Misplaced Innocence (5 page)

The envelope fell to the floor as Charisma sank down beside it, the buzzer incessant in the background.

~*~

Bill, in an impressive show of strength for man his age, hefted one end of the sign, while Jared manned the other. Of course, Bill was willing to concede, Jared was doing the brunt of the lifting. Not that Bill had any pity for Jared, after all, Jared was still in his prime, at least thirty years Bill’s junior, and if that meant lifting heavy things and hanging signs whenever Jared deigned to be in town, well that was what it meant and Jared was just going to have live with that. Bill harrumphed beneath his breath as Jared started climbing the ladder.

When the sign was safely hung, Bill took a step back to admire the work, ready to make Jared rehang it if it were the slightest bit crooked. Of course, he knew he wouldn’t have to do that. Jared’s own father had put the original sign up years and years ago, and if there was one thing Mark Williams had known how to do, it was carpentry, after all, that was what his trade had been. He had measured and remeasured until the sign hung perfectly.

“Well, what do you think there?” Bill asked Jared as he studied the sign, shaded his eyes from the sun.
 

“Well,” Jared said, stepping back to stand next to Bill, “I have to say, I think she did a pretty good job.”

“I’d say so, too. No wonder she does art for a living. Wouldn’t you?”

The thought of Jared painting anything resembling art made him laugh. There was no doubt in his mind that he had completely missed out on the creative gene. The science gene had been pretty good to him; he’d had a successful career as a vet, graduated at the top of his class…. He shook his head as he realized where his wayward thoughts were taking him. The last thing he needed to be thinking about was what he had left behind to return to Carlton, or where he would go next. It was a little mind-boggling, and Jared had found denial an effective strategy for dealing with mind-boggling issues. At least, he really hoped that was the best way to deal with them because that was what he always did.

Jared turned back to look at Bill, and was not surprised to find Bill studying him. The furrowed brow and non-disclosing expression in his eyes was also not a surprise. He knew Bill was waiting, had been waiting, for Jared to offer some explanation about where he had been and why he was back. It was impossible to disappear from so many people’s lives so completely for so long, and then show up again one day and not expect people to start asking questions. Truthfully, they expected him to answer all their questions before they were even asked. Like he was just going to come back to Carlton one day and spill his personal life to everyone who’d ever known he existed. Maybe he should just start writing a column for the local paper. That would be, of course, if the local paper were anything more than a glorified platform for the busy bodies of town to talk about new movies and social soirées – or what could pass for social soirées in this part of the world – and what little bit of gossip they’d managed to dig up while watching their neighbor from the safety of their bedroom.

Instead of answering all the unasked questions blatant in Bill’s eyes, Jared made a hasty retreat, backing up until he almost fell off the crumbling curb. He wasn’t even ready to talk about these things with himself, he certainly wasn’t going to be dragged into the conversation with Bill. “Looks real good, Bill. Nice to know that woman’s got some kind of talent.” Other than finding dogs in the middle of the road and making a complete fool out of herself, he added to himself, not caring that the thought was about as uncharitable as a thought could be.

Bill pursed his lips. His frown deepened, pulling the corners of his mouth down and drawing attention to age lines etched in his face. “I think that little lady’s got plenty of talent.”

Jared almost smiled. There, hanging in the air after the sentence, was the implied, “and you’re just too dumb to see it.” He shrugged off the insult.

“Well, Bill, I’ve got to get back out to the Doormans’. Jenny called again. She thinks there’s something wrong with the foal.” Jared tossed his hands up in a gesture that said he knew he was being suckered into something, but didn’t know what else to do about it. “What can you do?” He waved one big hand in Bill’s direction and headed toward his car.
 

It’s not like lunch with a pretty girl had ever hurt him before. He didn’t see why it would suddenly start being a problem now. And anyway, he thought it was a pretty successful step away from not-eating with Mary Anne. He lifted his shoulders. Of all the things he thought his life might come to, this had never entered his consideration.

Still, he figured, it could be worse.

