Kill Me If You Can

21

“There you are,” Candice said when I arrived.

In the two weeks since I’d last visited, her porch had become an oasis of flowers. Between each white post hung pots dripping with bright pink impatiens.

“I thought you weren’t planting until after Memorial Day,” I said in a half-whine as we touched cheeks.

“I listen to the weather report,” she said. “If there’s even a chance of frost, I bring my babies indoors.”

“Well, everything looks beautiful.” I gave a pitiful sigh. “With my garden shed burnt to the ground, I’m ready to give up on my landscaping plans.”

“Oh, pish, Tish.” She waved a hand at me. “You make it sound like it’s the end of the world. Plow forward. Don’t give those wretched men that kind of power in your life.”

We walked into the house together.

“I know you’re right,” I said. “But I’m feeling kind of vulnerable now. First my garden shed, then what? I can’t fathom the kind of people that do that stuff.”

“Welcome to Port Silvan. I warned you how things could be around here.”

“You did. I’ve just been so good at minding my own business. I can’t imagine this even happening to me. It wasn’t my fault Drake Belmont got put in jail. But I still took the blame.” My whine grew louder with Candice’s sympathetic ear.

She walked toward the kitchen. “I wonder who did nark on Drake?” she asked over her shoulder.

I waited for her return before replying. The china clinked as she set it out. She poured the steaming liquid.

I sipped Candice’s flavor of the day, some kind of tangy orange and cinnamon combination. “Did anyone really have to nark on Drake, or are the cops finally doing their job?” I asked.

She tilted her head, as if considering. Her long neck added grace to the movement. “The cops generally take a hands-off approach to the area. Port Silvan is too far from civilization to be much of a blip on their screen. Still, when there’s a tip on a big dealer, they’ll make a move.” Her voice took on a cynical tone. “We wouldn’t want the rest of humanity contaminated by the filth around here, now would we?”

I stared at her for a moment, amazed at her enigmatic personality. “So which is it, Candice? In one breath you condemn Port Silvan, and in the next, you defend it.”

She laughed and rocked backward. “I know. I guess it’s a bit of a love/hate relationship. I’ve had the best times of my life here on the peninsula.” She paused and looked down into her tea. “And also my worst.”

I nodded, empathetic.

She stirred another scoop of honey into her cup as if to sweeten the memories. “I had so many plans when I was young. Noble plans. Good plans. But everything went wrong. I married wrong, I left my husband wrong, I never had those kids I wanted.” She looked at me, misty eyed. “I even messed up royally with your grandfather. I mean”—she half smiled—“the damage was already done. I should have stayed with him and proved, if only to myself, that I could make a relationship work.” She tapped the spoon on the edge of her cup and laid it back on the table. She took a sip of tea. “Instead I held a grudge against him all these years. It’s as if I went out of my way to be alone and miserable my whole life.”

I stared at the tray of tea and sandwiches on the table in front of me. I knew all about the psychology of self-deprivation. It was infinitely simpler to identify when it glared like a gaping wound in someone else’s life. “You can’t go back and do it over,” I said. “But did you ever think about making another go at it with my grandfather? A fresh run?”

She waved a hand. “No, no. Too many years of hurt between us. Some things are better left the way they are. Why open a can of worms?”

I shrugged. “Maybe the label just says worms but there’s really something beautiful inside.”

She bit her lip and gave a nod. “Maybe. But I’m not sure at my age I have the strength to find out.”

I reached across the space between us and touched her hand, lightly wrinkled but still soft and smooth. “Look at you. You have so much life. I can’t believe you’ve gotten this far with a defeatist attitude.”

She grinned. “Maybe not. But still, I’m just a crotchety old lady. I’m too old for love.”

“Nobody’s too old for love.” I put on my choir robe and started preaching to myself. “Especially not the kind God has to offer.”

I recognized the defiant set of her chin.

“Just hear me out, Candice.”

She leaned back and crossed her arms.

