Authors: Kim Amos
Betty smiled to herself. She didn’t need to
apprehend
the vandals, she just needed to give Officer Reynolds a push in the right direction when it came to identifying them. And she had four friends who owed her a favor or two.
She squared her shoulders and gave her hair one last shake. Telling herself this was all going to work out for the best, she turned on the heel of her battered boots and got to work.
* * *
“What are we looking for again?” Stephanie asked, licking frosting off her fingers.
It was midnight, and the car was filled with the aroma of hot coffee and cinnamon rolls. Willa had insisted they get provisions before they left, and had filled two plastic bags with food at a 24-hour gas station. Now it was Saturday night and the three of them were crowded into Betty’s car, tucked into a shadowed corner of the local cemetery, eating prepackaged sweets and drinking watery coffee, all while Audrey and Anna were down patrolling the neighborhoods, wondering if they might catch pumpkin smashers in the act.
“We’re looking for perps,” Stephanie said. “Halloween perps.”
“Better than Halloween
pervs
, I guess,” Willa muttered, opening a fresh package of mini donuts and passing it around.
“Careful that combination of gas station food doesn’t do a number on your insides,” Betty said, glancing in the rearview at Willa. “Has Burk heard you fart?”
Willa grinned, frosting stuck in the corner of her mouth. “Burk likes
everything
I do, thank you very much.”
“That’s a good man,” Stephanie said from the passenger seat. She sucked down more coffee, presumably to stay awake since her twins were still small and energetic and had an affinity for painting the walls with anything they could get their hands on. “I’m excited for your wedding.”
“God, me, too,” Willa said, and Betty could see her eyes glimmer, even in the darkness. It prompted a sharp pain underneath Betty’s ribs that took her by surprise. Randall Sondheim was suddenly front and center in her mind, even though she’d successfully blocked him out for the past few hours. But now, seeing Willa so happy and talking about weddings had Betty pushing down pain she was keen to forget.
“Hey,” Stephanie said quietly, “Betty, are you all right? You look like you might be sick or something.”
“I’m fine,” she said, making a big production of pouring more miniature creamers into her Styrofoam cup. “This coffee is terrible. That’s all.”
“Do you want to talk about Pastor Sondheim pulling the plug on helping you?” Willa asked gently. Betty had filled them in on the barest basics before the stakeout, telling them she wasn’t sure if the pastor was going to follow through on the announcement in the church bulletin, so her best course was to find the Halloween vandals herself. But she hadn’t told them any details about what happened on Friday afternoon. Certainly not any
steamy
details anyway.
Betty waved a hand. “He didn’t pull the plug exactly,” she said, hoping she sounded convincing. “He might still put the church’s weight behind the store. I just don’t want to count on him is all. If you want something done, you have to do it yourself. That is the golden rule in this world, ladies. Remember that.”
“Yeah, but did something happen?” Willa asked, tearing off another chunk of cinnamon roll. “This is all so sudden.”
Betty shifted in her seat. “Nothing I can’t handle,” she said.
“That’s not answering the question,” Stephanie said.
“You’re the one who always says no secrets in the recipe exchange,” Willa said. “You practically forced me to tell you every single sordid detail when Burk and I got together. So if there’s something going on, you’d better spill it.”
Betty almost smiled. It’s true she was steadfast about the recipe exchange not having any secrets—she just didn’t always like it when it was her turn.
“All right,” she said finally, “Randall came into the store today and we—well, we may have made out for a bit.”
“I knew it!” Willa cried. “You saucy minx.”
“But then Valerie Lofgren interrupted us and he just—after she finally left the store, he turned cold. He’d told me this sad story about his twin brother and it was very moving and touching. But then I think he used that story and Valerie’s interruption to cool things off. As in Arctic cold. As in, maybe he doesn’t want me at all.”
“Oh, Betty,” Stephanie said, laying a hand on her friend’s arm, “that’s so tough. It’s always hard to know what’s going on in someone else’s mind. And heart.”
“I just don’t get it,” Willa said, shaking her head. “It’s not like the pastor to flip-flop. Is there any chance this is all a big misunderstanding?”
