Beyond the Quiet Read online

  I made my excuses and almost ran to my car. When I glanced back at the office window, I saw Rick gazing out with a cold hard stare.

  I quickly slid into the seat, but I could feel his eyes burning a spot in the back of my head.

  Chapter Four

  Driving to Stan and Maggie’s, I felt edgy and irritated and wanted some time alone before facing them. They had nursed me through some terrible times, and I wanted them to think I was okay, that I wouldn’t fall apart at the least little thing. My independent soul struggled to be heard. Or perhaps it was my pride.

  It had always been difficult for me to rely on other people. I didn’t know why, exactly, but I assumed it had something to do with my childhood.

  As an only child, it had seemed I was always alone. Mom was either working or resting to go back to her physically demanding job as a nurse’s aide, and my step-father seldom stayed home. I’d been a loner in school as I never had much to say, so my social life with friends had been almost non-existent. Once I’d had a best friend, and when I’d been invited to her home, I’d watch how she interacted with her siblings, laughing and teasing, sharing secrets and even indulging in an occasional fight. Even when they exchanged heated words, their affection for each other had been obvious and I’d felt so envious of their lives. How I longed to be part of a loving family, wishing I had someone to talk to, someone who wouldn’t judge and criticize every expression on my face.

  But something within me kept me isolated, as if I existed in a world separate from everyone else.

  When Mac and I first met, he’d wisely avoided pushing Stan and Maggie on me until we’d been dating for several months. Instead, he’d drop hints about Maggie and her Earth Mother ways. Curiosity finally got me. I agreed to dinner and had loved them both on sight. It took a while, but over the years I gradually relaxed and trusted them completely, finally feeling part of a family.

  I drove around their neighborhood, finally winding up in front of my old house. I hadn’t been back since Mac became so ill, and I was glad to see that Mr. and Mrs. Woods were taking good care of the place. The shutters and front door gleamed with new white paint and the rock garden still featured the cactus I’d brought home from our trip to Tombstone. Slowly I cruised by, the longing pulling so strongly at me that I finally stopped.

  Our home, Mac’s and mine, over twenty years of memories. I’d conceived Shanna there, raised her, seen her off on her first date, and then held her wedding in the back yard. No sickness there, no death in that house.

  Just seeing it brought back so many memories. If I had worked late, Mac would welcome me home with a big hug.

  “How was your day?” he'd ask, and I’d tell him all about my latest client. The times I told him about Rick, he’d offer to rearrange his face. He'd hold me, tell me everything was all right, that nothing bad could happen to me while he was there.

  But soon I’d squirm out of his arms. I always had supper to fix, clothes to wash, something to scrub.

  Now I wondered why I had thought a polished kitchen was so important.

  ***

  When I got out of the car at Stan and Maggie’s, I stood listening to the soothing sounds of bubbling water from their fish pond.

  After their two children left home, Stan installed a pond in the front and surrounded it by dwarf palms and a rock garden. I’d loved it so much that I went out and bought a huge aquarium, stocked it with fish, pretty rocks and plants. It was great—until time to clean it. I broke down and did it once, then kept putting it off until the fish, and even the plants, died. I finally pawned it off on a neighbor’s kid.

  Maggie opened the door. Dressed in a white cotton pants outfit, she stood about five-ten, her figure matronly as a result of her love of cooking and new recipes. She had an open, friendly face and was so non-judgmental that you wanted to tell her all your secrets. Calm and caring, she was a perfect match for boisterous Stan.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling. “Come on in.”

  As she led me through their airy living room to the kitchen in back, I caught the tangy aroma of barbecued chicken.

  “Hope you're hungry,” she said, “Stan wanted to have everything you like. He worries about you, you know. We have chicken, potato salad, corn on the cob. I even put on a pot of black-eyed peas, and cornbread.“

  “Good God, how many people have you invited?”

