“People like me”? What did she mean by that?

  "What kind of secrets could you have, Tiffany?” Huck’s wide shoulders looked even bigger between the two small women. He was too gruff. Too hard on people. Why would he pick on Tiffany? No wonder Stormi hated him.

  I sat on the floor with my back against the wall and shot him a look, but he ignored me. Trapper was the only person who could straighten him out when needed. However, Trapper was busy being a husband and father. He was probably wrapped up in his wife's arms watching a movie about now.

  “What did you say?” Tiffany turned slightly to look at Huck. "Why couldn't a person like me have secrets?"

  “No offense, but you're vanilla. The most vanilla woman I've ever met. Own it.” Huck said this in his matter-of-fact reporter tone. Life was not like a newspaper article, I thought, irritated. He couldn't treat people as if they were only facts in a story instead of humans with feelings.

  "Vanilla? What does that mean exactly?” Tiffany's eyes snapped with anger. She sat up even straighter. "I know it's an insult, but I don't know what it means.”

  Huck at least had the decency to flush. “Never mind.”

  “It means ordinary. Bland. Which you are most certainly not.” Stormi’s fists clenched at her side and she looked as if she might spring up from her end of the couch and pounce on him. Go ahead. Hit him. He deserves it.

  “Actually, vanilla has an additional meaning,” Darby said from the other camp chair. “It means the original something. For example, the original ice cream was vanilla. So you’re an original, Tiff.”

  “Huck meant it as an insult, but thank you, Darby.” Tiffany gave him a lopsided smile before turning her attention back to Huck. “Is it because I make my own clothes? Maybe my profession? Something as mundane and ordinary as a woman who helps couples plan their weddings is certainly vanilla, right? Is Muffy vanilla, or am I vanilla for owning her?"

  For once in his life, Huck didn't open his big mouth in his fat face to make her feel even worse.

  "All those things make you special," Jamie said.

  "Agree one hundred percent." Stormi tugged on her beer and resumed glaring at Huck.

  Tiffany’s voice shook. “I don't know anything about pop culture. Have you noticed that, Huck? Probably not. I'm not the kind of woman people notice, isn't that right? Just some mild-tasting vanilla ice cream."

  "Vanilla's my favorite," I said. "Pure. Beautiful in its simplicity. The first of all the ice creams. Think about it. Without vanilla as the base, we'd have no other flavors."

  Tiffany’s mouth curved into a smile. "Why is it some men make everything they say to a woman sound like an insult and others make her feel as if she'd been invented just for him to compliment?" She flushed, then picked at the wrapper on her beer bottle before taking a sip. “I’ve never had a beer before now. That probably makes me vanilla too.”

  Never had a beer? Should she be drinking? What had happened to unravel her so? I caught Stormi's eye. She shrugged, as if to say “the woman's a grown person.”

  Tiffany tossed her hair before narrowing her eyes. “Huck, if you’re such a great reporter, you’d know I’m the opposite of vanilla. My past is checkered." She fluttered her fingers dramatically.

  "Did you hear the news tonight?" Tiffany asked, with her eyes still on Huck.

  “Hey, I was just kidding around,” Huck said, sounding desperate to change the subject. “Let’s just forget it.”

  Tiffany was having none of it. “No, you weren’t. You have an impression about me because of the way I look. I’m here to tell you that you’re wrong. That news about Briar Rose? You’ve all heard about it by now.”

  A wary look on his face, Darby nodded. “Sure we have.”

  “What about it?” Huck’s voice was like a wood sliver just under the skin of one’s thumb. “What’s Briar Rose to do with you?”

  The air in the room seemed pregnant. I reached under the collar of my shirt. If Huck said anything else to hurt Tiffany, I would punch his arrogant face.

  "I grew up there." Tiffany set her bottle on the table as if it were suddenly hot. “That man they killed today. He was my father. Is my father. My mother was killed when she tried to escape. I was only a few weeks old then so I don’t remember. Like all the girls there, I was groomed to be married to one of the elders." She giggled followed by a hiccup. “To one of the most important of the bigamists in all of Briar Rose. My father's contemporary. I was sixteen years old. I was supposed to marry Elder Ryan." She shuddered. “But I escaped.”

