Well, this is awkward.
Celeste has gone upstairs without a word, leaving me on the main level. Am I supposed to head into the lanai now? If so, she could have subtly herded me that way.
I’d offered to wash dishes, and she went upstairs, and it’s been long enough for me to realize that she’s not coming back. Does she expect me to just retreat when I’m done with the dishes?
Weird and awkward.
Let’s face it, this whole thing is weird and awkward, and if I really was just passing through, I’d hightail it back to my shed. But while staying in the house wasn’t what I had in mind, it is useful.
Useful and dangerous.
Damn.
I look around. It’s a proper country kitchen with plenty of room for cooking and preserving and parties that stretch into the night. I swear I can hear echoes of the past, voices getting loud with drink and laughter, cards slapping on the table, the room filling with humid night air and the smell of late-night fried chicken.
I run my fingers over the chair back, worn smooth by decades of touch. There isn’t an appliance or a piece of furniture here that isn’t older than me. Same goes for the wallpaper, lemon-bright yellow faded to a muddy mustard and stinking of cigarette smoke. A sunny yellow rectangle and empty nail shows where a calendar must have hung for years.
I tiptoe into the living room and look around. The basement door beckons, but there will be time and opportunity for that. Celeste mentioned the house needing repairs, which it obviously does. I resisted the urge to offer help. Too soon. Too suspicious.
I have things to do here. Plans to set in motion. I need a bit of time, though, to adjust to this new situation. To make the best possible use of being in the house, with access to my target.
My gaze strays to the sofa and armchair. Both are ancient, their fabric worn shiny. They’re as misshapen and spring-shattered as walk-in medical clinic furnishings, but I’ve been sleeping on the ground, and my knees weaken at the thought of stretching out on that sofa.
And you will be just as comfortable on the lanai lounger, without the fear of Celeste looking at you like you’re a transient leaning against her car.
True enough. I walk to a crooked bookshelf devoted to things other than books. Celeste has piled papers and unopened mail between the dusty knickknacks. I touch a plastic cat, smiling as I lever its tail, making its eyes move back and forth. Letters lean against it, and my play dislodges one addressed to Ms. Celeste Turner. As I return it, I thumb through the others in the stack. Junk mail, mostly addressed to Maeve Turner.
A creak sounds overhead. I drop to one knee, so if she comes down, she’ll see I’m just checking out the books. There’s only that one creak, though. Then all goes silent.
I scan the single row of books. Half are old historical romances, and I pull out one showing a windswept redhead in the arms of a shirtless kilted man. I imagine curling up on that lumpy sofa with a yellowed paperback that smells of mildew and cigarettes, losing myself in the tale of a dashing Highlander and his spirited, reluctant bride. Memories of my own youth wash over me, whipping through pages of books like this, pulse racing as my eyes widened at the hidden delights.
I move along the shelf to a small collection of children’s classics. My smile widens as I tug out a copy of Black Beauty with a cover that has very clearly been gnawed by tiny toddler teeth. Crayon scribbles decorate the first pages. Then, in painstakingly careful letters: “Property of Celeste Turner.” The penciled words actually say: “Propurte of CeCe Turnr,” but someone has used a pen to correct it.
The doorbell rings, and I topple backward, book flying to the floor. The chime box is right over my head, and the jingle rings like a brass bell at my ear. I grab the book and rise as I wait for Celeste to come down the stairs. I’ll ask to borrow it before I retreat and leave her with her guest.
Instead, the bell sounds again, and as I turn, I realize I’m in the sightline of the front-door window. A man stands on the other side.
An image flashes. The man outside the shed in the storm. A denim-clad leg, and boot tracks in the mud.
The man smiles and waves. The upstairs toilet flushes. Damn. I shouldn’t answer Celeste’s door, but I can hardly flee while this guy is looking straight at me.
I open the door, chain engaged.
“Hello?” I say.
The guy is around forty with silver-templed dark hair. Handsome. Dark-blue eyes and a trim build. One glance tells me he knows Celeste—he looks equally out of place here with his pressed trousers and golf shirt and blazing white smile.
“Hey, there,” he says. “Is Celeste around?”
The bathroom door finally creaks open above, and her shoes tap-tap toward the stairs. She sees the door still chained and waves for me to open it.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I was just—”
“—being safe,” she says, and she waggles a finger at the man as he enters. “As well you should with this one.” She kisses his cheek. “I thought you weren’t coming over today.”
