Chapter 14. Jade
Jade
I would have stayed out all night like an alley cat, scrounging for food and shelter, but Holly assured me there’d be no more cops. It’s hard enough running without also being chased. I came all the way here on a mission. I’m not going to abandon it now.
Once my stomach is full for the first time in ages, and we’re settled in the living room, I decide to show Holly the inscription on the back of my pendant. “I wasn’t exactly honest with you about why I picked Beauport,” I say. Holly doesn’t act like that’s breaking news.
“I found this in my parents’ dresser. I never saw my mom wear it, but it was packed away in a special box, so it must have meant something to her. I took it as a sign that I should come here. I want to find the store that sold it and see if they can tell me anything about it.”
That’s mostly true, I rationalize.
“And here, look.” I hand Holly the stone that I’ve kept in my pocket since it was broken off. “I need to get it fixed, and I’m hoping the store that sold it can also do the repair.”
Holly makes the connection. “It’s a jade.”
“Exactly. I’m guessing it was meant for me—a gift my parents were never able to give me themselves.
I don’t know—they aren’t around to ask. But it’s weird, right?
This was in their drawer, never worn. The box was faded, so I figured it wasn’t a recent purchase.
It comes from Beauport, which I’d never even heard of, and the stone has the same name as mine.
Maybe it’s nothing, but it feels meaningful. ”
Holly looks sad. “My mother died a few months ago—more like three months and seventeen days, not that I’m counting.” She offers a faint smile. “It’s not the same as what you’re going through, but I understand what it’s like to lose someone close to you.”
She hugs me. It’s a little awkward, but also … kind of nice. Hugs were a scarce commodity in my house.
Holly doesn’t know any stores that sell a necklace like mine. I head upstairs to change into the pajamas she gives me, neatly folded and smelling freshly washed.
When I come back down, Holly does a double take, like she’s seeing a ghost instead of a scrawny seventeen-year-old in pink floral jammies. They’re definitely not my style, but I don’t think they look shockingly bad on me.
“Those belonged to my sister,” she explains. “She passed away as well, but a long time ago.”
I want to know more. Was she sick? Was there an accident? But Holly doesn’t offer, and I get the sense she doesn’t want me to pry.
The next morning, Holly is down in the basement doing laundry while I sip coffee in the living room with Chester on my lap. I’m surprised to feel so at home. Last night, I slept like the dead.
Something tells me that Holly is grateful I’m around.
I’m like a remedy for loneliness, a diversion from her troubles.
I don’t know exactly what troubles she has, but she’s got them.
There’s a weightiness about her, one I can relate to.
Either way, I don’t think she’ll be kicking me onto the street anytime soon, so I can relax a little.
Holly is still downstairs in the basement, but she left the door open. I can’t help but overhear as she takes a phone call.
“Really, Dan? I can’t even afford my shampoo,” she says.
Who’s Dan? There’s a pause. “Sorry, but I like good-quality shampoo—you know, the organic kind, cruelty-free and vegan.” Another pause.
“Well, I’m fucking delighted Head and Shoulders works for you, but that’s not really my point, is it?
” Pause again, then Holly huffs in exasperation. “No, I haven’t started a thriller yet.”
I light up. I love thrillers. I imagine us turning a corner of the living room into an office. Holly types away while I edit her work. Then, voilà! We become the authors of next summer’s biggest read! Okay, she’s the author … but the point stands.
Holly trudges upstairs, laundry basket in hand, to find me with Chester, curled up in her comfy chair, reading a book I found lying around.
“I need to ask you something, Jade,” she says. Her tone is officious.
Uh-oh. “Shoot,” I say.
“Are you being honest with me? About your parents, your aunt, why you came to Beauport, all of it? I need to know the truth if you’re going to stay here.”
I take a deep breath, centering myself. I fix her with the most pointed, unwavering, convincing stare I can muster.
“I swear,” I say, my voice as steady as a steel beam. “Unfortunately, it’s all true.”