  “Just the three of us. He wants to make sure you eat. Don’t worry, you don’t have to eat it all in one sitting. You can take some home. And, there's chocolate cake and ice cream.”

  “I think I’ll escape now.”

  “Oh no you don’t. I have strict orders to keep you here even if I have to hog-tie you to the floor. I warn you right now, if you don’t eat, he’ll be on you quicker than a bass on a June bug.”

  “Where is the big ogre?”

  “At the market,” she replied with a grin. “We ran out of milk. He can’t have chocolate cake without milk, you know.”

  We laughed. God, I loved that man. If he weren’t already married, I’d have already dragged him home.

  "Come on, gotta check dinner,” Maggie said. “I'll lose my happy home if I let it burn.”

  “I'm sure. You have him wrapped up so tight he can’t even roll over.”

  “Yeah.” She smiled dreamily as we stepped through the sliding doors to the patio in back.

  How I loved their back yard. Stan said the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves helped him relax, so he’d planted two more willows close to the patio. Little flower and rock gardens sat between them.

  Maggie lifted the lid on the grill, one of those black, domed things.

  “Can I help?” I asked, hoping she'd say no.

  “Just relax and tell me about your admirer.”

  “Admirer?”

  “Yeah. That guy at the open house.” With a pair of tongs, Maggie turned each piece of chicken.

  “For heaven’s sake, it’s nothing,” I sputtered. Of all things....

  “Oh, don't look that way, I was just teasing. So tell me about it.”

  Recounting what had happened, I mentioned the strange woman with the boy.

  “You know,” I said, “thinking back on it, I don’t think she was interested in the house or even talking about another one. I got the impression she was only making conversation. Wonder why.”

  Maggie flushed and kept busy with the chicken. ”Never can tell about people.”

  “Hey, there’s my girls!” Stan burst though the sliding doors, gave his wife a sloppy kiss and grabbed me in a bear hug, lifting me right out of the chair.

  “Put me down, you big gorilla,” I demanded, laughing.

  "So, how're things?" he asked, mixing drinks from the portable bar and pouring ice into the crusher. The buzz drowned out conversation, so I waited while he speared chunks of kiwi, pineapple, and lime with cocktail toothpicks, poured the drinks in tall, frosted glasses and arranged the fruit at the top. When he offered a glass to me, I automatically thought to pass it up in favor of my iced tea.

  Mac used to say I was a cheap date because one sip of booze and I was woozy. But today I thought, why the hell not? After all, I was with family. I took the cold glass and sipped. Damn, it was delicious—cold, frosty, and with just enough lime to give it a refreshing tartness.

  We talked about the kids, theirs and mine, while I took a few more sips and mellowed out. I couldn’t remember when I’d had such a relaxing, pleasant time.

  After setting my drink on the table, I dug in my handbag. “I have something to show you.” I handed the notice to Stan, and after he scanned it, he placed it on the table next to his drink.

  “What do you make of it?”

  “You pay the fee for another year,” he said, “or close it. I’ll take care of it.”

  “But we didn’t have a post office box. We didn’t need one.”

  He shrugged. “Well, in that case, it’s the wrong Montgomery. End of story.”

  “But Stan, it’s addressed to Ma
c Montgomery. You know the only time anything had Mac’s nickname on it was when he’d used it himself.”

  “You know all this computer marketing crap going around now. Who knows where businesses get their lists of names.”

  True, I thought, but still....

  “Ah, don’t spoil your dinner on some screw-up. Maggie’s been cooking all day.”

  “Stan,” I began, then found myself unable to say the rest. I didn’t even want to acknowledge the thoughts that crept into the darker part of my subconscious, didn’t want to give my fears power by acknowledging them.

  “If it would make you feel better,” Stan said, “I’ll check it out. I don’t have to be in court until ten-thirty tomorrow morning, so I could swing by the post office. For now, forget it. Your food will digest better that way.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll handle it.” Stan didn't look worried so I dropped it. Surely he’d know if Mac had a secret box. The two were closer than twins.

