56. Jessica
September, Present Day
Maple Ridge
I checkmy phone for what must be the twentieth time in the past ten hours. Still no text from Troy. A cloud drifts over the sun, throwing me into shadow, cooling the temperature on my patio.
Why would he want to text you? You. Dumped. Him.
He left two days ago to convince Mason Dell to play in the festival with his old band. I haven’t heard if Troy was successful. I only know he hasn’t returned to Maple Ridge.
The festival is in twenty-two days. The organizers haven’t yet posted on the website that Pushing Limits had to cancel.
Bailey grows restless, a sign I need to take a break from my writing.
I’m still reeling from the news Iris wasn’t Anne’s great-aunt. She was her grandmother—and Anne wouldn’t have existed if Iris and Johann hadn’t fallen in love and if Iris hadn’t gotten pregnant. If she had survived the war without knowing and loving Johann, she might have eventually married someone else and had his child, but Anne wouldn’t have existed.
And this new life of mine that Anne and Troy helped make possible…it wouldn’t have happened. Who knows where I would’ve ended up after I was released from prison? It wouldn’t have been Maple Ridge. I didn’t know the town existed until Anne offered Iris’s home for me to stay in while I recovered.
I would still be the same broken woman I was when I left prison. I wouldn’t be the woman who is seeing a therapist and pursuing a new purpose in life.
Heck, if Johann hadn’t risked his life to rescue Angelique after she was arrested, the Gestapo or whatever prison camp she was shipped to would’ve more than likely killed her. Lizzie wouldn’t have existed—and neither would Anne. Johann gave up his plan to save his mother and sister in order to protect the woman he loved and their unborn child.
And indirectly, Johann also saved me.
I wipe at the new tears that are falling because of everything Iris lost. Hazel. Johann. Getting to hear Lizzie call her Mummy instead of Auntie. “How about we go for a walk and work on your training?” I ask Bailey, needing to clear my mind.
She scrambles to her feet, indicating she’s all for the idea. The walk part of it, anyway.
I take my laptop and reference books inside the house and make a move to leave them on the kitchen table, but the edge of my computer catches on a chair, jarring the pile in my arms. One of the books slips off and falls to the floor. A piece of paper flutters down next to it.
I put the pile on the table and pick up the fallen book and scrap of paper. I turn the paper over and discover a Morse-coded message. Troy must have hidden the note in the book, but I hadn’t seen it until now.
I should just toss it away and pretend I never found the message. I should. But instead, I straighten and spend the next few moments decoding the dots and dashes.
You are the sexiest writer I know.
I bite my lower lip, keeping back a giggle, but I’m unable to stop the unexpected grin from stretching across my face.
And then I remember my new reality, and my heart crumples. I release a rough sigh.
I still don’t throw the paper away. I return it to the book, unwilling to get rid of the message just yet.
I grab Bailey’s leash and pop the straw hat on my head. Between that and the new hairstyle and color, I don’t, at first glance, resemble the woman who moved to town five months ago. But there’s not much I can do about the prominent scar on my face—the one thing that gives away my identity.
Bailey and I walk to the off-leash park. The neighborhood street is busy with kids playing hopscotch, chasing each other, biking, and enjoying the last days of freedom before school starts next week.
The weird prickling on the nape of my neck from the other day returns. I look over my shoulder, but nothing seems out of place. No one appears to be paying attention to me.
I pick up my pace and walk the several blocks to the park. The off-leash area is busier than I would like, with a dozen or so dog owners playing with their four-legged friends.
I find a quiet area where Bailey is less likely to get distracted and reverse away from her, her training leash slack with the length I’ve unwound. “Stay.” I keep moving backward.
A dog from somewhere on the other side of the field barks. Bailey’s head twitches to the side but she stays put. Her full attention returns to me.
“Good girl!”
We spend twenty minutes training and head home, walking across the grass where dogs need to be on a leash. Bailey trots by my side, not pulling or lunging—just being the perfect service dog in training.
A woman sitting on a picnic blanket watches her three young children kicking a soccer ball on the grass in front of her. She laughs and her gaze falls in my direction. Her eyes narrow, but I’m not sure why. Because she recognizes me and is another member of the I hate Savannah club?
I glance down at the grass, hoping it’s enough to keep her from noticing the scar—if she hasn’t already seen it.
She rises to her feet and stalks toward me. I jerk my head up in time to catch her face pinch into a frown.
She stops a few feet in front of me, blocking my path. “How dare you come here, Savannah!” The growl in her tone, like that of a high-strung Chihuahua whose bone has been swiped, startles me. My heart clambers into my throat.
Bailey presses her body against my leg, sensing like she always does the growing tension in my muscles. Sensing my fear of mean words chosen to destroy what I’ve been repairing and rebuilding.
“We don’t want your sort here,” the woman blusters on. The soccer ball rolls to the side of the picnic blanket, forgotten as her kids watch on with interest. Listening. Learning that bullying is okay. “I can’t believe the mayor even let you into this town. I won’t be voting for her during the next election.” The woman’s chest puffs with each poison-filled word.
