Finding Laura Read online

  Finding Laura © 2019

  Finding Laura is a work of fiction. Names of characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental. No excerpts may be reprinted in any form without the express written consent of the author.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9996154-4-7

  Print ISBN: 978-0-9996154-5-4

  Editor: Brian Paone

  Cover Designer: Sydney Blackburn

  Author Photographer: Mark Lingl Photography

  Proofreaders: Marianne Reese & Paige Alexandria Cook

  Formatting: KH Formatting

  For more information, please visit my website: dawnmtaylor.com

  This book is dedicated to,

  my editor and mentor,

  Brian Paone.

  You published my first short story

  and guided my writing journey.

  I will always be grateful.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  About The Author

  Chapter 1

  “Mama.”

  Miranda Melton balanced her toothbrush on the sink’s edge. She cocked her head and listened. Had Laura finally awakened?

  “Mama?”

  “Coming, darling,” Miranda answered and sped into Laura’s nursery. The little bed adorned with a wrought-iron headboard was empty. The pink chenille bedspread with matching pillow sham lay undisturbed.

  Miranda shrugged. Her three-year-old daughter must have called out and then raced downstairs to greet Sally, her nanny. Miranda returned to brushing her teeth. After a quick combing of her curly locks, she would join the two for breakfast.

  Downstairs, Sally’s humming broke the silence as she worked alone in the kitchen. Mornings bring fresh starts. Sally recalled her mother’s adage as she gazed from the window. Sunbeams intercepted scant ribbons of fog and lapped the remaining dew from the valley’s green pastures. Behind a barbed-wire fence, mares grazed while their foals frolicked. The distant Blue Ridge mountain range provided a majestic background to the horses’ idyllic play.

  Sally cherished the picturesque view of the Virginian countryside from her lowly vantage point at the window above the sink. Her mother, Cora, had spent years cleaning coloreds’ restrooms at the bus depot while praying a better fate awaited her daughter. Women of their low social standing had few opportunities and taking any position—scrubbing toilets or tending unruly children—proved better than the alternative of forgoing food or heat. Cora had not survived her cancer diagnosis to witness her daughter’s luck of snagging a prestigious position for the wealthy Melton family. Sally thanked the Lord daily for her good fortune. Yes, her mother would surely agree, Sally was indeed blessed.

  The percolator’s rhythm slowed and diffused a tantalizing aroma of Brazilian coffee. Sally lowered the burner’s flame and stood guard over the toaster. The thin heating elements seemed to take forever to transform the homemade white bread slices into a golden hue. She held a butter knife in a subtle attack mode and waited. “Hurry it up, now!”

  The thick padding on Miranda’s slipper soles prevented Sally from hearing her employer’s approach.

  Miranda lingered at the doorway, confused by the nanny’s antics of talking to herself.

  Sally slapped her left palm on the counter. “Come on, toaster. Ain’t got all day to waste.” She considered jabbing the knife into the toaster to raise the slices but just as quickly realized that would be a reckless act.

  “Where’s Laura?” Miranda asked.

  Sally jumped. Her grip loosened. The utensil crashed to the tile floor, resounding with a sharp clank, magnifying the awkward moment of silence between the two women.

  Sally inhaled sharply. The sting pierced her lungs as if she had jabbed the knife blade into her chest. Sally swallowed hard before she faced Miranda. She reached for the percolator and quickly filled a delicate teacup. The cup rattled against the saucer as Sally struggled to calm her shaky hold. She quickly set the cup on the table and greeted her employer.

  “Good mornin’, Miss Miranda. Coffee, ma’am?”

  Miranda silently accepted the offer and sat.

  Sally discreetly retrieved the knife near her employer’s foot and placed it in the sink. She glanced at the toaster as it finally freed the four slices.

  “Laura’s not in her room. Did Robert take her with him?” Miranda asked.

  Sally wiped her perspiring hands on her apron and wrung the fabric. “He was gone ’fore I woke up. Couldn’t cook a proper breakfast for him. Ain’t no way to start the mornin’.”

  Miranda plopped a sugar cube into her cup and lazily stirred the coffee as she watched the granules dissolve. “She’s starting dance lessons today.”

  The fine hairs on Sally’s neck itched. She rubbed away the irritation, surprised her touch felt so cool despite her sweaty hands. Miranda’s peculiar questions had always induced contradictory sensations. Despite the kitchen’s heat, Sally shivered. She quickly changed the subject to ease the gooseflesh erupting like tiny landmines on her arms.

  “Mr. Melton can tend to that when he gets home. How ’bout some eggs and bacon? Start someone’s day off right in this house.”

  Miranda stirred her coffee, the spoon’s circular motion mesmerizing her. She flinched as if a gnat buzzed in her ear.

  “Just more coffee, Sally.”

  Sally refilled the cup and set the toast on a small plate. Turning toward the sink, she wiped her brow on the dishtowel that hung over her shoulder and smoothed wrinkles from her apron. She had no strength to deal with Miranda today, not with the long list of household chores to complete. As soon as she had the privacy to place the dreaded call, she would summon Robert Melton to return home early today. Again.