“Surprise!” He spreads his hands.
My skin creeps as he gives that too hearty laugh.
He isn’t a smarmy, stereotypical used-car-salesman guy. He’s something worse. Polished and affluent, reeking of designer aftershave and razor-honed charisma. A used-car salesman can only sell you a lemon. This guy can convince you to empty your 401(k), mortgage your house and max out your credit to invest in his scheme. After all, he drives a luxury car and has an uptown office address. What can possibly go wrong?
I realize I’m assigning a personality type based on a thirty-second acquaintance, but he reminds me too much of my stepfather, and I can still see my mother’s face when she first told me about him. “He works in an office,” she breathed, the way others might say, “He’s a cardiac surgeon.”
Mom never graduated high school. Pregnant and married at eighteen to a guy who put more heroin in his arms than food on the table. A cheerful, scattered boy, endlessly caught up in whatever dumbass criminal enterprise his friends talked him into. After the tragedy, she took me north and met Keith, a pharmaceutical rep with a closet of suits, a corporate office and a BMW. She thought her suffering had been rewarded. Instead, it’d only just begun.
I murmur something unintelligible to Celeste, lift the book to show I’m taking it and start for the back door.
“Am I going to get an introduction?” the man calls after me.
I turn with what I hope looks like a genuine smile. “Sorry. I just didn’t want to interrupt.” I put out a hand. “Daisy.”
His brows arch. “Like the flower?”
I laugh softly. “I wish. My parents named me after the Dukes of Hazzard character. I think Dad liked her short shorts. It was nice to meet you. I’ll just slip out—”
“Liam,” he says, walking to me with a hand extended. “We forgot that part. I’m Liam Garey.”
I smile and shake his hand, and before I can escape, he says, “So you’re local?”
Before I can answer, Celeste smoothly cuts in. “Daisy is hiking across the state. She took refuge in that old shed out back. I invited her to wait it out in the screened porch.”
Liam’s brows arch. “The lanai? Why not the spare bedroom?”
Celeste tenses. She tries to hide the reaction, but I see it, and I don’t blame her for it. There’s something in Liam’s tone that makes my hackles rise.
“I prefer the lanai,” I say quickly. “I appreciate the hospitality. You two have a good night, and we’ll discuss that leak tomorrow.”
“Leak?” he repeats.
Celeste waves it off. “You know this old house. Nothing but problems. Good night, Daisy, and if there’s anything you need, help yourself.”
My gaze slides to an old blanket on the sofa. She snatches it up with “Absolutely. Take this.”
“I’m sure we can do better than that, Celeste,” Liam says.
The use of we makes my hackles prickle again. That plural is presumptive and territorial. But Celeste only promises to bring me a pillow and other bedding later.
I thank her and escape as fast as I can.
“Inviting strangers into your house now?” Liam murmurs as the back door shuts behind Daisy. “You are a woman of hidden depths.”
I resist the urge to say—again—that he agreed not to come over. Once is enough. He’s in a good mood, and it’s in my best interests not to spoil it. So I just roll my eyes and continue up the stairs. His laugh follows me, echoed by his footfalls.
At the top, he grabs me, still laughing as he pulls me in for a kiss.
“Let me guess,” he says, nuzzling my neck. “She’s your secret lover, clumsily passed off as…What was the story? A hitchhiker crossing the country?”
“A hiker crossing the state. And I’m tempted to say, ‘Yes, you’ve guessed correctly,’ just to see your reaction.”
He laughs and takes my hand, leading me to my room.
See, just an ordinary couple goofing around. Nothing to see here. Nothing at all.
I tell Liam about my leaking roof and Daisy’s rescue. He is as amused as I expected, his blue eyes dancing at my apparent predicament.
“So now you’re stuck with her in your lanai,” he says.
“Better than the spare room.”
He takes off his shoes and stretches out on the bed. “I knew she wouldn’t accept. She’s a timid rabbit, couldn’t wait to bolt. What do you know about her?”
I shrug. “Not much. I don’t dare ask. If she tells me a tale of woe, I’m liable to offer her a job fixing up the house.” At his look, I say, “She’s a construction worker.”