~*~

By the time Charisma retrieved the potatoes from the oven they were beyond baked. They were burnt to a crisp, the jackets charred and the insides dry and cracked. It didn’t matter that much to her anyway. Charisma suddenly wasn’t in the mood to eat. She wasn’t in the mood to do anything, least of all to deal with the envelope that was still lying abandoned on the floor, face down. She could almost imagine it was a normal letter. Maybe a nice letter from her best friend from college. Maybe there were funny stories about first days of school and family reunions. If she could make it anything other than what it really was, it would be an improvement.

Charisma tossed the potatoes on the floor, where Scruffy nosed at them for a few minutes, before finally deciding that a little bit of charred potato really wasn’t be that bad and nearly swallowing them whole. Then she returned to her pillow, watching warily as Charisma moved back and forth through the kitchen, with no real reason or purpose other than to keep busy, to keep herself from running through the house and pulling all the blinds, if she’d had blinds, locking all the doors and windows. For the first time she wondered why she had felt compelled to live so far away from town, why she had craved the isolation. In the same thought, Charisma cursed the fact that even that hadn’t worked. That she had tried to disappear into cities full of people and when that hadn’t worked she had tried to disappear off the face of the earth, and that hadn’t worked either. She’d still been found.

Scruffy’s eyes followed her as she finally sat down at the little kitchen table she had found in a thrift store. It was plenty big enough for herself, and it wasn’t as if there were anyone else in her life these days. Or ever, she thought bitterly. She took a deep breath. A breath she hoped would calm her down, but really only succeeded in making her gasp like a fish suddenly exposed to air. She tried to rationalize the envelope while ignoring it as it lay on the floor. Maybe this wasn’t what it looked like. Maybe someone had forgotten to put the letter in the envelope before it had been put in the mail. Maybe this was all an accident, a misunderstanding. This didn’t have to mean she needed to pack her things and be gone before morning.

Even though she didn’t believe it, the lie made her feel better. Her heart slowed down and her breathing was almost normal and she propped her head on her hands. She could wait. Just a little while. Just to make sure. She glanced around the kitchen, the house, this home she wasn’t ready to leave behind. Just when things were starting to settle. Just when she could wake up and not be afraid and look forward to her day. Just when this was actually starting to be a home.
 

She stayed in the kitchen a long time, listening to the silence and the sound of Scruffy breathing as she slept, and straining to hear the sound of her past.

~*~

Charisma didn’t know how many days had passed. She moved through the house as quietly as possible, closing doors behind her and locking herself in rooms for hours on end. Scruffy, in all her patience, followed along behind her, and when it became clear that Scruffy couldn’t wait another moment to go outside, Charisma ushered her out the door and locked it behind her. She peeked out from beneath the flimsy lace curtains she had once thought were sweet and charming and now knew were utterly useless to hide her from the world, and watched Scruffy in the yard. When Scruffy was panting and sitting in the meager shade of the roof, Charisma would open the door just wide enough for her to slip through.

She had always heard that old habits died hard. But, the first few months in Arizona had slipped by and nothing had happened, she was surprised in the mornings to find she had left the door unlocked all night. Lately, when she left the house, she forgot to look around. She never checked under her car, and she was sure if she had had a back seat she would have forgotten to check that as well. It had been so easy to feel safe. So much easier than learning to be scared.

And all it took was one small, empty envelope and it all came crashing back. The skulking through the house, lights on in every room, checking her closet ten times before she could fall asleep. It was amazing how something that seemed so far away, that seemed so unreal, could come back so quickly, and be nothing but real.

It wasn’t until she had eaten the last can of sliced pineapples and a bowl of cheese soup for dinner that Charisma finally admitted she needed to go to the grocery store. Darkness had already begun to settle around her little house. The shadows grew and stretched and engulfed all the places that Charisma thought might be safe and left a dark expanse of possible danger. She moved through the house – from one room to the next, the same way she always did so that she would be sure not to miss anything – and turned on every light, hoping to chase the darkness and whatever hid within it, as far away as possible. Scruffy had grown used to the ritual, and waited patiently for Charisma to return. A fact which Charisma found less than pleasing, but figured she couldn’t blame the dog for not suffering her same and paranoia.

