Wayward
Page 17
He leaned down, kissed her forehead. “I’m not going to the hospital. Drop it. You look beautiful. What’s the story?”
“There has to be a story if I look beautiful?”
“You know what I mean.”
“You forgot.”
“Entirely possible. It’s been a crazy couple of days. What’d I forget?”
“We have dinner at the Fishers’.”
“That’s tonight?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
For a moment, she thought he might say they weren’t going. That they would just cancel. Could he do that? Did he have that power?
“All right. Let me get out of these nasty clothes, and I’ll be back down in five.”
Theresa had spoken to Mrs. Fisher two weeks ago at the Saturday morning farmers’ market—a friendly exchange after they’d both reached for the same cucumber.
Then one evening last week, the Burkes’ phone had rung. The voice on the other end introduced herself as Megan Fisher. She wanted to invite Ethan and Theresa over for dinner on Thursday the week following. Could they join?
Of course, Theresa knew that Megan hadn’t woken up that morning with a burning desire to make new friends. Megan had gotten a letter in the mail suggesting that she reach out to the Burkes. Theresa had received her share of similar letters, and she figured that on some level, it made sense. Considering the prohibition on real human contact, she would never take it upon herself to initiate get-togethers with her neighbors. It was all too strained and strange.
So much easier to just disappear into your own private world.
Theresa and Ethan walked down the middle of the street holding hands, Theresa clutching a loaf of bread in her right arm that was still warm from the oven.
With Ben at home, it felt like she and Ethan had snuck out for a date night.
The lush coolness of evening had settled into the valley. They were running a little late. Already a few minutes past seven. Dinner with Hecter had begun, the velvet beauty of his piano creeping through every open window.
“Do you remember what Mr. Fisher does?” Theresa asked.
“He’s a lawyer. His wife’s a teacher. Ben’s teacher.”
Of course Theresa knew she was Ben’s teacher, but she wished Ethan hadn’t mentioned it. The school was a strange place. Education in Pines was compulsory from age four to fifteen, and the curriculum was a mystery. She had no idea what her son was learning there. Kids never had homework and were forbidden from discussing what they learned with anyone, including their parents. Ben never shared, and she knew better than to pry. The only time they were allowed a window into that world was the end-of-year play. It happened in June, and around Wayward Pines, the celebration rivaled Christmas and Thanksgiving. Three years ago, a fête had been called on a parent who forced his way into the school. She wondered how much Ethan knew.
“What kind of law does Mr. Fisher practice?” Theresa knew it was a stupid question. All likelihood, Mr. Fisher sat in a silent, rarely visited, rarely called office all day just like she did.
“Not sure,” Ethan said. “We’ll have to put that on our list of things to talk about.” He squeezed her hand. It was sarcasm in her husband’s voice. No one else would have picked it up, but to her it was biting. She looked up at him, smiled. Something shared and knowing in his eyes. The intimacy of an inside joke.
It was the closest she’d felt to him since his return.
She could envision a lifetime spent trying to create such flashes of connection.
The Fishers lived in a cozy house at the northern edge of town.
Megan Fisher opened the door before Ethan even had a chance to knock. She was midtwenties and very pretty in a white dress with lacing along the bottom. The brown headband that kept her hair back was the same color as her tanned, freckled shoulders.
Her smile reminded Theresa of a movie star smile—toothy and wide, and if you stared too hard at it, not quite real.
“Welcome to our home, Theresa and Ethan! We’re so thrilled you could make it!”
“Thanks for having us,” Ethan said.
Theresa presented the bread wrapped in cloth.
Megan cocked her head disapprovingly. “Now, I told you not to bring a thing.” She accepted it nonetheless. “Oh, it’s still warm!”
“Fresh out of the oven.”
“Please come in.”
Theresa reached up and swiped Ethan’s cowboy hat.
“I can take that,” Megan said.
The house smelled like supper, and supper smelled good. The heat coming out of the kitchen brought with it chicken roasting with garlic and potatoes.
Brad Fisher was in the dining room, arranging the last of four place settings at an elaborately candled table.
He walked into the foyer with a smile and a hand outstretched. Two or three years older than his wife and still wearing—Theresa guessed—his work clothes. Black wingtips, gray slacks, a tieless white oxford with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. He looked like a young lawyer, exuding a streak of hard, scrappy intelligence.
Ethan shook his hand.
“Sheriff, great to have you in our home.”
“Great to be here.”
“Hello, Mrs. Burke.”
“Please. Theresa.”
Megan said, “I’ve got a couple things to finish up before we sit down. Theresa, want to help me in the kitchen? Perhaps the guys can enjoy a beverage on the back porch.”
Theresa washed a bag of salad greens. Through the window over the sink, she could see Ethan and Brad standing out in the grass with glasses of whiskey. She couldn’t tell if they were actually talking. The yard was fenced. It backed right up against a cliff that soared over a thousand feet in a series of dwindling, pine-studded ledges.
“Megan, you have a beautiful home,” Theresa said.
“Thank you. You’re too kind.”
“I believe you’re teaching my son this year.” She didn’t mean to say it. The words just came. It could’ve been an awkward moment, but Megan recovered graciously.
“I sure am. Ben’s a lovely boy. One of my best.”
And offered nothing else.
Their conversation moved in fits and starts.
Theresa sliced a warm beet into livid-purple medallions.
“Where do you want these?” she asked.
“Right here would be great.”
