Maple Creek Read online

  Maple

  Creek

  By

  Elizabeth Penn

  Copyright © 2019 Elizabeth Penn

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN 978-1-7322121-7-6

  Cover Art:

  SelfPubBookCovers.com/ Viergacht

  This book is dedicated to David Simmons.

  Chapter 1

  My mouse hovered over the options under “Status” for my social profile. The cursor glided between “Separated” and “It’s Complicated.” Which one was correct?

  I mean, technically we were going to be separated. He was here in California, and I would soon be in New England. But there was no official paperwork filed. I was just going to go. But if I said it was complicated, well, that wasn’t exactly true either. There was nothing complicated about it. He hit me, and I packed my bags. Although, it wasn’t the first time he had hit me, and I don’t know why it took me as long as it did to leave. Maybe it was complicated.

  I clicked the ‘x’ button, closing out of the window, leaving my status as “Married” until I could make up my mind. Then, closing my laptop and slipping it into my purple suitcase along with the charger, I walked out the front door into the early morning air to catch my taxi to the airport. Hector had gone into work early, and he wasn’t expecting to see me for at least a few hours.

  My purse was full of wads of cash that I had saved up for over a year. And with it, I bought my plane ticket. I can’t really explain what the plane ride felt like. I wasn’t crying and devastated over my decision. But I wasn’t joyous and happy either. I was numb. The whole situation didn’t feel good or bad. It simply was.

  After a seemingly never-ending day of flights, my final plane landed in the small-town airport of Maple Creek, my hometown. I’d been away almost 10 years. With my luggage click-clacking behind me, I walked out into the crisp night air. I’d forgotten a jacket, since I wasn’t used to the cold weather, and goosebumps ran up my arms the moment the automatic doors whooshed open.

  I reached into my pocket for my phone so I could order an Uber. I didn’t know exactly how long I would be gone, or if my money would stretch far enough for me to rent a car for my entire trip. But my phone wasn’t in my pocket. I’d forgotten that I’d left it behind. Phones could be tracked

  So instead, I made my way down the empty sidewalk to the pick-up area, which was illuminated with yellowed streetlights. I paid for a ride from the airport shuttle to take me from the airport to the local Bed and Breakfast. I couldn’t help the need to look back over my shoulder as I climbed into the van, and the driver shut the sliding door behind me, and it locked with a click.

  Due to the late season, the sun had already almost completely set, and in turn, the buildings were now nothing but glowing white windows between the trees. That was, aside from the square, and the few houses around town which were completely decked out in Halloween decorations. Their yards were scattered with jack-o-lanterns and plastic cemeteries, which were lit up with flashing strobe lights.

  The B&B, too, was decorated for the season. Pumpkins and squash lined the walkway, and paper ghosts hung in the trees. I hadn’t celebrated the holiday since I was little, and the decorations made me feel like a child again. Only, there was no one to hold my hand this time, and I was alone to face the ghosts in town.

  I walked up the short flight of steps to the door. The house was all red brick with white shutters and a dark blue door, much like the traditional American home you would see featured on post cards or in oil paintings. The door opened to a simple foyer with wooden floors, which, while a bit worn, were still beautiful. There was a matching wood table, which held a smiling jack-o-lantern, and above it hung a small Tiffany chandelier.

  On the left of the foyer was an empty dining room with another door on the far wall which read ‘kitchen.’ And on the right was another open door which led to a cozy-looking living room with a roaring fire in a small brick fireplace. In the back of the foyer, on the other side of the table, sat an antique grandfather clock beside a wide wooden staircase which led to the second floor. The air smelled strongly of pumpkin spice.

  Out of the kitchen swooped in a tiny elderly woman with silver hair done up in a messy bun.

  “Oh, hello! You must be Emily Heart,” she said cheerfully, wiping her hands off on her sunflower apron.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Perfect! My name is Margaret Davies. I’m just getting dinner ready. Your room is up the stairs, last door on the left. The Pink Room. You’ll love it!” she squeaked.

  “Thank you. Is the dinner for everyone, or…”

  “Yes. Well, for everyone that is here. We have breakfasts every morning, and dinner on most nights. It’s just you right now, but in a few weeks, when the holidays come around, we get kind of crowded.”

  “If you call a small handful of people crowded,” chuckled a man who entered the room from the kitchen, “We only have three rooms to rent here, Grams.”

  “Oh, this is John Wood,” the woman explained, “My grandson. He helps me run the place. You must try his pumpkin pies. He just pulled them out to cool.”

  “Sounds yummy,” I smiled, “I mean, the pie sounds yummy, not John. I mean, not that you aren’t. I just meant…”

  “And you are?” he asked, interrupting my rant and offering his hand.

  “Emily,” I answered, taking it.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Emily.”

  John was tall and slim. He had hazel eyes which were framed by thick black-framed glasses, and his hair was in messy brown locks. He wore a cream sweater over a pair of tight tattered jeans. He was barefoot.

  “John, help her with her suitcase. I have to get back to cooking,” Margaret said, scurrying back through the dining room.

