Two Roads Home Read online

  “When I was a little girl, Gram taught us how to remember.” She recited the little chant in a sing-song voice. “Leaves of three, leave them be. Might be poison ivy.” Wielding the stick like a fishing rod, she flung the wreath into the woods.

  Simone burst into tears. “I want my pwincess cwown.”

  Corinne knelt beside her, careful not to touch her skin. “Sweetie, we can’t keep the crown. It might make you itchy and sick.”

  She looked to Sadie, suddenly suspicious. “Where did you girls get these vines? Poppa wouldn’t let poison ivy grow near the house.” She leveled her gaze between the two older girls. “You didn’t go down by the creek, did you?”

  “No, Mommy. We found it up here.”

  The look Sari gave her told all.

  “Sadie. Look at me.” She knelt and made her four-year-old look at her. “Did you go down by the creek?”

  “No, Mommy. I told you—”

  “Sadie, don’t tell a lie.” Sari propped her hands on her hips.

  “I’m not,” Sadie spat. “We didn’t go by the water, Mommy. We just got the pretty leaves.”

  “She did too,” Sari said, in full tattletale mode.

  “Sadie, what have we told you about telling the truth?”

  “We didn’t go by the water.”

  “I don’t care. You know you are not supposed to go anywhere near that creek without a grownup. And when I ask you a question, I expect you to tell me the truth.” They’d caught Sadie in several lies recently. She didn’t remember Sari going through that stage, but then Sadie seemed to invent stages as she grew.

  “But Huckleberry was with us, Mommy. So we were safe.”

  “You listen to me.” She drew the other two girls into the circle with Sadie and shook her index finger at each one of them. “You are not to go near that creek without a grownup. You could drown if you fell in the water.” She shuddered at the thought. “Do you know what it means to drown?”

  “It means we would be dead,” Sari said soberly.

  “But Mommy, Huck would save us. He would!”

  “No, Sadie.” She made her voice sterner yet. “Huck might be able to swim, but he is not a lifeguard.”

  Simone was still fussing about the loss of her cwown. “Don’t cry, sweetie. We can make you a new crown that won’t hurt you.” She inspected the baby’s forehead. No sign of a rash. Yet.

  She turned to the older girls. “Hold out your hands. All three of you need to get in the house and in the tub. Don’t you remember when you had poison ivy last summer, Sadie?”

  Huck bounded up from the creek and ran circles around them. Corinne herded the three of them toward the house, but first Sadie raced over to where the wreath had landed and snagged it up.

  “No, Sadie! Leave that alone. Those leaves will make you itch.” She tossed the wreath aside again, which set Simone crying harder.

  Corinne scooped her up, trying desperately not to get any of the sap from the leaves on herself. She’d never had the rash before, and as much as she and her siblings had played down by the creek when they were kids, she’d surely come in contact with the vine before, but there was always a first time. And that plant could be vicious.

  Coming up the hill, she saw that Jesse was still on the phone. He looked up and noticed them, but was so intent on his call that he didn’t acknowledge them.

  “I need help, Jesse,” she yelled.

  He waved and, still talking into the phone, started for the house.

  She had the bathtub in her parents’ bedroom almost filled and had the girls stripped down by the time he finally showed up.

  “What happened?”

  “They got into poison ivy. Down by the creek.”

  “What were they doing down there?” The way he said it made it sound like he thought it was her fault.

  “Can you please help me get them washed up? I wish I had some of that oatmeal soap. The one with tea tree oil.”

  “Do you want me to go ask your mom if she has some?” He swished a hand through the water, testing the temperature, then lifted the girls into the tub, one by one.

  “No, there’s probably something in here that will work.” Corinne found washcloths in a cupboard along with a bar of one of Mom’s fancy goat’s milk soaps. The package claimed oatmeal as an ingredient. She started with Simone, gently washing her skin, hoping to get rid of every trace of poison ivy oil before it did any damage.

