Melissa Foster - Chasing Amanda

“Mm-hmm,” he said. “Don’t be stupid, Mol. If it hurts, don’t run.” He stood in the bathroom in his boxer briefs looking very sexy and very sleepy. At forty-three, he still took Molly’s breath away. She was reminded of the first time they had stayed together overnight. After hours of newly-finding-each-other sex, they had lain together for the entire next day, reading, talking, and dozing.

Molly turned her back to Cole and lifted her foot onto the bed to begin wrapping her ankle for her run.

“Molly,” Cole wrapped his arms around Molly’s waist again, turning her to face him. “You’ll be sorry if you overdo it. Don’t you remember how you hated not being able to run for months on end when you had tendonitis?”

“Yes, I remember,” she said, more testily than she had anticipated. “I’m not going to hurt myself this time. If it hurts, I’ll just walk.” She smiled, “Promise.”

He kissed the top of her head, “Good.” He walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower, “What’s on your schedule today?”

Molly became rigid, fearing the untruth that hung on the tip of her tongue. She’d already calculated the time it would take to scan the papers for updates on Tracey, check out the woods, stop by the police station, and maybe even hand out flyers. Molly was excited to finally have an agenda, even if she knew that this day’s particular agenda was one of which her husband might not approve.

After a moment of silence, Cole said, “Mol?” He paused, and the flow of the shower water told Molly that Cole was washing his face. “I know you’re worried about that little girl,” he said between splashes. “Are you going to try and help?”

That was Molly’s in—she wouldn’t have to lie after all. She paced, fidgeting with her shirt. “Oh, you know me,” she said. “I’ll nose around a bit and see what I can find out.” She heard the water turn off.

Cole stepped out of the bathroom with a pale green towel wrapped around his waist. “And?” he asked.

Molly looked at his strong body wet with steam, his hair slicked away from his broad forehead, and the seriousness of his eyes. Cole’s looks commanded attention, and, whether he was happy, mad, or sleeping, it didn’t matter, there was something extraordinary about him—the square of his jaw, the ever-present darkening of the lower half of his face, where, within hours, a five o’clock shadow would settle in, like salt and pepper sprinkled on his upper lip, down his cheeks, and into the little dimple in his chin. He walked into a room and people gawked, women and men alike. He spoke softly and they wanted to align themselves with him, just to be close enough to catch every breath, but when he was upset, his eyes darkened, his stance became manlier, taller, puffed-up. At the moment, Molly was lost in those looks, but her growing desire was quickly quelled by her guilt—guilt for knowing she was omitting the relentless resolve she felt toward finding Tracey. “I’ll do what I didn’t do, what I wasn’t able to do, for Amanda. I’ll help.”

A look of pity stole over Cole’s face. “Mol, what happened to Amanda wasn’t your fault. You have to let that go.” Cole wasn’t used to dealing with the old demons anymore. They’d subsided in the past few years, and he felt a bit rusty trying to deal with them now, but he knew the potential they had to cripple his wife.

Molly grew sullen and looked away.

“Mol,” Cole said again, “I get it. I was there, remember? Amanda’s gone. You can’t save her. Tracey’s not Amanda.”

“I know she’s not Amanda,” Molly snapped. “Don’t you think I know that?” Molly pleaded with him to understand. “I have to do this, Cole. I just want to help.”

Cole threw his hands up. “Fine, Molly, but I’m worried about you. It feels like we just got back to normal, and I’m not sure we can make it through that again.” He walked to Molly’s side. “Please, Mol, think about this. You weren’t at the point of abduction. It doesn’t come down to you saving this girl. The whole damn town is looking for her.” He gestured with his arm as if to encompass all of Boyds.

Molly knew he was right about their relationship. After Amanda, she’d become useless, and hadn’t trusted herself to make decisions. Cole had been supportive and understanding. He’d taken her to therapists, was patient when she would have a near panic attack at the sound of a crying child, and finally, with no other choice, he’d agreed to pack up their family, leave his practice, and move to the country. Molly was thankful, and she knew her recovery would not have been possible without him by her side, but something in Molly needed this. It was something that she had to do.

She was non-committal, “Don’t worry. I won’t do anything stupid.”

“It’s not stupidity that worries me,” he said. “It’s your damn drive and determination. Once you get something in your head, you don’t let it go.”

The Boyds Country Store had been in business for decades, and Molly could imagine, as she pulled up to the front of the store, that the old wooden bench and the three men who sat upon it each morning had been there just as long. Harley Mott, Mac Peterson, and Joe Dillon, or as Molly liked to call them, the Boyds Boys, were the eyes and ears of Boyds. They’d grown up together, each in their sixties now, and if the stories that Molly had heard were true, they knew intimacies about residents that paralleled teenage gossip.

Molly greeted the men with a smile, “Hey, guys!”

“Hey, girl!” Harley said, a term of endearment that had taken Molly two years to get used to. A burly farmer with slicked-back graying hair, he had an imposing presence and had become protective of Molly for reasons she never understood.

She grabbed copies of the Washington Post and the Frederick News-Post , scanning them on the porch of the store. Tracey Porter was front-page news, “Boyds Girl Still Missing, Foul Play Suspected.” Molly shook her head. She had hoped they might have found Tracey and that the Knowing had been wrong. She glanced up and into the three tired faces of the Boyds Boys. Molly knew their reputation for being bad boys in their younger days, and yet she wasn’t able to reconcile that reputation with the three fatherly types that sat before her.

“Have you heard about this?” she turned the newspapers toward them. Immediately their faces hardened—Mac, a small, squirrel of a man, who never had much to say and always appeared a tad bit nervous, pursed his lips and looked away, Harley fiddled with his coffee cup and stared into the dark liquid, and Joe sat between the two, huddling toward the back of the bench.

Molly gave Harley an inquisitive look.

Harley shuffled his feet, his heavy boots scraping against the concrete of the porch, and took a long sip of his coffee. “Well, Molly,” he said quietly, “it’s just that…well…it’s too much like what happened twenty years ago is all.” He looked toward Mac, who shook his head and looked away. “It’s a little too close to home.”

Molly’s heart leapt in her chest, It’s not your fault.

Pastor Lett pulled up in her blue corvette, a car that Molly believed was a little too flashy for a woman of the cloth, though Pastor Lett’s argument was that just because she spoke to God did not mean that she had to be as invisible as Him. Children loved Pastor Lett’s car. She often took them on rides up and down White Ground Road after the children’s services at church. Pastor Lett was very supportive of their activities, showing up at their baseball games, gymnastic meets, and even Girl Scout and Boy Scout outings.

“Good morning, Pastor Lett,” Molly said, still distracted by Harley’s disclosure. “How’s Mrs. Porter doing? Any news yet?”