“That little thing?” He looks over at the broken window screen. “Still, it wouldn’t be a bad idea, hiring someone like that to fix up the house. Cheap reno. And a temporary lodger. That would be safer, living out here.”
How thoughtful of you to suggest it, Liam. Remember now, it was all your idea.
“I’ll consider it,” I say as he pulls me down onto the bed.
I wake in tears. Or that’s what it seems as I startle awake to find my pillow damp. Then a warm drop falls on my cheek, and I look up to see a rivulet running down the angled lanai roof. Another leak. I still check my eyes to be sure it’s not really tears. I wouldn’t be surprised—too many memories resurrected, too many regrets for all the things I didn’t do when they needed to be done.
Plink. A drop hits me square in the eye. I sigh and rise to move the lounge chair. As I do, my back crackles. I rub stiff muscles and grimace. Two nights of sleeping on the ground, and when does my body complain? When it actually gets a bed.
Except it’s not a bed. It’s a lounge chair that had looked fine from a distance. Up close, it became clear that my hostess is not the sort to drag a chair into the yard and soak up a few rays. I’d used a damp towel to clean the brittle plastic weave, only to have it crumble under my touch. She’d provided two blankets, and I’d lain between them, my head resting on a pillow so flat it could slide off the lounger and I’d never notice.
I do a few stretches as I contemplate the possibility of sleeping on the floor. Yeah, no. Even two blankets won’t muffle the damp cold of concrete. I lift my face and listen to the pound of rain. Darting back to my shed would be a whole lot more appealing if I wouldn’t get soaked.
I rise, rolling my shoulders, and realize I could use a trip to the toilet. Which is mostly just an excuse to grab another living room blanket. If I set my watch alarm, I can return the extras before Celeste notices.
I walk to the door, turn the knob and…
It’s locked.
Well, damn. I don’t actually need to use the bathroom that badly, but now I’m annoyed that I can’t. No, let’s be honest, I’m annoyed that she felt the need to lock that door. It’s not as if she’s alone in the house. Last I saw, Liam’s Land Rover was still in the drive, suggesting he was spending the night.
I grumble under my breath and move to the window, shading it to measure the distance to the shed. When I see a bobbing light, I squint, struggling to see through a rusted screen and rain-streaked glass.
Someone’s moving fast through the thick trees, circling the house. My hand clenches reflexively, reaching for the gun I keep under my sleeping bag. The sleeping bag—and gun—that I’ve left in the shed.
I glance around for a weapon. There’s an old spade in the corner, trussed to the wall by spiderwebs. I slip over and shake it loose, only to have ancient dirt spatter my feet.
I heft the spade as I follow the light through the trees. It’s the bluish glow of a cell phone. I move as close as I dare to the window. At first, I see only a figure. Then I notice a tan jacket held over a head, the cell phone light glowing beneath it.
Breaking into a house with a cell phone for light…during a tropical storm. Not exactly a world-class thief. Still, this is the state of the greatest superhero who ever lived: Florida Man. Skim any newspaper across the nation, and you’ll find tales of his exploits. “Florida Man Charged with Assault after Throwing Alligator through Drive-Thru Window.” “Florida Man Robs Store Wearing Transparent Bag on His Head.” “Florida Man Gets Tired of Waiting at Hospital and Steals Ambulance to Drive Home.” When it comes to criminals, Florida breeds them unique.
In defense of my native state, I’ll point out that part of the blame lies with the open-records laws, where nothing is held back in a criminal incident, leaving all the weirdness as fodder for enterprising headline writers. But this is still the land of guys—and gals—who get drunk and wrestle wild alligators on a dare.
As I watch, the figure slows near my shed. When he glances toward the house, I stop breathing and resist the urge to backpedal. I’m safe here in the dark.
The man’s gaze skips, almost incidentally, over the yard, confident that he won’t be seen. Then he ducks into my shed.
I remember the guy outside my shed last night. It must be the same one. This time, though, I’m not trapped in there, at his mercy.
I’m going to get a better look.
I ease open the back door. It’s pouring rain and pitch black, and all I can see is the moving glow of that cell phone.
Wait. It’s dark because the porch lights are off, yet they’d been on when I went to bed. I know because I’d had to flip over to find darkness. Then I’d woken after midnight, and they’d still been on. Yet they’re out now.
Someone inside the house turned out the porch light, setting the stage for a nighttime shed invasion. I can make out the jacket now. It’s the tan overcoat Liam was wearing when he arrived.
