Page 3 of Denial
His mouth draws into a frown. “Can’t say I have. Someone giving you trouble?”
“Just someone sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong.” I sigh and sip my drink.
“Can’t have that.” He pats my hand tucked in his elbow. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Thanks, Archie.”
We make it to our street and walk up the sidewalk with light chatter. Archie tells me about the bird-scouting trip he’s taking next week before he disappears across the path and behind his front door.
“Here you go. Showed up yesterday.”
Confusion steals over me at the medium-sized brown box.
“What’s that constipated look for?”
I shake myself out of it and retrieve the package from his weathered hands. The cardboard box is so light it nearly blows out of my grasp. “Sorry. It’s just that I don’t remember what I ordered.”
“Only one way to find out. Better do it quick before you give yourself an aneurysm.”
I purse my lips and fish out my keys. “Thanks for the sage advice.”
“That’s what your elders are for.”
“And thanks for holding on to this. See you on Wednesday?” I call over my shoulder as I unlock the door.
He waves in retreat. “If I don’t see you before.” He waits patiently in his open entry until I shut my door.
My lips curve softly at his chivalry.
They sure don’t make them like they used to. My last few exes are confirmation of that.
Dropping my purse in the entry, I cross the open space into my kitchen in search of scissors. With one practiced slice, the tape parts easily.
I open the flaps curiously, not sure what to expect inside.
My breath dies in my throat, and my fingers freeze halfway into the box.
“What the hell,” I whisper.
A neat layer of photographs covers the bottom.
All of them are of me.
Entering my townhouse. Leaving. In my work clothes to open the boutique I work at downtown. Coming home late from line dancing on different days, evidenced by my changing boots. A stretchy athletic set I wore once to a Pilates class last month and never again. Standing on the sidewalk with Archie.
One by one, I pull them out. The past few weeks of my life are preserved in colorful stills.
The final photo sends my heart into overdrive.
It’s a picture of me, shot through my living room window, wearing the outfit I wore two days ago. Beneath the final photograph is a small note written in a choppy scrawl.
Answer the phone, Alice.
My phone begins to vibrate in my pocket, and I drop the paper as if it were on fire.
1
Sutton
