Chapter Twenty-Three
TWENTY-THREE
Nicole
Nicole was nursing her hangover with black coffee when she heard the noise.
The Durhams had the kind of garage door that had to be opened and closed with brute strength, the effort rewarded by a refrain of dramatic creaks and groans that made the house sound like it was dying.
As with Woody’s snores, she’d gotten good at blocking them out, but that morning she’d awoken to the memory of the eye in the vent and the bones in the basement, and she was still rattled enough that the noise drew her outside.
“Blair,” she said, surprised to find her daughter in the driveway. Blair was getting into the old red Toyota Corolla. The sound, it appeared, had been the heavy door closing, though there was no room for either the Corolla or Woody’s truck inside. “I didn’t realize you were up.”
“Yeah, early start. I think the door’s broken.” Blair nodded at the garage. “I could barely close it. Oh! Happy birthday! What are you even doing awake?” She pulled Nicole into a hug. “You should be sleeping in.”
“If only. I have to work,” Nicole said, “but just for a bit.”
“Jesus, Mom, if anyone deserves a day off, it’s you.”
That might have been true, but Nicole wasn’t going to miss the chance to earn a couple hundred dollars. If she hustled, she could finish the job, pocket the cash, and be napping on the couch by two p.m., but she didn’t love the disappointment that was twisting Blair’s glossed lips.
Of her two children, Blair was the one who had the biggest issue with Nicole’s occupation.
She knew her daughter respected her, but Blair thought her mother could do better than polishing other people’s floors.
There was some shame there, too. When Blair was younger, she had refused to tell her friends what Nicole did for a living.
She works at the hotel in Clayton, she’d say simply, allowing the other kids to imagine Nicole was a manager or event planner for all the swanky weddings and corporate retreats.
It wasn’t like Blair’s friends came from families of doctors and lawyers, but something about Nicole’s particular breed of blue-collar work embarrassed her daughter.
It was one of Nicole’s biggest regrets about the path she’d followed, the life she’d had to build.
Nicole, Woody, Maureen … they’d all dug their heels into hinterland dirt and refused to be uprooted, and now Blair was set to do the same thing.
Sometimes, Nicole was less mother than anchor, dragging her daughter down.
“Where are you off to?” she asked now.
“Just grabbing a bagel with Nash. We’re gonna do some dorm shopping online. OK if I use your card? I won’t go crazy.”
“Sure,” said Nicole, her stomach an empty pit.
From inside the car, Nicole heard a buzz.
“It’s Dad.” Blair glanced down at the phone that she’d tossed on the seat.
When she didn’t reach for it right away, Nicole cleared her throat, and Blair folded herself into the car to fire off a text.
They had a system, she and the girls: if a grown-up calls and you can’t answer, text them so the adult knows you’re OK.
It was one of Nicole’s house rules, and it was nonnegotiable.
“Don’t worry,” Blair said as she buckled in, “I won’t forget about later. We’re doing dinner, right?”
“Oh. Right,” Nicole said. “See you in a bit!”
Blair gave a jaunty wave, but the reminder about the birthday dinner stoked the embers that still glowed hot after last night’s fight with Woody.
Castle View cost a fortune, which meant that every penny she earned today would be gone by midnight.
It was only because of Woody’s guilt trip that she’d agreed.
There aren’t that many more family dinners before Blair leaves, he’d warned, and I already told the girls.
I want to make this a special night. Please, Nicole. Do it for us.
Nicole watched as her daughter, her breathtaking girl, backed out of the driveway, turned down the street, and vanished.
“I’m the worst,” Caroline, Nicole’s Sunday client, said by way of a welcome. “The dog just threw up on the living room rug and I’m late for the stylist. Can you handle it? I’m sorry, Nicole!”
Smile and nod, thought Nicole. Happy birthday to me. “Don’t worry about it. You go. Have fun.”
“I will! Oh, and I’m going to lock the door behind me. You know about that horrid woman, right? The squatter?”
Nicole gave a start. It had been less than twenty-four hours since she’d seen the stranger in the ceiling. How did Caroline, a retiree from the Midwest who spent less than half the year at the river, know about Jenny Smith?
“I hadn’t heard about that,” Nicole lied. “What’s going on?”
“It’s all over social media. She was caught at a house in Cape Vincent.
A neighbor took a video and posted it to a local Facebook group with a message about police activity over there.
I guess someone recognized the jacket the woman was wearing.
It was stolen from a different house in the area over the winter.
Well,” she said, flaring her nostrils for effect, “after the homeowner left a comment about that, people just came out of the woodwork. We think she’s hit at least four different homes already. ”
We. As if the Facebook group was a faction of special agents working the case.
“Anyway,” Caroline said, “we need to be careful. There’s a rumor that the woman escaped. She’s a fugitive.” Her eyes, framed by clumpy mascara, went large.
“Wow,” said Nicole. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“It just feels so violating, doesn’t it?
This part of the country has always been safe—until the past few years, anyway.
I heard the county sheriff’s up for reelection.
” Caroline’s tone dripped with disapproval, and she shook her head so hard that her hoop earrings shivered.
“If I was eligible to vote up here, you better believe I’d pick the other guy.
Can you give everything an extra-good cleaning today?
I can’t get the thought of that filthy squatter out of my head. ”
“Of course,” said Nicole, watching her afternoon drift away like a leaf on the river. “Whatever you need, Caroline.”