Lie in Plain Sight (28 page)

“What did I do?” Maeve asked.

Heather couldn't look at her, facing instead toward the wall, her back to her mother. “I can't live here anymore with you.”

“Why?”

Heather slumped a little bit, her spine caving in as she resisted the urge to cry. “You're not here,” she said.

“I'm here now.”

“No. You're not here. Even when you're here,” she said. “It's always something else. Evelyn. Chris. Now Taylor. You're never here.”

“And Dad is?” Maeve asked, feeling as if her insides were being crushed, making it hard for her to breathe.

“Yes. Dad is,” she said and hoisted the bag over her shoulder.

“Where did you go last night?” Maeve asked.

“In a few months, you won't be able to ask me those questions, and I won't have to answer them.”

“Because you'll be eighteen?” Maeve asked.

Heather nodded.

“You're going to go out on your own? Live your life?” Maeve asked.

“I don't know, but you don't need to know where I was last night. I was fine, by the way.”

“You're dating Jesse Connors,” Maeve said, and the look on Heather's face, as usual, was inscrutable, unknowable. Maeve thought she'd make a great CIA agent.

“No. I'm not,” Heather said, shifting the bag from one shoulder to the other.

“The police said you were.”

“The police don't understand hooking up,” she said.

It always came back to that, Maeve thought. Grown-ups just don't understand.

“And I feel as if you're doing your own investigating in your own way,” Maeve said.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I just want you to be safe,” Maeve said.

“You've made that clear. About a thousand times.”

Outside, Maeve saw Cal's minivan at the curb, but she didn't follow Heather outside or speak to her ex-husband, whose smug face she could see even at this distance, even with a screen door and the length of the front walk between them.

It was a long time before she moved, the day turning dusky and finally dark, and it was only the phone ringing in the kitchen that got her moving. “Heather?” she said when she reached the phone on the sixth ring, hoping that the girl had had a change of heart, that they could work things out and Maeve hadn't been catapulted into living life alone too soon in this big house.

“No, Maeve, it's Kurt Messer.”

“Kurt, hi. Thanks for fixing the pothole,” she said. “You really didn't need to send Mark out at five in the morning.”

“He came out at five in the morning?”

“Yes. Too early. But thank you.” She wondered if this was a personal call or if the store phone had forwarded the call, something she had programmed it to do after hours. Sometimes people thought of things late at night—for instance, they needed a cake the next day and had forgotten to order one—and she didn't like to miss those calls. “What can I do for you?” she asked, her voice sounding tired and weak to her own ears.

“Founders Day. Do you remember I said I'd have a party the day before for the crew?”

No. “Of course.”

“Can I place my order now, or would you prefer that I come in tomorrow?”

She looked around for a piece of paper, Heather's envelope sticking out from between the cookbooks, reminding her that she had to think of what to do with that information. “Now is fine,” she said. Founders Day was this Sunday, and she hadn't given a thought to what she would make or, even more of a worry, how she would make it in time. Jo was going to have to do double duty, and she wouldn't like that. She didn't even enjoy doing single duty, although her latest stint at the bakery was far more productive than her last. Maybe motherhood had changed her.

“Got that?” Kurt asked.

“I've got it,” Maeve said. “Thanks so much for your business, Kurt.”

“You sound a little off, Maeve. Is everything okay, or am I being too personal?”

“Not being personal at all, Kurt,” she said, resisting the urge to both cry and tell him everything—how she felt responsible for Taylor's disappearance, how one of her daughters hated her and wanted nothing to do with her, how she had killed one man and had a hand in another man's death yet felt nothing inside when she thought of both those instances. “Just teenage drama.” That was the understatement of the year.

“She's a nice girl, Maeve.”

“Who?”

“Heather. A lovely girl. You've done a very nice job there.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I lost a daughter, Maeve. Car accident. And not a day goes by that I don't think of her and wonder what she'd be like now. Now that I know Heather, I wonder if she'd be as wonderful as your girl.”

