Murder at Barclay Meadow (20 page)

I imagined Ed escorting Becky to Amy's, laughing with
my
neighbors,
my
friends, on
my
favorite night of the year. Had they chosen him over me? Isn't that what happened when a couple divorced—divvy up the friends along with the assets?

I clicked out of Facebook. Sometimes I wondered if I was better off not knowing how everyone's life was more fabulous and exotic than mine. Reading their posts was like watching cruise ships sail by while I remained stranded on a deserted island.

I noticed a bright red “1” in the envelope icon of my email. I opened it. Ed had written, “Call me.”

Was he serious? He emails me to call him? I can hear it now …

Hi, Siri. Not sure if you remember I have a wife. But could you email her to call me?

Hi, Ed. Are you sure you want to talk to her? Isn't she your ex-wife now? Aren't you in love with someone else?

Other than the brief encounter in Durham that brought me to my knees, Ed and I had not spoken since the day he helped me arrange my belongings in the small trunk of my car. What little communication we had was conducted through our lawyers or an occasional email. My heart was tight in my chest as I continued to stare at his message. What did he want? It must be serious or he wouldn't have asked me to call. What if … what if he wanted me back? Was that his Christmas wish? And what would I say? I chipped off every trace of the crimson nail polish on my thumb as I waited for him to answer his phone.

“Rose,” he said. “Thanks for calling.”

“Of course,” I said. I placed my hand over my heart. I had forgotten the sound of his voice—that whispery, deep, velvety voice. I pictured him at his desk in the study I had decorated so meticulously: a wide Biedermeier desk, the thick silk rug that warmed the honey-colored wood floors, two leather reclining chairs sharing a soft floor lamp, built-in bookshelves surrounding the fireplace. I even bought him a small Bose stereo so he could listen to classical music while he worked. He would be sitting in the padded leather desk chair right now, his glasses off, maybe massaging the bridge of his nose. His gray sideburns would be neatly trimmed, a light trace of Burberry cologne lingering in the room. Did he think of me when he noticed those extra touches I was so devoted to adding? Making him feel comfortable, settled, undistracted?

“Annie is here,” he said. “I thought you would want to know she arrived safe and sound.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I already know. She texted me when—”

“Oh, right. How could I have forgotten? You're the better parent. Of course she would tell you first.”

“What?” I couldn't catch my breath. It was as though he had just sucker punched me in the gut. Although Ed and I had our disagreements, we never quibbled about Annie. Never. “Ed, why did you say that?”

“I just wasn't a good enough parent for you, was I? I never did things exactly the way you wanted. It was just a matter of time before—”

“Ed.” I was trembling. “
You
are divorcing
me
. Have you forgotten?”

“That doesn't mean you weren't part of the problem.”

I walked over to the window and stared out at the setting sun. It was mirrored in the river like Narcissus—absorbed in his own glorious image. “Why did you want me to call?”

“Rose, you have to admit you played a part in this.”

“No, actually I don't.” Tears constricted my throat, but I willed them back. “I honestly thought our marriage was good. I still do. I was happy, Ed. I'm sorry you weren't.”

He was trying to rationalize this. If he could affix at least some of the blame on me, he could assuage what little guilt he was feeling.
I was an adulterer because we were both unhappy
. Okay, Rosalie, keep your head on straight. And don't play his game. I remembered Rhonda and her confidence. Divorce is freeing, she said. Maybe I can make my own rules—drive the car for a change.

“Here's the 411,” I said.

“The
what
?”

“Your infidelity is what ended this marriage. You are responsible for making that choice and only you. Now, why exactly did you want to talk to me?”

He hesitated. “I called to see if Annie could come to your place tomorrow night.”

“You mean Christmas Eve?”

“Well, yes, tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” he said as if I were six.

“But she told us she wants to be in her own bed, see her friends, see her Christmas ornaments on the tree, the stocking my mother knitted for her hanging from the mantel.”

