Kill Me If You Can

10

I couldn’t tell which blinded me more, the snow or the tears. I kept my speed around twenty miles an hour while I picked my way home through the latest blizzard conditions.

How could I have had such totally wrong expectations of the Russos? All the information leading up to tonight had pointed to a dysfunctional unit, but still I’d clung to the fairy-tale hope of smiling, happy people who would love me, accept me, and invite me to be part of their family.

All my hopes dashed again. I had to quit going down the trail of optimism and stick with my tried-and-true pessimistic outlook on life. You couldn’t be disappointed by dreams you never had.

By the time I pulled down my drive, it was clogged with more snow. I hoped Jim Hawley would make another swing through in the morning. I couldn’t take the thought of getting stuck all alone in these miles of woods for the rest of the winter. I didn’t want to end up like Jack in The Shining.

I cut the engine and trekked through the drifts into the house. To top the whole night off, I’d let Melissa Belmont down. I’d had the opportunity to share her situation with my grandfather, and I’d passed it up because of some lame comment about my dad. Poor Missy. She should lean on someone with more backbone.

I locked up and climbed the stairs to my cozy bedroom. There was still the opportunity to tell Candice LeJeune of Missy’s dilemma. She’d know what to do. I’d see her on Thursday for tea.

I opened the slim drawer of my bedside table and blew a kiss toward the two halves of my mother’s picture.

“Night, Mom,” I whispered.

I turned out the light.

I dragged through Wednesday with my pessimistic attitude firmly in place as I removed the layer of old yellow wax from the linoleum in my mother’s bedroom. I ran through my list of dashed expectations while I rubbed. The heating guy was never going to return my call. Missy would never leave her husband. Brad and I were never going to be an item. I was never going to get a decent price for this piece-of-junk cottage. I was never even going to find a buyer for it. In fact, I was going to rot back in these woods.

Cheery ring tones broke through my downward spiral.

It was the heating guy.

“Yah, no problem. I can take a look at your place on Friday,” he said with his U.P. twang.

I sighed in relief. At least that was taken care of.

Instead of giving the black voice in my head another chance to berate my future, I put on my boots and went for a walk.

My head cleared the instant fresh air hit my lungs. Powdery white puffs flew with each step. Jim Hawley apparently hadn’t thought the new round of snow merited plowing. Halfway up my road, I saw the doe. I stopped and put out my hand, making kissy sounds like I had done the first time I’d seen her. She stared at me. Her ears twitched with curiosity. I took a step closer. She stiffened. I took another step. She stayed rooted in place. I stepped closer . . . closer . . . She turned and ran.

“Goodbye, little deer,” I called after her. Next time I’d put an apple in my pocket. One of these days, she’d come to me. I was sure of it.

I finished a three-mile loop, keeping clear of the bluff this time. I made it back to the house just as darkness fell. I threw together a quick supper, grabbed a book, and wilted onto the sofa. When the letters on the pages started to divide and multiply, I climbed off to bed.

Thursday was my tea date with Candice. I tinkered around in the morning so I wouldn’t get grungy enough to have to take another shower. After a light lunch, I put on my finest blue sweater. A silky bow tied it shut at the side. I slipped on the slacks that completed the outfit. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. I’d bought the pair for a date back in Rawlings. The guy had turned out to be a conman. Thankfully all he’d stolen from me was my heart. I realized now that I’d given it to him all too willingly. I wasn’t about to let that happen again.

I smoothed the fuzzy fabric and put my jean jacket over it. I’d have to get to Manistique again soon for a proper winter coat, before I froze from exposure in my lightweight denim.

I let the Explorer warm up, then headed toward Port Silvan, once again taking a left at the cider mill sign before town.

Jim Hawley was just pulling out of Candice’s drive in his plow truck as I turned in. I waved and sent a telepathic message to please plow my road before the next storm rolled through.

I parked on the cleared area and went up the shoveled walk. Candice met me at the door.

“Glad you made it, Tish,” she said, giving me a peck on the cheek as I entered. A crackling fire and a row of flickering candles on the mantel lent an extra measure of warmth to the room.

We sat down and she poured the tea. This time I relaxed about my wardrobe, knowing I looked impeccable.

