My Very Best Friend Read online

  He gently grabbed my hand. I let him. I wondered if I would shortly begin to pant.

  He closed the door when I was fully in. I tried to get the smile off my mouth. No sense grinning like a fool because a man opened the door of a car for me and helped me inside. Feeling protected by a man, having chivalrousness directed my way, hadn’t happened to me in years.

  I stole a peek at Toran as he backed up his truck so I could follow him in my car. He caught my eye and winked at me. I smiled. Couldn’t help myself.

  I would need to spray myself down with ice water, then dunk my head in the ocean.

  On the way to Toran’s I glimpsed the road on top of the cliffs in the distance, the straightaway part, no curves.

  It shouldn’t have happened. Those were strange, mysterious circumstances. Different scenarios played out in my head. I spun them up and turned them around, analyzing each one.

  Would we ever know what truly happened on top of the cliffs? Did Toran or Bridget know? Did they suspect?

  Toran, Bridget, Pherson, and I were together from the time we were babies. Our mothers had tea and biscuits together, whenever meek and beaten down Bonnie Ramsay could sneak away from her hellfire and damnation husband, Carney. Pherson’s mother, Nessa, would come with Pherson and one little sister, to be followed, years later, by twin girls.

  My earliest memory is playing dress up with Bridget. We put on my mother’s silky dresses, tutus, sequined shirts, hats, and heels. We danced together, had tea parties. My mother said Bridget and I were three when we snuck off with Pherson and Toran into the woods to play Kings and Queens. The mothers were frantic when they couldn’t find us.

  Toran, Bridget, Pherson, and I would ride the bus to school each day, always sitting in the back. Bridget and I sat side by side at lunch. I shared my treats. Her father rarely let her have sweets. We baked pies with my grandma, gardened with my mother, listened to the legends my father told, and pretended we were evil scientists. We avoided her house entirely.

  Bridget and I whispered our secrets, our thoughts, and our plans, as we grew older. She told me about Carney and what he said, what he did, her fear, her pain. When I was five I remember giving her a hug as she cried under our dining room table.

  But it was the four of us, Toran, Bridget, Pherson, and Charlotte, from the start.

  Our mothers laughed and said we must have all been related, or in the same clan, in past lives. We didn’t know what that meant, but we named ourselves Clan TorBridgePherLotte. What we did know is that we were best friends, which was all we needed to know.

  It never occurred to us that it wouldn’t last forever.

  3

  June 12, 1985

  Bridget,

  I wore my furry purple sweater dress to Olga’s gift shop the other day and received some odd looks. When I returned to my car I realized that I was also wearing my pink pajama bottoms with the ghosts on them that you sent me.

  I am becoming more strange by the day. I read science journals and send chess moves to two pen pal chess partners. Ah well, Bridget. If all else fails, I can use my chess pieces as weapons. Against who, I don’t know. We don’t even have handsome bad guys on the island. If there were any bad guys on the island I would probably bore them to death with what chemicals can go together to make explosions or force them to study the geological history of the earth, including all Ice Ages.

  My butterfly bush is blooming, beautiful purple flowers. How is yours doing?

  I’ve killed another hydrangea. The pink one. What is your secret to not murdering hydrangeas? I know you’re the queen of hydrangea growing, so do tell me.

  Love,

  Charlotte

  June 25, 1985

  Charlotte,

  The queen of hydrangeas will tell you that you may have to add a smidgen of lime to your soil for the pinkies and acid for the blue ones. Give it a go. And don’t think of yourself as a hydrangea murderer. That’s rather harsh. Think of yourself as a hydrangea curse. Less violent.

  So you’re still the weird loner on your island with the cat stroller, right? Hold your head high. It’s something to be proud of.

  I have enclosed one of my miniature drawings. I know you like them. As you can see, this one is of the fort we built when we were kids. I added our crowns and capes, Queen Charlotte. As we used to say, Clan TorBridgePherLotte, gather your powers, defeat the enemy!

