Never Let You Go

  “Right.” We’re both quiet. She doesn’t need to tell me that she’s thinking about her ex-husband, just like she knows I’m thinking about Andrew. Jenny and I also met in group.

  “How’s Sophie?” she says. We talk about Christmas gift ideas, anything and everything that crosses our minds. For the last couple of years we’ve done all our shopping together—Jenny can actually turn Christmas chaos at the mall into a fun adventure. Since she moved to Vancouver a few months ago, I miss her terribly, but we try to talk often.

  “I’m not sure about Greg,” I say. “What do you get someone you’ve only been dating for a few months?”

  “How about a nice dinner? Or cologne? The Gap has sweaters on sale.”

  “I don’t think he’s the Gap type.” I smile, trying to imagine Greg, with his colorful tattoos and tight-shaved head, wearing a preppy sweater. I’ve only ever seen him in his UPS uniform, or shirts and dark jeans when he’s dressing up. He looks intimidating, but when you speak to him, you notice his warm brown eyes and happy-go-lucky laugh. Maybe cologne is a good idea. Then I realize I don’t even know what cologne he wears.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” I say. “I was wondering about inviting him over to help decorate the tree with Sophie and me, but that’s always been our tradition.”

  “You should probably ask her how she feels about it.”

  “Good idea.” I glance at the clock. “I better get going.”

  * * *

  It’s started to rain, the snow on the side of the roads turning to mush that grabs at my tires. Winter in Dogwood Bay means you never know whether to expect rain or snow, or sometimes both. I’m a half hour late, but it won’t matter. Mrs. Carlson, a nice old lady who lives with her cat and bird, always leaves in the morning to visit her sister on cleaning days. I follow the garden path around the side of the house. The rain is melting snow off the shrubs and trees, chunks hitting the ground with a muffled thud. I squeal as one almost hits me.

  When I unlock the door, the house is freezing cold. I fiddle with the thermostat, bumping it up a couple of levels, then set my boots on the mat, slide on my slippers, and put my tray down on the kitchen counter. Something smells burnt, like toast. The dish rack holds one plate and teacup, and a knife. A small plastic Christmas tree sits in the corner of the living room, hung with a few brightly colored ornaments. There’s already a stack of presents underneath.

  I start on the kitchen, scrub the counters and sink until they gleam, then mop the floor. I hum Christmas carols as I work and think about when Sophie and I should put up our own tree. We always get a fresh one, then decorate while watching Elf and drinking hot chocolate.

  I move into the living room, wipe every surface with lemon-scented cleaner, fold a knitted blanket, fluff the pillows, vacuum the cat fur off the back of the couch and from under the cushions. I haven’t seen Gatsby, but he’s probably sleeping under the bed. Next I vacuum the carpet so the lines are all in the same direction, backing up as I go, careful not to leave a single footprint. I grab my tray and move down the hall, then pause halfway when I hear a noise behind me. I turn quickly, my body stiffening. A streak of white. Gatsby.

  I make a kissing noise and call his name, but he doesn’t come running like usual. He must be chasing a spider.

  When I’m finished in the master bedroom, I make my way to the spare room at the other end of the house. Mrs. Carlson rarely has guests, but the room always needs dusting because of her budgie, Atticus. It’s my least favorite room—the dander from his feathers makes me sneeze and Atticus screams the whole time I’m cleaning, but today he is remarkably silent.

  As I push open the door, a cold draft whistles toward me. The window is open. I hurry over and slide it down. So that’s why the house is so cold. When I turn around, rubbing my arms to get warm, I spot Atticus hunched into a ball at the bottom of his cage. He’s always perched on his wooden branch, screeching at me or ringing his bell. I frown, take a tentative step. “Atticus?” He doesn’t move. I take another step. His eyes are closed, his tiny chest unmoving. I look back at the window. How long had it been left open? Mrs. Carlson’s going to be devastated.