Betty peered through the windshield into the frosty darkness. The stars were cold and bright above. Their light was just enough to illuminate the outlines of tombstones and mausoleums. She caught the movement of a large bird of some kind—maybe an owl—taking off from the branch of a nearby poplar tree. The beat of its wings was swift and silent.
“I’ve been down this road before is all,” she said, keeping her eyes trained on the cemetery. “I’ve had men who liked spending time with me just fine and I kept thinking it would go somewhere else. That the relationship would progress. But it never really did. Or if it progressed, then the guy backpedaled and—”
Betty paused to take a breath, to stop the tide of pain and embarrassment coursing through her. “I’m not looking for someone to take it slow,” she said finally. “I like Randall. If he doesn’t like me, that’s fine. But I’m not going to tie up my mind and my time and my life while he figures it out.”
“He does like you, though,” Willa insisted from the backseat. “I know he does. If what he’s after is time, is there any chance you could give him just a little? Not months and months—but maybe a tiny grace period, in case he really is working something out?”
Betty pictured the brightly colored tattoos and the pain in Randall’s eyes as he told the story of his twin brother. Was there a chance that he wouldn’t string her along forever, and that he’d make up his mind sooner rather than later? She knew in her bones that he’d felt the same raging passion and excitement and connection between them that she had. What she couldn’t trust, though, was that he wouldn’t walk away from it. That he wouldn’t push her to the side eventually, same as all the others, or let someone else ensnare him: someone who was prettier, who was less outspoken, who would look more appropriate alongside a pastor. Not Valerie per se, but someone like her, and just like what happened with Cole Anderson, she’d be wondering
what if
for years to come. If she gave Randall an inch, he could take her whole heart and leave her devastated.
“I don’t want to be foolish,” she confessed, biting her lip. “I don’t want to be hurt again.”
“Of course not,” Willa agreed, “but can you trust him just for a little while? I don’t think he’s out to hurt you. Just the opposite.”
Betty wanted to believe that. Her whole heart was telling her it was true. But what evidence did she have besides a flaming-hot make-out session in her store yesterday?
Nothing was the answer. She had not one scrap of solid information that could tell her Randall Sondheim might not hurt her. But maybe that didn’t matter. If she could trust her heart enough to give him the time he was asking for—perhaps that could
be
enough.
The idea seemed ludicrous. And wonderful.
She was about to tell Willa and Stephanie that she would take it under consideration when a flicker of movement in the cemetery caught her eye. Shadows darted from trees to tombstones in front of them. “Someone’s here,” she whispered, “and we’re going to find out who.”
Slowly, quietly she opened the car door, ready to sneak into the night and follow them—but the blazing illumination of the dome light blinded her almost immediately. “Crap,” she muttered. The light cut off their view of the outside world, and probably alerted the trespassers to their presence. “Okay, plan B,” she said, closing the door shut once again. The sound was like a gunshot going off. All they needed next was a blinking red arrow pointing to their location.
She started the car and revved the engine. “Buckle up,” she told Stephanie and Willa. They’d barely gotten themselves snapped into place before she was bumping along the small, two-track cemetery path. She had the headlights on bright, scanning every which way for the dark figures she’d just seen. “Lean out the windows!” she barked at Willa and Stephanie. “Shine your flashlights around! See if you get a face. Get your phones ready!”
The women shrieked as the car bounced and jerked along the rutted path. “Slow down!” Willa cried. “I have to pee!”
“Use a coffee cup!” Betty yelled back. “Whatever you do, don’t pee on your smartphone!”
Stephanie started laughing, and it was all Betty could do to stay focused and not dissolve into giggles. She swerved along a fork to the right, following a figure darting nearby. She rolled down her window. “Stop in the name of the law!” she hollered. It was the only thing she could think to say.
Willa clutched her crotch and howled. “I’m going to pee my pants!” she wailed, only now she was laughing as well as getting jostled. Stephanie still had her flashlight half out the window, the beam jerking as Betty revved the engine and swerved sharply again.
