Die Before I Wake (7 page)
It was actually easier on me, because I was the in-visible one. Everybody’s attention was so focused on Tom that most of the time, they forgot I was even there. I did pretty much whatever I wanted. Tom was the one who toed the line. He graduated with honors, went to college on a full athletic scholarship.
Continued on to medical school. Married Elizabeth, started his own practice, and started raising a family.
He’s almost forty years old, and he’s still doing what Mom wants him to do.”
“Not necessarily,” I pointed out. “He did marry me.”
“His one act of rebellion. I have to admit I was impressed when I heard what he’d done. It was so out of character. Turn left at the next intersection.” Following his directions, I lost speed during the turn. The car shuddered and nearly stalled, but I feathered the accelerator and pulled out of it. Riley nodded approvingly.
“And you,” I said, once I’d upshifted again, “it looks as though you’re still playing your assigned role, too. Bad boy. Prodigal son.”
“We humans are most comfortable with the roles we find most familiar.”
“There’s another little ditty I’ve heard:
Familiarity breeds contempt.
”
“I manage to sleep quite nicely at night, thank you, in spite of being the black sheep of the family.”
“Good for you,” I said, not sure I really meant it.
Riley was the classic underachiever, and I identified with him more closely than I wanted to admit. It wasn’t necessarily an admirable trait. “Can I ask you something else?”
“I doubt I could stop you if I wanted to.”
“Tell me about Elizabeth.”
Silence. It stretched out for an endless five seconds before he said, “Why?” There was something in his voice, something that hadn’t been there before, but I couldn’t identify it. “Shouldn’t that be Tom’s job?” It was too embarrassing to admit that my husband had told me virtually nothing about his first wife.
Instead, I left Tom out of the equation. “I want to hear what
you
have to say about her. For starters, why aren’t there any pictures of her in the house?”
“I’m the wrong person to ask. I don’t even live there anymore. I have my own apartment, upstairs over the carriage house.”
“It just seems odd. If only for the sake of the girls, there should be something. But it’s as though she never lived there.”
“The Lord and my family both move in mysterious ways. I gave up years ago trying to figure either of them out.”
“Then tell me about her. What was she like?”
“She was the ideal life partner for my brother, so much like him it was nauseating.”
“In what ways?”
“She was perfect. Maybe a little too perfect.
Smart, pretty. Not in a glamorous way. More a Katie Couric than a Sharon Stone. Elizabeth was the quin-tessential freckle-faced girl-next-door. She was a cheerleader in high school, one of those girls you love to hate, except that in her case, it was impossible. Nobody could hate Beth. She was sweet, in a genuine way that softened the heart of even the hardest cynic.”
“So you liked her.”
“Everybody liked her. Just like Tom, she was universally loved, and placed on a pedestal by the good citizens of our fair city.”
Wondering how I could possibly measure up to this paragon of virtue, I took a deep breath and tightened my fingers on the steering wheel. “Did she and Tom have a good marriage?”
I could feel his eyes on me again. “Julie,” he said,
“you’re barking up the wrong tree here. I can’t answer that question. Nobody knows what goes on inside somebody else’s marriage.”
“Of course not. But you must have an opinion, based on what you witnessed. Did they seem happy together?”
Riley shifted position and stared out the window.
“I’m probably not the person most qualified to judge.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“I guess you could call it a conflict of interest.” He turned away from the window, and when his eyes met mine, I saw something in them that looked an awful lot like resentment. “You see, before my brother stole her away, Beth was engaged to me.”
The accounts manager at the First National Bank of Newmarket was friendly and efficient. Millicent Wa-terhouse had gone to school with Tom, and she had nothing but good things to say about Newmarket’s dashing young obstetrician. “You’re a lucky woman,” she told me as I filled out paperwork. “As far as I’m concerned, Tom Larkin is the best thing that ever happened to this town. I was thrilled when he came back here to start his practice. He could’ve made more money just about anywhere else, but he chose to come home instead, and nobody around here has forgotten that.”
I glanced up from my clipboard and gave her a bland smile. “Is that so?”