  “Who were you talking to?” she asked Jesse, not looking up.

  “On the phone?”

  She nodded.

  “Work stuff,” he said. “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Work work or . . . the other?”

  “Not now, Corinne.”

  Which pretty much told her it was “the other.” Was it Michaela he’d been talking to? Surely he wouldn’t have stayed on the phone that long if it was her. Unless there really was something between them. She hated the suspicion that crept in again. She couldn’t let herself think that way.

  Jesse might be a bit of a flirt—that was just his personality—but she knew he wasn’t even aware of how he came off sometimes. It was one of the things that made him a successful salesman. But she’d warned him more than once that some women might misinterpret his “friendliness” for something more.

  She’d always been proud that her husband was usually the most desirable man in the room wherever they went. She’d secretly enjoyed the jealous looks other women gave her. She felt blessed that of all the women he could have had, Jesse Pennington had chosen her. But now she wasn’t so sure.

  And even if there wasn’t anything between him and that woman, Jesse should have known better.

  Mom popped her head in the door and frowned. “What happened?”

  “They got into poison ivy.”

  Her mother huffed. “I told your dad he needed to get that taken care of.”

  “It was down by the creek, Mom. Not anywhere near the house. And they are in big trouble.” She looked at the girls pointedly.

  “Sari’s gotten into it before without any reaction,” Jesse said.

  “I don’t know about Simone though.” Corinne searched under the sink for something to rinse the toddler’s hair with.

  “Hang on—” Mom disappeared and returned a minute later with a plastic pitcher and fluffy towels Corinne knew were meant for guests of the inn. She’d have to stay long enough to do laundry and scour the tub.

  “Do you want some calamine lotion?”

  “We have some at home,” Jesse volunteered. “It won’t do any good until they break out, will it?”

  “Can we say unless they break out, please?” Corinne gave him a stern look. She finished rinsing Simone’s hair, lifted her from the tub, and wrapped her in a towel. For a child who usually screamed while she got her hair washed, Simone was being strangely compliant. She wrapped her in a towel and gently combed through her damp, tangled locks. “What happened to your hair ribbons, baby doll?”

  “She still had ’em when we were down at the creek,” Sadie offered.

  “Didn’t you use Simone’s ribbons to tie up your crown wreaths, Sadie?” Sari asked.

  “Don’t blame me,” Sadie pouted. “I already got in trouble once.”

  “Well, you shoulda done what Mommy said and then—”

  “Shh . . .” Corinne shushed them. “Stop fighting. It’s no big deal. We don’t need the ribbons right now anyway. Maybe Gram will find them when she cleans.” Corinne stood Simone on the counter and finished drying her off, while Jesse dried the older girls.

  “I’ll go get these little yahoos into pajamas,” he said, picking up a towel-clad daughter in each arm.

  Sari squirmed and giggled. “We’re not little yahoos, Daddy. We’re little girls.”

  “You’re big trouble is what you are.”

  “No, we’re girls! Little girls.” Sadie took up the cry.

  “Well, you are little girls in big trouble.”

  “Huh-uh. We’re not in trouble.”
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  “Yes, you are.” He turned serious. “Understand?”

  They both nodded, appropriately subdued.

  “I think you know why you’re in trouble,” he said. “But we’ll talk about this later.”

  Corinne curbed a smile. She loved Jesse’s way with their daughters.

  But before he reached the bathroom door, Jesse’s phone rang again, and Corinne quickly sobered. If only poison ivy was their worst problem.

  Thankfully, he ignored the phone and let it go to voicemail.

  A week ago that fact would have made her heart sing. Now it only made her wonder if it was Michaela Creeve on the other end.

  10

  The shower droned on the other side of the bedroom wall, and Corinne propped herself on one elbow in the bed and stared at Jesse’s cell phone charging on his nightstand.

  They’d never kept secrets from each other—at least she hadn’t thought so—but they’d also never read each other’s text messages or e-mails. There just wasn’t any reason for it. But she was tempted now.

