“Alice?”
Rich’s voice, tentative, as if he might be mistaken, made Alice grip the phone hard. Elbows on her knees, she leaned forward, the phone pressed to her ear as she stared at the floor.
“It’s me,” she confirmed.
“Sweetheart, I’ve been so worried. Everyone has. But you’re OK. You’re all right?”
“I’m all right.”
He let out a sigh. “What a relief. I walked the city, trying to find you, and then racked my brain for where you might be outside the city. And then there were the guests, of course. People who traveled for the wedding. I bought them all-day tourist passes and hosted a big dinner, and it seemed everyone had a delightful time. So you don’t need to worry about them. They were fine. You must have been so lonely, though, and frightened. I mean, after you ran, I thought, my goodness, she’s hurting. So I asked around about you and…”
As he spoke, voicing his concern for her, and everything he’d done to fix the mess she’d made, his soft voice, so full of concern and sympathy, made her head and limbs, not to mention her heart, feel heavy and dull. She closed her eyes, feeling sleepy. He had always been like this. Like the poppy field in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, lulling poor Dorothy to sleep.
Becca and Ona no doubt thought she’d run from an abusive psychopath. But Rich was kind and attentive. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. In fact, if he saw an ant on the sidewalk, he’d walk around it, careful not to step on it. His greatest pleasure was to please her, and he applied himself to this task with the intensity of someone training for a marathon.
There wasn’t a moment he wasn’t hovering over her, asking her if she needed something, bringing her baked goods or pillows or face cream—or any of the other things he thought might make her happy in the moment.
At first, she’d been amazed. It felt so good to be the center of attention. So loved and pampered.
For a while.
She moved into his apartment, and suddenly discovered that her crappy four-story walk-up studio had been the only place she could truly call her own. Now they lived together and worked together. They never spent time apart.
She asked him for some space—for a little alone time, a little headspace—and he’d complied by giving her a handmade card for a spa. Except the spa was staffed by him, set up in their apartment, with scented candles everywhere, meditation sounds on the stereo, and three scheduled hours of massage and kombucha tea breaks. Not a minute to herself.
On the phone, his voice droned on and on and on. So familiar. Exactly as it had done at home and at work in the city. In her old life.
She snapped awake. No, she wouldn’t get lulled by him again. Not yet. There was something she needed to accomplish first.
With her left hand, free from the phone, she grasped her left thigh and dug her fingernails into her flesh until it hurt. It helped a little. She sat up straight.
“Rich,” she said, interrupting his endless, soporific stream of chatter. “I called because I need your help.”
“Of course, sweetheart. Anything you need.”
“I’m in a small town, and there’s an independent bookstore here.”
“Love it already, sounds like the perfect place to spend some time, wish I were there with you right now,” Rich said, the words gushing out. Then, “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Please go ahead.”
“The bookstore’s in trouble. The owner wants to sell. A wall has collapsed—part of the ceiling, too—and the place has been condemned.”
“Oh.”
“And a local developer wants to tear it down and build a parking lot.”
“That’s awful.”
“I need you to buy the property and save the bookstore.”
A reasonable human being would’ve had a hundred questions and at least a dozen reservations. But not Rich.
“You got it,” he said after only a moment’s hesitation. “Anything you want. I’ll talk to the owner right away. We’ll have the contract drawn up lickety-split. Promise. Just give me the details. What’s the name of the bookstore and who’s the owner?”
Alice hesitated. She knew what other question lay hidden within that one. Where are you? But she couldn’t get Rich to help her without divulging where she’d run off to. To save her hideaway, she had to sacrifice her hiding place.
“Blithedale Books, it’s called. In Blithedale.”
She sighed. There. It was done.