The Truth About Mallory Bain (22 page)

The spirit looked into my eyes and I calmed. He stretched out his arm. A thin, tattered book lay in his open hand. I tried touching the book's edge but my arm remained fixed, nor could I see the title.

The man rose and moved closer to the head of the bed. My muscles relaxed, allowing me to stretch until I touched the book's edge. The soft paper felt smooth, real against my fingertips. I strained to focus on the title. I saw letters, “H A,” and “N” or “M.” The spirit and his book vanished in an undulating milky stream, as though once again his time with me had expired.

I expected to gain a clearer understanding of his identity soon, assuming he was a person from my past. He seemed too unlike Ben, Tony, or my father. The spirit seemed to want to linger. Ben might have longed for physical closeness and would struggle
to stay longer or reach out more determinedly. Neither my father nor my brother would have brought me a book.

A spirit should know the futility in touch because they have no body and cannot touch the living. A male spirit carrying a rolled newspaper might be my father, but definitely not Ben or Tony.

My oldest brother had been a cutup, a jokester like Rick. I doubted death had killed Tony's sense of humor. In the nearness of the apparition, there had been no wit, only a pressing sense of urgency about his message.

The spirit was determined but limited or restricted perhaps by the barrier between the living and the dead. His ability to communicate a simple phrase eluded him when at times he could slide a massive armoire across the floor as easily as kicking a footstool. Sadly, intuition failed to supply me with answers.

I awoke early Saturday morning refreshed. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror with my eyes closed. I pictured the glowing essence I'd been seeing. Its form was a real phenomenon rather than an imagining caused by stress or exhaustion. There was no way of knowing if the spirit reaching out to me was the man visiting Caleb or my own nocturnal visitor. And there was no way of knowing if any of the spirits was Ben.

There had been no inkling that my visitor or the other apparitions had intended any harm. I was a step closer to believing they were one and the same. I was also starting to see Judith's point of view. This new understanding and acceptance of the spirit made me doubt her insanity as well as our dark practices theory. Assuming she was correct, I felt a pang of regret for having hurt her.

Judith would be more than happy to direct me in finding answers. Whenever I recalled that terrible afternoon, however, I became infuriated at how she had shattered our calm and cost my mother a longstanding friendship with Ginny Hughes. It was unlikely that she could help me until I received more information from him.

We started our Saturday morning slower than planned. Each passing hour became increasingly hectic. The more chores I rushed through, the more waited for me to do. There was grocery shopping, laundry, and waiting in line at Caleb's basketball registration, which did give me a chance to meet other parents, but made me forget about the time.

I ordered takeout from the new restaurant that had their grand opening the day before. I gulped down the last of their food in case Dana served a late dinner.

My being the last guest through the Fowlers' door, all eyes focused on me. While Erik helped with my coat, I sensed the other guests were friendly enough not to bite.

“Soirée” best suited the gathering—candles, low lighting, silver trays of appetizers. Each guest sat or stood as if positioned by a director shooting a critical scene. Each serving dish, each guest neatly in their places. Though not black-tie by any means, my new dress fit in well with the women's attire.

The Fowler home was stylish, and without saying, spotless. Dana more than Erik probably insisted on a picture-perfect home that included a spacious four-season room like the one we had in the house Chad and I had owned in Bartlett. The glowing fireplace cast a magical glint off the crystal stemware held by each guest. Dana proudly promenaded me among all of their guests, ten, excluding me. One unlucky soul would not be part of a couple because someone regrettably declined.

I saw no evidence this was a child's home, too, other than a quick peek into Emma's designer room. Not one overlooked crayon had rolled against a baseboard. No missed doll bootie lay under any chair. No half-empty milk cup sat in the sink, nor was there a pile of picture books stacked in a corner basket—no toys, no glittery barrettes.

I found the Fowlers' other friends welcoming, in particular, Jillian Dale, a nurse, and her husband, Travis, from next door.
Cassandra and her husband Todd were a bit too teethy and chummy for me. Rachel and her shy fiancé, Adam, showed up from across and down the street.

A pair of mannequins silently sipped from matching glasses adorned with lime slices. They smiled and nodded in unison whenever ambushed for conversation. I never did catch how they knew the Fowlers, but I had the feeling they didn't know them well.

Dana saved Erik's closest friends for last. Ryan Collins, the human resource director with his company, divorced, mid-thirties, and a chess buff, as was Erik, to my surprise. The other obvious candidate for my attention was Lance Garner, never married, thirty-two.

Ryan towered over my five-five height. I guessed he stood a good six-four. Sandy-haired. Chinless, but handsome in another woman's opinion—I didn't much care to let another man's looks grow on me like I had allowed Chad's. Ryan's stern bearing and need to peer at me through the bottom lenses of his glasses whenever I spoke nearly made me twitch.

While his eyes shamelessly devoured my cleavage, I noticed a tiny tuft of moist nose hair I wished I hadn't seen, but happily knew I wouldn't forget in a million years. He offered me his hand for a firm, businesslike shake, then shifted his shoulders. My hand returned the shake deliberately limp and apathetic. I felt confident in my guesses as to why Mrs. Collins was no longer hanging on his arm.

When Lance took my hand in his and said hello, I caught an ever-so-slight, enchanting, and courtly tip of his head and left shoulder, reminiscent of those imaginary knights exiting our front door so many years ago.

He was handsomely dressed, a man in touch with his style, and he wore it well. He stood taller than Rick, a strong six feet at least. His dark hair gave him an opposite appearance from either golden-haired Ben or tow-haired Chad, and his pewter eyes exuded the tenderness missing from my life. He sported a
sculptured black goatee, giving him an air of mystery and allure that made my heart beat a tad bit faster standing beside him.

