Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
One month later
Maddie
The counselor smiles benignly.
“I’m not sure what I’m doing here,” I say.
“No?”
An antique grandfather clock ticks on the wall. A gentle rain patters at the window.
The nameplate on the desk reads F. G. Lapin, LMHC.
On the wall behind the therapist is an enormous modern-style painting of a tree filled with tiny birds in different colors.
The walls are a soothing spring green except for the one that’s covered in oak bookcases.
The oak doesn’t match the cherry wood of the clock.
It’s petty, but mismatched wood is an irrational pet peeve of mine.
Still, how am I supposed to trust a therapist who can’t be bothered to hire an interior designer? That probably makes me a snob.
Be nice, Maddie. The voice of my unflappable Southern grandmother echoes in my head.
And yet, rises in me like the steam rising from the counselor’s mug of tea. The cup says, “Inner peace loading slowly.” The mug sits on her desk, atop one of those plug-in mug warmers.
I visualize myself lashing out. Drink your Earl Grey or put it in a fucking travel mug to keep it hot, you weirdo.
Then I remember who I am. I don’t talk like that.
I am not that person. I am kind, nice, and gracious at all times.
I treat everyone with respect. If I can’t find something nice to say, I keep it to myself.
There’s no reason to lose my shit over someone’s mug warmer. Even if I do think it’s idiotic.
“I mean to say, I was referred here by my general practitioner.”
“Dr. Taylor,” the counselor says, nodding once. She has this learned, polite way about her, but she’s urging me to get on with it.
Finally, she takes a sip of her fucking tea.
I glance over at the clock. It’s one of those super old-fashioned ones that literally nobody has in their house anymore. Why on earth would a grown woman in her 30s clutter up her office with such an enormous dinosaur?
Not to mention the figurines. Gray ceramic rabbits peer down at me from atop the bookshelves. Not cute bunnies, but realistic-looking hares in black, brown, and white, and I find their stares unsettling.
“Dr. Taylor sent me here because he said I had an anxiety attack, but I don’t have those.”
The counselor glances down at my file. “That was his diagnosis.”
“That’s his opinion.”
“But you think his opinion was wrong.”
“I’m sure you’re good at your job, Dr. Lapin, but we are wasting our time here.”
She smiles. “I’m not a doctor, but thank you all the same.”
“What’s with all the rabbits?” I ask.
“My last name means rabbit,” she says quickly, then adds, “What makes you think this is a waste of time?”
I sit up straight. “You know I had to fill out about a hundred questionnaires before I came here today. You would have read in that file that I’ve never had any kind of mental illness diagnosis before. Do you think it’s a little egotistical to collect things based on your last name?”
She’s not thrown in the least at my little jab. “People give me rabbits; I could fill a museum,” she says, still unfazed, just like my grandma. “So, why don’t you tell me what you think caused you to collapse on Valentine’s Day?”
She emphasizes “Valentine’s Day,” saying it slowly, as if it means something important to my diagnosis.
The day does mean something to me. I’ve started an entire business around helping people find love, and I arranged for one of my best friends, Ari, to get together with that grumpy snowboard salesman, Foster. That worked like gangbusters.
But that’s just business. And I’m happy for my friend.
But the day doesn’t mean anything to me, personally.
“It was exhaustion, just like the emergency room doctor said,” I explain, rapidly blinking at her. That’s the look that usually gets people to back off with their nosy questions.
That doesn’t work on this lady.
“Yes, that is what the ER doctor said. But your general practitioner tells a different story. In your intake form, you wrote that you have been experiencing high blood pressure. You’ve just started a business, and you’ve been working very hard at it, I imagine.”
“Obviously,” I say with my most practiced smile.
Temper, temper.
“You smile a lot,” she says.
“Why shouldn’t I smile? Life is good.”
“You’ve had a lot of practice at pretending life is good,” she says.
I scoff. “Pretending? No. I’ve had a lot of practice smiling, period.”
“Tell me about that.”
“My grandma put me in pageants when I was young.”
“Oh?”
“You’re looking at the Dogwood Festival Queen, four years in a row. I set them up with my smile, then knocked them down with my Chopin.”
“Do you still play the piano?”