  We sat at the picnic table, the red-striped umbrella open against the sun. After I stuffed myself, I wiped my mouth with my napkin and sat back. Actually, I sprawled. And wished with all my might I could unbutton my slacks.

  “Did good, little girl,” Stan said, working on a second piece of cake.

  “I think I'm going to be sick,” I groaned.

  “Don't you dare,” Maggie said. “If you throw it all up, he’d just bully you into eating more.”

  “He needs his kids back so he can boss them.” I spotted the notice next to Stan’s plate. “Give it back,” I told him, indicating the slip of paper. “I’ll handle it.”

  “That’s okay. Just part of my duty as executor.” He made no move to return it to me.

  I held out my hand. “You have enough to do.”

  Stan glanced at Maggie. She flushed and became very busy clearing the dishes.

  I stared them down. “Okay, you two. What’s wrong? Give me the friggin’ notice!”

  “Ouch. Do you always talk like that?”

  “Quit screwing around. I’m well fed, too well fed. The daiquiri’s practically got me floating, and I’m in no mood to argue. So give it back. And I want to know what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing, babe. Don’t worry about it” Stan handed the notice to me. “Just remember Mac never wanted to do anything to cause you harm.”

  “Never wanted to cause me harm,” I echoed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Aw, don’t take everything so seriously. You know Mac. He adored you.”

  The next morning I called the post office about the notice and informed them of my husband’s death. They said I’d need identification and a copy of the death certificate to open the box.

  When I swung into a space in front of the post office on California Street, a crawling unease clamped my stomach. I did not want to walk into that building.

  I sat a few moments absently watching people enter and exit, some with smiles on this beautiful sunny day, others just ambling along.

  My fingers began to tingle and I realized I was clutching the wheel. I’d been parked twenty minutes.

  Okay, this was just plain silly. I knew Mac, so what was I so afraid of? But no matter how I’d tried to avoid thinking the worst, some part of me wondered if the box held secret flowery, perfumed envelopes, addressed to my husband, perhaps even decorated with those cheesy lipstick kisses like some used to send in high school. The image was ridiculous, and I had absolutely no reason for this sudden fright.

  But I’d been uneasy ever since I received the notice. And no matter how I tried to believe it was addressed to the wrong Montgomery, I felt my husband had a secret mailing address. I had to find out why.

  Gathering my things and the folder with the papers I’d need, I strode into the post office.

  Twenty-eight minutes later, I carried a bundle of junk mail to the car. Hoping for a breeze to cool my flushed cheeks, I rolled down the window and sat for a moment, waiting for my pounding heart to calm.

  After all the worrying, all the anxiety over a secret box, the mail consisted of nothing more than some fliers wanting the occupant’s business and a couple of envelopes from a popular California bank.

  I felt like rejoicing, like shouting, I’m okay! My marriage is okay! Suddenly, the day appeared brighter. Relief fought with shame as I glanced at the envelopes lying on the passenger seat.

  “Oh, Mac,” I whispered, “I’m so sorry for doubting you.”

  Having spotted a trash bin by the post office door, I decided to get rid of the junk mail now instead of taking it home. Gathering the small pile, I tossed everything but four business envelopes from the bank, which, since we didn’t have an account with them, I almost tossed as well. But seeing an official-looking account number listed under Mac’s name, I decided to check it out before throwing them away. Perhaps Mac had opened a small account, a place to stash a dollar here or there, something all his own for holidays and special occasions. Wanting to surprise me would be just like him. When he’d become so ill, I’d taken over the household responsibilities, including the banking and bill paying, so there had been no other way for him to save some money.

  I ripped the first one open, expecting to perhaps see evidence of a small deposit.

  Instead, what I saw took my breath away.

  It was a delinquent notice, a late payment reminder about a mortgage in Mac’s name on our condo.

