Never Smile at Strangers (14 page)

IT WAS MIDNIGHT and Mac had just shown up.

“Jesus. You’re falling into a trap, Hale,” he said when he realized she was drunk. “The same damn trap just about everyone in this town’s fallen into. You’re too smart for that. You get too dependent on that shit and it’s a mighty tough road gettin’ back.”

“Back to what?” she asked sarcastically. She threw her arms in the air. “Oh, you mean this? My oh so happy
reality
? My father’s dead, my best friend is. . . um, probably dead. . . my mother is losing her mind. . . and I just find out that my dependable boyfriend, my
rock
, who I felt I could always count on and would never lie to me—” She stopped to catch her breath. When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper. “Anyway, I don’t know if I care too much about living in reality just now.”

Haley heard the words she’d said, but she hadn’t meant to say all of them. Mac had already apologized and she had accepted. But an unfamiliar anger had snowballed inside of her. An anger so intense it crowded out the hurt and sadness and made her want to lash out.

Mac stared at her.

“Having a drink or two brings me some peace,” Haley said softly. “Sometimes I just can’t bear to feel any more pain.”

“You’ll feel it no matter what. Hell, yore
supposed
to feel it so you can get past it. Besides, this isn’t you, Hale. I don’t know who this is.”

Earlier in the night, she’d thought back to her conversation with Tiffany at Provost’s before she disappeared. Her friend had said she had a crush on someone.

She knew Tiffany’s type. Unavailable. And she knew how her friend flirted. She also knew Tiffany loved it when someone was hard to get. While thinking about this, a thought had hit her. . . and hard.

Could Tiffany have made an advance on Mac at some point? Could there be more to their relationship than she knew about? Is that why he had seemed so uncomfortable talking about her since she disappeared?

Maybe what she was saying in Provost’s was her way of talking about Mac without really
talking
about Mac. Tiffany had never been able to keep a secret. She always told Haley everything, even stuff she wished she’d never heard. Maybe she felt the urge to share and was going to leave the fact that it was Mac out of the equation? Of course, it all sounded far-fetched and ludicrous to her, but Mac’s one lie had opened a can of worms. And besides, she was drunk and she knew it.

“You ever flirt with her?”

“What? Flirt with who?”

“Tiffany.”

“For Chrissakes why would you ask me that?”

“Why wouldn’t you? She’s gorgeous. Any guy would be attracted to her. She’s my best friend and I love her, but I know who she is and what she’s capable of.”

Mac glared at her. “I never flirted with her because you’re my girl. Besides, she’s nothing but trouble. You can see that a mile away. Look, I told you, I just gave her a ride. I don’t like where this is going, Haley. You sound like you don’t trust me.”

She had a flashback of the cover of the pornographic magazine and laughed. But it came out meaner than she’d intended.

A vein in Mac’s neck pulsed. He was angry.

But in her drunken state, she didn’t care. She thought it somehow fair to make him feel some of the same hurt she felt.

“So, you’re telling me I
should
trust you?” she asked, her words tumbling out sloppily.

There was an odd expression on his face, one she wasn’t familiar with. “You want me to leave? Because if you do, just say the word.”

Her head ached. She rubbed her temples. “I don’t. . . know what I want. I don’t know anything these days.”

“What’s that mean? You sayin’ yore not sure you want
me
?”

“I don’t know.”

“Christ, you
don’t
know
?”

The room was silent for a while. She was sure Mac was waiting for her to say something to the contrary. To take it all back. But she didn’t. Part of her wanted to because she knew she wasn’t in the best state of mind, but the other part—the one that won out—couldn’t.

When he broke the silence, there was fury in his eyes. “Fine, I’m not goin’ to beg you to be my girl if you don’t want to be. You just let me know if and when you change your mind.”

And before she could fully process everything that had just happened, he left.

RACHEL WAS TIRED of Detective Guitreaux’s impromptu visits and his endless string of questions. It had been three weeks since Tiffany’s disappearance and he was still interested in her. Why was that? What were people in town telling him?

