Dear Wife(78)

After striking out with the drag queen, I’m trying a different tactic today. I poked around last night on the church’s website long enough to find a cover—a church mission trip to build a school in Guatemala this fall, and a call for skilled volunteers. I don’t know shit about construction, but I know how to sling a hammer and a nail and some bullshit.

As soon as the clock rounds nine, I start the car and peel across five lanes of traffic.

The blonde seated behind the receptionist desk has an accent as sweet as her pink blouse and fat white pears. A fancy kind of drawl that belongs in a plantation town strung up with Spanish moss. Her name, she tells me, is Charlene.

I lean an elbow on her counter, and she blushes under my gaze. “Nice to meet you, Charlene. My name’s Marcus. I saw on the website y’all were looking for some skilled volunteers for a trip you’ve got planned to Central America. Where was it, Costa Rica?”

“Guatemala.”

I snap, pointing at her with a finger. “That’s right. Guatemala. It just so happens that I run a construction company down in Macon, with a group of skilled and enthusiastic guys who are looking to give back. I was thinking, you give ’em the opportunity, I give ’em a few days off and we make everybody happy.”

She clasps her hands on the desk and leans across it. “Oh my gosh. That’s...that’s amazin’. The Reverend is definitely gonna want to talk to you.”

Batting eyelashes. Lingering gazes. That glimmer of hope when she smiles up at me. This woman wants something from me, she’s making it very clear, but I’m not at all interested—not when I’m this close to my target.

I point down the long hallway to my right. “Is the Reverend in?”

“Oh.” She springs up from her chair, comes around the side. “It’s the other way, but yes. Come with me, I’ll take you right back.”

Charlene leads me down a shorter hallway, stopping before a door at the end. “Reverend, there’s someone here to see you about the Guatemala trip.”

“Send him in,” a voice calls out from inside the room. “And bring us some coffee, if you would, please.”

She turns to me with a flirty smile. “Coming right up.”

The man behind the desk is long and lean, with the sunken cheeks of a marathon runner. He stands, extending a lanky arm. “Reverend Erwin Andrews. How are you with a hammer?”

“Marcus Durand of Durand Construction. And I can drive a nail in three slams flat. So can all my men. Seven of us, including myself.”

“Do any of y’all speak Spanish?”

I laugh. “I don’t know how familiar you are with the construction business in this country, Reverend, but all of us speak Spanish.”

“Excelente,” he says, slapping his thighs. “What about music?”

“What about it?”

“Do you sing? Play any instruments? We could use somebody on bass guitar, banjo would be even better. And we’re always looking to add to the choir.”

This guy’s a trip, in his pressed polo and salon haircut—nothing like the solemn Father Ian. I’m guessing the Reverend didn’t take a vow of poverty.

I shake my head. “Nope, sorry. But my wife is pretty decent on the piano. Or at least, she used to be.”

“Well, bring her along. I’m sure we can get our hands on a keyboard.”

We spend the next half hour going over the details of the trip, dates and costs and required immunizations, all of which I tell him won’t be a problem. The guy’s a talker, and I nod and smile and pretend to listen, when really I’m just waiting for the right moment. It comes as he’s walking me out.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say, almost as an afterthought. “I think I passed somebody I know in the hallway earlier, but she disappeared before I could chase her down. She’s the neighbor of a friend of mine who lives in one of those houses on English Street. About yay high, real pretty. Latina.”

The Reverend brightens. “You must be talking about Martina. Yes, she’s been with us for six months now. She’s a lovely, lovely girl.”

I nod, smiling. “That’s her. Please tell her I said hi. Oh, and tell that friend of hers, too. I can’t remember her name.”

“Do you mean Beth? She and Martina are attached at the hip. Or at least they were, until just a few days ago. I’m afraid I can’t talk about the circumstances.”

I raise both brows, try not to let on that my pulse just surged. “I hope everything’s okay.”

He makes a face I take as a no. “I’m certainly praying it is. Include her in yours tonight, if you don’t mind.”

“Consider it done.” I shake the Reverend’s hand for a second time, rattle off another round of thanks, and promise to email him the list of names and passport numbers in the next few days. Then I hurry to my car, one word roaring like a train horn through my head.

Beth.

The bitch is calling herself Beth.



BETH

Room 313 of the Atlanta Motel is as bad as I thought it would be, a dark, damp space that reeks of cigarette smoke and body odor. The bedspread is a throwback to the ’80s, a threadbare, floral thing covered in stains I don’t want to think too much about, which is why I slept fully clothed and curled up under a scratchy bath towel I spread across the sheets. The air-conditioning unit under the window rattled and wheezed all night long, but on a bright note, it drowned out the shouting coming from the room next door.