Where’s your husband? Where’s Ryan? (“Overseas working on assignment.”)
How’s your mom feeling? (“Much better, thank you, she’s here somewhere, I’m actually trying to find her.”)
What’s President Hamlin really like? (“Ummm… he’s a handful.”)
How’s it going down there in DC? (“Oh, it’s going okay, trying to fight the good fight every day.”)
Why aren’t you drinking? Hold on, let me grab you something. (“No, thanks, really, I’m kind of tired and not much of a drinker.”)
What about those missing girls? (“It’s terrible and it’s frightening, and I know the sheriff and his people are doing everything humanly possible to find them.”)
I saw you running the other night. Don’t you ever get tired of all that running? (“Actually, no, I find it relaxing—that’s why I do it.”)
How worried should I be about what’s going on with North Korea? Do you think we’re going to war? (“Don’t lose any sleep over it. A lot of awfully bad things would have to happen for the United States to go to war, and I don’t believe it’s going to happen.”) Gwendy’s not so sure about this last one, but she figures it’s part of her job to keep her constituents calm.
By the time she locates her parents sitting in a corner on the opposite side of the room talking to a co-worker from Dad’s office (the man also requests a “real quick photo,” which Gwendy dutifully smiles for), she feels like she’s just finished an all-day publicity whirlwind for one of her book releases. She also has a splitting headache.
Once they’re alone, she tells her parents she’s exhausted and asks if they’ll be okay at the party without her. Her mom fusses that Gwendy needs to stop working so hard and orders her right home to bed. Her father gives her a sarcastic look and says, “I think we can survive without your guiding light for one night, kiddo. Go home and get some rest.” Gwendy swats him on the arm, kisses them both goodnight, and starts across the room toward the library to get her coat.
That’s when it happens.
A muscular hand reaches out from the sea of people and grabs Gwendy by the shoulder, spinning her around.
“Well, well, well, look who it is.”
Caroline Hoffman suddenly looms in front of her, bloodshot eyes narrowed into slits. The hand gripping Gwendy’s shoulder begins to squeeze. Her free hand balls into a meaty fist.
Gwendy glances around the room, looking for help… but Mr. Hoffman is nowhere in sight, and none of the other partygoers seem to have noticed what’s happening. “Mrs. Hoffman, I don’t know what—”
“You make me sick, you know that?”
“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, but I don’t know—”
The hand squeezes harder.
“Let go of me,” Gwendy says, shrugging the woman’s hand off of her. She can smell Mrs. Hoffman’s breath—and not beer, the hard stuff. The last thing she wants to do is antagonize her. “Listen, I appreciate the fact that you’re upset and you don’t like me very much, but this isn’t the time or the place.”
“I think it’s the perfect time and place,” Mrs. Hoffman says, an ugly sneer spreading across her face.
“For what?” Gwendy asks heavily.
“For me to kick your stuck-up little ass.”
Gwendy takes a step back, raising her hands in front of her, in shock that this is actually happening.
“Is everything okay?” a tall man Gwendy has never seen before asks.
“No,” she says, voice trembling. “No, it’s not. This woman has had too much to drink and needs a ride home. Can you help her find someone? Or perhaps you can call her husband?”
“I’d be happy to.” The man turns to Mrs. Hoffman and tries to take her arm. She shoves him away. He slams into a couple behind him, knocking the other man’s wineglass out of his hand. It tumbles to the floor and shatters—and now everyone in the room is staring at the tall stranger and Mrs. Hoffman.
“What are y’all gawking at?!” she slurs, the color rising in her chubby cheeks. “Buncha blue-ballers!”
“Oh, my,” someone behind Gwendy says.
Gwendy takes advantage of the distraction and quickly slips away into the library where she digs out her coat from the now massive pile on the sofa. She puts it on, rubbing away furious tears, and starts pacing in front of the sofa. How dare she put her hands on me? How dare she say those things? Pacing faster now, she can feel the heat intensifying throughout her body. All I was trying to do was help her rude ass and she acts like—
A loud crash comes from the next room.
And then cries of alarm.
Gwendy hurries back into the great room, afraid of what she might find.
Caroline Hoffman is lying unconscious on the hardwood floor, her arms splayed above her head. A nasty gash on her forehead is bleeding heavily. A crowd has gathered around her.
“What happened?” Gwendy asks no one in particular.
“She fell,” an old man, standing in front of her, says. “She’d calmed down some and was walking out on her own and she just spun around and fell and hit her head on the table. Darnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“It was almost like somebody pushed her,” another woman says. “But there wasn’t anybody there.”
Remembering the flush of anger she’d just experienced and a long-forgotten dream about Frankie Stone, Gwendy stumbles out of the house in a daze and doesn’t look back.
Head spinning, it takes her several minutes to remember where she parked her car. When she finally locates it near the bottom of the Bradleys’ long driveway, she gets in and drives home in silence.
45
WHEN GWENDY GETS HOME fifteen minutes later, she changes into a nightgown, washes her face and brushes her teeth, and goes directly to bed. She doesn’t turn on the television, she doesn’t put her cellphone on charge, and for the first time since its return, she leaves the button box locked inside the safe overnight.
46
GWENDY DOESN’T CHECK ON the button box the next morning, either. Another first for her.
Christmas dawns dark and gloomy with a suffocating layer of thick clouds hanging over Castle Rock. The weather forecast calls for snow by nightfall, and the town DPW trucks are already busy dropping salt as Gwendy makes her way down Route 117 to her parents’ house. Almost all of the homes she passes still have their Christmas lights glowing at ten-thirty in the morning. For some reason, instead of looking cheerful and festive, the dim lights and murky sky provide a depressing backdrop to her drive.
Gwendy expects to pass the day in the same blue mood she went to bed with but is determined to hide it from her parents. They have enough on their plate without her ruining their Christmas celebration.
But by the time the brunch table is cleared and presents are exchanged in the living room, Gwendy finds herself in a surprisingly cheery mood. Something about spending Christmas morning in the house she grew up in makes the world feel safe and small again, if only for a short time.
As they do every year, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson fret about Gwendy going overboard and spoiling them with gifts—“We asked you not to do that this year, honey, we didn’t have much time to get out and shop!”—but she can tell they’re surprised and pleased with her choices. Dad, still dressed in a robe and pajamas, sits in his recliner with his legs up, reading the instructions for his brand-new DVD player. Mom is busy modeling her L.L.Bean jacket and boots in the full-length hallway mirror. A stack of jigsaw puzzles, assorted shirts and sweaters, a TiVo so Mom can digitally record her shows, a men’s L.L.Bean winter jacket, and subscription gift cards to National Geographic and People magazine sit under the tree, next to Ryan’s unopened presents.