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THIRTY-FOUR
WILL
Caroline cries out several times during the night. But instead of me, she seeks comfort from Ashton. She’s grumpy at breakfast, and when she begs Ashton to let her stay home from school on Tuesday, I tell her a firm no. “You can’t run from your problems, sweetheart.”
“You’re my problem, Daddy,” she says, sticking her tongue out at me and fleeing the room, leaving her breakfast untouched.
I wait until Ashton has left to take the girls to school before calling Betty Bleaker and reading her the riot act.
“Watch your tone, Will. Your anger problem is what got you into this mess.”
Betty is more than the head of my children’s school. She’s a long-time client and friend. Her warning is both warranted and appreciated. “I’m sorry, Betty. I’m just frustrated. Caroline is really struggling.”
“Her teacher has made me aware of the situation, and we’re on top of it. Parents should not let their children within earshot of the news. They are too young to process world events.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve been in the news too much these last couple of days. My children are my priority, Betty. Call me if you need anything. I will make myself available.”
“You have my word. Hang in there, Will. Things will get better.”
Ending the call, I say to myself, “I’m not so sure about that, Betty.”
When I arrive at my office, my staff greets me with cold stares. Even my assistant speaks to me in a curt tone. As I make my rounds to the job sites, I receive the same chilly reception from both workmen and project managers. With the exception of Maurice who envelops me in a bear hug.
“Ignore them, Will. I’m sorry for the way they’re acting. I don’t know what’s gotten into them.”
Close to tears, I mumble, “I do. They think I killed my wife.”
“Nobody thinks that, Will,” he says in an unconvincing tone.
On the way back to the office, I stop by Custom Crust to pick up lunch. Judy, who takes my order for the same sandwich nearly every single day, looks at me with a blank stare, as though she doesn’t know me. “What can I get you, sir?”
“Never mind. I lost my appetite.”
Instead of returning to the office, I retreat to Marsh Point. It dawns on me that this is how my mom must have felt when ostracized by the locals for her alcoholism.
Mia is in the kitchen stirring a pot of beef stew when I arrive. I open the refrigerator door and close it again without removing any food items. I let out a heavy sigh as I plop down in a chair at the kitchen table.
“Can I fix you some lunch, Mister Will?” Mia asks, placing a lid on the soup pot. “I have some leftover rotisserie chicken. I can make you a pesto chicken panini.”
My world may be falling down around me, but after spending the weekend eating jail slop, I would be a fool to turn down home cooking. “That sounds delicious, Mia. Thank you.”
“I’m surprised to see you home from work so early,” she says as she goes about making the sandwich.
“I needed a break. The whole town has turned against me, including my staff. Whatever happened to assuming a man is innocent until proven guilty? Heck . . .” I throw up my hand and let it drop. “Maybe you feel the same way. I don’t blame you if you do.”
“No, sir. I don’t. In the short amount of time I’ve worked here, you’ve shown me nothing but kindness. That’s good enough for me. I think it’s a crying shame the way the police and reporters have been treating you.” She slices my sandwich in half, places it on a plate, and sets it on the table in front of me. “Can I fix you some sweet tea to go with that?”
“That would be wonderful.” I take a bite of sandwich and sit back in my chair. “Where is everyone? Shouldn’t the girls be home from school by now?”
“Miss Ashton picked them up from school and took them to lunch at The Nest. She thought they needed some special attention.”
Of course, they did. Because everyone in town, including their friends, thinks their father is a murderer.
After lunch, I go outside to the porch, and stretch out on the daybed swing. When I close my eyes, my thoughts turn to the days following Bert’s accident when everyone turned against me. When even my family didn’t believe in me.
At the sound of gravel crunching in the driveway, I sneak around the opposite side of the house to avoid seeing Ashton and the girls. My emotions are near the surface, and I can’t risk falling apart in front of my children.
Tears sting my eyes as I drive off in my truck. I have no destination in mind, but I’m not surprised to find myself in front of Clemmy’s house in Beaufort. Her car is in the driveway, and when I text her that I’m here, she instructs me to let myself in.
