CHAPTER FIVE
W hen I arrived at the station that morning, I reviewed the overnight reports and briefs from the previous day. There was nothing of grave concern. A few recent incidents needed immediate attention, so I assigned those in priority order with my officers. I spent the rest of the day patrolling the town, approving reports, and—thinking about Amelia. Yeah, that was a new one.
My job was to ensure law and order was maintained in Magnolia, and to make sure people felt safe in the community. I maintained a positive relationship between the police department and the community for both visitors and residents. I wasn’t entirely sure which category Amelia fell into, but I considered her a temporary resident, for now at least. I told myself that was the only reason I felt obliged to help her.
I spent a few hours in the afternoon helping the locals prepare for the most anticipated community event in Magnolia Springs—the summer festival. The event was a yearly celebration involving live music, local food vendors, and traditional carnival games, such as duck pond, and my personal favourite, the bean bag toss.
The giant striped inflatable bouncy castle brought back fond memories of my dad launching me through the arched opening like he was participating in a game of shot put. He did that until I turned eleven; that was the summer I finally filled out my scrawny frame, a diet consisting of fried chicken, pecan pie, and ice cream saw me gain twenty-five pounds in rapid fashion.
This year I managed to encourage the department to go head-to-head with our high school football team in a friendly game of tug-of-war. It was either that or a sack race, and we fancied our chances with the rope, although, the majority of the seniors looked like middle-aged men with the body mass of long-standing gym enthusiasts.
Since I was a child, Cooper had been responsible for the fireworks display. It served as the perfect end to a wonderful event. Judging by the secrecy when I saw him at the diner, he was desperate to top his previous displays.
On my way home I pulled up outside the Thrift Hub. It was the only thrift store in town. It was owned by my best friend Brittany. Her store housed a wide selection of second-hand items. Racks upon shelves of clothing, accessories, books, and household trinkets filled the space.
The clothing section was the main attraction in town, and that’s where I found Brittany buried amongst a new delivery. When I arrived, Brittany stood tall and beamed her enigmatic smile. She had luscious blonde hair, freckled cheeks, and a unique sense of style that explained the blue floral print bustier she was wearing.
“I’m glad you’re here...hold on...” She rummaged to the bottom of the colourful mountain of clothing.
It wasn’t uncommon to stumble upon a hidden gem or two in a thrift store, but you had to have the knack for it. My patience when it came to shopping wore out pretty quickly. Luckily, I had Brittany to take the pressure off .
“I had a delivery this morning, and you would look so good in these.” She stretched out a pair of beige cargo pants.
“They look like my work uniform.” I laughed.
“No, they don’t. These are cool. That—” She threw her hand up and down in reference to the trousers I was wearing. “Not so much.”
I gasped. “I’m offended.”
“You’re having these whether you like them or not. They’re your size, and I think they’ll make your butt look great.”
It was no use arguing, she slung them over my shoulder before I had the chance to refuse.
“Anything else my butt will look good in?” I eyed her pile.
“No, but—” Brittany held up a pair of worn-out cowboy boots.
“Absolutely not,” I refused.
“These are vintage! Do you know how much a pair like these will set you back?”
“No, and I don’t care to find out because I’m never wearing cowboy boots.”
“These are subtle.” She shoved the black and white patent sole stompers into my hands.
“Nope.” I threw them to one side. A customer casually shopping the vintage record section found our exchange amusing.
As well as smaller household accessories, Brittany’s store had a range of furniture from antique dressers to vintage lamps. She didn’t focus too much of her time and energy on the larger household items, but she was open to expanding when necessary .
“I came by to see if you’d like first pick on the Baker house. Amelia is happy for you to take anything she doesn’t want,” I said casually.
“Who’s Amelia?” Brittany mumbled with her head buried inside a sack of clothes.
“Mrs. Baker’s granddaughter?”
“You’re saying that like I know what you’re talking about.” She laughed.
“I told you, didn’t I?”
Brittany shook her head, adamant.
Or did I tell Katherine?
“I went to investigate the disturbance at the Baker house. She came for a BBQ. I showed her the coffee shop and helped her clear some things out of the house. We found some letters and had dinner at Cooper’s,” I reeled off.
“Back up a second.” Brittany dropped a handful of clothes from one pile to the next. It looked like organised chaos. “Why are you on date four and I’m only just hearing about it?”
“There’s been no dates,” I clarified.
“Dinner is a date.” She held up one finger. “I’m not sure what subsection clearing out a house falls under, but if there’s laughter and volunteered manual labour, it’s a date.” Two fingers.
“It’s not like that.”
“Cooper’s is definitely a date.”
“Technically, the clearing of the house and Cooper’s were on the same day; so it’s not two dates.” I smirked, then realised. “In fact, it’s not even one date. Stop making me say date.”
