Scrapbook of Secrets Page 14

  There was Nancy—such beautiful lines—in a full arabesque, brown hair undone, adding to the youthful costume. She was gazing at the camera with confidence; yet she maintained character. The best dancers were always excellent actors. Their eyes were as much a part of dance as their perfectly pointed, turned-out toes.

  She stuck the photo onto shimmery silver paper, which framed it beautifully, and watched as it brought out the delicate blushes—the pinks and the sages—from the photo. She placed glue dots on the back of the paper and stuck it in the center of the deep purple page.

  “I hear you,” DeeAnn said. “It’s been a hell of a week at the bakery. ’Tis the wedding season, and I’m exhausted.”

  “I bet you are,” Sheila said, placing paper onto her cutting plastic board. Then she placed her circular template over a picture and began to cut it with her X-ACTO blade. Vera loved watching Sheila wield an X-ACTO blade.

  “Some of the cakes are gorgeous, though. There was one we decorated for today that was red, gold, and white. It was stunning!”

  Vera flipped her scrapbook back to the beginning to check through the pages to make sure everything was still where it should be. The glue dots and other adhesives now were so good that she rarely found anything—but she wanted to be careful, especially since this album would be a gift. She loved the little-girl photos of Nancy. She was always so sweet, but she was such a serious dancer. Just the way she pointed her toe suggested maturity beyond her years—even as her face still held sweet, chubby, soft baby cheeks.

  Suddenly her stomach lit with tingles. Maybe she would have a daughter. Maybe someday she would be working on her own daughter’s dancing scrapbooks. A tear stung at her eyes. Could it be? Would that she could choose, it would be, of course, just to have a healthy child. But to have a girl? A girl to dance? Could she be one of those mothers who sees her dreams come true through her daughter? Did she really want that?

  When Vera thought about her own mother—well, no two women could be more different. Beatrice had tried to ignore Vera’s commitment to dance for years. She just wrote it off as “good exercise.” She supported her and made sure she had what she needed—the shoes, the tights, the leotards, the countless hairnets, the bobby pins, and so on. But when Vera hit high school, Beatrice talked with her about college and her future.

  “Your dance—and your dance performance and teaching at such a young age—is going to help you get into college. But what will you study? Law? Medicine?”

  “Law?” Vera said. “Law? No, Mother, I’m a dancer. I’d rather just find a company to audition for. But if you insist I go to school, I’m studying dance.”

  “Study dance in college? Well, I’ve heard of everything now! You don’t go to college for dance.”

  “You can. And I will,” Vera said.

  Her mother waved her off, shook her head, and walked away.

  Vera knew she had disappointed Beatrice by not studying something like physics or medicine, but dance was the only thing that interested her. At least, even at that young age, she knew herself. And knew that she could live with her mother’s profound disappointment. Even her father had found it hard not to disapprove.

  “We love you very much and will support whatever decision you make. But dance is not a good way to make a living, you know?” he said.

  Thinking back to the way that made her feel, Vera decided right then and there that she would never put pressure on her child to dance—or not to dance. Or to do or be anything. Life was tough enough without having to live your life to please someone else.

  Yes, she would help her son or daughter discover his or her own passion, and would support him or her in no matter what it was. Soccer. Painting. Baking. Whatever. She’d keep her mouth shut about it and let them choose.

  But she was getting ahead of herself. Her first concern was delivering a healthy baby, carrying it to term, and taking care of it, which seemed complicated enough. There were thousands of books about how to take care of babies. She’d never have all of the time she needed to read every book on the subject, of course, but she did go to the library today and checked out a few. She also heard a ridiculous story about her mother finding a baby doll on her front porch.

  “Who told you about that?”

  The librarian shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

  “If it were true, I’d know about it,” Vera said, and took her books out the front door.

