Everything We Keep: A Novel (4 page)

“Does it look like I’ve cleaned?” I waved an arm to encompass the open living space. Unanswered mail piled high on the countertop. Unread newspapers stacked on the floor. Dust bunnies mingled and multiplied in the corners.

“Whatever.” She popped the wine cork and poured three glasses. “The garage looks good.”

We drank the wine and talked about Nadia’s new design project. Soon her appointment alarm buzzed on her phone. She glanced at the screen. “I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She kissed my cheek and grabbed her hobo bag. The handle snagged on the chair back and everything dumped. Lipstick, pens, mints, and papers skidded across the tile floor.

She swore and I bent to help her. “I’ve got it.” She waved my hands aside and scooped up her belongings. “Gotta run.” She rushed to the door.

I waved good-bye and launched a playlist on the stereo, wondering how long Kristen would stay. She poured another round of wine. Good. She planned to stay for a while.

We danced and talked, and watched a chick flick on pay-per-view. The doorbell rang around ten p.m. Nick had come to pick up his wife.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” Kristen pushed off the couch.

I walked with her to the door. She bear-hugged me. “Night, night, sweetie.”

Nick wrapped his arm around her, tucked her into his side. They were a perfect fit. I watched him brush aside wisps of his wife’s blonde hair with his fingertips. He kissed her on the forehead, eyes briefly closing. Their caress was intimate. My heart twisted. I’d lost my opportunity to have that with James.

“Will you be OK tonight?” Nick asked me.

Did I have a choice?

“I’ll be fine.”

“Call if you need anything.”

“Thanks.” I shut and locked the door after they said good-bye, listening to Nick drive away. I slid to the floor, my back to the door, and my eyes drifted close. I felt myself floating from the wine. Sounds and smells penetrated my foggy mind. Ticking from the mantel clock. Humming from the air conditioner. Scents of lemongrass and coconut from burning candles.

My eyes flew open. I needed to blow out the candles.

I eased up and a small scrap of paper underneath a kitchen chair caught my attention. It was bent in half and propped like a miniature tent. I went over and picked it up, peered at the text.

Lacy Saunders.

The psychic from James’s funeral. I’d almost forgotten about her. Nadia must have left the card when the contents of her purse spilled. I stared at the card.

James is alive.

Lacy’s words whispered through my head.

What a nut job. I tossed the card onto the countertop and moved through the house, blowing out candles, locking doors, and turning off lights. I double-checked the garage, and sure enough, Kristen had left on the single overhead light. I flicked it off only to flick it right back on.

Behind my VW Beetle was a large empty space where there should have been eight boxes loaded with James’s bubble-wrapped canvases. They were gone.

I walked around my car and gazed stupidly at the bare cement floor. Only one box remained. Where were the others? How long had they been gone? I’d been so out of sorts these past months the boxes could have disappeared at any time. Maybe James had wanted more space in the garage and had moved the paintings to his company’s warehouse.

Thomas might know where they were. I should call him.
Tomorrow,
I thought, yawning.

I returned inside and crashed in bed.

CHAPTER 4

OCTOBER

Days came and went, each blurring into the next. Endless nights out with Nadia, dinners with Kristen and her husband, and countless evenings alone watching movies from the couch. When there wasn’t anything interesting to watch, I baked.

Every so often I drove to The Goat and worked my shift, but the certainty it would close soon only served as a reminder that I’d have to figure out what to do with my life. So I stopped going.

Mail piled higher. Newspapers stacked taller. Dishes collected in the sink. Glasses littered any available surface through the house. Casseroles, cakes, and cookies sat uneaten on the kitchen table. The washer and dryer were used only when my situation was dire. Like when I’d run out of underwear.

I packed my days and crammed my nights until I crashed. When I woke, my mind and body dragging, I got creative with espresso. I mixed exotic beans and syrups to keep me wired, and then I baked some more. My house was a mess. My life was a disaster. I was a wreck.

Until the day I woke up.

It was to the sound of a lawnmower. I peeked through the front window blinds and saw Nick move back and forth across the lawn. The front door opened and Kristen gaped at me. “You’re awake?”

