Left to Chance Page 14

  “He seems happy.”

  “You’re a big part of why your dad’s happy.”

  “No, not really.”

  “Really.”

  Shay clasped her hands and then fidgeted and sat on them. Now I’d find out about the girls, maybe what the gossip at Josie’s was about. Small-town rivalries ran for decades and mean girls were always at the bottom of it. “It’s those girls, isn’t it? That’s been really stressful for you and your dad.” Shay nodded. “And probably Violet too.” Shay just shrugged. “Tell me the short version—you don’t have to go into detail. What’s going on?”

  “Do you want me to be honest?”

  “Absolutely. Tell me the truth.”

  “Morgan used to be my best friend. Now she’s not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re all weird.”

  I was expecting mean, nasty, cruel. Not—weird. I kept looking at Shay then back to the road. Shay. Road. Shay. Road. Shay.

  “What?” Shay’s sarcasm was laced with clichéd teenage hostility. “You said you wanted the truth.”

  * * *

  Shay said nothing else until I pulled into her driveway. I wanted to ask her what “weird” meant, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. The few words that trickled from my brain stayed lodged in my throat. I couldn’t even come up with a reprimand, or a piece of passé advice.

  I was in over my head.

  “Will you pick me up from art class tomorrow?”

  “I think we should talk about—”

  “No, we shouldn’t. You’re coming back tonight, though, right?”

  Shay’s jawline softened. Pizza and pictures. And weird. “I’ll be over about six.”

  “Dad’s not usually home until about seven.”

  “That’s okay. You and I can have some more girl time.”

  Shay looked at me, eyes wide. I mimicked her and stared back, daring her to bar me from the house, her life, and whatever was going on.

  * * *

  I parked at the end of Grand Street and called Annie.

  “This is getting to be a habit. I like it,” she said. “How’s Mayberry?”

  Today the small-town jab cut deep. “Not good.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you know anything about preteen girls?”

  “Aren’t you in the land of maternal overlords?”

  “I guess. Well, would you do me a favor? It’s a biggie. Actually, it’s two favors.”

  “Sure.”

  “First, I need you to go to Simon’s and get my dry cleaning out of the closet in the blue guest room and send it to me. Second, don’t tell him what you’re doing.”

  “You want me to steal your own clothes for you and keep it a secret. Can I ask why?”

  “I need my work clothes and they’re in there.”

  “You’re in your hometown and the bride wants you to wear your penguin outfit? I thought these were friends of yours. Maybe it’s time you transitioned out of your uniform phase of life, and this would be a good time to start. Go buy yourself something. They have a mall there, right?”

  “Maybe another time. Just do this for me, please?”

  “Why don’t you just ask Simon to send it all to you? He is capable of calling FedEx, you know. He could probably even put it in a box himself.” Annie laughed. “He keeps asking if you’ve called. Maybe you’re right. He’d probably shove himself into the box if I told him.”

  “I’ll call him, I promise. I just don’t want to involve him in this, that’s all. It’s like old home week for me. Old friends…”

  “I don’t know, if I had someone like Simon in my life, I’d want to show him where I grew up.”

  “I can’t, Annie. Not yet.”

  “I think you’re crazy, but I’d do anything for you.”

  “Oh, thank you! Just get the black pants, and two white tops to me before the wedding on Sunday. Tell Simon I asked you to put the clothes in the office closet.”

  “Leave the details to me.”

  “I always do! What would I do without you?”

  “End up staying in Mayberry.”

  “Annie!”

  “Yes, I know. Chance, Ohio. Now, I need your address.”

  “Thanks, I owe you.”

  “You’re right, you owe me.” Annie sometimes blurred the friend/boss line, but then again, so did I. With her and with Simon. “Now, with that taken care of, I have to tell you about this possible client who called today,” she said. “You are not going to believe—”

  “No, Annie, I can’t. Not now.”

  * * *

  “Thanks for letting me come over.”

