“It’s probably better if I take care of the finances. But you have a great eye. I love what you’ve done with this house already.”
“I haven’t done much.” He’d picked out all the colors, said they had to be neutral earth tones so the house would be easier to sell in a year, but I tried to add some personality with our bedding and curtains and plants. We hung our wedding portrait over the fireplace.
“You’ve made this feel like a home. You know how much that means to me.” His hands were sliding under my shirt, up my shoulder blades, and to the nape of my neck as he gently pushed me against the desk. In one quick motion, he lifted me up, sat me down on the top of the desk, and nudged my knees apart. I almost lost my balance, but he held me steady with his large hands on my hips and gave me a mischievous look. “Think about it, okay?”
Then he was pulling me closer and spreading hot kisses from my collarbone to my mouth, and I was grabbing at his shoulders and I wasn’t thinking about anything.
* * *
The idea for the perfect Christmas gift came to me the night we moved in. We were relaxing on the couch when I realized we had lots of photos of my family on the mantel, and only one of his mother. He didn’t have any pictures of his father because he lost a box of photos when he moved years ago, but I knew how I might find some. His father had been in the Navy. Surely there was an association for former members. I just needed to do a little research.
Andrew never talked about his family much and I’d never pressed, but his face shifted if he mentioned his mother. Sometimes his expression was sad, other times his lips would lift in a fond smile as he shared a happy memory. She died when he was twenty, and then he was on his own—his father had already been gone for years. He’d left on a Navy trip when Andrew was twelve and never came back. “He couldn’t adjust to family life after being out at sea for months,” Andrew said. “It was too much for him.” He didn’t sound sad or angry, just matter-of-fact. And when his dad died a few years ago, Andrew paid for the funeral.
I went online and found a list of ships that were in operation on the West Coast during the years Andrew’s father served in the Navy. Then it was a matter of searching through the archives for names and photos of crew members. Within two days I found a photo of Edward Nash, standing on the bow of a ship with some other men. I blew up the grainy black-and-white photo on my computer screen and studied Edward. He looked stiff in his uniform, and very young, but his features were so familiar it was startling. I wondered if they shared more than their looks. It was too bad they never had a chance to reconnect. I would’ve liked to meet him. I leaned closer, imagined telling him about Andrew.
Your son is wonderful. Everyone loves him. He does all kinds of things for the community, builds park benches, belongs to a charity baseball team, and he even helped my dad build my mom a wheelchair ramp so she can get around better. You’d be so proud.
I sent an e-mail to the photo lab and asked if they could clean the pictures up, then browsed online for the perfect frame. Andrew was going to be so surprised.
* * *
It was Christmas Eve, and Andrew and I had decided to open one present each. In the morning we’d go to my parents’ and have a pancake breakfast. It was the first year I wouldn’t wake up with my family and I felt a little sad, but also thrilled to celebrate with my new husband.
Later we were going to finish wrapping the presents we bought for my parents and brother. I’d been excited to go around the mall with Andrew and heap our cart full of gifts. When I worried we were spending too much money, Andrew said he wanted to spoil them because they’d been so welcoming. “I just want them to be happy.”
“Maybe this one?” Andrew had chosen the frame I’d carefully wrapped in glimmering pale blue paper, the silver ribbon shaped into spirals like cascading icicles.
“Sure.” My stomach fluttered with excitement and I wished I hadn’t drunk so much eggnog. His large hands carefully eased the paper off. He was taking his time, giving me a wink, teasing out the moment. I was almost ready to snatch it out of his hands and unwrap it for him.
He removed the last piece of paper, then stared down at it. “What’s this?” His voice sounded hollow. I was confused. Was he overcome with emotion?
“It’s a photo of your dad.” I’d chosen one where his father looked the least stern, his gaze focused on something in the distance.
“I know what it is. How did you get it?” He was glaring at me, and now I saw it. That same expression as his father’s. I didn’t know his face could go like that. I fumbled for my words.
