Authors: Joan Hall Hovey
“What girl?”
“They didn’t give the name. But apparently she was a victim of assault, which was why she was in there in the first place. Guess the guy came back tonight to finish the job. Didn’t you hear the police sirens.”
“Yes. I did.” A memory nudged Rachael. She pushed it back. “How horrible. Betty, Can I get you something to eat a sandwich?”
“No, thanks. I had a greasy cheeseburger at a truck stop earlier. It’s still with me, probably will be till Christmas. Come, sit down, Rachael. Stop fussing. And more to the point, when was the last time you ate? You look like hell, if you don’t mind my saying so. You’ve lost more weight.” She looked deeply at her. “I’ve been worried about you, Rach.”
“I’m okay. I just need some time.” One more word or gesture of sympathy and she would come apart. “Are you cold, Betty? You just have that thin blouse on. I’ll put more wood on the fire. We can set in there, if you like.”
“I’m fine, honey. But whatever you want.”
Rachael’s next words tumbled out in a rush. “He tried to lie his way out of it at first, you know. But I knew he was relieved to have it out in the open.” Pain rose like a fist in her chest. “He told me Lisa saw me that day I drove to the office. She recognized me from the photo on Greg’s desk. (Kept there, she suspected, because Halston was big on family.) “He said Lisa felt bad. Why did he need to tell me that, Betty?”
“Because he’s a jerk. What can I say? I always thought you were too damn good for him.” She paused. “I tried to call you. I dialed information for the number.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
Betty raised a finely arched brow. “Gee. No kidding.”
“I’m sorry. On both counts. I didn’t mean to dump on you like that. At least you know why I didn’t get a phone installed. Your shoulder is damp enough. I’ll have to get a phone though. I need to call Jeff and Susan. This will be hard for them. I’m justnot ready.”
“I know. Remember, Rachaelthis isn’t your fault.” She looked around. “Funny, after you told me about this place, I remembered you used to summer with your grandmother ‘at the shore’, you said. I never knew what shore. I used to wish you would ask me to go with you.”
Rachael said nothing. She had no explanation. She’d told no one about Jenny’s Cove, other than her children, and her grandmother was long dead when they were born. And even in the telling, it had seemed a fairytale place, even to her. Like the magical placed in the books she had read them.
I wanted to keep it for myself, she realized. My secret place.
Betty darted a look toward the window, gasped.
“What? What’s wrong?” Rachael peered through the dark glass. “Did you see something?”
She was silent a moment, then she laughed and shook her head. “Yeah, my own reflection. Rach, if you’re determined to live here, you should at least get some curtains on those windows.”
“I plan to,” she said, feeling a twinge of defensiveness. “I’m really sorry you felt a need to drive all the way down here and check on me, Betty.” Seeing the hurt on her friend’s face, she immediately regretted her words. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
“Apology accepted. But sometimes I don’t understand you, girl. We’ve been there for each other since we were kids. When I got hit with the news that I would never have kids, no matter how badly I wanted that, you were there for me. I don’t know what I would have done without you, Rach.” Tears glimmered in her green eyes. “If not for you…”
“You give me too much credit. I…”
“No, it’s true. And I want to be there for you now. Please, don’t shut me out. I had this awful feeling that when you left Greg, you left me too. I know it sounds crazy, but…”
“It is crazy. I just needed to be by myself for awhile, that’s all.”
“You should be back in your own home,” Betty bristled. “It was Greg’s place to leave, not yours. You’re not the one who’s screwing around.”
A familiar refrain. As much as she appreciated Betty being in her corner, she really didn’t want to hear this now. “I don’t give a damn about the house,” she said. “It, and everything in it was always more Greg’s than mine. This place is more my style.”
She shrugged. “Okay kid, if that’s how you feel I’ll shut up about it.”
“Thanks. Would you like to see the rest of the house?”
