I can’t imagine her life.
Not that Sandy’s life was easy street. Guests frequently woke her in the middle of the night. Issues with their beds, outdoor noises, spiders, and one time a ghost. Even with the extensive variety she served on her breakfast buffet, someone always requested—demanded—something different. Then there were the guests who expected food to be available all day long. Sandy had tried to accommodate her hungry guests the first year she was in business and then realized they were taking advantage of her. Now she provided fresh cookies, tea, and coffee at all hours. Nothing else. No kombucha, no popcorn, no mangos, no “just a sandwich.”
Learning not to be a pushover had taken time.
It wasn’t easy when submissiveness had been pounded into your psyche for years.
The boys tore past her bench, and the mother grinned as she made eye contact with Sandy. Sandy smiled back.
No children for me. I’m nearly fifty and married to my work.
She had no complaints about her current life, but she couldn’t help the small pangs of envy when she saw babies.
“Sorry I’m late!” Bree slid onto the bench next to her and shoved a paper coffee cup into Sandy’s hand, and they hugged. Bree’s hair smelled of hay and horses.
Mine must smell of Clorox.
Sandy took a drink of her hazelnut coffee. The fact that Bree had added the perfect amount of cream sparked a small joy in her heart. It reflected their close relationship. They knew each other’s likes, dislikes, and most intimate secrets. Bree’s friendship was at the top of Sandy’s favorite-things list.
“Now.” Sandy looked her friend in the eye. “Tell me everything about the vandalism. I’m wondering if the same person did mine.”
Bree’s happy expression faded into one of caution. “I’m sure it’s not related to yours. That wouldn’t make sense.”
“I’d like to form my own opinion about that. Talk.” Her tone left no room for Bree to protest.
Bree turned to lean back on the bench, her gaze focused across the small playground.
Sandy mentally sorted through possibilities as Bree described the scene at her farm.
When she was finished, Bree finally looked at Sandy, an odd expression in her eyes. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m wondering if I was followed when I went to ride at your place last weekend,” Sandy said.
“Why would someone follow you?”
“To see what’s important to me. I’m pretty sure my love for that horse is obvious when I’m there.”
Bree’s face was blank. “You think my damage was aimed at you? Why?”
Sandy cocked her head; Bree’s flat tone made no sense.
Why isn’t she more concerned?
“You know my history,” Sandy said slowly. And you’re about to hear a lot more.
“You’re referring to your ex.”
“Yes. I can’t think of any other reason someone would spray-paint bitch and whore on my building.”
“But he doesn’t know where to find you.” Bree’s eyes crinkled in worry. “Does he?”
“I don’t know,” Sandy whispered. “I haven’t told you everything.” Her voice shook.
Bree took her hand and squeezed. “Talk away.”
Comfort flowed from her friend’s hand. “You know he physically abused me. I told you how I had to sneak away and change my name.”
“Yes.”
The care in Bree’s gaze nearly undid her. “You don’t know how bad it was . . . It wasn’t just the physical stuff. It was mental and emotional too.”
“Of course it was,” Bree said gently. “They go hand in hand.”
“I had no money. He wouldn’t let me work. He gave me some cash at the beginning of every month and that was to buy all our groceries and anything else the house needed.” The words spilled out of her. She’d opened a gate that’d been locked for a decade. “I knew how to stretch every dollar. I planted a garden to make the grocery money last longer. I traded with neighbors for fruit from their trees and firewood for heat. When he realized this, he cut the cash back more because I clearly didn’t need it. It wasn’t about the lack of money—not completely. It was the mental abuse. Everything was my fault. The reason he couldn’t give me more money was my fault. The reason the meals were never tasty enough was my fault. The reason he had to work was my fault. Nothing was ever good enough.”
“That’s horrible.”
“I was stuck. I didn’t know how to leave. He wanted children . . . I never understood how he could be so disgusted with me but also want children from me.” Her heart pounded. “Of course it was my fault I never got pregnant.”
“Asshole.”
One corner of Sandy’s lips curved up. “It was my fault,” she admitted. “I got birth control. I might not have been able to do anything else, but you can be damned certain I would do anything to keep from having his child. I guarded those pills with my life. I had nightmares that he’d find my hiding spot and beat me, throw out the pills, and then rape me.” Revulsion racked her.
“Oh, Sandy.” Bree looked ready to cry.
“His mission was to keep me down. If I was under his foot, it supported his ego. He felt strong and powerful.” She laughed. “I can see it so clearly now. I look back and can’t understand why I married him in the first place.”
“But you told me that he wined and dined you at first. Bought you flowers and jewelry.”
“I was so stupid.”
“You were young. He sounded like a dream.”
“In a way he was. He was older and mature. His truck was new, and he took me to the nicest restaurants. But it all stopped once we got married. It didn’t just stop, it turned 180 degrees.”
“Like I said. Asshole.” Bree leaned closer. “I think you’re letting your memories take control of your thoughts. Yes, something bad has happened recently, but you don’t know that it’s him. It’s understandable that you’re thinking that way, but you need to take a step back and look at the situation rationally.”
Bree made sense.
Am I expecting the worst?
Bitch. Whore.
Terror swept through her. “No. I know it’s him.”
“But Sandy . . .” Bree didn’t finish. Instead she set down her coffee and added her other hand to the one gripping Sandy’s. “My vandalism is directed at me. I know it. It can’t be your ex harassing me.” Her tone was flat again. “I told you about the big X on my truck door . . . That’s personal.”
“Who would make it personal to both of us?” Sandy asked. She’s holding back. “I feel like you’re not telling me something.”
Bree said nothing, her two hands still tight on Sandy’s one.
A chill settled on Sandy’s skin. Even in the warm sun, goose bumps rose on her arms. “Do you know who did this, Bree?” Her voice cracked.
Her best friend was silent, a mental struggle reflected in her eyes. She finally spoke. “I have some suspicions.”
“Did you tell the police? Because Truman was stumped today. I don’t think he has any leads.”
“It’s too far-fetched.” Bree gave a weak smile. “My memories are running away with my thoughts too.”
“Tell me,” Sandy ordered. “I’ve told you everything. You know how I had to pull myself up. Lionel destroyed my self-worth. How can yours be worse than mine? The police deserve to know . . . I deserve to know. Whoever is doing this is trying to tear me down again.” Anger was red hot on her tongue. “He’s in for a surprise. I’m not the powerless person I used to be. I will fight back with everything I’ve got because I deserve better. I never believed that when I was married. I thought I deserved what I had—but now I know I’m worth it.”