  “You don’t have to,” I said, reaching for the handle on my bags. But he was faster, and he was already carrying it up the first few steps before I could reach it.

  “I know I don’t have to. But I want to.”

  “Well, thank you,” I blushed. I wasn’t used to a kind hand.

  I loved The Pink Room, just as Margaret had said that I would. It was quaint and simple, like a bedroom you would find in a cottage. The wallpaper was a soft rose color, and there was a light wood vanity dresser with a single paper rose in a small crystal vase by the mirror. The bed was covered in a pink rose quilt with frilly lace pillows.

  John set my suitcase beside the vanity, and I crossed the room to look out the window. The view looked over the backyard, which had two large barren trees, and a patio decorated with strings of lights and a few metal tables and chairs.

  “You know, bringing girls to my room isn’t usually my first move, I promise,” he laughed.

  “What?”

  “This used to be my room, before everything was remodeled. I grew up here. Sorry, it was just a joke,” he said, his face flushing a bit as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

  I looked back out the window.

  “So,” he continued, “Your hair is cut pretty short for cold weather. Where are you from?”

  I’m from here, I thought. But I needed a fresh start, not to drudge up old memories. I was already lucky that John hadn’t recognized me from school or some other place in the small town.

  “California,” I answered.

  “Very cool. Well, I should get back down to help finish dinner. It should be ready in about half-an-hour or so. See you there?”

  “Yeah. Sounds good. Thanks for helping me with my bags.”

  He gave me a wink, closing the door behind him. I sat down on the edge of the bed, falling back onto the mattr
ess. It was soft, and I sank down into it. I laid there for a few minutes, listening to the silence. The gravity of what I had done finally hit me. I was alone, in Maple Creek. I was free.

  Chapter 2

  I made my way downstairs to the dining room, following the sweet smell of spices. The stairs creaked beneath my feet, and the banister was a bit loose, but the aged house was made homey by the lace curtains and oil paintings that hung on the walls.

  The table was lit up by orange candles which were surrounded by blue and white ceramic plates that were covered in mountains of food. Potatoes, three bean salad, and some sort of backed fish left barely any room for dining, but it looked delicious.

  I took a seat across from John, who was in the middle of a tense conversation with his grandmother. He was leaned back in his chair, fidgeting with fork while his grandmother lunged across the table at him, begging.

  “Please, John? We need to be more active in the community and get some advertising out there,” she pleaded.

  “I’m not going if you aren’t,” he shrugged.

  “You know I can’t do these sorts of things. I’m an old woman, John. I’m fragile.”

  “Well, I’m not going alone.”

  They already had some untouched food on their plates, so I quietly spooned a glob of mashed potatoes onto my own, hoping not to draw too much attention and get pulled into the conversation.

  “Emily could go with you,” Margaret smiled, sitting back down and taking a bite of fish.

  I froze, looking back and forth between them.

  “No, Grams. I don’t think Emily should be pulled into doing a PR stunt on her vacation,” John said shaking his head.

  “She’s booked until February! She has all the time in the world to do sight-seeing later. And besides, since she is staying here, she can talk up the place. This is a great way for her to meet the people in town.”

  “May I ask, exactly what are we talking about?” I interjected.

  Margaret leaned over, squeezing my hand, “There is a fabulous little adult-only Halloween party at the Town Hall tomorrow night. The whole town will be there. I told John he should represent the B&B.”

  Part of me didn’t want to go so I could avoid running into people I might know. But I was also curious to see how things had changed.

  “I don’t have a costume,” I answered, thinking that might be the end of it.

  “They should have a few left in the stores downtown,” Margaret said, “What do you say?”

  I glanced across the table at John who flashed me a crooked smile.

  “I’ll go if John is going.”

  “Perfect!” exclaimed Margaret, “John, you’re going.”

  I placed some fish on my plate, hiding my smile behind a napkin. John’s relationship with his grandmother was amusing.

  “So, what brings you to Maple Creek, Emily?” John asked.

  “I’m taking some time for myself to find my passions again. I’m hoping to look around and maybe get settled into a place here if it goes well.”

  “Isn’t that kind of the purpose of California?” he asked.

  “I have too many ties there. And my life wasn’t exactly the glamorous California dream.”

  “What did you do there?” Margaret asked.

  “I was a secretary at Jacobson’s Enterprises. Just one of those paperwork and staplers sort of jobs.”

  “I’ve heard of Jacobson’s,” John said, taking a sip of wine.

  “Must have been a nice paycheck at such a fancy corporation,” his grandmother added.

  “I suppose,” I muttered, focusing again on my dinner.

  My back account would read $200 every other Friday: my allowance from my husband. The rest of my money was a direct deposit into his account. He had updated my paperwork into what he had told me was a joint bank account, back when we were dating. He said it was a gift, as a symbol of taking our relationship more seriously. It was definitely serious.

  I was dating Hector Jacobson, one of the heirs to the Jacobson fortune. He was working for his father until it was his turn to take over the company. He was handsome and attentive, powerful, controlling, and eventually abusive. But not until I had a ring on my finger.

