The Life She Stole

by S W Vaughn

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine.” I sniffle once, making a lie out of the statement, but I’m still determined to hold it together. At least long enough to find Rosalie’s parents and offer my condolences — for all the good it’ll do them. “God, I hate funerals,” I say.

  Jill nods solemnly. “Me too. Remember that girl Joan, back in college?”

  Oh, God. Hearing that name is like a punch in the face. I close my eyes and hope I don’t look as guilty as I feel — which is just as strong as the day of her funeral, when I sat in the back row trying to avoid everyone’s gazes, convinced I might as well be wearing a neon sign that flashed I KILLED HER to the world.

  I never told Jill, or anyone else, what happened. At first I was too scared, and then … well, I just couldn’t. Some secrets only get bigger and stronger with time, until they’re so big that they’re sure to kill you on the way out. And one way or another, they’ll follow you to the grave.

  “Yes, I remember,” I finally say in a strained tone that sounds mostly like sorrow. “Were you there, too?” I couldn’t recall seeing Jill that day, but we hadn’t met each other yet. The thing with Joan happened toward the end of freshman year.

  Jill shakes her head. “I didn’t really know her that well,” she says. “I went to the calling hours the night before, because everybody was going, but I had an Intro to Law exam the morning of the funeral. Believe me, the calling hours were sad enough.”

  It’s my turn to nod numbly. I force my thoughts away from the past and square my shoulders. “Okay. Let’s get this over with,” I say.

  We cross the rest of the parking lot together and step onto the long sidewalk leading to the funeral home entrance. Rows of small brass urns with bright flowers growing out of them line both sides of the marble walkway, with twin expanses of emerald-green grass rolling out past the flowers to the tree-lined borders of the property. More knots of people dot the grass and the various shaded benches as they wait anxiously for the main event to begin.

  For some reason, the whole scene makes me think about how much funerals and weddings have in common. A large gathering of relatives and friends at an elegant venue, an air of solemn anticipation, lots of people crying, a traditional ceremony followed by a second gathering for food and reminiscing. But they’re at opposite ends of the spectrum — one is for beginnings, another for endings.

  The thought of the wedding Rosalie will never have tightens my throat.

  As Jill and I head up the sidewalk, a trio of young women emerge from the open doors of the funeral home and head toward us. They’re all high school classmates, and I recognize them as some of Rosalie’s good friends. In fact, the one in the middle, Missy Wilson, might’ve been her best friend, or close to it.

  Missy was also prone to histrionics, the drama queen of Wolfsbrook High. And it looks like she hasn’t lost any of her flair for the dramatic. She wails at the top of her lungs as she wobbles on three-inch spiked heels, leaning on the other two for support as tears stream from her reddened eyes.

  I feel bad for remembering what she was like and ascribing it to her now. Her grief is probably genuine. But she’s also Making A Scene, and I can’t help thinking that she loves the attention despite her actual sorrow for her friend.

  Missy spots me and hones in like a guided missile, her face crumpling all over again as she teeters toward me and flings her arms out. “Oh, Celine!” she cries. “I’m so glad you came. Isn’t it just awful?”

  Before I can stop it, I’m folded into a cloud of slender limbs and expensive perfume, and I have to hug her back.

  “Hi, Missy,” I finally say when I manage to extricate myself. The other two, Liza and Georgette, are hanging back and wringing their hands like chorus girls in a tragic stage play. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  It’s not exactly her loss, I think with a twinge of spite, and hate myself for it. I’m not supposed to think ill of others — if nothing else, my mother has drilled that into me. But I can’t help it. She’s so over-the-top, and some of it is definitely calculated. She’ll probably milk sympathy out of Rosalie’s death for years.

  “God. I still can’t believe it,” Missy says, producing a lace handkerchief from somewhere to dab at her eyes. “Did you know that she asked her to go with me that day? She really did,” she adds with the air of someone who’s already told this story dozens of times and embellished it with every telling. “But I had a hair appointment with Rafael, and I’d made it months ago. It’s just so hard to book him, you know? Oh, I should have cancelled my appointment anyway!”

