There Was a Little Girl Page 3

  Jackson wanted me to pay movers. But considering I really don’t have that much stuff, it seemed silly. All of my boxes and small things fit into both of our SUVs. For the big stuff, one of his friends is bringing his big truck. The ring of his phone and look on his face after he answers tells me something’s not going according to plan.

  He turns to me, scowling. “Can you believe it? He’s blowing us off to play golf.” He looks me up and down. “There’s no way you’re going to be able to help me carry the furniture up three flights of stairs.”

  “It’s a beautiful day.” I know he’s right. I’m starting to feel bad I didn’t spend the money to hire movers when someone clears their throat in the doorway.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear. Sounds like you guys could use a hand.”

  Jackson brightens and shakes the guy’s hand.

  “That would be great.” He gestures to me. “This is my girlfriend, Hope. I’m Jackson.”

  The guy’s really good-looking. Average height with dirty blond hair and hazel eyes. A little bit scruffy, and I blink as I realize why he looks familiar. He looks a lot like Charlie Hunnam, one of my favorite actors.

  “I’m Grayson. I didn’t get a workout today, so you’d be helping me out.” He points to the door. “I live two doors down. Moved in a couple months ago. It’s a nice place. They said with it being so hot, the pool is opening next weekend.”

  This guy and Jackson instantly bond, as guys tend to do. Why is it so easy for them? I’ve never figured out how they do it. With women it’s more difficult. We size each other up, decide if we might be competing for the same guys and if we like the same things. Then we make an overture. The whole friendship thing is really hard. Trust isn’t something I give out. It’s earned and it takes a long time. Long enough, most potential friends give up and move on. I guess Jackson is just hardheaded.

  With Grayson pitching in, we unloaded the rest of my stuff pretty quickly. The apartment is a one-bedroom in a new building, so it has all the amenities. Stainless steel appliances, granite counters, a huge walk-in closet, and lots of big windows. Not to mention French doors leading out to a decent-sized balcony. It still smells new inside, and I’m the first person to live here.

  “Wow, that’s a wicked scar.”

  I look self-consciously at my arm. “I was in a car crash when I was little. My parents died and I got this.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You didn’t know.” I’ve told the lie so many times I’m starting to believe it. Anyway, not like I wanted to say, “My dad cut me with a serrated knife one night when he was drunk.” Can you say dysfunctional and white trash?

  “What is that?”

  Grayson points at my green smoothie like it’s a glass full of mud or bugs.

  “Don’t even ask.” Jackson makes a face any two-year-old would be proud of. “She drinks them for breakfast every day. Sometimes for lunch too. Ask her what’s in them and prepare to refuse a taste.”

  I hold out the Mason jar. “Taste. They’re good and good for you. The whole let food be thy medicine thing? Hello?”

  Jackson pretends he thinks they’re gross, but sometimes he’ll drink one too. He says he doesn’t want me to waste what doesn’t fit in my cup. Whatever.

  “This one has banana, spinach, mango, and coconut water.”

  Grayson takes a sip and makes a face. “Disgusting. I think I saw some dandelions in the grass outside. Why don’t you add them? Think of all the money you could save by taking the bags after the landscapers are done mowing the grass.”

  He and Jackson laugh, highly amused.

  “Very funny, you two. And just so you know, you can eat dandelion greens.” I finish off the last of the smoothie and smack my lips. “Delicious. When you’re both hobbling around after your second knee and hip replacement, I’ll be doing yoga and looking twenty years younger.”

  They look unconvinced. “Fine,” I say. “Let’s get this done so I’m not stepping over boxes when I go to work tomorrow.”

  While they carry in the rest of the furniture. I unpack boxes.

  “… No, man. My dad is a doctor. I’m a lawyer, work for my uncle. He has his own firm. You?”

  “I’m an ACO for Wake County. Sorry, animal control officer.”

  “Must be nice being outside all day. I’m lucky if I can get in a few rounds of golf a couple times a week.”

