A Dangerous Affair (12 page)

Brenda cinched the belt on her robe. "How long is this going to take?"

"A few more hours. There's a lot of wood to replace."

"You're going to wake the neighbors."

Lloyd stopped sawing. "It's almost noon."

"I'm on West Coast time..."

Lloyd continued the straight cut along the red chalk line. "I couldn't find Dad's power tools."

"I sold them." Brenda scratched her head. "How long is this going to take?" she asked a second time.

"As long as it takes."

Brenda hovered near Lloyd's work space.

"Do you need something?" Lloyd asked her. "You're in the way."

Brenda stepped back and put her hand on her forehead to block the sun. "When you're done out here, I have a running toilet you can fix."

* * *

Lloyd searched the bookshelf in his father's study. Books on fly fishing and bird-watching stood spine out against a collection of Ernest Hemingway novels. On the shelf below, he found textbooks on photography, criminology, latent fingerprint analysis, and the physics of flight. At the bottom, a stack of
National Geographic
magazines formed a bookend for a hard cover series on motorcycle touring.

He found his father's desk neat and orderly the way he remembered it, with framed photographs along the edge. He picked up a five-by-seven inch image of himself and Josh posing outside the house with their arms around each others' shoulders. He thought about his high school years, sneaking beer and chasing girls. Arguing over who could take Dad's car on Friday night. Being grounded for skipping school. Mowing lawns to buy his parents a new TV for Christmas.

"Coffee's ready," Brenda announced outside her late husband's study. She handed Lloyd a steaming mug of black java.

Lloyd put the photo down and grabbed his old college football from the top bookshelf. Despite his thirst for water, he craved the taste of real coffee.

"I miss him too," said Brenda, her breath marinated with Columbian breakfast blend and Wild Turkey.

"I went by his grave yesterday," said Lloyd. His fingers touched the stitching on the worn pigskin. "It felt weird to be there."

"Are the flowers still in place? They should be. I paid extra for those."

Lloyd set the ball down. "It looked real nice. I read the note he left me."

"Your father was a strange bird. He never said what was on his mind. Always kept it bottled up like some kind of national security secret."

Lloyd sipped the coffee, black as tar with all the flavor of hot asphalt. "Did Dad ever read Jules Verne?"

"Who?"

"The author."

"What author?"

"Forget it. I was checking Dad's books and it reminded me of something." He followed Brenda to the patio, his thoughts still tied to the note his father wrote him.

Brenda sat on the end of a moldy chaise lounge. She refilled her cup from the carafe and added a splash of whiskey from her flask. "You want some?" she offered Lloyd.

"No thanks."

"This stuff'll put hair on your chest."

"I
have
hair on my chest."

* * *

Brenda sipped the warm concoction and leaned herself back in the chair. "Smartass," she mumbled. A morning buzz kept her going and helped her forget about the blood she found in her urine the night before. Over the years, she'd cared for several girls in the foster system before adopting her two boys. But of all the children she'd cared for, none perplexed her more than Lloyd and his stubbornness. He'd gone to good schools. He'd made the right friends. For the most part, he'd stayed out of trouble. Until the cops showed up to arrest him. She remembered the scene like it was yesterday. Lloyd broke the law and broke her heart. Whatever demons possessed him to throw his life away, God forgave him and so had she. "You still like my coffee?"

"It's great," said Lloyd with his best poker face.

"You're a lousy liar."

"It's fine."

"I have a friend at the supermarket who gets me the beans for free. I grind them myself at home."

Lloyd choked down another swallow. "It's strong."

"Did you have coffee in prison?"

"You could call it that," said Lloyd.

"You want hot cocoa instead? Your brother always liked the way I made it."

Lloyd nudged the rope hammock. "I saw Josh yesterday. Met his girlfriend and her baby."

"You mean the tramp? She's served more meat than Burger King. She's using Josh to support her kid. He's using her for sex." Brenda grabbed her stomach and bent over in a wrenching cough. She covered her mouth with her hand, but red saliva seeped between her fingers.

Lloyd scanned the labels on the empty prescription bottles on the patio table. "Are you okay?"

Brenda fanned him away. "I'm fine," she grunted. "If I need your help, I'll ask for it."

"You're sick."

"You think?"

"You shouldn't be in this house alone. You need to be where people can take care of you."

"I'm not dying in some piss-ass nursing home. Besides, I'm broke. Your father worked to pay the bills. My government checks don't cover much any more. If the bank doesn't take this house, the termites will."

* * *

Lloyd carried his coffee mug inside and discreetly dumped the contents in the sink. He gathered the trash and stuffed the bag in the rolling can outside. "When's trash pick-up?"

"Tuesday and Friday."

"I'll come by and take it out the night before."

"I can take care of myself," said Brenda. She sloshed coffee on her robe, her gnarled fingers clenched tight around the handle.

"I'm just trying to help."