“Heather Callahan?” Maeve asked, wondering if she had stepped through a portal into a different world where people thought that her recalcitrant and moody daughter was a “lovely girl” she had done a “nice job” raising. “You must be thinking of Rebecca.”

“No, I'm thinking of Heather, Maeve,” Kurt said, letting out a little laugh.

“How do you know her? From the store?”

“No,” he said. “From Mark. They're spending time together, Maeve, and I couldn't be happier.”

 

CHAPTER 38

She would deny it. Maeve was sure of that, so there was really no reason at all to try to talk to Heather about this new relationship. She had denied dating Jesse Connors and would deny even knowing Mark Messer.

“Therapy,” Maeve said, surprising herself with the sound of her own voice and the word spoken. Therapy wasn't something her people did. They drank. They raged. They stewed. And eventually, when all of that was done, they swept whatever it was under the carpet, never to speak of it again.

When she had a moment to think, a second to look into it, they were going to therapy. She'd have to prepare herself mentally for what she would hear from her daughter, but it had to be done. There was no way out of this situation unless they had someone to listen to them both, mediate the conflict.

It would be a last-ditch effort, one she loathed the thought of, but something she would have to do.

The next day at the store, she texted Cal to make sure that Heather had moved in and stayed there, as she said she would, something he confirmed with one word.

Yes.

So they weren't speaking either, she guessed, Cal in a snit about whatever it was that was troubling him currently. Alone in the store, she sat at the counter in the kitchen, waiting for the scones to bake, and wrote out a list of things she would need to do for what she thought was the most ridiculous event ever to be scheduled in Farringville: Founders Day.

Sure the village was old, and yes, the immigrants who had settled here had found a delightful little tract of land right beside the Hudson River, but what was the town celebrating exactly? That it was a bedroom community that gave rise to a bunch of new, giant homes that didn't fit in with the old-world grandeur of the east side of the village? That the taxes were making it so people like Maeve wouldn't have a chance in hell of staying here once she was retired, if she could ever do that? That the threat of bigger stores—the Starbucks and the Smashburgers and the Whole Foods—that threatened to encroach on the real estate would put people like her out of business in no time? That the one major business that had allowed people to live comfortably had been sold by its owner, leaving its former employees to scramble and find work elsewhere?

She laid her head on the counter. Settle down, she told herself. She was spiraling out of control mentally, and she knew that feeling. It wasn't a good one.

Jo was early that morning, showing up not long after the morning rush. “You look like death warmed over.”

“How so?” Maeve asked. “How warm exactly?”

Jo eyed her from across the kitchen. “Wow, someone woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning.”

“Heather moved out.”

“To Cal's?

“Yes, to Cal's. She's too young to get a hotel room, Jo,” Maeve said, hoping to laugh it off but sounding bitter and resentful.

Jo walked past her into the store. “I think I'll just leave you alone for a while. I think you need to stay here. Customers don't enjoy crabby bakers.”

She took Jo's advice and stayed in the kitchen. After making batter for four dozen cupcakes, some of which she would freeze in anticipation of the weekend's festivities, she went online and reread the story about the girl who had gone missing in Prideville the year before, noting, when the story came up, the similarities between Caroline Jerman's case and Taylor's.

She was seventeen.

She had long, dark hair.

She had played soccer.

She had left work to take the five-minute walk home, disappearing somewhere between the Rite Aid on Route 3 and her house.

Maeve slammed her computer shut and pulled open the door between the kitchen and the front of the store. “Can you hold down the fort?” she asked Jo.

“Yes,” Jo said, gesturing to the empty space. “I think I can handle servicing no customers.”

No customers. On her way out to the car, Maeve thought about that and how between the hours of eight and two, hardly anyone came in anymore. The railroad guys were regulars, but even their numbers seemed to have dwindled. She had heard once that any press was good press. Bad press, contrary to the prevailing theory, seemed to be hurting her bottom line.