  Grayson laughs. “I can’t imagine being inside an office all day.”

  He’s wearing a gray t-shirt, the muscles in his arms straining as he and Jackson carry in the armoire. They’re both physically fit, and I make a mental note to quit making root beer floats at night.

  “Where do you want the desk?”

  I point to the bedroom. “On the same wall as the door to the closet.”

  “You know movers everywhere must be thrilled with the invention of tablets and e-readers.”

  “All right, sweetie. I’ll bite. Why?”

  Grayson looks like he’s waiting for the punch line. But Jackson doesn’t tell jokes. My boyfriend jerks his chin in my direction.

  “She used to have books stacked everywhere. From floor to ceiling. In every room. We would have had twenty-five boxes of them to carry up three flights of stairs.”

  “Why’d you get rid of your books?” Grayson leans against the doorway. He hasn’t done anything but be nice and helpful. Still. There’s something about him that makes me uncomfortable. As if he sees everything a bit too clearly.

  “Don’t get her started. For her birthday a few months ago I bought her an e-reader preloaded with all the books she had lying around. And I gave her a gift card for more. She donated all the hardcover and paperbacks.” He looks around the apartment. “Though now that I can’t see them, I’m almost afraid to ask how many she has loaded up, waiting to be read.”

  “I don’t read. Can’t imagine having a bunch of books taking up space,” Grayson says.

  “Me either. I’d rather hit the links.”

  “You are missing out on entire worlds,” I say. “And in my humble opinion, you can never have enough sweet tea or too many books.”

  They continue their conversation in the bedroom as they put the antique iron bed together. The few swear words I hear as they struggle make me grin. The bed is beautiful. Like something you’d picture in an artist’s garret in Paris, but it’s a pain in the butt to put together.

  “… she can be stubborn. I even offered to pay for the movers, but she said it was ridiculous when she didn’t have much stuff. Sometimes it’s easier to go along. You know what I’m saying?”

  I hear low murmuring. Grayson’s voice, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. Jackson’s voice carries like he knows he’s always the center of attention.

  “She so different. My mother wouldn’t even bring in her own groceries. She has the housekeeper do it. Of course, the housekeeper also does the grocery shopping.”

  I hear low laughter, and Jackson says, “No. No housekeeper either. She says the place is too small to justify one. I thought my mother was going to stroke out when she heard Hope cleans her own place.”

  Out in the kitchen, I roll my eyes. The cabinets have all been wiped down. The place may be brand new, but my gram would have my head if I didn’t wipe down the cabinets before I put all the dishes away. Once I’m settled in tonight, I’ll call her. She’s the one person I could live with. Knows why I’m the way I am.

  I’ve tried to get her to come live with me, but she won’t hear of it. All her friends are in Kansas and she likes to go visit Gramps at his grave every week. She’s basically been my mother. Raised me since I was seven, and I miss her dreadfully. It’s about time for me to take a week of vacation to go out and see her. Recharge my batteries.

  By the time I’ve put away everything in the kitchen, Grayson and Jackson are sitting on the balcony drinking a beer. It overlooks the woods instead of the pool. The greenery and birdsong soothes my soul.

  The boxes join the rest of the em
pties outside the door. The guys said they’d take them down to the recycling after they finished their beers. I set my watch for thirteen minutes. A break would be nice. The sweet tea is ready. Pouring myself a glass, I hear Grayson saying, “It’s rough. You think you know someone. I thought we were happy together. Then one day she comes home and tells me it’s over. That I’m not ambitious enough for her. She left me for a stockbroker. The divorce was final a few months ago. That’s when I decided a change would be good. So I took the job here. Left Wilmington and moved in here.”

  “Sorry, man. You have to come out with us one night. You play golf?”

  Grayson chuckles. “That’s a rich man’s sport.”

  I sit down in the wrought iron chair beside them. “You better watch out. Jackson’s always trying to convert everyone he meets to the religion of golf.”

