Echoes (23 page)

He wasn't asking, and they all knew it.

With a frustrated glance at Tess, Grant gave a nod. "Let me lock up," he said.

A few moments later, he was in the backseat of the cruiser. Tess watched as they drove away, wondering what it was she saw in his eyes just before he closed the door. Regret? Fear? She didn't know. Equally important, what did the sheriff want to ask him?

Chapter Twenty-One

Lydia watched the sunlight inch its way over the chocolate smears and grease splotches on the tablecloth. Outside, the storm had managed to scrub the world clean, leaving behind only the residue of its task in the leaves that choked the drains and the slain branches still blocking the roads into town. But inside her home, another kind of storm had wreaked havoc.

She filled her coffee cup to the brim with swiss mocha café and a heavy dollop of cream, ignoring the destruction in her kitchen with a dispassion that bordered on numbness. The freezer in the pantry had long ago ceased to taunt her. She hardly felt the cuts and lacerations beneath the bandages on her hands and feet. She hardly felt anything anymore.

In the black hours before dawn, she'd begun dulling the pain with her drug of choice. Three of her chocolate éclairs, chased with a warm bagel and half pint of cream cheese. She hadn't bothered with a plate. Next came the simple but effective bread with butter.

She'd cut the first slice carefully and toasted it until it was crunchy and honey-brown. The second and third pieces she'd sawed with urgency and flying crumbs. Finally she'd given up on the slicing and simply slathered the butter over the exposed end of the loaf and eaten it down until all that was left was the crusty heel and pile of crumbs that spread like sawdust across her lace tablecloth.

But still she felt the hollow, gaping void inside her and the need to fill it.

She slapped a dozen bacon strips into a skillet, impatiently devouring a piece of cold pizza while she waited for the grease to pop and the meat to crisp. In the end, her patience fell short of cooking time and she ate them still rubbery, already reaching for the cheesecake, then chips, peanut butter by the spoonful, cold mashed potatoes, pasta that hadn't even tasted good. She crammed one in after another, desperate to be released from her agony.

But the hurting only increased and with it came the loathing. Waves of self-disgust crashed against her weakened defenses and washed away any self-respect she might have had.

Her white sweat pants were smeared with chocolate and butter and bits of green flecked chips. Her face felt like one of the glazed donuts she'd managed to polish off somewhere between the milk jug and the fridge. But the barren caverns inside her bellowed for fulfillment.

She bit her lip, blinking back tears. The sun flared against the windows, turning them into mirrors that shot back the indistinct, yet nonetheless awful image of her body.

How can that be me? How?

She dropped her face into her sticky hands, blotting out the image. She didn't have time for self-pity. She had to shower. She had to fix her hair, hide her face behind a layer of makeup, camouflage her rolls with bright patterns and an aura of self-confidence she never felt. She had to open her doors and smile at her neighbors. She had to hold on. Hold on.

She kept her mind purposefully blank, refusing to revisit the night before as she peeled off the bandages and showered. She dressed methodically, looking in the mirror only when necessary, adding layers, sheathing her self-destructive thoughts behind the mask of rouge and the armor of silk. When she finally flipped the sign on the door of the coffee shop to OPEN, she looked like the
Lydia her few customers expected. Poised and perfumed. Smiling and chatty, cheerful and kind. A pillar of society.

She was cleaning up the mess in the kitchen when the phone rang. She answered, knowing already who it would be.

"Did you talk to the sheriff?"

"Yes," she said.

"You told him you saw her?"

"Yes."

"Good girl."

And then he hung up.
Lydia stared at the phone before carefully replacing it.

She didn't feel like a good girl, but then he didn't know where she'd been last night after he left, did he? "It's not too late," she whispered. "It's not..." But of course, she knew it was.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Long after the dust had settled behind the sheriff's cruiser, Tess remained on Grant's porch, trying to isolate her thoughts from her emotions, her emotions from the rest of the manic jumble in her head. The taste of Grant's kisses still lingered on her lips and in her mind. No one had ever touched her like that.

He'd held a spotlight on her darkest feelings. How had he seen inside her the way he had? He'd made her mad, but only because he'd blinded her with his accuracy. And then, before she could regain her balance, he'd floored her with the news that Tori had an affair with his father, a man twice her age.

He'd said that Frank Weston would have given it all to Tori, land that had been in the family for generations.... That placed her sister smack in the middle, standing between what Grant wanted and what was hers to take. Now Tori was missing and Grant was on his way to the sheriff's office.

The frustration of not knowing made her want to scream. Smith refused to tell her anything as he'd shut Grant into the backseat. Grant's grim expression through it all revealed absolutely nothing of his thoughts. So where did she go next?

She drove into town on autopilot as she tried to sort through what little she did know and draw some conclusions. Ahead was the Mountain Bend library. A stop there had been on the "proactive ways to take charge and get answers" list Tess had made this morning. First, see Grant. Second, go to the library. Third, come to grips…. But now it seemed as feeble a plan as storming Grant's door with an egg and sausage casserole had been.

