The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense (3 page)

three

jolene

Jolene Brozek sat at
the kitchen table after school Wednesday, the
Colorado Springs Gazette-Telegraph
spread in front of her, a pile of
Romeo and Juliet
essays to be graded at her elbow. Clove and baked ham perfumed the air. She’d decided to make a special dinner as a sort of celebration of her father-in-law’s awakening. It would please Zach. The delicious smells competed with the less savory odors coming from the bird cage near the sliding glass doors. The canary hopped from a perch to his water dish and tried a brief trill, apparently unperturbed by a cage that was a week overdue, at least, for cleaning. Jolene wrinkled her nose, but couldn’t seem to make herself move or even summon Rachel, whose chore it was.

Her right hand rested lightly on the article, the one detailing her father-in-law’s virtually unheard-of return from minimal consciousness—doctor-speak for a coma—to full consciousness. Neurologists were flying in from around the country to study him, and the media was full of comparisons to an Arkansas man who’d awakened from a coma after nineteen years of being cared for by his parents.
Zach and his sister had spent time with their father yesterday, and Zach had come home praising the Lord that he recognized them and had said a few words, although his speech and memory were garbled. Jolene was supposed to go with Zach when he visited tomorrow and the thought made saliva pool in her mouth. She swallowed. She knew in her bones that Pastor Matt’s awakening would cause many more problems than his death would have.

A
thud-thud-thud
down the stairs warned of her daughter’s approach. She drew in a deep breath and held it, resolving not to lose her temper again. A quick prayer gave her some hope of success. Looking up from the paper, she waited for Rachel to appear, to mention how long she’d be studying with friends, and maybe give her a kiss goodbye. Fat chance. The slap of a sandal on the small foyer’s oak floor and the creak of the front door told Jolene that Rachel was hoping to sneak out unobserved. Never a good sign.

“Honey?” Jolene said. “Clean Waldo’s cage before you leave, please.”

The sound of the storm door opening pulled Jolene to her feet and sent her toward the front hall where she caught the heavy door before it closed. Snow still lurked in the shadowy spots beneath trees and shrubs, and it was brisk at almost three-thirty, despite the sunshine. Jolene shivered. “Rachel Mercy Brozek. Stop right there.”

Reluctance in every line of her slim body, Rachel halted halfway down the stone walkway and turned to face Jolene. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Cage. Now.” Jolene kept a tight rein on her temper. She’d tried to work on her anger during Lent, but since Easter had struggled more than ever, as if she had forty days of pent-up anger to release. She worried it might all come bursting forth at once, steam spewing from a geyser, and scald whoever was standing nearby. She counted slowly to three before saying in a gentler voice, “And make sure Waldo’s got clean water.”

Rachel shouldered past her mother and stomped to the kitchen, blond ponytail bouncing. Moments later, the sound of the cage bottom rattling out of its slot with more violence than necessary told Jolene Rachel was doing as told. She spoke affectionately to Waldo, though, and the bird responded with conversational twitterings.
Jolene relaxed slightly. A fly buzzed against the glass storm door and
she wondered where he’d come from this early in a Colorado spring.
She cracked the door to shoo him out, thinking of all the other problems she’d like to solve by shooing them out the door: her daughter’s rudeness, her son’s rebellion against the Community, her sister-in-law’s annoying saintliness, her mother’s failing health, the way she felt edgy all the time.

Jolene latched the door, wondering if she should get the glass cleaner and give the panes a swipe, when she spotted Zach walking up the road, coming home from the church. Jolene felt something ease inside of her at the sight of his solid figure. He’d filled out a bit since they’d married, and his dark blond hair was a bit thinner, but the creases in his face spoke of kindness and concern for his flock and family. He wore glasses now, with tortoiseshell frames that made him look scholarly. She knew he secretly liked the way he looked in his glasses, even though he complained about having to wear them. She stepped onto the stoop.

As he approached, she sensed an inner tension or excitement and bit back her complaints about Rachel’s lack of respect. They exchanged a light kiss and she asked, “Zach, what’s happened? Is it your father?”

“In a way.”

