Johanna's Secret Read online

  Chapter 8

  As I hang up the phone with Nan, I realize I haven’t talked to Cat in a few days. She isn’t online, and it occurs to me that it’s close to 1 AM in London, so I fire off a quick email to her instead. I’m curious to see what she found out about Sharpe, but don’t want her to think it’s the only reason I’m reaching out. I do miss Nan, and I’m truly excited she’ll be coming for a visit, but I miss my baby sister even more. While Nan has a feistiness to her, Cat has a sparkle. Her energy lights up a room, and she makes you feel ten years younger just by being in her presence. She is a perfect combination of daring and innocence, the kind of independent woman who is determined to change the world, yet still holds onto the hope of finding her Prince Charming. I have always considered Cat my best friend, despite our differences in age and personality. Not being able to jump in the car and go see her on a moment’s notice has been a difficult adjustment for us both.

  I’m about to sign off the computer when I see her reply:

  Hi Darling Hennie, I miss you so much. Let’s chat tomorrow online? Say around 4 PM your time? Life here is great and I’m still doing investigative work for you, never fear. Give mommy, daddy, and Nan my love.

  I am thrilled to hear back from her so soon, and secretly, happy to hear that she still misses me. I have visions of her running off to England, falling in love - with the city or a man - and never returning. It’s the kind of thing Cat would do, throw caution to the wind and start a new life. Not unlike what I’ve done here, I realize. Though not so far as to prevent me from moving back, I remind myself, making my decisions in the past few months feel less rash. My thoughts move back to Cat. Why was she on email on a Saturday night at one o’clock, I wonder. I want to make sure she’s ok, but I’ve learned not to question Cat about certain things. She has her own way of living life, and her disposition is such that she is almost always happy. Besides, I note the email was sent from her phone. Not like she’s sitting home in front of her computer on a Saturday night, I think, feeling better about my misgivings. Not like me, I chuckle to myself. But then, I came here precisely to live a quieter life for a while. Speaking of which, I haven’t had dinner and it’s now going on 8:30 PM.

  The night is cooling down. I throw on some pajama bottoms and a hoodie and walked downstairs to the kitchen. Peering into the fridge to look for some dinner options, I realize I’ve forgotten to go grocery shopping this week. Luckily I’d grabbed some vegetables at the farmer’s market and I decide to throw together a quick stir fry. It’s my go-to when I’m short on meal ideas or other ingredients. I’m not much of a TV watcher, but my brain could use a break, andI resolved to find some silly romantic comedy, veg out, eat my dinner, and unwind before bed.

  As I put my plate down on the coffee table, I can hear my phone beep. Having already talked to both Cat and Nan already, I’m tempted to ignore it unless it’s Greg - I don’t want him thinking I’m unsure about tomorrow’s dinner. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Brent’s name on my screen. Just like him to text me on a Saturday night in a covert way of seeing if I’m busy, I think. I’m suddenly filled with a frustration that I can’t place. Supposedly he and I are friends, and I haven’t even looked at the text yet, so it’s unfair of me to get mad but I can’t help it. Maybe it’s an emergency, I reason as I pick up my phone. Or maybe he’s just saying hi with no ulterior motive. As I read his text, I realize I’m frustrated with myself for hoping the text was from Greg. This is how you get hurt, I warn my heart out loud.

  I’m equally upset at myself for wanting to rush over and see what the text from Brent says, and for my wishing Greg and I had gone to dinner tonight so that I could reply to Brent tomorrow saying, “Sorry, I was out”. Yet to Brent’s credit, he hasn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t cheated on me or lie to me. He didn’t run out and get some twenty two year old playboy model girlfriend a week after we broke up, like the stories I heard from friends. We didn’t have yelling matches followed by him bringing home flowers and chocolates. I have always been thankful that there were no screaming and crying battles. But to watch a love visibly crumble in front of your eyes might be more cruel. He didn’t even carry on a charade of being happy and loving and string me along. We stayed in a familiarity for a while, and there wasn’t even much discord - just a loss of passion and excitement, a slow fading of the desire to share pieces of our lives. He didn’t pack up his things overnight and secretly creep out before sunrise. There was no “dear Jane” letter. One day at breakfast, he just simply said he didn’t feel that he loved me as much as he once did. He said it wasn’t that he didn’t want to work on it, but he didn’t want to waste my time if this wasn’t going to work. I still loved him then, but I too had to admit that things weren’t the same and hadn’t been for a while. We were close friends, but just not the loves of each other’s lives anymore. So why should I be filled with such anger at him now, eight months later, for his still trying to be friends? Hadn’t I, in my desperation to keep him in my life any way I could, promised that I wanted that too?

