Blood Red Read online

  That, and the fact that Jake and the kids would never find out.

  Or so she believed.

  Now someone—­Rick? Damn you, Rick!—­wants her to be aware that her secret was never safe; that she isn’t safe at all, even now. Her entire world can unravel in an instant, and she’s no longer in charge.

  Sleep refuses to claim her just as it did fourteen years ago tonight, dooming her to greet the cold and gloomy December dawn with restless exhaustion and the sense that the battle she thought she’d won long ago has begun anew.

  From the Mundy’s Landing Tribune Archives

  Society Page

  June 20, 1993

  Rowan M. Carmichael Weds

  A. Jacob Mundy IV

  Surrounded by family and friends, Rowan Mary Carmichael exchanged vows with Asa Jacob Mundy IV in a double ring ceremony at Holy Angels Church on Saturday afternoon.

  The groom is the son of Mrs. Laura Mundy III of Mundy’s Landing and the late Asa Jacob Mundy III. The bride is the daughter of Jonathan “Mickey” Carmichael of Mundy’s Landing and the late Katherine Devlin Carmichael. Given in marriage by her father, she wore her mother’s silk gown, which had a V-­neckline and was accented with Alençon lace appliques, and she carried a bouquet of peonies and roses.

  The bride’s sister, Noreen Carmichael Chapman of Oyster Bay, was matron of honor. Bridesmaids were Liza Mundy of Austin and Carolyn Kaliszewski of Buffalo. Edward Mundy, cousin of the groom, was best man, and ushers were Mitchell and Daniel Carmichael, brothers of the bride. Andrew Carmichael, the bride’s nephew, was the ring bearer.

  Following a honeymoon in Cancun, the newlyweds will make their home in Westchester County, where Mrs. Mundy will begin a teaching position in the fall. Mr. Mundy is employed as an advertising executive in New York City.

  Chapter 3

  The work week passed without further incident. For that, Rowan is grateful. She hasn’t allowed herself to completely forget about the package of burnt cookies, still tucked away beneath the attic rafters, but she’s gone from dwelling on it in a constant state of paranoia to accepting that it happened and trying to move on.

  That’s much easier to accomplish in some moments than in others. During the days when she’s busy in the classroom, she barely has time to think about it, much less check her Facebook page to see whether Rick Walker has responded to her errant friend request. But her nights at home have been marked by frequent and futile Facebook patrols and by restless worrying and wondering and very little sleep.

  By the time Friday night rolls around, she’s feeling utterly drained. She’d much prefer climbing into bed in her pajamas to climbing into the bleachers in the high school gym. But Mick has a home game, and she never misses one.

  Her friend Nancy Vandergraaf does a double take as Rowan settles onto the bench beside her. “Rowan! I didn’t recognize you without your red hair. What happened?”

  “I got old,” she says wryly.

  “If you’re old, then I’m ancient.”

  Nancy, who used to be Nancy Morrison, graduated Mundy’s Landing High two years ahead of Rowan and steadily dated her brother Danny. He went on to marry his college sweetheart and lives in California, while Nancy married—­and later messily divorced—­Danny’s former best friend, Chris­tian Vandergraaf. Rowan wasn’t living here when that particular small-­town drama unfolded, but Nancy had long since filled her in. She talks a lot and spares very few details.

  She particularly enjoys bringing up their shared high school past, which she remembers far more fondly than Rowan. Nancy was a class officer and honor student whose glory days unfolded beneath this very roof, while Rowan was the quintessential party girl whose memories of that era are often shrouded in a haze of forbidden substances.

  “So where’s Jake tonight?” Nancy wants to know.

  “He’s having dinner with a ­couple of sales reps in Albany but he’s going to try to make the second half of the game.” Rowan presses a hand to her mouth as a yawn escapes her. “Sorry. Long week.”

  “Tell me about it.” Nancy launches into a drawn-­out personal drama involving a plumber, a flea-­ridden dog, a cold sore, and a Christmas gift that’s been backordered until February.

  Nancy, whose only child plays on the team with Mick, is one of those irritating ­people who, if you’re tired, will tell you she’s more tired; if you’re busy, she’s busier; if you’ve had bad news, she’s had worse. Sometimes Rowan nips her monologues in the bud, but tonight, she lets her talk. The tirade blends with the chatter of the gathering crowd around them and the cheerleaders’ chants and the squeaking of basketball shoes on the polished hardwoods as the team warms up.

  Then Nancy interrupts herself to whisper, “Look at Diane Westerly pretending she has no clue who’s sitting behind her.”

  Rowan looks. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Wrong. Who’s sitting behind her?”

  “Lynda Carlotta!” When that fails to get a reaction, Nancy adds, “You didn’t hear?”

  “Obviously not.” Rowan rubs her burning shoulder blade, not really caring whether she hears now, or not.

  “Diane’s having an affair with Jim Carlotta.”

  Affair.

  The word brings Rowan right back to Monday, and the box filled with burnt cookies, and Rick Walker.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Everyone knows. Everyone except Lynda, anyway.” Nancy shakes her brunette head. “I can’t believe she’d do something like that.”

