The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense (17 page)

His fingers explored a bruise where his neck met his shoulder. “Whatever you want to call it, it was great.” He grinned. “It’s my good luck that you have control issues.”

Iris sat up, uncaring that the sheet slipped to her waist. “What?”

“The whole cougar thing is about control,” he said in a didactic voice, like he was reading from a journal article. “Older women want to be in charge of their romantic relationship, so they seek out younger men. The media treats the cougar phenomenon like it’s a new thing, but so-called ‘cougars’ have been around for thousands of years. It’s a recurring theme in the mythologies of several cultures where goddesses like Isis, Ishtar, and Aphrodite all fell for men who were younger, weaker, and mortal. You see, it’s a power thing, a role reversal thing.
It’s not just because younger men have more stamina and hotter bodies.”

He flexed a slender bicep in a way Iris would have found endearingly self-mocking if his words hadn’t pissed her off.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, apparently misinterpreting Iris’s expressions. “I’m all for it.” He reached for her, but she rolled off the bed, taking the coverlet with her. Her nudity felt more vulnerable than powerful all of a sudden.

“Is that what you learned in Psych 101?” she asked, a dangerous edge to her voice.

“I’ve done some reading.” He seemed uncertain now. “Look, if I hurt your feelings by calling you older, I’m sorry. You’re by far the hottest—”

Iris turned her back on him and stalked to the bathroom, closing the door with immense gentleness. She wanted to throw pillows and yell at him to get out, but that seemed petty and might make him think she was mad at him for calling her old. She sank onto the toilet, coverlet pooling at her feet. Her breaths came in shuddering exhalations and she realized with surprise that she was on the verge of crying. Turning on the shower so Aaron wouldn’t hear her, she rattled some toilet paper from the roll and blew her nose. Steam billowed, bringing with it a scent of lavender soap.
What is wrong with me? Why the hell do I want to bawl like a baby?
She stared at the ghostly reflection of her face in the fogged mirror. It had been an emotional few days, she reminded herself. She’d found out her father was innocent, her mother indifferent, that her best friend had betrayed her, and that the great love of her life had fizzled like a firecracker doused with too much water under the bridge. No wonder she was blinking back tears.

“Iris? Are you okay?” Aaron tapped at the door.

She cleared her throat. “Fine,” she called. “I’ll be out in a minute.” She also had to admit that Aaron’s words had pricked her. Oh, she didn’t mind being called older—she wouldn’t trade her “older” for his callow “younger” any day of the week. But what he’d said about control issues … Was he right? Did she zero in on younger guys because she wanted to call the shots, decide when they ended up in bed and how long the relationship lasted, whether hours or a couple of months? She had a sneaking suspicion there was something to Aaron’s analysis and it galled her that he’d found her so easy to dissect with his Psych 101 bullshit. She’d always thought psychologists were a wonky lot. She wouldn’t want any son of hers majoring in psychology. Poor Jolene.

As steam blotted out the mirror completely, she faced another ugly truth: she’d seduced Aaron, in part, to get back at Jolene. It might have felt like she’d walked into The Thirsty Parrot by accident, but Iris didn’t believe in accidents of that kind. She’d gone there hoping to run into Aaron, planning to fuck Jolene’s baby boy. She imagined Jolene’s reaction if she knew and got no satisfaction from it now. Jolene had been sixteen when she refused to tell the truth that would have spared Iris. Iris was thirty-eight, way more than old enough not to let herself be driven by hurt and anger. She dropped her head into her hands and let the tears come. She stayed like that, hunched over on the toilet, crying silently, until Aaron had knocked twice more.

Finally, she got into the shower and let the water drum on her face, sluicing away tears and snot and makeup. It didn’t do such a good job with her guilt and confusion. She thought about praying, but dismissed the alien idea. Re-donning the damp clothes she’d hung on the back of the bathroom door to dry earlier, she opened the door, letting a cloud of humidity into the bedroom. Her sodden hair soaked her shirt between her shoulder blades. Aaron, dressed, sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on his thighs. He looked worried. She was too exhausted to feel anything but grateful that he, apparently, wanted to go as much as she wanted him to leave.

“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye,” he said, rising.

Iris kissed him on the cheek. She wanted to warn him not to say anything to his mother, but knew that would only alarm him and make him curious. She had to be content with knowing that twenty-something men did not routinely discuss the details of their sex lives with their moms. Wishing she could think of something to say that wouldn’t sound totally lame or condescending, she finally said, “Thanks.”
Thanks for slapping me upside the head with an unpleasant truth. Thanks for leaving. Thanks for being a basically nice guy that your mom can be proud of.