  None of us moved. For a moment, it seemed I was outside of my body and looking at myself from up above. The awkward way I had one foot resting on the opposite knee and kept fiddling with the shoelace of my sneaker. Huck leaned forward slightly. A man in search of a story. Darby and Jamie, interestingly enough, looked into their laps and appeared miserable.

  Stormi spoke first, jarring us all out of our stupors. "Tiff, you don't need to share any of this just to prove anything to anyone.”

  “It’s right here.” Tiffany indicated her throat. “All the time, just waiting to get out, to tell someone the truth about who I really am.”

  “Tiffany…,” I said, trailing off before I could ask the question.

  Darby asked what I wanted to. "How did you get out?"

  “It’s a long story,” Tiffany said. “I escaped, but the boy I was with didn’t make it. They poisoned him.”

  “Holy crap,” Darby said. “How did you make it on your own at sixteen?”

  "It was hard. I was completely disoriented—if you can imagine being dropped into the middle of a land completely foreign and having to learn how to live. But I found people willing to help me. I took advantage of every opportunity presented. Shelters and the like. There are so many good people in this world. I know it doesn’t seem like it sometimes.”

  My mind reeled with this new information. So much of Tiffany's behavior was starting to make sense to me. Her otherworldliness. The sense of her being from another time. “How have you been able to keep this a secret?” As soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back. “I mean, it seems like it would be really hard to not share it. I’m sorry. I sound like an idiot.”

  “No, you don’t,” Tiffany said softly. “It’s easier than you might think. No one asks many questions. People don’t seem interested in other people that often.”

  “Really?” Huck asked.

  “Not everyone’s as nosy as you,” Stormi said.

  “Did they come after you?” Darby asked.

  “No, they didn’t. I’ve never been sure why. Although I did change my name. Maybe they couldn’t find me.” Her eyes glazed over, as if remembering details she’d put away long ago. “I didn’t drink the dandelion wine. That’s all it was, the difference between living or dying.” She touched the tip of her nose. “My sense of smell saved me.”

  “Amazing,” I said, under my breath.

  She turned to Huck, eyes blazing and cheeks pink. "How vanilla am I now?"

  “I’m sorry,” Huck said. “I had no idea.”

  “You must not be a very good reporter.” Tiffany picked up the beer and took a long swig. Her mouth twisted as she swallowed. “Beer’s not so good.”

  “Listen, Tiffany, I’m sorry I offended you,” Huck said. “I was trying to be funny, I guess.”

  “You’re not funny,” Stormi said.

  "I'm glad you made it out," Jamie said to Tiffany.

  “Should you be worried?” I asked. “Are you going to contact the FBI and tell them your story?”

  She looked at me for a moment with a blank expression. “I hadn’t thought about it. Should I?”

  “They’d probably like to know what you know,” I said. “About your mother and your friend they killed.”

  "I couldn’t before. I was too afraid they’d find me. But I guess they can’t hurt me now that they’re in custody.” She gulped and clutched the cross at her neck. “I don’t want the newspapers to know about me, though.” She turned toward Huck. “Are you going to write about this in the paper?”

  “Absolutely not.” He had the decency to look offended. "I would not do that to a friend. Especially one who doesn't want to be found."

  "You're my friend now?" Tiffany's brows raised.

  “Again, I’m sorry for what I said," Huck said, sounding sincere. "I don't even know why I said it. Sometimes stupid stuff comes out of my mouth."

  Her features softened. "It's all right. Maybe I should be glad I look so boring. No one will suspect my secrets that way."

  "You should write a book about what happened to you,” Huck said. "The inside story of what it's like to live in that kind of community."

  Tiffany didn’t answer for several beats. From the street below, a horn bleated, followed by raucous laughter. Locals having fun on a Friday night? Or had the tourists started to arrive? Tomorrow they’d stumble blearily into Brandi’s bakery and soothe their hangovers with lattes and muffins.