“You seem a little flustered. Did the dates not go well?” Brittany smirked.
“I hate you. ”
“No, you don’t. However, I know it’s an unpopular subject, but I think you should date.”
“Have you been speaking to my mom?” I rolled my eyes and plonked myself on the rickety wooden stool by the cash register.
“No,” Brittany mumbled.
“You’re lying,” I challenged. Brittany had two clear tells, and they hadn’t changed since high school. Her body stiffened, and she subconsciously touched her face.
“Okay, yes. She called into the shop yesterday looking very specifically for a paisley halter neck top, and we got to talking. What else do I talk to my best friend’s mom about other than my best friend. She’s very convincing you know.”
“Yes, I’m aware. That’s why she’s so good at selling real estate.”
It wasn’t a lie; she could showcase the unique features of a collapsed shed. She once sold a neglected three-bedroom home that required renovation totalling a sum higher than the asking price, how? She was a talented storyteller. She somehow weaved the most convincing narrative based on one key selling point—It didn’t have neighbours within a one-mile radius. Now, personally, I saw that as more of a concern, but there was a reason I was a police officer and not working in real estate.
“You collapse under pressure when it comes to my mom.”
“That’s because she’s like a majestic lioness. She’s formidable and assertive and a force to be reckoned with, and she’s attractive, which means I sweat profusely when she pressures me.”
“Do you have a crush on my mom, Brit?” I teased.
“Doesn’t everyone?” She shrugged .
“First my dad, now my mom. Is Katherine next?”
“If she was willing to engage in a sexually expressive authentic encounter, then maybe.”
“A what?” I laughed.
Her light-blue eyes glared at me from behind the tall shelving unit that housed the “new in” footwear. Brittany was confident, independent, sexually liberated, and proudly bi-sexual. She enjoyed exploring her sexuality whilst dating multiple partners. She essentially had the dating history of Samantha Jones from the TV series Sex and the City . However, in recent months her no-strings-attached approach to dating had complications. A recent statistic had made her less optimistic: only 3–5 per cent of women identified as bi-sexual. In her words, “The selection pool was becoming exclusive”.
“Do you know that 10 per cent of women aged between 18–44 have had oral sex with a woman?” Brittany smirked.
“I didn’t know that, and I don’t want to think about my sister having oral sex with anyone, thanks.” I felt instantly nauseas. “Where do you pull these statistics from?” I asked.
“Old magazine articles at Barb’s.”
It made sense; once a month Brittany went for her hair trimming, and once a month she became an advocate for all things bi-sexual.
“Barb is probably the most homophobic, but thinks she’s not homophobic, person in town.”
“I know.” Brittany chuckled. “That’s what makes it even more amusing. She has no idea that someone keeps leaving magazines with LGBTQ+ content. You know she has a book corner, right? Someone left a copy of Tipping the Velvet . I couldn’t stop laughing. ”
Barbara Hagan was the resident hairdresser in Magnolia. She was in her late sixties, so her daughters had slowly started to take over running of the shop, but Barbara still had her regulars. She was pleasant enough to be around, but she was ignorant in her views.
“That is funny.” I could picture her face when she discovered the historical lesbian book.
The persistent vibration in my pocket demanded my attention. I expected to see my mom’s face appear on the screen, but with a glance at the caller ID I was surprised to see Amelia’s name.
“Hey, I’m sorry to bother you,” Amelia said. The urgency in her voice cut through the store’s chaotic background noise.
“It’s okay. Is everything alright?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s just, I think I’ve found something, and I’d really like your help trying to figure it out.” My mindset switched from concern to curiosity.
“Okay.”
“Do you think you could come over?” Amelia asked.
“Sure,” I agreed. “I just need to help my mom with a few things first, if that’s okay?”
“Of course, sorry, I know you’re probably busy, and it isn’t your problem. I just don’t have anyone else who understands it, and—”
I interrupted her rambling. “Amelia, it’s fine. I’ll be there.”
“Thank you.”
I ended the call and pocketed my phone. I wasn’t at all sure what to expect, but the more of the story we unravelled, the more invested I became.
I waited for the sarcastic comment from Brittany.
She smirked. “Date number five already?”
“Not a date.” I rolled my eyes .
“Okay, if you say so. Anyway, I think it’s a great idea that you’re dating someone new. I didn’t like...” Brittany paused.
“Kaylee?”
“That’s the one. I didn’t like her. She was too...” Brittany attempted to find the least insulting words. “Dramatic and clingy.”
“She wasn’t that bad.”
“Do you not remember your BBQ last summer?”
“Okay, fair point.”