She had just finished turning on every light in the house and was strolling, as confidently as she could these days, back to the living room when there was a sound at the door. A scratching sound, followed by a rattling and the bang of the screen door.

Charisma’s heart seemed to almost stop, before making a desperate leap upwards and into her throat. She swallowed hard, her eyes darting around the kitchen. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t the way it happened before.
 

It wasn’t until the doorknob made a strange clicking sound, the same sound it made when Charisma’s key slid into place and popped open the lock, that she lunged for the pot she’d made the soup in, now freshly scrubbed and drying on a clean dish towel. She could do this. Charisma gave herself a little pep talk as she slipped into position behind the door. She had seen it hundreds of times in all those stupid movies. Scruffy watched Charisma, lift the pot high over head with interested eyes, and to Charisma’s utter disappointment, didn’t even offer so much as a menacing growl. Or any growl, really. Just kind of a huff that said she was irritated with having her nap interrupted. Some help.
 

Charisma pressed close to the wall, thankful there was no window and glad for the cool, hard surface on her suddenly hot skin. The door made a final click and swung open easily. Charisma saw the dark shape of a person move in moments afterward. She stepped forward from her hiding place and swung the pot, closing her eyes right before it connected with a solid smack.

There was a loud grunt and a crash, followed by, what Charisma would call, an exceptionally displeased voice. “What the fuck?” Charisma had already hoisted the pot back up over her head, trying to ignore the painful shocks radiating through her arms, and was getting ready to drop the pot on her invader again, when it registered that she knew that voice.

Jared was crouched on the floor, his hand to the back of his head, looking accusingly up at Charisma, still holding the guilty evidence of her weapon in her hand. A brown paper bag was upset on the floor and groceries spilled out over the tile. Instead of rushing to her rescue, as Charisma had assumed would happen, Scruffy nosed an orange across the floor.

“What are you doing here?” Charisma demanded, moving her hands to her hips so quickly the pot smacked painfully against her thigh. “You can’t just barge into people’s houses any time you want!” She tried to look indignant, but her relief at it being just Jared, and her relief that she hadn’t killed him, took the edge out of her voice.
 

“What are you doing beating people over the heads with,” he peered more closely at the weapon, “pots?” There was a note of incredulity in his voice that Charisma took exception to.
 

“Well, I beat people over the heads with pots when they break into my house!”

Jared lurched up to his feet, swaying dangerously and reaching out to steady himself on the counter. His hands gripped tightly to the tile; even from where Charisma stood by the door she could see the white of his knuckles. That was, before he lifted one hand gingerly back to his head and seemed to be inspecting for blood.

Scruffy finally abandoned the orange, now shoved safely beneath the faded sofa and trotted over to Jared, nudging his leg with her head. He didn’t even lean down to pat her. Not that Charisma could blame him; he was still alternating between clutching the back of his head and clutching the counter.
 

“I brought you groceries,” he gritted his teeth between words. “Bill was worried. You didn’t come in, apparently whenever it is that you always come in, and he tried to call, and your phone wasn’t working…”

Charisma shot a guilty look toward her unplugged phone. Right after she had opened the envelope she had unplugged the phone. She didn’t think she could stand the phone calls. Those had been the worst. So, she’d reached over and she’d yanked the phone out of the wall so hard she was surprised she hadn’t broken the jack.

Jared shrugged. “Bill was worried,” he said again, “and he doesn’t see well enough to drive at night and he had to work at the store all day, and he asked me to bring these to you and make sure you were okay. Which,” he said, eyeing the pot again, “I’m not actually sure you are.”

Charisma entertained the idea of hitting him with the pot again, just briefly. But, since he’d really been doing her a favor after all, and since she had, unfairly, already hit him over the head, she didn’t think that would be very hospitable of her.