Page 66 of Buried in the Woods Below

Chapter 32

September 2

I wake up with a gasp, nails buried in the sheets, my body locked tight as a vise. Daylight splinters the room.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

“Charlotte? You awake?” says a man’s voice.

It’s Eric. I look around to get my bearings, my heart still sprinting. “Uh…yeah.”

“I’ve got to head out shortly. Are you still able to take the kids to the festival?” His tone is casual, but there’s something sharp beneath it.

Shit. What day is it? I promised Eric and Olivia I would take the girls to the local fair today? What’s happening to me? I never forget plans.

“Yeah,” I lie. “I didn’t forget. I’ll be out in a minute.”

I force myself out of bed, throw on joggers, a hat, and sunglasses, like a celebrity trying to avoid the paparazzi. My mouth feels and tastes like I ate dinner out of a dumpster.

Fifteen minutes later—ten, if you don’t count the five Eric spent futzing with the boat’s starter because it was “on the fritz”—I’m skimming across Lake Minnetonka with Eric, Emma, and Penelope, toward Wayzata. The sun sparkles on the town ahead of us, but when I glance back, Big Island lurks behind a ribbon of gray like it’s trying to hide. I think of Olivia, back at the house, in Eric’s office, editing her documentary, alone in that vapor. Is she safe? Normally, I’d jump at the chance to spend a day at a carnival with kids, but the twins aren’t typical kids. And after last night, my nerves are hair-trigger.

Eric drops us off at the dock and heads to the bakery. We stroll down Lake Street and soak in the idyllic scene. A massive ocean-blue banner hanging over the street proclaims, “James J. Hill Days.” I grab a guidebook so I can plot our path through the fair. The festival, named after the late railroad baron, has been a local tradition since long before I was born. It looks the same as I remember it. A polka band plays on the bandstand at the old railroad depot. Crowds of people in T-shirts, hats, and sunglasses bustle along the street. Blue-and-white striped tents, each hosting vendors with crafts and artwork, flank our path. It’s almost enough to make me forget last night. I take a deep inhale, savoring an intoxicating blend of popcorn and cotton candy. It’s a glorious day, but there’s a nip in the breeze that reminds me that Minnesota summers are fleeting.

The girls walk ahead of me. I tried to hold their hands, but they refused, so I trail a step behind like their personal secret service agent. Spotting a cotton-candy vendor up on the right, I pat them both on the shoulder.

“Girls, look, cotton candy! Want to get some?” If I can’t win the twins over with charm, I’ll bribe them.

Penelope wrinkles her nose and scratches her beauty mark. “No, thanks. It’s too sweet.”

Emma hesitates, like she wants some, but then defers to the queen and shakes her head.

What kind of kids don’t like cotton candy? It feels like I’m back in elementary school, constantly guessing the right thing to say to impress the cool kids and getting it wrong, always slightly off-key.

Undeterred, I point at a craft ice cream stand across the street. “Okay, what about ice cream? Everybody likes ice cream.”

Now it’s Emma’s turn to lead the Charlotte abuse. “It’s too cold for ice cream, dummy.”

“Yeah, dummy,” echoes Penelope.

I bite my lip and feel my face flush. If these were my kids, we’d be going home immediately, but I don’t want Eric and Olivia to think I’m out of my depth. I muster my most patient tone.

“Girls, it’s not very nice to call someone a dummy, is it?”

“Mom says to always tell the truth,” Emma replies with a sadistic smile. I’ve got to give it to her; not a bad comeback.

I open my mouth to respond, but then I catch a familiar face.

It’s Carlos.

He’s sitting outside Ben & Jerry’s, licking an ice cream cone, long tongue easing its way across Cherry Garcia.

Staring at me.

But he’s not alone. He’s with another woman. More like a girl. She can’t be over twenty-two. And she’s gorgeous. Thin. Fake boobs. Blond hair perfectly waved. Bright-blue eyes, and a measured tan. She’s like me, but artificially “upgraded” in every way. A tinge of jealousy runs up my spine.

He waves and takes a bite of the waffle cone. His hand strokes the ink on his collarbone. The tattoo of his mother, after last night’s surprise late-night visit, doesn’t seem so endearing anymore.

Emma tugs at my shirt. “Who’s that? He looks like Gaston from Beauty and the Beast.”