There was not one speck of unsightliness about him apart from nervousness which drove him to fidget with his jacket buttons, shove his hands in his pockets, and occasionally glance down at his well-polished shoes. I was mystified as to why no Mrs. Garner stood at this lovely man's side.

He easily struck up a conversation by explaining how he had bumped into a friend of a friend at a conference two years ago, and before one of the presentations, she introduced him to Erik. They became business friends and eventually racquetball partners.

“Erik plays racquetball,” I said. “I guess there's a lot I don't know about him anymore.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Erik standing a few feet away from us. “People change.”

His stance relaxed when I smiled. Attaching myself to one of these men was Dana's intent, not mine, although I had difficulty taking my eyes off of Lance.

I spent much of the evening before dinner visiting with Jillian, Rachel, and Adam, who stayed glued to Rachel's side. He confided to me the Fowlers were Rachel's friends, but I think he feared the consequences if he dared peek at Dana.

The three of them understood my dilemma without much explanation about being recently divorced and shy of dating. They drew me into their circle by helping me escape Ryan's clumsy attempts to get better acquainted. Lance captured my attention at times but never pushed. Quite frankly, he had a way about him that actually left me wanting more.

Dana flaunted her role of hostess superbly. She entertained with wittiness and charm. Over the years she had perfected her inclination to be the center of attention around men with a subtle roll of her shoulder and amusing conversation. Jillian showed indifference. Cassandra lingered on the sidelines beside Maria Lyon, the lady mannequin. Both kept a close eye on their men during the Dana show.

Later on, Dana snuggled uncomfortably close to me, close enough for me to notice a blue bruise on the wrist of the hand holding her glass.

“Are you enjoying the evening?” Her tawny beverage splashed over the pile of ice.

“I am.” I stepped back into a more comfortable space. “Your friends are nice.”

“Tell me who is more handsome, Ryan or Lance.” She swayed. “Erik made a teeny side bet with me and I'm dying to know if I won.”

“Side bet. Great.” I know I smirked.

With her glass to her lips she uttered, “Uh-huh.”

I looked away. “Dana, stop. Set-ups stink.”

“Busy people need them nowadays.” Her eyes widened. She poked her forefinger at me. “You need a man in your life.”

I took a sip of my lemon water and shook my head fast. “I said, ‘don't'. You mean well, but I'm not ready.”

“You can't still be carrying a torch for Chad. Your marriage is over.”

I'd grown tired of her party and her. Disgusting images of her and Chad as younger adults romping in bed floated around my head. Yet I felt obligated to stay, if only to spare Erik the awkwardness of me grabbing my coat and rushing out the door because his wife was an ill-mannered boozer and undoubtedly the tramp Jack Harwood once called her.

My longtime friendship with her forced me into giving her the benefit of doubt. Perhaps she believed her intentions were sincere and her condescension really had come out of a liquor bottle instead of intentional meanness. She lacked understanding about me as a woman years different from the naïve girl she'd once known.

I inhaled deeply. “Rest assured, Dana, I've come to terms with all of the changes in my life.”

“There's no question if Ben were alive, you'd cling to him in a heartbeat.”

Her words cut like a double-edged blade. “Sober up, will you?” I started walking away to find my coat and leave.

“Mallory, wait. I'm sorry.” She touched my arm.

“Coming here was a bad idea.”

“Please. Don't go. That was a terrible insult to your memory of Ben. I am truly sorry.”

I looked down at her hand resting on my arm and saw a larger bruise on the underside of her forearm.

I turned over her hand. “You have bruises.”

She tugged her sleeve down. “Emma. She grabs on and swings. Please stay. I do need your opinion on dessert.”

I'd seen her interact with Emma enough to doubt her daughter would ever dare grab on and swing. The cause of those bruises was none of my business, and sometimes not knowing was best.

I tried my best to smile. “Chocolate, I hope.”

“Fudgy.” She led me into the kitchen. “I seldom serve untried recipes on guests. Poor Erik eats his share of my failed experiments.”

She lifted one of several dessert dishes from the refrigerator shelf and handed it to me, along with a spoon from a nearby drawer.

The texture of the first bite melted in my mouth. The flavor of the second tasted unlike anything I'd ever eaten—not sweet, and another bite was downright bitter. An unusual kind of nut— no, tiny chunks of jellied, bitter fruit.

“Different,” I said. My nose wrinkled. “It needs sweet.”

Her cheeks and neck reddened. “I ran out of regular chocolate so I substituted unsweetened.” She shrugged.

“There is an unusual flavor. Not unsweetened chocolate.”

She gave me a deer in the headlights gaze.

“Candied fruit?”

Her glossy eyes widened. A soused deer in the headlights gaze. “Citron!”

My recollection of citron in Grandma Bain's holiday fruit cake failed to confirm her claim, though I did recall citron was a lemonlike fruit. Even if Dana had consumed a gallon of bourbon, she
ought to know the ingredients. Not that I would ever make such a concoction, but as a guest, I felt obligated to be polite despite her propensity for rudeness.

She steadied herself, laying one hand flat against the counter's edge. “I whipped cream.”

I set the dish on the counter.

She scooped on a dollop. She threw open the cupboard and pulled out a bag of chocolate, which she dumped into a bowl and microwaved.

With the added sweetness and cream, I finished the rest of the dessert. “You fixed it. Much better.”

She smiled with a sigh of relief.

When she finally served dinner, I felt full, bloated, as if I'd already overeaten. I welcomed the chance to sit and relieve my feet from the pinch of my narrow high heels. Lance pulled out the chair to my left and Jillian took the chair on my right, leaving Ryan to fend for himself.