Sleeping in Eden (10 page)

A sign invited them to seat themselves, and Lucas obliged, taking a clean-looking booth next to a window. The benches were covered in an outdated paisley print that sported cigarette burns from the days before Iowa enforced the smoking ban. Now, even years after the last Marlboro was lit in Miss Penny's, the faint scent of tobacco still clung to the stained fabric covering the bench where Lucas sat.

Jenna slid in opposite him and ordered coffee with a raised eyebrow and a flick of her wrist. Tipping an imaginary pot, she held up two fingers and nodded, giving a quick smile to the waitress who was all the way across the room.

“Want a menu?” Lucas asked, even though he knew the answer. He pulled only one paper bifold from behind the salt and pepper shakers.

“Nope.”

“Two buttermilk pancakes, butter and syrup on the side. One egg, over easy. One slice of bacon, crispy.” Lucas didn't have to guess to know her order.

“Does that mean you pay attention or that we've been married too long?”

“It means I know you.” Lucas stared at the menu in front of him, trying to ignore Jenna's attempt to pick a fight. “Would you rather have a loaded omelette or French toast with apple compote?”

“The omelette,” Jenna said. She metabolized food at the rate of a teenage boy and would happily finish whatever her husband didn't eat.

“The omelette it is.”

They ordered when the waitress brought them their coffee in two mismatched mugs. Lucas ignored the oily reflection of the surface and took a few long sips, grateful for the bitter burn as it went down.

“So,” Jenna said, just like he knew she would, “why don't you tell me where you were last night.”

“Alex called me to the old Timmer farm,” Lucas murmured, still looking into the dark depths of his coffee.

“Jim's place?”

“Yeah.”

“But why . . . ?”

Lucas could hear the uncertainty in her voice, the hope even after all these years. It killed him. “I was called in as coroner.” He looked up in time to see her eyes widen.

“Jim?”

“He hung himself,” Lucas said, feeling the oppressive weight of those words.

Jenna gasped a little. “You're kidding me.”

“I'm afraid not.”

The only sound for a few moments was the clink of Jenna's spoon as she stirred her coffee, a faraway look in her eye. She liked her caffeine straight—no cream or sugar—but she always stirred it anyway. Lucas figured it was just another manifestation
of her constant need to keep moving. She fidgeted, she tapped, she squirmed. She stirred.

“Jenna?” Lucas said her name softly, wondering what she was thinking. Wondering if he could tell her the rest.

“I guess I'm not completely shocked,” she muttered.

“Neither were we.”

“I wonder what . . .” but Jenna didn't finish her thought. She didn't have to. They both knew that her mind was on Angela.

Lucas felt the pressure of what he had seen settle like deadweight on his chest. He struggled to breathe beneath the crush of it. This will destroy her, he thought. But the words had to be said. They had to come from him.

“There's something else,” he croaked.

“What?” She seemed hesitant, but she caught his gaze and held it.

“We found . . . a second body.”

“Another body?”

He wanted to jump in and reassure her, to tell her that it was most likely not Angela, even if he was sure that it was. Anything to prolong the inevitable. But it was too late. Jenna's cheeks had been blushed by the wind as they crossed the parking lot at Miss Penny's, but as he watched, the color drained from her face. Her lips parted, just a little, enough for him to hear the tiny moan that escaped before she could stop it.

“Honey,” he said, reaching across the table for her. He tried to take her hands in his own, but she slipped them from the table and dropped them in her lap. “I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry . . .”

Jenna lowered her head, her gaze turned toward her hands where he couldn't see what was happening in her eyes. Was she crying? Suddenly Lucas regretted telling her. He should have waited, he should have found another way. He fumbled in his pocket for the ring, anxious to do something to ease her pain.

“Where did you find her?” Jenna asked before he could say anything more. Her voice was quiet but steady.

“Uh,” he cleared his throat, “in the barn.”

“Where?”

“Buried beneath the floor.”

Jenna looked up, her eyes bright and clear and hard. He wasn't expecting that. “Recently?” she demanded. “Was she buried recently?”

“No,” Lucas said. “Alex called in DCI and they think that the body was buried several years ago.”

“Eight?”

He shrugged. “If she was buried eight years ago, they seem to think she was unusually well preserved. But it's not impossible. The ground there is mostly clay. And . . .” He struggled with how much to tell her, but the set of her face made him go on. “And she seems almost mummified. They're not sure why, but likely because of where she was buried and how protected she was.”

“How do you know the body was a woman?”

“Bone structure. Clothing. She was wearing a dress. Or, what was left of a dress.”

Jenna nodded then took a swig of her coffee and set the mug down hard. “It's not Angela,” she said, leaving no room for argument.

Lucas was stunned. “Jenna,” he coaxed, “of course it's—”

“It's not Angela,” she repeated, louder this time. “I don't know who you found, and I feel very sorry for her, but it's not Angela.”

“Honey, be reasonable.”

“Reasonable?” Jenna looked as if she wanted to spit at him. “You think I'm being unreasonable? Nobody knew Angela better than me. Nobody. I'm telling you—it's not her.”

“But the evidence—”

“There is no evidence! Not yet. Does Alex think it's Angela? Do the DC guys?”

“DCI.”

“Whatever. Do they?”

Lucas rubbed his jaw and studied the multicolored flecks in the Formica tabletop. This wasn't exactly going as he had
expected. “No,” he said eventually. “They can't draw conclusions based on conjecture.”

“Exactly.” Jenna sat back against the plush bench as if relieved. “It's not Angela.”

“Just because they can't say so doesn't mean it's not her,” Lucas argued. “I think it would be good for us to deal with this. To accept what's happened and put it behind us.”

