Nancy Pinard - Butterfly Soup

“Saturday night I couldn’t find you. Kansas scouted you out when I was about to call the police,” Everett continues.

Rose is intrigued. Images come to mind—of strange men with flashlights and barking dogs on leashes, all wanting to find her. She tiptoes to the door, opening it a crack, half expecting some leather-jacketed, grim-faced sheriff. It’s Everett there, with the pleading look in his eyes. How is she supposed to stay mad at him anyway, especially when he’s carrying the biggest box of chocolates she’s ever seen?

He holds the candy out to her. A pang stabs at her conscience. Everett is such a good man. He doesn’t deserve what she did.

Rose’s vision has blurred. His scent fills her whole head. His damp skin against hers is all she wants.

If this could last forever, their closeness, maybe what happened years back wouldn’t really matter.

Nancy Pinard was raised in an arts-oriented family who attended a Methodist church in Dayton, Ohio. She danced with the Dayton Ballet Company, but gave up her dream of a career in dance when she suffered an injury that required surgery. Her other love, literature, led her to teach high school and junior high English. She began writing while she was raising two sons, and while her husband served as senior pastor to a large congregation. In 2005 she completed an MFA in creative writing. She now teaches at Sinclair Community College. Her short stories have appeared in literary magazines and an anthology. Butterfly Soup is her second published novel.

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For Ron, Joshua and John

It is no small task to nurture a writer’s progress through a manuscript. Many fellow writers invested their attention in multiple drafts. The guidance and insight of the following writers was invaluable: Ed Davis, Katrina Kittle, Nancy Jones, Suzanne Kelly-Garrison, Diane Chiddister, Hallie Kranos and Sharon Shaver. The Byliners— Lynn Campbell, Peggy Barnes, Diane Bengson, Caroline Cooper, Celia Elliott, Lynn Dille, Vincenzina Krymon, Doris LaPorte and Sarah Rickman.

I am thankful to Clint McCown for his attention to my work at the Antioch Writers’ Workshop. The reference librarians of the Wright Memorial Public Library researched fine points of verisimilitude for me. My cousins, Karin and Dr. Andrew Bailey, and friend Dr. Pat Ronald supplied me with medical opinions during revision.

My best friend, Louise Greene, shared memories of her Catholic childhood.

My agent, Elizabeth Trupin-Pulli, believed and stood firm, listened when I lost heart, refused to give up. I am honored to call her my friend.

My editor, Ann Leslie Tuttle, likewise persevered until she found the work’s perfect home. Her determination and enthusiasm have brought my dream to the readership. Thanks also to Adam Wilson, editorial assistant, who ably guided me through the process.

My husband, Ron, and sons, Josh and John, gave me the freedom to find my voice. They have loved me and honored my needs. That’s an inestimable gift. May every woman have such an extraordinary family.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

T he phone rings so early on Saturday morning, Rose Forrester tears herself from sleep and runs to the kitchen, the dread of dire illness or accidents propelling her down the stairs to the rhythm of the Hail Mary repeating in her head. “Yes?” she pants into the receiver.

“Rosie? You’ll never guess what!” Helen Slezac’s voice is squeaky with excitement. Rose hears the swoosh of washing machines in the background.

“Helen? It’s only six-fifty. We’re sleeping in,” Rose whispers. She hopes her descent didn’t waken the household. Everett has been looking tired. And Valley came in late from her date.

“I know. I know. But this one can’t wait. I had to tell you.”

Rose tries to chase the edge from her voice. Poor Helen has been divorced so long, she’s forgotten the pleasure of drowsing in bed. “Tell me what?”

“I got in early and was waiting for the dryer to quit tumbling to yank Jed Peterson’s stuff before it wrinkled—you know how picky he is—when I looked up to see an old friend walking into Millie’s.”

Rose’s heart has slowed to match the glub-dub of the washers. She pictures Helen at her usual post—at the pay phone by the Laundromat’s front window, spying on the donut shop. “Who, Helen? Tell me.”

“Rob MacIntyre.”

Rose mouths the syllables. Her third finger finds her mouth, and her teeth search for loose cuticles. Rob’s is the one name she’d hoped never to hear again when he disappeared from town seventeen years ago.

“Rosie? Are you still there? Is something wrong?”

“Everett’s calling,” Rose says so softly she can barely hear herself. “I’ve got to go.” She hangs the receiver on the hook and lingers a moment, as though still connected to Rob by Helen’s voice. Her mouth tastes metallic, as if she’s been sucking on nickels. She tiptoes into the bedroom, looks to make sure Everett is still sleeping, slips a dress from its hanger, and hurries to the bathroom.

She must have brushed her teeth, combed her hair and zipped the dress, but she only remembers turning the car key and wanting to hush the engine.

Her Galaxy heads toward town, slowing abruptly where the speed limit drops from fifty to twenty-five. Chief Dudley waits in his cruiser behind the same bush every day, clocking all the residents. She salutes as she passes him, then coasts toward the three downtown blocks of Eden proper, lurching from one corner to the next. It’s silly to have so many stop signs in a one-bank town.

In the middle of one block she pauses for old Mr. Cockburn to cross to Millie’s Dunk ’n’ Sip from the loading dock at the Feed and Seed. She forces a smile and tells herself to nod and act normal, though stopping directly in front of the donut shop is last on her list. Mr. Cockburn dodders in front of her car, his left hand trailing across her hood for balance. Rose oh-so-casually glances to her left. The hunched backs of the Saturday-morning regulars show through the window, middle-aged men straddling counter stools in their John Deere caps, chugging hot coffee as if June temperatures didn’t faze them. She can hear them in her head, chewing on predictable topics between swallows—whether Reagan’s new agriculture secretary will favor Ohio or if the plate ump in last night’s Reds game was on the take. But even squinting she can’t make out one back from the next. Can’t tell if one of them belongs to Rob. Helen sounded certain, but Rose needs to see for herself.