Never smile at strangers

***

RACHEL’S EYES WERE moist when there was a knock on the back door later that afternoon. Kelsey still hadn’t returned. She had been wondering if she should hunt her daughter down, but realized that she’d had too much wine.

She was an awful mother.

There was another knock.

She straightened in her seat at the kitchen table, realizing she had been caught in a daydream. “Come in!” she called, wiping her eyes.

The door opened, but no one stepped in. She stood and saw it was Mac. He held his cap between his hands and his t-shirt was soaked with sweat.

“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Anderson. But I’m about done. Just some edging to do,” he said. “I forgot to let you know that I’m here. Didn’t want to alarm you any—”

Rachel suddenly realized she desperately needed some company. Another minute alone and she’d probably snap. “You look worn out. Would you like some sweet tea?” she asked.

“No ma’am, but thanks for offering.” His short bangs were soaked with sweat. They stuck straight up in a comical but very cute sort of way.

She needed him to stay. Just for a few minutes. That was all it would take to regain some control. “Take a break. Come on, have a glass of tea with me.”

Mac regarded her. “No thank you, ma’am,” he said, “I really should—”

“I insist.”

He stood in the doorway, appearing confused and uncomfortable. Then his face spread into an easy grin. “Well, okay then. Sure.”

Rachel was dizzy as she staggered to the fridge. Taking out a pitcher, she carefully filled a glass. “Don’t just stand there in the door. Come on in,” she said, trying to sound light. And sober.

Mac took a step inside.

“You like Luzia

“Yes ma’am.”

Mac was still standing just inside the door, squeezing his cap between his hands, when Rachel made the return trip to the table, careful not to let any of the tea slosh out of the glass.

“Have a seat,” she said.

“I’m pretty sweaty, Mrs. Anderson.”

She slid the tea in front of a chair. A little sloshed onto the table. “Rachel, please call me Rachel. And don’t worry about it. Have a seat. Get comfortable.”

Rachel sat down and smiled. Now, what would they talk about? What, if anything, did they have in common? “How long have you cut grass for us, Mac? Four, five years?”

“Yeah, five, I think. It was my first job. I’ve always appreciated that.”

Where did all the time go,Rachel wondered. She poured another glass of wine. “You realize that in five long years we’ve never really talked before, adult to adult? Or taken the time to have tea together?”

Mac set the glass down, and looked at her politely. “No ma’am. Guess we haven’t.”

“Then it’s about time, isn’t it? How’s that girlfriend of yours? Haley, right? You two have plans of getting married?”

Mac studied his glass. “No, not really.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I hope things are okay?”

Mac was quiet before he spoke. “To be honest, we’re having some problems. Looks like we’re not doin’ too good these days.”

Chapter 41

LATE TUESDAY AFTERNOON, Erica sat beneath a shaded part of her carport, writing fervently. Every once in a while she’d look up, in deep thought, and stare, unseeing, at the overgrown patches of grass, the yard’s many burnt spots, the old green fishing boat with no motor resting upside down, the dirt-encrusted flowerpots that had remained empty since her mother had left.

But she didn’t focus on any of these things. Instead, she focused on her mind’s eye. These days she didn’t need to use her mother’s rituals as much. Writing seemed to have become natural to her overnight. She wrote quickly, in fear that the crippling writer’s block would return. Who knew what types of danger could befall her.

The writing had progressed a great deal. Her notebook was full of excellent notes and she had forty-pages written, the words coming quicker than she could write them.

She jotted down notes during her shifts at Luke’s, while on the pier, sitting in class, at the cemetery, everywhere.

She was looking forward to the detective coming by again. So far, he’d come by twice to ask her questions. Both times he had irritated her, but he wouldn’t now. Now, she had too much to learn. She considered even asking the detective if she could help him with the investigation in some sort of small way. It would allow her to gather more information.

There were footsteps behind her. “Why hello, cher.”

Erica tensed. It was Pamela.

Pamela stood next to her father’s rusted tackle box and a bucket of old oil rags, holding a faded beach towel. She wore only a black and white polka dotted bikini. Her bony shoulders were sunburned and her sunglasses were too large for her small face. Erica looked her over and for the first time noticed that Pamela’s big breasts weren’t natural and that her thin thighs were swimming in cellulite.

“Why are you setting in the shade? You should be out getting some sun, darlin’.”

Erica’s grip tightened on her pen. “The sun’s not healthy.”

“Neither’s cigarettes or voodoo. But at least the sun makes you look prettier,” Pamela said, and winked.

Erica looked away, toward the bayou. Two teenage boys had appeared on the opposite side, wearing matching swimming trunks and carrying a blow-up raft.

Pamela plopped down next to her. She situated herself. “Seems your writing is goin’ better. You’re doin’ more of it.”

“How would you know? You spying on me again?”

Pamela let out a little laugh. “No, not at all. Guess I just notice things. My mama always said I was the most observant child in the family. Not that I learned to put it to any good use.” She sighed. “Well, not yet, at least.”

Erica pushed at some dirt with her bare toe.

“I’m happy for you. You seem much more peaceful when you’re doin’ good writin’.” Pamela pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She held it in front of her. “You want one?”

Erica hesitated. She breathed in deeply, and the odors of motor oil and mint flooded her nose. The cigarettes were appealing. The tips at Luke’s had been more meager than usual, and she had been forced to ration her own cigarettes, most days smoking butts wherever she could find them. Every spare nickel and dime were going into her New York City fund.

She accepted a cigarette, and the two sat for several minutes, smoking in silence.

“Your daddy tells me that you were friends with the missing girl.”

“Negative.”

“You didn’t know her?”

“I knew her, but we weren’t friends.”

“Did you know her well?”

“No. We just worked together at Luke’s.”

“Luke’s?”

“The diner on Main Street.”

“Oh yes. Your daddy told me that’s where you worked. Well, if you worked with her, then you should know her pretty well. What was she like?”

“Bitchy. Rich. Head stuck up her ass.”

“Well, she doesn’t sound too nice now, does she?” Pamela said. She dragged on her cigarette. Setting it in an old Coca Cola can, she looked thoughtful. “I knew a girl once that went missing. Turns out she just ran away.”

“Tiffany didn’t run away.”

“How do you know, cher?”

“It doesn’t make any sense. She would have done things differently if she had run away.”

“Your father doesn’t seem to think that boy Charles, the boyfriend, had anything to do with it.”

Erica hadn’t realized that her father knew anything about what had happened. But of course he would, right? The whole town knew. But Erica still found it odd that he hadn’t mentioned anything about it to her. “And how would he know?”

“Big news gets around in small parts like this,” Pamela answered.