“I thought I’d join the human race.” I thumbed out the window. “He’s got to stop doing that.”

Kristen shut the door. “He wants to help, and I think it helps him.”

I collapsed an empty tissue box. “How so?”

“He misses James.”

“We all do.” I collected dirty glassware around the front room. “The yard looks gorgeous, but it’s been eleven weeks. He can’t cut my grass for the rest of his life.”

“So said the woman who just returned to the land of the living.” Kristen followed me into the kitchen. “I’ll tell him you’ve hired a gardener.”

“Perfect.”

She sniffed the air. Scents of cinnamon and maple syrup hovered sweetly in the room. “Coffee cake?” she asked. I motioned toward the casserole dishes and platters crowding the kitchen table and her eyes bugged. “You’ve been busy. Are you planning to eat all this?”

I gave her a sheepish look. “I’ve sort of been feeding the neighborhood.”

While my next-door neighbor and her husband appreciated the warm dishes to go with their dinners, and their three kids loved the treats I brought them, they did ask I stop feeding their family. I was spending too much money on them. Money I didn’t have in the bank because I still couldn’t convince myself to cash Thomas’s check. Even though my credit card was almost maxed out from groceries, I would probably end up donating the results of the most recent cooking binge to Saint Anthony’s soup kitchen, where Mom volunteered.

Kristen helped herself to a slice. “Oh wow, this isn’t your mom’s recipe.” She moaned. “It’s better.”

“I added sour cream. It changes the texture. Makes the cake light and tender.”

She shoveled the last bite and added another slice to her plate. “So what’s with the cooking frenzy?”

“You know me. I have to keep busy. Keeps my mind off . . . things.”

A soft smile touched her lips. “James wasn’t the only artist in the house.”

My mouth curved up at the corner. “Yeah, we were good like that.”

I went to the sink and rinsed dishes. Kristen finished the coffee cake, then straightened several months’ worth of mail on the countertop. A stack spilled and envelopes cascaded to the floor. She picked them up. “Whoa. What’s this?”

I looked at what she held. Thomas’s check. Buried and ignored with the other mail. “It’s from Thomas.”

“
What?
Why?”

“He was James’s beneficiary. Thomas figured I was entitled to the money since James and I were about to get married.”

“That was nice of him. God,” Kristen flapped the check, “nice doesn’t come close. This is huge! You can start your own restaurant with this kind of cash.”

“Yeah, well, if that’s what I decide to do.”

She stared at the check. “It’s dated on your wedding . . . um, sorry. The check’s the same date as James’s funeral.”

I dried my hands and took the check from her. “That’s when Thomas gave it to me, right before Lacy approached me.”

“Who’s Lacy? Is she that lady we saw you talking to in the parking lot?”

I nodded. “She’s a psychic.”

Laughter bubbled from Kristen. “A
what?
”

“A psychic counselor.”

“Like a fortune-teller?”

“More like a psychic profiler, I think.”

“No wonder Nadia took her card from you. I’d be concerned, too, if someone like that approached me. What did she tell you?”

“James is still alive.”

Kristen’s mouth fell open. The clock in the front room ticked. Then it ticked again. She sucked in a breath. “That’s freaky. You don’t believe her, do you?”

I twisted the engagement ring around my finger. I had asked myself
what if
on numerous occasions.

She narrowed her eyes. “Aimee?”

“No. I don’t.”

She sighed in relief. “Good. You had me worried there for a second.” She peeked at her watch. “I have to go. Class starts in thirty minutes. Oh, I almost forgot.” She dug into her purse. “This is for you.”

Another business card. G
RACE
P
ETERSON
, P
H
D, C
LINICAL
P
SYCHOLOGIST
. G
RIEF
C
OUNSELING
.

“I’m glad you’ve finally come up for air, but I sense you’re still holding something inside. Just in case you feel the urge, talk to a counselor. A
real
counselor.” She flipped the card and tapped the handwriting on the back. “I’ve scheduled an appointment. Today at eleven. You can change the time or day. Cancel if you want. Up to you.”

