Hope Chest
Although she was only seven years old at the time, Adria Beckworth still remembered the day her mother and Uncle Heath brought the old cedar chest down from the attic of her grandmother's house. To a child with an active imagination, the word chest conjured up images of pirates and buried treasure. The little girl's anticipation heightened as Uncle Heath tried to get the lock open with a screwdriver since the key had long been lost.
"What's in it?" she cried as her mother ran a damp cloth over the dust-covered wood.
"I have no idea," Elmira Beckworth replied. "Maybe there's nothing inside."
"Why would Grandma Imogene keep an empty treasure chest?"
"She kept it because it belonged to her mother, who was my grandmother and your great-grandmother."
"Was she a pirate like Blackbeard or Long John Silver?"
Despite mourning the recent loss of her mother, Elmira could not help laughing at her daughter's question.
"No, my grandmother wasn't a pirate. This isn't that kind of chest. It's what was called a hope chest." Seeing the confusion on Adria's face, the mother explained, "Back in my grandmother's day, unmarried women often owned cedar chests where they would store linens, blankets and other items before getting married."
The seven-year-old had more questions, but she had no opportunity to ask them since Uncle Heath finally succeeded in forcing the lock.
"Just as I thought," her mother said as she opened the lid of the chest. "Linens."
Having always slept on bedding purchased at either Kohl's or Bed, Bath & Beyond, the child had never seen embroidered pillowcases before. She was fascinated by the lace-trimmed scalloped edges and the elaborate flowers, butterflies and birds, all handstitched with brightly colored floss.
"These are beautiful!" she cried.
"My grandmother loved to do all kinds of crafts."
"What about Grandpa? What was he like?"
"I don't know. I never met him. My grandparents were married in June of 1941. Six months later, World War II began, and Grandpa enlisted in the Navy. He was killed a month before my mother was born."
"That's probably why most of these linens look like new," Uncle Heath suggested. "I would imagine that after her husband died, she didn't have the heart to use them."
"Can we use them?" Adria asked.
"I don't see why not. Considering how much work it took to make them, it would be a shame not to."
For the remainder of her childhood, Adria refused to lay her head down on her Barbie and Disney pillowcases. Sadly, by the time she graduated high school, the colorful floss her great-grandmother had used to embroider those flowers, butterflies and birds had faded to pale pastels.
* * *
"You're not taking these old linens with you, are you?" Elmira asked as she helped her daughter pack for college.
"No, but I don't want to get rid of them either. Maybe I'll just put them back in the old chest. Is it still up in the attic?"
"Yes. Somewhere on the left-hand side where we keep the Christmas decorations."
Seeing the old hope chest that had been consigned to storage years earlier filled the eighteen-year-old with a sense of nostalgia. Although her great-grandmother had passed away before she was born, Adria felt a kinship with the woman. Like the war widow, the high school graduate enjoyed arts and crafts. At age nine, she asked for a set of crochet hooks for Christmas and shortly thereafter made her first afghan. From there, she tried her hand at knitting and then embroidery and needlepoint. While her friends spent their allowances on clothes, shoes and makeup, she bought craft supplies. Her favorite stores were not Forever 21, H&M or Abercrombie & Fitch. She preferred JOANN Fabrics, Michaels and Treasure Island.
Oddly enough, neither her mother nor her grandmother had any interest in crafts. Imogene became a physical therapist, and her daughter wrote for a local newspaper. Both were liberal-minded women—what some people would refer to as feminists. They embraced modern technology, from the first personal computer to the latest iPhone. Adria, however, was different. She felt technology was being forced upon her.
"It's getting hard to find a restaurant with a printed menu," she complained to her mother over lunch one day. "I don't see why I have to scan a QR code to learn what type of salads they serve here."
"Look on the bright side. It saves paper."
She had to concede that paper menus might be wasteful; however, it seemed to her that people were relying on their smartphones way too much.
"Maybe things were better in your grandmother's day," Adria said wistfully.
