The Sanctity of Sloth Read online

  He frowned as he did the numbers in his head. "Well, maybe she'll live with until she's in her twenties." He brightened at the thought. "But we can cross that street when we need to."

  I loved my husband, but sometimes he was as naive as a child, certainly more naive than ours. He believed what he wanted to believe. Women don't have that luxury. Society holds our feet to the fire, requires more, and gives less. In my experience, a suspicious nature wasn't a bad thing.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THURSDAY, MARCH 15TH, 6:45 AM

  FEATHERS OF SUNLIGHT slanted through Abby's squint and brushed against her closed eyelids teasing them open. The first week she'd been in the anchorhold, she'd slept hard, and a lot. Maybe it was inactivity, maybe the desire to plant her itchy fingers on a keyboard again, but she'd only slept five or six hours a night since.

  She stretched, pulled her knees to her chest and rocked into a sitting position. Coffee. She missed coffee. She reached for the thermos of water her father had left for her the night before and took a sip. It was lukewarm and tasted stale. She almost spit it out, but resisted. It was all she had until after dark.

  She dropped her chin to her chest and rolled her head first right and then left. Sleeping on the ground had made her painfully aware of joints she'd hitherto taken for granted. Footsteps and voices floated through her window into the anchorhold. It had to be garden volunteers. They were the only ones who came to the Mission this early in the morning.

  She straightened and took the two steps to her window. Steven, the man who'd found the girl's body, and a woman stood at the flower bed across from the restroom. The woman was petite, forty-ish and Asian. Abby could hear the rise and fall of voices, but not the words. Based on the gestures, Steven was explaining the morning chores.

  She'd gotten very good at reading body language in the past three weeks. Entire conversations played through her mind as she watched those too far away to hear clearly. At first, it was just a writer's game to pass the time. Something to stretch her imagination and creativity.

  On her eighth day, as she watched a young couple on a bench not far from the restrooms a vivid interpretation played out in her mind. The boy told the girl he wasn't ready to commit to a serious relationship. He said she deserved someone who was. The girl cried and asked who he was seeing. He flatly denied there was anyone else. She didn't believe him. The girl's pain, shame, and anger reached across the expanse of grass and gripped Abby with empathy.

  Of course, the girl could have been telling the boy about the death of her cat, or a "D" on a college exam, or a fight with her mother for all Abby knew. But three days later, she heard female voices close by her window. Two girls stood by the sign for the Swallows Nest exhibit. She recognized one as the girl from the bench.

  "He said he's not ready to be serious, but I saw him with Natalie," she said.

  "Natalie Granland?" The other girl looked shocked.

  Bench Girl nodded, looking more angry than sad today.

  "Girl, you are so much hotter than her," her friend said, and they walked away.

  Abby tested this new talent regularly. She'd watch people as they came up the path from the Old Stone Church exhibit, watch their expressions, their gestures, opened her heart to theirs. Seven times out of ten, when they passed her window, she'd find her guesses were accurate. It was easier to intuit when emotion was high. But she'd know what they were talking about more often than not, even when the conversation was casual.

  She didn't understand why she was able to do this, but she had a theory. Truth became obvious when one had no opinion or agenda. As an observer, her heart was a blank page for others to write on. Of course, it could also be that when one sense is limited, others grow stronger. The deaf are better at reading body language than most. The blind are more sensitive to the shades of meaning behind people's words. Abby's growing talent was people-watching.

  Steven and the Asian woman walked around the corner and out of her field of vision. Abby turned her back to the window, took a hairbrush from the backpack that contained her clothing and toiletries and began to brush the night tangles from her hair. It was Thursday.

  On Thursday nights, her father brought the prior week's laundry to her, washed and folded, and she gave him her soiled things. On Thursday mornings, she poured water into the large plastic bowl she used as a sink, washed and put on her last fresh outfit.