“Every day like clockwork at 6 p.m. After dinner, I open the windows and serenade all the neighbors who are out on their porches.”
“A schedule makes you happy.”
“Staying busy makes me happy,” I say without thinking.
“Tell me about staying busy,” she says.
Keep a lid on it, Maddie.
“I opened my matchmaking business about two months ago, and right away I had several applicants. I do a pretty intense work-up on all my clients. In-person interviews and everything. At the same time, the mayor asked if I would be interested in helping organize the annual Valentine Dance in exchange for some free advertising, and I couldn’t say no to that.
It was quite an undertaking. I had so many ideas.
I guess you could say I worked myself to the bone, and I let certain things go.
I was so tired that night that I was seeing things.
I saw something that wasn’t there, and then I passed out.
I was dehydrated, hungry, sleep-deprived… ”
The counselor leans forward. “What did you see that wasn’t there?”
Shit. I really said that out loud.
I don’t speak his name out loud. Not ever.
I haven’t spoken it in eleven years.
“Ewan.”
“Who is Ewan?”
“My husband.”
Ms. Lapin blinks. “But he wasn’t actually there?”
I shake my head. “No. Ewan lives in Nashville, I think.”
“So, how long have you been divorced?”
“Separated,” I say quickly.
“I’m sorry. How long have you and Ewan been separated?”
My throat goes dry, and I reach for my water bottle and take a drink. “We were never legally separated. He just left. That was about ten? Eleven years ago? We were practically babies. High school sweethearts.”
Ewan and I met after we separately had sneaked out of the house one Friday night at age 16. We were both already on punishment, but no way were we going to miss the kegger at Rowdy Fraser’s uncle’s house in the mountains.
It was instantaneous between us. He asked me to slow-dance to “Thinking Out Loud” by Ed Sheeran, and I noticed how big his shoulders were compared to most boys our age. His hands on my waist felt like my heart was opening up. I was no longer a kid after that.
I wanted to know Ewan, and we spent all night talking outside by the bonfire, buzzed on cheap beer.
That outing got me double-grounded.
From the moment we were back at school the following Monday, Ewan and I were inseparable.
Once our grounding was over, he would come over with his guitar and play along while I practiced piano or violin.
My grandma did not like him, but my dad hired him part-time at his garage.
Both Ewan and I were supposed to stay home over spring break, but Rowdy, being Rowdy, picked us up in the middle of the night without even asking. We all had a kind of sixth sense about each other back then.
“Were you wanting to see him? Was he in your thoughts at the time? Had you been speaking to him?”
I look at the counselor. “No,” I reply. “And I don’t know if I’d want to see him. I said some terrible things. And he’s been gone too long. It’s all too much to think about.”
“Too much? How?”
I snag a tissue from the box on the coffee table in front of me. In case I need it. I think I might be coming down with a cold.
“You know, when you have your first love at that age, everything feels like it means the whole world. A breakup is the end of everything. We all say things we regret.”
She nods. “And what did he say to you at that time?”
“Ewan said…”
The clock ticks. She sips her tea. The rain patters on the sill.
My heart pounds as I remember the way Ewan’s dark eyes flashed as we said our last words to each other. It was so ugly.
I might as well give the counselor the rundown.
“We were 19 and had been married a year. I could see Ewan was getting restless in our little town. We finally had a conversation, and Ewan said there were no jobs for him in Songbird Ridge and that he didn’t want to work at my daddy’s garage forever.
He wanted to make his own way in the world.
I said, so do I. I wanted to get into the artist’s guild, but it would take time.
Out of the blue, he comes home one day saying he’s going to enlist in the Army.
We argued. I said, if all you care about is getting out of this town, then you don’t care about me at all.
He went ahead and enlisted. Ewan said he would have to report for basic training in two weeks.
I said like hell I’m going to be a military wife.
I’m a North Carolina girl. And he said he could request a basic airborne course and get to Fort Bragg, or what’s now called Fort Liberty.
And I said no fucking way I’m going to Fayetteville.
He said I was acting like a princess. He said he didn’t need my permission to get a real job.
And I said, “Teaching piano is a real job.” He said I was delusional.
And then I flew into a fit of temper and told him I didn’t want to see his face again for the rest of my life. And he left.”
