moon appeared in the night sky.
CHAPTER 28
“Where were you yesterday?” Petronella held a plate of turkey pot pie at shoulder level and glowered at the elderly man seated at the table. She’d added a purple stripe to her short, black hair, but other than that, she was a study in irritated monochrome. Black jeans. Black t-shirt. White apron.
The white-haired customer quailed in his chair. “I can’t eat here every day.”
“Yes,” she said, “you can.”
I hurried from behind the counter. “Petronella’s just teasing you, but we’re so glad you came in today, Mr. Howe. Would you like more coffee?”
Our Wednesday lunch crowd was lighter than usual, but a vast improvement over yesterday’s. The gamers, sans Ray, were in their corner booth. I gnawed my bottom lip. I hoped Ray wasn’t out investigating on his own. Or with Henrietta, for that matter.
“I just got a top up.” The customer eyed Petronella warily. “But thanks.”
I steered my assistant manager into the kitchen. “What was that about?”
Abril opened the door to the industrial oven, and heat blasted out. Pies glided past on rotating racks.
“He’s at that table every day,” Petronella said, “even if it’s only for coffee. He got scared off like all the rest.”
“Well, he’s back now. Don’t you scare him off.”
She sighed. “I know. I overreacted. I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”
“You’re worried.” Abril slid a long, wooden paddle inside the oven and pulled out a raspberry pie. “But customers are returning.”
Petronella snorted. “You’re an optimist.”
“And you’re a pessimist,” Abril said. “But how can people resist our pies?” She set the raspberry pie on a cooling rack and sniffed it. “These succulent berries, bursting with tart flavor, and a crust that melts on the tongue—”
“Right,” I said, interrupting her poetic flow. “We’ve been through worse, and we’re in a much better position than last spring.” Plus, this morning I’d introduced one of Nigel’s ideas—the sampler pie. On the chalk board on the sidewalk, I’d drawn a colorful picture of a pie tin filled with six different slices. We’d already sold two samplers, which wasn’t bad for noon on a Wednesday after a bomb scare. Maybe Abril’s optimism was contagious.
“And you’re in a better position too with your mortuary courses,” I said to Petronella and felt a twinge of regret. I smiled. “You’ve got bigger things ahead of you.” I didn’t want her to leave, but that was selfish.
She rubbed the black stubble on the back of her neck. “Yeah, but a wedge-shaped slice of my heart will always be in Pie Town. This was my first managerial position, even if it is only assistant manager. I’ve learned a lot at this job.”
The bell over the front door jingled.
“I’ll get that.” I walked through the swinging door and paused behind the register.
TV-star handsome, Nigel stood in the center of the checkerboard floor and looked around. His midnight hair was windblown, as if he’d just come from a walk on the beach, and he wore a navy golf shirt and khakis.
He caught my eye, smiled, and took a seat at the counter. “I’m knackered.”
I strolled down the counter to him. “Aren’t you sick of us yet?”
He scratched his goatee. “I wanted to take a last look at the bakery that beat Pie Hard.”
“Beat?”
“Murdered.”
“You don’t mean they’re shutting you down?” I asked, dismayed. Charlene would be devastated if she lost her shot at TV celebrity.
He nodded. “I doubt I’ll ever get a job like this again. I like the chalkboard outside, b
y the way.”
“It was your idea. You’re good at what you do. You’ll find something.”
He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. “It won’t be the same, not without Ilsa and Regina. On the positive side, Pie Town will be famous.”
“Oh?”
“Frank talked to the executive producer in L.A. We have all the footage we need—more than we need, since we got stuck here so long. They’re going to promote your show as a tribute to Regina and Ilsa, their last show, and the last Pie Hard.”
“I imagine you have mixed feelings.” I certainly did, guilt and anxiety plus a dark part of my heart leaping at the thought of publicity for Pie Town.
He shrugged elegantly. “That’s show business.” Nigel scanned the chalkboard menu on the wall behind me. “And I’d like a mini shepherd’s pie.”
“Good choice.” All of the potpies are comfort food, but there’s something extra soulful about the crispy-creamy potato crust on top of a shepherd’s pie. “Coffee?”
He nodded.
I handed him an empty mug, then walked into the kitchen and plated a mini shepherd’s pie, adding tossed green salad on the side.
I returned to the counter and slid the plate in front of him.
“Quick service,” he said.
“Slow day.” My smile was quick and taut. I had to trust that business would continue to improve.
“Ah.” He poked at the potato crust with his fork, and a ribbon of steam rippled into the air. “I heard about the car bomb. You were lucky. I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”
“Frank was lucky too.”
“I keep forgetting he’s a part of our crew,” he muttered, not meeting my gaze.
“How long have you known Steve and Regina?” I asked.
“Regina hired me for Pie Hard three years ago. I couldn’t believe my luck. In the real world, being a consultant to small businesses is a hard slog. Most don’t have the money or just don’t see the need for advice.”
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