Page 80 of Yes No Maybe

“Tell me about the fellow officer.”

“Rick… Richard Warren Linkous, the third, to be precise.” Her eyes plead with mine. “I don’t tell people this story.”

“I’m not people.”

She glances at the butterfly house, where a family spills out from the double-doored exit. A smile crosses her lips watching Sara through the screened windows, arms laced with resting butterflies and Vernon snapping pictures.

“They’ve adopted each other,” she says. “At least Sara’s scored pseudo-grandparents out of this.”

“She’s scored more than that.”

She turns to me. “Can we go somewhere else?”

We stroll side by side like any other couple,almost. We’re missing the absent-minded hand-holding and automatic touches others naturally drift to. We aren’t there yet. But for the first time in my life, I want that. Someday.

We pass heavy-laden strollers, parents carrying backpacks, and toddlers stopping to examine every leaf, bug, or flower petal on the path. Ready to spill her story, she looks bothered by revealing something wicked in such a lovely place.

I get it. The setting is wrong. Not that there’s a right place for this.

On the opposite side of Airlie, a small church and graveyard bridges the gap to the final garden—well-shaded with fountains, elaborate oaks drenched in Spanish moss, and a circular walkway covered so well in vines that it’s ten degrees cooler inside and almost dark.

She leads me through the vine-covered walkway to a secluded bench. A cocoon of greenery-wrapped columns serves as a cool, dim stage. It smells like dew and honeysuckle. Sitting, she glances around as if worried her story might wilt the white petals and turn the air sour.

“How did you know it wasn’t the true story?” she asks.

I lean forward, elbows to knees, and smirk lightly. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Yeah, so I’ve been told. Mira’s put it on repeat since Grandpa Ro confronted us about pilfering his whiskey at fifteen, and I couldn’t lie. At least my students buy it… or pretend to.”

We fall into an awkward silence as she fidgets with her scarf.

“Let’s make a pact,” I say, “This is a safe place. Ours and no one else’s. No matter what’s said. No matter what happens. When we leave, we leave it all here, too. We never have to talk about it again if that’s what you want.”

She laughs a little. “What happens in Airlie, stays in Airlie?”

“If it helps… You never have to be afraid to tell me anything, you know.”

“I know.”

I nod and say, “Richard Warren Linkous, the third.”

“Mom dated him. He seemed nice enough, but a few months in, she broke it off. It was an amicable parting to hear her tell it. We were moving again soon, and, I don’t know, she didn’t want any complications. After my deadbeat father and having a daughter in the house, Mom always kept men at a distance. After Richard, she didn’t date at all. That’s why she stopped believing in love. She still doesn’t date. That makes me sad.”

She straightens the rumpled fabric of her dress around her thighs and twiddles her fingers. “So, that day. A Friday. Home from school. Hungry. Mom coming home soon. The doorbell rings, and it’s him.”

Her eyes shut tightly, and I imagine her memories flooding back, his face permanently branded there.

“He was the kind of guy you wouldn’t look twice at—in the park watching his kids play or in Home Depot buying caulk. He was disturbingly normal. But you never know what’s going on under the surface.”

“What happened?”

“He asked for Mom. I said she wasn’t home. I heard the water boiling over and hitting the burner. So, I spouted off a quickI’ll let her know you stopped bybefore closing the door and rushing to the kitchen.”

Her hands are shaking now, so she tucks them under her legs, and rocks back and forth. “I missed every sign of trouble, did everything wrong—it all happened so fast.”

“How could you have known?” I ask softly.

“The alcohol on his breath. His flushed, bothered face. Jittery hands. Me vaguely remembering then that they’d broken up weeks before. And… that he must’ve blocked the door from closing.”

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