  But now, she wondered about it. Her mother was surely not herself these days. Darn, she wished they would find the person who stabbed Bea. Was it the same person who had killed Maggie Rae? The police suggested that. It was too coincidental. But why Beatrice? Did she know something about the murder? She had been known not to tell Vera things because she didn’t want her to worry. Suddenly the thought of Beatrice as a grandmother made Vera smile.

  “What are you doing over there?” Sheila interrupted Vera’s thoughts.

  “Thinking about the baby,” Vera said, and smiled.

  “Me too. I’m actually knitting a blanket. I’ve not knitted in years,” Paige said. “It’s going to be great to have a baby around.”

  “You’re onto something other than the murder,” DeeAnn said. “But I can’t get over there being a murder in our little town. It makes me so angry and so sad.”

  “Really?” Annie spoke up after setting down her plate, which was smeared in hummus. “It frightens me. Who killed her? Where is he? Or she?”

  Vera felt a coldness come over her and then travel along her spine. She shivered. Here she was—bringing a baby into this increasingly complicated world. At least she could protect and love him or her. And that is what she and Bill would do. She and Bill were going to be wonderful parents. She was sure of it. She hadn’t felt so good—so happy—in years. It was as if her cells were exploding with life, energy, and happiness. She noticed a difference with Bill as well. This baby was already bringing magic into their lives.

  “I know. Once you start to think about it, it could be anybody,” Sheila said. “You know, the way she was, well, I hate to say it, but she could be entertaining absolute strangers. Bring them to our town for a little sex, and who knows what else? Question is, are they gone or still hanging around?”

  “Sheila!” Vera said, closing the dancing scrapbook. “You’ve got a hell of an imagination.”

  “Thank God for it, too. Or else I’d have lost my mind years ago,” Sheila said; after a moment, she laughed. “Could you please pass me one of those chocolate cupcakes?”

  “What do you have there, Annie?” Vera asked.

  “It’s a picture of Maggie Rae’s mother. What a pretty calico dress.”

  “They all wore those dresses in those days,” DeeAnn said, looking over Annie’s shoulder. “And look at those hands. They look like they belong to a much older woman. These women in the Hollow in those days ... about worked themselves to death.”

  “Oh, now, look at that,” Sheila said, taking the photo out of Annie’s hand. “There’s something on the back. ‘I ache for you, Mama.’”

  “Bless her heart,” Vera said.

  Chapter 31

  Annie sank into the warm bliss of her fourth beer and looked around the table. DeeAnn was intent on the page in front of her, moving pictures around, tilting her head. Paige just closed her scrapbook and was eating the last chocolate-and-peanut-butter cupcake. Sheila was straightening books on her bookshelves piled with scrapbook materials. Vera was stretched out on the floral couch, asleep. She had been for about an hour. Annie’s eyes were beginning to droop.

  Above the couch were beautiful pictures of Sheila’s four kids. And the corner cabinet held even more pictures, along with trophies and ribbons. Thank God, there were no paintings of barns. Annie was a bit sick of the barn scenes everywhere she went. There was not much décor at all in the basement scrapbooking room that didn’t revolve around Sheila’s children. Annie wondered what Sheila would fill the room with if she didn’t have children.

  Annie loved these ru
b-ons that she had recently purchased from Sheila. She worked her stick across the paper until she was sure that the fancy scripted word “Magic” came out perfectly. She pulled the paper back slowly, until she saw the word on the page. Nice. Underneath the word was a photo of Maggie Rae and her husband, Robert. They looked so happy. His arms were around her. Both of them were smiling for the camera, taking a break from a family game of soccer. Someone’s foot was kicking the ball in the background. A flying braid was part of the picture. Scattered pieces of their children. Imagining them now, with no mother, broke Annie’s heart.

  She looked at the snoozing Vera and thought how blessed she was to be expecting a baby. Vera had all of it in front of her. Annie loved the boys when they were babies—she didn’t mind the sleep loss or the nursing. Somehow she found the energy to take care of them and the fortitude not to care how tired she was. In fact, she remembered rocking Sam in her arms until they ached, not wanting to lay him in his crib.

