Love Me If You Must

17

The old wooden door was the only thing that separated me from the body in my basement. I wanted nothing more than to grab a sledgehammer and smash the cistern to smithereens and prove to myself there was nothing but dirt and stones beneath that lump of white.

But I knew I’d never make it down the steep stairway with my leg in its crippled state. Besides, I didn’t even own a sledgehammer.

I pounded a fist on the counter. There was no body in my basement. There was nothing to investigate.

“Leave me alone,” I yelled toward the basement. I jumped at the echo of my voice in the empty house.

I grabbed at my temples, hoping to get a handle on my mind. But the more I tried to block it out, the more insistent the image in the concrete became.

A ball of anger lodged in my throat.

I hobbled to the basement door and fumbled with the slide bolt.

I threw the door open. It crashed against the back wall. Plaster dust drifted into an empty stairwell.

“Stop acting like a three-year-old afraid of the dark,” I chastised myself. “There’s nothing in your basement.” A thump sounded behind me in the kitchen. I twirled and screamed, sure I would see the cistern-dweller, wailing like a banshee, hair wild and clothes tattered from the grave.

But it was only David, standing in the middle of the stain-splotched linoleum.

I massaged my neck, that bare place between my shoulders and head that used to be hidden by hair. I could only hope David hadn’t heard me talking to myself.

“What are you doing here already?” The words popped out before I could stop them from sounding rude. I had at least nine hours to pull myself together before our scheduled date. How dare he arrive early?

“Sorry to startle you. I came by to drop this off.” A key dangled from one hand.

I reached for it. “What’s this for?”

He smiled and a dimple formed on one cheek. “It’s your house key, actually.” He looked around the kitchen. “Are you well? I looked through the window and you seemed distressed. I came in to help, if you needed it.”

I blinked hard, trying to imagine what a dork I must have looked like from his angle on the porch. Skinny me, braced at the top of the cellar steps, talking to myself about an empty basement.

“Everything’s great.” I rocked back on my good heel and swung my arms. “You know how it is. Me and the family ghosts were just working things out.”

“Oh.” David stared at me. “Is that a new style you’ve got there?”

On instinct, my hand reached for my head. “Just a couple days old. What do you think?”

“Superb. It really sets off the green of your eyes.”

“Thanks.” I got that warm fuzzy feeling that came with a well-phrased compliment.

But somewhere in my muddled brain, it finally registered why David had come over. “So. You had my house key. How come?”

He took a step back. “I helped Rick with the waterproofing project last year. I thought I’d lost the key, but I was cleaning out a drawer the other day and there it was. I didn’t feel right keeping it.”

I tossed the key on the counter. It slid across and jangled into the stainless steel sink. I wondered how many other copies were at large. Did Rick Hershel have one? What about the creepy Jack Fitch? I knew Lloyd the contractor had a copy, since I’d given it to him.

I met David’s eyes, soft blue in the reflected daylight. He seemed so handsome . . . so harmless. Someone else must be responsible for the stick-in-the-window stunt. I was holding out hope that David was the genuine article.

“Thanks for bringing it by.” I smiled and let down my guard. “I’m really looking forward to tonight.”

His eyebrows lifted in what could have been surprise.

“Me too.” He shifted his weight. “Uh, six o’clock, right?”

I cut him some slack. He must have had a tough week dealing with Rebecca’s divorce bomb. I figured one hour earlier wasn’t putting me out too much.

“Six o’clock it is,” I said, walking him to the door.

David left and I rushed to call Tammy at the Beauty Boutique for a nail repair job.

“I can fit you in at three.” Her voice sounded like she was fighting a cold.

While I waited for the appointment, I headed to the quaint clothing stores scattered downtown, determined to find the perfect outfit. I had in mind something the exact shade of David’s eyes.

The air was damp and my injured leg ached to the bone. I Frankenstein-walked my way to Clothing Junction, attracted by the bright sweaters in the window display. I pushed open the door. The warm scent of cinnamon and apples greeted me. Floorboards creaked as I wove through the store to the sales desk on the far side. On the way, I took in the floral swags and wreaths sprinkling the walls, the jewelry and accessories displayed atop each rack, and the clever antique knickknacks showcased in every nook. The overall effect gave me the irresistible urge to buy everything in sight.

Two older women stood behind the counter, talking to each other in hushed tones. They seemed oblivious to my approach. I couldn’t help but overhear.

“Arsenic poisoning. Just enough to kill someone with a weak heart, poor dear,” said the one with the blonde beehive.

“It’s a wonder we aren’t all dead,” the other biddy answered. “I’ve drank my share of coffee over there, you know.”

I gulped, wondering if the faint bruising on my feet could be caused by arsenic from my Whistle Stop habit.

Biddy Number Two turned and noticed me. Her eyebrows squinched, and I could tell she caught my resemblance to the AWOL Sandra Jones.

“Can I help you?” she asked, all aflutter.

“Hi. I need something remarkable. In blue.”

She led me to a rack on the far wall. “We just got in this collection of winter blues. This one is my personal favorite.”