"You can't be serious!" Elmira cried. "She had to live through both the Great Depression and a world war. Excuse me for not agreeing with you, but I'd rather be a slave to my iPhone than deal with the turmoil of the Thirties and Forties."
"It's easy to see how you made the debating team in college," the young woman laughed, yielding to her mother's arguments.
"Speaking of college, just wait until next week when your classes begin. You're going to gain a whole new appreciation for modern technology. I had to type all my papers on an old Smith-Corona typewriter, not a lightweight laptop."
* * *
What began as a school project soon became a hobby. The assignment for her informational technology course was to design a website without using a packaged program such as Adobe Dreamweaver or Microsoft FrontPage. The students, for the most part, chose to create sites devoted to subjects near and dear to them: fashion, sports, video games and such. Adria, who was majoring in history, decided to create a website dedicated to customs of the past. She called it Grandma's Hope Chest.
In addition to the site's title, the index page had a drawing of a 1940s-era woman putting linens in a hope chest. Clicking on that image took visitors to the home page where they could select one of several topics covering historical traditions, conventions and practices. The assignment required a total of seven pages, two of which were the index and home pages. The remaining five were to contain detailed content. In Adria's case, that meant doing research. Since she subscribed to eight different history magazines, she was able to quickly find articles on the Colonial practice of bundling, Victorian charm strings, pineapples as a symbol of hospitality, milk paint and hoopskirts.
"The hard part," she told her mother during their weekly FaceTime conversation, "was not finding subjects for my website but selecting five from the hundreds I had to choose from to use."
"And you thought taking that class would be a waste of your time," Elmira reminded her.
"I know, but I really enjoyed making Grandma's Hope Chest. I'm actually sorry I'm done with it."
"There's no reason you can't add pages to it in your spare time. Lots of people have personal websites that they use as outlets for their creativity. One of my fellow reporters at the paper has a website devoted to cookie recipes, and my editor writes Star Trek fan fiction that she posts online."
"That's not a bad idea, Mom. What with schoolwork and all, I don't have too much spare time, but I can squeeze in a page here and a page there."
By the time her freshman year ended in May, Adria's website had grown to more than two dozen pages and over a hundred images.
* * *
Teaching high school history did not pay well, but Adria enjoyed getting holidays, weekends and summers off. She also liked being home by three o'clock even though she sometimes had to grade papers in the evening. After four years of a hectic study schedule and three summer internships, she relished having free time to finally read all those history magazines that had piled up. From time to time, amid articles on Charles II, the Apollo 11 moon landing, the Battle of Monmouth, the assassination of Alexander II and the fall of the Incan Empire, there were items about curiosity cabinets, butter churns, funeral rings and pocket watches. Such articles often provided ideas for her Grandma's Hope Chest.
"I can't believe how popular my website has become!" she exclaimed when she visited her mother on Thanksgiving.
"I heard two women talking about it at the post office the other day," Elmira replied. "They said such great things about it that I nearly burst with pride, knowing my little girl created it."
"Did you know I've been asked by Burgess Press to write a book?"
"No! Really?"
"Yes, and they're willing to give me an advance."
"Are you going to do it?"
"I don't know."
"This is a great opportunity. You'd be crazy to pass it up!"
"I want to, but they'd like to have the book on the shelves by next Christmas. I don't see how I can meet their deadline. I teach during the day and work on my website at night."
"The decision is yours, but if you want my advice, I'd go for it—even if it meant taking a leave of absence from your teaching job."
"And what if the school's not willing to give me a leave?"
"Then quit. You can always move back home if money gets tight."
What her mother did not know was that Adria had already made up her mind to do just that. In fact, she had already written her letter of resignation. She just wanted Elmira's approval before she submitted it. Thankfully, in addition to the advance, Burgess Press offered to sponsor her website. That money, along with her savings and careful budgeting, allowed her to meet her living expenses. Thus, there was no reason for her to move back home.
* * *
Adria sat at her desk, nestled in the den of her restored eighteenth-century mansion, surrounded by books, magazines and newspapers. Even though her book had become a bestseller, she still added new content to her website on a regular basis.