He nodded uncertainly, and opened the door. His throat worked. “Will I see you again?”

“I’ve got to go home soon. To Portland.”

Aaron nodded again, as if she’d answered his question rather than ducked it. “Well, I … uh … It was special. For me, anyway.”

Iris closed her eyes, pained, and when she opened them he was gone.

twenty-seven

iris

Iris knew she was
dreaming, but couldn’t wake up. She was in a bar, dressed provocatively in a dress she’d never buy, but she was only ten or eleven years old. Garish makeup rendered her young face hideous. “Mary Had a Little Lamb” played from the jukebox, over and over. Lounging on a stool, her back to the bar and her elbows propped on it, she directed come-hither looks at a man across the room. When the man approached, smiling with anticipation, she saw it was Pastor Matt and awoke, heart pounding.

Wouldn’t Aaron have a field day analyzing that nightmare, she thought, getting out of bed at 4:02 to use the bathroom and shake the dream from her head. She crawled back into the sex-scented bed, afraid of sinking back into the dream, and awoke Tuesday morning with a headache, and a resolve to give celibacy a try. A long-ago therapist had told her she needed a prolonged period of celibacy to help sort through her mixed-up motivations for sex and she’d laughed the idea off. Now, it felt right. She showered and called Jane, knowing her friend would get a kick out of her new celibacy resolution, but got no answer and no guidance. She felt a strong urge to talk to Greg. On impulse, she dialed the first three digits of his phone number, but then broke the connection.

She pondered her options. The only person close to the case she hadn’t talked to was Esther. The thought of confronting the bitter woman made Iris grimace, but she might well have seen or heard something that would help her discover what really happened.

Iris drove into Lone Pine determined to get a coffee from Debby’s Café whether Debby wanted her there or not. The mood she was in, she’d be just as happy if Debby tried to kick her out. Iris pushed into the café, setting the bell to ringing, and approached the counter. The smell of bacon made her tummy rumble. A quick survey of the space showed Mr. Ulm working behind the counter, several couples and families breakfasting on hotcakes or eggs, and the young waitress zipping between tables and the kitchen. No sign of Debby. Mr. Ulm, in jeans and a maroon Henley shirt that clashed with his rust-colored hair, approached Iris with a smile that showed a gap between his two top teeth.

“You look like a woman who needs a coffee.”

“Yes, please.” Iris returned his smile. “Extra large, extra hot, extra caffeine.”

“Coming up.”

He returned in moments with an orange stoneware mug. Iris sniffed the steam rising from it, sure she could absorb some of the caffeine. “You’re a lifesaver, Mr. Ulm.”

“It’s Joseph,” he said. “Some eggs and bacon to go with that brew?”

Iris hesitated.

“Don’t worry about Debby,” he said, guessing her thoughts. “She was in a mood the other day. Of course you’re welcome here.”

“In that case …” Iris sat and ordered scrambled eggs and toast.

Joseph Ulm left to ring up a customer. When he returned, Iris asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find Esther Brozek, would you?”

He gave her a thoughtful look. “I don’t suspect she wants to see you.” At Iris’s questioning look, he added, “Esther blames you for her father’s condition,” he said. “She’s been trying to get folks to run you out of town ever since you came back, saying you undermine the Community, that you’re only here to make trouble, that you mock us.”

That might explain the phone call and the spray-painted car, maybe even the rockslide. Iris leveled a look at him. “And you’re telling me this because—?”

He swiped a cloth over the counter and said, “Maybe because I think this town is a little too insular, that we need some shaking up. Or, maybe”—he grinned—“because Esther Brozek rubs me the wrong way with her bossiness and holier-than-thou attitude. This town has always been too Brozek-centric, if you ask me.” A ding from the kitchen window got his attention and he returned moments later to slide a plate of fluffy eggs in front of Iris.

She tucked in and cleaned her plate, listening to the conversation and laughter from the tables behind her. Joseph didn’t reappear and it was an unsmiling Debby Ulm who showed up with her check. Whatever Joseph had said to his wife kept her from ejecting Iris, but it didn’t make her chatty; she didn’t respond to Iris’s “good morning,” and accepted her money without comment, unless one counted the way she slammed the cash register door closed. She turned her back on Iris to seat newcomers before she could ask where Esther lived now.

