The Rumor, page 3
He’s been visiting his cousin in Las Vegas and ended up reporting on the concert shooting and staying on to do follow-up pieces. It must have been horrendous, although I know there’s a small part of him that’s glad he was there when it happened.
He crouches on the doorstep and opens his arms wide. Alfie hurls himself at his dad’s chest and flings his arms around his neck.
“I’ve missed you, little man,” Michael says, rubbing his stubbly cheek against Alfie’s face.
Alfie shrieks in delight.
“Thanks, kiddo, that’s doing my headache a whole lot of good.” He looks up at me and grins. “Any chance of coffee? I feel like shit.”
Alfie gasps. “You said a bad word, Daddy.”
“Yes, he did. I don’t want you saying that word, Alfie.”
Michael gives me a sheepish look from under his eyebrows and smacks his own hand. Now it’s my turn to be hugged. “Sorry, Mommy,” he whispers in my ear. He looks down at Alfie. “Seeing him makes it all worth it, though. I didn’t want to let him down.”
I nod, gratefully. Normally, he takes Alfie to his sister’s place in Woodbridge or back to his apartment sixty miles away. Now, I don’t know whether it’s because I feel sorry for him having to get back in the car again when he’s so obviously beat, or whether I’m worried that he’ll fall asleep at the wheel with Alfie in the back—it’s probably that, to be honest—but all of a sudden I find myself suggesting he chill out here instead, stay over maybe. I’ve got to go to work this morning, but I’ll be back around two.
The relief on his face is instant. It’s as if I’ve waved a magic wand and his tiredness has evaporated. He holds my cheeks in his hands and presses his forehead against mine. I close my eyes. Who am I kidding? I know exactly why I’ve made the offer.
While Michael’s drinking coffee and trying to rebuild Luke Skywalker’s Lego landspeeder, I watch the two of them, father and son, absorbed in their task, and guilt settles over me. Michael didn’t want me to leave the city. It was so much easier for him to see Alfie when we lived nearby.
But he wasn’t always free when I needed him—dashing off somewhere for work or writing through the night, meeting deadlines—and it wasn’t Michael who had to witness Alfie’s meltdowns every time I got him up for school in the morning. Having my mom just a few blocks away has been wonderful. I never have to worry about babysitters, and it’s lovely for her, too, having us so close. Although I must be careful not to rely on her too much. I don’t want to be like Maddie’s daughter and start taking her for granted.
Luke’s landspeeder is taking shape before my eyes. I had a try at it yesterday, but I’ve never been great with my hands. My dad was a carpenter and he was always making things, but I never got to learn from him because he ran off with another woman when I was only four and started a new family.
Couldn’t keep it in his pants is one of Mom’s favorite expressions. One of the more pithy ones, anyway. He never paid Mom a cent for child support. He sent letters for a while, and made promises about coming to visit, about taking me on vacation, but they never came to anything.
“You did it!” Alfie yells, clapping his hands together, eyes shining with pleasure.
I smile. He might not see his dad as often as either of them would like, but at least he still has a dad. Even when Michael’s off God knows where chasing the next big story, he always tries to call Alfie as often as he can, and sends him funny postcards and presents. It might not be the perfect arrangement, but so far it’s worked. For Alfie, at least.
* * *
—
WHEN I GET home from work, Alfie’s napping. Michael’s worn him out on purpose. By the time we reach the bedroom we’ve both stripped down to our underwear. Now that, too, is discarded on the floor. With a six-year-old who could wake up at any second, there’s no time for foreplay.
It isn’t until my legs are wrapped around Michael’s lean, muscled back, my ankles pressing into him, urging him deeper and faster, that I remember the resolution I made the last time this happened. That it wouldn’t happen again, no matter how much my body craved it. Alfie’s growing up fast. He notices things he never used to.
Sometimes I wonder whether I should have married Michael when he asked me. Maybe I let what happened with Mom and Dad influence me too much. For all I know, we might have been one of those lucky couples who get to live happily ever after. Not that we’re unhappy now. Far from it. What does Tash say? All the thrills of an affair with none of the fights or the laundry. And, I might add, none of the fear of him leaving me for good. But still, I can’t stop myself from imagining what things might have been like if we’d been together all this time.
Michael sprawls out on his back when we’ve finished, hands clasped behind his head. I lie on my side and drape my leg across his thigh, my flesh the color of milk against his skin. We talk. About Alfie and his new school. About Michael’s last assignment. The one thing we don’t talk about is our relationship. It’s as if neither of us dares bring it up. And yet lately, ever since I moved here, it feels like another conversation is always lurking beneath the one we’re having, just waiting to break through.
Michael looks pointedly at the patch of wall in the corner where I’ve peeled off a small section of the hideous old wallpaper.
“Is that as far as you’ve gotten?”
I sigh. “You try juggling a job at Pegton’s with looking after Alfie.”
Before I moved in I had all these plans about how I was going to strip the walls and paint everything white till I’d decided on color schemes. But now that I’m actually living here, the reality of redecorating seems overwhelming. Michael would probably help—maybe he’s just waiting for me to ask—but there’s a part of me that wants to do it all by myself, to prove that I can. My stubborn streak, Tash calls it.
