A Keeper's Truth (13 page)

“Do you
want tea? I only have—”

“Decaf, I
know. When are you gonna give that up?”

“I came
close this morning. I’d have given a small fortune to have Abby back in school
so I could take a nap. I’ve always been prone to nightmares, but since Meyer’s
accident they’ve been brutal.” And real, too real. “I was butchered twice last
night.”

Karen
hovers in my personal space, analyzing my face. “I can see that,” she says.

Nice.

“If you
came to make me feel better, it’s not working.” I turn to fill the kettle.

“I came to
give you this.” She plops a large black garbage bag on the kitchen table.

“What the
hell is that?” I hadn’t even noticed she was carrying anything. “How did I miss
a garbage bag the size of a toddler?”

The bag is
dripping rainwater all over the table, and now that the lights are on, I spot
puddles down the hall.

“Bitch
about the mess,” Karen says, smiling. She’s a force of nature and knows it, no
apologies necessary. I grab a tea towel to collect the water while Karen
grapples with the knot at the top of the bag. “Am I great or what?” she says,
lowering the plastic.

It’s my
paper-
mache
star from the pageant.

“Oh,
Karen.” I help her shimmy the star from the bag. “Thank you. Abby will be
thrilled. I’m going to hang it in her room.” I oust the final remnants of
irritation from my voice, grateful to have Karen as a friend. “You know me so
well, huh?”

“Ah, I
shouldn’t tell you this, considering your man ban and all, but it was actually
Bryce who told me you wanted the star.” She grins, sheepish. “But I made sure
Irving took it down gently, and I recommended he put it in a bag so it wouldn’t
get wet.”

Irving is
the superintendent at Saint Ann’s.

“Such
talent,” I tease, handing Karen a mug.

I stare at
the star, confused. How did Bryce know I wanted the star? I don’t remember
saying anything to anyone about it.

“Have you
ever noticed anything weird about Bryce?” I say. “Anything at all?”

“Other
than the fact that he’s insanely gorgeous, obviously wealthy, and highly intelligent,
which is too much scrumptiousness to squeeze into one man? Not really, why?”

I peek
over my mug at Karen. She’s got that look, the look a person gets when thinking
about an attractive version of the opposite sex. A
hmm, yum,
kind of
look.

I fidget,
slightly rattled by a pang of envy.

“I never
mentioned wanting the star,” I say. “I don’t see how Bryce would know to tell
you.”

Karen
emits a low humming sound from her throat, clearly mulling over my statement.
“Maybe you mentioned it to Thomas and he told Bryce. Or maybe Bryce assumed
you’d want it, considering the work you put into making it. It is a cool star.
Did you see it glow at the pageant?”

“I don’t
recall saying anything to Thomas . . .”

Strange. I
should just come out and say,
What is so unusual about you, Bryce Waters?
How is it you know things you shouldn’t, as if you are one step ahead of me
when we chat? Why do my eyes do funny things when you are around? What is it
about you that puts me on edge and at ease at the same time?
Maybe he’ll
confess to something really wild. Maybe he’s Batman or an alien from another
planet. Maybe he was born with supernatural powers and can shoot laser beams
from those silver eyes of his. I snicker. And maybe stress has me over the
edge, short-circuiting my faculties.

“What’s so
funny?” Karen eyes me suspiciously.

It is bad
enough Karen witnessed my slip on reality at the café. I’m not about to fill
her in on my deranged thoughts regarding Bryce.

“I’m just
being superstitious and foolish,” I say, opting for a quick change in topic. I
suppose I’m hoping there is something wrong with Bryce so I don’t have to face
what’s wrong with me. “Other than delivery of my star, why are you out in this
crappy weather so late?”

Karen
answers with her hands. “I had to grab Eric from work. Alicia forgot her
allergy pills, so I had to drop them off at her girlfriend’s where she’s
staying the night. I ran out of bread for lunches, so I had to make a pit stop
at the grocery store. And of course I had to stop at the . . .”
Karen gives me a look. “Just you wait. You’ll blink and Abby will be a
teenager. You’ll see—you become taxi driver and errand boy!”

We laugh.
The woman speaks the truth and we both know it.

Suddenly
Karen is serious. “Regarding your moratorium on men. I should warn you, I ran
into Thomas this morning. He said you’re not returning his calls. I assumed
you’d had a lover’s quarrel.” I roll my eyes. “He’s considering a siege on your
barracks.” She chuckles. “Had it been anyone other than you, I’d have supported
the lunatic. I could use a juicy scandal. Unfortunately, I’m loyal to the bone.
I advised him to keep his distance or I’d make his life a living hell.”

Karen
smiles and I ooze gratitude.

“You’re
diabolical, Karen.”

Karen
shrugs. “Christmas will be hard enough this year. The last thing you need is
men fighting over you.” She is quiet for a moment, waiting for a reaction. I
stare into my empty mug. “They could fight over me if they want to,” she says,
grinning.