  She dissolves into loud wailing again, and both Liza and Georgette surge forward to brace her against collapse.

  “I’m so sorry,” I repeat, careful not to say that’s awful or anything else she’d view as a condemnation of her character. Honestly, I didn’t believe Missy Wilson had set foot in Juniper Park — or any large outdoor space, for that matter — in her entire life, but who knows? Maybe Rosalie really did ask her to come out. Not that she’d ever have agreed to do it, regardless of any fancy hair appointments.

  As Missy struggles to pull herself together, I look around the grounds, hoping Rosalie’s parents might come out for air so I can give my condolences and leave. I dread the idea of entering that building. I’m not surprised when I don’t spot them … but I’m struck breathless when I notice a different familiar figure standing by one of the outdoor cigarette stations.

  It’s the woman I saw at the elementary school this morning. Still wearing dark glasses and red lipstick, but with a black cocktail dress and patent leather flats instead of the white robe and strappy heels.

  She seems to be staring straight at me.

  Jill nudges me. “What’s wrong?” she says under her breath. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I start to reply, but then I realize Missy is talking again. And the few words I catch from her make my heart stop and drive all thoughts of the mystery woman from my head: “ … he woke up last night.”

  “What?” I whisper, gaping at her. “What did you say?”

  The look she gives me is part miserable, part insulted. She still isn’t happy unless people are hanging on her every word, just like high school. “I said, if only she’d held on for three more days, she could’ve told Brad how she felt. He woke up last night.” Missy narrows her eyes slightly. “Didn’t you know that? I thought you and Brad were an item for a while.”

  Oh, God, I can’t breathe. Brad is awake?

  “She just loved him so much,” Missy simpers through the dizzying rush in my head. “I mean, nobody ever knew. She was only with him for a week in college, and even I thought she’d gotten over him forever ago. She was marrying Reid, after all. But she left that note, saying how she couldn’t live without Brad, and it’s all so … Celine? Are you okay?”

  “Fine. I’m fine,” I croak desperately. “I just … need to sit down.”

  Jill puts an arm around me and starts dragging me toward a shaded bench, leaving Missy and her chorus girls standing there, looking hurt and confused. I try to murmur something about catching up with them later, but I don’t think what leaves my mouth makes any sense. I can’t think straight. Something inside me is shattering to pieces, and I’m not sure it’ll ever be fixed again.

  Brad Dowling has been in a coma for just over five years. No one ever thought he’d wake up, least of all me. In fact, I’d built my life around knowing he was never coming back. I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Hoping for a miracle would’ve destroyed me. But now that the miracle has happened, I have no idea what to do.

  One way or another, my carefully constructed, mostly stable little life is about to fall apart.

  3

  You can’t tell him, Celine. You just can’t.

  Jill is right — at least for now. That’s what she said to me once I managed to catch my breath and purge the flood of memories I’d kept locked away for so long. If Brad really is awake after all this time, he’ll have a lot to deal with. There
’s also the fact that his parents are sure to be there with him, and they despise me. Blame me for the accident. They might not let me see him.

  And honestly, there’s a good chance Missy is full of shit, and he’s not really awake.

  Whether or not it’s true, I couldn’t face Rosalie’s parents or the rest of the funeral. Jill and I had gone for coffee, and then headed our separate ways to work — her to the legal office of Lindstrom, Gores and Carolin, and me to Hughes Real Estate. I hadn’t stayed long at the office, though. I had a showing this afternoon, and then I’d cleared the rest of the day to pick up Alyssa and celebrate her first day of school.

  Now I’m parked in the driveway of my problem-child listing: a five-bedroom, three-bath Victorian with all the bells and whistles that’s been on the market for over two years. The sellers, Mr. and Mrs. Quintaine, have been the most challenging clients I’ve ever worked with. They put the house up a week before they moved to Florida, demanding a selling price of four hundred thousand and not a penny less. Since then they’ve turned down every purchase offer like clockwork, up to and including one for three hundred and ninety-five thousand.