  “Like not knowing about her husband’s affair?”

  “What? No, I’m talking about Diane! She’s the horrible one, not Lynda. I mean, they’re friends.”

  “What about Jim? They’re married.”

  “He’s horrible, too,” Nancy agrees in an offhanded way that somehow implies the cheating husband isn’t quite as blameworthy as the backstabbing woman.

  Or maybe Rowan is reading too much into the conversation. Maybe she’s identifying with Diane Westerly, a perpetually frazzled stay-­at-­home mother of four, imagining how she might have, in a brief, wayward moment, found herself in the arms of a man whose kids have long shared sandboxes and cafeteria tables and carpools with her own.

  As Nancy talks on, Rowan surreptitiously pulls her cell phone out of the back pocket of her jeans and sneaks a peek at her Facebook account. There’s one new notification: Rick Walker has accepted your friend request.

  She jumps to her feet, heart racing.

  “Where are you going, Ro? The game’s about to start.”

  “I know, but I forgot I have to . . . call someone.” She’s already weaving her way down the bleachers, seeking empty spots on benches for her boots. It’s slow going, and several ­people expect her to stop and chat. She brushes them off and keeps going, clutching her phone in her trembling hand and heading toward the nearest set of doors.

  At last, she steps outside into the cold night air. Only then does she exhale. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath.

  A light sleet is falling, landing in droplets on the backlit screen.

  “Moisture isn’t good for electronics,” she hears herself telling Mick, who’s always leaving his own phone by the tub or kitchen sink.

  “It’s okay,” he invariably responds.

  “It’s not okay.”

  After all these years, the maternal ritual plays out in her head like an oldies soundtrack on the radio, so much a part of her that she barely takes notice.

  Her feet carry her on a familiar route across the back parking lot toward the gazebo that was donated by her sister’s senior class upon their graduation. Noreen Carmichael had spearheaded the fund-­raising efforts and proudly wielded the scissors at the ribbon-­cutting ceremony.

  How well Rowan recalls her parents’ pride in her sister on that sunny Jun
e day over thirty years ago. How well she remembers their shame when she herself was caught on that very spot a few years later, cutting class and smoking—­just regular cigarettes that day, thank goodness.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d gotten into trouble, but it was memorable for a ­couple of reasons. She wasn’t just given detention, she was suspended. Dad yelled, Mom sobbed; they doled out the usual grounding and warnings and threats, none of which got through to her. It took a tragedy for Rowan to wake up and make the promise she’s bent on keeping to this day.

  Directly on the heels of Rowan’s disgrace, Mom was diagnosed with acute myelogenous leukemia, a fast-­moving, virulent form of cancer. She lived mere weeks. In one of her final lucid moments, she begged her youngest daughter to “be a good girl.”

  And from that day on, I was.

  Stepping into the gazebo, Rowan heads for the bench where she held court on many a defiant day—­and night—­surrounded by fellow mavericks who have long since faded from her life. Perhaps a few managed to redeem themselves, moving away, joining the military. But most of those kids burned out quickly after high school and more than one died young, their granite headstones in Holy Angels Cemetery a somber reminder of the road not taken.

  Ironic, Rowan thinks, that in this spot at this time of year, when the branches are bare, there’s a pretty good view of Milkweed Pond. That’s where she and Jake went skating on their first date twenty-­five years ago. It was Christmas night, and snow was falling like moonlit glitter, and their paths were forever altered the moment they kissed. She vividly remembers praying that he felt the same sparks and promising God that she would never ask Him for anything else if this perfect man could just fall in love with her.

  He wasn’t perfect, of course. But she didn’t notice or care. If someone had time traveled back to that moment from the future to assure her that she would wear Jake Mundy’s wedding ring and bear his children and share his bed for the rest of her life, she’d have been ecstatic.

  And if that same someone had told her that one day she’d resent that Jake snores and doesn’t know how to cook, that he whistles in the shower and considers khaki and gray compatible clothing colors, that she would eventually—­even just fleetingly—­find someone else more attractive and appealing . . .

  She’d have said that was impossible.

  Even now that it’s actually happened, that last part seems impossible.

  Beneath the shelter of the octagonal wooden roof, she pushes away her first-­date memories of Jake on a sickening tide of remorse. Again, she focuses on her phone.

  She is, indeed, now Facebook friends with Rick Walker.

  Now that she’s been granted access to his private profile page, she can see that he’s not prone to frequent updates and when he does post something, it’s nothing particularly relevant: photos of meals and sunsets and a few shared cartoons and articles about golf courses—­did Rick even golf? Is this the wrong man?

  Even as she wonders whether she’s befriended some random stranger, she clicks on his private photo album and suddenly there he is: the man she used to know. He’s wearing a dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a tie, standing between a pair of middle-­aged women, neither of them Vanessa. He has more wrinkles and less hair, but the grin is familiar.

  She’s so taken aback at the sight of him that she doesn’t immediately realize that she also has a new private message—­from him.

