Her Last Letter Part 3

"No."

"Now you listen to me, and you believe me when I say this. You are special, really special. He's a lucky guy and he knows it. As for the money, sure, maybe he did feel like he'd won the lottery. Couldn't hurt, right? But that's not why he married you. The guy loves you. Anyone can see that. I don't know where you come up with this stuff."

I smiled, truly relieved. "Thanks, Care."

"Don't mention it."

When I returned home I quickly carved a pumpkin, a happy though toothless one, for my little guests. Ghosts and witches appeared in noisy groups, along with rock stars and dragons and winged fairies. Trevor walked in the front door a little after eight o'clock, just as one of the last groups of children scampered down the front steps. He smiled at me and shook his head. "Looks like I missed everything."

"We might get a few more. You look tired."

"I am. I don't think that couple even knew it was Halloween, and I doubt if they cared. They don't have children. But the papers are signed and it's pretty much a done deal. I was hoping to get home a little earlier though."

"I understand."

Trevor picked a Hershey bar from the candy bowl, stripped off the wrapper and took a bite.

I chose a Tootsie Pop. "There's an art show I probably should see this weekend."

"Where?"

"In Aspen."

"Oh," he said, "you know, that's a great idea. I need some new skis, and you could use some too. The mountain will be opening in a couple of weeks and this way we'll be ready. Do you just want to spend the day?"

"Sure-if we leave early."

"Well, we'll leave by eight and get there around nine. How's that?"

"That would work."

"We'll stay and have dinner. I'll make a reservation tomorrow. Anywhere special?"

"No. You decide."

"Feeling tired tonight?" he asked, draping his arm around my shoulders.

"Yeah, I sort of am."

"You sure?"

"I'm sorry, honey. I'm absolutely beat. I worked hard all day and nothing came together. Frustrating." I didn't mention my visit with Caroline, for no particular reason. I just didn't feel like sharing it with him.

"Okay," he said, "then tomorrow for sure."

Chapter 3.

I stood in my darkroom facing a row of polyethylene amber bottles, the soft glow of the safelight illuminating the tray in front of me. Carefully, I agitated the latest eight-by-ten in the solution, watching the image develop before my eyes, like a ghost coming out of hiding. This black and white photograph was from my most recent shoot. I'd trekked high above the canyon and taken several mountain scenery shots. Now I hoped they would turn out as good as when I'd aimed the camera. As I watched, the photo became clearer, the mountain stream seeming to gurgle as it swirled around sunlit rocks, while stately fir trees created the necessary shadows needed to camouflage the sleepy bear I planned to insert there, taking a long cool drink.

As I hung the photo to dry, the phone rang out in the studio. I listened as the answering machine clicked on, but didn't recognize the caller, a woman. Hungry and curious, I finished up and left the darkroom, then pressed the message b.u.t.ton.

"Hope I have the right number. The writing in this old address book is a little smudged. I'm calling for Gwyn Sanders who has the house on Stockard road next to mine. I noticed last night that some kids were over there, the lights were off; that's why I'm calling. They threw some toilet paper into the trees and bushes, and were throwing something at the house. I hope they didn't do any damage. I would have shooed them off, but they were the bigger kids that come later on Halloween so I didn't want to go there. I was just about to call the police when they took off. Someone s.h.i.+ned their headlights on them and I think it scared them so I-"

The answering machine cut her off at that point. I quickly flipped through my own address book and found the number for Louise Carmichael.

She picked up on the first ring.

"Mrs. Carmichael," I said, "I just got your message. It's Gwyn Sanders."

"Oh, I'm so glad. I wasn't certain I dialed it right and I guess you're not listed."

"No. I'm coming over there in a little while, so if you see a red Jeep in the drive you'll know it's me. Does the house look okay in the daylight, or did you look?"

"Oh, I looked. Tissue in the trees, but no broken windows, not that I can see from here anyway. I should have called the cops, but I didn't notice anything right away, and being it was Halloween ... well, I ... but I should have called."

"You said the lights weren't on?"

"No, not all night. It's the first time I've noticed it, though it could have been like that the night before. I went to bed early and slept through for a change, so I wouldn't have noticed anything. Before that everything's been fine, though I'm not checking all the time. I usually watch TV in the evenings."

"Well, I'll see what's up with the lights and make sure they go on tonight."

"I doubt if those kids will be back, but if they are I'll definitely call the cops on them this time. Have you thought about renting the place at all? There must be lots of young couples that would like to live in a house as nice as that. But maybe that can be its own problem too. It's none of my business anyway."

"My sister and I will probably make some arrangements one of these days. I'm sorry about all this."

"Oh, it doesn't hurt me. Kids are kids. They probably didn't mean any harm anyway."

I fixed myself a tuna sandwich and a Thermos of coffee, then left for the old house. I should have guessed that something might happen last night. The house, empty for so long, made an easy target for neighborhood children. And on Halloween night, with all the lights out-what kid could resist? If I'd been completely sober when I left the bar, I might have thought to swing by, though I wouldn't have noticed if the lights were off then. It was still daylight.