"What shall I write about today?" she asked herself, as she flipped through pages of a 1907 Sears catalog she purchased on eBay.
The sound of the video doorbell broke her concentration.
It's probably UPS with a delivery, she thought.
However, when she picked up her phone to ascertain the caller's identity, she was surprised to see a handsome face looking into the camera.
"Can I help you?" she asked through her phone.
"Miss Beckworth?" the man said into the speaker.
"Yes. What is it?"
"I wanted to talk to you about a business proposal."
"I'm not interested in buying anything."
"I'm not here to sell you something. Please, if I might just have a word with you."
There were dozens of reasons why she should not open her door to a strange man. God knows what might happen to her if she did! Still, there were two reasons for her to throw caution to the wind and invite the stranger inside: he was gorgeous and she was still single. Stopping only to check her appearance in the hall mirror, she went downstairs and unlocked the front door.
"Hi. My name is Bryce Woodford."
"What is it you want, Mr. Woodford?" she asked through the locked screen door.
"Call me Bryce, please."
Since Adria did not invite him inside, he did not have the opportunity to properly explain the reason for his visit. Consequently, he blurted it out in condensed form and hoped it made sense.
"I'm a carpenter, and I own a small company called Woodford's Woodworking. I'd like you to endorse my latest product."
"Is this on the level?"
"Yes. Ever since your book came out, I've had several young ladies come to me and ask me to build them hope chests. So far, it's just been local women, but I'd like to change that. I'm proposing you and I sign an endorsement deal. I'd like to create an entire line of Grandma's hope chests and market them throughout New England."
Convinced Bryce meant her no harm, Adria opened the door and invited him inside.
"Would you like a cup of coffee?" she asked.
"I'd love some," he replied.
The carpenter followed her into the kitchen and took a seat in the breakfast nook.
"This is a beautiful house you have."
"Thanks. I owe it all to the success of my book and website. I never could have afforded this place on a teacher's salary."
"Are you planning on writing a second one?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I'm almost done with it."
"Good. Grandma's Hope Chest is rapidly on its way to becoming a phenomenon. That's why I'd like to start producing those hope chests as soon as possible."
"You want to strike while the iron is hot. Is that it?"
"If you want to put it that way, yes. I was never one to procrastinate. When I see something I want, I go after it. I don't waste time dillydallying."
"We have that in common," Adria confessed. "When my publisher approached me about writing a book, I jumped at the offer. I went so far as to quit my job and risk losing my apartment."
"Well, your gamble paid off."
"Let's hope this one does, too."
"Does that mean you'll consider my offer?" Bryce asked hopefully.
"Sure. What have I got to lose?"
* * *
Thanks to Adria's endorsement, Bryce Woodford received more orders than he was able to fulfill. He moved his business into a larger building and hired two carpenters to assist him. Once he tasted success, he wanted more. However, young women on the verge of getting married represented only a small percent of the population. To increase his business, he would need to sell his product to a new demographic.
Up until that point, Bryce's advertising consisted of still photographs online and in magazines that showed Adria putting bed sheets into her great-grandmother's chest. He proposed they branch out into television commercials as well.
"I also want you to demonstrate other ways people can use their hope chests," he suggested.
"But it's the romantic tradition that makes them what they are," Adria countered.
Bryce knew all about romance. He had used it to influence his business partner into agreeing with his ideas. Although he was not in love with Adria, he felt no guilt in persuading her that he was.
"Honey," he said, turning on the charm to which she was so susceptible, "brides-to-be will continue to buy Grandma's hope chests, but we need to appeal to more people if we want this business to grow. Given our personal plans for the future, isn't that what you want?"
Adria's heartbeat quickened at the possibility that she and Bryce would get married. While he had not actually proposed to her, he had hinted that a ring would be forthcoming.
"There's no need for us to worry about money," she assured him. "Burgess wants me to do an entire series of books, and they're still paying me for my website."
"But that's your money. I hope you don't think I'm the kind of man who would let my wife support me."
