Chapter XVIII. 1953
CHAPTER XVIII
Vera watched Robert go, her jaw clenched. There was nothing she could do. Whatever it was Mary saw at the tree—the Dark Sisters or some other presence—she’d gone to meet it. Mary was dead, and Vera was alone.
She was no prophet. She had no power to raise the dead.
She let Gerry take her home, and she went back to her routine of cooking and cleaning and pretending Gerry hadn’t seen the truth of her.
For two days, she did it all perfectly, her mind locked away so she could float through her day without breaking into sobs.
When the doorbell sounded just before lunch, she didn’t peek through the curtains like she normally did.
She had a pound cake in the oven and was worried she forgot to grease the pan.
It would burn on the bottom, and Gerry would be disappointed there was no dessert with dinner, and so, distracted, she wiped her hands on her apron and threw open the door.
“Yes?” she said, before she even truly saw the woman standing on her porch.
She was dressed smartly—a turquoise twinset with a twist of pearls at the neck—and golden hair curled prettily around her face in the bubble cut that was so fashionable but Vera knew would only make her apple cheeks look rounder. She held a worn section of newspaper in her hands.
Vera’s throat tightened, and she held herself very still. She’d not seen the woman standing on her porch since the night of the Purity Ball.
“Hello, Sharon.”
“It took a while to find you. I knocked on at least four doors before someone even answered. And then another three to find anyone willing to tell me where you lived.” She thrust the newspaper outward. “She’s dead. Mary is dead, and this is how I find out? From a week-old newspaper?”
Vera closed the door behind her. Gerry had not gone into the office that morning.
In fact, he’d not gone the past two mornings.
He claimed a migraine, but she knew he wanted to keep an eye on her.
After what happened with Mary, every husband in Hawthorne Springs was a touch more wary of their wives.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry?” Sharon’s face crumpled. “You could have had the common decency to find me. It’s not hard. After all, I found you, didn’t I? Even a phone call.” Her voice cracked, and she pressed a hand to her chest.
“I didn’t think—”
“Did you tell him? That night at your stupid Ball, did you tell him about us?” Sharon stepped forward, close enough that Vera could see the vein fluttering in her neck.
“I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”
“Oh.” Sharon bent at the waist as her breath came in short, ragged gasps.
“Here, let me help you.” Vera extended her hand, but Sharon slapped it away.
“Don’t you touch me!”
Vera glanced nervously at the door behind her, and then back at Sharon. Her voice was too loud. She had to calm Sharon down or convince her to leave before Gerry heard, but she didn’t know what to say or how to comfort this woman. Not when her own grief was still so raw.
“Was it him? Did he do it?” Sharon looked up at her, her teeth bared in a grimace.
Vera twisted her hands inside the folds of her apron. There’d been no details in the obituary. Sharon wouldn’t know how Mary died.
Vera swallowed. She did not want to tell the rest, but she owed Sharon the truth. Even if she didn’t know the right words to explain it. How to couch such violence in something that would soften it. There were no ways to make it easier, so she said it as simply as she could.
“She … she did it herself.”
Sharon let out a wail, her body curling in on itself as she collapsed onto the porch. “She wouldn’t have. She wouldn’t have done that.”
“She was sick. Confused,” Vera said, and then listened in horror as the door behind her opened.
“Vera?” Gerry stepped out onto the porch, and Vera turned to him, a placating smile on her face as she tried to shoo him back inside.
“Everything’s fine, honey. Just some lady troubles. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“We loved each other. Did you know that? When you went and told her husband whatever you told him, did you know that Mary loved me? That you were hurting her even though you claim to be her friend?”
“Vera, who is this?” Gerry asked.
“You could have helped her. Could have helped us. Maybe if you had, she would still be alive.”
Vera recoiled as if struck. She’d not been the one to push Mary onto that branch, but, in her selfishness, she abandoned her, and for that, there was blood on her hands.
Gerry advanced onto the porch, and he stooped, his hands under Sharon’s arms as he pulled her up. “I think it’s time you were leaving, miss.”
He hauled her toward the car Vera hadn’t noticed when she answered the door and deposited her inside. Panting, he closed the door and backed away, but Sharon remained immobile and the engine quiet.
Gerry slammed a hand against the window, and Vera winced as she watched Sharon jump. “Lady, you have three minutes to get the hell off my property or I’m calling the cops. You hear me?”
Finally, the car’s engine turned over, and Sharon sped away.
Drained, Vera leaned against a porch post and watched as her husband strode up the steps, his face darkened in anger. Without a word, he pushed past her and into the house, but he left the door open. A silent reminder she was meant to follow him.
She waited until the dust from Sharon’s car settled, the evidence she’d ever been there vanished, and then she turned, ever the faithful wife, and followed Gerry into the house.