Such a Bad Influence: A Novel, page 2
But the law didn’t stop the Callaways from sullying my family’s name, calling us criminals and thieves at every opportunity. Four generations later, the Callaway clan still considered the blueberry farm and all its profits rightfully theirs. It had taken all of two days after my mother’s passing for Jonathan Callaway, the town’s esteemed mayor, to show up on my doorstep with a tuna casserole and an offer to buy the place.
The bastard had lowballed me. Why pay full price for stolen land?
Jonathan had no idea that I’d never sell the place. Not for a hundred million dollars. He’d have to claw every single blueberry from my cold dead hands before I sold him so much as a blade of grass.
The irony of Timmy Callaway, the youngest member of our century-old feud, stealing blueberries from my property didn’t make it any easier to limp down the stairs the following morning, ankle swollen and bruised.
The first and only item on the agenda involved a trip into town to deliver berries. Local business owners, more out of pity than need, purchased a few cartons from me every other day. This money kept me going, even as I opened the fields for self-picking, which had yet to hit its stride.
My swollen ankle protested when I pulled the wagon to the side of the house. Across the street, Wade Londergan, my only neighbor, had the hood of his truck propped open. The two of us occupied a side street on the northern edge of Elswood. The unpaved road, marked by a faded street sign, was typical of roads off the main square. I couldn’t find it using GPS, but everyone in town knew the streets by heart. The mailman, at least, had no issues finding the house when he delivered my bills.
I limped toward the road, hoping he wouldn’t notice me or my injured ankle. Wade had found my issues with the thieves amusing, insisting for weeks that the culprits were no more than children. He’d double over with laughter if he knew how badly I’d failed last night.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Elswood vigilante.” He poked his head around the truck’s hood. “I thought for sure this morning’s headline would read ‘Blueberry Bandits Caught at Last.’” He laughed at his joke. “Or ‘Kids Caught Blue-Handed.’”
I skipped over his attempt at humor, focusing on the unbelievable instead. “You read the newspaper?”
“I canceled my subscription after Herman stopped including a cartoon section.”
That made more sense. I turned to leave, knowing it was better to avoid Wade than stand around arguing with him. If only it had always been so easy. Adult me could put aside his good looks and find his immaturity repulsive, but fifteen-year-old Felicity had fallen hard for the high school quarterback. And I wasn’t the only girl in town who had succumbed to his “charms.”
“Was that you I heard screaming bloody murder last night?” Wade walked around his truck to prolong the conversation. Standing at over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and dirty-blond hair, his admittedly attractive body stunned my comeback for half a heartbeat.
“That was the thieves.”
“Right.” He smiled in a way that said he didn’t believe me. He used the inside of his elbow to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “You know, if you’re scared, you can stop by my place tonight. I’ll protect you.”
“Ugh.” Thank goodness I’d skipped breakfast. “Never. I’d rather die in the fields.” I started walking away, before turning back to add, “And I’m not scared. I can handle a couple of kids.”
“You sure? That hitch in your step says otherwise.”
“I’m made of steel, Wade. Made of steel.”
The two-mile walk into town led me past three cornfields, the edge of Regina’s horse stable, and across a river. Cars zipped past as I trudged along the gravel. I’d sold my car two years ago, unwilling to pay for the added expenses when nearly everything I needed was a short walk away. Gone were my weekend trips to Lake Erie, Crocker Park, and the farmers’ market two towns over—the one with half-priced Honeycrisp apples and cilantro so fresh I had to store it on the porch or the whole house would smell like guacamole for days.
Elswood, Ohio—with exactly one grocery store, one hair salon, one bakery, and two tourist shops dedicated to selling snow globes—had become my entire world that I didn’t venture beyond.