  I give up the fight with myself and look at the message. “ Just wanted to say I’m thinking of you and I miss you,” it reads. “Ugh!” I cry out loud. “What does that mean?” It can mean anything, and I won’t allow myself to presume. He doesn’t love me in a romantic sense, he told me so himself. Really isn’t that all that matters? I decide I won’t play games. If we’re going to be friends, then we’re going to be friends, and I’ll have none of that B.S. where he says what he doesn’t mean and I wait two days to reply so that he thinks I’m busy or uninterested. One of the things I’d fallen in love with was that he never played games. Right from the start, he told me how he felt. He told me he thought we should “air all of our dirty laundry” right at the beginning, because if there was anything about him that I wasn’t going to want to deal with, he wanted to know before we got too close and things got too painful.

  My phone beeps again. Wow, he must be really bored, or drunk, I think, though the latter was unlikely. Unlike previous men I dated, Brent isn’t a big drinker. He’ll have a beer or two on a Friday night, and we enjoyed wine with dinner occasionally, but he is a few years older than me - five to be exact - and he told me that he’d gotten that out of his system in his twenties. He said that he literally woke up on his thirtieth birthday wanting to have a different lifestyle and hadn’t looked back. I feel my eyes starting to mist. For several years, I thought that life was with me. We’d talked about the future, about getting out of the area and going someplace new to explore. Well, I guess I followed through with that, with or without you, I say to the memory.

  Begrudgingly, I look at his most recent text. It was a picture taken a few months after we’d begun seriously dating. We’d gone to a farm about forty five minutes away to pick berries, and it was the end of the season so much of the ground was covered with older, discarded pieces that nobody wanted. We ended up getting in a massive food fight and by the end of the afternoon were covered in berry stains. He probably doesn’t know it, but it was also the day I realized that I was in love with him. My friends want men who would take them out to fancy dinners and bring them flowers. I want a guy who I can completely let my guard down with, who feels so comfortable with me that we can get in a fight in a berry field and, covered in gooey mess, laugh so hard that we have to hold onto each other to stop from falling over. I look at the photo of our younger selves, so innocent of what was to come between us, so hopeful of what we might have. He must be either pulling out all the stops or really going down memory lane. Maybe he really does miss me… I stop myself. I won’t let myself analyze it, at least not consciously, and not tonight. I have to see it for what it is - a great picture that captured a wonderful moment of our past together. I look at it again and allow myself to smile. “That was a great day,” I text back. I added a smiley face so that he knows I’m being genuine.

  My phone buzzes again. “Oh come on. You’re killing me,” I say to it indignant
ly. Despite myself, I look at the message and, seeing that it’s from Greg, immediately feel silly. “Don’t want to bother you, just want to say I hope you had a good rest of the day, and make sure we are still on for dinner tomorrow.” My stomach fills with that tingly sensation that makes you feel like you’re either excited or about to be physically ill, and sometimes can’t quite figure out which. Onward and upward, I tell myself. “It was good, thanks. Got some work done and caught up with Nan. And yes, still good for dinner tomorrow.” I wonder if I should have added an exclamation point or something to show that I was indeed looking forward to it, afraid that it had sounded too formal. “God, they could teach a whole course on the psychology of digital communication,” I mutter to myself. “Great! What’s your favorite type of food?” I think for a moment. I don’t know what variety they had in town, and I don’t want to disappoint him by naming something that isn’t available. “I like just about everything. Though I’ve been eating a ton of pub food, so perhaps I should stay away from that for a few days.” “How about Thai then? There’s a great place about twenty minutes from here. Has a view of the water, overlooking the coast.” I genuinely love Thai food, and I like that he’s a bit adventurous with his cuisine. “Sounds perfect.” “I figured now that you’re confident that I’m not a murderer, a car ride would be ok?” he teases, and I laugh more loudly than I had intended. He isn’t going to let me live that down, I know. “I only have to hope my assessment is right, then,” I joke back. “Well that’s a relief! Ok, tomorrow at 7PM. I’m going to hit the sack. Have a great night.” “Good night, see you tomorrow.”