“You told me his name before, so I found a Navy Web site.” I reached out a hand, rested it on his forearm. The muscles flexed and bunched under my fingers. I slowly pulled my hand away. “We have all these photos of my family, and I thought—”
“That you would make me feel like shit? My father walked out on my family. I don’t need to see his face to remember that. I can’t believe you did this.”
My embarrassment was turning to hurt and my eyes stung. “I was trying to do something nice. I didn’t know you’re angry at him—I barely know anything about your childhood.”
“Is that why you looked online? So you could dig up dirt on me?”
“Of course not. I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”
“You want to know about my father? He was an asshole, okay? He treated me like crap, and he treated my mother like crap. He came back two days after she died, said he wanted to get to know me, but he just wanted money from the trust fund. I kicked him out.” He dropped the frame onto the floor, shattering the glass. “That’s what you’ve done to our Christmas.”
He walked away, and a moment later his office door closed with a thud.
* * *
I sat on the couch, staring at the tree through blurred eyes. How could I have been so stupid? Of course he didn’t want a reminder of his father. Just because I loved mine so much didn’t mean everyone felt the same way. But I couldn’t stop replaying Andrew’s words—the way he looked at me. We’d never fought before. There was only one time on our honeymoon when he snapped at me, then took off for a long walk by himself, and left me waiting in the room. Later he said that he didn’t like how the tour operator was speaking to me, which was totally my fault. I was definitely being too friendly and didn’t think about how someone could misread that.
Maybe Andrew was just tired, still recovering from our trip and the move. I glanced down the hall, wondered if I should apologize, then decided to give him some space.
I picked up the broken glass, swept up the tiny fragments, hid the frame in a closet, then turned on the TV. The distraction helped, but when Andrew still hadn’t come out for over an hour, I softly knocked on his door. He didn’t answer. I rested my hand on the wood.
“Andrew, I’m really sorry.”
Silence.
It was almost midnight. My eyelids were drooping and I needed to go to bed soon, but I was in the living room, wrapping the last few presents for my family. Finally I heard Andrew’s office door open, then his weight settling on the couch behind me. I held my breath.
“I’m sorry, Lindsey,” he said. “I behaved like an ass.”
I spun around. “No. I’m sorry. I should have known.”
“How could you? You’re right. I didn’t tell you about him. I’ve never talked about it with anyone, none of my friends, not even Melissa, and we lived together for three years.” I tried not to wince at the name of his ex-girlfriend, who cheated on him and then stole half his stuff.
“I’m not her,” I said. “I love you.”
“I know.” He let his breath out in a sigh. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Don’t say that. Of course you do. I just wish you’d share more about your life with me.” I moved to sit beside him on the couch. “I just want to know you.”
“There’s not much to tell.” He swallowed. “Let’s just say my father made it pretty clear I wasn’t wanted. He shoved me down the stairs a
couple of times, knocked me around a bit, and was handy with the belt. I spent most of my childhood being afraid of him whenever he was home from the ships. He was always yelling at my mom—and I saw bruises on her arms. I was glad when he finally left, but then a few years later my mom found the first lump. I tried to take care of her the best I could until she died, but I was still a kid, you know?”
I wanted to cry, thinking about everything he had been through. He’d grown up so fast. “You have my family now.” I leaned over and wrapped my arms around him, squeezing hard.
“You all mean so much to me,” he said. “It’s like I was floating along for years and now I’ve finally found somewhere to land. I never want to lose you.” He rested his warm cheek against mine, his arms holding me tight. My body relaxed, and I felt a surge of relief. This was the Andrew I knew and loved. “I’m really sorry I broke your gift,” he said. “I hate to think that you spent all that time trying to make it special for me, and then I go and wreck everything. I don’t know why I get like that sometimes. It’s like I just see red and then I can’t think straight. I don’t want to be like that with you.” He sounded so confused, so unsure of himself, so ashamed.