  Back in the kitchen, I rummage through my purse on the counter for my phone, knocking it over in the process. My lip gloss rolls out. I don’t stop to retrieve it. Mrs. Carlson’s sister answers and I have to repeat my name. Finally she puts her on the phone.

  “Mrs. Carlson, I’m so sorry, but Atticus…” I pause. How do I put this? “Atticus has passed away. I’m so sorry,” I repeat.

  “Oh, no!” she says, her voice quavering. “Whatever happened?”

  “I think he might have gotten too cold.”

  “The window! I was sure I closed it—I always let him have some fresh air in the mornings so he can sing to the birds outside.” I don’t know why she had the window pushed all the way up at this time of year, but I’m not going to make her feel worse by asking questions.

  “Poor Atticus,” she says. “I’ll have to take care of him when I get home.” Her voice is starting to break and I can tell she’s near tears. “Perhaps I should bury him outside under the lilac bushes. They’re so pretty in the summer. Do you think that’s a nice place?”

  “It’s a perfect place.” I can’t just leave her to take care of it on her own. “Would you like me to do it?”

  She pauses, and I hear her blowing her nose. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Oh. That’s very kind. I’d like that.” She catches her breath, a hiccup of sound. “I’m going to miss him terribly. The house will be so quiet without his beautiful singing.”

  “He was a lovely bird.” She sounds so shaken. I’m glad she’s with her sister. I’ll bring her flowers this week, stop by and have tea with her.

  “Thank you, dear.” She blows her nose again. “Can you say a prayer for him?”

  “Of course.”

  I grab a small box and newspaper from the recycling and create a makeshift coffin for Atticus’s body, which I place in the garage. I finish the rest of the cleaning, vacuuming Atticus’s cage and pulling a sheet over it. Then I get Atticus’s body from the garage. When I crouch down to pick up the box, I catch the scent of something masculine in the air, something woodsy. I stand quickly and look around. The garage is neat and tidy, only her dead husband’s old Buick filling the space. She must have an air freshener.

  I’m still thinking about Mrs. Carlson as I walk into the kitchen. Her animals have meant the world to her since she lost her husband three years ago. I set the shoe box down, look for my keys on the counter, then pause. They’re gone. My purse is upright. I’d knocked it over earlier, and my keys and lip gloss had tumbled out. I left them lying there. I stare at the beige fake leather bag I’d found on sale at Walmart that looks like a Chanel, according to my daughter anyway. I peek inside. My keys and gloss have been carefully placed on top of my wallet.

  I stumble back. I don’t stop for my boots or my coat. I just run out of the house, noticing in a quick flash that the door is unlocked. He went out that way. He could be waiting.

  I sprint for my car, lock the doors, and press the numbers on my cell. I rummage through my glove box for my pepper spray, remove the safety, and hook my thumb on the trigger. While I’m waiting for the police, I stare at the house and the path, watch for any movement.

  It’s been three months since my brother called to tell me Andrew had been released from prison and that someone saw him on Vancouver Island. I can still remember the sound of Chris’s voice when he phoned, the hesitation and tightness. I knew before he even said anything. This was the call I’d been waiting for. Andrew was a free man and he was going to find me.

  But days passed. Then weeks, months. Nothing happened, and I thought we were safe.

  My gaze travels from the door to each window, up to the second floor, then down again. The whole time I was inside, cleaning, singing, and vacuuming, he was in there too. He might have been standin
g so close he could have touched me. Why didn’t he make his move? Then I realize why he didn’t. It wouldn’t have been enough for him. He needs me to suffer.

  He’s going to make me pay for every year he spent behind bars.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DECEMBER 1997

  “Watch out!” Andrew shouted, and I ducked as a snowball hit my boots. “That’s it!” He tackled my brother to the ground. I laughed as they wrestled in the snow, trying to shove handfuls down each other’s necks. My dad jumped out of the back of the moving truck and started lobbing snowballs at them. It was good to see him with a smile on his face.