  I am surprised at how easily Greg and I communicate, both in person and in text. There seems to be a natural flow to our back and forth, a confidence that usually comes with greater familiarity. Still, I have to remind myself that both of his jobs, particularly the bartending, demand that he be approachable enough and relatively easy to talk to. He could probably talk to a brick wall, I think, then I chastise myself for being so cynical and for not just letting myself enjoy the banter we had. The downside of working in psychology - it’s tough to not bring the job home with you when the job is inside your own head.

  I turn on the TV for some distraction. The texts from Brent unnerved me a bit, but the chat with Greg reminded me that I am moving in the right direction, whatever that direction may be. My phone buzzes again. “Christ, it’s like grand central station,” I have to laugh at my annoyance. Earlier I was feeling lonely and missing my family, and here I am getting annoyed that people are texting me. Can’t have it both ways, I reminded myself. I look at my phone, and see the text is from Grace. “Have a minute to talk?” Uh oh, I think, before remembering that Grace likes the phone for talking much more than for texting, just as Nan does. “Sure, all ok?”

  My phone rings instantly. “Hi! Yes, I’m fine. The phone is just sometimes easier, but I hate to call unannounced, especially on a Saturday night.” I can hear the unspoken question in her voice. “Grace, I have three friends in this town and two of them live in your dad’s house,” I laugh. “I’m not busy at all. How are you?” We chat pleasantries for a few minutes, catching up on each others’ days. “So, did you meet up with Greg?” I know her curiosity couldn’t have held out much longer. “I did. He has a lot of interesting photos from his grandfather.” “Really? Anything good?” She genuinely sounds interested in what we’d found, so I tell her about the picture with the open door and the close up of Julienne and Edward Sharpe. I repeat what I told Nan about his grandfather’s connection to the case and Sharpe’s closeness to the family. “Wow, did you go through everything? That must have taken hours.” “Not everything. There are still a few more boxes to look through but we definitely made a dent.” “And how’s Greg?” I don’t take the bait. Grace has become a fast friend, but I still don’t know her all that well and I’m not sure I was ready to discuss my conflicting emotions with her, or anyone really. “He’s good. Enjoying having the weekend off of work.” “Have you talked to him since you saw him?” “Grace, it was just this afternoon!” I laugh. “So, no?” I hesitate. “Well, he did text to say ‘hi’ about half an hour ago.” “Good! He’d better! So what’s the verdict then?” “Well, you were right. He’s not an axe murderer.” “Oh come on, Hennie! You know what I mean!” She pauses, as if thinking. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t push. I know we haven’t known each other all that long. I just… well…. I know a person that I value when I meet them, and I want you to be happy. You said you had a bad breakup and I was excited that you may have met someone new.” I instantly regret not being more open with her. She has the best intentions and truthfully, she sounds just like my sisters. “You aren’t pushing Grace, no need to apologize. This is the stuff friends talk about. I guess it’s just been a while since I’ve had to talk about this kind of thing, and I’m having trouble getting used to it again. Greg.... seems very nice. He asked me to go to dinner tomorrow night, so we’ll see if we have more in common than the desire to dig through his grandfather’s old photos.” Secretly, I already know the answer to that.

  I toss and turned throughout the night. This time, it’s Brent and Greg that keep me from a restful sleep. It threw me for a loop when Brent brought up the old days. I always suspect him of some ulterior motive, and yet so far, I see none. Nan says that he wants to keep me close in case he decides he wants me back. She’s convinced that he doesn’t want me to forget about him or move on. Cat said that Brent is just worried I’ll analyze him and run in the other direction, but she says it in jest. Cat has always liked Brent. He treated her like a little sister and to her, he was the brother she never had. When we broke up, she was sad for me, and I think a little sad for the family dynamic that would never likely be - at least not with Brent. She pictured him as the brother-in-law he practically had been, and someday, having nieces and nephews, with her being the younger cool, funky aunt. Still, she supported me in the breakup. She felt hurt for my pain and confusion, but she also reminded me that perhaps he wasn’t the man for me afterall. She let me talk and she talked to me. She doesn’t hate him or tell me I should. When I said we were going to stay friends, she didn’t discourage or encourage it. She simply said that if that’s what I want, she hopes it happens.