Hearing the word wife elicited a "butterflies in the stomach" response in the starry-eyed young woman. More than anything in the world, she longed to be Mrs. Bryce Woodford. No career could ever be as fulfilling as the role of wife and someday (hopefully) mother.
"Mothers," Adria said softly, thinking out loud.
"What did you say?"
"Mothers," she repeated in a louder voice. "Not every engaged woman wants to buy a hope chest and fill it with linens. But I've never met a pregnant woman who didn't buy baby clothes, blankets and such before she gave birth."
The idealistic vision of a mother-to-be preparing to welcome her child into the world brought a smile to Bryce's face. It was a great idea!
"I can do a video on my website," Adria offered, "showing women there's a use for their hope chests after they get married."
"We can do better than that! I'll design a new chest, and we'll market it specifically to expectant mothers."
By the time the prototype for the new hope chest was unveiled, Adria had the cherished diamond ring on her finger. And when the orders began to come in, a matching wedding band accompanied it.
* * *
The increase in business once again necessitated a move to a larger building and the hiring of additional employees. Along with carpenters, painters were added to the payroll. The original Grandma's hope chests were stained wood, but the new ones were painted white with decorative details in pastel colors.
Shantel Haise, a gifted young artist who had a talent for painting cute, wide-eyed animals, was one of those new hires.
"That koala bear model is a big hit," Bryce announced as he passed by the artist's work area.
"I understand llamas and sloths are all the rage now," she replied, continuing to wield her paintbrush as she spoke. "Maybe we should offer a limited-edition hope chest featuring one or both of them."
"Why limit the number we make if they'll be that popular?"
"Because it seems that any item that's limited in supply, from collectible plates and porcelain dolls to ice cream flavors and candy bars, sells well. And people are willing to pay more for limited editions."
Bryce liked the idea.
"Do you think Mrs. Woodford will go for it?" Shantel asked.
The question irked him. Did his employees think Adria ran the company and that he had to defer to his wife when making decisions?
"It doesn't matter what she thinks," he said. "Woodford Woodworking is my company. My wife is merely the spokesperson."
To prove his independence (and his masculine superiority), he immediately gave the okay for a limited-edition series of hope chests.
Despite being married for more than two years, Adria still felt as though she were on her honeymoon. As far as she was concerned, her husband felt the same way. Had it not been for the stars from her eyes, she might have noticed that he was spending more and more time at work and less with her.
It's a man thing, she reasoned. He wants to be the breadwinner in the family. I certainly can't fault him for that!
It was foolish for her to feel guilty about her own success, but she knew the male ego was a fragile thing. As such, she never questioned him about how he ran the company, even though she was now the joint owner. Besides, Bryce was not the only one with a growing business. With the success of the book series, her brand, Grandma's Hope Chest, was more popular than ever before.
When the workload got to be too much, Adria took her editor's advice and hired a research assistant. Chrissie Hellinger, who worked as a college librarian, was glad to get the position.
"You're familiar with my website, aren't you?" the writer asked during the job interview.
"Oh, yes. I read it all the time. And I've read all your books, too. I'm a big fan."
"Then you know the kind of things I write about. What I need is someone who can go through books, journals, magazines and newspapers for appropriate topics. Do think that's something you'd be interested in doing?"
"I'd love to! I may be a librarian, but I'm a history nut at heart."
"Good. When can you start?"
Chrissie became more than an efficient research assistant. The attractive former college librarian became a close friend and frequent visitor to the Woodford house.
* * *
"I've got to hand it to you," Bryce said, celebrating his recent success over dinner with Shantel Haise. "Your idea about a limited edition was pure genius."
"I think we should do another one next year," the artist suggested.
"Go ahead and prepare the design. You have my blessing."
"There's something else I've been thinking about."
"What is it?"
"I think Woodford Woodworking needs to expand its market."
"I've thought that all along. That's why I started making hope chests not just for brides but for expectant mothers as well."
"Why stop there?" Shantel asked. "I know a woman who used her old hope chest as a toy box for her son. Why don't we make a more child-friendly chest with rounded edges and market it as Grandma's toy box?"