“Sure.” She stood and draped an arm around Rachael’s shoulder. “Need to stretch the old gams, anyway. You know,” she said, looking around her, “this place is kind of cozy at that. Rustic. Kind of grows on you.”
“I know it needs work, but it’s basically sound. I’ll make up a bed for you, Betty.”
“Oh, no, I’m not staying. I just wanted to be sure you were okay.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Of course you’re staying. It’s the middle of the night for heaven’s sake.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, okay, then. If you really want me to. It’ll be like old times.” She grinned. “Like a slumber party.”
Rachael could only shake her head and smile. “C’mon, you can help me make up the bed.”
“’Member when we used to sit up all night talking. Let’s pretend we’re kids again. Unless you’re tired. I’m keeping you up, aren’t I? Just call me Miss Sensitivity.”
“Don’t be silly. So, should we take a drive so you can phone Allan and let him know? There’s a phone booth at the end of the road.”
“You forget, I have a car-phone. Anyway, I already left Allan a note.”
“Oh.” Rachael suppressed a smile.
“So then,” Betty said, “since we’re going to pull an all-nighter, how about we celebratealbeit a tad belatedlyyour birthday. Or at least give it the good old college try. We’ll save the tour for later.” With that, she reached into her leather bag on the floor, and produced a small wrapped box, topped with a silver bow.
“Happy birthday, Rachael,” she said, handing it to her. “But we need to make a toast before you open it.”Not waiting for a response, Betty headed for the front door. “I’ve got something a little extra-special out in the car. Be right back.”
Rachael envisioned the girl Betty had beenred curly mop, (though not as vivid a red as now) the quick grin. Always in a hurry like she was afraid she might miss that new adventure right around the next corner. Never afraid to go after what she wanted. Never imagining that she might not always get it. Which had to make finding out she would never bear children all the more devastating.
As Rachael waited for Betty on the porch, something just beyond the car caught her eye—a mound of deeper darkness near the edge of the road.
Something crouched there?
Every nerve in her body tensed as Rachael strained to make it out. A few seconds later, she shook her head at her foolishness. A tree, she realized. Only a tree felled by the storm.
It seemed both their imaginations were working overtime tonight.
Minutes after Rachael and Betty went back inside, Tommy Prichard came staggering up from the beach, clutching a pint of Johnnie Walker’s by its neck. He’d swiped it from his old man’s stash.
The storm had moved out to sea, the rain dwindling to a fine bone-chilling drizzle. Though Tommy was soaked to the skin, the booze he’d consumed had chased most of the cold out of him.
It had all happened so fast. One minute he was looking at his beautiful Heather lying dead in her hospital bed, the next he was pounding back down the metal stairs, his footfalls echoing all around him, and the cop on his heels, bellowing, “Halt or I’ll shoot.” Tommy didn’t stop running until he was deep in the woods. The woods where he’d always felt safe and hidden.
Planting his feet apart for balance, Tommy uncapped the bottle and took a long swallow of the scalding liquid. Its warmth spread to his belly and limbs. But it couldn’t touch his pain at losing Heather. Brought no relief from the knowledge that she was gone from him forever. Gone from the world. There was this huge, cavernous hole in his heart, so big it seemed impossible that his heart could go on beating.
He heard the murmuring of the bay behind him, the wind sighing in the trees like they understood and shared his pain. Rocking on his heels, Tommy made a couple of fumbled attempts to screw the cap back on the bottle. Finally succeeding, he slipped it into the inside pocket of his jean-jacket, and with a mad lurch, reeled toward the house like a shipwrecked sailor, drawn by the lights beacons that guided him to safe harbor.
Once there, he crouched at a window and peered through the narrow slit where the newspaper did not quite reach the sill. A sofa came into view and across from it a fireplace with a low burning fire. He shivered, jealous of its warmth as the cold began to cut through the boozy haze. He could see the pickle bottle on the mantle. The bottle had a rose in it. Instantly, the bottle split into two bottles, the rose into two roses, four, then a whole damn bouquet. He rubbed his eyes, tried to refocus them.
