Page 7 of Trace of Doubt
After swinging my legs over the bed, I lingered on the scent of freedom and lavender potpourri, a strange but incredible mix that seemed to shake off my trepidation about the future. In the kitchen, I rummaged through the fridge and small pantry. Edie had stocked me with enough to feed a family of four for a week. My favorite luxury sat on a tan-and-cream marbled counter—coffee beans, a grinder, and an upscale coffee maker. Soon the smell of freshly roasted coffee tickled my taste buds.
Before prison, I’d dabbled in the taste of coffee with no preference either way. In prison, I found it disgusting but the caffeine necessary to survive. The smooth, bold flavor of my sip this gorgeous morning sent me soaring into paradise.
Edie’s kindness blessed me. How could one woman shine love all around her? She’d lived through tragedy too, not of her own making. For that, we were sister-survivors.
Barefoot, I took my mug outside, and the coffee tasted even better with the sounds of birds and fresh smell of clean air. A robin perched in a tree, singing a crisp tune. Stepping gingerly over the driveway’s gravel, I made my way to the grass. Oh, the feel of the soft blades between my toes and tickling my feet. I leaned my headback and let the sun bathe me in delicious warmth. Never again would I take the taste, smell, sound, touch, and sights of nature for granted. Bright. Beautiful. Full of vitality.
I missed my family, but my decision was vested in love.
Back inside, I reached inside my backpack and placed one of my treasured possessions on my nightstand. For my twelfth birthday, Dad had given me a kaleidoscope. He showed me how the pieces of colored glass formed intricate designs. I’d spend hours creating patterns and sketching them until interior design attracted my interest. That kaleidoscope went with me to prison. The intricacy of color helped me process the valleys and mountains of my life journey. I simply applied bright colors in place of dark and gray.
A knock at the door startled me. Neither the sound of tires crunching pea gravel nor a car door slamming had given me any indication of a visitor. I walked to the window and took a look. A cowboy or cowgirl had paid a call. Not Officer Hughes, whom I’d nicknamed Bubba Valleysburg.
I opened the door to a mostly white-haired man, more like premature white because only a few lines fanned from his brown eyes. “Can I help you?”
A smile greeted me, framed by a salt-and-pepper mustache and a goatee. “Hey, I’m Denton McClure. I live on the other side of the woods.” A slow drawl rolled off his tongue. “I heard you’d moved in from Edie. Wanted to introduce myself. Give you my cell number in case you need something.”
“How kind of you. I moved in late last night.” I glanced at my pajamas. “I apologize for my lack of dress.”
“It’s early, and I’m sure you had a late night.” He inhaled deeply. “Oh, I smell coffee. For sure another day. You must have plenty to do, so I’ll leave you alone.” He handed me a folded piece of paper. “My number’s there, and your name?”
Heat rose into my face for not offering it earlier. “Sorry. I’m Shelby Pearce. Pleased to meet you, but I don’t have a phone yet.”
“Just text me when you do. That way we can keep in touch.”
First I needed to buy a phone and figure out how to text.
“We’re isolated here,” he continued, “and you don’t seem to have a car. I believe neighbors should look out for each other.”
He said goodbye and rode off on his horse... sorta like one of the many John Wayne Westerns I used to watch with Dad. Denton’s dark eyes had studied me in a type of peculiar curiosity.Trust him or beware?I’d play it safe and not return the good-neighbor persona. The truth about me would rise like smoke signals soon enough.
Someone had laid the foundation for trouble last night with a gunshot. Until I found out who was responsible, Officer Hughes and Denton McClure weren’t above suspicion.
5
Prison had given me hours to deliberate life. In my seventeen-year-old naiveté, I had never imagined Dad and Mom’s abandonment or a prison sentence. When first charged with murder, I’d thought my age would soften the judge’s heart. I’d land a few years in juvenile jail and lengthy probation linked with community service. In essence have my hands smacked. That didn’t happen. As the years inched by, I learned my parents protested my parole three times. I might never learn all the reasons why they chose to close the door on our relationship. Although I had confessed to a horrendous crime. Once I’d gotten past the feeling-sorry-for-myself syndrome, I chose to make the best of my circumstances by pursuing an undergrad and master’s degree in business.
While the experience with my parents nipped at my heels, it had also shaped me into the woman I am today, sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch of a cabin reflecting on what I’d learned from the past and how I planned to march forward.
I rubbed the scar on my left shoulder from a knife wound... inflicted when I was barely eighteen from an inmate who liked girls. That part of my life was over. In prison I expected discrimination and prejudice to shoot poison darts from every direction, but God was my constant companion.
I finished a third mug of coffee and basked in the flavor. The many singing birds and the quiet of nature with its intoxicating scents should have continued to relax me, yet a cloak of darkness threatened to destroy my joy. Instead of a song titled “Sweet Freedom,” memories of last night and this morning droned a cautionary tune into my thoughts.
A distinct feeling of someone watching me prickled the hair on the back of my neck, an acquired safeguard from prison gangs and a few sleazy guards. I dismounted the steps and panned the area. “Who’s out there? What do you want?”
Was it just my imagination? I’d sensed danger too many times to ignore the signs. I set my coffee on the porch step and walked the perimeter of the cabin. The windows were locked from the inside as well as the rear door. Still, those precautions never stopped a serious intruder. I calmed when I didn’t see any footprints in the rain-soaked earth.
But the ground would dry. I gathered pine cones and sticks from the woods and laid them in a pattern no one could avoid. Primitive but that would be my watchdog.
After rinsing the mud from my bare feet with an outside hose, I put my apprehension on hold and indulged in a hot shower. The water massaged my entire body—lavender-scented soap, shampoo, and conditioner delivered the fragrance of a new morning. I stayed longer than I’d been allowed in years. I slathered on real body lotion and body spray that matched the lavender scent, another gift from Edie. She’d used some of the money I’d sent to buy a few clothing pieces, and the jeans and soft sweatshirt against my skin gave me a surge of new normal.
I removed a notepad and pen from my trash bag. On the busI’d jotted a list of jewelry-making tools and supplies I needed to get started. Pastor Emory’s check helped speed up the process in moving me down the road of self-sufficiency. I must thank him properly and repay him ASAP. On Thursday I’d begin work at a local restaurant, requiring another note of gratitude to Edie and the pastor.
Tears crested. I had to succeed. I would not disappoint my new friends and hoped Officer Hughes didn’t discredit me in their eyes.
I wasn’t alone anymore. My surroundings proved it.
Tires crunched over gravel. A quick peek out the window showed Edie was right on time, and I met her on the porch. The Shelby before prison would have bombarded her with a hug. But this Shelby asked for permission first.
