His father’s mouth hung open after Thomas released him. Rounding the chair, Thomas kissed his mother on the forehead.
“You’ll call me if anything changes before the weekend.” Lindsey stood like a statue, her mouth moving, but no words pouring forth. “Mother?”
She gave a start as though electrocuted.
“Yes, I’ll call you, Thomas.”
“Mother, Father. Good evening.”
They never left the study while he retrieved his sneakers.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tuesday, July 14th
8:50 p.m.
Through a thin slit between the curtains, Suzanne Tillery tugged on her shirt and peeked out at the neighborhood. Darkness slid across the village, the shadows pouring off the houses like spilled oil. Garrick should have returned home hours ago. Suzanne expected to hear the big truck motor rumbling into their driveway. Instead, she saw children on bicycles racing each other in the last light.
They’d spent the afternoon screaming at each other. She could set her watch to their fights, they’d become so predictable. At three o’clock, Garrick had grabbed his fishing gear and left in a huff. Suzanne suspected his first stop had been Hattie’s, not the river.
She sat at the kitchen table and listened to the world fall sleep around her. Lights flicked off at the Ramsey house. She kept meaning to speak with Kay about Lincoln, but couldn’t find the right words. Suzanne and Kay had drifted apart after someone vandalized the Ramsay’s house. Kay believed Garrick knew who caused the damage. The sheriff’s department had searched Kay’s property the night Lincoln Ramsey died. A short, muscled deputy named Aguilar pounded on the door and jostled Suzanne out of sleep. The deputy asked if she’d seen anybody snooping around the Ramsey’s house, noticed any vehicles parked along the curb that didn’t belong. And that struck her as strange. Did the deputy suspect foul play? Aguilar also asked if Suzanne’s husband was home. But Garrick had pulled another disappearing act that evening, and stumbled in at four in the morning, reeking of sour beer.
A napkin lay shredded on the table, Suzanne tearing the pieces as she listened for Garrick’s truck. She was losing him, and though she suspected Garrick was cheating, his true love was the bottle. Since spring, she’d argued with him to enter rehab. At least speak to a counselor and get his drinking under control.
A pamphlet from St. Mary’s church was tucked between a recipe book and the napkin holder. That got her thinking. Father Fowler had conquered alcoholism four years ago, though he wouldn’t reveal the event that served as his wake-up call. Now he counseled anyone who wanted to kick drug or alcohol addiction. She slipped the pamphlet out of hiding and spread it open on the table, noting Fowler’s help line. If only Garrick would call.
If he refused to get help, she’d intervene.
Suzanne dialed the number and listened as the phone rang. Three times, four. Her free hand knotted into a fist as she considered the implications. Once she opened this door, there was no closing it. Garrick would be furious. Suzanne accepted the risk, though she feared his wrath. The phone kept ringing. She expected Father Fowler’s message to play. Instead, a woman answered. Suzanne recognized the voice as Thea Barlow’s.
“I’m trying to reach Father Fowler, Ms. Barlow.”
“Father Fowler is in the confession booth. Is everything all right, Mrs. Tillery? You sound upset.”
Suzanne bit off a sob and wiped what remained of the napkin across her nose.
“It’s my husband. Garrick. I can’t take his drinking anymore, and I don’t know how to save our marriage.”
“Calm down, Mrs. Tillery. Father Fowler has seen this before, and no mountain is insurmountable. Would you like Father to sit down with Garrick, or do you prefer group counseling?”
Suzanne pictured Garrick’s reaction once Father Fowler cornered them in a locked room. She imagined the heat of her husband’s glare, the anger rolling off his body. Garrick needed help, but Suzanne understood how important it was to support her husband through the process.
“I should be there with Garrick.”
“Very good.” Barlow ripped a sheet of paper out of her notebook. “Father has openings in the middle of next week, if you’d like to make an appointment.”
“There’s nothing sooner?”
“I’m afraid not. But if you give me Mr. Tillery’s number, Father will call him tomorrow. Sometimes a phone conversation is all it takes to awaken a man from an alcohol-fueled haze.”
Suzanne wondered how much Barlow knew about Father Fowler’s addiction. Inside the church, the rumor mill never stopped. One theory suggested Fowler got away with manslaughter four years ago after he ran Sheriff Gray’s wife off an icy road. That was a far-fetched rumor Suzanne didn’t believe.
“I would appreciate it if Father called Garrick.”
“What are your husband’s work hours?”
Picking the lint off her shirt, Suzanne dropped her voice.
“Garrick lost his job in May.”
“I’m sorry.”
“His shift supervisor smelled alcohol on his breath, though I don’t believe he drank on the job. Garrick had been at Hattie’s until midnight and woke up late for work. He rushed in without showering or brushing his teeth.”
“Don’t make excuses for your husband, Mrs. Tillery. You’ll only enable is behavior.”
“You’re right. Are you sure Father can’t fit us into his schedule this week? I’ll feel better after Father sits down with Garrick.”
“There is one possibility. You’re not required to answer, but I must ask if you entered Garrick’s name into the prayer jar.”
The prayer jar sat on a polished table in the vestibule. People slipped prayer requests into the jar when loved ones fell ill and only God could save them. She hadn’t considered putting Garrick’s name in the prayer jar to help him kick his alcohol addiction.
“Father will pray for anyone in need,” Barlow continued. “If you will allow, I’ll place Garrick’s name in the jar and save you a trip to the church.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Think nothing of it.” Another phone rang in the background. “I’d better answer that. Stay strong, Mrs. Tillery. Father Fowler will call Garrick tomorrow.”
The tension rolled off Suzanne’s shoulders