A few hours later, I head toward the boardwalk, happy it’s within walking distance. I hit the local pharmacy with a goal in mind. It’s a typical chain and not too crowded. Most shoppers are families with sick kids or beachgoers who forgot their sunscreen.
I wonder if Holly and I will enjoy a day at the beach together—that could be fun. I can count on one hand the number of beach trips I took with my parents. There’s nothing like living by the ocean, inhaling the salty air, and feeling the sea breeze in my hair. It’s a dream come true.
For a moment, I dare to believe that anything is possible.
I’ve always wanted to be a writer, and how wild is it that I’m staying with a published author?
We even shared some laughs over breakfast. No doubt, we’ve come a long way since the broomstick incident.
I was surprised how smoothly our conversation flowed.
It’s as if we’ve known each other our whole lives.
I’m so grateful she’s letting me stay with her, which is why I can’t ask for money as well.
But I have super painful cramps, and I’m in desperate need of Advil.
I could offer to work around the house for some cash, but based on the call I overheard, Holly can’t even afford quality shampoo.
Nope, I’m on my own—as usual—so I have to be resourceful.
When another cramp hits, my guilty conscience creeps into the back seat. I prepare to do what has to be done—steal.
Shoplifting isn’t exactly rocket science.
I don’t need a degree in criminal behavior to get what I want.
I just need guts, determination, and very fast fingers—all of which I have in abundance.
I give myself the usual justifications: The system is unfair to people like me.
Inflation makes it hard to afford the basics.
Corporations, like the pharmacy chain I’m stealing from, exploit workers.
They also fuel the opioid crisis and overcharge insurance companies. Sorry, not sorry.
My old therapist would label this type of thinking rationalization, but it tamps down my guilt, though not my anxiety. That’s a good thing. A little case of the jitters before breaking the law keeps you on your toes. The cocky criminals are the careless ones, and I can’t afford to make mistakes.
I march down the cold and flu aisle, trying my best not to draw attention to myself. Go figure, the dusty carpeting makes me want to sneeze. A familiar tickling overwhelms me, but I manage to stifle the urge.
I scan the aisle. The colorful medicines stand in a row like tiny obedient soldiers. On one side are the orange and green bottles of NyQuil and Delsym. On the other side, I find the blue and red bottles of Advil and Tylenol.
Rule one of shoplifting: Don’t hesitate. In one swift, seamless motion, I snag what I’m after—a box of ibuprofen, eight bucks for a fifty-count.
Even though this isn’t my first rodeo, an uneasy sensation slides down my spine. I feel like someone is watching me. But when I look around, I only see an eighty-year-old woman, and she can’t see much at all.
I slip the pills into my hoodie pocket with the deftness of a skilled magician, then check over my shoulder to ensure no one noticed. So far, so good. I’m equally confident security cameras haven’t recorded me in the act. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that someone has been watching me.
I let the thought go. Rule two kicks in like a reflex: Don’t linger.
I got what I came for. Time to disappear.
But as I make my way for the exit, the shampoo aisle catches my eye.
I know I should leave, especially with this sense of unease, but Holly has been so generous, and I’m compelled to return the favor.
The bottle will simply appear in the shower. Holly doesn’t need to know the details.
Marching down the fragrant aisle, I scout out a good-quality shampoo. I have no idea what brand she uses; all I remember is her mentioning “cruelty-free.” Of course, that means I have to look at the fine print. What the hell am I thinking?
I scan the shelves for the most expensive product that comes in a small enough bottle to fit in the waistband of my pants.
I grab one and glance at the back, pleased to see the little bunny symbol that verifies the company does not do animal testing.
Score. I slip the container under my hoodie and head toward the door.
At last, the tightness in my throat begins to ease. The stabbing fear in my chest recedes. The door is right there; daylight is streaming through it. I hold my breath as I move closer to the exit. But the anxiety returns, washing over me like a tidal wave. Something is off, I can feel it.
I quicken my pace, breaking rule number three: Don’t panic.