She looked a question at him, something in his voice stirring unease. “I’ll get you some iced tea.” She reached for the door, wanting to postpone whatever he was going to say.

“I’m not thirsty.” He caught her hand and tugged her back. Looking with great earnestness into her face, he massaged his earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. “It came to me while I was praying, Jolene, that we should welcome my father into our home when they release him. It made sense that Esther should care for him before, and that when she got sick he should go into the care center, because we didn’t have the room and you had all you could handle with the kids. Without a job or family, my sister was the obvious choice as caretaker. Besides, she wanted to. She might be a bit overbearing at times, but no one can deny her devotion to our father. But now, with Aaron moved out, we’ve got a spare room and you’ve got more time. Since he’s awake and will be able to eat normally, his care won’t be so difficult, and the doctors haven’t ruled out the possibility that he’ll learn to talk better and maybe even regain some mobility, with time and therapy.” Zach beamed at her.

The world tilted under Jolene and she steadied herself with a hand on the door jamb. “Here? I’m not—I can’t—” Revulsion rose in her and she wanted to shout that she wouldn’t allow that man in their house. She closed her lips over the words, knowing she couldn’t explain them to Zach. No more could she tell him she’d just begun to sight a kind of freedom on the horizon, with Aaron moved out and Rachel already taking her PSATs. She still had her students, and her wife-of-the-pastor responsibilities in the Community, but she’d begun to think about the benefits of life as an empty nester. The thought of caring for anyone new, much less her father-in-law, made her feel like someone had chained cinder blocks to her feet and tossed her into a lake. She could almost see bubbles drifting toward the surface far, far above her.

“We can’t decide something like this on the spur of the moment,” she said, trying to sound calmly rational.

“We’ll need to discuss it with Esther, of course,” Zach said, opening the door and standing aside for her to enter, “but I can’t see why she’d object. The important thing is that he be cared for by family. Praise the Lord that we have the blessings of food and shelter and love to share.” The door banged shut behind them.

“Praise the Lord,” Jolene echoed hollowly, wondering how her
husband could be oblivious to the tectonic plates shifting beneath the surface of their oh-so-placid and insufficiently-appreciated-un
til-just-this-moment lives. Why couldn’t Matthew Brozek have had the decency to die twenty-three years ago?

four

iris

It started to drizzle
shortly before Iris left Jane’s Wednesday afternoon and she biked home in a steady rain, compiling a mental list of reasons not to go back like Jane suggested. With rain and damp hair obscuring her vision, she coasted almost to a stop in front of her house before she saw the pickup parked at her curb. It was dark blue, heavy duty, with yellow script that read “Lansing Landscape” on the door. She disentangled herself from the bike, wondering if the landscaper had the wrong address. A man stepped from the cab holding up a familiar leather jacket and Iris relaxed her grip on the bicycle, which she had automatically swung in front of her.

“Greg. How did you know where I lived?” Lassie had told him, she realized.

“You forgot your jacket,” Greg said, handing it over, clearly pleased with himself. His fingers brushed hers, transmitting warmth. He looked older in the daylight. The rain made his dark blond hair curl around his face and he smiled, inviting her to share in his pleasure that he was here, that he had been attracted enough to find her.

Iris realized she was chilled. She regarded him through wet lashes. He was a ready-made distraction from her thoughts. She’d planned to bring him home last night, after all. “I need a shower and then lunch,” she finally said.

“I’m up for both.”

His confidence surprised a small laugh out of Iris. “You may make sandwiches while I shower,” she said, wheeling the bike up the sidewalk and unlocking the door. She maneuvered the bike into the small entryway and shoved it up against the wall. Tossing her wet windbreaker over the bicycle, she invited Greg to do the same with his jacket. His hip bumped hers as he draped the coat off the handlebars. His presence shrunk the hall, made it feel close, and the warm, spicy scent of him filled the cramped space.

