True Blend (18 page)

“George?”

Fifteen

IN THE SILENT BREATH BEFORE she says his name, George senses something is wrong. He leaves The Main Course and drives to the mall, knowing exactly the entrance Amy is waiting near. Remembering exactly the commotion of construction vehicles and sawhorses and steel girders distracting wary eyes from an armored truck.

“Are you sure it was V-3?” he asks after his hands lightly stroke the length of her arms twice, coming to a stop holding her hands. When she nods and sits slowly, George sits beside her on the bench. He realizes then that he still has on his black apron and pulls it over his head. “We’ll double-check.”

“George,” she says so quietly. Grace holds Bear beside her, fidgeting and pulling her knees up, straightening them, turning backward on the bench.

“What’s the matter?” George hooks a finger beneath Amy’s chin and turns her head. Her skin is warm and perspiring. “You can replace the car.”

“I had a flashback.”

“Here?” His gaze moves from her eyes, to Grace, and back to her again.

“In the parking lot.”

That was what he heard in her whispered voice on the telephone. Exhaustion. She depleted her energy fighting off a flashback.

“A very nice man helped us and waited while I called you.”

He leans over in front of Amy and pats Grace’s knee, his eyes locked onto Amy’s. “She’s okay?”

Amy looks at her daughter, her eyes filling with quick tears. “She could’ve been hurt, George. I’m scared now.”

George did his own research on flashbacks and post-traumatic stress. Much of it boils down to a loss of control and the debilitating vulnerability that follows. Amy needs to be out of this place now. She needs to be home, in her country kitchen with a cup of coffee, making lunch for Grace, filling Angel’s water dish, opening a window, controlling the small things. First they have to call the police to report her vehicle stolen. He surveys the parking lot now.

“Could it have been parked in B-3? Or D-3?” he asks, taking her hand in his.

“No. No! I distinctly checked twice to be certain that I parked in V-3. It’s V-3!”

“I understand. I’m just wondering if the flashback might’ve confused you. Let’s take a another look around before we call the police.” He straightens her shopping bags in the stroller, folding his apron into one of them. “We’ll put these in my truck first, okay?”

Amy scoops up Grace and walks beside George as he heads left, in the direction of his parked vehicle. Pushing the stroller, he suggests they walk up and down a few rows, just to be absolutely sure she isn’t mistaken. They pass two similar SUVs, one white and one bright red. Five rows over from V-3, halfway down on the right hand side, a maroon SUV is parked.

“It’s not mine, George. I didn’t park this far away from the door.”

“What’s your license plate number?” he asks as they near the vehicle.

Amy’s eyes drop to the plate and her feet stop moving. She leans heavily into him and he knows that the vehicle parked in row V-8 is hers.

*  *  *

Amy wants to go home. She wants to go home and stay home and never leave her property again. She wants to putter in her gown room, repair vintage veils and dresses, order antique purses and necklaces, then push Grace in the swing and read books in the sunshine on her stone patio before falling deep asleep in her bed. Then she wants to wake up, tomorrow or the next day, have a cup of coffee and call her mother and tell her all about this unbearable mall dream from which she has just woken.

George drives her SUV with one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding her hand the entire way. “I’ll call my brother,” he says when they stop at the railroad crossing, waiting for the gate to rise after a train speeds by. “He’ll give me a ride back to get my truck later.”

She hears the train pass and hears George’s words, hears the near vibrations of his voice within her air-conditioned vehicle, hears Grace’s silence, and closes her eyes.

“You’re just tired, Amy. That’s what brought it on. You’ve been through a tough time with Grace. Worry takes a lot out of you.”

It isn’t fatigue. One fine morning walking out of the bank, a stranger ripped her daughter from her hand. And it wasn’t only Grace who was kidnapped. In a way, Amy was too. Kidnapped into that moment as it replays any time she closes her eyes. Any time the sun shines in just the right way or she turns quickly at a sound. Any time Grace won’t speak. Her life’s been abducted, held still in the one moment that, try as she might, she can’t get past.

*  *  *

“What’s going on?” Nate asks as George gets in the car idling in Amy’s driveway.

