Authors: Joanne DeMaio
“Will you stay on the line with me then? So I know you’re okay?”
“I can’t.” Amy leans against the wall. Her dress hangs limp, her shoes are scraped and ruined. “Mom,” she half whispers, longing for someone to tell her what to do. Longing for George’s arms around her, for his words insisting she is so wrong. Longing to wake up and have it be yesterday. To never live this day.
“You have to speak up, Amy. I can’t hear you.”
She pauses. “Mom. I need you to do something for me. Would you call Dad? Ask him to come and pick up you and Grace tomorrow? It’s probably better for you to be away from here.”
“
What
? What’s going on, for God’s sake? We’re not leaving you by yourself. I’m calling the police.”
“No! Please don’t.” Amy takes a long breath. Oh the fatigue, even that hurts. “Just trust me, and I’ll explain when I can. For now, lock up tight and I’ll call you very first thing. Early. Tell Grace I’ll see her in the morning. Goodnight, Mom. I love you.”
“Amy. Wait.”
Amy hangs up the phone before her mother can continue. She walks to the kitchen sink and opens the faucet, letting cold water spit out. Her eyes close as it flows over her hands like a cool salve. Any relief, any ease, is fleeting. She leans her arms into the stream, wetting down her sweating skin before cupping her hands beneath it and burying her face in the liquid. She presses the water on her neck and chest before drying her face with the folds of her dress.
There’s no stopping it then, no stopping how her mind returns to the thought of George in the bank parking lot. To see the breadth of
his
grip on her hand, and the ruby ring. Her one distressing memory lapse—oh how it bothered her all summer—it filled in with only a touch tonight. She moves to the living room and curls her legs beneath her on the sofa Celia brought in for staging. Sleep comes easily, because once you find an escape hatch, it’s easy, so easy to slip in. It’s the only way she can finally stop crying.
Twenty-nine
MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED?” CELIA asks. She takes Amy into her arms in the ranch’s small foyer and holds her for a long moment before stepping back and looking closely at her. “How could such a perfect date go so wrong?”
Amy turns and glances out the front door. Rain threatens; the morning sky hangs low and gray. She closes the door behind them. “I really can’t get into it now.” Spending the night curled on the living room sofa left her body hurting today. “Things just aren’t going to work with me and George.”
“But Amy—”
“I’m fine. That’s what matters. Thank you for picking me up here.” She slips her feet into her scraped and dirty shoes. “I need to get home to Grace.”
“But how did you ever end up
here
? I couldn’t believe it when you called me, it’s not like you to be breaking and entering.”
If only Celia knew, she’d understand. Amy walks down the hall to the kitchen, pressing out the wrinkles in the front of her dress, aware of how bad this looks and aware, too, that Celia can’t know yet who George really is.
“You were running from him, weren’t you? He said he was taking you dancing.” Celia rushes to catch up to her in the kitchen and grabs her arm. “Wait a minute. Just wait. Were you guys at the bandshell?”
Amy turns to her and nods.
“You walked all the way here from Riverdale Park?”
“I had to.”
“Wow. What kind of bomb went off?” Celia asks, looking her up and down. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m not.” She looks out the kitchen window and pictures the small yard as her own. “Is this house still on the market?”
“Amy.” There is a silence then, one saying
Let’s take care of you first
, one telling Amy her friend is so worried that her next words come quietly. “I can take you to the hospital, you know, if you need to see a doctor.”
Amy presses the fabric of her dress against her leg. “He didn’t hurt me that way.” She turns to Celia. “Please, I really have to get home.”
“Well have you even glanced in a mirror? You can’t face Grace and your mother looking like that. Let’s get some makeup on you. Where’s your purse?”
“I don’t have it.”
“No purse?” Celia looks at her, puzzled. “How’d you call me, if you don’t have your cell?”
When Amy hitches her head toward the wall phone, Celia picks it up, listening for a dial tone. She hangs it up slowly as though the seriousness of the last evening is finally hitting her. “Come on, hon, let’s fix you up.” They go into the bathroom where Celia digs in her handbag and pulls out a lipstick. “Here, put this on.”
Amy leans close to the mirror, her hand shaking as she touches the creamy color to her lips. Her other hand steadies her balance on the vanity top.