Across the street from the library was an ancient looking building painted a serene pale teal. It had historical lines that rose gracefully to a second floor where bright shutters framed uniform windows. At street level, pastel pink awnings with silver coffee cups painted on them flapped in the light wind. Last night Grant had left a matchbook on the mantel with the same picture. As she pulled closer she saw scrolling white letters on the windows. "The Sugar Cube Bed & Breakfast." Below that it said, "Gourmet Coffees and Fine Pastries Seven Days a Week."

Lydia Hughes said she owned a Bed & Breakfast. How many could there be? Tess parallel parked in front of the library and crossed the street, noting the phone booth out front, the one Lydia said Tori had used two mornings ago. A bell tinkled when Tess opened the door. Inside, the Sugar Cube had a quaint look, filled with a half dozen French provincial tables and matching chairs. Lacy linens covered all the surfaces. A table with large silver urns promised a variety of caffeinated delights and a glass counter with sliding panes displayed an assortment of pastries. A tiny dish on the top held bite-sized samples arranged on a paper doily.

The light scent of Lydia's perfume mingled with the fragrant pastries and cool morning air. But it was the aroma of coffee that caught Tess's attention. It seemed like a year since she'd had a real cup.

Lydia
stepped from a back room as Tess gravitated toward the coffee table. As usual, she looked prepared to greet the President. Her hair was perfect, her outfit stunning, her smile warm and welcoming. But there was an ugly bruise on her face and her cheek was swollen and puffy.

Tess caught herself an instant before she exclaimed
what happened to your face
? Lydia read the question in her expression anyway. She raised her hand self consciously and said, "I'm such a klutz. Last night I ran right into the door frame."

"Ouch," Tess said. "Have you had it checked? It looks pretty ba—painful."

"I'm fine." But her voice wavered and a flush traveled up her neck. "Just embarrassed." Lydia moved forward and took a china cup and saucer from the artful arrangement on the coffee table. "Try the House Blend."

Tess didn't need to be asked twice. She added a huge splash of cream and took a sip. It was probably the best cup of coffee she'd ever had. Her eyes fluttered down in appreciation and
Lydia beamed with pride.

"One day I'm going to give Starbucks a run for their money."

"You just let me know when your stock goes public." Tess took another sip before saying, "Lydia, the Sheriff was by my house this morning. He told me—"

"Oh, Tess, I am sorry. I feel like such a fool. I can't believe I didn't remember that she'd been here. I was so busy and she came in just as everyone and their brother seemed to want something. And of course at the time I had no reason to take notice."

"I understand."

"It was stupid of me to forget. If Craig's father hadn't—well there was so much going on afterwards. You would think that something would have jarred my memory, but..."

"What did finally make you remember?" Tess asked.

Lydia
looked at her blankly for a moment and in her eyes a strange sort of panic seemed to glow. "Well it was this morning, when I was brewing the coffee. It just came to me. I called Sheriff Smith right away. He nearly bit my head off for not remembering sooner."

Tess gave her a sympathetic look. "That sounds like him. He told me you said Tori seemed agitated when she got off the phone. Did you speak to her?"

Lydia shook her head. "I'm sorry, she just grabbed her usual and went."

"Tori's a regular?"

"House Blend every morning. But she's not much for conversation." Lydia shrugged. "I wish I could tell you more."

Tess figured her next question was pointless, but tried anyway. "
Lydia, do you know anything about her relationship with the Westons?"

"Are you asking if she had a
personal
relationship with any of them?" Lydia said, surprised.

Tess nodded. That really wasn't what she asked but Tess thought it interesting that
Lydia drew that conclusion.

Lydia
lowered her eyes. "Not that I know of."

Distracted, maybe even troubled,
Lydia began fiddling nervously with a ring on her left hand. Tess looked closer. It was the only ring she wore and it was on her left hand, third finger. Curious, Tess said, "Is that an engagement ring, Lydia?"

Lydia
looked as if she'd sucked a lemon. "Uh...well. It's not official. I mean, there's been no announcement or anything."

"Well congratulations all the same. Who's the lucky guy?"

If possible, the lemon got sourer. "We promised each other not to say anything until we're both ready. With Frank dying and everything that's going on, we felt it was best."

Had she meant to reveal so much with that comment? Looking into her anxious face, Tess didn't think so, but
Lydia had basically admitted to being engaged to a Weston. The muscles in Tess's stomach clenched as she remembered last night at the restaurant. Grant had left just as they arrived and Lydia was upset about something. Had there been a lover's quarrel? Grant certainly seemed angry when he'd walked out the door. Or was it the sight of Craig, her
fiancé
, escorting another woman to dinner that had put that look in her eyes? Her heart made a desperate plea for the second scenario as images of this morning on Grant's porch filled her head.

Afraid
Lydia would read her mind, Tess lowered her eyes and took a quick sip of coffee, but her hand shook and she spilled the hot stuff on her shirt. Cursing, she grabbed a handful of napkins from the table and blotted at the spot.

"Did you burn yourself?"
Lydia asked, concerned.

