The Big Bang (39 page)

The man waited, presumably, for her to leave.

“I should go,” Hope said.

“Glad you’re okay.” Will gave her a cursory hug. “Probably should check with Trautman or the Griffins.”

***

Maryellen saw the caller ID and let the phone ring three times before she was able to answer. “Hope.”

“Hi, it’s Hope,” Hope said awkwardly, having fallen into the caller ID etiquette trap.

“How are you?” Maryellen asked.

“Good,” Hope said.

“That’s good,” Maryellen said. “Really good.”

“Listen,” Hope said. “I called because I wanted to thank you and Frank again for everything you did.”

“It was nothing,” she said, despite everything she wanted to say. To know.

“I also have a quick question,” Hope said.

“Sure.”

“In getting things back in order,” Hope seemed to take a breath, “I can’t seem to locate some paperwork.”

“Paperwork?”

“There was a pile of bills and stuff—a violation notice and a letter.”

“A letter?”

“Not a letter, really. More like a list of information I made for Jim.”

“Oh,” Maryellen said.

“I’m sure I misplaced it somewhere, and it’s not all that important or anything, but I don’t want to have to try and recreate everything I wrote down, so I thought I’d just check and see if you happened to have any idea what might have happened to it.”

“No idea,” Maryellen said. “I’m sorry.”

She though she heard Hope sigh.

“Maybe you should check with Will?” Maryellen asked. “Or Tim Trautman?”

***

Tim walked into Frank’s office, sat down in the guest chair, and tapped the door closed with his foot. “There’s some stuff I need to run by you.”

Frank stopped tapping his pencil on the edge of his desk. “’Bout what?”

“Henderson Homes.”

Frank’s air of tension seemed to ease. “Let me guess, Pierce-Cohn’s crowing that the Estridges are going to get the short shrift on their repairs?”

“Been ignoring that stuff,” Tim said. “But there’s also concern that the barrage of claims is causing a lot more than a delay in getting Star Warranty and other subs paid.”

“Meaning what?”

“Rumor is, Henderson Homes is in financial trouble.”

“Where are you hearing this?”

“E-mails and inquiry calls on the troubleshooting line.”

“From who?”

“The Connors, Scott Sandburg, not to mention my wife, who was talking to—”

“Let me guess. Will Pierce-Cohn.”

“Actually, Roseanne Goldberg.”

Frank shook his head. “Same difference.”

“In any case, she has my wife all worked up about Henderson Homes going under from claims, the threat of litigation from the Estridges, and who knows what else.”

“The structural engineer made a recommendation to Henderson Homes’ insurance company to cover all expenses on their loss,” Frank said. “So there won’t be any litigation.”

“That’s a relief,” Tim said.

“But no surprise,” Frank said. “What’s surprising is Henderson Homes’ willingness to pay a crew holiday overtime to come out and fix the playground tomorrow so we’re up and running for the Fourth of July—if they’re going under, that is.”

***

Dressed in sweats as though she could possibly work out and stationed at the bottom of the stairs where she couldn’t miss Tim, Hope lay in wait like the stalker she was fast becoming.

The spinning studio door opened and three men and a woman clip-clopped past.

“Hope!” Larry Miller emerged and started past her. “Good to see you up and around.”

“I can’t believe a chandelier would give way that easily,” Jane Hunt said. “So scary.”

“Scary doesn’t even begin to describe it,” a voice said from behind her.

She turned.

Tim, whom she’d spotted driving toward the rec center and confirmed he was there by driving over herself to check, stood three steps above her, still in his street clothes, gym bag in hand. “But all’s well that ends well, right?”

She could only pray that was true.

“Back to working out already?” He hugged her, his hands lingering at her elbows. “Or did you just come by to try and run into me?”

Had he seen her park two cars down from him and wait in her car until the class she presumed he was in was almost over? Where had he been if he wasn’t at spinning?

“Actually, I do need to talk to you.” She looked down toward her cast so he wouldn’t see her face flush. “I have a question.”