  Sometimes I wonder why I bother with this one, or why the Quintaines haven’t gone looking for a new agent who didn’t beg them to consider knocking a lousy five grand off the asking price. But I suppose it’s because of the twelve thousand dollar payday I’ll get if I ever manage to sell this place.

  Promptly at noon, a car slows and pulls into the driveway behind me — an electric blue two-door Lexus sports model with tinted windows, gleaming and showroom-new. At least it looks like the buyer can afford this place. I only know her name, Hannah Byers, and that she’s new to Wolfsbrook. She called me directly yesterday morning to set up the appointment, saying she’d found my name and number online as the listing agent.

  I put on my welcoming smile and get out of the car, briefcase in hand. But when the Lexus door opens and Hannah Byers emerges, the smile freezes into a shocked grimace on my face.

  It’s her. The woman I saw at the school this morning, and again at the funeral. She’s still in the little black dress and pumps, sunglasses in place, with a red Hermès purse that matches her red lips curved into an uncertain smile.

  “Hello,” she calls as she closes the car door and glides toward me. “Are you Celine Bauman?”

  For a moment I’m not sure I’ll be able to answer. The vague unease I felt when I first saw her returns, stronger this time, and my hind brain tries to tell me that she’s stalking me. But that’s ridiculous. I know I’m just worked up about my daughter starting school, and the funeral, and the news about Brad. Especially that.

  “Yes, that’s right. You must be Hannah Byers,” I say, and the normal sound of my own voice breaks through the paranoia. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” she says, stopping to take the hand I extend. Hers is very small, and very cold. “I have to say, I’m very excited to see this house.”

  She doesn’t look excited. In fact, she looks almost terrified. But I’ve worked with plenty of nervous buyers, so there’s nothing alarming about that, at least. “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” I say. “This really is a fabulous home, with too many features to include in the listing. Do you want to wait for your agent? If not, we can go ahead and start looking around.”

  “My agent?” She blinks once. “I thought you were my agent. Aren’t you the one selling this house?”

  I press my lips together to keep the frown back. “I’m the listing agent. I work for the sellers,” I say slowly. “Ms. Byers, is this your first time buying a home?”

  “Please, it’s Hannah.” She looks confused, and more nervous than ever. “I just thought … I mean, no, I’ve never bought a house before. I didn’t know I needed an agent.” She gives a little sigh and takes her sunglasses off, tucking them into the bag slung over her shoulder. Her eyes are a startling blue, a shade almost as deep and vibrant as her car. She really is movie-star beautiful. “Can’t you be my agent, too?” she says. “I really don’t want to be bothered finding a different one. I just want to buy a house. Hopefully this one.”

  My throat goes a little dry, and I try not to think about the possibility of this working out. If she does retain me, and the sale goes through, I get the full six percent commission instead of a fifty-fifty split. Twenty-four thousand dollars. But I have to be careful, because there are all sorts of rules about dual agency.

  “Well … Hannah, I can represent you in the sale,” I say in a measured tone. “But—”

  “Perfect,” she interrupts with a relieved smile. “You’re my agent, then.”

  “But as a dual agent, I’ll have to work with the best interests of the sellers in mind,” I say anyway, because I’m required to. “Not that there’s anything to disclose with this property. It’s pretty straightforward. Still, you should be aware that a separate buyer’s agent is recommended.”

  Hannah flaps a slim, expertly manicured hand at me. “You’re fine. I trust you,” she says. “I’m really good at reading people.”

  I’m almost proud of myself for hesitating before I reply. It’s hard not to jump at the chance to double an already huge commission without considering the ethics, but I’m determined to do this all above-board.

  “Okay. I’ll just need you to sign an extra disclosure form, and I can represent you,” I say. “Sound good?”

  She smiles. “Fantastic, thank you. Can we look at the house?”

  “Of course.”