  My coral-painted toes shine in the afternoon sun. I put my feet up on the railing and raise my glass to them both.

  “Thanks for all the help.” I look at Jackson and raise my eyebrows. He nods.

  “Why don’t you join us for dinner? Nothing fancy, just a couple of pizzas.”

  “Love to. I’ll bring the beer.”

  CHAPTER 6

  EVERY WEEK I LOOK FORWARD to art class. We meet on Tuesdays and work on a different technique every couple of months. I’m not very good, but I enjoy painting. Immersing myself in something just for me. The latest? Abstracts. Last session focused on still life. Various fruits and vegetables. If I never see another orange or carrot again, I’ll be happy.

  The word interesting comes to mind as I stand back and eye the canvas. I have no idea what it’s supposed to be, but the curving lines and pulsing colors speak to me, so I’ll go with the mood.

  The instructor calls out, “All right, everyone, brushes down. Bring your canvas to the front.”

  We’re all supposed to put our work on the ledge without looking at anyone else. And we don’t sign the work. Not until we’re finished with the entire session. The class gathers around. The instructor is exactly what I would picture an aging hippie to be. She has long gray hair that she usually wears in a braid, and flowing dresses. All she needs to complete the picture is a crown of flowers on her head. I bet she smokes a bit of pot at home while she talks about long-dead poets and the meaning of life. She’s incredibly kind, and when you look into her gray eyes, you can almost see Mother Earth within the depths.

  The studio is located in what used to be an old button factory. I love the exposed brick and huge windows. Not to mention some of the old machines hanging around. At the end of a class we all guess which student created which piece of art. Some I can easily point out. Marla always uses purple and green. And Andy always puts what look like boobs in his work.

  “And this one. See the lovely pastels and all the pinks. It’s so soft. Almost like I’m inside a puff of cotton candy.” The instructor smiles and looks right at me. “This one must be yours, Hope?”

  “Nope. That one’s mine.” I point to the canvas on the left. It looks angry. Seething with rage and darkness next to the confectionary fluff.

  The hippie’s eyes widen. “Talk about the unexpected. I sense hidden depths.” She looks at me again, a contemplative look on her face, before turning to address the class.

  “Look how dark this piece is. The energy and feelings pulsing with life.” She turns back to me. “Goodness. There must be an awful lot going on inside that head of yours. I would have never guessed this work was yours.” She nervously laughs, and I look closer at my work, wondering what she sees that makes her look at me like I’m about to fly off on my broom.

  Exiting the parking garage, I fast-walk to the corner then stop, waiting for the light to change. The sound of someone breathing hard makes me turn. The guy’s drenched in sweat. Wonder how long he’s been out jogging? And what time does he have to be at work that he can be jogging at this time of day? Maybe he lives downtown. I only jog when my mind won’t settle after meditating or yoga. Something about running until I’m exhausted helps reset my brain.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  He’s jogging in place beside me. Can’t he see the light? “The green man.”

  He frowns then looks to the right and left. “But there aren’t any cars. Not a single one.”

  “Those are the rules. My company’s pretty strict.”

  The guy makes a face and jogs across the street. A few seconds later, the light turns green and I cross, making it to my desk with ten minutes to spare. Not that anyone’s monitoring the time. Being salaried, I don’t punch a clock. It’s just that something about being late throws off my entire day. And who needs that? Work is stressful enough as it is.

  By lunch I’m ahead of what I planned to accomplish for the day, so I treat myself to a chocolate shake. As I scroll through various news sites, a story catches my eye.

  Skipper McNeary of Wilmington has been charged with cruelty to animals for killing his dog. Police say he told them the dog was being aggressive and he had to put it down.

  Good. I’m gratified to see as I read through that he’s facing the maximum sentence. The guy deserves jail time for what he did.

  On the way home from work, I take a detour. The tableau in Wilmington keeps popping into my head at the most unexpected times. So today, I’m going by the local shelter. A place I’ve never felt the desire to set foot in. Too many sad stories. I haven’t had a furry companion since I was seven. Maybe it’s time.