Laughter
erupts from my belly. Not because the idea of two men fighting over Karen is
absurd. On the contrary, she’s smart and funny with a profusion of style. I
just can’t imagine why anyone would want grown men brawling and slugging it out
around them, never mind over them.

Karen
grasps my meaning. “I guess it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, huh?”

“Not even
slightly entertaining.”

“You
should throw all these troubles to the curbside and focus on Christmas with
Abby,” says Karen, placing a hand on mine.

“That’s my
game plan.”

That and a
dog.

There is a
bias that supports accepted dogma while rejecting evidence that does not
support convention. As a result, archeological evidence proving man is far more
ancient than originally theorized has gathered dust, suppressed because it
conflicts with an entrenched belief system that refuses to consider it might be
wrong.

Forgotten
History Magazine
: Archeological Finds Baffle Scientists

T
he sun is
shining, but debris and scattered foliage divulge proof in the wake of
yesterday’s storm. In spite of the desolation, I feel pretty upbeat. Grams and
Gramps are home, their return providing something I’m desperate for. Hugs.

“What’s
happening with you and this Bryce fellow?” asks Grams.

We’re
folding laundry, and the overwhelming scent of lavender dryer sheets crams the
limited space in my laundry room.

“Happening?
Nothing is happening.”

Sharing
with Karen is bad enough. Grams will worry incessantly. And I can’t stand the
thought of giving her more to fret about. She’s got Gramps to take care of.

“You can’t
fool an old pro, Tess. I see it in your eyes. They sparkle at the mere mention
of his name.”

“You don’t
know what you’re talking about,” I say, settling for evasion.

“Guess it
was all in this old head of mine,” she says, twirling a L’Oreal Golden Brown
#36 curl around her index finger.

I can’t
get used to the color change.

“You lit
up like a lighthouse when he dropped by after Halloween.”

I toss
underwear at her head. “You’re delusional.”

“I might
be, but I haven’t heard you laugh like that in a long time.”

She’s
right. Bryce has a way of making me feel alive.

“It’s
irrelevant,” I say. Right now, I’m too confused and cross to feel anything for
him.

“Really.”

Eventually
she’ll pull the story from me, if only one aggravating detail at a time, so I
submit to a partial confession. “Bryce asked me out on a date and I said I’d
think about it.”

“Hmm,” she
mumbles.

This is
it. This is all she gives me.

“He’s
intriguing and intelligent and I like his taste in clothing,” I say, picturing
Bryce in nothing but his scarf. “Like me, he’s fascinated with art and history,
so we have lots to talk about but . . .” I don’t really know how
to complete this train of thought. Why won’t I go out with him?

Oh wait,
he’s trouble. And Thomas’s brother!

“I see.”

She’s
killing me with these one-liners.

“You see
what? Enlighten me, please, because I don’t see what you see.”

Really, I
don’t. So what she says next throws me for a loop.

“I think
you have feelings for Thomas.”

“Thomas?
What makes you think I feel anything for Thomas?”

She eyes
me suspiciously. “You’ve talked about him quite a bit lately, and spent a lot
of time together at the church and such. I thought you might have found
something more than friendship.”

Her words
flicker a bulb in my head. This is why I’m so angry with Thomas. We were
friends, good friends on the verge of discovering something more. I’d finally
opened my mind to the possibility of a relationship after Meyer, and that I
could someday, maybe, create a family for Abby. Thomas made me think I had a
chance at happiness again. But now . . . now that’s gone. I
can’t trust him. He threw our relationship, our closeness, in Bryce’s
face . . . and over brotherly competition. I was a game, a
calculation, a prize to be won, and Thomas thought he could bully Bryce out of
the equation.

“That time
has passed,” I say, bitterness rolling from my tongue. “Thomas and I are
friends, if that, but nothing more.”

Grams
leans close, inspecting, evaluating. “If he hurt you, I’ll—”

“Relax,
Grams. Thomas would never hurt me.”

Even
knowing Thomas struck Bryce, I don’t believe he’d ever physically hurt me.

“Then why
are you so upset?”

I take a
deep breath. So much for a partial confession.

“Thomas
told me his family live in Europe and he seldom speaks with them. He failed to
mention his brother lives down the street. And that his brother, Sofia’s uncle,
is Bryce Waters.”

The
silence is deafening.

“Bryce,”
Grams finally murmurs.

“Before
Bryce came into the picture, Thomas hadn’t shown the slightest bit of interest
in me. He never let me peek at who he really was, and he never suggested a
physical connection. Not until Bryce did. Then he put his game face on, giving
just enough to lure me into thinking he could be trusted. He wanted to win
something over Bryce. But that’s all I am, a trophy.”

“Brothers,”
Grams repeats, evidently as disturbed with the concept as I am. “Where is
Bryce’s responsibility in all this?”