As soon as I pass through the screener, I hear it—an alarm so loud and repetitive that I’m sure the blaring sound reaches Holly’s cottage. Shit. The expensive shampoo. I bet it’s tagged. I start to run, hoping to make a break for it, but someone grabs the hood of my sweatshirt, pulling me back.
“What the fuck!” I yell, whirling to face a burly man whose tight grip on my hood starts strangling me.
I size him up in an instant. He’s got the red vest of an employee, and it’s tight-fitting across his stocky frame.
He’s around forty with wispy strands of dark hair and beady brown eyes that bore into me from behind a pair of silver wire-frame glasses.
He might not be a hulking monster like Gas Station Man, but he’s no pushover.
I can’t take him on without one of us ending up bloody—and most likely, it will be me.
My only hope is to talk my way out of this. “Isn’t this like … assault?” I wheeze.
He has my hoodie twisted around in front of me, so the fabric is legit constricting my windpipe. At last the clerk releases his hold. He latches his hands to his hips, puffing himself up to look more intimidating.
I stand tall in response, acting a lot braver than I feel. It’s not good that I already have a record.
“I don’t know about that. But I do know it’s illegal to take merchandise without paying for it. It’s called stealing.” He says the last word slowly, like I’m not very bright.
I glare at him with defiance and try to deny it, to defend myself, but the words catch in my throat.
“I—ah—umm…” Maybe I’m not so bright after all. My face is burning, my palms are slimy, and I seem to have forgotten the English language.
“Excuse me, is there a problem?” says a suave voice, calling me to my senses.
I look over to see a handsome older man, tall with dark, neatly styled hair.
He’s dressed nice enough for a fancy luncheon, no swim trunks and sunscreen for this guy.
He’s holding a pharmacy shopping bag and still has his wallet in his hand from paying at the counter.
“Yeah, there’s a problem,” the clerk snaps. “This punk just stole shit from the store.”
“I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. She’s with me,” the attractive stranger says with authority. “Perhaps the cashier forgot to ring up a few items? I asked her to pick up Advil and shampoo and told her I’d pay for them at the counter.”
I perk up. I knew it! Someone was watching. He saw exactly what I took.
He looks at me, his gaze conveying a clear message: Play along.
Taking out his receipt, he hands it to the manager, who examines it with care.
“You see, it does appear a couple of things were forgotten. I’ll pay for the rest before we leave.
” My nameless savior gives the man his credit card, along with a warning look.
One thing’s for sure—this guy has pull. The clerk grumbles, likely happy to receive payment but disappointed not to be playing the hero.
I silently follow this tall, dark stranger to the register. I offer no explanation as I pull the stolen items from their respective hiding places and set both on the counter.
A few moments later, I’m outside in the bright sunshine, afraid of what this guy might expect in return for his generosity. He’s going to be sorely disappointed.
“Hey, thanks,” I mumble, looking at my feet. I sneak a glance at him, and he seems clean-cut, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my travels, it’s that looks can be deceiving. “Why did you help me?” I want to know.
He shrugs. “It seemed like you needed it. Advil and shampoo aren’t exactly luxury items.” He pauses. “Are you new in town?” he asks.
Now I’m the one who shrugs. “Kind of passing through … maybe. Not sure yet.”
“Are you here with your family? Do you have a safe place to stay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m crashing with a friend. I just don’t have any money. Things have been … rough.”
“Well, I’m glad you have a friend in town.
And if you need a little work while you’re here, I might be able to help you.
” He hands me a business card. It reads: Conrad Carmichael.
The name is familiar, then it hits me: He’s a character in Holly’s book.
The card has his email and phone number in very small font, but there’s no actual business referenced, so I have no idea what kind of work he’s offering.
He notices my quizzical expression. “My mother’s health isn’t what it used to be. She often needs help with simple tasks around the house. Nothing major and no pressure. Just beats stealing and getting in trouble with the cops.”
His smile is so warm, I almost believe him.