My calf muscle cramped by the time I reached the town square—a rectangular pitch of grass that ran across the center of town, with sidewalks along the edges that connected in the middle at the white gazebo. Shops and restaurants ran parallel to the grass, enclosing the open square. Elswood had a subtle but outdated charm. Tourists would find no corporate-owned stores or chain restaurants within the town limits, and the local business owners remained adamant about maintaining Elswood’s wholesome appeal.
Nothing said small-town charm like a family-owned bakery—my first stop of the day. Late June in Northern Ohio could be muggy, and my T-shirt clung to my damp lower back. The bakery’s air-conditioning gave me goose bumps after so much time in the summer heat.
Philomena, who was on the verge of retiring after running the bakery for over forty years, headed to the register before the door had closed behind me. I placed her usual five containers on the counter.
She moved quickly—no small talk, no inquiries about my health or the weather. By now, everyone in town conversed with me as little as possible. Besides my spats with Wade, people ignored me, letting me sink further into the depths of my depression. I had nothing to discuss anyway, unless the topics of weeping in the shower or disposing of rotten blueberries interested them.
A stack of Founders’ Day flyers sat on the counter. I’d forgotten about the Founders’ Day Festival—my mother’s favorite town event. A weeklong celebration of all things Elswood, complete with games, junk food, and carnival rides. The festival’s crown jewel, the Elswood Man of the Year competition, served as both entertainment and an election. A member from each of the town’s founding families—Callaway, Londergan, Wilkinson, Menke, and Haskall—competed for the chance to become mayor.
While normal places held free and fair elections, we chose our leader through a series of athletic games, an art auction, and a fairly dangerous tractor derby. Not exactly legal, but no one dared challenge this sacred Elswood tradition in a court of law.
Despite our family name’s duplicitous reputation, each year my mother had secured a spot in the festival for her blueberry-pie table, landing between the salad stand and the medical tent. She hadn’t complained, because for her, the blueberry business was about making people happy, not getting rich.
Inside the bakery, people enjoyed their Saturday morning over a cup of coffee and a fresh pastry. My insides twisted. They looked happy. Relaxed. Carefree. I, on the other hand, had bloodshot eyes from crying all night in my painfully empty home.
I leaned my elbow on the counter, biting my lip to keep my emotions from running out of control. Experience had taught me that random bursts of crying made people uncomfortable.
Then I saw him.
At a table near the window sat Timmy Callaway. The little thief himself.
Something surged through me. A sensation I’d never felt before. Later, I would describe it as rage, but it was more than that. I hated the nine-year-old boy who came up to my elbow. Hated. Before that moment, I wasn’t sure I’d truly hated anyone. Yet the pressure in my head threatened to explode as he ate his breakfast—a croissant, of all things. At least be a normal kid and eat a doughnut.
My feet, with a mind of their own, marched straight for him.
I never initiated confrontation, especially not with the Callaways, who already thought they were better than everybody else in town. But Timmy and his friends had gone too far. It was one thing to mess with me, but another to steal from my dead mother’s blueberry farm. Loyalty to her memory demanded action.
“Did you pay for that croissant or steal it, too?” I bent down, one hand on the table, looking Timmy in the eyes. “Answer me, you little punk!”
Cheryl Callaway, his mother, hastily swallowed her coffee from where she sat across from him. “What on earth?”
I’d known Cheryl all my life, and she’d always been annoying. Since third grade, she’d played Mary in the annual Christmas show, pretending to be a savior for all of Elswood. Her delusions of grandeur became more pronounced once she married Jonathan Callaway and secured her seat on the town council—a group of women who oversaw the town’s ridiculous and often embarrassing events. She’d spent taxpayer money on “beautifying” the town in preparation for May Flower Day, which meant hiring landscapers to sculpt the bushes into geometric shapes and archways. An unnecessary expense that scandalized residents after the bushes outside the bank took on what could only be described as a phallic shape. But, as her husband was the mayor—the only person with the ability to veto council decisions—Cheryl’s power had gone unchecked for years.
Apparently, little Timmy was just as annoying and entitled as his mother.