“Thanks,” I said, unsure whether I would go. I tossed the card onto the kitchen table, right next to Lacy’s.

“I’ll call you after work.” Kristen kissed my cheek and left.

By the time I’d cleaned, showered, and dressed in jeans, a light sweater, and flats, it was 10:58. Everything was spick-and-span, including me, but I was going to miss the appointment Kristen had scheduled. I wondered if I’d intentionally delayed leaving the house.

Beside Grace Peterson’s card, Lacy’s card with the buckled crease down the middle stared up at me. As I read the card over and over, I grew angrier. A hot spike of rage flared inside me. Why she had tracked me down at James’s funeral to tell me he was alive boggled my mind. It was downright cruel. I thought of Thomas’s check and wondered if she somehow knew about the money. Maybe she
was
trying to take advantage of me.

But there were two words on the card that grew bigger and bolder the longer I glared at them. M
ISSING
P
ERSONS
. They were printed right above her tagline H
ELPING YOU FIND THE ANSWERS YOU SEEK
.

She’d better have answers, like why she had the gall to approach me. I picked up the card and grabbed my keys while at the same time despising the fact I was even considering meeting with her.

The address on Lacy’s card was to a house in a residential district skirting the border of Los Gatos and Campbell. I eased to the curb in front of her one-story ranch. A portable sign was posted on the front lawn.

L
ACY
’
S
P
SYCHIC
C
OUNSELING

T
AROT
C
ARDS
P
ALM
R
EADINGS

W
ALK
-
INS
W
ELCOME

The sign evoked a very different impression from Lacy, the psychic profiler. She was no better than a carny fortune-teller.

God, I was an idiot. Nadia had warned me not to be naive.

Through the passenger window, I saw Lacy watching me from her kitchen. The skin between my shoulder blades tingled and I turned away, directing my gaze outside the windshield.

Get out of the car, Aimee.

I sensed her eyes on me as I coaxed myself from the car. Or was that her speaking to me inside my head?

I shook off the feeling and got out of the car, shutting the door behind me.

“Hello, Aimee.” Lacy stood on the sidewalk.

I jerked and stared. I hadn’t seen her leave the house.

“Do you want to come inside?” She gave me an easy smile.

“I—” My mouth worked, but no words followed. Lacy watched me expectantly until I mumbled an apology and fumbled for the door handle behind me. I had an odd feeling she
did
know something about James. Something even I didn’t know. And that scared me.

I slid into the driver’s seat and thrust the key into the ignition.

Lacy knocked on the passenger window. I bounced in my seat. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m sorry. Coming here was a mistake.” I revved the engine and she jumped away from the car. I pressed the accelerator, using more force than intended. The car lurched forward and I sped away.

I took the long way home, side streets instead of freeways, all the while berating myself for being so stupid.
God, I’m an idiot.
By the time I arrived home, Lacy was sitting on my porch.

I hesitated at the picket fence bordering my front yard and she rose to her feet. “Don’t worry. I’m not staying,” she said, slowly approaching me. She held up my wallet. “I found this in the street.”

I looked vacantly at the olive-green Gucci James had given me two years ago for my birthday. It looked out of place in her hand.

She smiled. It softened her face, making her appear younger than the late-forties age I assumed she was. “Everything’s still inside,” she told me when I took the wallet. “I only glanced at your driver’s license to get the address. Nice picture.”

I slipped the wallet inside my purse. “Your psychic talent didn’t show you where I lived?”

She flinched at the bite in my tone. “No, sorry. It doesn’t work that way. Though I can say the
real
reason you drove to my house wasn’t to find out if I was a con artist. You came seeking answers about James. You had doubts when he went missing. You still have doubts.”

My skin prickled and I looked away.

“You’re angry with me.”

“I think you should go.” I felt uncomfortable around her.

She hesitated, opened and closed her mouth as though deciding to say something more. She didn’t. Just nodded and went to her car. I watched her drive away, surprised to find myself wondering if I would see her again.