Here With Me Page 11

  “Sawyer, my goodness.” Ms. Debbie Turner wobbles up to give me a hug. “I haven’t seen you since you were a teenager.”

  Another old lady slowly approaches, and a line starts to form. It’s sweet, if a little awkward. All the ladies are frail as tissue paper, and I try to hug them without squeezing them too hard. I’m on the verge of being mobbed when Mindy appears and pulls my arm.

  “Sawyer’s helping me with the items in storage. Y’all go vote.”

  Ramona hands them sheets of paper, and we slip away from the slow-moving crowd.

  “You need to get out more,” Mindy teases.

  “I didn’t know some of those people were still alive.” Glancing back, I wave to the ones watching us go. “Swimsuit competition?”

  “I can’t even imagine.” Mindy stops in front of a metal door and fiddles with her keys. “The families would have a fit.”

  She finally gets the door open, and we step into a dim, dusty storage closet. It’s dark and smells faintly of mildew. Mindy pulls the string for a bare lightbulb, and my stomach feels uneasy. I try to dismiss it. It’s only a storage room with boxes stacked to the ceiling.

  “The ones marked luau are the ones we’re after.” She goes down a corridor, and my temples start to throb. “If you’ll just carry them to the activity room, we can start sorting through them. I’d better head back and check on Ramona.”

  She stops in front of me and pulls my arm. I know she’s expecting a kiss, but I’m having a hard time clearing my head. “You okay?”

  “Yeah…” I nod, not entirely sure.

  “Just bring everything you find to the activity room. I’ll come back and help in a minute.”

  She leaves, and the door closes with a slam. The old room is narrow and dark, and all shapes and sizes of boxes are stacked in asymmetrical patterns. Some cover the windows, causing the sunlight to stream in strange columns of dust.

  I walk slowly through the cramped area trying to focus on my task. I’m finding boxes marked luau…

  But something’s wrong.

  My heart beats too fast. I’m having trouble catching my breath, and flashes of memory streak across my brain. I’m caught in a narrow hut, and we’re not alone. The smells—dampness, mildew, danger.

  Someone’s in here with us.

  Reaching out to grab a metal shelf, my hands are shaking. Roaring is in my ears, and I can’t seem to make it stop. I can’t stop this feeling I’m in danger.

  Where is Taron? I’m supposed to be covering him… We didn’t inspect the perimeter. We walked into an unknown space—a critical error.

  She’s here. A dark figure rising from the back corner with a huge knife in her hand. She raises it over her head, ready to slash…

  “NO!” I spin around, grabbing the shadowy body in the narrow corridor behind me.

  “Help!” It’s a feeble cry.

  In one fluid, well-trained move, I’m behind the intruder, my forearm is around his neck, and I take him down to the ground.

  “Drop your weapon!” My voice is ragged, wild.

  “I’m unarmed!” The body goes limp, grasping at me, losing strength. I’m still having trouble focusing when I hear him.

  His voice breaks through my panic.

  “Mindy thought you needed help. She sent me to help you.” The words are muffled, and the fog begins to clear.

  The light filters back into my vision, and I see I’ve got Mr. Hebert in a choke hold on the linoleum.

  “Oh, shit.” I release him at once, dropping back onto my feet. “I’m sorry…”

  The old man rolls to the side, his face reddish-purple, and starts coughing loudly. Jesus, I could’ve killed him.

  “Sir… Mr. Hebert…” I move forward to my knees, placing a hand on his thin shoulder.

  “Oh, lord, what happened?” Ramona is with us, rushing to kneel beside him. “Did he fall? Mr. Hebert? Can you speak? Is he having a stroke?”

  He’s still coughing, and shame floods my chest. “He startled me… I didn’t hear him come in.”

  Ramona looks at me with horror. “You did this?”

  “I’m sorry.” I lean back. “I’ll pay for whatever damage…”

  The old man holds out a hand, and Ramona helps him take a knee. I grasp his other arm, rising slowly as we help him to his feet.

  He pats my chest roughly with his hand, nodding and still holding his throat. “Room…” He manages to croak, and Ramona takes him under the arm.