When he responded to her call late Friday evening, she explained what she had seen outside Kelsey’s window, but she didn’t like his reaction. He had just studied her, as though trying to gauge whether or not he believed her. Like her call was some part of a master plan to manipulate him into thinking that someone other than Tom or she was responsible for Tiffany’s disappearance.

He had walked out to the backyard and trained his flashlight on the tree line for no more than two minutes, then left.

Some detective work.

Before he left, he’d said to her, “I find it disturbing that you let your daughter run the streets at night. Don’t you remember that a girl went missing?”

Let?

She hadn’t
let
Kelsey do anything. What did he expect for her to do? Chain her daughter to her bed? Didn’t he know that teenagers had a mind of their own, and that she was doing all she could do?

Or was she?

And Tom was another story. He didn’t seem fazed about Kelsey sneaking out. He had told her to
handle
it. She understood that he didn’t care about her anymore, but didn’t he still care about his children?

Tom didn’t even seem concerned by the detective’s countless visits. He would simply hand Guitreaux a beer, invite him into his office, and close the door.

Secrets.

What secrets was he telling the detective that he didn’t want her to overhear?

Grimly, Rachel realized that things always had a way of changing. She just never imagined Tom doing so. . . not this much.

After her classes Monday afternoon, she worked on the house. She was determined to have it spotless each and every time the detective came by unannounced so he’d see her as a well put together family woman, not the scorned wife and murder suspect she’d been made to feel like.

Rachel picked up Tom’s khaki shorts, underwear, and a golf shirt that he’d worn the previous day off the floor. She checked the shorts’ pockets, then went into the bathroom and ran a rag over a small mound of crusted toothpaste he’d left on the counter. Next, she used the rag to scoop up a pile of short hairs from his electric shaver.

After the master bed and bath, she decided to check the children’s rooms. Kelsey’s room was a zoo. Rachel stood in the middle of it and looked around. A ceramic ballerina lay toppled over on her vanity table. A can of hairspray lay on its side on top of her bed, and layers of clothes were strewn all over the carpet. The room smelled moldy. Wondering if there was a wet towel in Kelsey’s closet, Rachel walked across the room and opened the door.

“What are you doing in here?” A voice demanded.

Rachel jumped. She hadn’t heard anyone enter the house. “Dammit, Kelsey. You frightened me!”

“You were snooping!” the girl snapped, standing in the doorway. Her blue eyes were shining behind the black eyeliner she wore too much of.

Despite the July heat, she was wearing all black. A black t-shirt, long, black baggy shorts. Her bare legs appeared unusually pale against all the dark material.

“I was not snooping!” Rachel cried, then realized how defensive she sounded.
Calm down
, she told herself.

“I saw you!”

“Kelsey, do not raise your voice to me,” Rachel said as calmly as she could.

“Don’t snoop in my room!”

“You know you’re grounded, and are not to go anywhere but the library until school starts, young lady. Where’ve you been?”

Her daughter pressed her lips together. “The library,” she said sarcastically.

Like hell, Rachel thought. She was rebelling. Rachel remembered rebelling, too, at her age. Hell, she wanted to rebel now.

Maybe she was.

“Kelsey, we talked about your punishment for sneaking out at night. I was serious about–”

But before Rachel could finish her sentence, Kelsey spun on her heel and charged down the long hallway. Seconds later, the front door slammed shut.

Rachel hurried to a window and watched her daughter run across the lawn. She watched until she disappeared behind the next door neighbor’s house.

She sighed. She’d always imagined a much different life for herself. These days this life was no different than a prison—for her
and
her children. She couldn’t contain them, and she couldn’t contain herself.

She caught a glimpse of herself in her daughter’s vanity mirror. Her blonde hair looked like uncared for wheat. There were fine lines on her forehead and circles beneath her eyes.

She shuffled down the long hallway, to the kitchen, and grabbed the last bottle of wine from its rack. While uncorking it, she looked out the window.

Mac, the young man who had cut their lawn for years was walking to the shed. He’d grown into quite the handsome man. And so polite. She hoped little Tommy was as polite around people as Mac was. Mac had always had a certain charisma, too, even when he’d barely been a teenager. She thought of the cute little girl he dated, Haley Landry. The one from the diner. She bet Mac made Haley very happy. He didn’t seem the type to stray. No, not all men were like Tom.

