16
Westport, Connecticut
I watch from the window as Olivia and Acacia wander along the shoreline.
It’s one of Olivia’s favorite things to do.
Tossing pebbles into the water, checking out the tiny life-forms that emerge when disturbed.
She loves seeing the crustaceans that occasionally appear on the surface.
Small snails and clams that wash up. It’s a world of wonder for a child her age.
She suddenly leaps from one foot to the other, her ponytail bouncing, and then she performs a classic pirouette before taking a bow. Acacia claps.
My child so loves to dance.
If only this moment could go on forever. Could be exactly what it appears. But nothing around this moment—around me, except Olivia—is what it seems. As for lasting, the past won’t allow it.
Today you’re a ballerina, he announces.
The words echo through me as the memory roars into my mind like a train bursting from a dark tunnel.
I . . . I don’t understand. Every part of me is nearly paralyzed with fear.
Put on the tutu and the shoes and dance for me, he orders.
I reach for the tutu and drag it on. I’m completely naked except for the layers off tulle and netting that form a ring around my hips. Then I slip on the ballet shoes. My whole body trembles in fear as I stand before him waiting for his next command.
Now, he says, close your eyes and dance. Twirl around the stage and imagine the spotlight follows your every move.
I swallow at the lump of terror in my throat and pinch my eyes closed. I search my brain for a memory of what ballerinas do. Then I move. Stretching and turning . . . praying that my performance will be satisfactory.
I know what happens if I displease him . . . and I don’t want to be punished.
Unshed tears burn my eyes while I dance as if my life depends on it.
Because it does . . .
I force away the unsettling memories. Deep breath. And another. Stay in the present, I remind myself as I check the time. It’s half past two. I’m anxious to move forward with the next step. It’s time. I’ve learned to trust my instincts, and I feel the urge to act prodding me.
I open the door and wave. The two trudge toward the house. Olivia will be ready for a snack, which works for what I need to do next.
“You won’t believe the fish I saw!” Olivia rushes to me. “It was big! And it had an orange belly! I tried to catch it, but it was way too fast!”
This explains her wet pants legs. “Wow,” I say. “Was it a monster?”
“A small monster,” she agrees, moving her head up and down firmly.
“It was a larger than average bluegill.” Acacia tugs at Olivia’s ponytail. “There are lots of them. No need to worry about those.”
Olivia makes a put-upon face. “That makes the story boring.”
I laugh. “It does actually,” I agree. “Olivia, change your pants, and we’ll take a little road trip.”
Her eyes light up. “Where’re we going?”
“For one thing, we’re going to Sunny Daes for ice cream.” The ice cream shop is not far from Balducci’s.
Olivia dashes off. The child loves ice cream.
“Should we take the convertible?” Acacia combs her fingers through her wind-tousled hair. Her cropped sweater and jeans make her look even younger, like a teenager almost.
I wonder briefly what made her the way she is at such a young age, then I blink away the thought.
“Actually, that’s a good idea. There are a few of my haunts from back in the day I want to check out for old times’ sake.”
The convertible is an eighteen-year-old mint condition BMW 6 Series. Black with black interior. Luxurious and sporty.
“Sounds fun.” Her smile is overdone.
I turn away and climb the stairs. No thanks to her, my energy level is better this afternoon. In my room I pick through the array of scarves in the storage bench at the foot of the bed. Lots and lots of scarves and gloves. Leftovers from past decades.
As I make my selections, I shiver at the memory of another time and place when I gathered several scarves for an outing. I shake off the piece of my past I’d just as soon forget and go back downstairs.
The pink is Olivia’s pick. I knew it would be. I tie it around her long, thick ponytail. She doesn’t really need a scarf, but she would feel left out otherwise. “There. You look very pretty.”
I give the red one to Acacia and use the green one myself. The task of tying my hair back isn’t easy considering the lingering stiffness in my right shoulder, but I manage.
We load up in the convertible. “You can drop me at Balducci’s, then take Olivia for ice cream. I’ll join you after I finish at the market.”
