Clare O’Donohue - The Lover’s Knot

I turned on the light. The back door was open.

The room was empty. Barney walked lazily over to his bowl and started picking at the last of his dinner. Even a deaf dog would sense danger, right?

I grabbed a knife from the counter to replace my pathetic umbrella weapon and slammed the kitchen door shut, locking it tight.

Walking back out into the hallway and toward the living room, I saw no one. I opened all the closets, checked all the doors and windows, turned on all the lights.

Had it just been the wind?

Barney found me standing by the front door and looked at me with sleepy eyes. I knew what he was thinking, and he was right, probably. I had forgotten to lock the kitchen door and a strong wind blew it open. Still, I left the lights on downstairs while Barney and I headed back up.

The next morning, a loud car horn woke me before the alarm or Mother Nature had a chance to. I walked over to the window ready to scream at whoever was making that racket. A red-haired woman in jeans and a bright blue sweater stood in the driveway next to a truck with a medicine bottle logo on the side.

"Bernie?" I yelled. "What are you doing?"

"Hey there, sweetie," she yelled back. "I brought you breakfast."

As annoyed as I was by the early morning intrusion, she had brought food, so I lumbered downstairs, followed by an equally sleepy Barney, and let her in.

"You didn't have to do that," I said as I took the plate of Danishes off her hands.

"Oh, I just did it as an excuse to check on you, dear," she said, smiling. "Did you sleep okay or did this spooky old house get to you?"

As we sat in the kitchen with Danishes and coffee, I told her about the creepy noises and the total darkness that kept me from getting a good night's sleep. I did not mention that I had hoped to sleep in a little-a plan she had spoiled.

"I think Eleanor's crazy to keep this place all by herself, but crazy in a good way, you know?" Bernie laughed heartily. "After my first husband died, I moved into a small apartment with the kids. And after my divorce, I moved in with a friend. Couldn't live alone in a place like this."

"How many husbands have you had?" I asked, probably impolitely.

"Three, so far," she laughed again. "Three husbands, two fiances that didn't make the cut, and more lovers than I can remember. Which is a shame, since they would be very good memories."

"I guess I have some catching up to do."

"Best way over a broken heart is a romance," she said as she leaned back in her chair. "But guessing by the interest you've generated, you may already have figured that out for yourself."

Interest? I blushed, then realized what she must have meant. "No. Marc just drove me to the hospital."

She waved me off. "Marc is a lovely distraction. But he's not a romance. There's a darkness around that boy."

"I sensed that he wasn't well liked by some of the women in the club."

She smiled. "He's not well liked by some, too well liked by others, but everyone can choose their own friends." She poured herself the last of the coffee. "Make a fresh pot dear," she ordered, which I did without argument.

She watched me, smiling. "The girls laugh at me, but I'm a bit of a psychic," she said. "I sense things."

"Like what?"

"I don't think you've seen the last of your wayward fiance."

"No, I haven't. He'll be at work tomorrow."

"That's not what I meant."

I laughed. "Bernie, I hope you're right. I think."

She finished her coffee and got up. "Just be careful, Nell. Make sure you keep your eyes open." She smiled at me, then turned away. "Tell Eleanor I'll be by later."

Though the game plan was that I would spend the morning at the hospital, I knew I had to make one stop first. The car keys that were so elusive the night before were now hanging on a hook by the back door. Didn't I look there yesterday? I tried to remember, but it was all a frightening blur. It didn't matter now. I grabbed them and headed to Main Street.

The shop wasn't open when I arrived, so I let myself in. Normally my grandmother and Nancy would have cleaned the place in the evening, putting fabrics and notions back where they belonged, so the next day would start fresh. But in the excitement of last night, all of that was left undone. Bolts of fabric lay on the cutting table and magazines were spread out on the counter. Even the cash had been left in the register.

I walked to the back of the shop and stared down the stairs. They were empty, just as I had left them. Carefully I walked down one step, then another. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, but it just didn't feel right. To everyone else it was a case of an elderly woman who slipped on steep, narrow steps. Something that happened all the time. But I had cleared the stairs because I had been afraid of something like that happening. And something about it just didn't make sense.

I slowly walked step after step, looking for a loose board or a nail that might be sticking up, something Eleanor had tripped on. Something I could fix. But I couldn't find anything. Then, with only four steps to go, my foot came out from under me and I went, butt-first, down into the basement.

With nothing but my tailbone and my dignity injured, I got up and walked back up to the fourth step. I pulled at it, but it wasn't loose. There were no nails sticking up. I ran my hand gently over the wood. The step felt sticky, almost greasy, but not quite. I rubbed my fingers on the spot and sniffed. No smell. It felt a little like wax, but it didn't have the thickness of wax. What was this stuff?

I heard the door open upstairs. Footsteps came toward me.

"Who's there?" a voice called down.

"Nancy?" I shouted back. She appeared at the stop of the stairs.

"Oh, it's you, Nell. Are you all right? What are you doing?"

"There's something on the step. Something slippery." I held up my hand, as if that were proof.

She came down the stairs quickly and stopped just above me and, reaching down, she ran her fingers over the wood.

"Someone must have spilled something. Do you think that's what Eleanor slipped on?" she asked.

"Probably. What could it be?"

Nancy looked around at the empty stairs and shrugged. "I don't know. Come upstairs, carefully now. I'll get something to clean it up."

She started back up the stairs and I followed her, skipping the fourth stair. While I waited for Nancy to finish cleaning the step, I looked around at the messy shop. The place looked as if a pack of three-year-olds had gone through it.

"How do grown women do this to a business?" I swept my arms dramatically at all the bolts that were piled on top of each other.

"Quilters have to touch the fabric. They have to take it out, look at it, feel it." She laughed. "They just don't always feel the need to put it back."

"Can I help?" I didn't really know how to help, but I thought I should ask.

"No thanks. Eleanor will be anxious to see you." She glanced at the clock and stepped up her efforts.

"I feel bad about leaving you so close to opening time, but it's not like you're going to get a rush." I smiled, but Nancy just raised an eyebrow.

"You'd be surprised," she said with a smile.

I walked toward the door, still thinking about the stairs. "Who could have spilled something?" I asked.

"Me, I guess. Your grandmother." She paused. "One of Carrie's kids."

"What would one of her kids be doing on the stairs?"

She raised her eyebrows. "They're not always supervised in here. Yesterday I saw the little boy head for the stairs and Carrie go after him in a mad dash. It was five minutes before she could get the boy back upstairs again. And the whole time I had to keep her daughter from pulling every fabric off the shelf."