"No, talk about a klutz. That's like the third cup of coffee I've spilled in three days. I should just switch to booze. Maybe I'd manage to get it to my mouth that way."

Lydia's eyes sparkled and she smiled with understanding. She really was an exceptionally beautiful woman. Why should she be so surprised that one of the Weston brothers thought so too?

"Tess,"
Lydia said, her voice suddenly serious. "I wanted to—"

A noise came from somewhere in the back.
Lydia froze as the distinct sound of a door opening and closing reached them.

"I must have company."

Her expression made it clear that whatever she'd been about to say would have to wait. Frustrated, Tess nodded. "I better get going anyway. I have some things to do."

Finishing what was left of her coffee, Tess pulled out her wallet to pay.

Lydia shook her head. "Be serious. The coffee's on me."

Tess thanked her and stepped outside. The instant she closed the door behind her, she felt the unmistakable and now familiar cold gathering within, as if it had been merely waiting for her to be alone. Instinctively she stiffened, prepared to fight the void that opened around her. But fighting it didn't work, did it? Whatever
it
was, resistance did not thwart it. She hurried to her car and locked herself in. Purposefully she forced her muscles to relax. Like a wind, the sensations blew inside to out.

She looked through her windshield and saw the motion of the wagon as if it were superimposed over the deserted street. The effect unnerved her as totally as the awareness of stepping completely over the gulf of time. She saw Adam, turning to say something, and at the same moment, she watched the lone traffic light at the corner go from yellow to red.

A surge of energy raced across her skin and the images warbled, as if seen through a haze of intense heat. She battled the suffocating fear that beat down like the sunrays and forced herself to take the step.

To cross over.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Molly's first month on the trail drew to an end on the winds of yet another fierce storm. For two weeks pelting rain that changed all to marsh and sludge had plagued them. Mud sucked at their shoes and sloughs caved and sank their wheels to the hubs. Each time the wagon became mired it had to be unloaded, forced from the cavity by either strength or ingenuity, and then loaded up again. The process was at once tedious and exhausting.

Dusk often brought with it frigid rains that doused their fires and chilled their bones. They all grew weary of eating cold biscuits and beans while huddled and cramped in the wagon. Molly's days were filled from sunrise to sunset with countless chores and wearisome tasks. She and the others were all done in by the time they made camp each evening. More than once Molly had looked up from the dinner dishes to find everyone else asleep where they sat around the fire.

"I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't come along, Molly," Rosie told her one night.

"You would have done all that you could and the Lord would have provided the rest."

"Hmmm," Rosie said. "He ain't providing enough rest as it is."

Mr. Hastings' guidebook advised that the emigrants rest on the Sabbath. He admonished those that pushed on instead of heeding his advice, stating that they would reach California no faster and all the more worse for the wear. Molly wholeheartedly agreed, but the hostile weather had set them back considerably and Adam feared they would not reach Independence in time.

"Once we join with another group, we'll rest on Sundays. But we can't afford to miss out by getting there too late. We don't want to make this trip on our own."

No, indeed, Molly thought, shuddering at the very idea of their small party straggling behind the exodus with no one to rely upon but themselves. She kept her complaints to herself as did as the others.

Adam had apparently spoken to Dewey since that first day, and thankfully the revolting man had since kept his distance. At night, she prayed that once they reached
Independence, Dewey would decide to travel with another party altogether. It was not exactly the most Christian of prayers, but she rationalized that at least it didn't involve broken bones or plunging falls.

She opened her eyes one morning after a particularly nasty bought of weather had ravaged the night before and thought that it felt as if they'd been traveling for years, though the journey had barely begun. Only Arlie's happy babble and a rare promise of sunshine could induce her to leave her blankets and join the living.

It was later in the day that Brodie fell into step beside her and they walked in companionable silence. The oxen ambled beside them like well trained pets, towing the wagon behind them. The morning sun had succumbed to dark clouds and threat of rain hung imminent above them. The ground was marshy and it sucked at their boots, but once the storm broke they would be confined once again and Molly could not pass up the opportunity to stretch her legs.

Adam had ridden ahead to scout the best place to camp for the night—Lady trotting faithfully at his heels. Dewey had fallen behind to hunt, though so far his kills had consisted of tiny creatures that did not seem fit to eat. Rosie had been fighting a cold brought on by the chilly, wet weather and at Molly's insistence, she'd lain down to rest in the wagon. Molly and Brodie were alone but for Arlie.

"You want to ride on my horse for awhile, Molly?" Brodie asked, giving her a shy smile.

"Thank you, Brodie, but I think I'd best keep my feet on the ground today. I'm afraid I will be nothing more than a dress filled with aches and discomforts before this journey is through."

"I'm thinking I won't have strength enough to dig for gold, myself," he answered.

Arlie had just awoken from his afternoon nap and now he raced beside her in the fields. He'd fought ferociously when she'd dressed him in pants and a long-sleeved shirt after his nap, but if she had not, he would be covered in as many insect bites as he was mud splatters by now. He tumbled frequently when his momentum exceeded his stout little legs, but the endless days filled with little else had allowed him to master the art of walking and move on to running with only a pause between.