  The receptionist is friendly as I enter the lobby. “It’s our open house tonight. We have lots of dogs and cats looking for good homes.”

  She looks like she’s still in college. So much younger than me, and yet we must only be a couple of years apart. This job is sucking the soul out of me.

  “I don’t think I’m ready to adopt, but I thought I’d take a look.”

  “No problem. Sometimes they choose you. Follow me.”

  There are two separate rooms. One with cats and the other dogs. Some of the animals are asleep, some have their backs to the people looking at them, and some cower in the corner. A couple of dogs wag their tails and look happy, seeming to say, “Pick me.”

  For a few minutes I’m okay. Then it’s hard to breathe, my throat closes up, my head starts pounding, and I hear the sound of screaming filling my brain.

  “Hope? What are you doing here?”

  Relief at hearing a friendly voice floods through me, pushing the horror away.

  “Grayson. I didn’t know this was where you worked. Thought I’d come in and take a look around. I read about all the animals that had been brought in from a hoarding situation and needed homes.”

  “Yep. This is where I’m based. Let me guess. A cat or a big, floppy dog?”

  I shake my head. “Not ready to commit yet. I travel a lot for work. So I’d want to be sure whatever I decided on would be happy with being alone so much.”

  “It’s good to think about how much time you have.”

  “The hoarding article in the paper…”

  His shoulders slump. “It was a bad case. The ammonia levels were so high we had to get the hazmat suits in there.”

  “What happened to the lady? Did she go to jail?”

  “No. She’s mentally ill. Lost her only child in a DWI accident and things spiraled out of control. We’re working with her.”

  “What about that guy who dragged the dog behind his truck? Did he go to jail?”

  Grayson sighs and looks at another guy who’s joined us. “You wanna tell her, Fred?”

  “He had information the cops wanted about a drug ring, so he got probation. But he can’t own an animal for two years.”

  I’m incredulous. “That’s it? Doesn’t seem right.”

  “That’s the law.”

  “Maybe someone should have dragged him behind a truck.”

  Fred nods and starts to reply, but he’s interrupted by a woman calling he and Grayson into her office. I have to get out of here. It was a mistake to come.


  “Don’t you think there was something off about that girl?”

  Grayson rolled his eyes. “Dude, what girl? There were, like, fifty of them here tonight.”

  “You know, the one you were just talking to.”

  “Hope? No, she’s fine. Lives in my building, just moved in.”

  Fred didn’t look convinced. “She seemed awfully intense. There’s something about her. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  “What? Because she didn’t adopt an animal? At least she’s thinking about the welfare of the animal, how much she’s gone all day. Not like some of these people. Anyway, she gave a nice donation, what more do you want?”

  “She’s a bit bloodthirsty.”

  “The whole eye for an eye thing? Might do wonders.”

  “Maybe you’re right. It’s been a long day. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Grayson thought about Hope. She seemed nice enough. A bit plain, but the kind of girl you could take home to meet the parents. Though there was something about her eyes. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before. Probably because he was too busy helping her boyfriend carry her furniture. But there was a stillness. Something that set her apart. He’d noticed it when she sat next to them on the balcony. She was right there and yet she was far away.

  There was an intensity and a kind of sadness behind her gaze. She was only twenty-four, but her eyes looked like those belonging to an old woman. One who’d seen too much pain and suffering in her life. It was the same look he’d seen in some of the animals.

  Talk about being ridiculous. All those psychology books his ex read were rubbing off on him.

  “Hey, want to help me round up some escaped turkeys before you leave?” Malcolm grinned.

  “It has to be easier than the emu.” Grayson clapped him on the shoulder as they headed out to the truck.

  CHAPTER 7

  AS I WAIT IN LINE at the grocery store, a conversation taking place behind me catches my attention. Two girls around my age are discussing the contents of their baskets. One of them wears a wide-eyed, idealistic look that will last about the first year of real-world work before vanishing forever.