  The deliberate, almost eerie tranquil fluidity of Miranda’s movements unnerved Sally although she had witnessed the odd behavior frequently in the past few months. Sally preferred her employer’s predictable sour mood during her lucid moments rather than Miranda’s current stoic stance. Instead of her usual rigid posture, Miranda slouched in her chair, as limp as a rag doll.

  Sally spoke to snap Miranda from her trance. “Sunny day, Miss Miranda. Mighty fine mornin’ for gardenin’.”

  Miranda wrapped both hands around her cup. With her head bowed, she sat silently as if her thoughts escaped her. Had she been a religious woman, her position would have indicated she was lost in prayer.

  Sally simply identified Miranda’s odd behavior as a muddled mind. Miranda failed to connect the dots, add two and two—or string it all together, as Cora would say.

  “Yes,” Miranda answered moments later. She raised her head and gazed out the window as if she viewed the scenery for the first time. “But first, I must get dress
ed and lay out Laura’s clothes for dance class.”

  Sally returned to the sink and bit her lip. She dared not to engage in a conversation about Laura—not with Miranda in her current confused state. Sally had better odds winning the daily battle with the toaster.

  Silently, Miranda abandoned her breakfast and climbed the curved stairway to Laura’s nursery.

  Sally watched Miranda float up the stairs, seemingly not even touching the treads. The woman’s designation was her daughter’s nursery, which drew Miranda toward it like a magnetic field. On many occasions, she frittered away hours behind the closed door.

  “Oh, my Lord. Not again. Mr. Robert ain’t gonna like this one bit. Not one bit,” Sally said in a singsong tune that ended with a hum.

  She dialed the wall-mounted rotary telephone and silently cursed that Robert’s office telephone number ended with a nine for each of the last four digits. The dial recess steadied her finger as she completed the rotations. Waiting for the finger plate to return seemed like an eternity when unrest rushed her. When she had asked Robert why his company’s telephone number included so many long digits, he explained his father, partner of Melton & Stone Advertising, purposely chose the repetitive nines for his clients’ easy recall.

  Sally drummed her fingers against the wallpaper as she counted four rings. She held her breath, hoping that unpleasant woman—Betty? Bessie?—did not answer this time. The receptionist had always been condescending toward her, even to the point of correcting her grammar, which infuriated Sally. Sally had no reason to impress some haughty woman sitting at a typewriter; she needed to contact Robert and quickly.

  “Melton and Stone Advertising. Betty speaking. How may I direct your call?”

  Sally gulped. “I axin’ to speak to Mr. Melton.”

  “You mean you’re asking to speak to Mr. Melton.”

  Sally rolled her eyes. “That’s what I said, ma’am.”

  “Mr. James Melton or Mr. Robert Melton?”

  An audible sigh preceded Sally’s response. “Mr. Robert. Hurry. It’s important.”

  Sally wondered what unfortunate event had occurred in this woman’s life to trigger such brash behavior toward others. Betty had always managed to transform a simple request into an unnecessary game of tug o’ war.

  “Both Mr. James and Mr. Robert Melton are currently in a meeting and can’t be disturbed at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “No!”

  “Like I said—”

  Sally ignored telephone etiquette and interrupted the annoying receptionist. “I knowed what you said. Like I said, this is important. I’m Sally, the housekeeper. Mr. Robert told me to call him any time there’s an emergency at his house.”

  “Emergency? Why didn’t you say that before?”

  Sally blew her frustration into the receiver. “Miss, I been tryin’ to. Just tell Mr. Robert to call home. That’s all I can say.”

  The sharp slam of the receiver resounded in Betty’s ear. She jerked away the telephone as if the molded plastic was a snake hissing into her ear. After replacing the headset onto its cradle, she pressed the button to hold incoming calls. She traipsed down the hallway and paused to straighten a picture before lightly knocking on Robert’s open door. She observed her boss studying paperwork at his desk. The imaginary “meeting” she had invented to deter the exasperating caller had vanished. Betty grinned at her ingenuity; only an experienced magician performed smoother moves than she did. Betty’s light rapping captured Robert’s attention.

  “Mr. Melton, sorry to disturb you. Your nanny—I mean, housekeeper—just called. She requested you call her back at once. Seems she has something important to relay to you.”

  Robert Melton dropped his pen and leaned back in his chair. “Thank you, Betty. I’ll call home.”

  Betty closed the door and returned to her desk. She noted it was only Wednesday and the housekeeper had called three times this week. She penciled a memo to remind herself to screen Robert Melton’s calls with more diligence.

  Sally hung up the receiver; relieved that Betty’s prolonged inquisition had not caused Miranda to overhear the conversation. Robert had instructed Sally that her discretion was of utmost importance. A spouse’s constant intrusions cast a bad light to the firm’s senior partners, including his father, who had always stressed to Robert that business matters took precedence over family troubles.

  When the telephone rang, Sally glanced nervously around the corner before lifting the receiver. Assured that Miranda was still upstairs, Sally answered in a whisper. “Melton residence.”

  “Sally?”

  “Yes, Mr. Robert. Sorry ’bout the call. It’s Mrs. Melton … Well, she … she’s talkin’ about the girl again.”

