True Blend (27 page)

“I see you’re asking two hundred. Would you take one?”

“Well. It
is
a Valentino knock-off. How about one-fifty?”

“One twenty-five, cash?”

“Deal.”

She turns to Celia behind her. “Cee, did you want to look at those wicker chairs?”

“No. Actually Grace and I are going to browse for a minute. I’m going to treat her to something.” She reaches down and takes Grace’s hand. “We’ll meet you outside.”

When they walk out a little while later, Grace is holding up a doll for Amy to see. “It’s wearing a tulle wedding gown, just like your brides,” Celia says. “I think it’s an old cake-topper. She spotted it in a curio case and I bought it for her. And this is for you.” She pulls a necklace from a brown bag. “If anyone needs a wish right now, you do. So maybe you can wish on this star.”

Amy takes the sterling necklace from her, touching the oval camphor stone set in an ornate silver setting, a silver star set in the stone. Her eyes tear as she looks up at Celia.

“It’s from the 1900s. So I’m thinking it’s got lots of good wish juju.” She winks at Amy and takes Grace’s hand again. “Now how about we stop at Whole Latte Life for a coffee, and an ice cream for Miss Grace here. And I want to hear about that g-u-n, like you promised.”

“Ice cream for three, Cee.” She presses her forehead with the back of her hand. “It’s way too hot for coffee.”

*  *  *

“What?” Amy asks, smiling uncomfortably. She’d gone from talking about lace wedding gowns to whispering about black semiautomatic weapons, all in ten minutes time.

“You look the same, that’s all. And yet there’s this change,” Celia says over her hot fudge sundae. “Your thinking’s different.”

“It has to be now.” Amy leans close. “I had my first defensive handgun lesson today.”

“No way. When I called, Sara Beth said she was watching Grace while you were at therapy.”

“Yup.” She turns to Grace and wipes a dribble of chocolate ice cream from her chin. “That’s my therapy.”

“You know, some people shop for therapy, Amy.”

Amy looks over at the door when a woman walks in, that same brunette with denim shorts, tank top and brown leather sandals. “Well Cee, if anyone thinks about coming into my home again … Let’s just say this therapy prepares me. Forewarned is forearmed, remember?” She nods in the direction of the brunette standing at the take-out counter. “Every time I turn around, I see her,” she whispers. “Is she following us?”

Celia glances over at the woman. “I think you just have an overactive imagination right now. Addison’s a small town. I’ve bumped into people too, shopping, going out to eat. It happens.”

So is every stranger a threat now? Will every familiar face put her on edge like this? Once she’s back home and Grace is in bed, she locks the deadbolts on the doors and heads to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. First, though, she checks her email on the laptop, so glad to see one from George. It’s brief and a little mysterious, saying only that he hopes she enjoys listening to her favorite radio station tonight. “What are you up to?” she whispers before putting on the stereo softly and finding the lite station. How many times has he teased her that she is a hopeless romantic, listening to the sappy songs dedicated to lovelorn hearts? Then he serenades her with a line or two from an old standard.

“Join me in bringing friends and lovers together tonight, taking your requests on the love line.” The disc jockey’s voice pours forth like smooth syrup, his silken words tying the songs together with declarations of romance and sweet nothings. Amy listens as she brings her tea and laptop into the living room. The DJ tells someone named Sal that Laura misses him terribly and will be home soon, then plays
What a Wonderful World
. She wonders about Laura. Is she nearby? At work? Or far away on a trip, emailing her request to the local station. No matter what happens, love is always in the air. That’s why she listens to this station, she told George. Through any tragedy, any distance, the airwaves shimmer with it.

A breeze drifts in through the open windows and the day’s summer heat lingers into the evening. Amy searches online for Jackie Kennedy’s Onassis-wedding dress. She wants to design a placard to place next to it in the shop, giving her brides a sense of history with the gown.

“Pick up the phone and join the love line that stretches from here to there, bringing hearts and lovers together.” Crickets chirp lazy in the heat, and in the glimpse of night sky visible through the window, it’s easy to imagine a crisscrossing network of love reaching across the skies, stars glimmering at each connection. “Lovers like George and Amy.”

