He wouldn’t be happy about that.
I hesitated for a moment just outside the front door of Owen’s house. I didn’t want him to be so upset after finding out something so wonderful. Maybe this wasn’t the time to tell him, either. Maybe I should save the news for another time. But damn it, I swore I would tell him the minute he returned – no matter what.
Maybe if I told him about Bernie’s threats first, my news would soften the blow somewhat. I knew that wasn’t going to happen. No matter which order I told him in, it was going to be horrible.
But I decided to tell him anyway. He had to know. I was tired of carrying these things around by myself.
I walked through the house, calling out Andy’s and Owen’s names, alternately, but getting no response from either man.
My frustration was starting to grow.
I was just about to give up and go back home and wait when I heard a voice. It was loud, clearly yelling. I followed the sound, no longer calling out for anyone. The sound led me to a closed door in the hallway. I hesitated outside the door. After a minute or so, I heard the voice again. It was Owen, and he wasn’t yelling now.
With relief, I opened the door and stepped inside.
For a second, just a split second, I was overcome with happiness. There was my Andy. My gorgeous, red-haired Andy.
Then, I was racked with pain. Oh, god, the pain was unbearable. I fell to the floor, unable to speak. I managed to move my mouth, but couldn’t make any words come out.
I could hear the shouts, but I couldn’t understand what they meant. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t comprehend what was happening. The only thing I could think of was the pain, the horrible, unbearable pain bouncing around in my head. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before.
I watched through blurry vision as my world grew dark. Life as I knew it was over. There would be no news now. No chance of telling Andy that we were finally going to have a baby. No chance of telling him that Bernie had marked me as his next victim. No chance of telling my adorable red-haired husband that he meant more to me than anything or anyone ever had or ever would. No chance of telling anyone goodbye.
No chance.
70 Carla
I tucked the knitting needles into the back pocket of my jeans. I used the potholders I’d knitted to carry the bowl of steaming soup Hazel had made for Owen. She made enough to feed a small army, and insisted that I take it all to Owen. She said he wouldn’t feel like cooking, so this would be what he ate for a day or two. I thought it would be more like a week or two with as much as there was.
But I didn’t argue with her or tell her that she’d made too much. Cooking was her thing. It’s what she did. She fed people. She came from a generation where if you had food, everything would be okay. Her generation knew what it was like to be hungry, and was determined not to let anyone else know the feeling.
I loved her generation. Hell, I loved her, even though I hadn’t known her very long.
The kids stayed with Hazel while I headed down to Owen’s house, needles in pocket, soup in hand.
Though I didn’t want to, I looked across the street to Bernie’s house. There was nothing to see. No curtain flutter, no door opening or closing. There was no sign of him at all, which both frightened me and gave me a sense of relief. I was glad I didn’t see him, but I couldn’t help but be a little worried. If he wasn’t in his house, watching out the window as he seemed to have a habit of doing, then where was he?
I pushed thoughts of Bernie out of my mind. I hated thinking about him. If I thought of him for long, my thoughts would turn into memories. Him touching me, biting me...no. I wouldn’t think of him anymore.
As I passed Andy and Jill’s house, I noticed both cars parked in the driveway. I was glad to see that Andy was home.
Instead of going straight to Owen’s house, I found myself ringing the doorbell at Jill and Andy’s. When no one answered the door after a couple of minutes, I wondered why. I considered that they were napping. However, it was mid-morning. Who took a nap before noon?
I decided against ringing the bell a second time. I might try again as I walked back to Hazel’s, but for now I let it go and went to Owen’s.
71 Louis
As soon as I stepped out of the taxi, I wanted to climb back in it and go somewhere else. I hated it here. I don’t know why I hadn’t sold this house and forgotten that Hewitt Street existed. I planned to. Of course, I’d been planning to for years. I suppose I kept putting it off because I was rarely here. It was so easy to forget about it once I was in Paris or Italy or Cairo.
I collected my bags from the trunk, wondering why I ever came back here at all. I wasn’t sure why I even owned a house. I lived out of hotels. I didn’t need a house. I had no one waiting for me. I didn’t own so many things that I needed a house just to store them. I didn’t even feel right in this house any more.
I’d spent my life feeling trapped in kitchens, even though I was doing what I loved. Now I couldn’t stand to feel tied down to one place. Fortunately, I had a successful line of cookware and a series of cookbooks that paid me well enough to finance my travels. I was thankful that all that hard work and all the years of being trapped in hot kitchens had paid off in the end.
I paid the driver and walked my bags to the porch.
The porch was the same as always. So was the house. Everything was always the same here. Maybe that’s why I hated it so much.
There was one thing different this time. There were muddy paw prints on the steps and porch. I visually followed the trail, which stopped at the dog. He lay in a corner on the porch, paws covered in mud. I knew it had rained recently because the street was still wet, and clearly this dog had taken advantage of the wet dirt.
Since he was on my porch, I could only assume he was digging something of mine.
I sighed.
This meant I would have to find out who he belonged to and demand restitution for whatever damage he had inflicted. Of course, that would cause problems with the owner, but it didn’t matter. I was putting this house on the market tomorrow.
72 Carla
I walked to the kitchen and set the large bowl of hot soup on the table. I placed the potholders on top of the bowl. I was going to give them to Owen after I showed them to him. I knew it was silly, and men cared nothing for things of the sort. But it meant something to me to give him the first thing I’d ever made with my own hands. And who couldn’t use potholders?
I called his name a couple of times, but got no response. I glanced in the living room and saw no one, so I headed upstairs, assuming he’d be in bed since he wasn’t feeling well.
Knocking gently on his bedroom door, I opened it. The room was empty. In fact, the bed was made and looked as if no one had slept there at all. It didn’t even appear that he’d slept on top of the blankets. It was untouched.
I checked the bathroom, but he wasn’t there. In fact, I checked all the upstairs rooms but found no one.
I went back downstairs, determined now to find him. I was more than a little puzzled as to why he wasn’t in bed, or seemingly anywhere in the house if he was ill.
When I reached the foot of the stairs, I heard the sound of someone yelling. I couldn’t make out any words or even identify the voice, but I followed the sound anyway, thinking to myself about how curiosity had killed that cat.
Here kitty, kitty.