  Never fear about your love life, Charlotte, the right man will come along. If not, go and hunt him down and bring him home by force. Do you have a spear handy? Use that. Do try not to get arrested.

  Toran said he would help me plant a new rose garden this summer. Poor man. As if he doesn’t have enough to do.

  Love,

  Bridget

  July 7, 1985

  Bridget,

  There is not a hint of a man in sight to spear even if I wanted to. I have four cats. I put sweaters on them in cool weather. I live in my imagination with a fake woman named McKenzie Rae Dean and talk to her. She talks back. I am pathetic. I am going to die one of these days and people will find me on the ground, all my cats lying on top of me. If I thought a spear would work, I would use it.

  Speaking of spearing men. How is Toran?

  Love,

  Charlotte

  July 20, 1985

  Charlotte,

  Toran is fine. The semi trucks are coming in and out all the time to pick up the potatoes, blueberries, and apples that he’s growing. He has more and more clients for his crops, here and abroad. They take his crops across the ocean now. The invitation to come and visit us is always open.

  Then you could try out Toran’s . . . spear.

  Love you,

  Bridget

  “What happened to your family’s home?”

  Toran’s face hardened across the table from me. He had made cheese and ham sandwiches, warmed on a skillet; a fruit plate; and lemon tea. He was a yummy cook. “I had it demolished.”

  “Completely taken down?”

  “Yes. That was not a happy house to grow up in, and I didn’t want to see it again.”

  “I understand.” Carney, Toran’s father, was a Catholic fanatic. He was hellfire and brimstone. Obsessed with religion and bible thumping and thunking. That house had been about a half mile away from this one. “I would have helped you demolish it had I been here.”

  “Thank you, Charlotte.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He rolled his shoulders, as if he was trying to shake off the memory. “I told a builder in town what I wanted, and he built this.”

  “I love it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Toran’s home, a Scottish cottage, was new, but he had adhered to the traditional Scottish style. Light beige stone. Shaker roof. Two story. White trim, dark blue door. It was charming but solid. Spacious but not too spacious. It was more open on the inside than other Scottish cottages, with few walls. Downstairs was the kitchen, huge family area, and den. Windows everywhere. Two sets of French doors. Upstairs, as he had shown me, four bedrooms and a loft.

  Bridget’s bedroom was equal to the size of the master bedroom, with its own bath. “I wanted to create a place she wanted to come home to.”

  A light pink, striped bedspread covered the bed; the walls were white; and a long window seat stretched under the largest window, waiting for her to sit and read.

  He had bought a white desk for Bridget where she could draw her miniature, magical drawings. It was placed under the second window, with a view of the farm, and in the distance, the ocean and the cliffs.

  Toran’s windows framed the views of his farm where he grew blueberries and three different types of potatoes—Shetland Blacks, Dunbar Rovers, and russets. He also grew apples. Discovery; Katy; Red Devils, “For trouble,” he joked; Edward VII, “To add royalty to this place.” He had Bramleys and Grenadiers and crab apples. “For the bees. Without the bees, we don’t work.”

  He had tractors and farm equipment, three red barns, too many outbuilding
s to count, and greenhouse-type tunnels for early growing. He also had two other enormous tunnels for storage of the potatoes.

  I was not surprised. His father had done a poor job of farming. Toran had not.

  “How do you like farming?”

  “I love it. I even loved it when I was at home with my father, the long hours he made me put in. I like to plant things, watch them grow. I like the business end of it. I like to watch that grow, too.” He smiled. “It’s a challenge. Farming has many challenges. The weather. Blight. Insects. Fungus. Weeds. Water irrigation issues. Long days, long nights sometimes. Fortunately, most of my employees have been working for me for years and I trust them.

  “I was not going to work the farm for my father, after university, but then he and my mother died, and it was our land. Clan Ramsay land. My father had sold pieces off, as he didn’t want to work and needed the money to give to the church and pay debts, and I was determined to buy it back.”