“So how is it really going with your relatives?” Candice asked. “I saw your car down at Bernard’s when I drove past last night.”

I loved the way she small-talked to break the ice before bringing up a gut-wrenching topic.

“Not so good,” I said. No use trying to pull the wool over Candice’s eyes. She had my relatives figured out. “It was awful. At first things were going well and I was so happy to have cousins. Then I found out Grandma Olivia refused to meet me, and there was a fight about who got to inherit the house. Then they insulted my dad.” I closed my eyes and shook my head. “That’s when I left. I guess family isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Candice sat silent, sipping from the delicate china. She set her cup on the table. “I’m sure they must be a disappointment to you.”

“I expected too much. Of course they’re not happy to have me show up in their lives after so many years.” I humphed. “I mean, Joel was pretty sure he got the old homestead all to himself after Puppa dies. Then I come out of nowhere, the long-lost cousin, supposedly entitled to some share in that place.” I leaned forward and played with my cup and saucer. “I don’t want anything from them. Especially not their stuff.” I wiped at my nose. “I just wanted to feel like family again.”

Candice looked at me with eyes that glimmered in the light from the fire. “They weren’t always that way. There was a time when family was everything to them.”

“Must have been a long time ago.”

Candice nodded and stared into the flames. I wondered if she regretted throwing away the love she and Bernard once shared.

“I don’t mean to pry,” I said, gripping my teacup for courage, “but what happened to your husband? Missy Belmont said you blamed Papa B for his death.”

Her eyes snapped up, filled with anger. “Missy Belmont? When did you talk to that piece of trash?”

I gasped at her crude words. “At church last Sunday.”

“She should go to church, the little tramp. Maybe she can pray her way to heaven.”

Candice seemed overly vicious toward my new friend. My voice took on an edge. “She’s not a tramp. She needs help. I was supposed to talk to my grandfather for her.”

“As if Bernard would do anything to help her. She and her lowlife husband are a plague to this town. Bernard should run them both out of Port Silvan.”

“What did Missy Belmont ever do to you? She’s just a frightened mom trying to get out of a tough situation.”

Candice’s face twisted with hate. “Don’t believe her, Tish. She’s a liar. If she wanted out, she’d go. She’s right where she wants to be. She just wants to suck you—and your grandfather—into her drama. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay far away from that woman.”

My leg started to jiggle. Whom should I believe? Missy had warned me that Candice didn’t have anything good to say about anybody in Port Silvan. But was there a grain of truth in Candice’s opinion of Melissa? If Missy wanted help, she had to be willing to do something for herself. Otherwise, Candice was right. She was just looking for more participants in her life’s drama.

“I appreciate the advice,” I said. “I’d be wise not to believe everything people told me around here.” Including Candice, I thought to myself. Who knew what hidden agenda she had going? She’d completely avoided the topic of her husband, instead diverting the attention to poor Missy. With a reaction so fierce, Candice’s secrets must be big, black, and ugly. Just like mine once were.

“Come here, Tish. I want to show you something.” Candice stood and headed through an arched hallway that led to the rear of the house. We walked past the kitchen, with its tidy country clutter, to a spacious area that served as a hobby room. A row of windows stretched across the rear, giving view to open pastureland. The white expanse looked uninviting this time of year. But I could imagine the beauty spring would hold. Indoors, along the bright, salmon-colored walls, more black-and-white photos were arranged in artsy order.

Candice opened the top drawer of a map-type storage chest. She lifted out a stack of glossy 8x10 photos and passed them to me.

“Recognize this little girl?” she asked.

I stared at the top picture. The child in the black-and-white close-up looked about six or seven years old. A sweet, innocent smile lit her round face. Wisps of hair blew across her cheeks. The corners of her eyes turned up with an exotic flair.

My lids stung. I flipped to the next picture. The same girl, holding the hand of a young woman as they walked away from the photographer along a path in the woods. I squinted at the woman. Her profile barely peeked through the edges of her hair.

I flipped through the pile. The girl at the beach. The girl and the woman perched on a horse. The girl swinging at a park, the woman pushing her.

A tear trickled down and dropped to my wrist, barely missing the shiny print.

I glanced up at Candice. “It’s me,” I whispered. “And my mom.”