Secrets in a Still Life, Kari Ganske [best fiction books to read .TXT] 📗

I grabbed Linc's shirt. "Hide me. Or better yet, stage me to look like I'm unconscious. Or even better yet, that I vaporized."

Mercilessly, he pried my fingers off his clothing and clucked his tongue. "Alex, Alex, Alex. Look at you. In your thirties and still scared of your mother."

"Alexandretta Harriet Lightwood!" my mother bellowed. I cringed. Heck, half of Maryland cringed. Linc tried to step aside, but I scooted over so he still blocked me. That worked for all of two seconds.

My mother, Constance Lightwood, was a five-foot-five whirling dervish of strong emotions and fierce convictions. Her morals were as strong as her bowling arm and her voice as loud as her clothing. Currently, she wore a bright yellow housedress with large green and purple flowers. Her hair was in rollers under a babushka. Matching bright yellow Crocs slap-slap-slapped the pavement as she barreled toward us.

"Mom," I whined when we made eye contact. "I'm so glad you're here. I always need my mama when I'm hurt." I pointed to the Band-Aid on my head and tried to drum up some tears.

"Oh no you don't," my mother scolded, wagging her pointer finger at me. "Look what you did!" She turned that finger toward the sign.

I hung my head, wishing Linc hadn't whistled for Fang and disappeared around the truck. I could use a buffer. Even Colleen skedaddled, the chicken.

"I didn't mean it."

"I'm going to forever be the mother of the Sign Killer. I better not get kicked out of our book club for this," she said, arms gesticulating wildly as she spoke. "It's all over the police scanner already. And now I'm on the side of the road in my curlers and housecoat."

She grabbed my face in her hands and lifted it so our eyes met again. The hard edges of my mother's expression softened; she kissed my forehead.

"Ah, po ptakach," she said, using the Polish for it's all over now. "I am glad you're here, Peanut. But next time, a simple phone call will suffice."

"I think my car is undrivable," I said, wrapping my arms around my mother's middle. As indiscreetly as I could, I savored her smell like an addict. No matter the circumstance, she always smelled the same—a little bit of lemon, a dash of vanilla, a pinch of dough, and all of home. Every time I was even in the vicinity of a lemon danish, images of my mother in the kitchen with Nana K, making pierogis from scratch or homemade cookies for one of her many clubs, popped immediately into my mind.

"Undrivable isn't a word, Peanut," Mom said absently, stroking my hair. "We'll transfer all your stuff into my car. Doesn't look like it'll take too long."

Leave it to my mother to notice my lack of belongings. And point it out to everyone.

"Tow truck is on the way, Connie," Chief Duncan said. He ripped a ticket from his pad and handed it to me. "Don't miss your court date."

I jumped off the fender and walked with my mom toward my car to begin unloading my stuff. Linc stuck his head out the window of the fire truck.

"Hey, Alex," he called. I glanced up at him. "Welcome back to Piney Ridge. You know, in case you didn't see the sign."

Chapter 3

My mother kept a running commentary as we drove through town toward my childhood home. No going back now, I thought, sighing heavily through my nose. It made a little fog print on the window glass. I adjusted Lash's bowl in my lap so I could wipe it away with my sleeve.

Piney Ridge rolled by as we drove, pretty much the same as I remembered it. Some of the storefronts on Main Street had changed ownership over the years as businesses came and went, but overall, the façades remained the same. Same color palette, same light posts, same crack in the sidewalk in front of the cigar shop.

We turned off Main and onto Brightview, where the dogwoods lining the streets had grown exponentially since I'd been here last. In the waning spring, the once burgeoning flowers were beginning to lose their petals, creating a mosaic of pink and white polka dots on the sidewalk and parked cars. The small petals fluttered about the air in the slight breeze. My fingers itched to photograph the flower shower.

But I'd never squeeze a word in edgewise with my mom in time to ask her to stop. Anyway, my camera gear bag was stowed somewhere in the back of the car. I glanced into the rearview mirror at the meager pile of belongings in the back seat. What was once a source of pride—living sparse with a small footprint—was now another reminder of my current pathetic life. What other thirty-two-year-old could pack all of their worldly belongings into the back seat of a Fiat?

I tried to shake myself out of my funk. I'd had more possessions a few weeks ago, I told myself. I'd sold a bunch of furniture before leaving the city. And by a bunch, I meant the bed frame and the couch—two things I knew my conniving ex-boyfriend, Rick, would miss the most. Picturing him entering the apartment to an empty living room brought a hint of color to my otherwise drab life of late. Just wait until he noticed the hot sauce in his mouthwash. I was almost sorry I wouldn't be there to see the smug smile drop from his serpentine face.

Almost.

Despite my best efforts to the contrary, Wreck-it Rick kept creeping back into my thoughts. To be expected, I supposed, after living and working together for almost a year, but frustrating nonetheless, since I absolutely promised myself I would never waste another brain cell on him. He may have caused my life to take a swift turn south,