  The pause on the line ended with Robert’s grunt.

  Robert glanced at his watch. “I have a morning meeting in a few minutes. After that, I’ll be able to come home for an early lunch. Think you can handle things until then?”

  “Yes, sir. Surely will try my best.”

  “Thank you, Sally. See you in a bit.”

  Miranda entered Laura’s nursery at the right of the stairway. She opened the first set of closet doors and searched for the pink tutu she had purchased last month. With Laura’s recent growth spurt, Miranda had hoped it would still fit. She carefully set the ruffled skirt on Laura’s bed before selecting white tights and a simple tee-shirt. Laura’s curly hair tucked into a bun would be the final detail to transform her into a ballerina. Her private lesson guaranteed Miranda’s daughter would be the most beautiful dancer on the stage. Satisfied with her choices, Miranda closed the nursery door and headed to the master bedroom.

  Miranda disrobed and pulled her nightgown over her head. After she kicked off her fuzzy slippers, she stood in front of the full-length mirror. She studied her figure and noted, with an air of conceit, how her thirty-eight-year-old body looked firm and lithe. She hopped into the shower and lathered while she hummed a song she had loved since high school, the song she and Robert had danced to at their senior prom.

  Always meticulous with her appearance, Miranda spent an hour applying her cosmetics and styling her hair. Sitting at her vanity, she opened the drawer to stow her lipstick. A painkiller prescription bottle rolled into view. She shook a capsule from the bottle and concealed the remaining Xentenol within her cosmetic bag. She must have been groggy during her last dosage and reminded herself to be careful. She certainly did not need Robert quizzing her about possessing a bottle with Sally Eckerhart’s name on it. She swallowed the pill and headed to her garden.

  Miranda’s potting shed, her sanctuary, had been a gift from Robert. He had stocked the shelves with clay pots, gardening tools, and baskets filled with seed packets and bulbs. Everyone needed a place to call their own, he had explained to Miranda without disclosing the potting shed had been Dr. Justin Ames’s suggestion. Robert’s haven was his library, with his collection of first-edition books displayed on crowded shelves and decanters of aged scotch.

  The earthly scent of damp soil giving life to colorful blossoms brought joy to Miranda, although she could not imagine how her life could be any happier. She lived in a stately home in the peacefulness of Richmond’s affluent countryside. Robert, her first and only love, provided handsomely for his family. He had hired Sally four years ago to maintain the household so Miranda could devote her time raising Laura. Tending to Laura’s needs exhausted Miranda on most days; she relied on Sally’s assistance to maintain a balance to the household.

  Miranda busied herself planting bulbs along the edge of the garden, ignoring the chronic ache in her back. The medication would dissolve in her system soon enough, it always did. She glanced up from her crouched position on her kneepad and saw Robert’s new 1962 Pontiac Grand Prix enter the driveway. She pulled back her glove’s cuff and checked the time. The hands on her wristwatch read 11:33 a.m. Had she forgotten a luncheon date?

  Miranda wasted no time quizzing Robert as he exited the car. “Where’s La
ura? Isn’t she with you?” Miranda stared at the Pontiac, anticipating her giggling daughter would spring up any minute from the backseat. “Laura?”

  Robert sighed. “Miranda …” He ignored his wife’s puzzled expression as he draped his arm around her shoulder. “Come into the house.”

  Miranda peeled off her soiled gloves and tossed them to the ground. She stole another glance at Robert’s vehicle. Robert’s gentle push forced her to join him as he led her toward the front door.

  Miranda murmured. “I don’t … I don’t understand. If she’s not with you …”

  Robert opened the door and ushered his wife inside. He silently led her from the foyer to the kitchen, where the couple encountered Sally standing on a stepstool scrubbing the cabinets’ interiors.

  Robert mouthed Thank you to Sally without Miranda noticing.

  “Sorry the kitchen’s all a mess. If I knowed you was comin’ home early, Mr. Robert, I’d be making the kitchen presentable, sir.”

  “No worries, Sally. May I ask you to bring two glasses of lemonade to the back porch?”

  Robert offered his hand to Sally to steady herself as she descended the stepstool.

  “Thank you. Yes, sir. Right away.”

  Robert turned to Miranda. “Honey, let’s sit and talk for a while.”

  “You’re not home for lunch? Did I forget the time of Laura’s lesson? I thought it was this morning, not this afternoon.”

  Robert silenced her with his finger against her lips. “Come, sit.”

  He pressed the small of her back with a gentle nudge as he guided her outdoors to the porch swing. Robert activated the rocking motion with his foot. The swaying was a mechanism to calm Miranda as he began Dr. Ames’s therapy approach. Robert tried to recall the name. Was it ‘reality therapy?’ ‘Actuality truthfulness?’ After a year of practicing it, he should have known the term. Regardless of its title, Robert doubted its therapeutic effectiveness. Despite using the technique, he had noted no progress in his wife’s condition.

  “Miranda, Laura’s not at dance class.”

  He let the statement hang in the air as Dr. Ames had advised. Allowing her to deduce the facts on her own was the best way for her to remember.