“There’s…one!” Stephanie said, gasping and laughing. Her flashlight beam caught the side of a face and the figure froze like a terrified animal. Betty slammed on the brakes, pitching them all forward. Cinnamon buns flew and coffee spilled. Betty didn’t care.
From the backseat, she heard the sound of the camera app on Willa’s phone. The flash illuminated as she snapped a picture. “Got ’em!” came Willa’s triumphant cry.
The figure regained their senses and darted into the shadows once more. Betty turned in her seat, praying Willa’s picture had captured a face, a distinct birthmark—anything.
“We might have something,” Willa said, passing the phone to the front seat. “Check it out.”
Betty stared at the picture. It was blurry and streaky, but the flash of pink was unmistakable. It was bright. It was jarring. And it was
hair
.
She knew that hair, had seen it somewhere before.
But where?
Think
, she commanded herself.
And then she knew. “The Rolling Pin,” she said to the other women. Olive, one of the servers there, had the same hot-pink, punk-rock hair. She passed the phone back to Willa, grinning. Their evidence might not be admissible in a court of law, but they didn’t need to take it that far. They might just have enough to halt this whole thing in its tracks.
“Hold on,” she told Stephanie and Willa, punching the gas once more. Gravel spewed underneath the tires.
“What are we doing now?” Stephanie asked, trying to sop up spilled coffee with extra napkins.
From the backseat, Willa whimpered. Betty grinned. “We’re getting our friend to a bathroom. And then we’re going to figure out exactly what we do with this photo.”
S
unday morning dawned frosty and clear, with steam rising from the Birch River and pale sun peeking through the branches of the trees in the east. Randall Sondheim stalked down Main Street toward the Lutheran church—the sidewalks quiet, the storefronts still closed—trying to get that morning’s sermon ready. The walk was part of his Sunday routine, a meditation of sorts to ready himself for the pulpit.
Except today it wasn’t working. He was unable think about anything except Betty Lindholm. And the principles he figured he should embrace when it came to being with her.
Time. Caution. Prudence. Logic.
These were all the things he’d told himself he’d needed to rely on, to be sure he wouldn’t mess up a relationship with Betty. Except they were all lies.
No, that wasn’t true. They were all
excuses
.
He kicked a stray hunk of rotting pumpkin into the street, realizing he’d been a fool. He had told himself that he couldn’t trust his heart again, that he couldn’t be sure more harm wouldn’t come from letting it beat with abandon, but in reality he knew the truth.
It wasn’t his heart that was the problem. It was his guilt, and the deeply embedded question of whether he deserved to be happy. After all this time, he was still wondering if he was deserving of finding love or starting a family, while his twin brother was dead in the ground—and it was his doing.
He flinched, remembering his brother Gus’s hand on his shoulder the day Randall had graduated from seminary. “Remember to give yourself the same grace you’ve now been trained to give others,” Gus had said. “Your happiness counts, too, you know.”
Randall had nodded, had told himself he believed that. But did he really?
He wondered if it was possible when happiness had stared at him straight on, and he’d just walked away from it. He could still picture Betty’s pale face in Knots and Bolts, dismay darkening her blue eyes as he’d turned and left.
Now, as he approached Knots and Bolts, he wished he could tear through those doors and do everything over again. He would tell Betty to lock the door and he’d allow himself to nurture the kernel of passion that had already formed between them. He would grow it until it was a vast jungle of enjoyment and affection and, yes, even love.
Wouldn’t he? He wiped sweat from his brow in spite of the cool morning. Didn’t he love Betty Lindholm? Wasn’t that where this was all headed?
If he was honest, she’d captured his heart months ago. They’d chatted after church, had sipped coffee together, and discussed fabric choices. The whole time he’d admired her wit, her business savvy, her unflinching ability to tell the truth and not shirk from it. He’d never met anyone like her. And he never would again.
The question was whether the reckless destruction he’d known from before would come roaring back if he allowed himself to love fully and love freely. He could turn jealous perhaps, or start drinking again, because feeling so much for one person was completely overwhelming. He might become controlling from a need to keep her safe. Or worse, he could put her in harm’s way because he wasn’t thinking straight, wasn’t being logical when his heart overruled his mind.