I inhaled a breath of courage. “I still struggle with feeling worthy of love. When my mom died, my grandmother took out her anger on me and my grandfather. He was lucky. He drank himself to death. But I lived to deal with all Gram’s bottled-up grief. I finally dumped my own anger onto her when she was dying. I paid a big price, but because of it, I discovered God’s love. I realized He never forgets about me even when I forget about Him.” I gazed into her eyes with all my strength, hoping my message might make it through the wall she’d erected. “He loves you too, Candice. I know He does.”

She took a rasping breath. “God and I don’t have much in common anymore.”

“You’re wrong.” I gripped her wrist. “You walked away, not Him. He’s still got big plans for you. Good plans. Maybe plans with my grandfather, if you let it happen.”

She pushed my hand away. She lined up the spout of the teapot with the honey decanter. She moved a doily to the corner of the tray and set her cup on it, laying her spoon neatly on the saucer. “That’s a nice sentiment, Tish,” she said. “But there are things you don’t know that make what you’re suggesting impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible with God.” I showcased my limited knowledge of Scripture.

She glared at me. “Some things are.”

Our eyes linked in a stare down. I broke contact first.

“Hey, did I mention I have a friend staying with me now?” I asked. A change of subject seemed the wisest course.

Her eyebrows arched. “A friend? And who might that be?”

“Sam Walters. From back in Rawlings.”

“You never told me about Sam.” Her voice had a singsong quality to it, like she was ready to break into a round of “Tish and Sam, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g . . .”

I laughed. “Sam as in Samantha. She’s the sister of Brad Walters. A friend of mine.”

“You never told me about Brad,” she said in the same silly voice.

“Oh, he’s just a friend.”

“Just a friend, huh?”

I swallowed the lump that clogged my throat every time I said his name. “Yeah.”

Candice became serious. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” She looked up at the ceiling, then back at me. “Boy, don’t we make a pair.”

I nodded, fighting back the tears.

“Come on. Let’s go for a walk.” Candice stood, loaded the tea supplies on the tray, and delivered it to the kitchen. We grabbed a few finger sandwiches and walked out the back door.

The scent of fresh grass, hot from the sun, greeted us. Winged insects hummed in the breeze as they picked their way from dandelion to dandelion across the green field. We started off down a two-track that cut next to an old barbed-wire fence.

“It’s so beautiful here,” I remarked as I munched.

Candice took in the view. “You should have seen it back in the good old days. We had horses and cattle and chickens.”

I pictured the field bustling with livestock. “You must have loved it.”

“I still love it. Maybe more now that I can get up when the whim hits instead of when the cock crows.” Candice shook her head, staring at the ground in front of her as we walked. “The animals are what got me through. I could handle anything as long as my horses came running when they saw me.”

“How many did you have?”

“It varied year to year. But the standbys were Brigitte—she was my favorite for saddling up—and Clint. He was a big, clumsy gelding, but gentle as anything.”

“I’ve always wanted to ride a horse.”

“You sat on them plenty when you were little.”

“I barely remember.”

“Your grandfather kept horses too,” she said. “He still does.”

We turned a corner at the end of the field and followed the trail into the woods. The sunlight dimmed beneath the infant leaves. I slapped at a mosquito buzzing in my ear.

“In fact, your mother was quite the horsewoman,” Candice said.

I looked at her, thrilled. “Really? Did you ride together?”

“Now and then. Mostly I stayed behind and played with you while Bernard and Beth went riding. I couldn’t bear gallivanting around with those two. My stomach couldn’t take it.”

I smiled. “No wonder I loved you so much, Jellybean.”

She laughed with me. “We made great companions, we two.” She swatted at a mosquito near her cheek.

“We still do.” I smacked a bug on my arm.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m getting eaten alive. Let’s get out of these woods.” Candice itched at a welt on her hand.

“Me first!” I whirled and ran, leaving Candice and the mosquitoes behind.