  She took her time, enjoying the feel of cool water on her skin and the smell of clean clothes. The floor of her anchorhold was packed dirt. She was always dusty except for a brief period after bathing. She knew by evening she'd feel grit on her scalp and under her fingernails again. She slipped on a flannel shirt and fastened the first button.

  "Abby." A hushed voice shot past her.

  "Dad?" She held her shirt together and moved to the squint. "What's wrong?" When she entered the anchorhold, they'd decided her father would only come to her after dark and after the Mission closed. It was dangerously close to opening time.

  "I went to the police this morning."

  "What did they say? Did they believe your story?"

  "They had no reason to doubt it."

  "Good. So everything is good."

  "No, everything isn't good. They want me to sit with a sketch artist and try to come up with a picture of the man I saw on Tuesday night. Thank God, the artist wasn't available today. But I'm supposed to meet with her in a couple of days. You have to come out tonight. Talk to her." Abby didn't say anything. Her thoughts were spinning.

  "If I come out now, what am I going to tell them? I didn't come forward when I should have, and you lied to the police?"

  A look of startled dismay crossed his face. "Damn it." Abby flinched. Her father rarely cursed since her mother had died. "This is why I said—"

  "I know."

  "Lies breed more—"

  "I know, but what's done is done. We have to think about the next step."

  "The next step should be honesty."

  "How is honesty going to help that poor girl? She's dead. Making a public spectacle of ourselves isn't going to bring her back." In Abby's experience, public spectacles didn't just blow over. They took years of effort to overcome. She'd learned to keep her head down the hard way, and it would take a very compelling argument to make her change her mind.

  "But those men can't be allowed to go free."

  "I agree, but I didn't see them clearly. The younger one had high cheekbones. He looked a little exotic. His hair was dark, but I'm not sure what the color was. I didn't see the older one's face at all."

  "They say you always see more than you think you did. Sketch artists know how to ask questions, how to pull things out of your subconscious."

  "There's nothing in my subconscious. I only saw his cheeks and eyes. No nose. No mouth. I'm telling you, Dad, I can't give them what I don't have."

  "Well, what am I supposed to do then? They're going to ask me things I have no—"

  Abby saw movement behind her father. Steven and the Asian woman walked toward them, eyes fixed on him. She didn't know how long they'd been there, on the path. Long enough to see him having a heated conversation with a wall based on their faces.

  "Dad. Shush. People."

  Her father clamped his mouth shut and glanced around. "Steven. Good morning." Paul stepped away from the squint and onto the path.

  "Hey, Paul." Steven's eyes were wide and questioning.

  "I thought I'd found a quiet place to practice my address to the Swallows Day committee. I'm a little nervous about it. Politics, you know."

  For someone who hated lying, her father did it smoothly. Steven's face relaxed. "This is Mimi Jackson. Mimi, this is Paul Travers. He runs the gift shop."

  "I know who Mimi is, although we've not officially met." He shook her hand. "You're my new neighbor. I've been meaning to come by with cookies or a plant."

  "I thought you looked familiar," Mimi said. "Please, stop by. You don't need to bring a thing. I'd love to pick your brains about th
e history of my new house. I understand it's a bit nefarious."

  "It's not a happy history."

  The three stood in awkward silence for a long moment. "Well, we were just heading out," Steven said.

  "I'll walk you as far as the gift shop," Paul said.

  "I don't know what your talk is about, but you certainly sounded persuasive," Mimi said as the three walked out of sight.

  Abby collapsed on her bedroll. How had this spun so far out of control? The last thing she wanted to do was cause problems for her father. He'd had enough of them in his life. He was a strong man, but Scottie's accident and her mother's descent into madness had almost killed him at the time. It had taken years for him to heal. When those old memories were revived by recent events, Abby felt it was time to take action.

  She'd entered the anchorhold believing it was the solution. She would bury those painful days in its walls. She would rewrite, if not their past, their future. Her book would launch a new chapter for both herself and her father. She wasn't ready to give up that hope.