“Let me.” Celia takes the lipstick from her. She pulls a piece of toilet paper from the roll, wipes off the smear Amy applied and starts over. “Open a little,” she says, tracing a line over her lips. “Okay.” Then she pinches Amy’s cheeks. “That’s better.”
In her reflection, Amy sees her pale pink lips and remembers George kissing her when they danced close last night. Her eyes tear again.
“Jesus, how bad was it?” Celia asks.
“We had a terrible falling out,” Amy answers. “He’s just not the person I thought he was.”
“George isn’t? Are we talking about the same wonderful guy?”
Amy nods. “I really have to get home, Celia.”
“Well. Okay.” Again she rummages through her bag and hands Amy a small hairbrush. “Fix your hair first.”
Celia’s reflection watches her every move as she runs the brush through her blonde hair and presses a strand behind her ear. “What am I going to do, Cee?” she whispers.
“I’ve never seen you like this, Amy. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Amy nods slightly.
“George must have said or done something awful. What is it? You can trust me, you know that, right?”
Though Celia moves right beside her, searching her face, Amy talks to her reflection. “I can’t see him again, that’s all I can say right now.”
“Maybe you can. You’ll patch things up. You’ll have something good to eat, get some sleep and feel better in a day or two. Come on.” Celia takes the brush. “First let’s get you out of here before someone shows up.” She checks the kitchen, closes the open cabinets, then leads Amy through the empty house and returns the key to the lock box. They walk down the flagstone path to her sedan. “Can I buy you a coffee at least?” Celia asks while unlocking the doors.
Amy gets in and looks out the car window. The tree branches bow heavy under humidity. This ranch house might be nice for her and Grace. It’s small and contained and manageable. Safe. “No thanks. Grace is waiting for me.”
“But maybe it’ll help to talk about things.” Celia drives through town, slowing in front of their favorite coffee shop, Whole Latte Life. “You’re sure? I can stop here for a quick cup.”
“I’m sure.” Because Amy knows damn well she can’t keep coffee or much of anything else down this morning. Her body threatens to rebel against the very idea of George’s identity. She sits up straight and pulls the silky wrap around her arms. Getting Grace to safety is all that matters.
“Did you sleep at all in that house?” Celia asks, glancing up from the road.
“A little. I’ll rest better at home.”
“How about some company? I can spend the night with you and Grace. We’ll watch a movie, talk about things.”
“That’s okay. We’ll be fine.” By this evening, she plans on Grace being far from here, tucked into bed in her parents’ home up north, away from kidnappings and therapists and guns and George. Her father should be arriving from New Hampshire soon.
“Do you want me to come in?” Celia asks when she pulls into Amy’s driveway.
“No.” Amy drops down the visor and checks her face in the mirror. “Thank you, Celia. For everything. But I have to talk to my mom. I’ll be okay now.”
“Well you let me know if you need anything.” She leans over and gives Amy a hug. “Take care of yourself. And talk to George, you hear me?”
Amy steps out of the car as the gray sky begins to mist. Home, home, home, never has it taken so long to get home. She holds the shawl aloft over her head and hurries toward her front porch.
* * *
Every time the bell at the door rings, George sets down the carving knife, stops laying out a platter of chicken cutlets or filling a tray of ground beef, his fingers hovering over the fresh meat, stills, and listens for Amy’s voice.
“Is George here by any chance?” Celia asks Dean. She pulls her umbrella shut and sets it dripping near the door.
George hears it all and steps closer.
“He’s in the back. Can I help you with something?”
“I really need to talk to George. Could you tell him that Celia’s here? I’m a friend.”
Every sound, every syllable, is heard. Every step, every gesture pictured in his mind.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” Dean motions to the tables in the corner.
George hears Celia’s footsteps, hears her chair scrape. It’s why Sinatra isn’t singing, it’s why the radio talk station is off, the voices that usually bring him updates on crime leads and heist statistics and an expanding manhunt silenced. He walks out from behind the counter wearing his black apron, black pants, white shirt, but feeling like a different man. Furious worry keeping him up all night exhausted him.
“You look like something the cat dragged in,” Celia says when he takes a seat.