  “I’ll take you to your room.” She glares at me, and my stomach knots.

  My insides are churning. I follow them into the hall, but I need to get out of here. “I’ve got to go. Tell Mindy… Tell her I had to leave.”

  I’m not even sure if Ramona hears me. I see the exit sign to my immediate left, and I push through the crash door, stumbling out into the hot, humid, fresh air.

  15

  Mindy

  Sawyer isn’t answering my calls. I’ve called or texted him every few hours since he disappeared this morning. He didn’t tell me goodbye. He didn’t say anything. He just left.

  Ramona said he had a run-in with Mr. Hebert, which is bizarre and confusing. Mr. Hebert says it’s okay, everything’s okay. He won’t tell us any more, but he has a nasty purple mark at the base of his neck, above his collar bone. The doctor checked him out and said he’s okay, just some bruising to his windpipe, but Beth is going to have a fit when she sees him.

  Once I’m sure he’s okay and everyone’s settled, I take off for the day, determined to find Sawyer and get to the bottom of what happened. It doesn’t make any sense. I can only imagine the old man must’ve run into something in the dark. That storage room is a mess, and many of the boxes are chest high.

  I go to my house first. Ma is still out of town, and I drop off the ballots and quickly change out of my pants, cardigan sweater-set, and flats into a light cotton sundress and canvas tennis shoes. I drive to the farmhouse, but Sawyer’s truck isn’t there. I drive past the distribution center, the civic center, even Denny’s. Everything is quiet and pretty much deserted. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and I expect most everybody is inside in the air-conditioning.

  Frustrated, I drive back to the farm house. I can hang out with Noel and wait for him to show up at least. Parking behind the shed, I take a chance and walk across the back of the fields toward the Hayes fishing pond. I’m halfway there when I spot his blue Chevy.

  Breaking into a jog, I cross the distance, my shoes make a thumping noise on the wooden pier. “Sawyer?” I call, shading my eyes with my hand.

  I look all around, but I don’t see him until my eyes land on him sitting on the bank.

  I go to where he is, dropping to my knees. “What are you doing out here? I’ve been trying to call you.”

  His chin drops, and the muscle in his jaw moves. “I don’t have my phone.”

  His knees are bent, and his arms are propped on them. A stalk of grass is between his fingers, and he’s not looking at me. Everything about him is closed, guarded, and I fight the frustration pushing against my chest. We’re back to this after everything? After last night?

  “You could’ve told me you were leaving.” Somehow my tone manages to remain neutral. “Ramona and I had to get Mr. Doucet to help us with those boxes, and he’s slow as molasses in January.”

  “I’m sorry. I was feeling… vertigo or something.”

  “Is that what happened with Mr. Hebert?”

  Concerned hazel eyes flash to mine. “How is he?”

  Shifting to my butt, I shrug. “He says he’s fine. I’m not sure how Beth and her parents are going to feel, but the doctor says he’s okay.”

  Dropping his head, he rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m glad he wasn’t hurt.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I’m not really sure.” Lifting his head, his eyes go to the lake again.

  Exhaling deeply, I try to release my frustration. It’s not like I haven’t known this guy my whole life.
He’s a master of smashing all his feelings into a tight little ball and shoving them way down…

  “I know two old ladies who are pretty happy Jimmy got it in the neck. Or one of them, at least.” I’m only partly teasing, hoping to lighten his dark mood.

  He looks at me confused.

  I lean closer. “Mr. Hebert has been playing the field. Two timing Ms. Wilson and Ms. Turner, and trust me, it is causing major problems.”

  “Oh,” he nods, seeming to relax a fraction. “The Viagra comment.”

  “Miss Jessica.” I shake my head. “She seems so sweet and innocent, but she’s a pot stirrer.”

  He finally lowers his knees, resting his hands in his lap. “I didn’t know old people were so active.”

  “I wish I didn’t.” Scooting closer, I put my cheek on his shoulder. I want him to put his arm around me, but he just looks out at the water.

  “I guess it’s not over til it’s over.”

  “For them, it should be over.” I slide my hand across his lap into his hand.