  ***

  By afternoon the temperature had risen. March's usual pleasant seventy degrees had spiked to eighty. Abby's nose began to itch. The dry Santa Ana winds must be on their way.

  She was restless, more restless than usual. Another sign the winds were coming. She circled the small enclosure like a tiger in a zoo.

  A laugh rang through the air, loud in the aridity. She knew the laugh. It was Tallulah's.

  She ran to the squint and peered through the bars, seeking the woman belonging to the voice. A moment later she appeared, coming from the direction of the Serra Chapel.

  Abby was never certain what Tallulah's job title was. She assisted her father in the gift shop, ran interference for Grant Hawthorne, and flitted from department to department like a hummingbird seeking sustenance. Abby loved Tallulah, and she loved Tallulah's fashion sense. Every outfit was entertainment, and Lord knows, she needed a distraction.

  Abby smiled as she watched the woman who'd been more of a mother to her than her own come into view. Her dark skin glowed in the warm afternoon sun. Her tall, elegant frame was swathed in black and white stripes today—more Parisian than zebra. She walked side by side with another woman, almost as tall, but not dressed with half the panache.

  The second woman was white, but her cheekbones and eyes gave her an ethnic appearance. Short, dark hair curled around a delicate face. Her smile was wide.

  "Bridezilla?" Tallulah said.

  "No, Momzilla." The ethnic-looking woman said in an alto voice. "She's planning the wedding. The daughter roped me into doing the decorating, so I'd be the one banging heads with her mother. I don't do events often. Now I remember why."

  "My mother planned my wedding. I wore white, carried star lilies, and the guests ate chicken whether they wanted it or not." Tallulah punctuated each item with her finger. "It never occurred to me to argue."

  "I'm from New England. In my family you married the way your mother, grandmother, and great grandmother married before you. If you were lucky, you got a new dress and didn't have to wear one of theirs, but there were no guarantees."

  Tallulah's musical laugh rang out again. "I take it this wedding is a bit more complicated."

  "Let’s say, I've got a new respect for tradition. The mother-of-the-bride has changed her mind about everything from the flowers to the color of the table linens at least five times. I told her yesterday she's running out of time. The wedding is in three months. She's got to make some hard decisions."

  Abby pressed herself against the wall as the women passed her hold leaving behind a whiff of spice and lavender. "Makes me thankful I only have a son. His future wife's mother can do all the heavy lifting," Tallulah said.

  "I have both, but I hope and pray my daughter and I will behave ourselves when the momentous occasion arrives."

  "You tell that Momzilla she'd better not be wishy-washy about the venue, Rosie. We've got people waiting in line for that June date."

  "I can imagine. It's beautiful here. The flowers are spectacular."

  "A lot of it is maintained by our gardening volunteers."

  "One of my clients is thinking about joining the team. If I could squeeze the time out of my schedule, I'd do it with her."

  "You can donate as much or as little time as you want. I'll introduce you to Steven Homestead. He trains a lot of the new recruits."

  "I'd probably learn a thing or two that would help with floral arrangement. That's one of my favorite parts of the job, but I only get to do it when I take a party gig. Which, as I said, I don't often do. I only took this one because my daughter went to school with the bride."

  "And she's a sweet girl?"

  "Very. And she's been talking about having a wedding at the Mission since high school. I want it to be special."

  "So you're putting up with Momzilla."

  The two made a right and disappeared from view, their voices trailing off. Abby threw herself on her foam mattress. A June wedding at the Mission had been her dream when she was a little girl too. Now. . . Now she didn't know. She wondered if marriage and children were a wise decision for her. Emotional stability didn't run in her family. Her mother had walked steadily into insanity after Scottie died. Her father had been hospitalized due to a breakdown after her mother died.

  When Carlos asked her to marry him, she'd panicked. She knew he wanted children—lots of them. As much as she loved the idea, she wasn't sure she was the right one to bear them. If there was such a thing as a "crazy" gene, she didn't want to inflict it on the next generation. She'd asked him for time, and she'd had it. A month had passed, but she wasn't any closer to an answer.