  On the way home from her parents’ last night she’d asked him again about the mysterious phone call, but he’d brushed off her question. The girls had been awake in the backseat, so maybe he just hadn’t wanted to talk about it in front of them. But even though she’d pressed him, he’d claimed fatigue after they got home and had gone to bed early. Something wasn’t right.

  She reached for his phone and clicked the power on. Holding her breath, she listened again to be sure the shower was still running. Feeling like she was betraying a sacred trust, she pressed the phone icon and scrolled through a short list of voicemails. Jesse’s penchant for tidiness applied to his computer and his phone, and there were only a handful of messages in the queue, including several from her.

  She pressed the e-mail icon and scrolled quickly through those messages. Again there were only a handful, dating back a month or so. A few from the Preston-Brilon e-mail account, but all those were from other sales staff—men—whose names she recognized.

  She scrolled further, letting relief replace angst when she found nothing to confirm her suspicions. But her heart dropped when Michaela Creeve’s name appeared in the From field. She clicked to open the e-mail, feeling as guilty as she had the night she and Heather Garber had snuck out with Heather’s big brother and driven over an hour to a forbidden movie at the drive-in in Piedmont.

  Hey, Jess, some of the sales team is going to eat at Buca di Beppo tonight. Meeting in the lobby at six to walk down there, but if you’d rather just grab something in the hotel bar let me know.

  M.

  Jess? Maybe it was just a typo, but Corinne was the only one who had ever gotten away with shortening Jesse’s name. He didn’t like the nickname and usually politely corrected anyone who tried to use it.

  She read the e-mail again and checked the date. It was the first time he and Michaela had been in Chicago at the same time. The message had come through Michaela’s Preston-Brilon e-mail address and included her work signature, but that M. was in the same font as the typed message. It felt terribly personal. And why had Jesse not deleted this message? There were no other e-mails from that date saved—not even hers—and there was no address or other information in the message that Jesse would have needed to save.

  Had Michaela been coming on to her husband, suggesting an intimate dinner for two? Or was this an innocent invitation to an alternative that several of the staff were opting for? There was no way to tell for sure, but it could easily be read either way. She scrolled further in the queue, searching for clues. Finding none, she clicked over to Jesse’s text messages and began scrolling.

  Many of them were merely phone numbers without names. She sat cross-legged on the bed, searching back through e-mail for Michaela’s number to compare.

  “What are you doing?”

  She started at Jesse’s voice and quickly slid his phone back on the nightstand.

  He stared at her. “Is that my phone?”

  She wracked her brain for a plausible excuse and came up empty.

  “What are you looking for?” His tone was thick with suspicion.

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  He ran a towel over his wet hair. Barefoot from the shower and wearing only flannel pajama bottoms, he looked handsome and vulnerable. She was suddenly overwhelmed with love for him, and it broke her heart to think of confessing her distrust, of seeing the pained look in his eye when he realized that she’d doubted him.

  And yet, looking at him, she could imagine what Michaela must feel for him. Strangely, she could even understand how easy it would be to be reeled in by the flattery of such a woman. To succumb to the temptation of someone who wanted him so desperately. Someone younger, more beautiful . . .

  “I was reading . . . your e-mail.” It came out in a squeaky whisper.

  “Why? What are you looking for?” His voice was hard.

  “I wanted to see what kind of stuff she’s been sending you.”

  “What do you think she’s sending me?”

  She noticed he didn’t hesitate to assume that she referred to Michaela Creeve. He picked up his phone and brought it to life, scrolling through as if it would show him what damage Corinne had done.

  She let anger take over. Might as well get this discussion over with. It had to happen eventually. “All her phone calls to you . . . I just wanted to know what they were about.”

  “I told you what they were about. You couldn’t take my word for it? And you say ‘all her calls’ as if there were dozens. She called me twice outside of work.”