  Tiffany’s fingers plucked at the creased fabric of her jeans just above the knee. “I have no interest in reliving it. That's what I would have to do if I wrote about…that time.” She swiped at the corners of her eyes. "I want to forget. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, and now it’s all back.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” I said. “You can put it away and forget about it.”

  “But I can’t now,” she said. “I have no excuse. I have to tell them what I know.”

  Stormi knelt next to her. “You have us. We’ll be here for you every step of the way.”

  Tiffany shook her head, as if to rid herself of her thoughts. “For now, I guess I’ll have another sip of this beer and see if I like it a little better.”

  “That’s my girl,” Stormi said.

  7

  Tiffany

  Somehow, I ended up on the floor with my back against the couch. Stormi had insisted we all forget reality for a while and turn off the news. Breck turned on music, an unobtrusive accompaniment to our chatter. I drank the rest of my beer, hoping it would taste better eventually. It didn’t. Nor did it make me feel better.

  Now Stormi was telling a story about the time she met a famous photographer. A woman I’d never heard of but the others seemed to know. The milieu before me had become dim, almost gray, like one of those old grainy photographs. Air, I thought. I needed more air to clear my head and vision.

  What were the others saying? Who was talking? Darby. He was a charming person, wasn’t he? His voice deeply resonated and was interesting. A teacher’s presence. Had he always wanted to teach? What was it like to teach high school? What was it like to go to high school? I wouldn’t know, now would I? My father had robbed me of that experience.

  He was dead. Good Lord, how much more of this could I take? The raid, the scenes of the women and children filing out wearing their drab dresses. While I’d been out here living a regular life, they’d been inside wasting theirs. I should have done more. If I’d gone to the police or the FBI, perhaps they would all have been freed sooner.

  A memory wriggled into my alcohol-soaked brain. The road on the day I left, concrete for miles and miles. I’d run at first but after how many miles, I wasn’t sure, I’d had to slow to a walk. Finally, a car had come. I’d turned, sure it was them coming to get me. We had a few cars in the compound. The elders used them sometimes. Where did they go? Down this road?

  But it wasn’t them. It was an old truck with wire netting around the bed. Chickens. There had been chickens in little wooden houses. The truck had stopped and asked if I needed a lift. I’d gratefully accepted. In hindsight, the man could have been a serial killer. Back then, I was naive. I knew only of the atrocities committed in my own little world. I hadn’t yet known of all that lurked in the shadows of the new, shiny one I was about to join. Still, the old farmer was a good man. I couldn’t remember much about the ride, other than he’d given me a sandwich to eat. Bacon, lettuce, and tomato, his wife’s specialty, he’d said. I’d never in my life tasted anything that good.

  “Hey, you okay?” Breck nudged me gently with his elbow. He was sitting next to me on the floor. How long had he been there? His legs were stretched out under the coffee table. I could see the tips of his toes all the way on the other side. He smelled spicy and good. His shoulder rubbed mine. Did he realize he’d touched me? Muscles. Lots of muscles.

  I turned my head to look at him. “Yes. A little fuzzy in here.” I pointed to my head.

  “I’ve never seen you drink before,” Breck said.

  “I don’t drink. Not usually.” Not after wine poisoned Matthew.

  “You’ll want to have some water before you go to bed tonight,” he said. “And a painkiller of some kind.”

  “Painkiller. What a thing it would be if that were something you could have from a pill.”

  His eyebrows raised. “The kind I was referring to are only for physical aches and pains. The ones in our hearts are not so easily mended.”

  What remarkable eyes—a shade of blue that sometimes looked grey. “Are your eyes grey or blue?” I asked.

  Whatever color they were, they drew me in, made me forget we were with the others. They were soft and inviting, yet exuded intelligence. Why were some eyes like that when others were bland and forgettable?

  “Blue, mostly. I think,” Breck said.

  “They’re nice.”