Kaylee was a sweet girl. I liked her enough to date her for a month, which with my dating history was the equivalent of being married with children. When she’d insisted on asking each of my friends if she was “good enough” for me followed by three hours of impacting the dynamic with her need for validation and compliment fishing, she created one of the most awkward and stifling atmospheres I had ever been witness to. The performance was Oscar worthy.
“What time will you be at the festival tomorrow?” Brittany asked. It was a swift change in subject; she knew how to read my mood, and I could feel myself getting agitated the more my love life became the topic of conversation.
“I offered to work in the morning, so I’ll be patrolling from around ten.” It wasn’t originally my weekend to work, but I figured I could be at the event early, somewhat enjoy myself, and still keep an element of safety and security in the community.
“You really should take a break from Lieutenant Wilson and maybe just be Riley once in a while. Oh my God, we should go on vacation. How about the Bahamas? Or Miami! We love Miami!” She adjusted the shirt on her newly dressed mannequin, casually placed a backpack over its shoulder for effect, then removed it and replaced it with a festival-type fanny pack.
“We do love Miami,” I agreed. We’d spent spring break in Miami for three consecutive years. The music festivals and the beach parties made for an energetic nightlife. “We were younger then, a little irresponsible, and not afraid to drink our body weight in Jamaican rum punch.” I couldn’t drink rum, pineapple, or orange juice for three years after our last trip.
“We can do a civilised Miami trip. A little less beach party and a little more champagne and caviar at the Four Seasons.” Brittany grinned.
“I’m a police officer, Britt, not secret service.”
“It can’t be that expensive,” she challenged.
“I will let you figure that one out. Call me later?”
Brittany nodded. “Sure, sure.”
I barely made it to the door when she called out, “Yeah, the Four Seasons is off the cards.”
When I pulled up at the house, the porch looked more inviting than it had a few days earlier. Amelia had displayed a new hanging basket, cleaned up the swinging bench, and swept down the rickety wooden steps. Ideally, she needed a carpenter to replace the rotting wood, but for now it looked less Texas Chainsaw Massacre , and more Fresh Prince of Bel-Air .
The door was slightly ajar. I entered the living room to the right. The windows were still covered in faded newspaper and draped in faded velvet curtains. Dust particles floated in the rays of sunlight that filtered through the gaps. The scent of polish from Amelia’s first attempt at resurrecting the furniture hit me, followed by the smell of aged books. There were four boxes piled high in the doorway next to a large dismantled bookcase, the victim.
The vintage paintings that filled the walls a few days earlier, now leant against the mahogany fireplace. The shadows on the walls were the only trace of where each frame once hung. As I approached, the creaking floorboards gave away my presence. Amelia looked up from her cross-legged position in the middle of the worn Persian rug. Her eyes met mine, and a warm smile greeted me.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hey, is everything okay? You sounded concerned on the phone.”
She patted at the space to her left. “Come, sit. I want to show you something.”
The room was dimly lit, and she was engrossed in a rectangular shaped photo album. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she carefully examined each photo.
“I found about twelve albums and boxes full of old photos. I have no idea who half of the people are. There are handwritten descriptions on some. I started to categorise the photos for ease.”
Her fingers delicately traced the faded faces of the album in her hands. She had different piles laid out in front of her.
“This is the black and white pile. I assume from the age of the photos that these are family members I’ve never met. I don’t recognise them.”
She handed me a small brown album, no bigger than a piece of A4 paper. “This seems to be the most recent album. I recognise pictures of my mom, and there’s a couple of me as a baby. My dad is in this one.” She walked me through each page. “And my grandpa here.”
Each image held a story. Amelia’s mom had such enthusiasm in front of the camera. Her dad was more reserved. Mrs. Baker’s late husband had an infectious smile, and I found myself captivated by these people I’d never even met.
“This is sweet,” I referenced a photo of Amelia’s mom hugging her father from behind.
“She loved my grandpa more than anything,” Amelia admitted.
“But not her mom?” I questioned.
Amelia shrugged. “I don’t know what happened between them, but she’s always spoken so highly of my grandpa, not so much my grandmother.”
She reached for a smaller pile. The photos were in colour, but they looked to be the most dated. They were creased and torn at the edges.
“I came across quite a few younger photos of my grandma. I wouldn’t have known it was her if this photo didn’t state so.” Amelia pointed towards the inscription on the back; it read: Me, summer 61.
“She was pretty,” I observed.
In the photo Mrs. Baker had a sleek mod bob, thick, arched eyebrows, and full lips painted in a vibrant shade of pink.
“She was beautiful.” Amelia handed me the photos. “Look through them. Do you notice anything?”
The photos were all from around the same time period, give or take five years. Apart from one photo, a more recent one, Mrs. Baker looked to be in her sixties. She looked as I remembered her, with silver hair and wrinkled eyes full of wisdom.