“You’d better believe it. When Tom came back, old Doc Thompson was getting ready to retire. Nobody was sorry to see him go. He was a cranky old curmudgeon, and he usually smelled like a stinky old cigar butt that’s been sitting in a dirty ashtray for three days.” Millie’s eyes twinkled. “But Tom’s nothing like Doc Thompson. He’s patient and kind, he always smells nice, and he just puts you at ease. He delivered both of my youngest kids, and when my sister started going through early menopause, he explained everything to her and helped her decide whether or not to take hormone replacement therapy.” This was the Tom I knew, the charming, kind-hearted patron saint of mothers-to-be, menopausal sisters, and bent-but-not-broken thirty-year-old women in need of rescuing. Not the Tom that Riley had described, the man who’d come back from college, medical degree in hand, and proceeded to steal his brother’s fiancée. There had to be more to it than that. Tom was a good man, a man with strong ethics. I couldn’t imagine him crossing that fraternal boundary.
Finally managing to escape from the loquacious Millicent, I crossed the street to the federal building and took care of my business at the social security office. The DMV, thirty miles away in Portland, would have to wait for another day. Maybe, if Tom could get a few hours free, we could combine that with car shopping, as I suspected the selection would be greater in a larger city. Wandering up and down Newmarket’s block-long main street, I inspected the window displays and played tourist. A teenage girl feeding coins into a parking meter smiled at me. An elderly man with a buff-colored Pomeranian on a leash sat on a bench outside the barber shop. I passed an old-fashioned apothecary shop with a soda foun-tain. Two doors down, showcased in the window of The Bridal Emporium, was an elegant ivory satin-and-lace vintage wedding dress that shot a pang of longing straight through me.
Of their own volition, my feet slowed and then stopped. I stood before that plate-glass window, admiring the dress, for a long time. This was my one regret. I’d been married twice, yet I’d never had a wedding gown. Like most adolescent girls, I’d spent endless hours imagining what my wedding would be like when I finally met my prince. Whenever I’d pictured it, I was wearing a dress like this one. But fate had other plans in mind for me. Jeffrey, ever the romantic, had dragged me off to city hall to get married on our lunch hour. I should have known right then and there that the marriage was doomed. On the other hand, my wedding to Tom, on that beach in the Bahamas, had contained nearly all the elements of my teenage dream: the breathless bride, the handsome groom, the heartfelt and intensely personal vows. It was exotic, romantic, almost perfect. The only thing missing was the dress.
When I’d looked my fill, I moved on, to Lannaman’s bakery. If I’d previously doubted the existence of God, the smells emanating through the screen door were enough to make me reconsider. I went inside and bought a half-dozen assorted doughnuts and two chocolate éclairs. The doughnuts were for the girls, a blatant attempt at bribery. The éclairs were for Tom. They were his favorite dessert, and I intended to save them for later, during a private moment together, as I had a few dessert ideas of my own.
Carrying a cardboard bakery box tied with string, I was about to cross the street to my car when I noticed the bead boutique. I’d missed it on the first go-round, although I wasn’t sure how I had overlooked the mouthwatering window display of Chinese turquoise.
I’d never been able to resist turquoise. The shop entrance was around the corner, tucked into an alcove.
When I opened the door, a bell tinkled overhead. The woman behind the counter was unpacking boxes of merchandise. She glanced up, said, “Good morning,” and returned to her work.
As a bead shop pro, I didn’t need a road map to find my way around. The shop was organized by material and by color. I went directly to the turquoise gemstones that were hung on nylon strings along a side wall. I lifted a string of round beads, weighed its heft in my hand, rubbed my fingers against the cool, polished stone. No two natural stones are ever identical, and there are often subtle variations in color, shape and smoothness. Sometimes consistency is important in a piece. At other times, a little diversity makes life more interesting.
“They’re on sale right now,” the proprietor said, without looking up from her work. “Thirty percent off all gemstones.”
I checked the tag. The price was reasonable for a small shop in an equally small town. I was mentally calculating the thirty-percent discount when a voice from beside me said, “I like the turquoise, but with your coloring, have you considered the leopard jasper? I think it would be smashing.” I glanced up. The woman who’d spoken had a narrow face, with green eyes and dark auburn hair tied back in a ponytail. “I’m partial to jasper,” she explained, then held out her hand. “Claudia Lavoie.”
