Digging In: A Novel(56)

Mr. Eckhardt looked like he might be sick. “You are an evil woman.”

“No, I’m not. Just curious about who I’ve been living next to for ten years.”

“Okay,” he said, which I should have realized was not really a promise of anything.

I opened my hand, and the earrings glistened in the sun.

“Where . . . ?” Mr. Eckhardt shot out of the house and stopped cold right in front of me. He took the earrings, cradling them in his palm, and closed his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“You don’t have a right to ask,” he snapped.

“You promised,” Mykia said, but her tone had lost its bite. She was softer, as if she wanted to offer Mr. Eckhardt a reason he could let his story loose. It obviously pained him greatly.

“You’re talking about my things,” he said tightly.

“Sometimes it helps to talk,” I offered.

“Well,” he said. He opened his eyes and fixed them on me. They were harder now, unyielding. “You have no respect for other people’s property because you have no respect for your own.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? Look at what you’ve done. Do you think you’re honoring your husband’s memory? You’re tarnishing it. Don’t you understand that?”

“Enough,” I said. “Enough.”

Mr. Eckhardt tossed the earrings on his lawn. “Pick them up,” he said.

“What?”

“Pick up the earrings!”

Stunned, I did as he asked.

“Now, take them away,” he boomed.

“Are you sure?”

“TAKE THEM AWAY, PAIGE!”

Mykia and I left him standing there, a totem in the summer sun, casting a shadow over the fence.





CHAPTER 23

“It says you won’t graduate.” I held the letter from Willow Falls High School, the one that outlined why Trey would not be marching to “Pomp and Circumstance” with his fellow classmates unless he added driver’s education to his schedule.

“It’s fascism,” he said. “Pure fascism.”

“I don’t care what kind of -ism you call it—you can’t get a high school diploma without it.”

“We could sue. We could call the ACLU.”

“This isn’t funny.”

I busied myself making pancakes and scrambled eggs, Trey’s favorite, minus the bacon, as he’d recently discovered the truth about industrialized pig farming. His passion made me smile—who could deny the devotion of the teenage activist?—and I could feel it rising in myself a bit thanks to the garden. There really was something to living a simpler, more natural life. I always knew that to be true, but the notion never sank deep.

Trey pushed back from the kitchen table and grabbed his backpack from the peg. “I’m going to Colin’s.”

“I’m making breakfast! We never eat together anymore. I thought we’d have a Saturday morning pancake fest, like we used to.” I could hear in my voice all the things that acted as instant repellant to a teenager—disappointment, nagging, hurt, and anger.

“We’ve got a project to work on. Save it and I’ll eat when I get back.”

“Fine,” I said. “But I’m driving you.”

“I can take my bike. It’ll be easier.”

Trey had managed to avoid getting into a car with me since the attempted driving incident. He’d been surly and defensive any time I brought it up. Actually, surly and defensive seemed to be his primary personality traits overall. I alternated between being worried and annoyed with his behavior. Ultimately worry won out, as it always does with mothers, and I made an appointment with the therapist we used after Jesse’s death. He went once, about three weeks after the car accident, and then refused to go back.

“We’re going to have to talk about this again. It’s not going to go away.”

“I need to go away,” he said. “Far away.”

He was trying to hurt me, and with the precision of a teenage assassin, he did. “Please don’t say that, Trey. We have each other. Can’t we be nice?”

“Sean’s coming up the driveway,” he said, effectively dodging the question.

Once upon a time, I didn’t mind unexpected visitors. But that was when I showered every morning and kept myself as well maintained as Mr. Eckhardt’s BMW. A quick scan of my person told me I was not only unshowered but not wearing a bra. “Are you sure it’s him?”

My son shot me a look that said he was less than impressed with me, but for other reasons. “Yeah, it’s definitely the cop you’re trying to hook up with,” he said before stepping out. “I’ll let him know you made pancakes.”



Sean wore his uniform, so I was briefly uneasy. “Is there a problem, Officer?”

He smiled shyly. Occasional hesitance in a confident man could make a woman forget she wasn’t wearing a bra.

“I just got off my shift,” he explained. “I was driving past and thought I’d stop in.”

“Really?”

“Well, I did have something to talk to you about.” He grew serious, more professional, and my stomach dropped.