Brenda ran cold water on a paper towel. She dabbed the coffee stain on her robe. "Before you and Josh came along, I raised four girls in this house. Can you believe that? Two families adopted, all of them before the oldest turned sixteen. Those girls were a handful, but not like you and Josh."

"You and Dad did a lot for us. Let me return the favor, at least until you get your strength back."

"Don't patronize me, Lloyd. Your father always did that. I shouldn't have to hear it from you. There's no getting better for me. My days above ground are numbered. I've come to accept that and so should you."

Chapter 15

Jamie stood barefoot on the scale inside the doctor's office and nudged the balance bar to the right. She knew without reading the hash marks she'd lost five pounds overnight. She could almost feel the weight melt away from the back of her legs where her slender thighs met her hips, the part she worked hardest to keep firm by jogging every morning after Alan left for work.

Convinced the scale was never calibrated properly, she stepped down from the base plate and sat on the crinkly white paper stretched across the doctor's examination table. An otoscope with disposable plastic ear speculums hung on the opposite wall beside a poster on lung disease that warned about the dangers of smoking.

She scooted back on the table and checked her watch. She had errands to run, a house to clean, and dinner to prepare by six. The car needed gas. The bills needed stamps. She needed chemicals for the pool and fabric softener for the washing machine. She had shirts at the dry cleaners and a basket of laundry to fold.

She kept every facet of her life on schedule, right down to the time she ventured outside for the morning paper in the driveway. Her life existed not as Jamie Blanchart but as the wife of Sheriff Alan Blanchart. She loved him for the man who once showered her with attention; who brought her flowers every weekend and worshiped the ground she walked on. But over time, her love had turned to fear. She missed her parents. She missed her friends. Most of all, she missed the Jamie Blanchart she used to know—and cringed at the woman she barely recognized.

A soft knock preceded the doctor's entrance. "Good morning," he offered Jamie as he entered the room with her patient file. A third generation dermatologist with four grandchildren and a head of silver hair, he conveyed a warm demeanor.

"Good morning," Jamie responded with her head down.

"How long has it been since your last exam?" the doctor asked.

"About a year."

The doctor reviewed her medical history. He noted the loss in weight and the elevated blood pressure readings. "So what brings you here today?"

Jamie nudged her blouse below her shoulder to expose the butterfly tattoo on her back. "I need to get this removed."

The doctor cleared his throat and sat on the rolling stool. "Go ahead and turn around. I need you to remove your shirt so I can examine the area more closely. You can leave your bra on."

Jamie lifted her blouse over her head. Faint bruising along her side marred an otherwise flawless torso.

The doctor noticed the obvious signs of physical abuse, which suggested more about Sheriff Blanchart than he cared to know, especially in a town where the law's reach extended beyond the boundaries of its own authority.

He pressed on Jamie's side to assess the condition of the bruising near her ribs. "Does this hurt?"

"A little," said Jamie, despite the intensity of the pain.

"I'd like to get an X-ray. Just to rule out any fractures."

"I'm fine. I slipped in the tub and landed funny. It looks worse than it feels."

"Has this happened before?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" the doctor challenged her.

"Positive."

"You should be more careful," the doctor cautioned. He touched the tattoo. "How long have you had this?"

"Since college."

Jamie felt cold hands on her skin. "What's your opinion on laser removal?"

"Given the size and location of your tattoo, you would be a good candidate. It's uncomfortable and usually takes several visits to obliterate the pigment. We could freeze the area instead and use a rotary abrasion instrument to remove the image."

"You mean
grind
it away?"

"It's not as harsh as it sounds. I use a local anesthetic to numb the area." He examined the butterfly wings more closely, noting the mix of colors injected under the skin. "Another option is a surgical excision to remove the image with a scalpel." He pinched the skin. "I might be able to excise the entire area in one visit."

"What about scarring?"

"There would be some scarring."

"How much?"

The doctor removed his gloves. "It depends on the individual person. It varies from patient to patient. Go ahead and put your shirt back on."

"What do you think I should do?"

"In your case, laser treatment might be the best alternative. It will take a few weeks for the skin to heal, but it's the least invasive procedure."

Jamie climbed down from the examination table. Her cell phone vibrated in her purse. "How soon can you schedule me?"

"My receptionist can set an appointment for you."

Jamie read Alan's name from the caller ID. She had two minutes to reply before Alan called again—and got angry. "I have to go."

The doctor stood in front of her for a moment. "I'd like to schedule you for an x-ray on your ribs. It shouldn't take long."

"I'm fine," said Jamie. "Really. It's just a bruise."

"Most likely, but I won't know for certain without examining the film."

"I really have to go."

"What about the next time?"

"I told you," said Jamie. "It was an accident."

"Accidents like those have a way of getting progressively worse."

Jamie reached for the door. "What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Blanchart. Nothing at all."

Chapter 16