“That’s what I feel like.” George hesitates, pressing his open hand to the back of his neck. “How is she, Celia?” he finally asks. “Have you seen her?”
“I have. What the hell happened yesterday?”
George turns to Dean. “Hey guy, how about some coffee over here?”
“Right away,” Dean says, disappearing into the back.
“She’s okay?” George asks Celia.
“That’s subjective.”
“Subjective.” He looks down at his hands. “Which means she’s not.”
“No. It means I’m not sure how she is. Amy’s not saying much.”
Dean sets two steaming cups of coffee before them when the bell above the door rings. George glances over at two customers walking in before sipping his coffee. “How’d she look then?”
“Shell-shocked, to say the least. Which is why I’m here.” She stirs cream into her cup. “Maybe it’s none of my business, but Amy’s my best friend. She’s been through so much and I’m worried about her.”
“What did she tell you?”
“You were at the bandshell, something happened, an argument or disagreement or something, and she walked out.”
George looks into the coffee in front of him. “That about sums it up,” he says, raising his eyes to hers. “No details?”
“Not really.”
“Do you know where she spent the night?”
“Yes I do. In an empty house I recently staged. One I wanted her to buy, actually.” Celia lifts her cup and takes a sip. “She let herself in with my lock box code.”
He leans back and looks away, trying to compose himself.
“What the hell was she hiding from, George?”
“She’s got nothing to hide from. Could you tell her that for me?”
“Me? You’ve got to tell her yourself. You’ve got to talk to her. Can’t you go and see her?”
“She’s home?”
Celia squints at him. “Yes. Yes, okay? I just brought her there. What’s the big secret? She’s there, you’re here and you should be together. Go see her, George.”
“Believe me, it’s not good right now.”
“You won’t tell me what happened, will you?”
“I’m sorry, Celia.” He shakes his head.
Celia slides her coffee away. “Well I can’t believe that you would intentionally hurt her. I really can’t.”
“It wasn’t intentional.”
“But it was bad.” She watches him carefully.
“Just tell her I’m here all day. Whenever she wants to talk, I’m here.”
* * *
The good thing about having people around is that they are a distraction. When she folded Grace’s clothes into the suitcase, she knew it was only a matter of minutes before the house would be empty. Before she would turn on the steaming shower to wash the remnants of yesterday down the drain. But she can’t yet. She has to stay calm and get Grace out of this house, out of this town, away from the madness.
“Where the hell is that cat?” Amy says under her breath. The suitcases are in the driveway, Grace is strapped into her parents’ car and her mother just walked out carrying a cooler of sandwiches and juice boxes for the road. Amy moves the cat carrier onto a kitchen chair; Angel’s dish and food are packed inside a brown bag. She leans out the screen door. “Did you look upstairs for her, Mom?”
“Yes I did,” Ellen calls back. “I haven’t seen her all day.”
“All day?” Dr. Brina always told her not to separate Grace from the kitten, so Amy checks Angel’s favorite sleeping places: the end of her bed, the bath mat, on Grace’s windowsill. Outside below, she sees her father loading the trunk.
“This time you’re coming with us,” he said earlier when they had coffee together. “You should have moved back home after Mark died. None of this would have happened then. Did George hurt you? Are you in trouble?”
“No and no.” She tried to reassure her father on the front porch. “There’s just been a misunderstanding, and it’s serious. I told Mom I’ll fill you in as soon as I can. But in the meantime, it’s easier if Grace stays with you while I straighten things out here. Because on top of all this, I’m crazy busy with my bridal fashion show next week.” She takes a deep breath and hugs her father. “After the show, I’ll close the shop for a few days, stop the mail and head up to stay awhile.”
But she figures he knew it was more than she let on; it was about George. She looks out at her father from the window. He aged over the past few years. How many nights’ sleep did he lose worrying about her? Deep wrinkles cut into his cheeks and feather from his eyes. And now this.
“Kitty, kitty,” she calls softly, turning away and lifting Grace’s bedspread. A little black and white paw shoots out at her bare foot, making her jump, the folds of her limp dress brushing her legs. She gets down on her knees and pulls Angel out. Any other day, the kitten hunt would have made her laugh, but not today.
“I’ll be up soon, when this is through,” she says to her mother when she brings the cat carrier out to the driveway.