  As I lead her across the walkway from the garage to the front door, my thoughts return to this morning and how out-of-place she seemed at the school, alone in a bathrobe with no child in evidence. I decide to poke at the mystery a little. “You know, this home is ideal for a big family,” I say as I retrieve the house key from my purse and stop in front of the entrance. “Do you have any children?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. When I glance at her, there’s a strange, almost distant look on her face. “I have a daughter,” she says in a soft, halting tone. “Her name is Alice. She’s four, but she’ll be five in October. We … need a lot of space.”

  My breath catches, and I fumble the key as I’m trying to insert it in the deadbolt. It’s just a coincidence, but it’s a hell of a big one. “Wow, that’s amazing,” I manage in a normal voice, this time slipping the key home. “My daughter is four, and her birthday’s in October too. Her name is Alyssa.”

  “Really?” Hannah flashes a smile that’s almost painfully shy. “Maybe our daughters will be friends,” she says. “See, I knew there was a reason I trusted you. This must be fate.”

  I’m not so sure about that, but at least I know she wasn’t at the elementary school for no reason. Still, it’s bizarre to think that she dropped her daughter off wearing a bathrobe, and then stood there staring at the kids for who knows how long.

  “Okay, here we go.” I turn the key and open the door onto the grand foyer, ready to start my pitch. After all this time, if I finally manage to sell this house — and at double the commission — I’m definitely going to celebrate.

  As I hold the door open for Hannah, I realize I’ve forgotten to ask about financing. And as a first-time homebuyer who thought she didn’t need an agent, she probably didn’t know much about the rest of the process either. “Hannah, do you have a pre-approval letter for the mortgage?” I say. “If you need help with financing, I can get you started with your bank or a lending company.”

  She gives another dismissive hand-wave. “Oh, I don’t bother with things like that,” she says. “I’ll just pay cash.”

  “Cash?” I stammer, my dreams of a fat commission unraveling like smoke. Nobody pays the full asking price in cash, especially with a six-digit property. “Um. Well, unfortunately the sellers aren’t willing to negotiate the price—”

  “Four hundred thousand, right?” This time her smile is teasing, like a woman with a wicked secret. “Yes, I know. I’ve got it,” she says. “I’m disgustingly rich, and I do
n’t like to wait for what I want. I can pay the full price, in cash.”

  I hope she can’t see the dollar signs dancing in my eyes as I follow her into the house.

  4

  Alyssa talks a mile a minute about her day, all the way out of the school to the car. She’s still talking when I pull onto the main road and head for home. I feel guilty for not hearing every word or responding as much as I should, because my head is still spinning.

  Hannah Byers put in a purchase offer on the Victorian for four hundred thousand, cash, and the Quintaines accepted immediately. I’m selling the house.

  I’m getting twenty-four thousand dollars.

  “Mommy, did you hear me?” Alyssa says from the back seat.

  I startle and blow out a long breath, trying to clear my head. This is a huge day for my daughter too, and she deserves my full attention. “I’m sorry, munchkin,” I say. “I was tickling sheep.”

  She giggles at our private little joke. One of my mother’s frequent sayings is ‘I was woolgathering,’ and I picked up the habit from her to brush off those spaced-out moments. The first time I said it to Alyssa, she wanted to know what it meant. I didn’t know myself, exactly, and somehow from my rambling explanation, she boiled it down to ‘tickling sheep.’ We’d both ended up on the floor, laughing like lunatics, and the expression stuck.

  “Well, stop tickling them,” she says, still giggling. “I said, I have a new best friend. Her name is Izzy. We ate lunch together, and we had pizza! She’s really nice.”

  “That sounds awesome. The friend, and the pizza,” I say, thinking suddenly of Hannah and her mystery daughter. “Can I ask you something, honey? Do you have a girl named Alice in your class?”

  I glance in the rear view mirror and catch my daughter’s adorable, scrunched frown of concentration. “No,” she says as she starts counting on her fingers. “There’s Sophia, Lavender, Pammie, Dallas, Addison, Miguel …”