  At least I can hold his hand, threading his fingers with mine. The fountain sprays in the air, and the water falls in a soothing trickle. It’s hot and still out here, and sweat rolls down my back under my sundress.

  He finally puts his arm around me. “I’m sorry I left you like that.” I feel his lips press against the top of my head, and I close my eyes. Relief tingles under my skin in spite of it all.

  “Just tell me next time, okay?” My voice is soft, and my hold on his hand tightens. “I was worried about you.”

  He looks down at me, and his face relaxes into a smile. “You’re pretty cute, you know that?”

  He tugs one of the tendrils that’s slipped out of my hair, which I hastily piled on top of my head in a messy bun.

  I pull my hand out of his and push on my knees to stand. “Puppies are cute.”

  He rises beside me and catches me around the waist. “What’s wrong with puppies?”

  “Nothing, I just don’t want to be one.” My palms rest against his chest, and I lean up to kiss the side of his neck. “You’re sweaty. Want to go for a swim?”

  “Raincheck. I need to get back to the house. See you later tonight?”

  I’m a little disappointed. I’d love nothing more than to be in that pond with him, rubbing my naked, wet body against his. Maybe I could get him to crack the door to that dungeon in his heart a little wider.

  But I can work with later. “I’ll leave my window unlocked.”

  He leans down and gives me a kiss, firm and possessive. His arms tighten, pulling me closer against him. It’s almost painful as his lips push mine apart. His tongue finds mine, curling together, and my panties ignite. My hands slide up to his neck, into his soft hair. I rise onto my toes, and I want to climb him like a tree.

  We break apart, and his eyes are dark again, stormy. He’s not smiling, and the relief I felt a moment ago evaporates. “Thanks for checking on me.”

  “Of course.” My voice is soft, and I hold his neck. “Had to make sure my best guy was okay.”

  He flinches, and I feel like I said the wrong thing. Turning away, he leads me back across the field to his waiting truck and drives us back to the house.

  “I’ve been on YouTube all day watching videos.” Ma’s been talking nonstop about bees since she got home. “Tomorrow you can help me install the new package.”

  I’ve got to hand it to Deacon. I’m not sure my ma even knew what YouTube was a month ago. “Not a chance. Those little guys don’t like me.”

  She stops in the middle of the kitchen, her face suddenly serious. “Bees do not have emotions. I told you it was the perfume you were wearing. Which by the way, is very sensual. Are you sexually active, Melinda Claire?”

  “Good lord, Ma!” I’m not sure whether to laugh or hide.

  “I only want to be sure you’re practicing safe sex. Deacon is a nice boy, but I’m not sure he’s planning to live in Harristown.”

  Oh my God, can I say this out loud? “I’m not sleeping with Deacon, and anyway, I’m twenty-six. You’re a little late for the sex talk.”

  She straightens, waving away my embarrassment. “You’re a grown woman, Melinda Claire. We should be able to have these conversations if we need to.”

  Sweet baby Jesus, please don’t let this be a sign of things to come. “So how was your trip?”

  She’s digging in the refrigerator. “I got hung up in Ferriday, and there’s a speed trap in Vidalia. Still, I got there in about four hours.”

  “You should’ve gone through Jackson to I-55.”

  “I don’t like driving on the Interstate.” She puts the plastic container of my disastrous eggplant casserole on the counter. “What’s this?”

  “A nightmare.” I put my hands on my hips. “I followed your recipe for eggplant parm, and it tastes like vomit.”

  She frowns at me. “You didn’t follow my recipe.”

  “I followed it to the letter.” I step forward, tapping her book as she gives it a sniff.

  “It smells good.”

  “The smell is a dirty lie. It’s awful.” I watch her cut it with a spatula. “On the other hand, I didn’t know you put lemon zest in it.”

  “Gives it a zesty, floral tang.”

  “Well, this does not have a floral tang. It tastes like floral poop.” I would say shit, but I’m not sure my sudden adult status covers swearing.

  She scoops out the piece onto her plate then sticks it in the microwave for thirty seconds. “Did you fry the eggplant?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good.” She waits for the microwave to finish. “Makes it soggy.”