She spins around, staring at the small stereo on the bookcase.

“Amy, George is sending a special message. He wants to let you know that he finally got it right. He’s certain of it. He loves you and is missing you tonight, Amy.”

Lyrics about finding the right someone, the only one who thrills, wind through the quiet room then, the brush sweeping across the drum, the piano light, the tempo slow. And it’s as though George is there, telling her
It Had to Be You
. She pictures him sitting alone in his office catching up on paperwork, paying bills, his hands moving over the calculator. The meat cutting equipment beyond gleams after his routine wash-down. Only his brass lamp throws a circle of illumination on his cluttered desk as he bends over his work, the computer screen before him.

And he tuned to her radio station, to her lovesick program. He had picked up the telephone in his hushed office and talked to the DJ about her. His black apron hangs on a wall hook, his white shirtsleeves are turned back and he needs a shave at this late hour. She imagines the rough feel of his face, imagines pressing her fingers against it and George taking her hand in his and kissing it. And his voice, his voice. Quiet. She walks to the window open to the distant cornfields and the vast summer night sky above. And somehow, in the still heat, through the song lyrics, she hears his voice, too.

Twenty-three

GEORGE LOOKS IN THE MIRROR and his father looks back at him. He stands tall, his dark hair neatly combed. There is more heft to his carriage than to George’s. Maybe it comes with age. Gray creeps into his hair at the temples. The image appears more tired than George remembers his father looking. Did he do this to him? Did worry age him? His father stares back with familiar eyes. But is it really his father, or do the shadows of the room deceive him?

“Dad?” George asks.

The reflection looks down and adjusts crisp white shirt cuffs before slipping into a tailored black suit jacket and shrugging the shoulders perfectly into place. Lastly, he slips on the ring, ruby set in gold. Then his eyes lift and meet George’s. There is disappointment in them, but it softens with the connection.

“You raised the bet,” the reflection says.

“What?” George misses that voice and aches to hear more. To have his father back.

“You told her you love her. She’s a good girl, George. I’m proud of you.” His brow furrows. “But how will you protect her now? You raised the bet.”

“What bet?” George drags his hand across his eyes, rubbing away the uncertainty of the conversation. Is it really his father or is he only seeing features in his own face reminding him of the man? He touches his hair and watches the mirror carefully.

“You’re forcing the stalker’s hand. He moves with you. When you’re idle, he is. When you make a move, he does. Telling her you love her is a big move. Just be careful, son.”

George looks from his father’s ruby ring up to the white shirt and black jacket before looking down at his own white work shirt and black trousers. His mind has to be playing tricks on him. Isn’t it him in the mirror?

“I had to tell her. I love her and don’t want to lose her. But she doesn’t know what I did.” When his gaze returns to his face, Nate brushes tile dust off his hands while keeping an eye on George. “Nate?” George shakes his head.

“Don’t you see? You’re the one putting her at risk. You’re putting everyone at risk, including yourself. And now Dad’s upset. I was trying to look out for you now that he’s gone. You know, to keep the family together. You and me. Like always. Why the hell’d you let it get this far with her?”

“Get this far?”

“In the game. Your hand’s not strong enough. You’re looking at a bad beat.” He deals George five quick cards.

George catches the cards in his hand, noticing the ruby ring on his own pinky now. The stone glimmers like a small pool of fresh blood. “I’ve got to protect my hand, Nate. I’ve got to protect Amy. You dragged her into this mess and I swore I’d get her out. I never meant to fall in love with her.”

“You should’ve folded. He’ll raise you, you know,” Nate says from behind the cards fanned in front of his face. “That stalker.”

Perspiration beads on George’s forehead. “He’s bluffing. I’ll snap him off.”

“I don’t know if you’ve got it in you, brother.”

“What do you mean?” George tugs on his white shirt cuffs the same way his father did. He tucks the shirt neatly into his black trousers.

“It’s your image, you know?” George hears a familiar noise. Nate has released the safety on a forty-five. When George looks up, hosiery presses against his brother’s face. Or is it his own, his nose pulled to the side beneath the hosiery strain, his skin flattened abnormally, his eyes slits. “It’s all about image.”