I pulled away, looked him in the face. “It’s not that big of a deal, okay? We have lots of Christmases ahead of us. Next year I’ll knit you a tacky scarf or something.”
He cupped the side of my face. “You’re too good. How did I get so lucky?”
“You might not think you’re so lucky when you deal with my family chaos tomorrow.”
“Let’s go to bed. I want to hold you and show you how much I love you.” He was looking at me in the way that usually made me crave his touch, but something held me back.
I picked up a red bow. “Not yet! We have to finish wrapping these gifts!”
I watched him carefully place the bow in the center of a large package. I was still unsettled but pushing off the lingering negative feelings. This was what made a real marriage—arguments, misunderstandings, then talking things out and becoming even closer.
It was okay that we didn’t wrap the presents together. We finished them together.
CHAPTER FOUR
DECEMBER 2016
The officer’s name is Corporal D. Parker. She looks to be in her late thirties, with auburn hair pulled back into a bun, pale blue eyes, and a friendly smile that I know is meant to make me relax, but I can’t stop shivering and stumbling over my words. I’m holding her card tight in my palm and keep glancing at it as though the RCMP logo and official letters will somehow make me feel safe. I can’t remember what the D stands for, the introductions a blur. I was so relieved when I saw her car pull in behind me. She went inside first and made sure no one was lurking, but I already knew Andrew would be long gone. He’s too smart to linger.
We’re standing in the kitchen now and I’m trying to explain why I’m so sure it was my ex-husband. “He put my keys on top of my purse—he used to get mad at me for losing them.”
“Anything missing from your wallet?”
“I don’t know. He put my lip gloss back in my purse too.” I stare at it, and know I’ll never use that gloss again as long as I live. “He must have come in through the window.”
“Okay, show me where.”
I take her to the spare room, point at the window, and she looks outside. I think about how much it’s rained in the last hour, how the snow has melted all around the house.
“Do you know if she has any valuables in the house?”
“Maybe a few pieces of jewelry—but Andrew wouldn’t have taken anything. He just wanted me to know he was in the house. I think he was hiding in the front closet and snuck out when I was cleaning the bedrooms. Gatsby spooked at the end of the hall.”
“Gatsby?”
“The cat.”
“I should probably talk to him too.” I blink at her, and she smiles and gives a shrug. “Cop humor.” She glances at the window frame, leans over like she’s looking for something on the sill. “I’ll dust for prints, and I’ll need the number for the home owner.”
* * *
I wait on the couch while she works upstairs. I can hear the low murmur of her voice on the phone, her footsteps. It was obvious she didn’t want to talk to Mrs. Carlson when I was in the room—she asked me to stay downstairs because she might have more questions.
The officer (I remember now her first name is Dana) comes downstairs with her fingerprint kit. She’s already taken mine so she can compare them and has dusted my purse and the closet door, but she wasn’t able to get anything. She sits on the other side of the couch.
“I got a few off the windowsill. I’ll do some comparisons at the station later.” I already know, if she didn’t find anything in the rest of the house, she won’t find anything on the window.
“Did you talk to Mrs. Carlson? She must be so worried.” And scared. I hate thinking that Andrew caused her beautiful bird to die. What will she think of me now?
“She’s on her way back and will let me know if anything’s missing.” She glances at her watch. “I’ll meet her here in a couple of hours.”
“Can I leave now?”
“Just a few more questions, if you don’t mind.” Her voice is still casual, but her eyes are intent. “You said your ex-husband was released from prison recently. What was he in for?”
“Impaired driving causing death.” The officer is still watching me, her eyes narrowed like she’s waiting for me to get to the point, but I’m having a hard time speaking, all the memories flooding back. “He hit another driver and she died. They found a gun in his truck. He told the cops he wanted to kill me.” He’d been given ten years, the maximum sentence. Many offenders only serve two-thirds, but finally his temper worked in my favor. He refused to join any programs, never showed remorse, and got in so many fights he kept getting denied parole. After seven years, he would have been eligible for statutory release, but then he stabbed a man in prison, nearly killing him. He claimed self-defense, so he wasn’t charged, but he ended up having to serve his whole sentence.