“Kitchen’s that way,” she said, backing toward the hall that led to her bedroom. “Bread’s in the—”

Greg’s hand caught hers. She barely had time to register its size and roughness before he pulled her close. “Okay?” he whispered, hesitating just long enough to let her object if she wanted to, before locking his arms around her and kissing her with unexpected expertise. His body was solid, muscled, and she felt unusually fragile pressed against the length of him. Her head swam—low blood sugar, she told herself—so she clutched at his shoulders to steady herself.

Iris broke the kiss after long, blood-stirring minutes and drew back slightly to study Greg’s face, not sure how she felt about him taking the initiative, and knowing she should at least find out his last name, if he liked the Trailblazers, had a job or a girlfriend, or preferred Thai to Italian. But the need to silence the memories that last night’s news had aroused, to bury them in an avalanche of sensation was too strong. Her lips slightly swollen, she said, “You know this is only sex, right?”

“Whatever you say.” Kissing her again, he lifted her so her feet just cleared the floor and walked her down the hall to the open bedroom door.

An hour and a half later, after a hot shower where the water pulsing against their bodies made the sex that much more urgent, and a leisurely and surprisingly intimate round of lovemaking on the bed, Iris rolled over, naked, to face Greg. He smiled and smoothed an index finger over her eyebrow. Rain pounded steadily against the roof.

“You are not twenty-four,” she said.

He looked surprised. “No, I’m twenty-nine. What made you think I was twenty-four?”

“Lassie.” Come to think of it, he hadn’t actually said Greg was twenty-four. What kind of game was Lassie playing?

Greg laughed. “He and my sister are quite the pair. You’d think I was twelve the way they treat me sometimes.”

“What’s your last name?” That seemed like the bare minimum she ought to know about a man who’d taken her out of herself so completely she felt disoriented. She folded her fingers around the obsidian pendant at her neck to ground herself.

“Lansing. Gregory Allen Lansing.”

Remembering the script on the pickup truck, Iris asked, “You own a landscape company?”

“Yep. I’m a landscape architect. I’ve owned the business since I got out of college, and I paid back my main investors—Mom and Dad—eighteen months ago.”

Iris raised her brows but said nothing. His career explained the solid muscles, the farmer’s tan, the callused hands. There was more to Greg than she’d expected when she set out to pick him up at Lassie’s. The thought of Lassie’s reaction gave her pause. “Does … your sister know you’re here?” She winced as soon as the words left her mouth. What a stupid-ass question to ask an adult man.

“Does it matter?” Greg sounded amused.

Lassie’s friendship mattered, but he had no right to pass judgment on who she slept with. With any luck, he wouldn’t find out that she and Greg had spent a rainy afternoon together in bed. “You know I’m thirty-eight?” If he called her a “cougar,” he was out the door.

“No one would take you for a day over thirty-six,” he assured her, running his hand over her flat abdomen.

Momentarily taken aback, she slapped at his hand, and then laughed. “I guess I deserved that.”

“What made you run off last night?”

His words stopped Iris mid-laugh. The newscaster’s voice sounded in her mind, telling her that Pastor Matt had emerged from his coma.
She rolled away from Greg, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. When she sat up, the sheet slipped to her lap, and a chill mottled her arms. Reaching for the green sweatshirt bunched on the wicker rocking chair, she pulled it over her head, then stood and found her discarded panties, stepping into them unselfconsciously. “Nothing. It wasn’t about you. I didn’t feel well.”
Leave it alone
.

“Want to talk about it?”

Iris gave him a look.

“I’ll take that as a ‘not yet,’” he said, not one whit abashed. He interlaced his fingers behind his head and grinned sleepily at her, not taking the hint that he should be getting dressed.

His nose was crooked, like it had been broken, and Iris wondered if he’d been in a fight, or an accident of some kind. He needed a haircut, too. “I’m hungry, and I’ve got work to do,” she said.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Greg said, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. “I need a nap.”

Iris stared at him. He was asleep. In her bed. Strangely, his tanned torso didn’t look as alien as it should against the white of her sheets
and comforter, the willow-patterned wallpaper the landlord’s grandmother had probably chosen. It wouldn’t hurt anything if he slept here while she ate and worked in her studio.
But he’d have to leave as soon as he woke up. Her boy toys did not have spend-the-night privileges.