George looks away.

“You’ve got to dress the part, George,” his father says, and so Nate is gone now. Darkness embraces him and he shifts his shoulders in the space closing in. Velvet drapes hang beside him. Finally, after a long silence, he raises his eyes.

“Clothes make the man.” Father Rossi looks closely at him from behind his black shirt and white clerical collar. “In God’s abundant love, He does forgive. Though you must not only seek His pardon, but His likeness as well.”

Perspiration covers his body. The priest’s words from confession come to him often now; suggestions of compassion and truth always skirt his thoughts. Amy needs to know that truth. He pulls his shirttails from his trousers and unbuttons the shirt. The fabric is soaked through and his lungs drag in air.

“You let me down, George,” he hears his own father say. “You were such a good kid. I thought you’d keep Nathan in line. He always liked to play games. Still does.” George’s eyes refuse to open. The shame of the past weeks humiliates him in his father’s eyes. “How’d you ever get involved in that scheme of his? Fix it, George. You should’ve
stopped
him. I would never put your mother in that situation. Do right by Amy. You can’t live like this. It’ll destroy you.”

“But what is right?” George asks.

“Maybe it will help to seek absolution,” the priest answers quietly.

“Tell her, George,” his father adds.

“If you really want her safe, George, break up with her,” Nate says. “Then the threat’s gone.”

The voices grow louder with each sentence running into the next.
Call or raise the bet. Clothes make the man, but it’s still about character. Seek absolution. You let me down, George.Seek the Father’s likeness.Character counts.George.Play your hand.Tell her
.

George extends his arms and tries to back out of their web. A new voice fights for his attention. It is a voice he respects as much as he dreads. “Your prints will be keeping company with the best. Though I’m sure the trail has been wiped clean,” Detective Hayes says. “You’re sweating, George.” He twists out of his white shirt, careful to keep the inky pads of his fingerprinted fingers from touching the fabric.
You’re sweating, George.George.George
.

The alarm clock on the bedside table sounds loudly. He reaches over to silence it and falls back on the mattress, catching his breath.

“Jesus Christ. Leave me alone. All of you.” He swings his arm over his eyes and tries to get back to sleep. Once he came home from the shop last night, he had poured himself a drink, called Amy, and at three in the morning looked at the clock again over a second glass of Scotch. Maybe the liquor brought on the dreams. Or maybe he needs to eat something. But when he thinks about everything the dreams alluded to, his stomach turns on it all.

That’s what his life has come to. Drinking alone on an empty stomach, exhausted and afraid for Amy and her daughter. He’ll see Nate today at the summer poker barbecue. It’s time for answers. Reid or Elliott has to be behind the stalking threats. Maybe he can buy them off through Nate. He’ll dump half the cash in their laps if it’ll secure any guarantees.

Still, something is wrong. He sits up, feeling the weight of the air pressing against his damp skin. But the air is too warm. And it is moving, puffing the curtain slightly. He slides his legs out of bed, walks to the window and holds his open palm over the radiator. Someone turned on the heat.

*  *  *

The lace on her vintage gowns brings back sweet memories. Amy stands on her back step, sets down a basket of clothespins and thinks of her grandmother, of her hands tatting lace, of the art of the old country. As she clips a frilled chiffon wedding dress from the 1980s to the clothesline and wheels it out into the sun, she wonders if her grandmother ever missed her home. If she flashbacked to Europe the way Amy flashbacks to the bank parking lot. Were her grandmother’s memories vivid flashes of rolling farmland and blue sky? After passing through Ellis Island, when she looked out her New York tenement window onto another brick building and dingy clothing and sheets hanging from a maze of rope strung between the buildings, did the old country flicker in her eyes? Maybe that’s why Amy loves her farmhouse and her life in Addison. She looks out on what her ancestor had once seen and loved and left behind across the sea. Open land and clear sky.

There is a noise behind her and it becomes, just like that, a shoe sliding across pavement. A footstep. And so her training kicks in with a long, slow breath filling her abdomen before exhaling to ward off the flashback. Then she turns to see Grace in the doorway, watching her hang the gowns to get the wrinkles out and freshen them in the sun.