“Julie Larkin.”
Her handshake was firm. “Yes,” she said. “I know who you are. I saw you get out of the car and I followed you in here. I recognized the Land Rover.
You’re Tom’s new wife.”
A little nonplussed, I said, “That would be me.”
“Nice to meet you. I hear you had a little excitement over there last night.”
“Excitement? Oh, the tree. Wow. News travels quickly around here.”
“The chain saw was a pretty big clue. Riley filled in the rest for me. I’m your next-door neighbor. I live in terror that one of these days, that entire tree will fall—in my direction.”
“Your worrying days are over, then, because Tom told me last night he’s having it cut down.”
“That’s a relief. If it went through my greenhouse and murdered my babies, I’d have to kill him.” She smiled to show me she was just kidding. “You should stop in sometime. I’m always home. Except when I’m not.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’m serious, you know. People always say these things to be polite. I’m happy to report that I’ve never been polite. Or, for that matter, politically correct. If I didn’t mean it, I wouldn’t make the offer.
Please come. Dylan—my four-year-old—has spent the last few days with his dad. I’m used to having him home with me, and my afternoons have been long and boring. Besides, I make a mean margarita.”
“In that case,” I said, “I’ll be sure to stop by.”
“Drop in anytime. If the car’s in the driveway and I don’t answer the door, come around the back. I’m probably in the greenhouse.”
I watched her leave, the bell over the door jangling cheerfully as she exited the store. I’d have to ask Tom about her. Unless he told me she was some kind of psycho, I’d probably take her up on her offer. She seemed a nice enough person, and I had a sneaking suspicion that Team Julie would need a cheerleader or two in order to balance things out.
Back on task, I selected two strings of turquoise that I really liked. And then, just because I could, I chose another string—of the leopard jasper.
When I got back to the house, Jeannette’s Caddy was parked in the driveway, and the chain saw was silent. Grabbing up the bakery box, I took a deep breath and girded my loins for the inevitable confrontation.
My mother-in-law was at the kitchen counter, mixing a meat loaf. The girls sat at the table, hunched over coloring books, scribbling away pur-posefully. I held the bakery box aloft and said brightly, “I come bearing gifts.”
All action stopped. Taylor dropped her purple crayon and examined the box with interest. “What’s in it?”
“Doughnuts.”
Sadie scratched the tip of her nose and said solemnly, “I like doughnuts.”
I felt not even the merest twinge of guilt at my blatant attempt at bribery. I was willing to pay whatever price it took to unlock the doors to their little hearts. I set the box on the table and lifted the cover to reveal an assortment of doughnuts. The coloring books were instantly forgotten. Their faces painted with identical expressions of delight, both girls craned their necks to see what was in the box.
Behind me, my mother-in-law cleared her throat.
“Tom doesn’t allow the girls to eat sugar.” Her tone implied that I, as Tom’s wife, should already know this salient fact. “Besides, it’s only a couple hours to supper. You’ll spoil their appetites.” I stiffened. It was at least three hours until supper.
God forbid I should spoil their appetites. God forbid a single grain of sugar should pass their lips. The girls looked crestfallen, and suddenly that guilt, heretofore absent, reared its ugly head.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.” Jeannette covered the meat loaf pan with foil and put it in the refrigerator. Untying her apron and pulling it off over her head, she said, “As long as you’re here, I need you to run to the grocery store and pick up a few things. You’ll have to take the girls with you, because the babysitter’s sick. I’d do it myself, but I have to go back to work. I have a shampoo and clipping at four-fifteen. Late in the day, but not much I can do about it.” She folded the apron with precise motions, tucked it into a drawer, and reached up to smooth her hair. “If I’m not back by five, you might as well go ahead and put the meat loaf in the oven.
Potatoes are already peeled and in the fridge. They just need to be put on to boil.” Her eyes, peering at me over the rim of her glasses, were skeptical. “You do know how to cook?”
What idiot couldn’t boil a potato? Did she really think I was that incompetent? “Of course,” I said, an ingratiating smile glued firmly in place. “I’m much more than just a pretty face. What do you need at the store?”