  I used to think it was what I wanted. I never thought it would be possible to not want it, let alone move on. But now Greg is blurring the lines. He is nice, he shares the same interests, he understands my way of thinking. He doesn’t seem as light-hearted or goofy as Brent. But no, I tell myself. I can’t compare them. Besides, wasn’t that one of the things that bothered me about Brent - that he had a hard time talking through things? He’d make jokes and laugh when I needed him to be serious. Other than the first couple of conversations in which we’d aired all of our secrets and flaws, he had trouble being serious at all. Plus, I haven’t given Greg a fair opportunity. Talking about disappearances and murders while going through his dead grandfather’s things isn’t exactly the time to be silly. I’ll see how dinner goes tomorrow, I decide, before I form any further opinions of him.

  Despite my attempt to get to bed early, it’s around midnight before I finally fall asleep. I wake up at 7:30 - late for me - and decide to get some writing done on my book before the momentum of the day gets into full swing. I hate to admit it, but I am anticipating dinner with Greg and want to keep myself busy to avoid over-thinking it. I pull my favorite old black t-shirt and a pair of gray sweat pants and trot downstairs to make some coffee. I don’t know if it’s always this sunny and beautiful here this time of year, but I am certainly enjoying it, and vow that once I do some writing, I’ll spend time outside soaking in the weather.

  Back up at my computer, I re-read my previous chapter and let my fingers loose on the keyboard. I’ve learned that somehow, they know the story before I consciously do. I give myself an hour and a half, setting a timer to alert me when my allotted time is up. Upon starting my novel, it quickly became apparent that I need to practice rather stri
ct time management or I’ll be likely to get lost in it for hours, missing calls, appointments, meals, and showers. If there are no other obligations when the timer rings, I’ll reset it and keep going. It allows me time to write without being irresponsible to the rest of my life. I know other writers do it differently. They force themselves to write when they don’t want to, and they don’t make themselves stop unless it interferes with something terribly important. Perhaps I’ll change my strategy along the way - it’s my first novel, after all - and one gets so much further along in articles and short stories in ninety minutes than in a novel. Still, I like to try to keep my life balanced, and so far it’s been working. Often my best inspiration comes when I’m far from my computer. Taking my brain consciously away from the story lets me mull it over subconsciously and brings new ideas to the forefront.

  I have no trouble filling the time this morning and, as it’s only just 9 AM when the timer rings, I give myself another hour. Then I’ll force myself to take a break and shower, eat breakfast, and see how the rest of the day feels. As my timer rings for the second time, I remember Grace had mentioned having brunch, and send her a quick text. “Can we do 10:45 or 11? I got carried away in my writing again, sorry.” “Sure, I’m having a slow morning myself,” she replies quickly. “Meet you at Two Eggs? Have you been there?” I haven’t but I heard it was good and readily agree. “See you in about 45 minutes.”

  The restaurant is a fifteen minute walk, and Grace seems to be a punctual person, so that gives me half an hour to get myself presentable - plenty of time. She’s walking up when I arrive. “Perfect timing!” she hugs me. “I’m starving!” I nod in agreement. “This is my favorite breakfast spot in town,” Grace tells me as we grab a table near a window. The waitress pours us each a coffee as we chat. “Every time I head to town, I start planning which mornings I’ll eat here,” she continues. I’m suddenly reminded that Grace doesn’t live here permanently, and feel an unexpected wave of sadness. I’ve started to get into the routine of meeting up with her for breakfast and drinks, popping in to visit with her and Billy. My face must give me away. “Are you ok?” she asks. “I’m fine,” I forced a smile. “I know this sounds weird but, I just kind of forgot you don’t actually live here year round. I’ve gotten so used to you being right down the street, it’s going to feel strange when you leave. Besides,” I continue, “who will try to set me up with the local men?” I joke to lighten the mood. Grace giggles, “It’s weird for me too, to be honest. I’d never tell my mom this, but I missed this town after we moved.”