“I caught him stealing blueberries from my farm last night.” My voice trembled. “He’s been stealing from me for weeks.”
The bakery had gone silent. No one dared to question the Callaways, especially not “the Elswood Doormat,” Felicity Lavigne. My nickname had cropped up about a year ago, the moniker’s creator still unknown.
My encounter with Timmy and Cheryl jeopardized its accuracy, but no one in the bakery had any illusions about me winning this argument. Until Cheryl squashed me, I was purely entertainment on a Saturday morning before college-football season began.
Cheryl took a deep breath, as if merely listening to my hysterical accusation were beneath her. “You’re mistaken, Felicity, like usual. Tim knows better than to steal. Don’t you, Timmy?”
Timmy nodded, but his cheeks turned red.
He’s not even a good liar. “He and his friends were in my field last night. I saw them.”
“You’re a crazy lady who sees things,” Timmy interjected in a squeaky voice.
The insult didn’t bother me; most people in town thought I’d lost it. Overcome with grief, I’d trapped myself in a house full of memories that I wouldn’t leave for anything other than farm business. Rumors of my mental decline weren’t entirely wrong.
What irked me, though, was Timmy’s tone. His spoiled, unapologetic tone. He’d inherited the trademark Callaway arrogance, and I wouldn’t stand for it.
When Cheryl stood, chair scraping against the floor, I directed my anger at her. “You owe me money for the missing berries—at least five hundred dollars, maybe more.”
“If Tim took the berries, which I’m not saying he did”—she added the second part louder so the onlookers couldn’t mistake her words as an admission of guilt—“it wouldn’t be a fraction of what your family owes ours.” She moved around the table and took Timmy’s hand. “Do yourself a favor, Felicity, and let this go before you have another mental breakdown.” She paused, looking me in the eyes. “And if you ever threaten my son again, I will go straight to the sheriff.”
“Go ahead! Call the sheriff! And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell Rodney what your kid has been up to!”
Cheryl shook her head in exasperation as the door closed behind them.
My chest heaved; I was well aware that the atmosphere in the bakery had changed. The relaxed morning vibe had evaporated like steam from one of Philomena’s coffeepots. My hands trembled, and tears filled my dark-brown eyes. Living in Elswood felt like being in perpetual high school: Gossip swirled uncontrollably, appearances mattered more than substance, and most important, some people were considered better than others for inexplicable, sometimes nonexistent, reasons.
Unfortunately for me, I’d utterly failed to navigate teenage social circles, and adult life hadn’t proved much better. In the decade since graduation, I hadn’t outgrown my insecurity, still preferring to hide behind my chestnut-colored hair and unfashionable attire, which never seemed to hug my curves in a flattering way.
I turned back to the counter, hoping to appear unflustered. I couldn’t cry—not with everyone watching. A baffled Philomena opened her mouth, paused for half a heartbeat, then closed it.
I held out my hand for the cash. “That’ll be twenty dollars.”
Three
I’d planned to catch up on the sleep I’d lost thanks to my failed stakeout, but the earplugs didn’t work. Rock music drifted through the walls, the bass shaking the windows. Agitated, I removed the pillow from atop my head so I could see the clock. 10:37 p.m. Wade’s house party, which had been going strong for three hours, showed no signs of slowing down.
Wade accentuated his less-than-charming presence with a party every three to four weeks. Like a teenager whose parents had left him alone for the weekend, he cranked up the music, poured cheap booze, and didn’t care about disturbing the neighbors. My complaints had been thoroughly ignored as Wade attempted to relive his high school glory days, replaced instead with an invitation to join the party. That would never happen. I didn’t socialize with people I liked, let alone Wade Londergan and his high school football buddies.
Unable to sleep, I trudged downstairs to add fresh ice to my water bottle. I jumped, and not from the loud crash of ice cubes into my canister. A howling came through the front door, the barking soon replaced by a scratching noise.