He cleared his throat. “I haven't exactly gotten a tree.”

“Oh, no. You haven't, you aren't … you can't do this to her, Ed. You can divorce me, but Annie?” I rested my forehead against the cool glass and closed my eyes. “Of course she can come here. Have her drive out in the afternoon.”

“Don't you want to know why?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “And you find that stocking.”

I have never hung up on anyone in my entire life. And every ingrained trace of a conscience told me not to, but as the mother lion in me roared to the surface, I knew if I didn't fight for Annie no one would. So when I heard Ed start to rationalize his behavior and almost say the dreaded “Rebecca,” I looked down at the flour-encrusted button and clicked it off. For the next hour I nursed a mug of coffee and stared at the ringing phone. He must have been totally baffled. I always answered the phone. I would talk to telemarketers for fifteen minutes before I could end the conversation without hurting any feelings. But this was my child. Nobody messed with my child.

 

T
WENTY
-
SIX

“Did you have to buy the biggest tree on the lot?” Tyler said as he watched me try to yank my new purchase through the front door. Needles sprayed like confetti. I gave it another tug and managed to wedge it solidly in the doorway.

I let go. My leather gloves were sticky with pine sap. “I thought it would look nice in the living room by the French doors.”

Tyler sipped from a coffee mug. “Looks like it's gonna stay right where it is.”

The frigid morning air whistled through the gaps in the doorway. “You could at least give me a hand.”

He sipped again. “Do you have a tree stand?”

“Tree stand?” I stared at the wedged tree. “I didn't even think about it.”

Tyler set his mug down and slipped his hands into his back pockets. “You could always string some lights around it right there. Might look kind of nice from the road.”

“Ha ha.” I glared over at him. “Now, get over here and help me.”

After a few agonizing moments, he walked over to his jacket and pulled out a pair of heavy work gloves. He wrapped his hands around the base of the tree. I stood in front of him and grabbed on to a narrower part of the trunk.

“I have it,” he said.

“You can't do this by yourself.” I braced my legs. “On the count of three: one … two…”

Tyler heaved and the tree broke free. I lost my balance and tumbled into him. It took me a moment to realize I was in his lap.

“
Pfft,
” he said. “Your hair is in my mouth.”

“You didn't wait until I said three.”

“I told you I didn't need any help.”

I was covered in needles. I started to brush them away when I felt Tyler's hands firm on my waist. “Ready?”

“No.”

“One, two…” Tyler lifted me as if I were made of feathers and stood me upright on the floor.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling breathless. “Do you have something against the number three?” His hands were still on my waist. “You can let go now.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Tyler dusted off his jeans and walked back to the tree. “Where did you say you wanted this?” He hoisted the trunk onto his shoulder.

“I'll show you.” He followed me into the living room. Needles brittled like rain. “Something tells me this poor tree has been on the lot for a while,” I said.

He propped it against the wall. “Maybe you should have thought of that before Christmas Eve.”

“It's for Annie.” I pulled off my gloves. “She and her dad always picked out the tree. They would go out the first weekend in December and chop it down themselves. I thought he was going to do that again.”

Tyler studied me. “This isn't an easy holiday for you, is it?”

I was touched. So far all of Tyler's insight into me had been a series of comments highlighting my ignorance or naivet
é
. “No, it isn't,” I said. “They say the first year is the hardest. But I can't think about that now. I've got to be okay for Annie.”

“I have an idea of what you're going through.”

“Your wife?”

He nodded. “It was pretty hard that first year after she left.”

I looked up. His eyelids were at half mast. His green eyes glowed with a compassion I had never witnessed. I was deeply touched.

He turned and stood before the tree. “The attic.”

“What?”

“You might find a tree stand in the attic. And some ornaments, too. Miss Charlotte always had a tree. And just so you know.” He peered back over his shoulder. “She always put it right where you want to put this one.”