“I’m not sure. ”
“Look at the people in the photo with her,” Amelia prompted.
The photos all had one thing in common. Mrs. Baker was never alone. One woman featured in all the photos; she had voluminous blonde hair often adorned with a vibrant headband. She had soft feminine facial features with a big radiant smile.
“Who’s this woman?” I asked.
The woman always stood to the left of Mrs. Baker, her body leaned in gently, creating an intimate gesture that wouldn’t be obvious from just one photo.
“I wasn’t sure, until—” Amelia circled back to the newest photo of Mrs. Baker in her sixties.
“Is that the same woman?” I asked.
Amelia nodded.
“How do you know?”
“This is where it gets interesting.” Amelia turned the photo over to reveal a short caption in the bottom left corner.
You always made me smile - Frances.
“Frances is a woman,” I said in disbelief. Amelia maintained a composed demeanour.
“It all makes sense now, the inscription at the cafe, the letters, the photos. She was gay,” Amelia concluded, her tone measured.
“Or just in love with one woman,” I pointed out.
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Amelia raised her eyebrow.
I sniggered.
“What?”
“I don’t think things are always that simple.”
“So, you don’t think she was gay?” Amelia asked.
I shrugged. It wasn’t for me to assume. “I think you don’t have to be ‘gay’ to fall in love with a woman. ”
Amelia hesitated. “I guess not.”
I stole a glance her way, her forehead creased with confusion. “What is it?”
“I just wish I knew more. Did she always love her? How did it start? Or end? Or did it ever really end? Does Frances know my grandma passed away? Did my grandma have regrets? Does my mom know?”
I placed my hand gently on her arm. “We can figure those things out, if you want.”
“You’d do that? You’d help me find out the truth?”
“Sure,” I said softly.
We examined the remaining photos together, hoping to find a solid lead. Amelia’s fingers gently brushed against mine as she handed me each individual photo. There was a delicate tension in the air that made me hold my breath. Amelia’s body seemed to gravitate towards me; every time she reached across to take another photo she lingered. Our faces were inches apart now.
“What do you think that says?” Amelia said gently, turning my attention to the flip side of a different photo.
“I’m not sure.” I squinted. The letters were written with too many loops and curls to fully decipher.
“The last part looks like, my heart. ”
“ You are my heart? ” I suggested.
Amelia pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh my God, it does say that.” Her eyes glazed over. “Why is this making me so emotional?”
I placed a comforting hand on her arm, and the room seemed to shrink around us.
“It’s a lot to take in,” I said.
My attention shifted from the faded photographs to focus on Amelia. We were so close. The weight of what we had just uncovered and what we were yet to understand hung in the air like a thick fog. I felt the pull; my body wanted to lean in. The silence in the room became deafening, broken only by the soft hum of the portable air conditioning unit. Amelia shifted her weight closer. Our fingers held on to the same image; neither one of us dared to break eye contact. Amelia’s emotions escaped through her eyes. They mirrored my own feelings of apprehension, which was followed by a longing I was afraid to admit. I was rooted in place. Her fingers started to tremble as I tried to impossibly steady my own heartbeat.
And so, we sat there, locked in silence for what felt like a lifetime. I hesitated to move closer, and Amelia didn’t pull back. It was a fragile balance.
“I should go,” I whispered.
Amelia straightened up, her grip slipping from the image in my hands as though she’d been awakened from a trance. Her movements were quick and purposeful.
“Oh, do you have to leave?” she asked, a hint of disappointment in her tone. Her eyes avoided mine.
“I need to help a few of the locals set up for the festival tomorrow.” It was a poor excuse. It wasn’t factually inaccurate but the timing was.
“Will you be at the festival tomorrow?” I asked.
“Will you?” she countered.
“Yes, all day,” I confirmed.
“Off duty or on duty?”
“Both.”
“Okay, maybe I can catch you when you’re off duty, and we can discuss our findings over a drink?” Amelia suggested.
“Sure, I’d like that.”
As I made my way to the door, I felt a pang of regret. Amelia stood rooted in place and said nothing. I closed the door behind me and sighed. I could’ve kissed her. In that moment it would’ve made logical sense to kiss her. But, with age came experience, and with experience came this heightened awareness of my own feelings—that I did not ask for—I was more logical than I used to be. I understood what was expected of me when I partook in a one-night stand. I understood what was required when the three-date rule came into play, and I had to pull back as I so often did.
What I didn’t anticipate was this feeling, the flutter in my stomach, the shallow breath in my chest, the sigh of relief that basically said, you got away this time but be prepared .
I wasn’t used to that feeling.
That feeling was scary.