I waved as I climbed out of my Jeep, knowing Louise Carmichael was probably watching, though I couldn't tell from where I stood. Sunlight reflected off her windowpanes into my eyes. Toilet paper streamers fluttered like tiny white flags from the trees, and on closer inspection I saw what appeared to be human excrement on one of the windows.

Everything inside the house looked okay though, so I walked directly to the timer on the floor in the living room. It was unplugged. I knelt and plugged it in, then pulled it out again. Though not a snug fit, it couldn't have come out on its own. I checked the windows and doors on the first floor and all were secure. I walked back from the kitchen to the living room and glanced at the mantel over the fireplace, then stopped. Something looked wrong. Then I noticed one of the framed pictures face down on the wood floor. I knew immediately whose picture it held. I walked over and picked it up. The gla.s.s was shattered, but jagged pieces still lay tightly in the corners of the frame. Kelly's smiling face stared out. All of the rest of the family photos had s.h.i.+fted slightly from their dusty arrangement.

I sank down in my father's oversized chair and held the frame with both hands, gripping it as I wished I could grip my sister, the tension and frustration I'd suffered over the past few days suddenly boiling up and over the top. "Tell me what happened, Kelly. And don't you lie to me. Do you understand? I need to know what you did." I shook the frame for emphasis, staring into her unblinking eyes, willing her to talk back. When, of course, she didn't, I dropped the frame into my lap and laid my head back, exhausted.

A full hour had pa.s.sed by the time I realized I'd fallen asleep. I sat up, cursing myself softly, then stopped halfway out of the chair. Something skittered across the kitchen floor past the open archway, then instantly backtracked across the linoleum. The intruder revealed....

I crept to the front door and opened it wide, peeked into the kitchen, then stepped slowly to the broom closet and took out the broom. But the squirrel, tail twitching, seemed wise to my plan and streaked across my shoes into the living room, then frantically tried to jump past the fireplace grate and up the chimney.

I moved closer, reached out with the broom, tried to poke at it gently. My hope was to change its course of direction while gingerly staying out of its way. Those claws could do more than climb curtains and break pictures.

It scurried back and forth, each time missing the open doorway and trying the chimney. Finally, I opened the back door off the kitchen, and like lightening ... it bolted.

I closed both doors, then crossed my arms over my stomach and laughed. After a few minutes, I walked out to the garage and found a tall ladder for the trees, then filled a pail with soapy water for the window cleaning.

"So now I have to find someone to put screening over the chimney so no more squirrels find their way into the house." I turned toward Trevor, who was in the driver's seat of the Cadillac, cruising down Highway 82.

"You're right, with the weather turning colder, they'll all be looking for a warm place to stay."

I chuckled. "The little guy yanked out the plug to the timer with all that running back and forth trying to find a way out. I'm sure that's what happened. But it might have starved to death if it didn't. I probably wouldn't have gone back over there for a while." This wasn't exactly true, of course. I don't think Trevor realized how often I actually did visit the house.

I glanced at the clock on the dashboard and saw it was a quarter to nine. In another fifteen minutes we would be in Aspen.

"How do you want to work this?" he asked. "Do you want to go with me and look for the skis first, or should I come with you to the art thing?"

I knew by the way he said "art thing" that he wasn't interested in joining me, and I'd counted on that reaction.

"No, you don't have to go to the art fair. You'll be bored after a while, and I know you're anxious to look for the skis. Let's meet somewhere if you want, for lunch, see what we've accomplished."

"Okay, leave your cell phone on and I'll get in touch."

I nodded.

Trevor dropped me off a block from the fair, situated between Galena and Mill Street in the open air Aspen Mall. Because of the crowds, he'd park the car farther out, then walk back in.

I was in a better mood as soon as I joined the people filling the streets. Obviously, the event was going well, and I looked forward to losing myself for a while admiring the work of local artists and those more renowned. I loved Aspen. Though it had changed over the years and become a playground and haven for the super rich, it had still retained its charm. The Elk Mountains, the majestic backdrop for it all, inspired awe and also a sense of serenity. Standing in this valley town, surrounded by mountains on all sides, you felt protected and yet aware of how small and fragile you actually were, how insignificant your existence in the overall scheme of things. These wise old mountains pa.s.sively watched as centuries slipped by, looked on as we humans triumphed and failed, loved and hated. They didn't take sides and they didn't judge. And with any luck, they'd still be around when the sun sputtered and blinked out forever.

As I stood on the sidewalk, the sun slid from behind a bank of clouds and poured over the street. Colorful tents dotted the mall, protection in the event of bad weather, though a majority of the artists had ignored the risks and displayed their work out in the open.

I'd dressed casually in a lightweight ski jacket, jeans, and comfortable hiking boots, knowing I would be on my feet for most of the day. If I found artwork that particularly interested me, I planned to buy it and take it with me, or have it delivered later. I could have displayed my own paintings here, but with the show coming up next weekend, it would have been too much.

I decided to walk the length of the fair and determine its scope before concentrating on any one artist. And though I tried to convince myself that I wasn't looking for anyone in particular, I did study the faces of everyone who pa.s.sed me on the street, knowing Josh would look a little different now without the beard.