  Annie closed the album. “I need to get going,” she said after draining her last beer.

  Paige looked at her. “I’m leaving, too. Need a ride?”

  “Nah,” she said. “I’ll walk.”

  “Walk? Haven’t you heard there’s a murderer on the loose?”

  “I’ll be all right. I’ve got my pepper spray,” she said, pulling it out of her bag. “And I just live right around the corner and down the street.”

  “Well, okay,” Paige said. “You be careful.” She was still gathering her things and shoving them in her scrapbooking tote when Annie said her good-byes.

  Annie didn’t have that much to carry, amazed that all of these scrapbookers had special equipment to carry all of their stuff in. DeeAnn and Paige both had cases on wheels. The cases had equipped compartments made just for scrapbooking supplies—a space for stickers, a space for sticky tape, a space for scissors, and drawers for paper. It was an amazing sight to behold.

  She flung her bag over her back as she turned the corner, and heard something. She wondered if she herself had caused the noise, or if someone else was out at this hour of night—or morning. What was it? One thirty-five, her watch said. She rolled her sleepy eyes. She’d pay for this tomorrow.

  She heard the rustling noise again. Maybe it was one of the many neighborhood cats prowling around. Still, she moved forward through the darkest spot on the street as quickly as she could, heading to a more well-lit area. The moon was not quite full and clouds began to glide across it. The sidewalks gave off a little sparkle, and the streets were completely quiet—which Annie always found a little unsettling. The town had long rows of streets, with quiet houses on either side. Trees took on an ominous quality and they shadowed over the sidewalks.

  Is that the thump of a foot?

  Annie’s heart raced and she felt sudden beads of sweat form on her forehead. It was all she could do to stop from running. And she wished she had not drunk that fourth beer. She just then realized that she was more than a little tipsy, just about tripping over her sneakers.

  She reached in her bag and pulled out her pepper spray. Whoever it was would get an eyeful. A rustle again. She turned quickly—was that a man behind that bush? She tried to focus her somewhat drunken eyes. She held up her spray and saw the rhododendron shimmy as a figure moved behind it. A tall man was definitely crouching behind the bush. She blinked.

  Confront him? Yank him out from behind the bush? Her heart beat madly in her chest. There was a day she would not have thought twice about it. But tonight, all she could think about was her two boys and getting home safely to them. She did not want to leave her children motherless—not if she could help it. Don’t be foolish, she told herself, just get home.

  But if a man was following her, should she really lead him to her house? She stood paralyzed in that moment. Go home? Confront him?

  The pull of her home won in the end. She thought that if he followed her, he’d have to deal with Mike and possibly the police.

  When she opened the door of their tiny bungalow, she had never been so grateful to be at home in her life. Her eyes took it all in: the faded brown couch sitting against the wall with toys piled in the corner, the finger-smeared screen on the television; the big plaid chair, with the cushions beginning to wear out; the old blue afghan thrown over Mike’s chair; the potty chair sitting in the corner; the tiny 1940s pink kitchen; her snoring husband; her sleeping boys. Yes. She was home.

  The next day, as she was pouring Mike’s coffee, she felt her heart jump as she thought about last night.

  “I think someone followed me home last night,” Annie told her husband.

  “You think?” he said, putting down his fork.

  “Well, someone was outside. It was one-thirty. I could hear him behind me every once in a while. And once, I think I saw a man behind a bush or something.”

  “You think?”

  “I drank four beers, Mike, you know? But I’m positive someone was there. I wasn’t that drunk.”

  “What? From now on, don’t walk home. Get a ride from somebody, okay? Who knows what kind of creep that was? There’s a murderer out there, Annie!”