George pulls the car door closed and scans the house. The farmhouse doors are shut and locked, as are the downstairs windows. The twig wreath and wicker porch chairs, the hydrangea bushes and the dogwood tree throwing a pool of shade on the green lawn, all belie the troubles behind the front door.

“Let’s go. I’m running late.”

Nate leans low and scans the white clapboard and green gingerbread trim outlining the peaked front. A cultivated bed of wildflowers edges the front yard. “Nice place she’s got here. She takes care of all this by herself?”

“She manages. Let’s move it.”

“Where is she? I’d like to meet her.”

George looks at his brother. He called Nate at a job site and he wears dusty jeans, a T-shirt and construction boots. “After what you put her through that day? Go to hell.”

“Hey. If you’re going to be seeing her, eventually we’ll have to meet.”

“Not today, you’re not.”

Nate slips the car in reverse and backs out of the driveway. “What’s going on?”

“She had a problem with her car at the mall and called me for a ride.”

“Couldn’t you follow her home in your car?”

“It’s a long story. Just step on it, would you?”

At the mall, Nate cruises by the construction area of the parking lot where they had transferred the money into the van. Dirt and stone clutter the pavement and steel girders reach up from the ground. The men wear hard hats and drive massive equipment.

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Nate asks, glancing from George beside him back to the spot where the armored truck had been parked. “What a high that was.”

“Amy had a flashback.”

“A what?”

“A flashback, in the parking lot. She got disoriented and couldn’t find her car.”

“You mean a real flashback? When you’re really out of it?”

“That’s right. It was a flashback of that morning in the bank parking lot. Of that
high
.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He turns his car into the row George indicates and pulls into a space three over from the pickup truck.

“She’s really upset by it. Her daughter was with her when it happened.”

“Shit. That’s pretty tough.”

George gets out of the car and stands in the bright sunlight. “She’ll be all right.”

Nate gets out too and closes his door behind him. He walks around to the trunk and leans up against it with his arms folded across his chest. “You all set now? I’ve got to get back.”

“Yeah, I’m good.” George pulls his keys from his pocket and walks toward his truck. As he unlocks the door, a small paper beneath his windshield wiper catches his eye. He lifts the wiper, expecting a flyer for pizza delivery or a financial services seminar. And so at first he doesn’t recognize just what he is seeing and almost tosses it. But when he turns away from the glare of the sun and looks again, he squints closely.

Amy had an audience. The grainy photograph captured her terrified and sinking into a crouch in the parking lot. Beyond her Grace wheels the stroller unattended. He turns and walks toward his brother’s car. Nate has gotten back in behind the wheel and George raps on the window. “Is this your idea of a fucking high?”

Nate rolls down the window and takes the picture from George. “Jesus Christ.” He stares longer. “Is this what I think it is?”

George scans the other windshields around them, half expecting to see a square paper beneath each wiper.

“Someone’s playing a serious game with you,” Nate says.

“No shit. And you say no one got hurt? This is what the hell your scheme’s done. What good is your million if someone’s got to live like this?” George grabs the picture back and looks at it again. “Where’s Reid keeping himself?”

“Reid? Why?”

“He warned me, that day when he dropped off Grace at Litner’s Market. Told me to lay low or shit might happen to people, including Amy.”

“Like what?”

“I didn’t stick around to hear. Just tell him to call off his dogs. She doesn’t deserve this.” He turns and walks toward the parked cars, looking from the pavement to the storefronts, trying to place where the photographer had stood.

Nate swings open his car door. “Hang on. I’ll come with you.”

George has had enough of his kid brother. “Back off already.” He grabs a handful of Nate’s shirt and gives a shove. “Get the hell out of here before I turn you and your fucking bankroll in to Hayes. I should’ve turned that lousy gun on
you
that day. This is your fault, man,
yours
, and I’m sick of it. All because of your God damned need to take down the house and pay me back for some lost dream. You’re taking good people down.”

Nate straightens his shirt. “What do you mean, pay you back?”

“You know damn well what I mean. It’s not your fault I quit baseball to run the shop after Dad died. That was
my
choice. So you can stop trying to make up for what I might’ve lost. Drop it already.”

“All right, all right.” Nate drags his hand through his hair. “At least let me help you now.”