Good
question. Bryce didn’t tell me Thomas was his brother either. He mentioned he
had a niece he was close to, and that he’d moved to Carlisle to be close to
family, but not that his family included Thomas and Sofia. Was that
intentional?

“I don’t
think Bryce knew that Thomas and I were close. Not before the fall fair,
anyway. And Thomas, Thomas wanted me because Bryce did.” I take shallow breaths,
lost in my own statement. “I’m not ready for all this Grams.”

Grams
steps close, inviting me to fall into her embrace, which is exactly what I do.
There is nothing I need more at this moment than a hug.

“I was
looking forward to watching you find love again,” she says. “Unfortunately,
love doesn’t always come wrapped in pretty paper. Sometimes it’s wrapped in
garbage.”

“I’m done
thinking about it,” I say, resting my forehead on her shoulder. Her sweater
smells like mothballs. “I need to focus on getting Abby through Christmas.”

She rubs
my back with both hands. “Yes, Abby needs you to be strong.”

“Speaking
of Abby,” I say, deciding to spill the details of my plan. “I could use your
help with something . . .”

Hours
later, Abby
is curled on her great grandpa’s lap watching an
episode of Franklin, and pots and pans are banging in the kitchen—Grams
preparing dinner. I take the opportunity to creep out the back door and slide
my sneaky rear behind the wheel, tossing my purse onto the passenger seat where
it normally lands with a thump but today smacks into place, knocking a small
red box to the floor. I fetch the box. It’s wrapped in crimson foil paper, a
thick satin ribbon of the same color tied in a dainty bow. Where did this come
from? I turn the box and notice a miniature card that simply reads,
Tess
.

Am I
supposed to open it now or save it for Christmas morning? Curiosity consumes me
and I claw the paper with vigor.

Inside,
wrapped in tissue, rests a glass bauble on an elegant gold ribbon. I gently lift
it from the box and hold it to the light, illuminating the vibrant bubbles in
various shades of red. It’s beautiful. On the bottom is a tiny black button,
begging to be pressed.

“Merry
Christmas! We miss you! Merry Christmas! We miss you! Merry Christmas! We miss
you!” repeats the mechanical voice of Thomas and Sofia. It’s not the same
ornament as the one Thomas bought at the tree farm, but I can’t help but smile
at the memory. In the bottom of the box, there is folded paper, a letter.

Dearest Tess,

Sofia and I were hoping to spend Christmas with you
and Abby, but it’s been suggested you need space over the holidays so we’re
spending Christmas in Belize.

Please let me talk to you when I get back. I’m very
sorry I didn’t tell you about Bryce earlier and that you had to find out the
way you did. I screwed up.

Bryce wants to be an uncle to Sofia, and I can’t
deny her family, but there are parts of my past I don’t like to talk about, and
I wasn’t lying when I said my family and I aren’t close.

Don’t be upset with me. I apologize for being an
ass.

I miss
you,

Thomas

Loneliness
wanders into my psyche, and fury jumps ship. We hadn’t made plans, Thomas and
I, but I assumed we’d spend time together over the holidays, while the girls
were out of school. I guess this isn’t happening now that they’re in Belize.
Now I feel bad. They’ve abandoned their first Christmas tree and new holiday
traditions because I wouldn’t answer the phone. I hadn’t paused to listen to
Thomas’s perspective and maybe I should have. Maybe the bile spewing from
Thomas that night, the hatred toward Bryce, is the result of a lifelong chasm
between the two. Jealousy is a nasty emotion and when marinated for
years . . .

Yes,
Thomas blatantly lied to me, but why? What could keep a man from communicating
with his own brother in a town the size of a baseball league? And what does
that say about Bryce? What has Bryce and his family done to warrant Thomas and
his daughter moving to another country for a fresh start?

Either
way, I can’t dismiss the scene that played out that night at the church.
Knowing Thomas let his anger lead to physical abuse . . . After
years of witnessing my mother lose control, the thought sickens me. And yet,
how many times have I seen sibling’s battle over a toy and the parents plead
indifference:
Boys will be boys
.

I guess
the question is, can I forgive and forget?

I chuckle
at a thought, Pocahontas and her pet raccoon in the wooden canoe, stopped at a
fork in the river. Which path to take? The steady, calm route leading
to . . . or the rapids that promise excitement? Even with a risk
of drowning my body steers toward the rapids.

“Enough of
the Disney movies,” I mumble, shoving the keys in the ignition.

The
fluorescent green of the clock makes a point of warning me ten minutes has passed,
limiting my time at the animal shelter. I’ve got to get moving. I’m determined
to put a smile on my baby girl’s face Christmas morning, and crowning Abby’s
wish list is a dog.

Top of my
wish list? I wish, more than anything in this world, that the last eight months
were an awful dream from which I only need to roll over and wake to see Meyer
lying next to me asleep.

Good luck
with that one, Santa.