“Anything.” His flirty smile made her stomach turn. “I’m sure the answer’s yes.”

God help both of them.

“Did you, by any chance, happen to see or take any paperwork on my kitchen counter?”

“Paperwork?”

She nodded.

“I grabbed dishtowels from the drawer, but I never saw or touched any mail.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Thanks,” she managed.

They stood staring at each other for a minute.

“That it?” he finally asked.

“That’s it,” she said.

“Okay, then.” His smile no longer reached his eyes. “Well, I guess that’s that.”

***

“Frank?”

“Not now, Maryellen.”

“I just have a question I really—”

“And I have a problem I really need to deal with. The crew who’s supposed to be here, who are getting paid double so we don’t spend the Fourth fishing kids out of quicksand, is MIA.” He picked up the phone, dialed, listened to what sounded like a message, and dropped the handset into the cradle. “And Henderson Homes already let everyone off for the long weekend.”

“It’s only eleven,” Maryellen said.

“And they were supposed to be here by nine.”

“Workmen are always late,” she said.

He began to tap at his computer.

She waited for a moment. “It’s about Hope.”

He didn’t look up. “How’s she doing?”

How exactly did she answer that question? Keeping Hope’s
good
news was difficult enough. Add in the possibility the math might not add up, that the baby wasn’t… could possibly have been fathered
that night
, by someone other than Jim, left Maryellen feeling all but speechless. “Okay, considering.”

“Good,” he said. “Found an alternate number.”

“You haven’t had a chance to check in with her since the accident, have you?”

“I have to get all this under control first.” He picked up the phone. “Why?”

“Hope seems stressed in the aftermath of it all,” she said.

He dialed the number. “That what she said?”

“No, actually, she called to find out if we happened to see or pick up some kind of letter or list from a pile of bills she’d left in the kitchen.”

“This is Frank Griffin, president of the Melody Mountain Ranch Homeowner’s Board,” he said in response to what was obviously another message. “I can’t seem to get through any of my usual channels, but the crew that’s supposed to be at work on our playground hasn’t shown up. I need the job completed today. I need someone to call me ASAP.”

He slammed the phone down.

“All I took from the kitchen was a first-aid kit,” he said, flipping through the business cards he’d tugged from his wallet. “Don’t know what happened to any note.”

“Note?”

“Letter, list, whatever.”

***

Will said he never went into the kitchen. Never left her side. Had anything happened between them, there was no way he’d say
no worries
after seeing that note. The worry would have filled his eyes when she asked him about it.

Tim said yes, but not to taking the note. She’d been wrong about his motivations, but not his interest in keeping any extracurricular secrets from destroying his beloved family.

Nothing had happened with either of them.

Which left Frank.

Two days had gone by since she’d spoken with Maryellen about the missing letter.

Two days with no response.

***

As dusk neared, Maryellen put the red, white, and blue frosted cupcakes she’d made into a basket and walked into Frank’s office. He’d been in there all day, hiding, as far as she could tell, while everyone else was outside enjoying the Fourth at the playground, yellow tape and all.

“Fireworks are going to start pretty soon,” she said.

“I’m aware of that.”

“We should probably go out there so we have time to socialize before it’s too dark.”

“I’m waiting for a call.”

She took a calming breath. “It’s only going to make things worse if you don’t show up.”

“I’m aware of that, too.”

“Frank?”

“Lay off, Mel.”

She wanted to, might have, had her patience, which she’d overexercised in the last day and a half, at least where he was concerned, not begun to collapse. Had he not used the one word that she couldn’t stop thinking about where Hope was concerned.

Note.

No one, including the emergency crew, seemed to think anything about Hope cleaning the chandelier using a rope and knot for safety. Of course, no one else who’d seen the accident knew about, had suggested, the knot book.

No one else knew she was pregnant.

And possibly left a
note
?

“Speaking of calls,” she said. “I assume you got back with Hope while you’ve waited?”

“I told you I’d get back with her when I had the chance.”

“It’s been two days.”