  “And you did?”

  “Yes. And more.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.”

  I waited to see if he wanted to say anything else about his parents, but it didn’t appear that he did, his jaw tightening. I understood his reluctance to speak of it.

  “I can’t see you inside an office, trapped like a rat, so I’m glad you like to farm.” Those blue eyes refocused on mine. They were blueberries and the Scottish blue sky mixed together.

  “I think it would kill me, I do. I have to be outside.”

  The conversation was easy, fast, as we had so much to talk about. I have never talked to a man like I talked to Toran. Farming. Science. He asked me many questions about my life on the island.

  We had his homegrown blueberries and ice cream for dessert, with a sprinkle of nuts, sitting together on the couch. It was delicious. He was delicious.

  “So, Toran. I’m ready.” My stomach flipped, twisted, and turned, as it had earlier. “How is Bridget?”

  “Bridget.” Toran closed his eyes for a second, sadness covering his face. He rubbed his temples.

  “I haven’t heard from her since last year.” I clenched my hands together. “Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know where she is, and yes, something is wrong.” He leaned back on the couch and seemed instantly exhausted.

  “I told her I was coming. I had hoped that she would be here.”

  “I wish she was.”

  “You said in your letter to me that you wanted to have a conversation about her.”

  “Yes, I do. Perhaps we should have that conversation tomorrow. You look a bit pale. I know you haven’t slept in two days.”

  “Is she ill?” Please, not ill. Bridget was a kind, fun, funny person.

  “In a way. But . . . there is much more to it.” I thought I saw a sheen of tears over his eyes.

  “What is it?” Flip. Twist. Turn.

  He clasped his hands together. “Charlotte, there are many problems.”

  He told me the problems.

  When he was done I opened my mouth to speak. No words fell out. I closed it. Opened it. No words fell out again. I finally choked out, “You have no idea, not the slightest, where she is?”

  “No.”

  “Or how she is?”

  “She’s alive. I believe.” He put a hand to his forehead. “I think. Now and then she’ll call. Or write. Or someone I’ve hired to find her gets news that she’s okay. But I have nightmares about that question all the time.”

  “I didn’t know.” But I knew something was wrong, something was off. I had felt it.

  “I know.”

  “She didn’t tell me.” Why? Why didn’t she tell me? “I thought we were friends. . . .”

  “You are friends. She didn’t want you to know. She made me swear I wouldn’t tell you about it, what had happened, what is happening, the things she’d done and what had been done to her. Her life is messed up, Charlotte. She’s in the dark. That’s the way I’d explain it. She’s lost. She’s losing her own battle. I didn’t tell you, because I thought it would make things worse for her. There was nothing you could do. You were far away, and she wanted one person to talk to so she could pretend that all was well and she was living the life she wanted. I’ve tried to help. Constantly. It hasn’t worked.”

  “She lied to me then.”

  “Yes.”

  “About what?”

  “Almost everything.”

  And there it was. The truth.

  My best friend had lied to me.

  I felt ill.

  I was in bed by ten that night, crashing from jet lag and emotionally whipped.

  I thought of Bridget again and my stomach heaved. I thought I might be sick.

  A chill stole over me, like a shadow, stretching up and up until I shook, head to foot.

  Toran, Bridget, Pherson, and I played imaginary games together. We explored the hills, the woods, the ocean. We built a fort. We built a tree house. We read books.

  We were King Toran, Queen Bridget, King Pherson, and Queen Charlotte.

  Clan TorBridgePherLotte. We were the fearsome foursome.

  We battled the evil goblin Strike, we overthrew the wicked headless horsemen, we had sword fights with bad guys with horns and scary witches with spells that flew from their fingers.

  We broke each other out of traps before we were eaten by voracious giant monsters. We hid in bushes and spied on the enemy. We wore invisibility capes and could fly on our own. We rode horses with wings, crowns atop our heads. We talked to animals in their language.