She downed a glass of wine and watched Mac until he was out of view. She poured another glass before walking back to the kitchen table. She sat, thinking, sipping, and pouring for a long while.

***

RACHEL’S EYES WERE moist when there was a knock on the back door later that afternoon. Kelsey still hadn’t returned. She had been wondering if she should hunt her daughter down, but realized that she’d had too much wine.

She was an awful mother.

There was another knock.

She straightened in her seat at the kitchen table, realizing she had been caught in a daydream. “Come in!” she called, wiping her eyes.

The door opened, but no one stepped in. She stood and saw it was Mac. He held his cap between his hands and his t-shirt was soaked with sweat.

“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Anderson. But I’m about done. Just some edging to do,” he said. “I forgot to let you know that I’m here. Didn’t want to alarm you any—”

Rachel suddenly realized she desperately needed some company. Another minute alone and she’d probably snap. “You look worn out. Would you like some sweet tea?” she asked.

“No ma’am, but thanks for offering.” His short bangs were soaked with sweat. They stuck straight up in a comical but very cute sort of way.

She
needed
him to stay. Just for a few minutes. That was all it would take to regain some control. “Take a break. Come on, have a glass of tea with me.”

Mac regarded her. “No thank you, ma’am,” he said, “I really should—”

“I insist.”

He stood in the doorway, appearing confused and uncomfortable. Then his face spread into an easy grin. “Well, okay then. Sure.”

Rachel was dizzy as she staggered to the fridge. Taking out a pitcher, she carefully filled a glass. “Don’t just stand there in the door. Come on in,” she said, trying to sound light. And
sober
.

Mac took a step inside.

“You like Luzianne Tea?” she asked, careful not to slur her words. Years ago, she could fake soberness perfectly. These days she was rusty.

“Yes ma’am.”

Mac was still standing just inside the door, squeezing his cap between his hands, when Rachel made the return trip to the table, careful not to let any of the tea slosh out of the glass.

“Have a seat,” she said.

“I’m pretty sweaty, Mrs. Anderson.”

She slid the tea in front of a chair. A little sloshed onto the table. “Rachel, please call me Rachel. And don’t worry about it. Have a seat. Get comfortable.”

Rachel sat down and smiled.
Now, what would they talk about? What, if anything, did they have in common?
“How long have you cut grass for us, Mac? Four, five years?”

“Yeah, five, I think. It was my first job. I’ve always appreciated that.”

Where did all the time go, Rachel wondered. She poured another glass of wine. “You realize that in five long years we’ve never really talked before, adult to adult? Or taken the time to have tea together?”

Mac set the glass down, and looked at her politely. “No ma’am. Guess we haven’t.”

“Then it’s about time, isn’t it? How’s that girlfriend of yours? Haley, right? You two have plans of getting married?”

Mac studied his glass. “No, not really.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I hope things are okay?”

Mac was quiet before he spoke. “To be honest, we’re having some problems. Looks like we’re not doin’ too good these days.”

LATE TUESDAY AFTERNOON, Erica sat beneath a shaded part of her carport, writing fervently. Every once in a while she’d look up, in deep thought, and stare unseeing at the overgrown patches of grass, the yard’s many burnt spots, the old green fishing boat resting upside down with no motor, the dirt-encrusted flowerpots that had remained empty since her mother had left.

But she didn’t focus on any of these things. Instead, she focused on her mind’s eye. These days she didn’t need to use her mother’s rituals as much. Writing seemed to have become natural to her overnight. She wrote quickly, in fear that the crippling writer’s block would return. Who knew what types of danger could befall her.

The writing had progressed a great deal. Her notebook was full of excellent notes and she had forty pages written, the words coming quicker than she could write them.

She jotted down notes during her shifts at Luke’s, while on the pier, sitting in class, at the cemetery, everywhere.

She was looking forward to the detective coming by again. So far, he’d come by twice to ask her questions. Both times he had irritated her, but he wouldn’t now. Now, she had too much to learn. She even considered asking the detective if she could help him with the investigation in some sort of small way. It would allow her to gather more information.

There were footsteps behind her. “Why hello,
cher
.”