  “Thanks. Yours are nice too.” Was it pity I saw in his face? A man like Breck Stokes wouldn’t understand what it was like to be me. Not with the way his life had been laid out in a neat arrangement from the beginning. His mother loved him. Innate talents he knew exactly what to do with. And there was the nurturing sun shining down on Emerson Pass and growing sweet little boys into strong, good men.

  “They told me at Briar Rose that my eyes were unusual. The color.” I tapped just under my right eye. Words were not coming easily but I soldiered on, suddenly wanting more than anything to make Breck understand me. “The women told me no one had ever seen eyes like mine.” They’d said it with a hint of malice. “My father didn’t have them. Or my mother. The women told me that too. My mother’s name was Mona. I know that much. And she didn’t have light blue eyes.”

  “Do you have a photograph of her?” Breck positioned himself so that one of his arms rested on the couch cushion as his hand cradled one cheek. A line between his eyes crinkled as he studied me.

  “No, I don’t. I don’t know anything about her. Except that they took her from me.” Had my mother been nurturing? Perhaps her motherly instinct is what prompted her to risk it all and make a run for it with me in her arms. How did she carry me? Like a football, maybe, so she would have one arm free to climb the fence. How had she not known it was electric? Not that it mattered in the end.

  She’d known. Of course she’d known. She’d risked dying to get over that fence to freedom.

  “I’m sorry,” Breck said. He sounded far away. I’d lost him. Lost myself.

  I’d told them all too much. After all this time keeping my secret, it had certainly spilled out of my drunken mouth tonight. Alcohol was the devil. An evil master that loosened lips. I would regret all of it when I woke in the morning. However, at the moment I was too drunk to muster up any real angst. I was tired, bone weary from keeping myself sealed tight. No one could get in, not really. Without spilling my secrets, how could I ever explain who I was or how I’d come to be? Now five others knew the truth. Would they wake tomorrow horrified at what they’d learned? Would I lose the only friends I’d ever had?

  It wasn’t enough. This shadow of a life. This hiding all the time. The faces around me, although blurred, didn’t live in the darkness, afraid to step into the light and become seen. I wanted that too.

  I lifted my gaze back to Breck. He was a good person, one with integrity and compassion. Would he realize how selfish I’d been? Perhaps I repulsed him because of it? This was a man who’d opened a dog and cat shelter. He would have done the right thing.

  Stop thinking about all of this, I commanded myself.

  “I don’t want anyone else to know about me,” I whispered.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Breck said. “No one here tonight tells stories that aren’t theirs to tell.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  Stormi appeared on the other side of the table. Actually, it was two Stormis, wobbling like bobbleheads. “You okay, babe?”

  “I see two of everything,” I said, giggling. “Two Stormis. Two Brecks.”

  “Okay, then,” Stormi said. “Time for someone to go home.”

  “How much did she have?” Breck asked.

  I held up my fingers. “Three. Two wines and one beer.”

  “One beer too many,” Stormi said.

  I giggled again. “You’re funny.”

  “Do you want to go home?” Stormi asked.

  “I probably should.” My head was heavy, like a bowling ball. It fell against Breck’s thick shoulder. I closed my eyes, but everything started spinning so I opened them again.

  "I'm going to walk her next door," Breck said.

  "We should go with her," Jamie said from somewhere in the room. So far away.

  “Jamie?” I asked. “Where are you?” I lifted my head to look around. There she was, in one of the chairs. Her hair had loosened from its ponytail and left tendrils around her heart-shaped face. “Barbie doll.” I turned to Breck. “She looks like a Barbie, don’t you think? The prettiest one of all.”

  “She’s pretty,” Breck said. “No doubt about that.”

  “Thanks,” Jamie said. “Now, maybe get Chatty over there home and put to bed?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to take her?” Stormi asked not me but Breck. He was in charge, apparently. That’s what happened with drunk girls, I supposed. Usually I took people home.

  "No, stay," I said to Stormi. "Have fun. Breck and his big muscles can take me home.”

  “Make sure she doesn’t get sick,” Stormi said. “She might be.”