Megan held out a wooden bowl and Theresa scooped in two handfuls. She thought beets smelled like dirt in a weirdly pleasing way.
“There has to be a story if I look beautiful?”
“You know what I mean.”
“You forgot.”
“Entirely possible. It’s been a crazy couple of days. What’d I forget?”
“We have dinner at the Fishers’.”
“That’s tonight?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
For a moment, she thought he might say they weren’t going. That they would just cancel. Could he do that? Did he have that power?
“All right. Let me get out of these nasty clothes, and I’ll be back down in five.”
Theresa had spoken to Mrs. Fisher two weeks ago at the Saturday morning farmers’ market—a friendly exchange after they’d both reached for the same cucumber.
Then one evening last week, the Burkes’ phone had rung. The voice on the other end introduced herself as Megan Fisher. She wanted to invite Ethan and Theresa over for dinner on Thursday the week following. Could they join?
Of course, Theresa knew that Megan hadn’t woken up that morning with a burning desire to make new friends. Megan had gotten a letter in the mail suggesting that she reach out to the Burkes. Theresa had received her share of similar letters, and she figured that on some level, it made sense. Considering the prohibition on real human contact, she would never take it upon herself to initiate get-togethers with her neighbors. It was all too strained and strange.
So much easier to just disappear into your own private world.
Theresa and Ethan walked down the middle of the street holding hands, Theresa clutching a loaf of bread in her right arm that was still warm from the oven.
With Ben at home, it felt like she and Ethan had snuck out for a date night.
The lush coolness of evening had settled into the valley. They were running a little late. Already a few minutes past seven. Dinner with Hecter had begun, the velvet beauty of his piano creeping through every open window.
“Do you remember what Mr. Fisher does?” Theresa asked.
“He’s a lawyer. His wife’s a teacher. Ben’s teacher.”
Of course Theresa knew she was Ben’s teacher, but she wished Ethan hadn’t mentioned it. The school was a strange place. Education in Pines was compulsory from age four to fifteen, and the curriculum was a mystery. She had no idea what her son was learning there. Kids never had homework and were forbidden from discussing what they learned with anyone, including their parents. Ben never shared, and she knew better than to pry. The only time they were allowed a window into that world was the end-of-year play. It happened in June, and around Wayward Pines, the celebration rivaled Christmas and Thanksgiving. Three years ago, a fête had been called on a parent who forced his way into the school. She wondered how much Ethan knew.
“What kind of law does Mr. Fisher practice?” Theresa knew it was a stupid question. All likelihood, Mr. Fisher sat in a silent, rarely visited, rarely called office all day just like she did.
“Not sure,” Ethan said. “We’ll have to put that on our list of things to talk about.” He squeezed her hand. It was sarcasm in her husband’s voice. No one else would have picked it up, but to her it was biting. She looked up at him, smiled. Something shared and knowing in his eyes. The intimacy of an inside joke.
It was the closest she’d felt to him since his return.
She could envision a lifetime spent trying to create such flashes of connection.
The Fishers lived in a cozy house at the northern edge of town.
Megan Fisher opened the door before Ethan even had a chance to knock. She was midtwenties and very pretty in a white dress with lacing along the bottom. The brown headband that kept her hair back was the same color as her tanned, freckled shoulders.
Her smile reminded Theresa of a movie star smile—toothy and wide, and if you stared too hard at it, not quite real.
“Welcome to our home, Theresa and Ethan! We’re so thrilled you could make it!”
“Thanks for having us,” Ethan said.
Theresa presented the bread wrapped in cloth.
Megan cocked her head disapprovingly. “Now, I told you not to bring a thing.” She accepted it nonetheless. “Oh, it’s still warm!”
“Fresh out of the oven.”
“Please come in.”
Theresa reached up and swiped Ethan’s cowboy hat.
“I can take that,” Megan said.
The house smelled like supper, and supper smelled good. The heat coming out of the kitchen brought with it chicken roasting with garlic and potatoes.
Brad Fisher was in the dining room, arranging the last of four place settings at an elaborately candled table.
He walked into the foyer with a smile and a hand outstretched. Two or three years older than his wife and still wearing—Theresa guessed—his work clothes. Black wingtips, gray slacks, a tieless white oxford with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. He looked like a young lawyer, exuding a streak of hard, scrappy intelligence.
Ethan shook his hand.
“Sheriff, great to have you in our home.”
“Great to be here.”
“Hello, Mrs. Burke.”
“Please. Theresa.”
Megan said, “I’ve got a couple things to finish up before we sit down. Theresa, want to help me in the kitchen? Perhaps the guys can enjoy a beverage on the back porch.”
Theresa washed a bag of salad greens. Through the window over the sink, she could see Ethan and Brad standing out in the grass with glasses of whiskey. She couldn’t tell if they were actually talking. The yard was fenced. It backed right up against a cliff that soared over a thousand feet in a series of dwindling, pine-studded ledges.
“Megan, you have a beautiful home,” Theresa said.
“Thank you. You’re too kind.”
“I believe you’re teaching my son this year.” She didn’t mean to say it. The words just came. It could’ve been an awkward moment, but Megan recovered graciously.
“I sure am. Ben’s a lovely boy. One of my best.”
And offered nothing else.
Their conversation moved in fits and starts.
Theresa sliced a warm beet into livid-purple medallions.
“Where do you want these?” she asked.
“Right here would be great.”
Megan held out a wooden bowl and Theresa scooped in two handfuls. She thought beets smelled like dirt in a weirdly pleasing way.