  “You’re always welcome here. You sounded stressed.”

  I followed behind Josie, who’d changed from her work clothes into a short—maybe just a little too short—denim skirt and a fitted scoop-neck white T-shirt that showed off her tan along with everything else. We walked through the kitchen, which looked as if it had never been used, when it had been filled with food and friends fewer than twenty-four hours earlier.

  “You need a drink,” Josie said. “It’s Tanqueray and Tonic Tuesday, you know!”

  “Just water or iced tea for me.”

  “I think you need something stronger, but okay.”

  What I needed was a way to get Shay to open up. I didn’t want to be on the perimeter anymore, not now that I’d seen—been invited—inside her life. Or at least part of it. That would require a clear head and some assistance.

  I carried two glasses filled with ice, and Josie carried a pitcher of tea through the house and into the formal living room, which had a Southern flair.

  “It was inspired by our trip to Charleston,” Josie said as if she’d been reading my mind.

  I felt as if I’d stepped into a preppy kaleidoscope. The walls were either hand painted or wallpapered in shamrock green with flecks of white, which upon closer inspection were tiny hand-painted pineapples. Gold-framed artwork and photos covered one wall as if it were a gallery. The couch and chairs were covered in soft white linen (with three boys!) while the accent pillows and one meticulously placed throw were a combination of green, bright pink, and multihued plaids. A hotel-size bouquet of color-coordinated tropical flowers graced the white marble fireplace mantel in front of an oversized mirror.

  Josie pulled open a set of triple doors and left them ajar.

  “This is the piazza,” she said.

  It reminded me of Savannah—though Josie said Charleston. The South. Same to me, although I knew that was geographically incorrect, as was the architecture of the house. But the details were on point, with the low wicker wrap-around furniture, the columns, and the slow-moving ceiling fans that almost insisted I slow down and sit. So I did.

  Josie set the pitcher on a low table and I poured our glasses full. Then I sat on the chaise, the tufted cushion making way for me. It was soft, yet supportive. When I lifted my legs I felt relief, as if I was weightless and could drift away in the nonexistent sea.

  “I almost forgot I’m in Chance.” I snuggled into the corner among the mountain of pillows, and closed my eyes.

  I heard Josie drop onto the sofa to my right. “I love it here, but I’ll tell you a secret. That’s the point.”

  * * *

  “She said ‘weird,’ huh?” Josie sipped her drink and looked off into the yard. “Kind of un-PC, these days, don’t you think?”

  “I told her to be honest.”

  “Yeah, that’s always a wide-open door you’re sorry you walked through, isn’t it? And before that Miles didn’t seem surprised when you mentioned those other girls?”

  “No, but it was before that comment, just when Shay was avoiding them at the mall.”

  “Maybe it’s really just none of your business.”

  “How is it none of my business? I’m here. I saw what happened. First at Fat Chance Café and then at the mall. How can I ignore that?”

  “Maybe you have to. They invited you to the wedding, not int
o their family problems.”

  “No, they asked me to take pictures at their wedding, which I’m doing because of our history. Because of Celia and because of Shay. The same reason someone should tell me what’s going on.” I rolled an ice cube around in my mouth and spit it back into my glass.

  “Well, it’s pretty hard to keep a secret around here. You know what they say! Someone in Chance always knows.”

  “I knew you were going to say that. You know what? That’s not true. People around here have a disproportionate number of secrets. They just pretend they don’t. And then they leave. Or die. With their secrets intact.”

  Josie scrunched her eyebrows together as if rummaging through her own secrets—or those of others.

  “I think that when it comes to kids, things aren’t so much secret as just private. Parents aren’t always willing to discuss what’s going on. Even if everyone knows.”

  “I’m not everyone. I love Shay, and I care about Miles. And I owe it to Celia. If something is going on, I want to help. I think it’s a defense mechanism. She’s such a sweet kid; if they’re doing something to bother her, of course she’s going to put up a wall…”

  “Now you’re a therapist?”

