Kiss Me If You Dare

33

Inside my hotel room, I showered, hoping to wash away the images I’d concocted in my mind. I dropped into bed and watched an hour of lousy cable programming, then fell asleep, tossing and turning through the night.

By morning, my mind was back on food. This time I headed straight for the hotel desk for a breakfast voucher. With a clear sky above and only a light wind, I took the long way around to the mess hall, heading left out the front door instead of right.

I found myself on another street with a name too difficult to pronounce. I passed a group of apartment buildings and turned down Raven Street, the outside circle of the lopped-off wheel. Boxy prefab houses in various pastels lined both sides of the road. Labradorians, or perhaps just The Company, seemed to lack the notion of porches or trees, making the neighborhood feel antiseptic. Behind the homes, a ridge of snow-covered pines reached for the sky.

Now and then a car pulled past, the occupants giving me a curious stare as they drove by. I angled up Eagle Street, the cold starting to penetrate boots that promised more than they delivered. Ahead was the mess hall. I pushed inside, joining the crowd for coffee and a hot meal.

I sat kitty-corner from a klatch of men and women gearing up for their day. I tried to blend in but noticed several stares, nods, and muted conversations around the cafeteria. Perhaps I was paranoid. Then again, the workers probably were speculating on my visit to town, perhaps having heard about my search for a missing person.

A gust of wind blew past my feet as another group came in from the cold. Finished with my oatmeal and eggs, I cleared my tray, pausing on my way out to zip my coat. I walked without looking as I fiddled with the pull-and collided with the chest of a plant worker.

My head shot up. “I’m sorry,” I gushed, catching his startled look. “Just trying to bundle up before I hit the door.”

I tried to brush off the incident, but the fifty-something man stood stock-still in front of me, staring. Eyes wide, mouth open, stepping backward as if he’d seen a ghost. I squinted at him, confused by his reaction. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, mute, then twirled and dashed off toward the restrooms.

That was the first time I’d gotten that reaction. Never thought my face could make a man ill.

I slipped on my hat and mittens, pulled my hood tight around my face, and walked directly back to the hotel, wishing the library wasn’t on the same holiday schedule as the grocery store. I’d left the book I’d borrowed from Denton’s shelf of classics back at Puppa’s for safekeeping.

To pass the day, I watched cooking shows and twiddled my thumbs, not having the faintest clue where to start looking for Candice beyond the mess hall. After a fascinating lesson on fluffy cheese soufflés, I stretched out on the floor, loosening up muscles tight from traveling. With my face so close to the ground, I could fully examine the lint and miscellaneous other particles that had landed on the carpet. I got up and dusted off, then got ready for Therese’s party, thrilled to have been invited to dinner by a complete stranger my first night in town.

I double-checked for Candice’s picture in my purse, ready to show it at the gathering should the opportunity arise. With parka and boots on, off I went to the party. I stopped at the hotel desk for an envelope and put in a generous gift for the girl whose friend looked a lot like me.

A few blocks away, I found the gray-sided house. Several cars were parked in the drive and a couple more along the curb. As I knocked on the door, I wondered how all those people would fit in the tiny space.

Therese opened the door wide. “Tasha. Welcome.”

I stepped in, surprised that the interior felt roomy and open. A group of partygoers filled the living room. I smiled at the blur of faces, nervous to be surrounded by strangers.

Therese led me through to the kitchen. “This is my daughter Renee. Renee, this is Tasha Stewart, visiting from the States.”

I shook the hand of the dark-haired beauty, who glowed like a candle atop a sixteenth-birthday cake. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, amazed at the radiance of youth.

She returned the compliment, then joined a group of young people at the table.

Therese led me around the house, introducing me to her clique. I lost track of names, and before we were done, the faces began to look the same. We’d made a circle through the living room and were headed back into the kitchen.

“Oh,” Therese exclaimed, “you haven’t met Monique yet. Wait until you see her. You will be amazed.”

Heads turned when we reached the table of teens, as if I’d already been a topic of conversation. I spotted my look-alike right away. Long, reddish-brown hair, and a nose and mouth the same as mine. I’d always thought the bottom half of my face was run-of-the-mill, but Monique was beautiful. Her eyes were brown, not green like mine, and had a rounder shape, but somehow our eyebrows had the same arch to them.

Therese introduced us. “She belongs to Suzette and Roger Jamison.”

We shook hands. Neither of us spoke, probably stunned speechless. There seemed no credible explanation, except that we both had Noah as a common ancestor. After a moment of silence, those around the table began to fidget, no doubt as uncomfortable as I felt.

“Please help yourself to some food, Tasha,” Therese said, helping me out of an awkward spot.