  Rowan, wow, what a surprise. Thanks for finding me here. I actually found your profile last year when I first got on Facebook but I didn’t know if I should send you a friend request. I’m glad you made the first move. You look great in your pictures and I’m happy to see that you and Jake are still together and the kids seem to be doing well. I’m working in Manhattan and living in New Jersey, single and dating, with an empty nest. I’d love to connect in person sometime so let me know if you’re ever in New York.

  Shaken by the casual words, and by his admission that he’s single and dating, she reads the message several times, searching for hidden meaning.

  Wow, what a surprise . . .

  I’m glad you made the first move . . .

  I’m happy to see that you and Jake are still together . . .

  One moment those phrases seem to resonate irony; the next sincerity.

  Either he sent the package and he’s baiting her, or he’s utterly oblivious—­in which case, he needs to be told. But not, she decides, in writing.

  I’m going to be in New York this weekend, she types back quickly. Can we get together for coffee?

  Thinking better of it, she stands with her thumb poised over the Send button, thoughts flying through the scenario.

  Jake doesn’t have to know she’s going to New York. She’ll tell him she’s going to have lunch with her sister.

  Then again—­what if Noreen happens to call?

  Asking her sister to cover for her is out of the question.

  She’ll just have to tell Jake she’s going to spend the day Christmas shopping.

  But—­the same excuse? Is it getting tired?

  No—­she knows he won’t question her. She and Katie have spent plenty of Saturdays from dawn to dusk at the Woodbury Common Outlet Mall down in Central Valley, well over an hour away. She hasn’t had the heart to go back there since her daughter left for college, but with the holidays looming, she’d probably have gone alone sooner or later.

  But lying to her husband . . . is that a good idea?

  Of course not. It’s a terrible idea.

  But what choice do you have?

  The truth: that’s her choice. Maybe she should just tell Jake that she’s going to the city for the day tomorrow. Leaving out the part about meeting Rick would make her guilty of omission, but not a lie.

  That’s the kind of reasoning Rowan might have used in her troubled youth when her undiagnosed disability left her frequently suffering the consequences of her impulsive tendencies. Time and again, she disappointed the parents who loved and trusted her.

  “Don’t you let her down,” her ravaged father told her the day she made her deathbed promise to her mother.

  “I won’t, Daddy. I promise. I’ll make her proud, and you, too.”

  She could see the doubt in his green eyes and spent years trying to erase it. She isn’t convinced she ever fully did.

  But Jake . . .

  Jake never once looked at her that way. Unlike Mom and Dad, he never knew her as a truth-­bending opportunist.

  If she tells him she’s going to the city, he won’t ask questions. He might want to come with her, though. When they were living in Westchester, they made an annual excursion to see the store windows on Fifth Avenue and the tree at Rockefeller Center. The kids were little and the crowds were overwhelming and it probably was never as much fun as it was supposed to be, but Rowan has fond memories of the city at Christmas and she knows Jake does, too. She can imagine him saying, We’ll both go, and Mick can come, too. Maybe we can grab Knicks tickets . . .

  No. No, that won’t work. Maybe she should just forget about seeing Rick Walker in person. Maybe she should just write back right now and ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing, tracking her down and sending an anonymous package.

  As she stands weighing her options, her phone rings in her hand, startling her. Her thumb comes down on the Send button and the message she was just deciding to delete goes zinging out into cyberspace.

  Ten minutes later, back in the bleachers, she sneaks a peek at her account and finds a reply.

  I’d love to see you! I’m free all day tomorrow. Name the time and place.

  Okay. So there it is. She’s going, which means she’s lying.

  Reminding herself that it’s for Jake’s own good, she watches the rest of the game grimly and is relieved when he doesn’t show up after all.

  She’s in bed when he gets home, pret
ending to be asleep.

  Another lie, on the heels of the note she left for him on the kitchen counter: Going shopping first thing in the a.m., probably won’t be back till dinner.

  Old habits . . .

  Dammit.

  But it’ll be the last lie ever, she promises herself as her husband begins to snore peacefully beside her.

  Saturday dawns damp and dreary, perfect for staying in bed. That’s where Jake and Mick are when Rowan leaves the house after too little sleep and too little coffee. Extra caffeine would only make her even more nervous, if that’s possible.

  In the large master bathroom—­which had been a sleeping porch before she and Jake renovated the house—­she dresses in jeans, boots, and a black turtleneck. After surveying her reflection, she pulls a gray cardigan over the turtleneck. No need to display her curves. Then she decides that the cardigan isn’t flattering and swaps both sweaters for a blouse and blazer. Unbuttoning the top two buttons, she glimpses cleavage and hastily buttons both. Now she looks like a prim schoolmarm. She settles on just the top button open: casually comfortable.

  The hair and makeup are just as befuddling. Letting it hang in loose blondish waves is potentially sexy, which she doesn’t want, yet now that it’s shoulder-­length, a pony­tail is too stubby and severe. Her lashes and thin lips tend to disappear without cosmetic enhancement, but the liner and lipstick she wears on a daily basis suddenly seem suggestive. She doesn’t want him getting ideas.

  Oh, come on.

  He probably already has ideas, unless he really is the one who sent the package, in which case he’s all but summoned her presence this morning. But if he’s expecting a walk on the shady side of memory lane, he’s in for an unpleasant surprise.