  “Yes, I know that,” she said, sipping her coffee. “But I really hate to be bullied into driving instead of walking the two blocks to Sheila’s. I mean, how crazy is that? I was armed with my pepper spray. And I’m fine.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Annie. Until we find out who this killer is, please don’t go walking around the town alone with pepper spray to protect you. I mean, holy shit.”

  “Mike, I’ve been in worse situations. I can handle myself.”

  “That was then,” he said, raising his eyebrows and his voice. “This is now. I love you. The boys love you. No more, Annie, do you hear me?”

  Chapter 32

  Vera’s recital was another smash. All of the parents and children were happy with it. She was at home, relaxing on her baby blue soft couch in the middle of her letdown-after-the-show time—where she felt completely exhausted and exhilarated simultaneously—when the phone rang. It was Officer Bryant on the other end.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Ms. Matthews?”

  “I don’t mind at all,” she said.

  “Can you tell me where you were the morning of Maggie Rae’s death?”

  “I was home,” she said, digging her feet between the plush cushions.

  “Where was your husband?”

  “He was away on business,” she said.

  “Do you know where your mother was?”

  “Hmm. No. I don’t really think I do. I imagine she was at home,” she said, wondering what her mother or husband had to do with any of this. “That morning is when she was stabbed, of course.”

  “How well did you know Maggie Rae?”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  “I knew her as well as anybody else did, I suppose. She kept to herself. But I saw her once a week for Grace’s ballet class. And she was going to sign her younger one up,” Vera answered, looking over at Bill’s empty chair, feeling a pang of missing him.

  “How do you know that?”

  “She left a message at the studio the night before she died. She was going to bring her daughter in.”

  “Interesting. Oh, that’s right. You mentioned that earlier. Very interesting.”

  “That’s what I thought. It doesn’t sound like something a woman would do if she were planning to kill herself.”

  “That sounds about right,” he said. “Well, thanks for chatting a bit with me, Vera. Have a good night.”

  “Thank you. You too,” she said. Strange for him to call her on a Saturday night. She dug for the remote and flipped the television on, pulling a green throw over the top of her. She switched the channels, looking for something decent to watch. She stopped on the public television station that was showing a lineup of British comedies.

  It was quite a night. She leaned her head back onto the couch cushion and sank in. Then she heard the doorknob rattle. A key went into the sock
et, and the door opened. What the—she shot up off the couch—it couldn’t be Bill. He wasn’t supposed to be home until Monday. But there he was, standing in his raincoat, half soaked.

  “Came home early, Vera,” he said.

  “I see that.”

  He slipped off his raincoat. “It’s coming down out there.”

  “Yep,” she said, getting off the couch and wrapping her arms around him. “Nice to see you.”

  He stiffened.

  “Vera, I need for you to sit down and listen to me,” he said, cupping her hands in his.

  “What is it? Oh, God, is it Mama?” she said, sitting down, grasping her chest.

  He smiled his worried smile. “No, darlin’. Nothing like that.”

  He sat next to her on the baby blue couch, where she had just been resting and thinking over her life.

  “There’s no easy way to say this. But, uh, I had an affair with someone.”

  “What? I don’t believe that, Bill. What kind of sick joke is this?”

  His face dropped and a tear formed in his eye. As he took off his glasses, he rubbed the tear away.

  “Vera, I need you to listen with an open heart. Please.”

  She nodded. “What’s going on?” She felt her heart sinking, and her stomach felt as if it would roll off into oblivion.

  “I’d been seeing a young woman—”

  “Young?”

  He nodded. “Look. I have to tell you because it’s going to come out eventually. I don’t know of any other way to tell you this.”

  “Good God, Bill, what have you done?”

  Was she dreaming? Was her perfect husband telling her he had been cheating on her? She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She felt the room spin.

  “I don’t know. She was so young and beautiful and willing. I feel like an old fool, really.”

  “Screw you, Bill, if you think I care how you’re feeling.” She just wanted to hit him. She sat on the edge of the couch and held herself back from clobbering him.