Between Octobers

House Again

Evan—House Again

It's just after three in the morning, local time, when I land at the Municipal Airport. Eric's going his own way at the moment, taking care of details I can't handle right now. He nods a farewell as I step into a waiting car on the tarmac.

Inside is a crew-cut fella in a suit. We've crossed paths once or twice. He owns the company that provides me with bodyguards when I need them. His jacket's off, neatly folded on the seat beside him. This small detail sends me shithouse mad, but I keep it, use it to focus. He acknowledges, but barely looks at me as he works in two conversations at once. A Blackberry and a Bluetooth.

The driver shoots straight for home. A short distance, long ride.

The first time I saw Grace, she didn't see me and I ended up with her wine in my shoes. I left the bar without talking to her and regretted it straight away. The second time was pure chance and I knew there wouldn't be another. I could've given her phone back before she left the lift. I might have, had I not been rendered speechless by her bright blue eyes and easy laugh. Those stunning eyes. I had to see her again, to talk to her. And when I did, I never wanted to stop.

Last night, as I tried to fall asleep, I thought of our wedding, when I laid eyes on her in the aisle. There was something my mother used to say—that God saves a woman's beauty. She said, He never allows it to be fully realized until the day a woman marries. I never thought it was true until that moment. She was radiant, an exceptional flower blooming just for me. I hold that picture in my head, now, hanging on for dear life.

Lights are burning along the tree-lined street. Out front, groups of people have gathered—throngs who don't know a thing about her standing shoulder to shoulder—holding candles and signs, singing prayers. Stuffed animals and cards, ribbons with balloons are clumped against the outer wall. Their song turns to cheers as my car rolls up.

All they want is another piece of my soul.                                           

"We'll find her." Crew Cut says. This isn't the first time he's spoken, but it's the first time I look at him. He presents a hand. "John Marshall."

Every light in the house is burning. There's a bland beige rug covering the floor of the formal living room. It's plain and ugly. I want it back the way it was.

Lily's on the sofa, holding herself. When she sees me, she starts bawling. Cue run-and-hug sequence.

I knew she was upset. I talked to her, heard her crying, but couldn't picture it. Lily has only ever shown me two temperaments. She's Party Girl and Betty Bad Ass—joy and anger. She's in pieces. This is really bad. Grace would hate it.

"It's alright," I pet her hair. "We'll find her."

"Eigh-teen ho-urs." She halts with each syllable, staccato.

"The kids?"

"Sleep-ing"

"Marcus?"

"Lands-two hours." She takes a deep breath and lets it out. "Ronnie, tomorrow—today. Later."

My cell rings. "Yeah?"

"Mr. Matthews, could you come next door?"

I grab Lily's hand and take her along with me through the kitchen, heading for the back door. It still looks the same.

"Where's the pot?" I point at the empty shelf where the coffee flask should sit but don't stop. Past the patio, through the grass and back gate, into the adjacent garden. "Maybe they've found something."

John meets us in the doorway. Dress shirt, tie, still no jacket. I wonder where he's taken the time to set it now and if it's still pristinely folded. He herds us towards the nearly empty three-car garage. My car, well, Marcus' Range Rover, is still there. The cover's been removed, now sitting crumpled on the bonnet. The driver and passenger doors are open. John points to the opposite side at a shelf hinged to the wall. In front of it, a pile of clothes sits on the floor.

"Ma'am, are these yours?"

"They belong to Marcus, like the car. But they were in a trunk."

John looks at two other men, clad in gloves, firing questions while Lily describes a large green and brown camouflage trunk.

"I know it, I gave it to Marcus." The lock was broken, so he didn't take it back to England.

John's hands go up—one to his earpiece and the other becomes a barrier between him and his assistants. A command to pause.

"Yes. Direction? When? Is that confirmed?" He looks to me. "I'll talk to him myself. Coordinate with locals upon verification." His raised hand drops and he starts talking to us, rather than near us. "One of my guys picked up a possible lead near Kings Canyon. A forest ranger reported a vehicle of matching description heading into the Reserve just before nightfall. Does she know anyone up there?"

Lily and I look to each other and give identical answers. "No." "Nobody."

"Is there any reason you can think up that might put her there?"

Utter stupidity. "She's been put on bed rest. I thought we all agreed? Someone had to take her!"

He nods. "Yes, sir, I know. I'm trying to cover all the bases. When I take this information to law enforcement, I want them to jump on it. No excuses."

"Right. Sorry." I let him ask as many questions as he wants, then.

Lily has gone with my driver to the airport to pick up Marcus and Eric. The boys are still asleep, despite the shuffling of bodies through the house. The garage, great room, and kitchen are off-limits. The carpeted hall's been covered in plastic.

Nigel's curled up with Caleb. All three are in Noah's bed.

The house looks nearly the same, except for the carpet and the French doors in the master suite that lead out to the covered pool.

Her bed is made up with neat hospital corners, fluffy pillows atop a black and white striped down comforter. Her iPod's on the nightstand beside a dried rose. I gave it to her the night of our first date. I take up the music player and put her earbuds in my ears.

The playlist doesn't come up, but the last song she listened to starts to play. A smoldering tenor croons desperate poems of messages in bottles and songs on pages. It's Paper Tongues, the band she loves and missed that night I slipped and fell for her.

She's gone. Missing. And it's my fault. I don't know how or why, but I know in time, it will lead back to me.

Lying helpless on the bed, I roll to my side, clinging to the vision of us in my head and the impression she left on top of the covers. Gracie, that day in my hotel room. We don't fight. We talk and she doesn't believe the lie. Everything's as it should be. She glows, making her announcement—pregnant and lovely. I feel the would-be joy welling in my chest, filling my throat. She would have touched me, uncontrollably, the way she always did. I might have joked, pretending to withdraw only to feel her chase, to sense her desperation and measure it against my own. The night would have come and gone before we noticed, too rapt in one another to care about anything outside our bubble.

Supplications come naturally in times of destitution. Even for us morally bereft. I beg God to make her come back. I barter and bargain, offering up things that aren't mine. My heart—He knows it belongs to her. My soul—though I'm sure it was lost long ago. I pledge eternity, offer eternal servitude, anything, everything. My money, my future, my so-called talents.

But what use has God for such things? If I could give them up so quickly, why would He want them?

A soul is useless—pass. Eternity's just wasting time if it's spent alone. I don't want anything if I can't give it to her. I only ever wanted for her—to be a man she could be proud of, to make her smile.

Her smile . . . it warms the air, lights the room. I'll give anything to see her smile again.