And then I know. It comes to me as hard and undeniable as a shove from behind. I’m going to drive to Hastings and talk to Stephanie Dunham. I’ll let Casey do what she can to fight the rumor that’s spread at the publishing house. Stephanie is a separate matter, and I need to handle that myself.
For a reason I can’t explain, this decision takes priority in my mind, even with all the other drama going on in my life. If I can put Stephanie’s fears to rest, perhaps I’ll be better able to focus on everything else. There’s more to it than that actually. A part of me hopes that a conversation with Paul’s widow may provide insight into the message my nightmares are trying to convey.
I could call Stephanie, of course, instead of showing up at her door. I worry, though, that she’d hang up before I could get more than my name out. Besides, this is a discussion that needs to happen face-to-face so that Stephanie can read me and see I’m telling the truth, that Paul and I were never involved. There’s a chance, of course, that she won’t be there. But she’s a stay-at-home mom, and if I hang by the house long enough, she’ll hopefully appear.
I’m in the car by nine, with a small cooler from the pantry that I’ve packed with a sandwich and a couple of bottles of iced tea. Based on what I’ve found online, the trip should take just under three hours. One thing becomes crystal clear the moment I shove the key into the ignition. In my determination to make the trip, I’ve neglected to factor in what it might be like for me to be behind the wheel on a major highway. This will be the first time I’ve driven on anything other than a city street or rural road since the accident.
Panic starts to roll through me as I back out of the driveway, and I do my best to squash it. There’s a greater task at hand that I need to attend to, and I can’t have my pants scared off at the sheer thought of the drive. I pop in a CD of soothing classical music and control my breathing like Dr. G taught me.
Periodically I sip on iced tea, and halfway there, I devour half the sandwich. I keep waiting for that now-familiar wallop of fatigue that loves to arrive midmorning, but oddly it never rears its head. And miraculously, I manage to keep my mind focused on the journey and not the awful mess I’ve left back in town.
Here and there along the way, road signs announce the distance to New York City: 170 miles, 150 miles, 120 miles. How easy it would be, after visiting Stephanie, to jump back on the highway and drive south rather than north. As I cross the Tappan Zee Bridge and spot the silver skyline of Manhattan, in miniature from this distance, I find the idea hard to let go of. While it’s tempting, I also know it won’t help matters in the long run.
Once I’m in Hastings, I locate the Dunham residence easily enough. It’s a pretty stone-and-clapboard house, probably four bedrooms and set on a plot that slopes downward into a kind of hollow, thick along the sides with firs and maples. There’s a soccer net in the front yard and a lolling golden retriever, prevented from absconding, I assume, by an invisible electric fence. The dog suggests that someone is indeed home.
Of course, that’s only the first hurdle crossed. This conversation is going to be clunky as hell, and there’s a chance Stephanie won’t buy what I have to say.
There’s no path to the house, just the driveway, so I choose that over crossing the yard. The dog has raised its head by now and is wagging its tail in an enthusiastic welcome. Well, at least someone is glad I’m here.
As I step onto the small porch, I pick up the sound of kids playing in the front of the house. I ring the doorbell. A boy’s voice yells, “I’ll get it,” but I hear a woman tell him no, to let her. I take a long, deep breath.
A moment later a woman swings open the main wooden door. I’m still standing behind a glass storm door, one so smudged with fingerprints that it’s hard to make out the features of the person on the other side, but I have no doubt it’s Stephanie. She’s in mom jeans and a short-sleeved blouse, and her hair is raven black. That’s the one thing I remember from the picture Paul tugged from his wallet at lunch.
“Can I help you?” she asks, opening the glass door a few inches.
“You must be Stephanie,” I say. “I’m Bryn Harper, and I was hoping we could talk.” But before I even get my name out, I see that she recognizes me, and her body stiffens. I feel like a witch who’s come bearing poison apples.
“What about?” Just two little words, but they easily betray her bitterness.
“There’s something urgent I need to tell you. May I please come in?”
For a moment I think she’s going to send me packing, but she lets out a ragged sigh, nods, and opens the storm door wider. As I step over the threshold, the dog muscles in alongside of me.
“We can talk in the kitchen,” she says.