Rather than try to pry the information out of Debby, Iris went next door to the co-op and mounted the steps to find the place full of shoppers. The press of bodies made the room too warm and Iris
hovered by the door as she searched for a clerk who might be able to point her toward Esther’s house. She hoped Aaron wouldn’t be there—heaven knew how he would interpret her turning up—and figured he was probably in class at the university. To her surprise, Rachel was helping one of the customers select some cheese. Shouldn’t the girl be in school?

“Teacher work day,” Rachel said, smiling, when Iris followed her to the counter and asked. “Mom had to go for half a day, but I didn’t.” She rang up two sales while Iris waited, reminding the customers that their bus would be leaving in five minutes. They began to trickle out.

“But you’re stuck here.”

“Only till noon.” Rachel’s eyes shone with anticipation. “Then Abby and I are headed to a concert in Denver. Casting Crowns.” She named the Christian rock group hastily, as if Iris might think she was going to a Marilyn Manson concert.

“I don’t suppose there might be any cute boys you know going?”

Rachel looked momentarily alarmed, but then grinned. “I have no control over who buys tickets to a public concert, do I? And if we happen to run into some kids we know, we wouldn’t want to be rude.” She put on an angelic expression that made Iris laugh.

“Can you point me toward Esther Bro—”

“Oh, no!” a woman with permed gray hair said, staring into a cavernous tote bag. “My wallet’s gone missing. It’s been stolen.”

Something in Rachel’s stillness caught Iris’s eye. She studied the girl’s suddenly motionless profile, and saw her gaze dart to the underside of the counter. Before Iris could say anything, Rachel was moving around the counter, ostensibly to help the distraught customer. With everyone’s attention on the moaning woman, Iris slipped behind the counter unseen and let her fingers glide along the shelves beneath it. They closed over smooth leather the general bulk and length of a stuffed wallet. Damn the girl. Why in the world was she stealing? Easing out from behind the counter, Iris approached the knot of people clustered around the woman who was insisting that everyone in the room be searched for the wallet before being allowed to leave.

“Call the police,” she ordered Rachel. Her tote bag, a straw monstrosity embroidered with faded raffia flowers, lay unattended on a display case. Iris picked it up.

“Are you sure the wallet isn’t in your bag?” Iris asked, handing it to the distressed woman who blinked at her from behind round, pink-framed glasses. “It’s awfully big. I know I’ve thought I’ve lost my phone and keys and all sorts of stuff before and then found them in the wrong pocket or down at the bottom of my purse.” She patted her brown leather shoulder bag.

“Why, I’m sure!” the woman said, nonetheless pawing through her tote. “I’m very careful about where—” She stopped, a strange expression coming over her face, and withdrew her hand from the bag with the wallet clutched in it.

Iris kept her gaze on Rachel as the woman’s friends congratulated her, joshed her, and prodded her to hurry out to the bus before it left without them. After catching Iris’s eye for one swift, astounded moment, Rachel busied herself carrying an awkward package to the bus for a woman using a walker. Iris waited.

“Oh, you’re still here,” Rachel said in a markedly less friendly voice when she returned and found Iris leaning against a counter, arms crossed over her chest. She didn’t meet Iris’s eyes, but hurried toward a sweater rack. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to inventory—”

“We need to talk, Rachel.” Iris crossed to the door and flipped the “Closed” sign toward the street, locking the door.

“It’s none of your business!” The girl whirled, her elbow knocking a stack of cardigans to the floor.

Iris went on as if Rachel hadn’t spoken. “You can start with, ‘Thank you for saving my thieving ass from jail,’” she suggested pleasantly.

“I’m not a thief.”

Iris cocked a skeptical brow.

“I wasn’t going to get caught.” Rachel’s chest heaved as she took several deep breaths, apparently trying to decide what to say next. “How did you do that?” she finally asked.

“I used to be a thief, too.” Iris nodded when Rachel’s eyes widened. “I ran away from home when I was about your age and if I wanted to eat it was sometimes a choice between whoring and pick-pocketing. I got pretty good at it—the pick-pocketing, I mean. It’s even easier in reverse.”

Her unemotional confession silenced Rachel. “It sounds awful,” she said after a long moment.

“It was. But not near as awful as landing in jail. You don’t want to end up in jail, Rachel.”

“Have you—”

Iris nodded. “Once. Briefly.” She could see Rachel wanting to ask why she’d been in jail, but the girl bit back the question.

“The money’s not for me,” Rachel said.

“The cops won’t care.”