Acacia sends a suspicious gaze my way. “We can wait for you.”
“The walk will do me good.” Part of my therapy is to keep my body moving, so it’s a reasonable excuse.
As long as we’re not spotted by any lurking reporters.
The guard waves to us as we wait for the gate to open and pass through. Thankfully there are no reporters. I suspect they’re all following Phillip’s every move and antagonizing our neighbors or visiting the centers where I’ve volunteered.
As long as they aren’t here, I’m happy.
I lean back and enjoy the sun and wind as we make our way into town. Summer will arrive before we know it. The part-time residents and tourists will take over the streets. Barbecues in backyards, concerts at the pavilion, and fireworks on the beach. Crowds and traffic. Thank God for delivery.
At the supermarket I wave to Olivia as Acacia drives the short distance to Sunny Daes, then I go inside.
The store is forever busy even with just the year-round residents.
I walk straight toward the manager’s office, ignoring at least one shopper who stops and stares at me as if I’m the devil himself.
I stare back at her, tempted to stick out my tongue.
Instead, I continue on, hoping the manager on duty is Mr. Smith.
He’s older, the fatherly type who always chats with Olivia.
I see him near the produce section, so I change course and join him just as the misters turn on to irrigate the lettuce.
“Julia!” His smile slips into a frown. “Where’s Olivia?” He glances around. “She didn’t come with you today?”
“She’s having ice cream at Sunny Daes. I have some questions for you, if you have a moment.”
“Of course.” Worry tracks across his face. “Is everything all right? Should we go to my office?”
I glance around. There’s no one else in the immediate area. “This is fine.” I opt not to answer the other question. “There was a delivery to my house this week. A dark-haired young man was the delivery person.”
“Gil,” he offers with a smile. “He just finished his second year at NYU. This is his first summer with us.” His smile wanes. “Was there a problem with your delivery? Helen didn’t mention any issue.”
So Rick told the truth about the guy’s identity. “No, no problem. I just wanted to ask him if he might be interested in a couple of small jobs I have.” I make this up on the fly. I hope he doesn’t ask for additional details.
“Well, sure. Follow me.”
While we stroll toward the “employees only” door I say, “Rick Howard may have already spoken to him. He mentioned he might drop by.” Rick and the manager know each other. Most of the year-round residents are acquainted.
Mr. Smith shakes his head. “I haven’t seen Rick this week at all. I thought he might be in the city. He goes frequently. I think he’s doing some consulting work with the bureau.”
“He hasn’t gotten back to me, so I assume he hasn’t had the time.”
So Rick lied. Unless he spoke directly to this Gil, the former agent lied to me.
Why am I not surprised?
Men will lie when the truth would serve them better.
I learned that the hard way.
Everyone lies. Sometimes we even lie to ourselves—never a good thing.
“Gil!” Mr. Smith holds the door for me and simultaneously shouts over my head.
“Sir?”
Gil stops moving boxes to a stocking cart and turns to his boss. He’s young. Twenty, maybe. Dark hair and a deep tan. He wears a Balducci apron over his tee and jeans. Helen was right, he is handsome.
“This is Mrs. . . . Excuse me,” Mr. Smith apologizes, “Dr. Belmont. She would like to speak with you about some help she needs.” The manager turns to me. “Take your time. I’ll get back out to the produce department. I’m shorthanded today.”
When the door swings closed behind him, I turn to Gil and offer my hand. Obviously surprised by the gesture, he awkwardly gives mine a shake.
“Actually,” I say as he moves the next box, “what I really need is a plumber and a reasonably capable carpenter.” He definitely doesn’t strike me as a young man with either of those skills considering his clean, manicured nails and soft, smooth skin.
His expression falls. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know the first thing about plumbing or carpentry.”
I nod. “I hope Mr. Howard didn’t already ask you about my needs.”
Confusion clouds his face now. “I’m not sure who you mean.”