She held up a soft cashmere wrap sweater with a satin tie on one side. Elegant. Classy. I pictured myself in it, sitting opposite the dashing David in the Rawlings Hotel dining room. The candlelight would merge the blue of my sweater and the blue of his eyes, and we’d talk about our perfectly meshed future together.

I reached out and touched the sleeve, reveling in the thought of that soft yarn against my skin. I ran my hands down the length of it. An exposed jagged nail tweaked at the surface fuzz. Tonight, of course, I’d have my flamingo nail tips back in pristine condition.

The woman left the sweater in my hands and walked to a nearby rack. “These slacks would really set it off.”

The silky black pants were fitted, with no waistband and gently tapering legs.

“Would you like to try them on?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” I said, pretending I did this shopping-spree thing all the time. In reality, I never tried stuff on at my usual clothing stores before taking it home and washing it first. Anything could be alive on those secondhand garments.

I stepped into the dressing room and shut the louvered door behind me. Huge mirrors boxed me in. I couldn’t avoid taking a good look at my reflection.

I sighed.

I seemed so hand-me-down. Jeans a size too big and a baggy blouse in original ’70s striped fabric. Sure, the combination could pass for the current style, but it just didn’t work with my new chic hairdo that said I was sophisticated now. Svelte slacks and a trim sweater would give me that put-together look I craved.

I wrestled off my blouse and pulled on the sweater.

My head popped out the top and I adjusted it into place.

A perfect fit. I ran my hands across every part of the fabric, feeling as if I were special, important, and worth loving.

Wow. I’d have to go shopping more often.

The slacks achieved the same sensation.

I smiled and hugged myself in the mirrors, thrilled at my first introduction to must-have clothing. I would feel so confident tonight. So together. Exactly the effect I hoped to attain.

A long, white tag dangled from one sleeve of the sweater. I hadn’t even thought to look at the price.

I flipped the tag over.

I stood for several agonizing seconds, reading and rereading the three digits followed by a decimal point and two zeros.

How could that be? How could this little bit of a sweater cost more than a month’s worth of groceries? There was hardly anything to it. Soft fuzzy fabric and a satin bow should only amount to twenty bucks. What crazed individual would pay five times more than a thing was worth? So what if Clothing Junction provided a luxurious and unique shopping experience. Were there really people out there, other than frivolous tourists, that would fork over those kinds of funds just to feel good about themselves?

“How’s it fit, dearie?” the biddy called through the slats.

Great fit, exorbitant price, I felt like snapping back.

“It’s okay.”

I looked at the pile of crumpled, recycled clothing on the floor. Three bucks’ worth of stuff, maybe. My whole wardrobe over the past eight years had cost a fraction of what this one outfit would come to today.

Was I worth it? A miser’s horde of money sat untouched in my bank account, earmarked for the renovation project. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt just this once to treat myself. I’d been through a lifetime of heartaches and hardships. It was time to let go of the past and enjoy the present.

I changed back into my ragtag combination, dismayed at the transformation from princess back to pauper. No wonder the salesladies hadn’t paid any attention to me when I walked in the door.

I brought the fantastic duo to the counter, and with a hard swallow, wrote the check.

Beehive Woman gave the document a thorough inspection, glancing first at the lettering, then at me.

“I see you’re not related to Sandra Jones,” she said.

I waved my hand and flashed a smile. “Heavens, no. But I gather from crowd response that we could be sisters.”

“Twins. You could be twins.” She squinted at me. “Well, Sandra does have thinner brows. And her eyes are brown, not green, like yours.” The woman sighed, fussing and folding my purchase. She tucked it in a burgundy bag with a twine handle. “Sandra was one of our best customers. Shopped here since high school.”

“Well, I hope she didn’t buy this same outfit. Wouldn’t that be tacky?” I clicked my fingertips on the counter hoping the woman would just stick to the task and get me out of here in time for my three o’clock at the Beauty Boutique.

Blonde Beehive gripped the bag, apparently determined I would hear her out. “Sandra hasn’t been in here for a good year now. What a shame about her and Martin.”

C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, I felt like saying.

“Yeah. I heard she jilted him, poor guy,” I said.

“After what he did to her, no one blames her. Wasn’t that a mess?”

I leaned forward against the counter, suddenly intrigued by news of Martin Dietz’s shortcomings. “Sounds serious. What did he do to her?”

“Well”—the woman’s voice lowered to gossip level—“he wanted that big county position. Which one was it, Rita?” She turned to the woman behind her.

“Commissioner,” Rita said.

“Yes. Well, he put Sandra in charge of the campaign and she would have won it for him.”

“But?” I asked, thanking God Martin Dietz hadn’t ended up in county-level government.

“But she decided to run for it herself. And she would have won too.”

“What happened?”

“That nasty Mr. Dietz ripped her character to shreds. She left town before the election was over. Haven’t seen her since.”

The door jangled open behind me, and a cold gust of wind blew in along with a customer.

The woman at the counter clammed up as she glanced past me toward the door. She shoved my bag at me and pasted a smile on her face.

I was sorry to have my investigation cut short, but glad to get to the Beauty Boutique.

I turned to go, and bumped into the broad, solid form of Martin Dietz.