Fear darkened the teen’s eyes. “You won’t tell them?”

“I should. Or I should tell your mother.” Iris’s tone invited Rachel to give her a reason not to.

“I have a friend,” Rachel started. As if uncomfortable meeting Iris’s eyes, she dropped to her knees and began to fold the scattered cardigans. Her fingers shook. “She really needs the money.”

Iris eyed the girl, wondering if the “friend” was hypothetical. “For?”

“She needs to leave here.”

“She wants to run away?” Iris shook her head. “That’s not the—”

“She has to. Her father beats her. He’s going to kill her!”

The fear in Rachel’s voice convinced Iris the girl believed what she was saying.

Words tumbled out of Rachel, like she’d unplugged a dike. “She’s scared of him. She wants to go to her sister in California, but her sister’s barely getting by and can’t afford to send Je—her money for a plane ticket, or even bus fare. She’s desperate. I just want to help her, but I don’t have any money of my own. Neither does she. The Community won’t let us have real jobs, like at Subway or something. What we earn here goes straight into a communal fund for feeding the homeless.” She sneered the words. “The homeless don’t need help any more than J—my friend does. It’s not fair!”

“But you weren’t stealing from the Community,” Iris pointed out. “You were stealing from some little old lady who might be living on a fixed income.”

“If that were the case, I don’t think she’d have bought two sweaters at $120 each,” Rachel retorted.

Realizing that she’d let the conversation wander down a side path, Iris wrenched it back. “How much money she does or doesn’t have isn’t the point. Stealing is wrong.”

Rachel stuck out her lower lip and slapped the last sweater back onto the rack. She stood. “You sound like my mother.”

“Good for me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“You need to tell your folks, about the stealing and about your friend’s problem.”

“I can’t! They won’t believe me.”

Her anguished words struck a chord in Iris. She remembered working up the courage to tell her parents about Pastor Matt’s abuse. She’d only spoken up because she suspected he had moved on to Gabby Ulm and she couldn’t turn her back on Gabby and whoever might come after her. She’d waited until her father came home from work, convinced he would take her side, even if her mother was difficult. Noah was at football practice when she asked both her parents to sit down in the kitchen. She was so nervous that sweat ran down her sides and tickled behind her knees, even though it was a cool evening. To this day, the scent of sautéing onions made her feel ill. When she finally got her mother away from the stove and seated with Neil at the kitchen table, Marian studied her face for a moment and said, “You’re pregnant. I knew that Zuniga boy was no good. This is what comes of taking up with a boy who’s not part of the Community. He—”

“I’m not pregnant.”

“He doesn’t respect you, doesn’t respect the Community’s values. Catholics are all about sinning, thinking that confession gives them a ‘get out of hell free’ card. They don’t understand about self-control and self-discipline and abstention. But you do. How could you give into his lusts, Mercy? You know what the Bible says about fornication: ‘Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body.’”

“I’m not pregnant!” Mercy had to shout the words to make her mother shut up. “And if I were, it would be Pastor Matt’s baby, not Cade’s.”

The words seemed to fall individually, toppling slowly like Stonehengean monoliths shoved by a gargantuan force, gathering momentum as they thudded to the ground. Pastor. Matt’s. Baby. Mercy was mildly surprised the words hadn’t dented the linoleum. That wasn’t at all how she had planned to tell her parents. She’d wanted to walk them through events, starting with his invitation to meet in Outback Cottage. Instead, she’d blurted the gist in ten words.

Marian stared blankly for a long moment. Neil’s brows snapped together and he started to get up, but Marian’s extended arm blocked him. “You wicked girl,” she said. “How dare you tell such lies about a holy man like Pastor Matt!”

“Marian, maybe we should listen to what Mercy has to say.” Neil’s deep voice cut across his wife’s.

“I’m not lying.” Mercy’s sobs garbled the words. “He made me
… we … I didn’t want to! It was in the cottage, when we were working on the tapestries. I made him stop last year, told him I would tell, but now—”

“I’ve heard enough.” Marian stood, smoothed her apron across her thighs, and crossed to the stove to stir the sautéing onions. Mercy thought she glimpsed tears in her mother’s eyes, but that was probably from the onions.

Her father put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed tightly. She gazed up into his face, searching for some sign that he believed her, and saw grief. His free hand grabbed at his cheeks and compressed them, slid to his chin, and then fell helplessly to his side. “Mercy-punkin, you’re upset. We need to talk this through. I don’t know what happened in that cottage—”