Erica tensed. It was Pamela.

Pamela stood next to her father’s rusted tackle box and a bucket of old oil rags, holding a faded beach towel. She wore only a black and white polka dotted bikini. Her bony shoulders were sunburned and her sunglasses were too large for her small face. Erica looked her over and for the first time noticed that Pamela’s big breasts weren’t natural and that her thin thighs were swimming in cellulite.

“Why are you setting in the shade? You should be out getting some sun, darlin’.”

Erica’s grip tightened on her pen. “The sun’s not healthy.”

“Neither’s cigarettes or voodoo. But at least the sun makes you look prettier,” Pamela said, and winked.

Erica looked away, toward the bayou. Two teenage boys had appeared on the opposite side, wearing matching swimming trunks and carrying a blow-up raft.

Pamela plopped down next to her. She situated herself. “Seems your writing is goin’ better. You’re doin’ more of it.”

“How would you know? You spying on me again?”

Pamela let out a little laugh. “No, not at all. Guess I just notice things. My mama always said I was the most observant child in the family. Not that I learned to put it to any good use.” She sighed. “Well, not yet, at least.”

Erica pushed at some dirt with her bare toe.

“I’m happy for you. You seem much more peaceful when you’re doin’ good writin’.” Pamela pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She held it in front of her. “You want one?”

Erica hesitated. She breathed in deeply, and the odors of motor oil and mint flooded her nose. The cigarettes were appealing. The tips at Luke’s had been more meager than usual, and she had been forced to ration her own cigarettes, most days smoking butts wherever she could find them. Every spare nickel and dime were going into her New York City fund.

She accepted a cigarette, and the two sat for several minutes, smoking in silence.

“Your daddy tells me that you were friends with the missing girl.”

“Negative.”

“You didn’t know her?”

“I knew her, but we weren’t friends.”

“Did you know her well?”

“No. We just worked together at Luke’s.”

“Luke’s?”

“The diner on Main Street.”

“Oh yes. Your daddy told me that’s where you worked. Well, if you worked with her, then you should know her pretty well. What was she like?”

“Bitchy. Rich. Head stuck up her ass.”

“Well, she doesn’t sound too nice now, does she?” Pamela said. She dragged on her cigarette. Setting it on an old Coca Cola can, she looked thoughtful. “I knew a girl once that went missing. Turns out she just ran away.”

“Tiffany didn’t run away.”

“How do you know,
cher
?”

“It doesn’t make any sense. She would have done things differently if she had run away.”

“Your father doesn’t seem to think that boy Charles, the boyfriend, had anything to do with it.”

Erica hadn’t realized that her father knew anything about what had happened. But of course he would, right? The whole town knew. But Erica still found it odd that he hadn’t mentioned anything about it to her. “And how would he know?”

“Big news gets around in small parts like this,” Pamela answered.

Pamela probably thought she was a big city girl because she lived in Dallas once, Erica thought. A couple of nights before, she’d overheard Pamela and her father talking. Pamela had been bragging about the year she spent in Dallas as though it were as exotic a place as Europe.

“I give great pedicures, if you’re ever interested,” Pamela said, pointing to Erica’s calloused feet and filthy toenails.

Erica stole a glance at Pamela’s feet. A French pedicure.
Fitting
.

“And I won’t even ask for nothin’ in exchange,” Pamela said, snuffing out her cigarette and getting up. “I’ll do it because I’d really like to be your friend.” She brushed her backside off and picked up her bag. “I’m going in to shower and make a
jambalaya
for your daddy. Want some?”

Erica shook her head.

“Okay then. But I’ll tuck a little extra in the icebox just in case you change your mind,” she said and gave her another annoying wink.

After Pamela had gone, Erica gazed out at the bayou.
Friends?
Why would she want to be friends with a woman like Pamela. Never, she thought. Not all the cigarettes or pedicures in the world could help her stomach that woman.

She dug her toes into the dirt again and watched the boys across the bayou try to balance on their raft. She watched until sunset, and even after their mother called them back into the house.

She watched until the headlights of her father’s new silver Ford F-350 bounced off the driveway, then she gathered her things and headed to the cemetery.