False Impressions (14 page)

April imagined how frightened J.B. must have been, to abandon his sister and his pregnant niece.

“I told him he could stay at my house until he got back on his feet. But I fell in love with him instead. We decided he could start over.”

She looked April square in the face, as if daring her to deny that they’d made a good attempt at a new life. “He lived here as Jimmy Johnston, one of the fake identities he had used to buy meds. He got a job at the local lumberyard and went to AA every day. Eventually, he told me his real name and about his family.”

She stopped; her words seemed to have run out. She’d wrung her paper cup into an unrecognizable sculpture.

“It’s not true that his family loved him,” Tina said. “His sister hated him. Even before the house blew up, she’d told him she never wanted to see him again. He was already dead to her.”

“She’d cut J.B. out of her life, away from her precious daughter.
He sat here and cried that he couldn’t see Kit.”

“But he
was
in touch with her.”

Tina’s head snapped up. Her eyes, rimmed with tears, flashed. “He was not!”

April nodded. She was sorry she’d said anything. There was only so much this poor woman could take. “He came to her house last night.“

“To his sister’s?” Tina asked. “He told me Kit lived at home.” Her hand cradled her stomach, the touchstone. She was going to need all the strength she could muster to care for her baby now.

“No, to the new place. They’re fixing it up to move into.”

Tina’s eyes became unfocused as she tried to take in what she was hearing. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.” April decided she’d said enough and told Tina good-bye. She gave her her phone number and left the woman sitting at the table, feet propped up on another chair, lost in thought.

Tina said her name. April looked back as she got to the doorway. Tina had one last request.

“Let me know when the funeral services are. I want to be there.”

April drove home, her mind spinning with what she’d learned. J.B. had been living as Jimmy Johnston with Tina Adama. He’d fathered a child with her. He’d fashioned a good life with her. A life of sobriety, a life where he was contributing to society. Perhaps for the first time in his life.

Too bad he picked the wrong time to return home.

 

Coming off Route 309 back into the valley, April realized she
was close to one of the houses on the list of Mary Lou’s foreclosures. She grabbed the sheet that was still lying on the seat next to her, along with the key to the lockbox. April saw the turn for the road up ahead and glanced at the clock. Not quite noon. Deana wasn’t expecting her yet. She’d drive by and see what it was like.

Five minutes later, she was on a road that boasted a minicommunity. She couldn’t see why it had sprung up in the particular spot on the road. Some developer’s idea of an idyllic homestead, perhaps. More likely, cheap land.

The houses were all the same Cape Cod design, with two dormer windows. The one that Mary Lou owned was painted a royal blue. April walked up the front path, which was bare. Someone—Logan—had kept the snow and ice at bay. Salt crystals were underfoot.

She opened the front door and was pleasantly surprised to find the house smelled like air freshener. She’d expected it to be stale and musty. It was empty, and the windows couldn’t have been opened in months.

She walked quickly, taking in the fake wood paneling and faux brick around the fireplace. The living room and dining room were in the front, and a kitchen stretched across the back end of the house. It had a nice breakfast nook with built-in shelves with a scalloped edge. She opened a cupboard and was surprised to find a mismatched set of plastic dinnerware. She opened more doors. There were pots and pans. The pantry held a box of coffee filters and garbage bags.

Upstairs, there were two bedrooms. The second one she looked in had a pile of clothing in the corner, as if someone had been planning to take unwanted items to the Salvation Army but had never quite made it. She’d have to tell Logan about it. It looked tacky.

This was an okay house, but nothing that really spoke to her.

Back in the car, she looked over the list of foreclosures again. There was one more on her way back. She made several turns, taking her to a part of town she hadn’t been to in a long time.

She slowed, trying to find the next house that matched the picture. She wasn’t sure if the tiny house dwarfed by the twenty-foot yews next to the front door was the one. She pulled into the first driveway that was cleared of snow.

The house was set far off the road. Spotting the river beyond, she understood. This was an old-time summer recreation spot, developed after World War II. Up the road a mile or so was a swimming hole her parents had used as kids. Before the lure of the Jersey Shore, Disney World and the Outer Banks, residents of Lynwood and Aldenville would spend their summers in cottages like this one.

As she got closer, the front of the house came into full view. It was cute, with gingerbread-scalloped eaves and clamshell shingles. Most likely about eight hundred square feet. Enough for one person.

April parked near the carport. She walked past the house into the backyard as far as the shoveled walkway led. The property ended at the riverbank. Summer was a long way away, but still she could picture a couple of Adirondack chairs facing the swiftly moving water. That view would provide her and Mitch a lot of entertainment.

April went back to the front door and let herself in. The house was one story, with a large sitting room, an eat-in kitchen and two bedrooms. Most of the appliances were old, but the wooden floors had been sanded and the rooms were a generous size. Ceilings were high. The house needed some loving attention, a fresh coat of paint and some grout cleaning, but the bare bones were good.

The back of the house contained its best feature—a sun-porch with windows overlooking the sloping back lawn. A weeping willow, now bare, would fill the view in the spring.

April could picture herself working there. Her drafting desk, which she missed desperately, would fit right under the windowsill.

The view out the icy windows held her captive. The landscape was stark and unforgiving. The unbroken snow in the backyard had been furrowed by the wind into something resembling the pictures taken by the Mars Rover. It was impossible to tell how deep it was, but she could imagine falling into snow up to her waist if she walked on it. The river was churning with icy chunks.