“Do I need this right now?”

“I think she may need you,” Maryellen said.

He exhaled dramatically.

“Pregnant,” she blurted.

Frank looked up. “What did you say?”

She hadn’t meant to bear false witness, would never have normally, but wasn’t Frank Hope’s spiritual advisor and self-appointed guardian? Shouldn’t he be privy to the burdensome secret she’d been carrying around? “Probably a rumor, but with the other rumors out there about Memorial Weekend, I thought she might need your ear.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’m sure she’ll be out to watch fireworks. Maybe you can talk to her then.”

Frank looked one-upped at best, ashen at worst.

He nodded.

“I’ll grab a sweater,” she said. “Will you be ready when I come back down?”

He nodded again.

As Maryellen went up the stairs, she pinched herself not only for being suspicious and gossiping, but allowing herself to revel, if only for a moment, in the horror on his face.

She crossed their bedroom and entered her closet. Her black sweater, the one that went with the striped top she was wearing, was missing from its spot on her sweater shelf. Eva must have borrowed it and either not put it back, or had worn it over to the Hunts where she was celebrating the Fourth with her friends.

Hoping it was the former, she went across the hall and opened the door to Eva’s room.

Eva’s unusually neat room.

The bed was made. Her desk, usually a war zone of pencils, paper, and class work from who knew how many semesters, had been cleared.

The trunk she was supposed to be packing for camp lay open.

Empty.

She opened Eva’s closet and cold dread slipped down her spine, fanning out toward her arms and legs. The rack held only colored clothing. Everything black was gone except for Maryellen’s cardigan, which was folded neatly atop last year’s abandoned pastel sweaters.

“Frank!” She tore down the stairs.

He pointed to the phone at his ear she hadn’t even heard ring.

“I think Eva’s run away!”

“Can’t be happening,” he said.

“But it is,” she said, not sure he’d even heard her. “Is that Eva?”

“No!” Perspiration dripped down his forehead. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Who is that?” Maryellen asked.

“Can’t be happening.” Frank hung up the phone. “Can’t be. Can’t be. Can’t be…”

“We need to call Eva!”

“Didn’t mean…” Frank slumped in his chair. “Out of my control. Not my fault. It’s—”

“How can you say it isn’t your fault?”

Frank stared blankly past her.

“Maybe if you hadn’t been so caught up in having her go to that Christian Leader’s camp and listened to her, ever listened to what she wanted instead of what you want… ?”

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s a little late for sorry,” she said. “Eva’s gone.”

“Gone. Gone. Gone.” Frank whisked a pile of papers from his desk into his briefcase. “Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein: and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.”

“Where are you going?”

He bolted for the front door. “Find Eva.”

“But we don’t know for sure where she is,” she yelled after him. “We need to text her and her friends so we can—”

The door slammed behind him.

***

Hope was at the bottom of the driveway as Frank rushed down his front steps.

“Frank,” she said.

He looked up.

Froze.

Their eyes met.

“Hope deferred maketh the heart sick: but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life,” he said, turned, and ran down the cul-de-sac and onto Harmony Valley Drive.

Before she could process what he’d said or what he hadn’t given her the chance to ask, she heard the tinny jingle of an ice cream truck, the screech of wheels, and a horrifying thud.

M
aryellen wasn’t sure what a grieving widow was supposed to feel or think or notice, but how could she not notice what a truly beautiful, unseasonably temperate day it was? How could she not appreciate how fragrant the flower arrangements, particularly the enormous wreath of lilies and freesia sent by the Estridges, whom she had to beg not to interrupt their treatment to fly in? How unusually pleasant the breeze rustling through the Harmony Hills Neighborhood Church on what should have been a sweltering, stifling memorial service?

Somehow wasn’t.

Somehow, as Roger Manning, Frank’s fellow clergyman and biggest competition, described the rewards her husband was already enjoying in his
new home
, she kept thinking about how much she’d like a warm chocolate chip cookie, right out of the oven, from the home he’d left.