“Even if it means turning on Reid?” He watches his brother’s expression, still uncertain how pivotal a part Reid played in the heist and how much sway he holds over Nate. “Tell me right now.” He steps closer. “Straight up. You with
me
on this or not?”

“Yeah, I’m in. Someone’s screwing with your head, George. And Amy’s, too.” Nate takes off his sunglasses and wipes the back of his hand across his brow. “I’m in.”

George walks quickly through the parking lot with Nate following. “Let’s go, then.”

“You think whoever did this actually moved her car and set her up to get upset?”

“I don’t know what to think, other than I’ll kill him. If he doesn’t leave her alone, I swear I’ll kill whoever did this or go to the authorities and put a real quick end to all of it.”

“Cool down.” Nate catches up with him. “Go to the authorities and this gets worse. Don’t worry about Reid. I’ll help you keep an eye out and we’ll take care of this together.”

They turn left at row V-3 and George points out where Amy said she had parked. In the photo, it all matches up. Someone moved her SUV, played with her head and then caught her at her absolute weakest. They walk to Amy’s space and stand there, uncertain of just what to look for. Nate turns back to face Macy’s and George cuffs his white shirtsleeves beneath the hot sun, then pulls the photograph from his shirt pocket. They study it and try to place any of the cars around them.

George is doing something else, too. Someone gave this a lot of thought. Someone figured where to hurt him most. So what he’s doing now is getting the message. If he doesn’t stop seeing Amy, thereby putting his identity along with four million dollars at risk, they won’t stop seeing her either.

Sixteen

ONE YEAR AGO AT THIS time, Mark was still alive. He had brushed a coat of white paint on the paned kitchen door that morning. After lunch, he geared up to go mountain-bike riding with a friend. No one ever foresaw that a steep trail would end his full life; that his loss of control on a wide curve would throw him off the bike; that he’d hit the ground wrong. That by four-thirty that afternoon, he’d be dead. His life had completed its span, bridging over a winding river of days and events and emotions. Even though this is not a happy anniversary, Amy had hoped to commemorate surviving a difficult year. After all, she had shaped a new life raising Grace alone, keeping their farmhouse and evolving her bridal shop into specialty vintage gowns. She never dreamt that on this day she would be calling Dr. Berg for help.

Celia arrives at the moment she hangs up, standing at the door with a tray holding two cups of coffee and a box of doughnuts. Later, Sara Beth is meeting them for lunch at a new outdoor café near the cove, bringing a 1950s veil she found while buying a set of old china teacups for her antique shop. She thought the veil would perfectly pair with a shorter-skirt bridal dress Amy bought at a neighbor’s tag sale. Everyone tries to help her on this sad day. Her mother already called twice, sent a bouquet of flowers and wanted to drive down for the weekend. But Amy told her she was spending the next day at the beach with George. Sitting seaside will be a nice change. She and Grace both need it.

“Do you want a doughnut, Grace?” Amy asks her daughter.

Grace kneels on a kitchen chair and reaches into the colorful doughnut box. “Which one do you like?” Celia asks her. “Does one look especially good?” She glances at Amy, and Amy knows. She’s trying to nudge any word from her mouth. “Is there a certain one you want?” Celia continues. “Yes or no?” Her hand softly brushes over Grace’s blonde hair.

“Nothing works,” Amy whispers, shaking her head slowly. Grace silently lifts out a strawberry-frosted. “Can you say thank you to Celia?”

Celia sits across from Amy at the blue kitchen table and peels the lid from her steaming coffee cup. “Doesn’t that look yummy?” she asks Grace.

Grace glances over at Celia and nods, then scoots off the kitchen chair, gingerly holding the doughnut in her small fingers.

Amy pulls a paper towel from the roll. “Wait, honey,” she says, trailing Grace heading toward the living room and the television. “Put this on the table with your snickie-snack.” She tickles her back and elicits a happy squeal from her. “Okay,” she says, turning back to the kitchen, wiping powdered doughnut sugar from her hands on her shorts. “Well that’s something.” She takes a satisfied breath. Little victories mean everything now. “I just got off the phone with Dr. Berg,” she says to Celia then.