"You amaze me!" Bryce declared and leaned forward to kiss her.
It was not the first time the relationship strayed beyond the employer-employee boundary. The two had been having an affair for the past six months.
"We make a good team, you and I," she said. "If only ...."
"Please stop. I know what you're going to say, but I can't divorce my wife."
"Why not? It's not as though you need her money. Your business is doing better than ever."
"It's not exactly my business," he admitted.
"What do you mean?"
"Adria and I are partners. I offered her fifty percent of Woodford Woodworking in exchange for her financial backing."
"You need to buy her out before she learns about us."
"I don't have that kind of money."
"Then we'll simply have to kill her."
"Very funny!"
"I'm not joking. I'm serious.
Bryce was stunned by the matter-of-fact way Shantel spoke of murder.
"I don't think I can do that," he said sheepishly.
"Why not? It's not as though you love her."
"I don't hate her either."
"Let's just leave love and hate out of this. Think of it as a business move. With Adria dead, you inherit her fortune. We can open another factory, hire more men and make all sorts of furniture: chairs, tables, bureaus, armoires, barstools—you name it. We can be the next Ethan Allen or Ashley Furniture."
"I ... I just don't know. I'll have to think about it."
The scheming painter could tell from the hesitation in his voice that it would take a lot of convincing for Bryce to see things her way.
* * *
Shantel glanced at her watch and saw that it was well after midnight. She had been sitting behind the wheel of her six-year-old Volkswagen, with the engine and lights turned off, for more than an hour already. Bryce was away, attending a trade show in San Francisco. That meant his wife was home alone. As she stared up at the dim lamplight glowing in the third-floor window of the master bedroom, the artist felt her anger and envy grow: anger that Bryce still took no action to rid himself of Adria and envy of the life the undeserving woman led.
One of her mother's favorite sayings came to mind: God helps those who help themselves.
God must help me because it doesn't look as though Bryce ever will, she thought as she opened the door and got out of the car.
Rather than walk up the well-lit driveway, she tiptoed across the front lawn. There was no need to break into the house. She frequently used Bryce's Mercedes when running errands at work, so it was easy for her to have a copy of his housekeys made. Once she unlocked the back door and entered the mudroom, she waited a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of the fifteen-watt nightlight in the foyer. Although she preferred modern furniture to the home's antiques, there was no denying that the house was exquisite and belonged on the pages of House Beautiful magazine.
It's a shame to burn it down.
But after considering all her options, fire was her weapon of choice to eliminate Adria. She could not very well shoot her with a gun, stab her with a knife or strangle her with a rope. Such deaths would never be ruled accidental. Should it be a clear case of murder, police would deem Bryce the most likely suspect and would no doubt learn about his affair. A man married to a rich wife, having an affair with a younger woman—it would not take a Sherlock Holmes to solve that crime.
Thank God this place has gas heating! There's no risk of a fire inspector detecting the use of an accelerant.
Shantel was on her way to the kitchen where she intended to blow out the pilot lights on the stove when she heard a door open on the second floor. She quickly hid beneath the staircase as footsteps sounded in the hall above her.
"Hello?" a muffled voice called down the stairs. "Is anyone there?"
Keep calm, Shantel told herself as her heart pounded in her chest. Just be quiet and don't move. Maybe she'll go back to bed.
Then she heard the creak as a foot made contact with the top step.
Shit! She's coming downstairs! Now, what should I do?
In that moment of fear, another of her mother's favorite quotes came to Shantel: When God closes a door, he always opens a window. Here was a clear window of opportunity to kill her rival and have it look like an accident. She inched over to the staircase, praying the overhead light would not be turned on and that she could act in the semidarkness.
"Hello?" the voice called again.
The intruder held her breath, waiting. Then she saw a woman's foot inside a slipper.
Just a few more inches ....
The foot in the slipper descended another step and another. Suddenly, a hand reached through the railing, grabbed hold of the ankle and pulled. Thrown off balance, the unsuspecting woman tumbled down the remaining stairs, landing face-down on the floor.