  “Maybe we need to define outside of work.” She looked pointedly at the phone in his hands. “You don’t count her dinner invitations while you were in Chicago together.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said again.

  She took the phone from him, quickly located the e-mail she’d read earlier, and handed the offending missive back to him.

  He skimmed it, then met her eyes. “I ordered room service that night. And skyped with you and the girls.”

  She thought about the date. May 16. He was right. She remembered because Sari had been excited about the kindergarten field trip to Discovery Playhouse downtown.

  “And you didn’t go out with her later?”

  He stared at her. “Are you actually accusing me of cheating on you?” There was the pain she’d dreaded seeing in his eyes. His beautiful blue-gray eyes.

  “I’m not accusing. But what am I supposed to think?”

  “What are you supposed to think?” His voice rose. “You’re supposed to think that when I stood in the front of that church and promised to love you till death do us part, that I would keep my vow. That’s what you’re supposed to think. Have I ever given you reason not to trust me? Ever?”

  “I’m not accusing, Jesse,” she said again. “But . . . a woman doesn’t just file a lawsuit like that without some reason.”

  “It’s not a lawsuit. She hasn’t even filed an official complaint. It’s—” He threw the towel on the bed. “I don’t have to stand here and listen to your accusations.”

  “Jesse, I said I’m not accus—”

  “Save it.” He turned on his heel and stormed from the room.

  She watched his broad, tanned back disappear behind the slammed door. And she realized she didn’t have a clue if his anger was that of a man betrayed by his wife’s lack of trust or that of a traitor riddled with guilt.

  * * *

  He found her in the laundry room, stuffing damp towels into the dryer. She straightened and started, as if she hadn’t heard him come in. Maybe she hadn’t. It didn’t matter, really. Except everything felt like a game now, and he was tired of playing games.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She ignored him and picked up the laundry basket, then glanced at the clock. “Aren’t you going to work?”

  “I’m going in a little late today. Can we talk? Please?” He took the laundry ba
sket from her hands. “Where are the girls?” Sari had already left for school in the neighborhood carpool but he didn’t hear the other two. “Is everybody still rash-free after their run-in with poison ivy?”

  “Yes, I think we dodged that bullet. Simone’s still sleeping. I let Sadie watch cartoons.” She looked guilty.

  “That’s good. Can we talk this out, Corinne? I don’t want this hanging between us.”

  She nodded. “I’ll make coffee.”

  He put the laundry basket away in the hall closet and followed the smell of fresh-ground coffee to the kitchen.

  She set up the coffeemaker and waited for it to brew. A few minutes later, she poured him the first strong mug and handed it to him. She set her own cup down on the kitchen bar and slid onto a bar stool, waiting for the machine to finish brewing.

  He pulled out a stool and perched beside her.

  She studied him like she was trying to predict their future. She looked like a scared puppy.

  He wanted to set her mind at ease, and yet, remembering how he’d found her there on their bed, checking his phone messages as if he needed supervision . . . He fought the temptation to make her sweat a little. To get revenge for her distrust. Instead, he brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “I understand why you might have questions. I’ll answer anything you want to ask. I’m an open book.” He held out his hands and waited, watching her intently.

  “I’m sorry, babe.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I shouldn’t have said the things I did. And I’m sorry I got into your phone without asking. I really didn’t mean to accuse you. I know you wouldn’t do that to me. Or to the girls . . .”

  “But?” There was obviously a “but” waiting.

  “I guess I just want to know that you didn’t do anything that she—Michaela—” She spoke the name as if it tasted bitter in her mouth. “ . . . that she could have interpreted the wrong way.”

  “Maybe I’m clueless, but I honestly don’t think so.” He rehashed the events of the weekend leading up to Michaela’s accusation, hating having to even remember it, yet knowing that Corinne needed to hear it. Again. And he tried not to leave anything out or candy-coat it. Because maybe he needed to examine his actions more closely, too.