“Have you heard from him since he was released?”
“No, but you don’t understand. He plays mind games. He would do this to scare me.” My body is breaking out in a sweat and I feel cold all over. I want a thick blanket, a hot bath.
“I’ll check into his whereabouts.”
“I’m not making this up.” I hear the defensive tone in my voice and know I sound hostile, but her expression doesn’t change. “He was here. I know he was.”
“I understand you’re afraid of him,” she says. “But, unfortunately, without evidence of an actual crime or proof he was in the house, I can’t do anything.” Her face is sincere, and I get the feeling she actually does believe me, but it’s not bringing me much comfort at the moment.
“Then what can I do? How can I protect myself?”
“You could apply for a section 810 peace bond, but the Crown will want more evidence that he’s a threat to your safety. If your ex-husband is the one who moved your keys, it’s creepy, but not necessarily threatening.”
“Is that a restraining order?”
“Similar, yes. If you want a protection order, that’s usually granted in family court at the time of your divorce. The peace bond is more of a preventive order. He has to agree to the terms in court and he could fight it. Then it will fall on you to prove why it’s necessary.”
“So I have to wait until he does something really bad.”
“If you do feel he’s becoming a definite threat, give me a call and I’ll help you through the process.” She writes something on the back of another business card, passes it to me. “And if you remember anything else about today, please call me. My cell number is on the back.”
As she walks me to the door I realize that Atticus’s box is sitting on the counter. “I was supposed to bury her bird.”
“It’s raining pretty hard out there now.”
“I said I would do it.” I pick up the box and hold it tight a
gainst my chest.
“How about you leave him with me?”
Right. So she can toss him out the window of her car as she drives down the highway? “Thanks, but I know that Mrs. Carlson would feel more comfortable knowing I took care of this for her.” I grab my purse and walk toward the door before she can stop me.
She watches from the back porch as I march to the garden shed and drag the shovel toward the lilac bushes. I stab at the ground, use my foot to jam the shovel into the hard earth. The cold rain is blowing into my face and my hair is getting soaked, icy rivulets dripping down my neck, but I can’t stop. My breath heaves out of me. Come on, come on. I get a chunk of dirt up and toss it to the side. Footsteps come up beside me.
“Are you sure you don’t—”
A clod lands near her feet and she neatly sidesteps, doesn’t say anything else while I dig the hole and place the box inside, scraping dirt back over with my hands.
I stand straight and take some breaths. I don’t look at the officer. I close my eyes, bow my head, and say a prayer for Atticus. Then I say a prayer for Sophie and me.
CHAPTER FIVE
NOVEMBER 1998
She was kicking again. I stopped in the middle of the hardware store, ran my hands over my belly. There was a foot, her tiny bum, or maybe the curve of her shoulder. Andrew was so thrilled when the doctor told us we were having a girl, he bought her a pink fishing rod. I pressed gently on my stomach, smiled as I felt her push back and imagined her doing somersaults. A baby ballerina, an acrobat. I hadn’t planned on getting pregnant five months into our marriage, but when Andrew told me how he wanted to have children young so we’d have the energy to keep up with them, then enjoy our retirement, it made sense. I could always focus on my career later.
I sighed, looked back up at the wall. I’d been staring at this display of kitchen faucets for twenty minutes and still couldn’t remember if Andrew wanted brushed nickel or stainless steel. He’d said, “Just get the ones we talked about,” but he’d been in and out of the house so much lately, giving me instructions in passing, and it seemed like most of it leaked out of my head the minute he was gone. He’d been so patient with me. Twice he’d had to come home from the job site to bring me his spare keys. Later he found my set in the freezer. I couldn’t for the life of me think why I’d put them there. Now he puts them on top of my purse every morning.