Shantel waited, but there was no movement. When she picked up the unconscious woman's wrist, however, she found a pulse.
Damn it! She's still alive!
Grabbing Adria's hair, she pulled the head back and forcefully slammed her face into the travertine-tiled floor of the foyer. She waited a few more minutes before picking up the wrist again. This time there was no pulse.
* * *
When Shantel reported to work the next morning, she glanced at the daily newspaper on the receptionist's desk and smiled when she read the headline: WOMAN KILLED IN FATAL FALL.
I did it! I committed the perfect crime. Now, all I have to do is wait a respectable period, and then I'll become the next Mrs. Bryce Woodford. And that exquisite house wasn't destroyed. Of course, I'll have it completely redecorated after I move in.
"Has the boss called yet?" she asked Roberta ("Bobbie") Bedelia, the receptionist.
"No, but it's three hours earlier on the West Coast. He's probably still sleeping."
The smile disappeared from the killer's face as she had an inkling that her plan had gone awry.
Surely, the police already notified him about his wife!
And yet there was no voicemail or text message from him on her cell phone.
Throughout the morning, Shantel waited to hear from Bryce. She tried to keep busy but found herself frequently pacing the floor, drinking coffee and taking bathroom breaks. By noon, she was desperate for some word from him. It was Bobbie, however, who first mentioned the awful events of the previous night.
"Did you hear about Mrs. Woodford?" she asked when the two women met in the lunchroom.
"No. Has something happened to her?" the artist asked, hoping neither her facial expression nor her voice would give away the emotions she was feeling.
"The poor thing!"
Shantel's joy at the receptionist's words soon turned to dismay when Bobbie continued.
"The research assistant she hired. Remember her? She was at the Christmas party."
"Yes, the college librarian."
"She died last night in a tragic accident at the Woodford's house."
"What was she doing there?" Shantel cried, trying to control the panic that threatened to consume her.
"She offered to stay with Mrs. Woodford while the boss was in California. Apparently, in the middle of the night, she wanted to get something downstairs and fell."
"Are you sure? Where did you hear this?"
"From the boss himself. He called to let me know he was flying home this afternoon to be with his wife in her time of grief."
"I lost my appetite," Shantel declared, pushing away the salad she had brought for lunch.
"I know how you feel. It's so sad when a young, healthy person dies in a senseless mishap. I can't imagine what Mrs. Woodford is going through."
"Please. Just talk about something else—anything."
"I'm sorry if I upset you. I didn't mean to," Bobbie apologized.
"I'm fine, really."
But she wasn't fine. She had committed murder—cold-blooded, premeditated murder. It was not the act that bothered her as much as her failure to kill the correct victim. Adria was still alive.
* * *
Despite having met Chrissie Hellinger only once at the Woodfords' Christmas party, Shantel went to the funeral parlor, allegedly to pay her respects but actually to see Bryce who had not been to the factory since his return from San Francisco. Surprisingly, he seemed nearly as shaken up by the young woman's death as his wife was.
"I never even heard her fall," Adria said tearfully. "I didn't know anything had happened until I discovered her ... body ... at the bottom of the stairs the next morning. If only I'd ...."
"Shhh, sweetheart," Bryce said, putting a protective hand on the small of his wife's back. "There's nothing you could have done."
Why is he so upset? Shantel wondered when she saw his eyes glistening with unshed tears.
The Woodfords remained at each other's side for most of the evening. Shortly before the viewing came to an end, Adria excused herself and went to the ladies' room. This was Shantel's chance to speak to Bryce privately.
"I haven't heard from you in days," she said in a lowered voice.
"Not now," he replied brusquely. "This isn't the time or place for us to talk."
"When and where then?"
"I'll call you."
She had heard those same three words spoken to her many times in her life, and they often turned out to be empty promises. Was Bryce, like those other men she had dated, trying to brush her off?
No! He loves me. We're going to get married, and together we'll make Woodford Woodworking a nationally known brand.
Her confidence was shaken when the man she loved, the man she had killed for, walked over to the casket and looked down at the deceased research assistant one last time. She knew that look in his eyes; he had often looked at her the same way.
