Laurie Breton - Die Before I Wake

I could feel his eyes on me again. “Julie,” he said, “you’re barking up the wrong tree here. I can’t answer that question. Nobody knows what goes on inside somebody else’s marriage.”

“Of course not. But you must have an opinion, based on what you witnessed. Did they seem happy together?”

Riley shifted position and stared out the window. “I’m probably not the person most qualified to judge.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“I guess you could call it a conflict of interest.” He turned away from the window, and when his eyes met mine, I saw something in them that looked an awful lot like resentment. “You see, before my brother stole her away, Beth was engaged to me.”

The accounts manager at the First National Bank of Newmarket was friendly and efficient. Millicent Waterhouse had gone to school with Tom, and she had nothing but good things to say about Newmarket’s dashing young obstetrician. “You’re a lucky woman,” she told me as I filled out paperwork. “As far as I’m concerned, Tom Larkin is the best thing that ever happened to this town. I was thrilled when he came back here to start his practice. He could’ve made more money just about anywhere else, but he chose to come home instead, and nobody around here has forgotten that.”

I glanced up from my clipboard and gave her a bland smile. “Is that so?”

“You’d better believe it. When Tom came back, old Doc Thompson was getting ready to retire. Nobody was sorry to see him go. He was a cranky old curmudgeon, and he usually smelled like a stinky old cigar butt that’s been sitting in a dirty ashtray for three days.” Millie’s eyes twinkled. “But Tom’s nothing like Doc Thompson. He’s patient and kind, he always smells nice, and he just puts you at ease. He delivered both of my youngest kids, and when my sister started going through early menopause, he explained everything to her and helped her decide whether or not to take hormone replacement therapy.”

This was the Tom I knew, the charming, kindhearted patron saint of mothers-to-be, menopausal sisters, and bent-but-not-broken thirty-year-old women in need of rescuing. Not the Tom that Riley had described, the man who’d come back from college, medical degree in hand, and proceeded to steal his brother’s fiancée. There had to be more to it than that. Tom was a good man, a man with strong ethics. I couldn’t imagine him crossing that fraternal boundary.

Finally managing to escape from the loquacious Millicent, I crossed the street to the federal building and took care of my business at the social security office. The DMV, thirty miles away in Portland, would have to wait for another day. Maybe, if Tom could get a few hours free, we could combine that with car shopping, as I suspected the selection would be greater in a larger city. Wandering up and down Newmarket’s block-long main street, I inspected the window displays and played tourist. A teenage girl feeding coins into a parking meter smiled at me. An elderly man with a buff-colored Pomeranian on a leash sat on a bench outside the barber shop. I passed an old-fashioned apothecary shop with a soda fountain. Two doors down, showcased in the window of The Bridal Emporium, was an elegant ivory satin-and-lace vintage wedding dress that shot a pang of longing straight through me.

Of their own volition, my feet slowed and then stopped. I stood before that plate-glass window, admiring the dress, for a long time. This was my one regret. I’d been married twice, yet I’d never had a wedding gown. Like most adolescent girls, I’d spent endless hours imagining what my wedding would be like when I finally met my prince. Whenever I’d pictured it, I was wearing a dress like this one. But fate had other plans in mind for me. Jeffrey, ever the romantic, had dragged me off to city hall to get married on our lunch hour. I should have known right then and there that the marriage was doomed. On the other hand, my wedding to Tom, on that beach in the Bahamas, had contained nearly all the elements of my teenage dream: the breathless bride, the handsome groom, the heartfelt and intensely personal vows. It was exotic, romantic, almost perfect. The only thing missing was the dress.

When I’d looked my fill, I moved on, to Lannaman’s bakery. If I’d previously doubted the existence of God, the smells emanating through the screen door were enough to make me reconsider. I went inside and bought a half-dozen assorted doughnuts and two chocolate éclairs. The doughnuts were for the girls, a blatant attempt at bribery. The éclairs were for Tom. They were his favorite dessert, and I intended to save them for later, during a private moment together, as I had a few dessert ideas of my own.

Carrying a cardboard bakery box tied with string, I was about to cross the street to my car when I noticed the bead boutique. I’d missed it on the first go-round, although I wasn’t sure how I had overlooked the mouthwatering window display of Chinese turquoise. I’d never been able to resist turquoise. The shop entrance was around the corner, tucked into an alcove. When I opened the door, a bell tinkled overhead. The woman behind the counter was unpacking boxes of merchandise. She glanced up, said, “Good morning,” and returned to her work.

As a bead shop pro, I didn’t need a road map to find my way around. The shop was organized by material and by color. I went directly to the turquoise gemstones that were hung on nylon strings along a side wall. I lifted a string of round beads, weighed its heft in my hand, rubbed my fingers against the cool, polished stone. No two natural stones are ever identical, and there are often subtle variations in color, shape and smoothness. Sometimes consistency is important in a piece. At other times, a little diversity makes life more interesting.

“They’re on sale right now,” the proprietor said, without looking up from her work. “Thirty percent off all gemstones.”

I checked the tag. The price was reasonable for a small shop in an equally small town. I was mentally calculating the thirty-percent discount when a voice from beside me said, “I like the turquoise, but with your coloring, have you considered the leopard jasper? I think it would be smashing.”

I glanced up. The woman who’d spoken had a narrow face, with green eyes and dark auburn hair tied back in a ponytail. “I’m partial to jasper,” she explained, then held out her hand. “Claudia Lavoie.”

“Julie Larkin.”

Her handshake was firm. “Yes,” she said. “I know who you are. I saw you get out of the car and I followed you in here. I recognized the Land Rover. You’re Tom’s new wife.”

A little nonplussed, I said, “That would be me.”

“Nice to meet you. I hear you had a little excitement over there last night.”

“Excitement? Oh, the tree. Wow. News travels quickly around here.”

“The chain saw was a pretty big clue. Riley filled in the rest for me. I’m your next-door neighbor. I live in terror that one of these days, that entire tree will fall—in my direction.”

“Your worrying days are over, then, because Tom told me last night he’s having it cut down.”

“That’s a relief. If it went through my greenhouse and murdered my babies, I’d have to kill him.” She smiled to show me she was just kidding. “You should stop in sometime. I’m always home. Except when I’m not.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I’m serious, you know. People always say these things to be polite. I’m happy to report that I’ve never been polite. Or, for that matter, politically correct. If I didn’t mean it, I wouldn’t make the offer. Please come. Dylan—my four-year-old—has spent the last few days with his dad. I’m used to having him home with me, and my afternoons have been long and boring. Besides, I make a mean margarita.”