Chapter Fifty-Four Kiersten
Chapter Fifty-Four
Kiersten
The next day dawned harsh and cold. The Instagram-perfect fall weather from the day before had vanished, replaced by a gloomy fog. A gray curtain hung over the cul-de-sac, muting the crimson of the sugar maples planted at regular intervals along both sides of the street.
Kiersten slipped out of her quiet house and met Piper at the mailbox.
After church and pancakes at IHOP, Garrett had taken the boys to the big Air and Space Museum out by Dulles airport, giving her all of Sunday afternoon to exercise with Reggie, and then have coffee with Richard and Margaret Davis in their house at the end of the cul-de-sac.
A misting rain dribbled down from the sky. Kiersten pulled up the hood on her Minnesota Vikings sweatshirt in a vain attempt to protect her hair and stashed Dottie’s first diary in the front pocket of her sweatshirt to keep it dry.
“Thanks for coming with me,” she said as she balanced a plate of freshly made brownies in her other hand.
Piper walked beside her, unhurried and untroubled by the falling rain. “Is it just the old couple?” she asked.
“The old couple and their son, Chip.”
Piper groaned. “That guy again? He totally ducked out of all the cleanup for the Harvest Festival last night.”
“I know. He seems a little . . . slick,” Kiersten admitted.
“And he’s the Influencer’s father-in-law?”
Kiersten smiled. Piper never called Aspen by her name. “That’s right.”
“And he’s going to be there because . . .”
“I think he’s just trying to be helpful. He said he’d join us, if he had time.”
They glanced at the skeleton of the new home going up next to Richard and Margaret’s house. It had a roof now, and shingles, but no windows or doors.
“Listen, I’ve been thinking about the Harvest Festival,” Piper said.
Kiersten smiled. “It was great, wasn’t it?”
“Sure, it was great,” Piper said. “But I also think it was a commercial.”
Kiersten frowned. “A commercial? For what?”
“I follow Trey’s real estate company on Instagram and Chip’s property-development company too. And they’ve already turned all that footage from yesterday into an ad for the two new houses they plan to build here on Beaverbrook.”
“They had professional photographers shooting video and taking pictures all day long,” Kiersten said with a shrug. “I guess we knew they were planning to use it for something.”
“But I think that was the real purpose of the whole endeavor. We basically donated our time to organize an elaborate photo shoot promoting Chip and Trey’s companies.”
A feeling she couldn’t identify washed over Kiersten as they walked up the front steps. Disappointment maybe, mingled with a flash of anger. She’d baked three dozen cupcakes, an apple pie, plus all that macaroni hotdish, all for a commercial?
“So it wasn’t about . . . building community?”
Piper shook her head. “I think it’s about cramming as many homes as possible onto those two lots and then selling them to the highest bidder, who may turn out to be Bruce Orlov and his equally sketchy son.”
“What do you mean?”
She told Kiersten about the incident at the Harvest Festival with Alex Orlov.
Kiersten hunched deeper into the folds of her hooded sweatshirt. Piper’s theory had a ring of truth to it.
“Maybe that’s true,” she conceded. “But we still had a wonderful day. The kids had a great time. I had a great time. And maybe these new houses they’re building will bring us some lovely new neighbors who aren’t the Orlovs.”
Piper shot her a look that clearly said You are so naive. “Last night I asked them not to use any video of me, or my husband or my kids. I don’t want our faces on the internet with Hawkeye Slaughter on the loose.”
“Did they honor this request?”
“They did.” Piper jutted her chin. “But I still don’t trust Chip or Trey. So keep your powder dry, okay?”
“Keep my powder dry?” Kiersten pressed her lips together and managed to stifle a derisive giggle. “We’re having coffee with our eighty-something-year-old neighbors, not heading into nuclear disarmament talks with the Russians.”
Piper cocked an eyebrow. “Just . . . be aware.”
“Okay, Matlock.” She pressed the doorbell. “I’ll keep my wits about me.”
A few moments later Margaret opened the door, her white hair perfectly coifed, wearing pearls and a floral dress. Behind her stood Richard, beaming at them with a welcoming smile.
“Here we go,” she murmured to Piper under her breath. “Entering the den of iniquity.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” Piper muttered back.
“Come on in,” Richard called from the foyer.
“Thank you so much, Mr. and Mrs. Davis, for making time to see us.” Kiersten handed Margaret a plate of brownies she’d baked from scratch that morning.
She’d decided she couldn’t make brownies from a box for a woman whose recipes had sold a billion cookbooks.
Margaret would know . . . she probably had a sixth sense for lazy baked goods containing maltodextrin and riboflavin.
The old couple led them to a kitchen table in an alcove overlooking a spacious backyard. Outside, birds darted from leafless November trees to the feeders beside the patio.
Inside, pictures of Trey and Aspen’s two little girls hung from the refrigerator beside childishly misshapen drawings of houses, unicorns, and flowers.