  I wished my mom could have been there. Maybe we could bring her over later. I worked my way through the snow, carrying the heavy box, and walked carefully up the icy steps. The hallway still smelled of fresh paint, a welcoming sage-green. Andrew had the painters come back twice because of drip marks, but now it was perfect. We’d stacked boxes everywhere. Most of them came from Andrew’s house, others were wedding gifts.

  I slid the box onto the counter. I should have gone outside for the next one, but I couldn’t help wandering into the dining room to stroke my fingers across the silky surface of the pine table we’d picked out last week. I imagined my family over for dinner Sunday nights, plates heaped full, everyone talking and laughing. Mom could rest on the couch while I cleaned up. She seemed so tired lately and I was sure her MS was getting worse, but she wouldn’t talk about it. I’d send them home with leftovers so she wouldn’t have to cook for days. Andrew and my father would talk about houses they were building, rolling plans out on the table. Chris would hang on to their every word, counting the days until he graduated so he could work for Andrew too.

  I walked to the front bay window, where ice bloomed in the corners of the glass like beautifully frosted spiderwebs. The house was freezing—the utilities had been hooked up that morning—and we’d been taking sips from the flask Andrew had brought with him. “That doesn’t taste like hot chocolate,” I teased.

  He laughed. “It’s my special recipe.”

  I spun in a circle. Where should we put the Christmas tree? Maybe right in front of the window. We’d get one that reached to the ceiling, and cover it with so many lights and ornaments the branches would bend. We’d had a heavy snowfall, early for Lions Lake, and it was looking like we’d have a white Christmas. I couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

  When I walked back outside, Andrew was unloading a wardrobe box, his leg braced, his face determined and flushed from exertion. He’d removed his coat and was wearing a white knit shirt, sleeves pushed up. His work trucks were all immaculate white, same with his crew’s shirts and caps. His construction company’s dark green and black logo stood out in crisp contrast.

  My dad and Chris were in the back of the rented moving truck. Andrew had wanted to hire a company and didn’t think it was fair to ask my family. “Your dad works hard all week.” I explained it was the kind of family we were. We helped each other.

  I came up beside Andrew. “So who won the snowball fight?”

  “Me, of course.” He smiled. “You okay?”

  “I’m absolutely completely beyond happy.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. I felt that little hiccup in my chest, the same one I’d had the summer day he came into the hardware store where I worked, asking to speak to our manager. I hadn’t seen him around before, and I knew everyone who worked construction in our small town. After he left I made a beeline to the back and found out his name was Andrew Nash, he was from Victoria, and he was developing a parcel of raw land at the end of the lake.

  The next time he came in, I helped him find everything he needed, chatting about Lions Lake, all the fun things we did in the summer, how hot it had been lately, thinking the whole time that I really needed to shut up and let him say something, but I couldn’t stop my runaway mouth. I even pulled out a map and showed him the best swimming spots around the lake. As if he couldn’t find them himself. While he waited for me to ring up his order, he kept pushing back his dark blond hair with one hand. It was streaked lighter in spots and fell to his shoulders.

  “You need a haircut,” I said, then blushed. What a thing to say.

  “I do,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve just been too busy.” The light was shining through the side window and hitting his eyes—green, the color of glacier water.

  “Is your dad Ian Finnegan?” he said.

  I passed him his receipt. “You know him?”

  “I heard he might be looking for work.”

  “My dad’s a great carpenter, has lots of experience.” I held my breath. I didn’t want to say too much, but I couldn’t help thinking of my dad, sitting at home and making call after call. He’d had a good job but was fired because he had to take so much time off to help Mom.

  “Tell him to drop by the site.”

  After that I’d see Andrew on the days I brought lunches for my dad. He rarely stopped to eat with the crew, but almost always paused to say hello to me and ask how I was doing. “He never quits,” my dad told us at dinner, his admiration clear in his face. “He’s there before we are with coffee and donuts for the guys, and he’s the last one to go home.”

