Page 105 of Married With Lies

The forecast has promised rain will fall later today. Judging by the drab clouds meeting in the sky, it’s a safe bet that the day will soon turn wet and dreary. This gives me an excuse to switch to turbo mode in order to get all the chores complete. We’re light on help today with only a single volunteer who soon needs to leave to pick up her kids.

It's after three p.m. and I’m in the middle of leading Wylie around the paddock for some exercise when the first drops fall from the sky.

“Sorry, buddy.” I rub his nose. “We’ve got to head back.”

He snorts an objection and initially stands firm but then follows willingly. He playfully nudges my shoulder when I return him to his stall and I feed him a pair of carrots before moving on. In the months since he arrived at Bright Hearts, Wylie has become far more pleasant. Much like Edgar Allen Poe after Gus adopted him.

This, naturally, leads to thoughts of Cale. The day he showed up at the front gate he was all bloody and full of bad attitude. The matched everything I thought I knew about him already. Yet two weeks later when he left, my opinion had changed and I was quite sorry to see him go.

Maybe the lesson is that everyone has layers. Wylie the horse. Edgar Allen Poe. Cale Connelly.

Even me.

Falling for Cale has made me realize I’m not uncomplicated either. I can be adventurous and daring and sexy.

Outside the barn, lightning flashes amid a not-so-distant bellow of thunder. With a shudder, I rub my arms and stand at the barn’s threshold, looking up at the sky. Apparently I’m not adventurous enough to relish thunderstorms.

“SAY-DEEEE!” Peggy sometimes stands in front of the house and hollers my name like a mother calling her child to dinner.

But I’m happy to have an excuse to run out of the rain and into Peggy’s cozy kitchen. It looks like a colorful witch’s den with clusters of herbs cut from the garden and then hung up to dry. A cast iron stock pot bubbles on the tiny stove. Multiple flickering candles are particularly effective thanks to the grim weather outside the window.

On the table, Peggy’s mismatched dishware contains bowls of clam chowder alongside plates of buttermilk biscuits. The cats have already gathered, their tails twitching, to watch with jealousy as I take my seat at the table.

“What a treat.” I stir my spoon and inhale the aroma of excellent food. “Usually you only make your clam chowder recipe in autumn and winter.”

Peggy uses a crocheted potholder to place the lid back on the pot. “I had to do something to spark your appetite,” she says. “These last few weeks you’ve been wasting away.”

That’s a laugh. No one would look at me and conclude I am in any danger of ‘wasting away’. But I’m not one to be ungrateful for a delicious homecooked meal.

“I’ll eat every bite,” I say to Peggy. “I promise.”

Satisfied, she joins me at the table. I didn’t realize how famished I was. The food can’t get shoveled into my mouth fast enough. Soon I’m in need of another napkin so I swivel to grab a fresh one from the dispenser on the counter.

The sudden move is greeted by a low growl from the corner of the room.

“It’s okay, Tinkerbell,” I assure the dog. “That was my fault. I’ll go slower next time.”

Tinkerbell’s tail wags. She trots over to rub against my ankles. Her puppies have been weaned and are old enough for their own cozy kennel home in The Doghouse. Tinkerbell, however, has some personality quirks and doesn’t get along too well with the other dogs. People are an even bigger problem. She aggressively growls at strangers, especially men. However, she doesn’t have a problem with cats or with Peggy so Peggy has added Tinkerbell to her own household.

I’m a faster eater than Peggy. She frowns when I bus my dishes to the sink and rinse them off but doesn’t feel strongly enough to argue.

As I’m turning off the faucet, I spot an old photo on the counter. The two people inside the silver oval frame are young and smiling. Peggy’s youthful, happy face beams from a long lost decade. The young man at her side is good looking with a dimpled chin and light hair.

Strangely, sitting right beside the photo is a single cupcake with a stick candle in the middle. The wick has been burned and part of the wax has melted.

When I glance at Peggy, she’s diligently eating her chowder and shows no sign that she has noticed the way I’m inspecting the picture.

However, when I return to the table she puts her spoon down and says, “Yesterday was his birthday.”

That explains the cupcake and candle. Peggy never says much about Paul, her lost fiancé.

“I’m sure you still miss him.”

“Yes.” She lifts her eyes to mine and I catch a haunting glimpse of the young woman she was. “Paul wasn’t supposed to go out on the boat that day. He’d already taken another job at the bottle factory and we had plans to meet with the priest at the church to plan for our wedding. But my father was down a crew member and Paul filled in. There was a storm. The ship wreckage was found. The bodies were not.”

This is the most Peggy has ever about her personal history in one sitting. The clipped edges of her faint New England accent have grown stronger, as if summoned by that connection to the past.

Words feel hollow so I stand up and walk over to give her a hug. She allows it, just for a second. Then she orders me to eat a slice of peach cobbler and starts cleaning the kitchen.

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