Her mind drifted. She’d gone to Mountain Top to get answers for Kit and Mary Lou. She’d come back with information she didn’t know what to do with. J.B. had been living quite comfortably just twenty or so miles away. He had a girlfriend. A new life. He was going to be a father.

How would Mary Lou take this?

She must have been more lost in thought than she realized, because suddenly she heard heavy footsteps on the wooden front porch. Her heart rate zoomed. She hadn’t heard a car pull up. Her back was to the kitchen. She turned. The door opened.

She was frozen, all too aware of the isolated location. The lack of neighbors suddenly felt scary, not desirable. She saw a long black boot first.

“Miss Buchert,” the voice said. “I recognized your car. Do you need some help?”

Officer Yost.

“I was doing just fine until you scared the bejesus out of me,” she said angrily, coming through to the living room. Yost’s boots were leaving puddles on the hardwood floor.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I keep an eye on Mrs. Rosen’s properties for her. There’s a real danger of squatters, you know. It’s cold outside, and not everyone has a nice big place to live in like you.”

“Knock next time,” she said. He always knew more about her life than she wanted him to. How did he find her all the way out here?

He looked around the house. “You thinking about moving?” he said.

April was noncommittal. “I’m looking for a friend.”

“Well, if your ‘friend’ wants a nicer place, Mrs. Rosen has a great one out on South Road.” His air quotes were accompanied by a big grin.

“Thanks, I’ll tell her.”

April moved past him and went out the door. He followed, and she locked the lockbox.

“See you around,” he said, getting back into his car.

“Hope not,” April said under her breath.

Her cell phone rang as she was getting in her car. It was Charlotte. Yost waved as he backed down the drive. April didn’t bother to return the gesture. She answered her phone, careful not to drive away and violate the hands-free law.

“I’m sorry, April, dear, but I wondered if you’d be home soon.” Charlotte’s voice was soft and wispy.

April tried to gauge Charlotte’s tone. She didn’t sound desperate, just tentative. “I wasn’t planning on it. I have to go into the funeral home and help Deana soon.”

“Oh.”

April knew that phrase. It meant something like “Oh shit,” but Charlotte never cursed. She must need something. She never liked to bother April, holding April’s workday sacrosanct.

“Do you want me to go to the store?” April prompted. “Are you out of milk?”

“We don’t drink milk, April,” Charlotte said.

She knew that. “It’s just an expression.”

“Oh. It’s just that Dr. Wysocki’s office called. He has a new prescription for Grizz. You know, for his snoring. We’ll go to his office and get it ourselves.”

“You will not!” April yelled. She moderated her tone. The idea of those two driving gave her the heebie-jeebies. And any cure for Grizz’s snoring helped them all. “His office is right on my way home. No problem.”

“Thanks, dear.”

April hung up. Having these two living with her was like a full-time job. She reminded herself that she too would be old one day, and hoped that someone would take care of her. She considered this paying into a fund she’d collect from eventually.

Dr. Wysocki had to be close to retirement age. He’d seemed old when April had visited their house as a kid. Violet was his only child from his second marriage. The scandal that had erupted when he’d married his young nurse seemed of another era, but everyone in town knew there were two Mrs. Wysockis and fought to avoid the awkwardness that could ensue if the two were in the same beauty salon or restaurant at the same time. Even now, nearly thirty-five years later, it was well known that Violet’s mother did most of her shopping out of town.

Their Victorian on Main Street, painted authentically with forest green and maroon and cream trim, served as both clinic and home. The doctor’s office was accessible by a side door off the wide driveway.

She let herself into the small waiting room. The air smelled astringent with overtones of unknown medicines. Despite that, she felt enveloped in a security blanket. Dr. Wysocki’s way was gentle and warm. On many visits, one touch of his hand on her forehead or one kind question was all it had taken for her to feel better.

The room’s gray carpet, salmon walls, mismatched chairs and end tables were so familiar she caught herself thinking about what flavor Tootsie Pop she’d pick on the way out.

There was no one behind the sliding window of the reception desk. The office behind the window looked deserted. The desktop was clear. Nothing in the inbox. No patient files waiting to be put back. April called out, “Dr. Wysocki?”

“In here,” was the answer. April walked through the door into a short hallway. He was in a small exam room, washing his hands at the tiny sink.

He was a tall, slender man, stooped now as he rinsed. His hair was sparser than she’d remembered, white tufts sprouting in patches out of a scalp freckled with age spots. He had on a faded white lab coat and brown, wide-wale corduroys and Hush Puppies. Except for the lack of patients, it could have been a regular day at the office.

Dr. Wysocki smiled when he saw April. He reached for paper towels from a dispenser hung under the wall cabinet above the sink and dried his hands. Once finished, he put out a hand. She stepped forward to shake, but he pulled her into a hug.

“You look well, Ms. Buchert. Very well, indeed.”

April broke off, feeling herself smile. She felt her blood pressure lower, her heart rate slow, her sore muscles relax. At the same time, she chided herself to eat better and vowed to start jogging.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“The Campbells asked me to stop by,” she said. “Some kind of . . . ?” She blanked on what Charlotte had sent her for.

He led her back to the front, picking up a bottle at the receptionist’s desk. It was marked “Sample, Do Not Sell.”

He said, “Don’t tell the drug rep I don’t have many patients anymore. The Campbells and a few others don’t want to have to find a new physician. I still get a few freebies and am happy to pass them on. This stuff is expensive.”

Dr. Wysocki handed her the bottle. This close, April could see the fatigue. The skin under his eyes was dark, bruised and painful looking. She wondered if he’d retired because of his age or his health.