  Toran. Bridget. Pherson. Charlotte.

  And in our imaginary lands and adventures, we escaped.

  It was only later that I learned how much Bridget and Toran needed to escape from their home.

  Oh, how they needed to escape.

  I huddled deep into all my blankets and let the tears soak my pillow.

  “Bridget will come back to you.”

  “What do you mean, Grandma? She’s right there.” I pointed to Bridget. She was helping my mother tie up the trumpet vine with the orange flowers to our trellis. Bridget wasn’t afraid of the bees.

  “She’ll be gone for a while. She’ll move across an ocean, she’ll run with devils, she’ll hurt her arms, she’ll keep getting lost. I don’t know why she can’t find her way home, so confusing, but she’ll come back with roses and a statue of four children. She’ll bring a long garden. You’ll see her again. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. No.”

  She stroked my hair. “Cursed, she is.”

  “What?”

  “It’s random, unfair,” she muttered.

  “What is?”

  “Life.”

  I woke up the next morning to white rays of sunshine pouring through the window and my face puffed up like a pasty white balloon.

  Toran had put me in a guest room with a yellow comforter and pillows, a wicker chair in the corner and a wicker desk. It was clean, sparse, and organized. My suitcases were in a corner.

  I had a dark brown suitcase and a light brown suitcase. The dark brown one was duct taped shut. I found out the lock was broken a half hour before I had to leave to go to the scary airport, so I duct taped it, round and round. I bought them both at Goodwill. No need to pay hard-earned money for more expensive ones. I would try to fix the one that was duct taped, but I figured that after ten years, I might have to find a thrift shop and buy a new one.

  I felt human again except for my exploded face.

  Toran was gone, working on his farm. I got up and took a shower. I washed my hair, though I find that chore tedious. I do have thick hair, via my mother, and it can be a nuisance.

  I dried off and put on fresh underwear, slightly frayed, only one hole, no matter, and my other beige bra. I clipped my wet hair back from my forehead so it wouldn’t get in my way. I put the rest of it in a bun. I pulled on my denim skirt that hung to midcalf and a blue blouse with two red diamonds on the front. I’d found it at Goodwill in Seattle for two dollars three years
ago. Still looks stylish. I added a yellow crocheted vest. As I would be at my house today, cleaning, I put on my tennis shoes and my favorite blue socks with white stripes to complete my outfit.

  I went downstairs, made eggs and toast, ate half a bowl of vanilla ice cream, and drank four cups of coffee. I cleaned up the kitchen. It was messy, not much, but once I start cleaning I don’t quit until I’m done. When I was done, that kitchen sparkled, everything in its place.

  I took discreet peeks around Toran’s home. So this was where the Scottish Warrior lived. This was where he walked around, this was the den where he worked, this was where he fell asleep.

  This was where he ate. If he had girlfriends, this was where he brought them.

  I did not like the thought of girlfriends, so I envisioned the women stuck in petri dishes with the lids screwed on tight in refrigerators. Laboratory research is a creative way to mentally exact revenge.

  Toran had a huge four-poster bed with a headboard. I thought about tying up Toran’s wrists to the bedposts and kissing him down one side and up the other, and then I blushed. McKenzie Rae Dean would not blush at that thought. She would have been proud of herself and excited. She would have grabbed silk scarves for Tie Me Up Night.

  I don’t think I could be tied to bedposts by anyone but Toran. I would savor the experience.

  I saw the Ramsay clan tartan, red and black, hung from a hook on the wall, and his red and black kilt, hung on a hanger, his fur sporran and Prince Charlie jacket. His bagpipes were in a corner, next to his clan’s crest, with a unicorn.

  I was getting all hot and bothered once again and I had work to do, mice to chase out, moldy couches and mattresses to get rid of, porn magazines to toss.

  I grabbed the keys to my rental car and left as visions of bedposts danced through my mind.