I traveled down Mill to Cooper, back to Mill and over to Hyman, then back to Mill. I saw several places I would have liked to stop, some sculpture I admired, some beautiful pottery, some oils and watercolors bordering on unbelievable, but rushed by them all.

Finally, I came to a halt, pedestrians pa.s.sing by me on both sides. Chances are I wouldn't find Josh like this anyway, running back and forth like a mouse caught in a maze, so I might as well stop and focus on the art. Josh would probably call anyway. After all, he'd asked Caroline for my number.

I walked through a tent displaying the portraits of Jean LaRoche, luxuriant oils already catching the attention of the larger art world, and the artist was only twenty-two. This young man was definitely going somewhere. The price of his work would probably shoot up in the near future, and I wanted to own at least one. Jean LaRoche himself was not present at the art fair, and that added to the mystique, but he could afford to be elusive.

I stood before a LaRoche I'd seen in a flyer that had been sent with the information I'd received advertising the art fair. No prices appeared on the painting itself. The portrait was of a small boy, dark-skinned, no more than two years old, and naked. His hands pulled at some weed in the dry earth, and I could tell somehow that he was hungry, though his body didn't appear to be starved. It was completely lifelike. I could almost feel his struggle, and it touched me. I decided to buy it.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," said the pierced-eared young man in charge, "but we already have a buyer. I was just about to place a sold sign on it."

My shoulders slumped. I'd already imagined myself hanging the painting in my studio, proud to finally own such an extraordinary LaRoche.

"Well, what are the odds?"

I swiftly turned around, recognizing the voice in an instant. "Josh," I exclaimed, wanting to hug him, but knowing I no longer had the right.

He was dressed in a sport coat, his s.h.i.+rt open at the collar, looking handsome and cultured and younger than I remembered, though he was a few months older than I was. His blond hair seemed lighter, bleached, I supposed, by all that California sun, and his face was clean-shaven as Caroline had mentioned. I studied the square jaw line and chin that had matured since I'd known him as a child, and the playful brown eyes that smiled back at me now.

"I should have known you'd want it too," he said, nodding toward the painting I'd just tried to purchase.

I shook my head. "I did, but at least I know it sold to someone who will treasure it as much as I would have. Caroline told me she saw you here. How are you, Josh?"

"Not bad." He rubbed his chin, his smile sincere.

"You shaved your beard."

"I did. A mistake or an improvement?"

"Not a mistake, but the beard was good too."

"It made me look older, and I'm old enough now that I can afford to look younger, if that makes any sense."

I laughed. "It does."

He began to stroll down the aisle, and I followed alongside him. It felt so natural to be there, as if it hadn't been two years since I'd seen him last. "So, how's your business?"

"Good, considering the economy. Actually, I have more work than I need, pays to specialize I guess. But what I really need is a vacation, so that's why I'm here. I decided to come down and visit some of my old friends, see the relatives."

"How are they? How's your mother?"

"Better ... now. Mom had a stroke a few months ago, and we were very worried, but she's doing okay. She'll make a full recovery. Fortunately, my sister recognized the symptoms, got her over to the hospital right away. They were able to give her a clot-busting drug before any major damage was done."

"Thank G.o.d."

"Yes."

He stopped to point at another LaRoche, a pregnant young woman staking a tomato plant in an urban garden. "I like this one too," he said, "probably less expensive than the other one, though I could be wrong. What do you think?"

"It's wonderful. They all are."

He nodded at me and we walked on.

We left the tent and for the next two hours slowly meandered through the mall. It was enough just to be near him again, talking, laughing. I carefully avoided any subject too personal, and so did he. Instead, we simply enjoyed each other's company, comparing notes on the artists' talents.

Finally, he looked at his watch and then at me. "I'm hungry," he said. "Can I buy you lunch?"

I couldn't refuse. I just couldn't. If I did, I knew he would take it as his cue to leave, and I didn't want him to. I didn't want this happy feeling to end. Josh had forgiven me. Josh didn't hate me anymore. Josh still cared about me. I didn't deserve it, but he did. I could tell by the way he placed his hand lightly under my elbow as we walked along, by the way he wouldn't leave my side when I stopped briefly to unzip my jacket. And I could feel him watching me when I turned to examine a piece of pottery, or trace my fingers along the edge of a frame. How entirely ridiculous to think he could have ever been with my sister. From the time Josh and I were small, I'd known that I occupied a very special place in his heart. He could never betray me. Josh could never hurt anyone.

He decided on a cafe a good two blocks from the mall. We still had to wait in line, but the time zipped by. Once we were given a seat and had ordered, I excused myself and found the restroom, then hurriedly checked the messages on my phone. I'd discreetly turned down the volume so that it wouldn't ring, knowing I'd make my excuses later. And, of course, Trevor had called-twice-and the familiar trust in his voice made me feel even more guilty. I dialed his cell phone from inside the bathroom stall.

"So why didn't you call back?" he asked, his annoyance coming through loud and clear.

"I'm sorry. I didn't hear it ring. I guess the volume was down or something. I just checked."

"Well, I need a break so why don't we meet over at the Chalet, unless you have a better idea."

"Now?"