“And that was the fight that ended your relationship as you know it?”
I nod, dabbing the tissue at my nose. Someone should dust in here. I’m allergic. “It was on Valentine’s Day.”
“Maddie, do you think it’s possible that you didn’t see a hallucination? Is it possible that Ewan is back in town?”
“No. People would have told me. At least, I hope so.”
The counselor glances up at the clock face. It reads 11:50.
“That’s all the time we have today,” she says. She tries to get me to schedule another meeting next week, but I decline.
“Thanks so much,” I say, “But I feel better now.”
And I do feel somewhat better, having said his name aloud. Lighter.
Like I’ve worked through things, and I’m ready to put it all behind me.
As I drive home from the counselor’s office, I make a mental note to contact a lawyer tomorrow and have divorce papers drawn up. I’m sure it won’t take that much digging to find out Ewan’s exact address.
My head is feeling kind of dizzy and strange. It’s probably just being out of my comfort zone after talking to a stranger about Ewan.
Focus, Maddie.
Right. The divorce should be simple. We have no property to divide, and we haven’t seen each other in a decade, so the process should be quick and straightforward.
If I can’t afford the lawyer, I can always pawn the ring.
Weeks before our first anniversary, I’d bought a simple but real gold band that I thought Ewan would like.
I never got the chance to give it to him.
As I pull up to my rental house, I notice one thing is off.
The lights are on in the house across the street, and there’s a car parked in the driveway.
My landlord has been working on fixing that dilapidated Craftsman for months, and there have been work trucks and lots of activity there all day, every day.
It’s so loud that it was one of the reasons I rented an office to start my business instead of working from home.
As I drive past slowly, the house now looks like someone’s home.
The work trucks are gone, for one thing.
The windows are curtained. There’s a swing and potted plants on the front porch. Someone moved in, and moved in fast.
I lean against the trunk of my car and stare at the house, searching for signs of activity, but nobody comes outside.
Should I go over there and say hello? That might be a bit much.
This whole street is a lot of vacation renters, so it could be someone temporary.
Besides, my muscles feel strangely achy, and I’m suddenly so tired. And my throat is scratchy.
If I’m catching a cold, that’s all the more reason not to go over and introduce myself to a stranger.
And it’s probably just someone from Charlotte visiting the mountains for spring break.
Or they’re here for the Saint Patrick’s Night Parade tomorrow.
Yes, I said Night. It’s not the biggest parade, but our local arts guild creates incredible floats that light up downtown. We do get a lot of visitors for that.
I trudge up to my front door and stop short of putting the key into the lock.
On the mat in front of me is a small cardboard box.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I realize there’s no post office or parcel post stickers on it. Just a plain, unmarked box. I notice a chill deep in my body.
I text the group chat.
Did one of you leave me another care package?
I wait for the replies as I pick up the box.
Ari
No, maybe it was Riley. Riley?
Riley
Wasn’t me. Maybe Rowdy dropped something off.
It’s not marked. And it’s small.
Riley
Don’t open it; it may be a bomb.
Ari
Really? A bomb? Because our perfect angel Maddie has so many enemies?
Riley
LOL! She does have inside information on lots of people in town.
Ari
Maybe someone didn’t like who you matched them up with and they’re exacting their revenge.
Riley
Or maybe it’s a thank you gift.
But then they would send something to the office, not to my house. I’m very careful not to let clients know where I live.
Ari
Keep telling yourself that. Everyone knows where everyone lives in Songbird Ridge.
I turn the box over and examine it. Nothing gives a clue what might be inside.
The chill returns, down to my bones.
I can’t deal with this now. Going to lie down.
Ari
Aren’t you curious what it is?
No. If it’s not from someone I know, then I don’t care.
Riley
I appreciate this level of detachment.
Ari
Yeah, but let us know what it is when you inevitably wake up at 3 a.m. and tear it open.
Sure. Goodnight.
I’m too cranky to keep up with the group chat or deal with an unknown parcel.
I leave the package on the porch and go inside.
Whatever is in there can wait. Whoever is out there watching me, waiting for me to open it, can suffer.
If this is a game, I’m not playing along.
I’m starting to feel even sicker than I felt when I thought I saw Ewan that night about a month ago.