A Curve in the Road(31)

Had she even been at the store?

I blow my nose, pick up my cell phone again, and google Paula’s home address.

It’s kind of scary how easy it is to find out where a person lives. It’s even scarier that I’ve been moved to do what I’m doing.

A few minutes later, I’m driving up her street like some sort of stalker.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I get out of my car, sling my purse over my shoulder, and gaze up at the house where Paula lives with her husband. It’s a modest split-level home with pale-blue vinyl siding, located in a small subdivision on the edge of town.

For a brief moment, I consider changing my mind and going straight home, but I decide to bite the bullet. I walk up the steps and ring the front doorbell.

A pretty young woman answers. She has blonde hair and appears to be in her early twenties.

“Yes?” she asks but balks slightly at my appearance. Suddenly I remember that my face is still black and blue and my eyes are no doubt puffy from crying. On top of that, I’m dressed in baggy gray sweatpants, sneakers, and an ugly parka. I probably look like a homeless person, which is not like me at all. I usually make an effort when it comes to my appearance. I wear makeup and do my hair and dress fashionably—but I suppose I’ve been knocked around a bit lately. Looking put together isn’t at the top of my priority list.

“Hi,” I say in a warm and friendly tone, hoping to put her at ease. “I’m looking for Paula Sheridan. Is this where she lives?”

“Yeah, she’s my stepmom,” the girl replies with some apprehension. “But she’s not here right now. She’s at the store.”

I feel my eyebrows pull together in a frown, and I’m immediately suspicious. “I just went there looking for her, and they said she was at home today. That she was sick.”

The girl shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe the clerk got it wrong, because she’s not here.”

I can’t very well push my way past her and search the house, so I simply thank her and turn to go.

She stops me. “Would you like to try her cell phone?”

I face her again. “I already did, but she didn’t answer. I’ll try again later. Thanks.”

She shuts the door, and I walk down the cement path but stop halfway when I hear the door open again.

“Abbie MacIntyre?”

I immediately turn and look up.

An older man steps outside. He looks to be in his midfifties. He’s handsome, trim, and fit, dressed in jeans and a blue wool pullover. I realize how pathetic I must appear with my bruised face and unwashed hair.

“Yes,” I reply.

He regards me coolly. “I’m Paula’s husband, Michael. I’m sorry about your loss. I saw it on the news. Paula says she went to high school with you?”

“That’s right.”

He takes another step forward. “Well . . . she showed me your texts, and I’m not sure what to say. I’m sorry for what you’re going through, but I’m not sure why you think Paula can help you.”

“I’m not sure either,” I hear myself replying.

He studies my face for a moment. “You should know that Paula felt badly, because your husband was a regular customer at the store. She said he was always very nice. It’s a terrible thing that happened, but . . . you need to find a way to move forward that doesn’t involve my wife.”

We stand in silence for a brief moment, and I wonder if he thinks I’m a nutcase. I feel like one at the moment.

“If you could just tell Paula that I came by . . .” I begin to back away. “I’d appreciate it.”

“I will,” he says. “Take care. And again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

Paula’s husband disappears inside, while I hurry to my mother’s car, wondering if I’m not behaving rationally. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I just need to accept Alan’s death as a freak accident and try to begin the healing process. Maybe I need to take a step back and focus on what I have left.

When I arrive back at the house, Zack and the girls are in the basement watching a movie, and Mom is upstairs napping. I ask Carla if she’ll come for a drive with me because I need to get a lot of stuff off my chest. My sister takes one look at me, sees that I’ve been crying, and grabs her coat.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Paula before?” she asks a few minutes later as we leave town, heading toward the highway because, for some reason I can’t explain, I need to see the place where Alan and I collided with each other. I’m desperate for clarity, and I don’t know where else to look for it.

Carla is behind the wheel. Not me.

“I’m not sure,” I reply. “All I know is that Paula has been floating around since the moment Alan landed in the ER, and I have a weird feeling about it because it doesn’t make sense to me—that a store manager would care so much about the death of a customer she claims she barely knew. And why won’t she talk to me?” I pause. “I keep thinking about all the things Lester said . . . about encouraging Zack to sow his wild oats and get around. Is that how he raised Alan? Did he make it seem like he needed to prove his manhood that way?” I meet Carla’s gaze directly. “Or maybe I’m looking for answers where there are none. Maybe I’m paranoid and irrational. Or not. What if there was something going on between Alan and Paula?”