  “No, but…”

  “Maybe they don’t want your help. Maybe your help is taking pictures. And taking Shay to the mall.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I’m just being honest. Kid stuff is hard and—”

  “And what? I don’t understand because I don’t have kids. You’re right. I don’t understand any of it. But I want to. I want to help her. I want to be there for her. How can I do that if nobody will talk to me?”

  “Get Shay to tell you herself what’s going on.”

  “I tried that. I’m no good at it. I’m good at the fun stuff.”

  “Today wasn’t all fun, though, was it? And you did it. We end up doing a lot of things we never thought we’d do for the kids we love. Just give it time.”

  “I don’t have time. The wedding is Sunday. I leave Monday. It’s not just that I want to know, I know I can help her. Whatever it is.”

  “Well, since you’re not a therapist, I know one in town you can talk to.”

  “You want me to go to therapy?”

  “No, I want you to talk to someone who can help you talk to Shay, so both of you are okay when you leave again. I’m thinking about you too, Teddi. She really helped with Jonathan. Well, really, she helped us.”

  I thought of Josie’s musician and wondered what had happened. According to Josie, even if I’d lived here, or been better at keeping in touch, Shay still might not have shared her struggles with me.

  “I don’t think I could talk to a counselor. I’m not really comfortable telling a stranger my personal problems.”

  “But you want Shay and Miles to tell you theirs.”

  “I’m not a stranger.”

  Josie cocked her head. She waited. I could wait her out. I crossed my arms. She wavered and I won. Although, not really.

  “Deny it all you want, but once you left Ohio, you stepped onto the outside of Shay’s real life.”

  I relaxed back into the chaise. “How do I get to the inside before Sunday?”

  “I’ll give you the counselor’s card. Or just talk through the whole thing with someone who knows you really well.”

  “That’s what I thought we were doing.”

  “We don’t know each other like we used to.”

  My throat tightened. What was I doing here then? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you with all this. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

  Josie sat on the edge of the chaise. I moved my legs and she scooted toward me. “Knock it off, you’re not bothering me. I like it that we’re friends again. Real-life friends. We’re connected. I feel it too. I’m trying to help you. If it were me, I’d go to my husband. And I did. But Evan didn’t know what to do either. So we got some help. Just think of who knows your heart, Teddi, who knows how you think. Start there.”

  I felt a stab in my side and my breath quickened, as if I’d been running. “I couldn’t do that!”

  “Is Simon really too busy to talk to you about something this important?”

  I wasn’t thinking about Simon.

  Chapter 14

  “PICTURES BEFORE OR AFTER pizza?” Miles asked. He fiddled with the knot in his tie.

  “Before.” I unpacked my camera and an extra flash onto the kitchen table. “Unless you’re sure you won’t get any sauce on your shirt.”

  “I’m going to work on my art project,” Shay said.

  I wanted Shay nearby so I could watch her with my newfound perspective. Problem was, she knew it. “You’re not going to help?”

  Shay cackled. It sounded more sinister than sweet. “You can handle Daddy on your own!” She headed for the stairs. “I’ll come down when the pizza’s here.”

  I said nothing to change her mind, fearful of what she might say, what Miles might hear. The right words were needed at a time like this, and I didn’t possess them.

  Or I was a coward.

  “Where would you like the pictures taken, Mi?” I spun around as if I’d never been there before, as if I didn’t know which room had the best natural light, the warmest wood, was least likely to allow my voice to travel up the stairs.

  “Isn’t it your job to tell me?”

  I shook my head, but walked toward the living room, and Miles followed. I pointed to the piano bench, so Miles sat.

  I felt accused by every syllable Miles spoke. I motioned to the piano keys. “Does Shay play?”

  “No. She says she’s an artist, not a musician.”