Hello, Liam.
What are you doing in my shed?
What has you out there in the rain? In the middle of the night?
Only it’s not my shed. It’s his girlfriend’s. Celeste may have asked him to take a look and check my story.
I’ve hidden the gun well. I’m always careful about that.
I run through the list of what Liam is likely to find there. The answer is “nothing important.” I’ve traveled light, carrying only the essentials that will suggest I am exactly what I pretend to be.
Liam spends at least fifteen minutes searching, and I grit my teeth, imagining him pawing through my belongings, through my clothing.
Memories flash, and they don’t stop flashing. I blame this place. Being back in the state my mother fled, determined to start over, only to tumble down a rabbit hole too dark for her to see that she wasn’t the only one suffering.
She’d suffered with my father, too. As much as I loved him, I don’t deny that. Battling one’s demons is a cliché, but when I first read those words, I pictured my father locked in mortal combat with the drugs and the poverty that ruled his life. Yet in my mind, he didn’t fight to save himself. He fought to save my mother and me, to give us a better life. He tried. God, how he tried. He loved me and protected me, and I never really realized just how much until we left him and I was alone with Mom and with Keith.
Cracks in the shed walls glow blue with the light of Liam’s cell phone, and in my memory, I’m fourteen, in my bedroom watching a flashlight bob around my backyard playhouse.
I slipped out armed with a kitchen knife only to find Keith pawing through my box of treasures—the glossy shells and cheap jewelry and pretty rocks strewn over my playhouse floor.
I stormed in, seething with righteous fury. “What are you doing? That’s mine.”
“If it’s on my property, missy, it’s mine. You’re too old for playhouses, and I intend to find out what you’re doing in here. Your mother is worried. After your dope-fiend father—”
“I have never even smoked weed. Test me if you’re worried. I’m clean. Always.”
He shrugged. “What’s bred in the bone…”
I didn’t understand what he meant, but I stiffened and said coldly, “I come here for privacy. That’s all.”
He fished out a romance novel with a clinching couple on the front. My cheeks burned as he flipped through, pausing to chuckle at the dog-eared pages.
“Well, well,” he said, “our little girl really is growing up.”
“That’s Blaire’s. She borrowed it from her mom.”
He lifted his flashlight to one of the pages and began reading aloud. With every word, my cheeks flamed hotter.
“Curious little thing, aren’t you?” he said.
“It’s Blaire’s. Those are her marked pages.” True. “I skip them.” Not true.
“It’s natural to be curious,” he said.
I didn’t answer. My favorite teacher—Ms. Nanak—had caught me reading one of those books, and she’d said the same thing. When she’d said it, though, it’d been reassuring, making me feel like just a normal girl, normally curious. We’d had a long talk about how both boys and girls are curious, but it’s only considered “natural” for boys. Here was Keith saying the exact same words, and yet it made my fingers tighten on the knife.
“Are you curious, peanut?” he asked. “You don’t need to be ashamed of it.”
I said nothing. If there is such a thing as a female instinct, it screamed that no good would come of any answer I made.
He set down the book and laid a hand on it, almost reverently. “If you have questions, I’m here for you.”
My whole body twanged, a bowstring ready to snap. I wanted to run, and I also didn’t want to run—I wanted to brandish the knife and show him all the ways I wasn’t my mother. If he laid a finger on me, he’d lose it.
But that voice kept whispering in my ear, telling me again that I was doing the right thing by standing firm and saying nothing. Wait it out.
That’s what I did, all those years ago. Waited it out and then walked back into the house, shoved a chair under my door handle and went to sleep with the knife beneath my pillow.
Now I’m watching that blue glow bob around the dilapidated shed, and I tell myself this is not Keith. I am not fourteen. I am not helpless.
That reassurance, though, doesn’t keep me from imagining Liam pawing through my underwear, as Keith used to under the guise of doing the laundry for Mom. He’d gather a basket with my bras and panties displayed on top and bring it to my room and sometimes hold up a piece and tell me that I needed to replace it, that I’d obviously outgrown it. Just being helpful.
By the time the blue light bounces from the shed, I’m white-knuckling the spade handle. I watch the light as it circles the house. Then the old house shudders as the front door snaps shut, leaving zero doubt who was out there.