“Rick Howard, retired FBI agent? He was going to speak with you for me. But since I had to come by, I thought I would go ahead and check in with you myself.”
“No, ma’am, I’m afraid I don’t know him.”
“Is there another dark-haired delivery guy who works for Balducci’s?”
“Not to my knowledge. There are two other guys and one woman. No one with dark hair like mine.”
“So it was you who delivered to my house earlier in the week.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Ms. Riggs placed and received the order.”
“Did you notice anyone else at the house while you were there?” Dread is creeping into my chest. This is not going where I hoped, no matter that I figured this was where we would end up.
Rick lied to me. It’s one thing to suspect as much but another entirely to have it confirmed.
“I didn’t, but there was an SUV there—besides the one Ms. Riggs drives, I mean. She shops for a lot of the part-time residents, so she’s a frequent customer here.”
My heart sinks. Apparently Helen lied as well.
“What kind of SUV?” I tell myself it could have been an actual plumber or electrician, or just someone helping with the opening of the house. But I have a sneaking suspicion that is not the case. Especially since Helen never mentioned any other type of service. I remind myself to breathe.
“Gray or silver. Ford Escape or something like that. I just glanced at it. Maybe an Explorer.”
“Did you notice the license plate?”
“I did. New York.”
“But you didn’t see anyone besides Helen?”
He shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”
“Thanks, Gil.”
I call Helen before I exit the market—it goes to her voicemail, so I leave a message. As difficult as it is to keep my voice calm, I do. Then I trek down the sidewalk in my stiff gait toward the ice cream shop. Luckily no reporters descend upon me.
It’s more than plausible, I realize, that Helen had help that day or even a friend with her for perfectly logical reasons.
But she should have told me when I questioned her.
Since she did not, that could mean she is hiding something.
Whether that something is relevant or significant in any way is yet to be seen.
Damn. And I was so sure I could trust her completely.
How foolish of me. I have never met anyone in my life that I could trust completely. Why do I always choose to believe that will change?
At the ice cream shop, I’m just in time to have a small vanilla cone myself.
Acacia has that look on her face that says she has questions.
We’ll talk later. Right now I just need to clear my head.
Maybe what I have in mind is not the best way to prompt reactions, but it is something I feel compelled to do.
“Our first drive-by is my old school,” I announce as we climb into the car. The seats are warm but not nearly as hot as they would be if it was summer already.
For the next hour we cruise around town.
The school, the Starbucks, and then the little in-town house still surrounded by a picket fence.
The yard isn’t so cluttered anymore. The paint is a different color and isn’t peeling.
According to current property records—which I accessed online—a young couple now lives there.
Memories flow like a movie trailer before I can stop them.
The sound of laughter echoes in my head.
We stare at our reflection in the mirror. We’re really fucking hot.
Yes, we are. Very hot.
I blink the memories away. It’s never smart to stay too long in the past you want to forget.
“Where to next?” Acacia glances at me.
Pulling myself away from the memory, I turn to check on Olivia, who is fast asleep, a smudge of chocolate on her cheek. “Let’s go to Norwalk.” I look ahead. “I’ll give you the directions when we get there.” Norwalk isn’t that far, and there’s time to change my mind about our actual destination.
But I probably won’t.
The little house on Newfield Street doesn’t look the same. It was a rental twenty years ago. Not your typical rental now judging by the neatly manicured lawn. New siding and roof. Expertly designed landscape.
The only thing I know about the place with any measure of certainty is that Casey Duval no longer lives there.
“Where to now?”
I turn, and for a moment, instead of Acacia, I see her. I hear her laughter. Smell her perfume. Feel the excitement . . .
I’m thinking how absolutely awesome we are and how we need to do something equally awesome.
“Julia?”
I blink away the flash from the past and focus in on Acacia. “Where do you want to go now?” she asks, her narrowed gaze scrutinizing me.
“Let’s go home. I want to have a look around outside and maybe in the woods before dark.”
Acacia doesn’t question me and I’m glad. I can’t explain how I know what I need to do.
I just know.