Michael laughs. “Maybe your subconscious is telling you not to put down roots here. Flinstead isn’t exactly stimulating.”
“What do you know?” I say. “There are secrets in this little town you could never imagine.”
Michael snorts. “Let me guess: Mrs. Beige from the Bungalow Blandlands has confessed to having the undertaker’s love child in 1973?”
I slap the top of his thigh. “Idiot!” He’s always teasing me about small-town life.
“Or the Flinstead-in-Bloom brigade have finally admitted to guerrilla pruning tactics on their nearest competitors’ rosebushes?”
“Okay, how about this one, then?” I’m determined to prick his balloon. “Sally McGowan, the notorious child murderess, is living in Flinstead.”
Michael twists around to face me. “Where did you hear that?”
“From some of the mothers at school. Why? You don’t seriously believe it?”
“Of course not. But it’s still a story, isn’t it?”
He reaches for his phone and I tug at one of the curly black hairs on his chest. He’s like a terrier with a rat when it comes to things like this. It’s all those years of writing for the tabloids.
“Don’t go digging, Michael. Please! I live here, remember?”
“I won’t,” he says, already scrolling away. “I’m just intrigued, that’s all.”
5
MONDAY MORNINGS ARE ALWAYS TOUGH. It’s taken Alfie ages to accept the fact that the long summer vacation and all those days on the beach are now over and that, yes, he really does have to go to school, even if it’s a different school now. Without the bullies from before. But Monday mornings after a weekend with his dad are doubly hard.
“My tummy really hurts,” he says, clutching his stomach and faking an expression of such agony I have to suck my cheeks in to stop myself laughing.
“Hmm. Maybe I should phone Grandma and cancel our dinner this evening. What a shame. I think she’s made brownies.”
Alfie’s forehead puckers. I think I see the exact moment he starts to feel better.
* * *
—
MADDIE WAVES AT us as we hurry onto the playground, against the tide of parents. She’s wearing a fur-collared jacket and brown hat pulled down tight over her forehead like a character from an Agatha Christie novel, and she’s clutching a pack of photographs to her chest. Her granddaughter’s face beams at me through the cellophane. Damn. I’ve left my order form at home again. I hope I’m not too late. Class photos are ridiculously expensive, but I can’t not buy one. It’s come as a bit of a shock how little I’m earning now.
“You’re late this morning,” she says, all shiny-eyed and smiling.
“Yes, well.” I slide my eyes toward Alfie. “Someone needed a bit of persuasion.”
“Do you mind if I wait for you at the gates?” Maddie says. “I need to talk to you about something.”
* * *
—
MOST OF THE other parents and nannies have dispersed by the time I catch up with her.
“What’s up?”
She sighs and looks over her shoulder. “What you said at book club, about that rumor you heard…”
My heart sinks.
“It’s just a silly piece of gossip, Maddie. I wouldn’t give it another thought.”
“Well, that’s just it,” she says, her voice now lowered to an urgent whisper. “I don’t think it is just a silly piece of gossip. I think there’s something in it.”
“What makes you say that?”
She leans in a little closer. “I was talking to an English friend of mine from Pilates. She used to be a probation officer in the UK and she knows all sorts of things.”
I stifle a groan.
“She said that in England, people like Sally McGowan are given witness protection when they’re released. And although that doesn’t happen over here, she bets that McGowan would have been given help to relocate. She also said that it’s more than likely she kept her first name, or at least the same initials. It stops them from getting confused.”
I look at my watch as discreetly as I can. Maddie’s lovely, she really is, but I’m due at work in ten minutes.
“Go on,” I say.
“She said that people who take on a new identity are likely to set up their own business. It’s easier for them to stay below the radar if they’re self-employed.” There’s a gleam in Maddie’s eye. She’s enjoying this—the excitement of it, the guessing game.
“I’m sure all this is true,” I say, “but it still doesn’t mean Sally McGowan is living in Flinstead. America is full of small towns like this. She could be anywhere. She might even be abroad.”
Maddie shakes her head. “She isn’t. I’ve been on the internet all weekend. Did I tell you my daughter signed me up for one of those Silver Surfer courses?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Well, I’ve learned so much about different search engines.” She leans in again. “Sally McGowan is in a small seaside town and she works in a store.”
It’s as much as I can do not to laugh out loud. She said it with such conviction as well. I thought Maddie was too sensible to believe everything she reads.
She waits till a middle-aged couple has passed by before continuing. “Have you ever been into Stones and Crones on Flinstead Road?”
“The New Age store? Yeah, I buy the occasional thing in there. Why?”
Maddie takes a deep breath. “I feel bad about saying this because I know Liz is friends with the owner—Liz loves all that hippie-dippie stuff, doesn’t she?” She pauses. “The thing is, my sister-in-law Louise works in the boutique next door and, apparently, Sonia Martins has turned down all her invitations to join the Flinstead Business Group and refuses to get involved in any of the street fairs.”
She looks at me as if this is incontrovertible evidence.