“I made a fresh pot of coffee,” Margaret said, gesturing to the kitchen table laid with a silver coffee pot, and delicate china cups and saucers. “And a pecan pie. Do you prefer ice cream or whipped cream?”
People didn’t entertain like this anymore, Kiersten thought, remembering the first time she’d had Piper and Rosamund over to her house, and how they’d eaten pizza from a box chased with water from red Solo cups.
“I’d love some coffee,” Kiersten said. “And I can’t say no to pie with ice cream.” She’d work off the calories later with Reggie.
“It’s real whipped cream,” Margaret said. “Not that stuff you buy at the grocery store.”
“Well, in that case . . .” Kiersten amended. “I’d love pecan pie with whipped cream.”
“Me too,” Piper added. “Thank you.”
Margaret handed them coffee cups, plus cream and sugar in matching china containers.
They sipped their coffee, ate their delicious pie, and discussed Margaret’s recent cataract surgery, hot-water heaters, traffic on Fort Hunt Road, and the fact that you could find both Advent candles and poker chips at the neighborhood variety store down the street.
Kiersten got the impression that the old couple could happily have visited with them for hours. They seemed a little lonely, even with their son and grandson right next door.
She glanced at Piper, who darted a meaningful look at the clock.
Kiersten cleared her throat and managed to steer their meandering conversation back to the reason for their visit. “So we’re here today because we need your help.”
A slamming door and a thumping noise behind the kitchen interrupted her words. A few moments later, Chip entered the room.
“Good morning, ladies.” He flashed a smile as he pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. “I just popped over to make sure my parents are staying out of trouble.”
“They’re delightful,” Kiersten said truthfully. “And as I said last night at dinner, I’m hoping they can help me track down the rightful owner of the diaries I found in my basement. It’s kind of a mystery.”
“A mystery!” Richard pushed away his empty pie plate. “We’d be happy to help.”
Kiersten removed Dottie’s diary from the pouch in her sweatshirt and pushed it across the table.
“I found them hidden inside some old encyclopedias. Someone donated them to a garage sale here on Beaverbrook about ten years ago. But no one purchased them, so they’ve been sitting in my basement ever since. ”
Richard gently picked up the diary and opened it, brushing his fingers over the page as he and Margaret squinted down at the handwriting.
“The lady who wrote them is interesting.” Kiersten resisted the urge to help herself to a second piece of pie. “Her father owned a car dealership in this area, and she was a newlywed. Her name was Dottie, and her husband was Dickie. Dottie and Dickie. Does that ring any bells?”
Richard’s hand trembled slightly as he turned the pages, but his expression didn’t change as he stared down at the diary.
After a short silence, he looked up at Kiersten. “It doesn’t ring any bells. I’m sorry.”
“How many did you find?” Chip asked.
“Three diaries,” Kiersten said. “Plus some cash. The others are back at the house.”
“Well, we’d be happy to read through it and see if anything strikes us.” Richard clutched the volume in his age-spotted hands.
“That would be really helpful,” Kiersten said. “I’m not getting very far with just a first name to go on.”
“How did you say you found them again?” Margaret asked.
She repeated her story about the box in her basement.
Richard reached for a brownie. “Have you read them all?”
“I finished this one last night.” Kiersten scraped her fork over the last crumbs of pecan pie on her plate. “I haven’t started on the others yet.”
Chip took a sip of his coffee. “Anything interesting?”
“Well . . .” She paused. There were similarities between the “advice” Dottie got from Dickie in the diaries, and the advice Aspen dispensed in her trad wife workbooks. What if Dottie had been married to one of their oldest friends? Someone they knew and loved?
“It didn’t seem like a particularly . . . happy marriage . . .” Kiersten said, attempting to be diplomatic. “But this was also a long time ago.”
A saucer rattled as Margaret set her teacup down with shaking hands. “Everything was different back in 1965. The things that people did back then . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Well, they wouldn’t get away with things like that today.”
Chip laid his large, smooth hand over his mother’s wrinkled one.
“She’s still recovering from cataract surgery, so I think we might need to wrap things up now.
But if you want to leave the diary here, I’m sure Grammy and Grampy can figure out who it belonged to.
And please, bring the other diaries over too. ”
“I will,” Kiersten promised, “if I ever finish reading them. This homeschooling takes up more time than I expected. And the Harvest Festival kept us all busy, too, of course.”
“I’ll come by and pick up the diaries after Grammy and Grampy finish this one. I’m sure they’ll get through it quickly.”
“That’s the nice thing about being retired,” Richard said. “Lots of time for reading.”
“Perfect. Thanks again for all your help.” Kiersten rose from her chair as Piper caught her eye, sending her a look she couldn’t interpret.
Chip walked them to the door, while the old couple remained in the kitchen. She glanced back and saw Margaret lift a napkin to her eye and wipe away a tear.