“Put it behind us?” Jenna scoffed, like nothing could be more ludicrous. “You want me to just put Angela behind me? What does that even mean?”

“It means that maybe we can finally get some closure from all of this. Maybe we can finally move on.”

“Closure? Do you want it to be Angela?”

“Of course not. But I think we need to accept that there is a very real possibility that it's her.”

“Lucas, when are you going to learn that everything doesn't come neatly packaged?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

She split him with a glare so pointed, he nearly recoiled. “That life doesn't follow your rules. It's not half as neat and tidy as you'd like it to be.”

Lucas was so hurt and confused, he was almost speechless. “What are you talking about?”

But Jenna answered him with another question. “Why do you always do this?” she asked, the exasperation in her voice bubbling just beneath the surface.

He waited, carefully measuring his next words. “Do what?” It was the best he could come up with.

She gave him an as-if-you-don't-already-know look, but wasted no time in telling him, “You have everything all figured out, including my reaction. You can't tell me how to feel, how to respond to this”—she fumbled—“this news you've just dumped into my lap.”

“I'm not,” he cut in.

“Yes, you are,” she shot back. “This doesn't feel right. Nothing between us feels right anymore.”

In his mind he replied, That's because you've shut me out, you hold me at arm's length. You've moved out of our bedroom. Out loud he said, “We're bringing other things to the table now. This isn't about Angela anymore, is it?”

“Stop psychoanalyzing me, Lucas Hudson,” she responded lethally.

“Jenna—”

“Something has been happening to us for a long time, Lucas. Until you're ready to start being honest with me and with yourself . . .” She trailed off. “Until” was one step away from “unless,” an ultimatum. But she didn't finish. He was thankful that she didn't.

They looked at each other for a moment, his eyes sad, hers angry. When she finally broke contact, it was as if she couldn't get out of the café fast enough. “I'm not hungry. I need some fresh air.” It was hardly an excuse, but Lucas let her go. In one abrupt movement she was out the door, hurrying across the parking lot. He watched her through the window, cringing when she zipped up her jacket against the autumn chill and hit the sidewalk at a restless jog. She turned a corner and was out of sight in less than a minute.

Alone in the booth, Lucas stared at her half-empty coffee cup, the napkin that lay perfectly parallel to the chipped, porcelain handle.

He realized he loved her so much, it hurt.

M
eg forgave Dylan in record time. Though she loved to hold a grudge, she found it difficult to remain angry with him. All those cold stares, intentional snubs, and mildly caustic remarks that stung like salt in an open wound were abruptly abandoned when she realized that what he had told her in the cul-de-sac turned out to be true: she was instantly cool. Her epic wipeout was broadcast among Jess's friends and beyond, and since Sutton was small and well connected, the entire incident contributed much to her popularity.

Unconcerned with her social status for all the years prior to her relationship with Dylan, Meg suddenly found herself the unwitting recipient of obvious respect and admiration. True, she wasn't an It Girl—a perfectly coiffed and giggly confection of teenage fluff who garnered the sort of attention that would undoubtedly make her dad start propping a shotgun by the front door—but it wasn't like she wanted that sort of popularity anyway.

Instead, Meg was definitely a girl, but acknowledged as one of the guys, an accepted entity in both worlds. The girls in her school envied her familiarity with the cute, inaccessible boys they had crushes on. And the guys treated her as a loyal sidekick, not quite on par with the rest of the Y-chromosome clan, but a different and wonderful breed altogether. They actually asked for her advice, enjoyed her sharp-tongued company, and told
off-color jokes in her presence. Once, when the boys in her class had a big weekend sleepover, they told her that they wished she could come, but their mothers would never permit it.

Meg laughed. “Like I'd want to hang out with you guys anyway. You'll probably just sit around all night picking your own toe lint and laughing at your farts.”

Somebody lunged at her, but Meg was already gone, ponytail swinging behind her as she ran.

In spite of her newfound star status, her generic brand of small-town fame, one constant remained unchanged in Meg's satisfying life: Dylan. While her parents struggled to keep tabs on the flood of phone calls, on the unexpected comings and goings of their daughter, and while her friends fell headlong into the excitement of adolescence and Meg's coveted place in it, Dylan offered the sort of steadfast stability that engendered absolute adoration.

Meg fell for him. Hard.

Though it was impossible to pinpoint exactly when Dylan became more than a friend in Meg's untried soul, she attributed the physical ache of a heart cleft in two to the closing night of the Sutton High spring play.

Since Dylan was practically a member of the Painter family by the time he secured the role of Orlando in
As You Like It,
Meg went to the outdoor performance with both of her parents. Linda had managed to wrestle her contractor husband into a tie, and though it was a plaid-patterned relic from Meg's toddler years, she was proud to be sitting on the flimsy folding chairs with her mom and dad beside her. The entire event left Meg feeling a little pink-cheeked and breathless, and not just because Dylan had to kiss the raven-haired beauty who played Rosalind.

“It's weird,” Greg Painter said halfway through the play. He had leaned over to whisper in his wife's ear, but Meg could hear him plainly from her place on the opposite side of her mother.

“Shhhh,” she hissed at the same time that her mom whispered, “What's weird?”

“That pretty girl is dressed up like a boy, and Dylan's pinning love poems to trees.” He arched an eyebrow. “It's weird.”

“It's Shakespeare.” Linda smiled indulgently. “And Dylan is doing an amazing job. Orlando can come off as a bit of a wimp, but Dylan's playing him ironic. Satire from a sixteen-year-old. I find that impressive.”