  The buzzer goes off, and she takes the plate out, setting the paper towel to the side and looking at it judgmentally. “That is a very good recipe, an old recipe.”

  “Well, it didn’t work.”

  She cuts a bite-sized portion of vegetables and cheese, lifts it in the air, holds it a second, blows on it, then sticks it in her mouth and chews with a quizzical expression.

  I bite my lip as I watch her. I have always been a shitty cook. It’s the joke of my mom and my two sisters, and it’s really unfair because I try really hard.

  With a frown, she stops chewing and places her hand on her chest dramatically. Her eyes close, and she shakes her head. Crossing the room, she sweeps napkin over her mouth and spits the offensive bite into the trash.

  “You over-zested your lemon.”

  “Over-zested?” I blink rapidly. “I don’t even know what that means. How do I over-zest a lemon?”

  “You zested past the color on the skin. If you get into the white part, that’s the pulp. The pulp has that bitter flavor.” She holds up her hand and shakes her head. “There’s no way to save this.”

  With that, she takes the entire plastic container and dumps it in the garbage.

  Crossing my arms, my lips part as I lean back against the sink. “How the hell was I supposed to know that?”

  “Language, please.”

  As I expected—I’m only an adult when it’s convenient for her. “Sorry. How the heck was I supposed to know that?”

  She pulls out the decanter of red wine and two glasses. “Drink some wine. I’ll show you how to zest a lemon.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it.” I take the glass and sip long and slow.

  She goes back to inspecting the leftovers in the fridge.

  “Ma?”

  A container of penne with mushrooms and olive oil satisfies her. “You want some of this?”

  “Sure.” I take another long drink of wine. “Ma?”

  She finishes spooning out two servings, putting one in the oven before acknowledging me. “What? Say what you want to say, and stop carrying on like a child.”

  My stomach is in knots. It has been ever since this morning when I realized Sawyer had left the nursing home without telling me. It got a little better when he softened for five minutes at the pond, but the way he kissed me has me all in knots again.

&nb
sp; Something’s wrong, and I’ve never been able to force Sawyer to talk to me about his feelings. But what am I supposed to do with that? Is this any way to build a relationship?

  Ma cuts me a look. “Spit it out, Melinda.”

  I scrub the tips of my fingers against my forehead. “How did you know Pop was the right guy? Did you just always know or did he say something in particular… or… ”

  Rolling her eyes, she shakes her dark head. “Your generation. You make everything so difficult with all your thinking and analyzing… your online personality tests and advice columns.”

  A fist is in my chest, and I feel like I’m going to scream. I’m not sure how much more of this pressure I can take. “Yes, yes, okay. That’s why I’m asking you. How did you know?”

  The microwave buzzes, and she takes out one plate, putting another in and hitting the button. I wait as she grabs a block of parmesan and grates it over the penne then she hands it to me.

  “Sit at the table. I’ll be right there.”

  It’s useless to argue. I take the plate and walk to the dining room, sitting and drinking more wine. I need to slow down, or I’ll be passed out before Sawyer even shows up at my window tonight.

  She finally joins me, putting her plate on the table and sitting across from me. We say a brief prayer, and she puts her napkin in her lap. For a few minutes we eat the creamy penne with smoky mushrooms and rich cheese.

  Finally, she’s ready to answer me. “I knew your father was the one because he told me he was.”

  My brow furrows, and I don’t like the sound of that. “That’s not very PC.”

  “I don’t know about PC.” She holds up a hand. “I liked your father. He was very handsome. I wanted to have his children. He agreed, and we got married.”

  “That’s it?” I put my fork down, leaning back in my seat. “You didn’t get to know each other or date or find out each other’s likes and dislikes? What if he’d been a serial killer?”

  “Our families knew each other.” She shrugs. “It was a small community. Then we moved here, and it was a little more difficult. But I always loved your father.”

  My head tilts to the side, and I think about this. Sawyer’s from our small town. Our families know each other. How do I know I’m not self-sabotaging this out of my own feelings of insecurity and never feeling like I quite belong?