“Not so fast, young lady.” Candice’s voice came from only a few steps back.

I broke into the field, back in bite-free sunshine and warmth.

Candice stopped next to me seconds later. She leaned hands on knees, recovering her breath. “Not bad for an old gal, huh?” she said.

“Either you’re in great shape, or I’m in lousy shape.” I laughed.

“You’re in lousy shape.”

As we walked back to the farmhouse, I gave her the rundown on Sam.

“So the ex-husband is back on the loose.” Candice shook her head.

“Brad seems pretty upset about it. But what are the chances of this guy really doing anything?”

She stopped and looked at me, her expression dead serious. “Count yourself blessed, Tish, that you’ve never been abused at the hands of someone you love. There’s nothing harder than opening your eyes when you want only to keep them closed. There’s nothing like finally admitting to yourself that you’re ‘one of those women’—the kind of woman you always despised for having no backbone, for not having the good sense to leave a situation that’s killing you.”

“I’m sorry, Candice, I didn’t mean to—”

She rolled over my words as if I’d never spoken. “If Sam’s ex is anything like mine was, he’s going to come after her. It’s as if he can’t help himself. He’s going to make her pay for putting him in prison, because, naturally, all his problems are her fault. And if she doesn’t grovel just right and beg his forgiveness, then he’s going to hurt her. He’d rather see her dead than free.”

I stared in speechless horror. “Is that what happened to you?”

She nodded. “Thank God Paul died in that fire before he could hurt me one last time.”

I swallowed. “Then maybe my grandfather did you a big favor and you should thank him too.”

She turned and walked ahead. “Let it lie, Tish. It’s a place you don’t want to go.”

I reached for her arm and yanked her to a halt. “I’m sick of people telling me that. I’m sick of everyone trying to protect me from the past. I just want the truth. I want to know what really happened to my mother. How can a woman who was fearless on horseback just give up on life? And I want the truth about my grandfather. Did he have anything to do with my mother’s death and your fire or didn’t he?” My teeth ground together in exasperation. I jabbed a finger toward her. “I know you’re the one who wrote ‘Don’t ask why’ on my mother’s picture and left it ripped in half on my pillow. I don’t care what you say. I’m going to ask and ask and ask until I get my answers.”

Her eyes were giant circles as she listened to me rant.

She pawed at me as if pleading for me to stop. “Tish, I didn’t rip your mother’s picture. I would never do that.” She looked away. “I did write on her photo. But it was in grease pencil, easily wiped off. I wanted to warn you not to be so curious. So you wouldn’t get hurt like she did.”

“What do you mean, get hurt like she did? My mom killed herself.”

Candice shook her head. “Perhaps. But I suspect someone helped her into that quarry.”

My knees felt weak. I tried to breathe. “Why do you say that? What makes you think so?”

“There were rumors. Stories, going around at the time of her death. She’d been at the bar but had no alcohol in her system, so the crash couldn’t be blamed on drunk driving. But witnesses said she drove straight through the guardrail as if she’d done it on purpose. The police took pictures and asked the usual questions. Then they tagged it a suicide and wrapped up the investigation.”

“But you think there’s more to it?”

“There’s always more to everything.”

“Oh, that’s right. You think my grandfather had something to do with it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I have no doubt.”

“It doesn’t make sense. He loved my mother. Why would he do anything to hurt her?”

“She was meeting up with your father.”

“My dad?”

“To warn him.”

“Warn him about what?”

“There’s so much to the story.” She took a deep breath and fanned herself. “I’m feeling worn out after our sprint in the field. How about if I give you all the details another day?”

My jaw dropped. How could she even suggest putting the rest of the story on hold? But her face did look pale. Her breath did seem short. I sure didn’t want her dropping dead of heart failure before I could get the whole picture.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll help you in.”

I settled her in the parlor with a glass of water, cleaned up the tea things in the kitchen, then left for my own cottage . . . somewhat reluctant to face my new tenant.