I gladly dove into the array of breads, meats, cheeses, and side salads. Filling my plate, I wandered into the living room, looking for an opening in a conversation. The group on the sofa discussed the state of the Labrador/ Newfoundland economy. I steered away when I heard grumblings over some sort of lopsided agreement the power company had with Quebec. Two couples standing near the hallway had extreme weather on their minds, with battery chargers and the high cost of fuel their main concerns. I drifted toward the front door where a man and a woman ate their sandwiches in silence. His back was turned to me, but she seemed to watch my every move.

I smiled at the eye contact. Then, feeling foolish and alone in the center of the room, I beelined in her direction. She seemed to panic as I drew near, her forty-something forehead scrunching as she made some sort of eye signals to the man across from her. I almost let the behavior chase me away, but I figured I might as well take a risk. What were the chances I’d ever see any of these people again?

I stuck out a hand as I drew near. “Hi. I’m Tasha.”

She fumbled with her plate, nearly dropping it. “Suzette. Nice to meet you.” Her hand felt sweaty in mine. “Oh, you’re Monique’s mom.”

I turned to the man, expectant. “And you must be Roger. Therese couldn’t wait to introduce me to your daughter. From the looks of it, Monique and I could be sisters.” I was the only one laughing.

Keeping his head down, Roger stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

I grabbed his fingers in mine. A shock of static zapped us on contact.

“Woo. Sorry about that,” I said. At my words, he looked up and I got a peek at his face. “Hey. You’re the guy I ran into at the mess hall. We’re just doomed to have one painful encounter after another.” I’d hoped he’d loosen up at my joke, but he seemed to have the same sickened reaction as our last meeting.

“Excuse me,” he said, heading off down the hall.

Suzette covered for him. “He’s not feeling his best today.”

I nodded, surreptitiously wiping my hand on my pants to get rid of any virus before I touched my food again.

She jumped in to fill the silence. “So you’re from the States?”

“Yes, I am.”

“What brings you to town this time of year? Skiing?” “Good heavens no. It’d be like a giraffe on ice skates.” I got the smile I’d hoped for. “I’m actually here looking for a lost relative.”

Her face seized up. I was touched by her concern.

“What have you found?” she practically whispered.

“Nothing yet. But here-” I dug in my purse for Can-dice’s photo. “This is what she looks like.”

Suzette took the picture from me. Her body visibly relaxed. “She’s very lovely.”

“Have you seen her?”

“No. Never,” she said, handing it back to me.

I took the photo. “I suppose it would be too simple if she were here.”

Suzette pulled at the collar of her blouse. “What makes you think she’s in Churchill Falls?”

“Travel plans made but never used. I thought maybe she arrived here later, by some other means.” I shrugged. “Might be a wild goose chase.”

“Best of luck to you,” she said.

Therese called from the kitchen. “Time to sing. Gather round, everybody.”

I made my way to a corner near the refrigerator and fought tears as we sang to the beaming birthday girl. I tried not to compare my special day with hers. Why go there? But I couldn’t stop the tug of memories. Gram’s kitchen back in Walled Lake. The guests were her church friends, gabby women who somehow thought a sixteen-year-old would prefer a round of bridge over capture-the-flag with people her own age. I took my slice of cake into the living room, curled up on the couch, and read Jane Eyre for the third time. It was late when the gaggle left. Gram said good night, and I cleaned up the mess.

Therese gave her daughter a big hug. “My baby is sixteen!” She held her by the shoulders and smiled. “Just look at you. So beautiful! I love you, Renee.”

“Love you too, Mom.” The girl returned the hug, tears in her own eyes.

I looked out the window and stared at the pattern of lines made by blue siding on the house next door. Aluminum made a very practical covering for homes this far north. Very practical, I decided, as Renee screamed in glee from her dad’s bear hug. I probably would have gone with tan. The baby blue gave me a headache.

“You are the best daughter a man could have.” The affectionate voice cut through my musings.

I brought the lines back into focus. Yes, tan would have been a better choice. Much softer on the eyes.

The crowd in the kitchen started to break up, and I turned toward Therese, my head pounding. “Thank you for the invitation. I had a wonderful time.”

She took my hands in hers. “It’s been a pleasure. I hope we will see you again while you’re here. Let us know if there is anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable. Anything at all.”

“I will.” I located my outerwear and hurried to put it on. “Goodbye,” I said to the faces behind me and walked out the door.

The cold shocked me into action. I took off at high speed toward the inn, the rub of my parka against my ears and the thud of my feet hitting the ground the only sounds in the darkness.

The hotel clerk had her nose in her book again as I hurried through the lobby and up to my room. I shut the hotel room door behind me. The slam echoed in the emptiness, reminding me I was alone. I leaned against it, focusing on the rasp beneath my breath, hoping to drown out the sounds of family and friends gathered for a special occasion.