Oh, my God! He was having an affair with her, too.
The man who was cheating on his wife with her had also been cheating on her with Chrissie Hellinger!
A somber mood prevailed at the factory the next day. Bryce had still not returned to work.
"Where is he?" Shantel asked Bobbie Bedelia.
"Today's Miss Hellinger's funeral. He wants to be at his wife's side. What a devoted husband he is!"
Devoted? If you only knew.
The phone call from Bryce that Shantel had been waiting for finally came later that evening.
"I need to see you. Can you get away?" she asked.
"No. It's not a good time for me. Adria is very upset. I don't want to leave her alone."
"She'll have to get used to it, won't she?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"After the divorce, she'll be alone."
"Don't start that again. I'm not asking my wife for a divorce."
"Surely you don't expect things between us to continue as they've been?"
"No," Bryce answered hesitantly. "Actually, I thought we should let things cool down between us."
"You're breaking up with me!" she screamed over the phone.
"Not exactly. We'll still see each other from time to time."
"I can't believe you're serious."
"Look, I've just had a terrible shock. I need some time to get over it."
"By a terrible shock, you mean you lost your other girlfriend."
"So, you knew about me and Chrissie?"
"I saw the way you looked at her at the viewing. Why her? Wasn't I enough for you?"
"You're sounding like a jealous wife, and I don't like it."
"And I don't like being cheated on!"
"I'm not your husband, and I never will be. I'm already married, and I don't intend to leave Adria."
The line abruptly went dead. Shantel held the phone in her hand, debating whether she should call him back. Would he answer if she did? Probably not.
* * *
Four months later, Shantel Haise, who had left Woodford Woodworking and was now employed by a greeting card company, received an unexpected telephone call as she waited for a frozen dinner to cook in the microwave. She was stunned to see Bryce's name on her caller ID since she had not heard from him since their breakup.
"It's me," he said when she answered.
"What do you want?"
"I was hoping I could come over and see you."
"Why?"
"I'm not happy with the way things ended between us."
Does he really think I'll take him back? He must be crazy!
"I'm getting a divorce," he added.
Shantel's heart rang with joy.
I'm the crazy one. I still love him.
"What about the company? Has Adria agreed to let you have sole ownership?"
"No. But she's willing to let me keep running it, and hopefully, over time I can buy her out."
"She can't be too bitter about the divorce then. How did you manage that?"
"She's divorcing me," Bryce admitted.
"Why?"
"She found out about me and Chrissie."
"How?"
"The police told her."
"The police?"
"It seems Chrissie was in love with me and hoped that if Adria was out of the way, I'd marry her. Evidence came to light that she planned on killing my wife, but as fate would have it, she died before she could carry out her plan. That's pretty unbelievable; don't you think?"
Was it unbelievable that a woman would kill to win a man? No. It wasn't unbelievable at all. But that one lover bent on murder would erroneously kill a second lover and thus save the intended victim's life in the process? That part was a lot harder to swallow. What followed was even more implausible: Bryce proposed marriage to Shantel, and she accepted.
"We'll have to wait until my divorce is final," he announced after she agreed to quit her job at the greeting card company and return to Woodford Woodworking.
"It's all right. I've waited this long," she reasoned. "I can wait a little longer."
The first thing she did when she returned to her old job was to paint wedding bells, hearts and doves on a traditional bride's hope chest. The completed piece was then delivered to her apartment for her own use. As she filled the hope chest with the trousseau for her long-awaited wedding and honeymoon, she tried not to wonder whether Bryce was marrying her because he loved her or because her artistic skill was an asset to his business. She did not want any doubts to spoil the joy of the occasion.
Thankfully, she was blissfully unaware that Bobbie Bedelia, who was destined to be the boss's next sexual conquest, would one day formulate a plan to kill her in the hopes of becoming the third Mrs. Bryce Woodford.
I once convinced Salem that his wishes would come true if he locked himself inside a hope chest. Unfortunately, he soon found his way out, and my hopes for a peaceful evening were dashed!