  I laid my hands on Miles’s shoulders and rotated them a few degrees toward me. Then I opened a worn piece of sheet music on the piano. The theme to Somewhere in Time. I shuddered. Celia and I had discovered this 1980 Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour movie more than ten years after it had come out, during a rainy Friday-night excursion to the Video-Rama during the summer between our freshman and sophomore years in college. It became Celia’s all-time favorite movie, and then, her favorite piece of music to play. It wasn’t until years later that I embraced the notion of the film—that a simple keepsake could keep someone tethered to the past, whether real or imaginary. I tapped my pocket to feel the stone I knew was there.

  “You still have this?”

  I thrust the paper at Miles, daring him to tell me it was a coincidence, willing him to say it was intentional. He set the music back on the piano and smoothed it open, as if it hadn’t been anything more than a prop.

  With the camera to my face I focused on the composition and the light, nothing more. Tip your head, turn your chin, look over my shoulder, into the camera, off into the distance. Stand, sit, turn, smile. Hand in your pocket, behind your back, under your chin. For a few minutes I forgot Miles was the Miles of Miles and Celia. He transformed into a shape I saw only through my lens from a comfortable distance with shadows and colors. Miles was right, it did feel like work, but in the best possible way, the way that made time fly as I made images stand still.

  I moved the camera away and stared at Miles until he didn’t look like Miles anymore, the way you can look at a word and after a while it starts to look different, even though you know it’s the same word. Perhaps if you look at anything, or anyone, long enough and hard enough, it begins to change. Scrutiny was transformative.

  “I think we’re done.”

  Miles rose and loosened his tie. I looked at the mantel, arranged with new trinkets since the last time I’d looked, or taken inventory, probably many years before. A small wedding portrait of Miles and Celia in a simple black metal frame perched on an end table alone. I didn’t know if it was set in a place of honor or if Violet didn’t want her own belongings to intermingle and catch Celia cooties.

  I picked up the frame and held it. I stared at the eyes of my friend like I hadn’t in years.

  “I’d like to talk about Shay before she comes down,” I said.r />
  “I’m not sure what you want to talk about.”

  “She thinks you’re moving.”

  “No she doesn’t.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “We’ve talked about this, and yes, one day we’ll probably move. But not now. And I promise you, she knows that.”

  * * *

  I hadn’t reached out to Beck in six years. And now, back in the room that he owned, my attempt went right to voicemail.

  “Hi, it’s me. I mean—it’s Teddi. Can I—I would like to talk to you about Shay. Would you call me back? Please call me back.”

  Over the next ten minutes I held my phone to my ear, checked the Wi-Fi connection, restarted the phone, and texted Annie and asked her to call me. My phone worked fine.

  Finally, I heard the default tone for texts.

  Beck: I’m busy right now.

  Me: Are you available later?

  Beck: I’ll let you know.

  Me: You’ll let me know WHEN you’re available or you’ll let me know IF you’re available?

  No reply.

  I opened my door and listened for a creak, a footstep, a cough. If I heard evidence that Beck was upstairs, I’d just tiptoe up before he had the sense to escape out a window and shimmy down the chimney. Or, I could sit on the steps and wait. He didn’t know that I knew I was sleeping in his house. His guard would be down. Then I realized Beck’s guard was likely never down when it came to me.

  Back inside the room, I drew the curtains, but left on the light. I climbed under the covers so as not to disturb half the bed. Knowing the bedding had been chosen and purchased by Beck made me want to wrap myself in it as if it were intended just for me. It felt intimate, even revealing, like anything I thought would be left in the room for Beck to find. The sheets were smooth, cool, and a high thread count. The comforter was light but thick, warm but not suffocating. The pillows were supportive and soft and had just enough give.

  An hour later I awoke disoriented. I didn’t know if it was late or early or somewhere in between. My mouth was open and dry on the inside, drool-drenched on the outside. My lashes were tacky with the mascara I hadn’t removed.

  I picked up my phone.

  Beck: I’m around if you want to talk.

  Damn. It had come through twenty minutes earlier. I hadn’t even heard the beep.