“Juno!” How had I forgotten about her?
I found Juno, Wade’s border collie, on the porch. Her tail wagged when she saw me. She hated the loud music, too, and whenever he threw a party, she found her way to my house. With everything that had happened today, I’d forgotten to check for her.
She bolted inside, heading for the kitchen, where I kept her water bowl. She knew the routine: water, two treats from the cupboard, then straight to bed. She licked my hand in thanks as she padded over to the stairs. If I had the energy and resources to permanently take care of her, then Wade wouldn’t get Juno back. He didn’t deserve such a well-behaved, sweet dog. The man couldn’t remember to feed himself, let alone take care of another living creature. The rescue shelter must’ve been desperate when they approved his adoption application.
I followed Juno up the stairs when my robe pocket buzzed, startling me. I fumbled for the phone as the ringing made my headache worse. Who was calling at this hour? There weren’t many nighttime emergencies in the blueberry business.
The phone number flashed across the screen: 440-221-6746.
My mother’s phone number.
Blood rushed to my head. My legs gave out as I stared at the screen, not believing my eyes. I sat on the top step, unable to move. Juno whined, ready for bed.
The phone buzzed again.
Should I answer it? Should I let it go to voicemail? What if they were calling to tell me never to call again? Did I want to know who was on the other end of my pathetic, sobbing rants?
The answer to the last question was definitely no, but I couldn’t bring myself to decline the call. There was something about seeing her number on the screen—a number that hadn’t called me in years—that I couldn’t ignore.
My fingers shook as I accepted the call. “Hello?”
No one answered.
“Hello?” I tried for a second time, hearing nothing on the other end. It was a wrong number. All that panic for nothing.
I was about to end the call when a female voice said, “Felicity?”
I nearly dropped the phone. She sounded anxious—frightened, even. Of me? This was a hallucination, surely. I’d truly done it and lost my mind. A smart person would’ve hung up, called the police, and waited to be admitted for psychological evaluation.
Instead, I responded with a tentative, “Yes?”
“Um . . . my name’s Alex. I didn’t have anyone else to call . . .”
I swapped my pajamas for sweatpants and my slippers for tennis shoes. The walk to Wade’s house was short but irritating. Cars were lined up in his driveway, half of them spilling onto my yard, the tires leaving divots in the grass. His front door—ajar, of course—leaked music outside.
His house was as filthy as I remembered—red cups on every surface, stained carpet, and mismatched furniture scattered across the interior. It was the kind of decorating a man would do to convince other men the place had never had a woman’s touch. Which of course it hadn’t. Wade had moved here a year after divorcing Monica. I’d never thought highly of the woman, who worked part-time at the drugstore, but at least she’d been smart enough to avoid this place. College frat boys would’ve appreciated his tastes.
People were crammed inside, standing in groups, holding cups, and talking loudly over the music. My head pounded, sensory overload making me nauseous. A crowd had formed around someone playing Guitar Hero in the living room. Potato chips pelted him from all angles to break his concentration. A few people glanced curiously in my direction, taking in my casual attire as I searched high and low for Wade.
I found him at the back of the living room, on the couch with a red-haired woman. The details of her face were lost to me—because he was glued to it. His back was turned to me as his hands glided up her side. I tapped him politely on the shoulder.
No response. I poked him again, harder.
I didn’t know if I imagined the sucking noise as he came up for air or if it really happened, but either way, he looked annoyed as he searched for whoever had intruded on this obviously private moment they were having in the crowded living room.
“What do you . . .” He did a double take. “Felicity?”
“Hey, Wade,” I said as if I’d encountered him in the grocery store aisle. “Can I have a word?”
“What are you doing here?” He removed his arm from around the woman, disentangling himself.
“I need to talk to you.”
He pushed himself off the couch, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The redheaded woman, Cynthia Porter, looked aggrieved. “What the hell, Felicity?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not keeping him. He’ll be back in a minute.”