  But that was impossible. Three months after we’d moved, our house had sold and we’d paid off the condo. We’d been so happy that we invited Stan and Maggie to celebrate with us at a special burn our mortgage dinner. Even when Mac became so ill, we never borrowed against it. It was to be my safety net from all the medical bills.

  It had to be some other Mac Montgomery. Still, as I ripped open the last three envelopes, I grew cold with dread.

  Each envelope held a demand for payment notice, each statement progressively stronger until the last one, dated this month. In that letter, entire sentences were typed in bold capital letters.

  According to the bank, since the property owner, Ronald Montgomery, had ignored their previous notices, they had no choice but to demand all four payments. If the account was not immediately brought current, the bank would begin foreclosure proceedings.

  Waves of nausea caused my stomach to lurch and I swung the car door open, afraid I was going to be sick. I read all four notices again, trying to make sense of what I was reading. It had to be a mistake. Mac wouldn’t have mortgaged our condo without telling me. No way would he do that to me. Perhaps because he had been eleven years older than I, Mac had always been my mentor as well as the man I loved. I had never had any reason to distrust him and I was not about to begin now.

  The first thing to do was to get to that bank and tell them it was a mistake. How long did I have to get this straightened out? I checked the date on the last notice; it was two weeks ago. Two weeks! The bank could, even now, be preparing to take my home from me.

  Chapter Five

  Backing out of the parking space, I didn’t even realizing my car door was still open until someone yelled at me. When I slammed on the brakes, everything on the passenger seat slid to the floor. Oh, God, I wasn’t fit to drive, not yet. I eased the car back into the space and shut off the ignition.

  When I reached Stan on my cell phone, I blurted out what was happening.

  “Now don’t get all shook,” he said in his normal, calm voice. “In the first place, since the condo was in both your names, a mortgage would have required your signature and–”

  “But my name isn’t on these demand notices,” I told him, my voice growing shrill. “Just Mac’s.”

  “Okay, then. It’s some sort of computer error, something we can straighten out in no time. You have all the papers on the condo?”

  “Of course. Mac and I put them in our safety deposit box and I haven’t touched them since.”

  “Give me the information and I’ll call and make an appointment with the loan officer. I’m s
ure it’s nothing but a computer glitch, but we need to take care of it. You don’t sound in any condition to drive, so stay put, and I’ll pick you up. We’ll stop at your bank and pick up the documents.”

  Stan sounded confident enough that I began to breathe easier. If Mac had decided to take out a mortgage, surely he would have gone to Stan. This had to be a mistake. Of course it was, so why didn’t I feel any better about it?

  I studied the demand notice. Mac’s full name with his middle initial, an eight-digit account number that looked so official, so correct. A knot of dread squeezed so tight I could hardly breathe.

  Mac always said I worried too much, and he may have been right. But if it were not a mistake, if he’d taken out a loan and it was delinquent, I'd have to make it up. Immediately. I'd worked with too many foreclosures not to know the danger of non-payment.

  With most of my funds still tied up, how would I make back payments? I had a hard enough time right now. I just prayed Stan was right, that it was all a mistake.

  Once I got the safety deposit box open, I’d know.

  When Stan pulled his Expedition alongside my car, I felt an incredible sense of relief. As usual, he looked great in a deep chocolate sports coat that complemented his blond hair and ruddy complexion.

  “How are you?” he asked, opening the car door for me.

  “About to throw up.”

  He wrapped me in his arms and I smelled the comforting scents of coffee and aftershave. Just for a moment I relaxed and rested my head on his shoulder, loving the feeling of being held, wondering why I could never say that to my husband.

  My husband...I pulled away. “What if Mac really took out this loan? Why would he do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know, doll. Maybe he took a small loan, something easily repaid.”

  “But how? I never signed anything. This can’t be happening.”

  “Before we speculate further, let’s check the safety deposit box. Chances are, this is all a mistake, that he was confused with someone else with the same name. Errors like that don’t happen often, but it’s been known to occur.” He grinned. “That’s one reason I’m in business.”