microwaved gunk hadn’t come into our house for years.
With metallic screeches, she slid aside the cast-iron pan that lived permanently on the range and took the popcorn cooker out of a cabinet. “I’ll make a second batch for us. Garlic, cheese, and just a touch of chili powder.” With her head in the refrigerator, she asked, “You’re not planning on kissing anyone later on tonight, are you?”
My thoughts immediately went to Evan, and my cheeks flamed. “No-o,” I stammered. Rats. There were one or two things I wanted to keep to myself, and Marina would be all over that stutter faster than a first-time mother on a dropped pacifier.
Wildly, I looked around for a subject changer. Marina’s laptop computer sat at the end of the counter, booted up and ready for service. I sidled toward it as Marina came out of the fridge, butter in hand and eyebrows raised. “Hey.” I angled the screen toward her. “You have mail.”
She squinted at the screen. “My reading glasses are AWOL. What’s the subject line say?”
“There are three of them.”
“Read on, my dear.” She sliced off a chunk of butter and put it in a glass measuring cup. “Now that you’re party to my bloggership, there is nothing about me you do not know.”
Without even meaning to, she was making me feel guilty. “Um, the first one is from Lands’ End. A shipment is on its way.”
“New jeans for Zach, winter coat for the DH.”
“Where is he, anyway?”
“The DH,” she said, “is at this moment traversing the state with three other like-minded men. Tomorrow’s plans include setting up a grill in a parking lot at eight in the morning, cooking, and eating vast amounts of fatty foods, then sitting on cold concrete for a minimum of three hours watching young men run, throw an inflated leather object, and collide against one another with sickening thuds.”
“Ah.” I looked back at the screen. “E-mail number two is an advertisement from the Hawaii Visitors and Convention Bureau. How many years have you been trying to get your DH to take you there?”
She counted on her fingers, ran through all the digits, and started over on the right hand.“Too many. Something always seems to come up. New car, college tuition, new roof, college room and board, new carpet, college textbooks, new furnace, college fees, et cetera, et cetera.”
College. I hadn’t put a dime into the kids’ college funds since the divorce. One of these days I’d have to talk to Richard about it—after school let out for the summer, maybe.
“E-mail number three,” I said, “is from a gobbledygook e-mail address of letters and numbers. Why do people do that?”
“What’s the address?” Marina asked hoarsely.
“Are you getting a cold?” I put my finger on the screen—bad Beth!—to help me read along. “It’s 1t94z4a at rynwood dot com. Is that anyone you know? Marina?”
I turned around. Marina was standing statue still, staring out the window. But since it was dark outside, there wasn’t anything to see except her reflection. Her mouth opened, then closed without a sound coming out.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Read it,” she said dully. “Then delete it.”
“But—”
“Just do it!”
A loud
I read it, then desperately wished I hadn’t. Once, twice, three times, I tried to speak, but nothing came out. Repeating the words on that screen wasn’t possible. If I spoke them, they might come true.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Marina said. “It can’t be that bad.” With a heaping popcorn bowl in hand, she gave me a friendly hip check and pushed me aside. She leaned close to the screen, squinting, and started to read aloud, but fell silent. Her hands began to tremble.
I watched the tremors grow from a one on the Richter scale to a seven. The popcorn bowl plunged to the vinyl floor with a loud whack, and hot buttered popcorn went everywhere.
“He says—”
“Yes.” I put my hands on her shoulders.
“He says he’s going to—”
“Don’t,” I whispered, and put my arms around her waist. Whoever had sent that e-mail had a vivid and bloody imagination. “Just don’t.”
She gripped my hands hard enough to hurt. “Beth, what are we going to do?” Panic pushed her voice high. “What am I going to do?”
“Shhh.” I put my forehead against the back of her neck. Her whole body was shivering, but after reading the new threat, I didn’t blame her a bit. “Shhh,” I whispered. “It’ll be all right.”
“How can you say that?” The panic was rising, threatening to take her off in its dark, dirty claws. “How can you know?”
I gave her the firmest, sturdiest, most reassuring hug possible. “Because I have a plan.”
A thundering herd pounded up the hallway. When it reached the kitchen, it resolved down to three preadolescents. “Something fell!” “Did you drop the popcorn?”
Marina and I were already back in Mom Mode. Pleasant faces, no sign of fear or anxiety. Happy, happy, happy. “Just a mere slip of the elbow, dear young ones,” Marina said. “Demonstrating once again that anyone can make mistakes,
“She’s talking French again,” Zach said to my children. “I hate it when she does that.”
Oliver looked at the scattered mess. “Does this mean we’re not getting popcorn?”
“Fear not, young friend.” Marina handed me a broom and dustpan. “If yon minion will complete the tidying, the master chef will commence replacement.”
Oliver turned to Zach and whispered, “What did she say?”
“That she’ll make some more,” Zach said.
Jenna headed back to the family room. “C’mon, we’re missing the movie.”
I got the wastebasket out from under the sink and started dumping popcorn into it. “This part of the floor needs a wash.”
Her head was in the fridge. “Don’t bother. I’ll get it later.”
I turned the laptop my way and hit a few keystrokes. “Later the kids will have tracked butter all over the house. It’ll only take a minute to mop up.”
“You’re the best friend in the whole wide world.” Marina shut the refrigerator door and looked at what was in her hand. “Why am I holding this?”
I was willing to bet it wasn’t because she wanted to add oyster sauce to the popcorn. “It was in front of the butter.” Which wouldn’t have made any sense whatsoever in most households, but Marina ran hers with a special brand of logic. “You wanted butter,” I reminded her gently. “For more popcorn.”
“Did you delete that e-mail?” she asked the oyster sauce.
“From the in-box and from the deleted folder.”
She tightened the lid on the jar. “Do you really have a plan?”
What she wanted to know was if I had a way to end the e-mails. If I could help her find a way out of the fear. If I could make it all go away and never come back. For the very first time in our friendship, I needed to be the mother figure.
“Fear not, young maiden.” I headed for the laundry room and a mop and bucket. “Salvation is at hand.”
As I’d hoped, she snorted out a laugh. I went into the laundry room and made rattling noises until I heard the fridge door open again. Softly, slowly, I went one room farther, into the study. Marina’s DH used a wireless server to give all the computers in the house printer access. I tiptoed in and collected the e-mail I’d printed. It was just as frightening when read the second time. I folded the sheet of paper and slid it into my pants pocket.
“Did you find it?” Marina called.
I slipped out of the study and went to find a mop.