  The rest of the dinner was quiet as we all finished our fish. After the necessary pleasantries, I slipped away, back up the stairs to my room. I laid my clothes aside, crawled under the covers, and drifted off to sleep. I didn’t have any dreams.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning I woke around seven, and I could already hear the clanging of pots and pans downstairs in the kitchen. I picked out a cool-weather outfit to include a red sweater, skinny jeans, and a pair of black heels. Heels were the only type of shoes I had anymore, because they were all that Hector said looked nice on me. I took the outfit with me, down to the bathroom at the end of the hallway for a morning shower.

  While parts of the house had been modernized, the bathroom definitely had not. The shower was not a shower, but instead, was a claw-foot bathtub, which had been pushed under a rusty faucet coming from the wall. The toilet, which was much smaller and closer to the ground than I was used to, flushed with the pull of a wooden handle attached to a yellow gold chain. There were no real decorations, with the exception of a tray of decorative soaps on the sink.

  I turned two squeaky handles on the bathtub faucet, and the water switched between boiling hot and freezing cold no matter how carefully I turned the knobs. After a few minutes of trying to get it right, I settled on lukewarm, and climbed into the tub.

  The gentle splish of the water reminded me a bit of those Zen gardens that dripped water onto rocks at dentist offices or those kinds of houses that hosted dinner parties. But just like in those venues, there was still a tightness in my chest. A weight that had me gripping the edges of the tub, trying not to be pulled under the water. I could feel a panic attack trying to take over my thoughts, so I tried to focus on the bath.

  I reached over onto the sink, plucking a seashell soap from the pile in the tray. It smelled of old perfume and garden herbs. Upon touching the water, it melted, turning the bathwater to milk.

  My fingertips rippled the surface as the white creamy liquid danced on my skin, washing me clean. I ran my hands down my legs, up across my stomach and chest, and back down my arms. I winced as the milky white liquid washed over the bluish-gray lines on my upper right arm, almost perfectly outlining a handprint. It had been hidden beneath the sleeve of my shirt the day before, and I had almost completely forgotten about it.

  I took a pause, letting the water continue dripping down my skin. Then, I took a handful of the water and splashed it over my face, removing the thick coated makeup to reveal the matching bruise on my left cheek.AI tear fell down my cheek, mixing with the water.

  With a deep breath, I dunked back into the water, allowing my body to relax in the sloshing silence as the liquid soap enveloped me, dissolving the dirt of the past, and I sat up again, meditating in the silence. After a few more minutes, I stepped out of the tub, pulling the plug, and wrapping a scratchy off-white towel around myself and dabbing the drops of moisture from my legs.

  Once I had put on my clothes, I dried off my hair with the towel, causing it to stick out every which way like yellow hay, as Hector used to say. I looked up in the mirror as I patted down my hair.

  My face looked much worse than I had imagined. The extra day had set the colors of the bruise deeper into my skin. Without makeup to cover it up again, I had to try and make it back to the room without being spotted. Just as luck would have had it, as that thought crossed my mind, there was a knock on the door beside me.

  “I’m in here! Sorry. Almost done. I’ll be out in a minute,” I shouted, probably a little louder than necessary.

  “No problem, don’t be sorry,” I heard the voice of John say from the other side of the door, “I just always make sure to knock. You know, since there is no lock on the door.”

  I looked down to see he was right. There was no lock on th
e door. I covered my face with my hand, looking around for a way to get out of the room without having to answer any questions. I spotted my towel and snatched it back off the rack, pretending to dry my hair again as I opened the door, pushing past John.

  “All yours,” I said casually.

  Before I could make it two steps past him, I felt the door click shut behind me and the towel was ripped from my head, uncovering my face. I looked back to see the corner of the towel was caught in the door, and John’s eyes were wide open.

  “Oh, my goodness. Are you alright?” he asked, obviously concerned.

  “Um, yes. Of course. I just…” I stuttered.

  “Fell in the tub?”

  I nodded silently. I was never very good at lying.

  “I’ll get some slip grips for the bathtub later today. Bathtubs can be dangerous.”

  “Thank you,” I muttered, turning to go back to my room.

  John caught my hand, “Emily? I’m here if you need someone to talk to. I know how it is. My mother used to fall all the time, too.”

  My heart sank as I looked back at him. His eyes were soft behind his wide-rimmed glasses, and his lips smiled in a sad sort of way. Then, squeezing my hand, he went into the bathroom, and I went back to my room to hide my bruises again.

  Chapter 4

  Eggs, toast, and sausage were all out on the table by the time I went downstairs.

  “Good morning, Miss Emily. Coffee?” asked Margaret.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Just cream, thank you.”

  “Any ideas for your costume tonight?” she asked excitedly, setting the mug down in front of me.

  “No. It’s been years since I wore a costume. I’m just going to see what they have left.”

  “Well, there is a grocery store down the street. It doubles as a general store, too. It’s called…”

  “Maple Market,” I interjected. It just sort of slipped out.

  “Yes,” she smiled, “Nice to see you still remember some of this place”