Chapter 27 #3
“Like I always knew he would.” A serene expression settled on Thora’s face, taking years off her appearance. “He just needed to believe it himself.”
Frankie nodded. “I’m glad he has you.”
“And you, my dear.” She returned to her crossword.
Frankie sat with that while an old Sean Connery movie played mutely on the TV.
What if they hadn’t broken things off back then?
If she’d followed him to Boston like they’d planned?
Would they have stayed together? Would the alcohol still have gotten its claws into him?
Would she still be here running Starview?
Something nagged at Frankie amid those “what ifs.” Something to do with Estelle and the school and the lies, but before she could put her finger on it, Owen entered the room carrying a tray, the accompanying scent sending her thoughts in a more alimentary direction.
Oh well. How did that saying go again? The past is in your head; the future is in your hands. Maybe the point wasn’t that they’d broken up but that they were both here right now.
She picked up her knife and fork and cut into the golden bread, sending melting cheese onto the plate.
“Blow on it. It’s hot,” Owen said, handing Thora her tea.
“I don’t know that I care,” Frankie said, testing a corner on her tongue, a small moan escaping her as the savory bite lit up her taste buds.
Owen elbowed Thora gently. “Why don’t you react like that to my cooking?”
“Yes, I wonder why?” Thora deadpanned, which might have made Frankie blush again if she hadn’t been so busy chewing.
Once they’d finished eating and the movie credits were rolling, Owen helped Thora up the stairs to her room. She was walking well with a cane now, but he thought it safer if she had someone below her on the stairs. When he returned, he showed Frankie where she’d be sleeping.
“I put an extra toothbrush on the sink in the hallway, and I’ll set my alarm for three fifty so we can call right when they open.”
No, she doubted she’d still be in Aspen Creek if things had worked out differently between them in high school.
“Thank you,” she said as he lingered on her threshold. “Really.”
He glanced toward the bed. Nodded. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need. Pillows, blankets, noise maker…”
“Would you stay for a bit?” she asked, the words hanging in the air between them before she could stop them. “Just for, um, company I mean.”
He hesitated, but she held still while his gaze roamed across her features. “I can do that,” he said finally. “Left still your side of preference?”
She smiled at his nod to their motel night. “Yep.”
It should have been awkward, getting into bed with him again, but it wasn’t. They stayed on top of the covers still fully dressed, just heads on pillows facing each other.
“What are you most worried about?” he asked, knowing without her saying so that her primary reason for avoiding solitude was what was brewing on the horizon.
Frankie folded her hands underneath her cheek, wondering if she’d be able to shape the words. But when he looked at her that way, with nothing but acceptance, it wasn’t that difficult. “That I’m not hers,” she said. “That she was the abductor.”
He shook his head gently. “There’s no way, Frankie. You look just like her, except your hair is darker.” He reached out, pushing one of her strands back from her forehead. “I can see why you’d go there, but I don’t think that’s it.”
He withdrew his hand and let it rest on the mattress by his chest. It was probably not good that she wished he’d keep playing with her hair.
She sighed. “I hope you’re right. And I hope the bank can tell us who she was paying.”
“It might not have been about you at all. It could be career related—something to do with her music or the school.”
“But why were the payments on my birthday?”
“To help her remember to make them? I don’t know.”
That was a reasonable explanation, Frankie supposed, and for a while they sank into companionable silence.
She thought about all that Estelle had been to her—mother, caretaker, best friend, counselor for both support and guidance, role model, landlady, boss, business partner.
For the first time in her life, it occurred to her that their relationship had been unique in that way.
Everyone else she knew had different people filling those roles.
There was no doubt that Estelle had centered Frankie in her life and made sure she wanted for nothing, but it was also easy not to question a person like that—so easy to let the days slip by in predictable comfort.
“Why stir a pot that’s simmering nicely?” she mumbled, opening eyes that must have fluttered closed at some point.
“Are you asking me cooking questions in your sleep because of my excellent croque monsieur?” A corner of Owen’s mouth tugged up.
“Wasn’t sleeping,” Frankie said.
“Was too.” He dragged a finger gently from her forehead down between her brows and along the bridge of her nose, making her eyelids fall closed again. “And you stir because otherwise it’ll burn at the bottom, and you get nasty brown bits ruining everything.”
Wasn’t that the truth, she thought as she drifted off. Everything about her life had looked perfectly fine on the surface, but along the way, she’d forgotten to stir, and now that she was, here were those unpalatable burnt scraps floating up.
It seemed only minutes had passed when Owen shook her shoulder, rousing her from a deep, dreamless sleep.
“Frankie, it’s almost four,” he said. “You ready to make that call?”
And she was. She would stir and stir and sift away every bitter morsel until what remained was good again.