“That’s enough, Meg,” Lance says, jogging over to us. His tone is firm, his frown unyielding. “The school teaches children it’s not okay to bully others. You’re setting a bad example for your kids.”
“I’m not bullying!”
Bailey whimpers from the heat in the woman’s voice. Or maybe it was me who whimpered.
Lance stops in front of me, a bulwark against her hatred. “You and I clearly have different definitions for bullying.”
“He’s right,” another woman’s voice calls out.
I turn my head to see who else has witnessed the latest round of Let’s Stone the Ex-Con, adding fuel to the flames of shame that consume me every day.
The voice belongs to Olivia. Of course. The universe hates me that much. She’s carrying Nova in her arms. I look away, wishing I’d worn sunglasses so Olivia couldn’t see the pain in my eyes.
“Jessica wasn’t guilty of the crime she served time for, and she’s not the person you’ve made her out to be. You never even took the time to get to know her.” Olivia’s tone is that of an elementary school teacher gently reprimanding a student for talking during class.
Speechless, I stare at her, but not because she’s defending me. She didn’t bother to get to know me before she threatened to keep Nova from Troy if I joined him and her daughter for their together time.
Thinking about Troy is a laceration across the heart. I put my hand over it as if that will ease the pain.
Walk away and keep your head up. Don’t let them see how much you hurt.
I hurry toward the street, my gaze on the grass under my feet. The weight of condemning glares from people who heard Meg yell my name presses down on me.
Olivia only defended me because I gave her the one thing she really wanted—other than Colton returning. I gave her Troy as something more than just a best friend. Once he comes home, she can start moving forward with her goal of Nova, Troy, and her being a family.
“Wait!” Olivia’s voice comes after me.
I move faster. Just let me get home before the waterworks start.
“Wait! Jess!”
I stop walking since I don’t need anyone else paying attention to me. Her yelling my name will only make things worse.
I turn to Olivia, my mouth incapable of curving into a smile. I don’t have it in me to even fake one.
“Did you hear the great news?” Her eyes are glowing.
I shake my head, having no idea what she’s talking about.
“About Pushing Limits? Troy managed to pull it off. Mason is joining the band for a reunion performance. The only reunion performance he’s planning to do with them.”
Despite the pain from my lacerated heart, I allow a small smile on my face. He did it! Troy will kick ass after all with what he set out to do with the festival. “That’s great. Thanks for telling me.” I turn to leave, my smile wilting.
“I’m sorry about what happened. With Meg,” Olivia rushes to say.
I nod and walk away, not bothering to hand her false platitudes about it being okay. It isn’t okay. I have feelings. The people who end up in prison for a crime they didn’t commit, the people forced to stay in jail because they don’t have bail money or who are given longer sentences than they deserve because of systemic racism…we all have feelings.
Our pasts might play a hand in shaping the people we become, but they aren’t the only factors.
Fortunately, Olivia gets the hint and doesn’t follow me. I really don’t want to talk to her right now.
Or ever.
Delores is working in her garden as I approach my house. “Hi, do you need a hand?” I ask one of the few people on the street who never turned on me when the truth came out.
She smiles at me, her white hair tied back under her own straw hat, and awkwardly pushes to her feet. I help her up, my arm supporting her.
She takes in my hair, and her smile widens. “It looks great. I almost didn’t recognize you. The color suits you.” Her smile fades. “I saw that article today in the newspaper…” She pauses as if unsure how to finish what she began to say.
“What article?”
“With your brother-in-law. Well, the article wasn’t all about your brother-in-law. It quoted him saying he still believes you were guilty of his brother’s murder.”
“Craig thinks I’m guilty?” Is that the real reason he and Grace don’t want me to see Amelia? They helped me start my life over but never truly believed I was innocent?
Delores’s eyes widen. “Craig? No, it was some man named Lincoln. Did the reporter get it wrong?”
Oh, that brother-in-law. “No, that was my late husband’s younger brother.” The one who wasn’t estranged from the family. He was at my trial and sat on the opposite side of the court room from where Craig was sitting.
“Sometimes it’s hard for those who’ve lost a loved one to move on and see the truth for what it is. But hopefully in time he will, and you’ll no longer be a news story he can capitalize on.” Delores pulls me in for a hug, one I’ve been so desperate for during the past few days. I return her hug, not wanting the moment to end.
I’m so tired—a tired that has nothing to do with me writing late into the night. I’m tired and I’m trying so hard not to break down in tears.
“It’s going to be okay, Jess,” Delores says, her voice a low lullaby. “I promise you, things will eventually get brighter again. But do let me know if you need anything.”
I release her and step away. “I will. Thank you. And thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
She touches my cheek. “Of course, dear. You’ve become like a granddaughter to me.”
Her words crack the dam holding back my tears, and I almost choke on a sob.
I excuse myself before she can see them, and I rush to my house.