After a minute, I blew out a puff of air and hung my coat. Boots off, I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. The towel felt rough on my skin, increasing circulation to my capillaries as I rubbed. My headache lightened up with the massage. I stared in the mirror, face red and raw. How come I was the one inside this body? Why couldn’t my soul have been born in that girl Monique instead? Same mouth, same nose, same face, but a thousand miles and two parents difference.

I leaned on the counter and gave a disgusted sigh. Why did I always do that to myself? Why did I think everybody else had it so much better than Patricia Amble? I met my eyes in the mirror. The green seemed extra bright through tears. Mother dead when I was eight, father out of my life since birth, raised by a drunken grandfather and a bitter grandmother, a prison sentence, betrayed by a friend, a boyfriend dying by his own free will, house pilfered by an almost sister-in-law, and now stuck in the middle of an arctic wasteland looking for the only thing that could possibly make me feel better. Revenge.

I was pathetic.

I took two aspirin and curled up under the covers. I could feel myself sliding down that dangerous but somehow soothing path toward despair. It was no state of mind to be in before ending the killing rampage of the woman who virtually ended Brad’s life. I had to stay sharp, pull myself out of this slump if I was going to get the job done. Of course, I had to find her first.

But, too emotionally exhausted to do anything about it tonight, I stretched to reach my suitcase on the floor by the bed and pulled out the envelope of photos I’d brought along for the trip. I set the pile on the bed next to me and picked up the top one. My mother. A line of tape ran down the center of the photo where I’d patched it together. Cousin Joel had torn it in two in a fit of rebellion when he first learned I was moving into the old lodge, a home he once considered his inheritance. My fingers tightened their hold on the shiny paper. And now the traitor and his wife had snatched it from me.

I looked at my mom’s playful eyes. I’d almost forgotten what her face looked like, but now I could remember her smile.

“Bedtime, Tish,” she’d say.

“In a minute, Mom.” I never obeyed the first time.

“Uh oh. Here comes the tickle monster.”

“Eeeek!” I’d scream and run and she’d chase me and grab me in her arms and haul my little body to the bedroom. Then we snuggled and read bedtime stories. I yawned after the first one, but whined until I got a second story. Then it was kisses and a tuck in.

My eyes went back to the tape stuck across her beautiful face. My mom. Taken from me the day Frank Majestic’s clowns forced her Ford into the quarry. Maybe I should be going after Majestic instead of Candice. He was the true source of my pain.

I tried to block out images from the birthday party, but the thought of Therese hugging her daughter invaded my mind. The more I tried to push it away, the more I could feel my mother’s arms around me, tickling, holding, loving.

My hands flopped to the bed, the picture landing facedown. Oh, how I loved to torture myself. I left the photo where it was and grabbed for the next one. Why stop now? I was on a roll, reaching for my next dose of pain like an addict.

Mom and I at the beach, compliments of Candice LeJeune Photography. I really needed that reminder of Candice’s ploy to infiltrate my life, only to destroy it. I slapped the picture onto the comforter.

The two of us on the woods path. Me on a swing. Each photo only made me angrier. I flipped to the next one- and froze. Brad and I. Sharing a Coney at Sam’s Diner back in Rawlings. I’d never seen the picture before. Brad looked so handsome in his polo shirt and khakis, so full of life. And I had a huge smile on my face. I squeezed my eyes closed, remembering how it felt to be happy. I opened them and tried to remember when the photo had been taken. Must have been a Sunday after church. We’d always gone with a crowd to eat and visit. I flipped it over.

Brad, thought you’d want this! Love, Pastor John.

How had it gotten among my things? It belonged to Brad. I bit my lip. He must have gotten rid of anything to do with me. I looked at the shot, tears pouring down my cheeks. I could understand why Brad hadn’t kept it around. Who wanted to be reminded about what might have been?

From deep in my chest, a wail gushed up. I threw the photos to the bed. They scattered across the comforter. I flung back the covers and got up, pacing the room, wondering how I could get rid of this pent-up rage. What had Candice told me one day over tea? That it was best I’d been raised without my father’s influence. It gave me a chance to escape the Russo family curse. Well, it hadn’t mattered. Father or not, the curse had found me. Everything had gone wrong with my life. Maybe I shouldn’t waste my energy taking things out on Candice. Maybe I should just end my agony here.

The thought splashed like a bucket of water across my brain. What was I thinking? Where was I headed? Time to step back and take a breather.

I turned on the shower, hoping I’d get a fresh perspective after a good dousing. I gave the water a chance to warm up, heading back to the bedroom to clean up my mess. I gathered the photos, careful not to let any of them register in my mind and fan the flames of my fury. But despite my efforts, one image leaped out at me. I took the picture in my hands. It was my mom and dad, sitting together at the Watering Hole the night my mom died. As I squinted at the photo, studying my father’s features, I realized I’d just seen an older version of that face. It belonged to Roger Jamison.

Hands shaking, I drew in a breath and blinked away the insane thought. But there was no denying it.

I’d found my father.