  One day I brought him a roast beef sandwich and he looked so surprised, just stared at it in his hand while I waited in humiliation. Then his face broke into a huge smile and he said roast beef was his favorite. We sat and talked, and he invited me to see some land he was thinking of buying. We hiked that entire property together, climbed under and over logs, slid down hills, laughing as we both almost fell on our butts, sharing a bottle of water and cursing ourselves for not bringing more. From that day on, we saw each other as much as possible.

  We hadn’t actually lived together yet, but I wasn’t worried. We understood each other’s every thought and mood—he knew when I was getting hungry and tired, or when something had upset me. And I knew him, just like I knew marrying him was the best decision I’d ever made.

  Now Andrew stopped as he walked past, kissed me on the cheek. “Welcome home, Mrs. Nash.”

  * * *

  I was unpacking a box in Andrew’s new office, carefully placing files in his desk drawer, when I heard his footsteps behind me. I turned and smiled, but faltered when I saw the look on his face. He almost seemed upset, but then his expression smoothed out.

  “You don’t have to do that,” he said.

  “I don’t mind.” I wondered if it was the sight of his desk that bothered him. It was one of the few things he had from his father. We’d found it when we were cleaning out his storage unit. He wasn’t sure about bringing it to the house, said it was too old and scratched and that it wasn’t really his style, but I told him the oak was gorgeous and we could refinish it as a winter project.

  He came over, took the files out of my hands, and set them down. “I have my own system. If you put something in the wrong place, I’ll have a hard time finding it.”

  “Right, sure. Of course.”

  “Dinner smells good.” I could tell he was trying to ease the sting of his rebuff, but I still felt bad. I should’ve asked. I was just so used to helping around at my parents’ house. Nothing had been off-limits since Mom was diagnosed with MS. I even did their banking.

  “I’m making Yorkshire pudding.”

  “Hmm. Perfect,” he said against my neck.

  “Your nose is cold!”

  “I was shoveling the driveway.” My dad and Chris had gone home hours ago and we’d been unpacking ever since. “Looks like it’s going to snow again tonight.”

  “I hope they clear the roads. Josh asked me to come into work tomorrow.”

  He lifted his head. “I thought you were taking the day off so you could finish up here.”

  I sighed. “Someone called in sick again.” It seemed this time of year someone was always calling in sick after too much Christmas cheer.

  “I was going to talk to you about this over dinner, but I’m going to offer your dad
the foreman job. It will mean he has to travel a fair bit.”

  “Oh, that won’t work with my mom.” I felt disappointed for my dad. They could really use the money and I knew he was excited about some of the projects they were bidding on.

  “If you quit the hardware store and work with me, you’ll be around to help her. I need someone to stage the houses and the display suites, picking out fixtures, things like that.”

  “I don’t know.… Josh was saying they might promote me to work in the office.” I didn’t want people thinking I was a spoiled rich housewife who had everything because of her husband. When Andrew’s mom died, he inherited the trust from his grandfather’s stock market fortune, but he only got small payments—he wasn’t wealthy like my friends seemed to think. Besides, I liked working at the hardware store, seeing my regular customers, helping people find things.

  “Honey, Josh is talking out his ass. He’s never going to promote you.”

  “I’ve been working there for years.” I’d started when I was still in high school and went full-time last year after I graduated. I’d thought about going to college or taking some classes, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I admired how focused Andrew was at only twenty-seven.

  “Yeah, you’re the cute girl who works behind the counter. I knew about you before I even stepped foot in there. I’m sorry, Lindsey, but I heard they were going to promote Mike.”

  “Josh sounded really sincere.” I felt hot and angry, but mostly hurt.

  “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I’m just saying how other people look at you. They only see a pretty blonde.” He tugged on the end of my ponytail. “They don’t appreciate you the way I do, they don’t see how intelligent you are, how creative.”

  Maybe he was right. Maybe the hardware store was a dead end, but how many hours a day could I spend choosing paint colors? “Maybe I could help with the bookkeeping?”