He could hear voices drifting from another part of the house. Mrs. Bates? No. George and Ethel Bates moved away last year. No one lived here nowdid they?
In a sober corner of his brain, a voice was screaming at him to “Get the hell out of here. Get away now! If the cops found him here, he’d be behind bars before he could turn around. His fate would be sealed.
Earlier, the woods had been swarming with cops, but he’d easily managed to evade them.
Not that it mattered. He’d heard the whispers in town. How could Heather’s father think he would hurt Heather? How could he think I’m the kind of sick creep who would beat and rape a girl? And now he’ll think I killed her to keep her from telling.
Staying low, Tommy crept past the porch to the other window, toward the voices. No newspaper covered this window, nothing to obscure his view.
Two women were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking wine, talking. He wondered if they were talking about him. Trying to position himself for better advantage, he abruptly lost his balance and sat down hard, with a
splat,
in the muddy trough beneath the window. The cold muck seeped through his already wet jeans. Hearing a car coming up the road, Tommy scrambled to his hands and knees. Clutching the house for support, he struggled to his feet at the same moment as the car came into view, cutting a swath of misty yellow light through the darkness. In his panic, he went down again, this time sprawling headlong in the mud.
Regaining his footing, he pitched forward, smacking his head on the sill. The crack resounded inside his skull, churned the whiskey in his gut to bile. Bright lights dancing before his eyes, Tommy took off, running in a wild zigzag pattern into the woods behind the house.
At a sharp thump against the house, Betty was on her feet. “What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know,” Rachael said, rising too. “Betty, I’ll just turn this light out, see if I can see anything. I think I saw someone out there earlier tonight.”
Betty looked at her. “You’re kidding, right.”
“No.” After a few seconds, she turned the light back on. “But I probably imagined it. Anyway, there’s no one out there now. Probably just a branch blown against the house. The storm seems to have passed over.”
“Well, that’s something anyway,” Betty said uneasily, turning her attention from the window to refill their glasses.
The ground spun up at Tommy as he grabbed for the nearest tree, sinking to his knees. The sour taste of whiskey rose in his mouth and throat, and he thought for a moment he was going to barf. But he didn’t. Gradually, his racing heart slowed to normal.
The bark was wet and rough against his palms, but warm and welcoming, too. Tommy liked the company of trees. It was nice in the woods, kind of like being in a church. Ever since he was a little kid, he would hide out in the woods, sometimes to escape the old man’s fists, but often just to be alone, to think. He would tell the trees his secrets, his innermost thoughts. And the trees would listen; they were his friends.
“Hi, good ole friend,” he greeted the one he was presently clinging to, thinking that if it were up to Heather’s father, he’d be hanging by his neck from it right about now. Resting his cheek against the trunk, he closed his eyes.
She can’t be dead. She can’t be. It was just a dream.
But he knew it wasn’t.
The blood from where his head had struck the windowsill trickled down his face, mingling with his tears and the fine, cold rain.
Tommy sat on the ground, his back resting against the trunk of the tree. Now and then he dozed off, only to be jolted awake from the bad dream, the awful vision of Heather lying dead in her hospital bed lingering behind his lids. He feverishly patted his pocket for his pint, but it wasn’t there. Must have dropped out when I fell. Damn!
Seconds later, he emerged from the woods, crab-walked round to the front of the house, to the window, where he groped about in the mud for his bottle. When his hand finally closed around it, he grinned to himself, a foolish, drunken grin.
Drawn once more by the voices inside, he looked in the window.
Not dressed up like her friend, the dark-haired woman wore jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. She was unwrapping a present, smiling like she thought her friend was a little ditzy, but pleased all the same. Must be her birthday, Tommy thought. She had a gentle smile that made him think of his mother, the way she used to smile sometimes when she looked at him. There was sadness in the smile.