  She hadn't told him where she'd be thinking things over, about her decision to cloister herself at the Mission for Lent. She'd known he wouldn't like it and avoided the topic while getting the anchorhold ready. Procrastination set in. No time ever seemed like the right time. She'd planned to tell him the day before Lent started, but they got into that stupid argument.

  She couldn't talk to him about the book. Every time the subject was raised, his jaw clenched and that little muscle in front of his ear twitched. He hated the book. He thought she was obsessed with anchorites.

  Oh, he didn't use the word "obsessed." He wouldn't. He knew Abby associated that word with her mother's behavior. But it's what he thought. Abby rolled onto her side and squeezed her eyes shut. How could they ever marry if he had no respect for her life's work?

  Her life's work. Is that what this was? Or was it just a vain attempt to hide from her past? Or worse, to avoid making decisions about her future? The past stretched out behind her, the future in front, and she was paralyzed between them. She didn't know how to interpret the messages of her family history. She was uncertain about what was to come.

  She'd removed herself from society, to gain insight into her life. But had she? She felt just as unsure today as she had on the first day of Lent. She hoped the last two weeks would give her clarity, but instead doubt had crept in. Did solitude hold the answers after all?

  At this moment, she longed for a conversation with Tallulah. Wanted a heart to heart over a cup of spiced tea. Wanted to ask her opinion about anchorites, and June weddings, and Carlos, and police investigations.

  Entering the anchorhold had seemed like such a good idea at the time, brilliant even, but the girl had changed everything. For the past two days, whenever Abby closed her eyes, she saw that dead face and the shining, black ponytail spreading out behind it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THURSDAY, MARCH 15, 4:20 PM

  PAUL TRAVERS' CAR wasn't parked by his house when Carlos drove up the long gravel drive. He'd come early, thinking he could stop by before his meeting with Rosie. He didn't know if he should be disappointed or relieved that no one was home. He wanted and dreaded in equal amounts to know how he stood with Abby.

  He'd said some nasty things about her book. He probably shouldn't have. He was careful not to use the word obsession, but sh
e'd known how he felt. She'd gotten spitting mad, said it was none of his business.

  None of his business? They'd been dating over two and a half years. They'd talked about how many children they wanted, what kind of kind of house they’d buy. In his mind they were practically engaged.

  Apparently she didn’t share the same feelings. When he thought back, he realized she would only talk about the future if he left it there. In the future. As soon as he mentioned a timeline, she’d change the subject.

  When he’d said of course the book was his business, because she was his business, she’d stuck out her left hand and said, "No ring."

  They were standing on the street outside her apartment. They couldn't go inside because Abby's roommate was in the living room playing video games. Sharona was always in the living room playing video games.

  "I want to marry you, you know that. But you change the subject every time I bring it up," he said.

  She pushed a pebble around on the sidewalk with the toe of her shoe. "I'm not ready."

  "Aren't you tired of this? It's like we're still in high school." They were hardly ever alone. Carlos lived with his mother in the old family house. Sharona was always in Abby's apartment.

  "Of course I'm tired of it," she said without conviction.

  "Then marry me."

  "I don't see how that solves the problem."

  "We'll pool our resources. Get our own place. Start a life."

  She was quiet for a long time. His face grew hotter with every passing second. Finally, she looked at him. "Give me two months. I need to finish the book."

  That was it. The damned book. It was worse than another guy. He could compete with another guy, but the book, the book was an obsession. "Damn anchorites."

  Then he’d said things he now regretted. When he was done, he'd spun on his heel and left her there in the street. It was the last time he'd talked to her.

  He picked up his phone, logged into his email account and tried to concentrate on business. It was useless. This close to her father's house, all he could think about was her. He got out of his truck and stretched the kinks out of his back. It was almost five. No Rosie in sight. He looked around the property.