“And according to Louise, Sonia once told her she used to live in Dearborn, and then, when Louise brought it up some time later, Sonia said that Louise must be mistaken and that she used to live in Deer Creek, Arizona.”
Maddie’s voice is getting higher and faster as she speaks. She’s trilling like a warbler.
“But Louise insists there’s no way she misheard her. Sonia definitely said Dearborn because Louise remembers having a conversation with her about Bob Seger coming from Dearborn. So when you add it all up, this is what we know: Sonia Martins looks like Sally McGowan. She’s a shopkeeper in a small seaside town who keeps herself to herself and she has an inconsistent backstory.”
Now I really can’t help but laugh. “Inconsistent backstory? You sound like you’re discussing a crime novel at book club.”
Maddie blushes. “I know, and you’re probably right. But it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
6
A BELL TINKLES AS I push the door open and step into the fragrant interior of Stones and Crones. I need another scented candle. Well, no one needs scented candles but the smell does help me unwind and relax, especially after a stressful day in the office. I also need to pick up some batteries for the smoke alarm, and this place is right next door to the hardware store. It’s got nothing to do with Maddie’s ludicrous theory. Nothing at all.
As soon as the door closes behind me, I know it’s a mistake. I feel awkward, ill at ease. My heart thuds so loudly the noise fills my ears, fills the entire shop. Heat flushes into my neck and face. I might just as well have a sign stuck to my forehead saying, I’VE COME TO GET A CLOSER LOOK AT YOU, TO SEE IF YOU’RE SALLY MCGOWAN, CHILD KILLER. Who do I think I am? Miss Marple? I should be ashamed of myself.
Sonia Martins is sitting behind the counter. Poised and perfectly still, the merest hint of a smile on her heavily lipsticked mouth. Her skin is very pale.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning.” My voice is high and tinny, not at all like it normally sounds.
There is, I suppose, a certain likeness in the eyes. She has the same color hair, too, only hers is threaded with gray. But really, there must be tons of women with hair and eyes like that. Susan Marchant, for instance. And surely, if you didn’t want to be recognized, your hair color would be the very first thing you’d change. What on earth was Maddie thinking?
I wander over to the CD stand and start rotating it slowly, letting my eyes roam over the soothing titles. Zen Mystique Music for a Calm Mind. Angelic Reiki. Music for Crystal Healing.
I sense her watching me, in that subtle way small-business owners do. The discreet glance in my direction, just to make sure I’m not pocketing anything, then eyes down again. I slide a CD from the rack—Journey to the Temple—and turn it over to read the back: “Featuring seven chakra tracks blended together with natural sounds of water and birdsong.” My heartbeat slows. I really should find a yoga class. I used to go once a week in the city.
The candles are on the display table right in front of the counter. Right in front of the woman called Sonia Martins. The woman who refuses to join the Flinstead Business Group and doesn’t participate in the annual street fairs. The woman who in all probability has nothing whatsoever to do with Sally McGowan, who no doubt spent a peaceful childhood in Dearborn, or possibly Deer Creek, playing with her dolls and reading Dick and Jane, and grew up to be a kind, gentle soul.
I check the price on the candles, but even the smallest is $9.99.
Sonia looks over at me. “They smell beautiful, those candles,” she says.
I smile in response and wrestle with the dilemma of whether to buy an overpriced candle I don’t need or to leave empty-handed. That’s the trouble with these little stores: Once I’m inside, I always feel compelled to buy something, as if it’s my moral obligation to support a stranger’s business.
I replace the candle and grab a packet of incense sticks instead, smiling broadly, as if these were what I was really looking for, the reason I came here in the first place.
“That’ll be two dollars and fifty cents, please,” Sonia says. Do I detect a subtle tone of disappointment?
I fumble in my purse. Her voice is quiet, reasonably educated. A bit like mine, I suppose.
Although of course, accents can be picked up. Learned. Discarded, too. I think of Barbara’s mid-Atlantic voice and her occasional drunken lapses into a southern drawl.
Sonia Martins slips the incense into a brown-paper gift bag. Our eyes meet when she hands it over. I’m being neurotic, I know I am, but I swear those eyes can see right through me. I smile and turn to leave, aware of her gaze on the back of my neck. The weight of it.
It isn’t till I’m outside on the street again that I realize I’ve been holding my breath. What am I doing? I must stop this nonsense right now. Put it out of my mind once and for all.
* * *
—
DAVE WAVES A Post-it note at me as soon as I get back to the office.
“Anne Wilson wants a second showing of the Maple Drive property,” he says. “I thought, seeing as you’ve already met her, you might like to—”
“Enjoy the warmth of Mrs. Marchant’s smile one more time?”
Dave grins. “Something like that. I’d do it myself, but I’ve got two appraisals to do this afternoon and I’m behind as it is.”
That’s one of the things I like about Dave Pegton. I’m just a part-time employee now, trying to gain experience in residential sales, and he’s my boss and the owner of the business, but he always makes it seem like we’re equals.
“I’ll call Mom and see if she can pick Alfie up today. Then I can catch up on that pile of paperwork when I come back.”