No customers, she thought again. It didn't matter. At least not right now. She got into the Prius and headed into the village, the place where the high school kids gathered to have lunch and blow off a little steam before heading back to class. A Mexican takeout place was Heather's favorite, and although Maeve bristled at the amount of money she spent on the food, she knew it was marginally healthier than the Chinese place or the sandwich places that dotted either side of Main Street.

Maeve parked in Mathers Park and took the short walk into town, scanning the throngs of kids for a glimpse of Heather. After fifteen minutes, just about ready to give up, she saw her coming out of the Mexican place with a bottle of water in one hand and a bag of food in the other. She was on the other side of the street, by herself, not noticing her mother until Maeve raised a hand and got her attention.

Maeve could tell that her first inclination was to pretend not to see her mother, but she looked both ways before crossing, as Maeve had taught her a long time ago, darted out into the street after a car passed by, and trotted over. Without pausing, she walked quickly toward the park, Maeve trying to keep up with her long-legged daughter.

“I know no one wants to be seen with their mother during lunch,” Maeve said when they finally arrived at a picnic table.

Heather opened the bag of food. “Are you hungry?”

Maeve inspected its contents. Two tacos, an order of rice and beans, tortilla chips. “Kind of.”

Heather handed her mother a taco, picking at hers in silence.

“How did we get here, Heather?” Maeve asked, her anger dissipated and in its place, bewilderment tinged with sadness.

Heather shrugged, putting a piece of shredded lettuce in her mouth.

“I'm hoping we can get back on track.”

“And what track would that be?” Heather asked. “The one where you're either nonexistent to me or completely up my ass?”

“See? This is what I'm talking about,” Maeve said. “We have to be able to have a conversation without employing the nuclear option.”

In spite of herself, Heather laughed. “What does that even mean?”

“Nuclear. Bombs. Explosions. Blast off,” Maeve said. “Is that not a term you kids use these days?”

“No one uses that term, Mom,” Heather said.

Maeve could see that the fight had gone out of her; her defenses were down clearly. “Heather, what are you doing? In terms of Taylor?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you dating Jesse Connors?” Maeve asked, steeling herself for the answer in the he-said, she-said situation that existed.

“Not really,” Heather said.

“Do I even want to know what that means?”

“I flirted with him a little bit, tried to figure out what he knew.”

“About what?”

“About Taylor,” Heather said, as if that was completely obvious.

“Why did the police tell me that you were dating?” Maeve asked.

“Why do the police say anything?”

“Did you tell them you were dating?”

“Not really.” Heather toyed with the plastic fork that had come in the takeout bag. “I wanted them to talk to Jesse some more. It was the only way I could think of to…”

“Get him?” Maeve asked. Before Heather could respond, she held up a hand. “I found the note. I found the photos. I kept them. Just how deep into this are you, Heather? And why you?”

Heather balled up the taco into its foil wrap and pushed it into the bag, her hunger gone. “Why me? Because I like Taylor. I felt sorry for her. She doesn't really hang out with anyone. And those guys…” She trailed off.

“What?”

“They're awful.”

“Why didn't you go to the police?” Maeve asked. “Come to me?”

“She said she was going to disappear for a few days, and then she was really gone. I got scared,” Heather said. “So I thought I'd look for her on my own.”

“But the Jesse thing…,” Maeve started.

“Just a hunch. I heard what everyone else heard. I wanted to see if it was true.”

“And did you ask him?” Maeve asked.

“I tried. He shut me down.” Heather looked dismayed at the thought, shouldering the responsibility of finding a girl who had been tossed aside by almost every male in her life.

Inside, Maeve felt her heart break just a little bit. As much as Heather wanted to run from her mother, it was becoming apparent to her that they were more alike than either would admit. She said the words she should have said to herself before the whole thing started, the words that Chris had tried to articulate time and time again. “It's too much for you, Heather. You're just one girl. You can't do this alone.”