I smiled. It tickled me to finally see beneath Tyler's veneer of indifference. It takes time, I thought, to build safety. Especially between two veterans decorated with purple hearts.

Tyler eyed the spindly limbs. “It's really not a bad tree.”

“You sound like Linus.” I stood next to him and brushed some needles from his shoulder. “But maybe you're right. Sometimes a few flaws, a few scars, add to the charm, don't you think?”

“Maybe so,” he said.

“So, what will you do tonight?”

“I don't put a whole lot of merit in the holidays.”

“Then stay here with Annie and me. We can have a little party. I bought some eggnog. You could help us decorate the tree.”

“No thanks,” he said. “I'll head over to my sister's house in the morning.” He looked down at his boots. “In case you hadn't noticed … most times I prefer to be alone.”

“Oh, wait. I almost forgot.” I picked up a wrapped gift from the desk. “For you.”

He stared down at it. “I can't accept this.”

“You have to. I'm your boss, remember?”

“I don't have a gift for you.”

“I wasn't expecting one.” I smiled. “I want to thank you for everything you've done to help me.” I placed it in his hands. “So? Open it.”

Tyler carefully peeled back the gold foil paper and looked down at a yellowed copy of
East of Eden
.

“I saw you were reading your own copy a few weeks ago.” I opened the cover. “This one is a first edition. See? And it's signed.”

“Where did you find this?” He looked up at me, bewildered.

“I've been going through Charlotte's things. I found it on the shelf in my bedroom. I've always loved this book, too.”

Pain tensed his eyes.

“She loved you very much, didn't she? I never thought about it before. She must have considered you to be family. Like a son.” I studied his face. “The son she never had.”

He continued to look at me, but said nothing. He clutched the book to his chest with one hand.

“These past two years couldn't have been easy for you.” I touched his arm. “I'm sorry if I made it worse in any way. You must still miss her so very much.”

“I do.” His jaw clenched.

“I'm sorry if I'm slow to get things. I feel as if I'm climbing out of a musty cave after a long hibernation. But I see now how important this farm, this house, and, most importantly, Charlotte, have been to you.” I stepped back and hugged myself. “And I'm really glad you're here now.”

Tyler looked down at the book and then back up at me. His eyes searched my face. “Thank you, Rosalie,” he said in a hoarse voice.

That was the first time he said my name.

 

T
WENTY
-
SEVEN

Annie arrived that afternoon in a foul mood. She dropped her Vera Bradley duffle in the foyer with a solid thud and announced, “My father is the Grinch who stole Christmas.”

“Oh, Annie.” I pulled her into my arms. “I'm so sorry about all of this.” I held her tight. When she stepped back I studied her face. Her eyes were red. She'd been crying. Annie loved the holidays as much as me. Seeing her Christmas sparkle tarnished for the first time in her young life made my heart ache.

“I have eggnog,” I said.

“Only if you spike it with a lot of rum.” Annie stuffed her hands into her coat pockets and looked around the house. I had just removed a batch of apple cinnamon cookies from the oven. The buttery cinnamon aroma saturated the air. Christmas carols sang out from the living room.
Dashing through the snow …

Annie rolled her eyes. It was fifty-five degrees outside, the sun burning bright on a cloudless day. “I'm going to take a shower.” She picked up her bag and started up the stairs.

“When you're finished, we have to decorate my tree,” I called after her. The stairs were particularly squeaky, announcing the age of this isolated old house with each of Annie's footsteps. I nibbled on a fingernail. Damn you, Ed. When Annie reached the top I called out, “I'll find that rum!”

When Annie finally appeared in the living room, she was scrubbed clean and wearing sweatpants and a Duke University women's rugby hoodie. She slid her finger over her phone, turned it sideways, and typed with her thumbs. A loud whoosh signaled her email had entered cyberspace.

“Merry Christmas,” I said and handed her a mug of eggnog.

“Spiked?”

“Rum,” I said. “That was a good idea.”