The Invisible Husband of Frick Island by Colleen Oakley (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📗

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The next morning, Anders woke up in the second-floor bedroom of the Oleckis’ bed-and-breakfast. His feet hung off the end of the full bed, and sweat bonded the side of his face to the pillowcase, the warm breeze entering the screen of the open windows doing nothing to combat the heat. He blinked slowly, his head groggy with lack of sleep, his mouth gluey and dry. He had spent the majority of the night tossing and turning, the pure silence of the island deafening. There were no cars driving past outside, no sirens, no thumping music from an upstairs neighbor, no people, period. Nothing to hear but a few unidentified birdcalls (one particularly high-pitched and terrifying that jolted Anders straight up in bed, notwithstanding) and the sound of Piper’s words replaying in his head.

I thought maybe you were different.

He felt bad, even as he wasn’t sure exactly why. Maybe because everything Piper said hit a little too close to home. He did have preconceived notions about the island and its residents, and the first tenet of journalism—yes, even in podcasting— was to try to be as objective as possible. But if he was being honest, he wasn’t objective—he thought she was crazy. He thought this whole island was crazy. And that wasn’t fair. At the very least it was terrible journalism. The least he could do was try to be more open-minded.

But what was grating him was more than just being a possibly bad, selfish journalist. It was the look in Piper’s eyes. The disappointment. Anders historically didn’t care much about what other people thought of him, and he couldn’t exactly say why it bothered him so much now.

All he knew was that Piper was disappointed in him. And Anders didn’t want her to be.

By the time he woke up, his face pasted to the pillow, while most of his thoughts were still muddled, one thing was clear: Podcast or no podcast, he owed Piper an apology.

Downstairs, he sat at the dining table, staring at a plate of ham-and-cheese quiche, two pieces of maple-sugared bacon, and three orange slices. He shared the table with two amateur photographers who came to the island every summer to capture the scenery and wildlife with their lenses. Anders half listened as they casually spoke about their agenda for the day, but every time the door swung open from the kitchen, he craned his neck trying to catch a glimpse of Piper, to no avail.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Mrs. Olecki said finally, as she was clearing the dishes away. Her kind voice was belied by her stern eyes, her hand propped on her ample hip.

“Oh,” Anders said, melting under her gaze. “I, uh, I was just looking for Piper.”

“She’s already left.”

“So she’s home, then?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Well, I don’t rightly know. It’s not really my business where she goes when she’s done here.” But the way she said it made it clear she thought it wasn’t any of Anders’s business.

“Right.” He swallowed.

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, thank you,” he said, and excused himself from the table with haste.

Stepping out the front door of the bed-and-breakfast, Anders squinted against the morning sun reflecting off the calm water. He turned right on the one-lane road in front of the house and immediately turned right again between the bed-and-breakfast and the neighboring house onto the worn footpath that led to Piper’s carriage house. Heart pounding, he climbed the steps and rapped on the screen door; he was partly relieved but even more anxious to hear footsteps from within.

“Hey,” he said when Piper opened the door, leaving the screen between them. Barefoot, she wore a simple linen shift, and her hair was more wild than ever, if possible—curls shooting in every direction like a Fourth of July fireworks display.

“Hello,” she said, her tone cold and formal.

He swallowed and gave a lame half wave. “Me again. Uh . . . Anders.”

Piper just stared at him, her expression unreadable, her hand resting on the knob of the open door.

“Listen, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for . . . well, everything yesterday. I didn’t mean to . . .” He cleared his throat. “What I’m trying to say . . . poorly, obviously . . . is that I was a jerk . . .” He paused. “Though, to be fair, I think smug was a little harsh.”

She cocked an eyebrow.

He waved the thought away. “Doesn’t matter. Point is . . . I’m sorry.”

Piper remained silent. Anders searched for something else to say.

“Oh, and of course I want to say thank you. You know, for the research. You didn’t have to do that, and it was really nice of you. So . . .”

Piper’s eyes glazed over as Anders trailed off and he wasn’t even sure if she was listening to him anymore. But then she tilted her head to the innards of her house. “What, hon?”

Anders cocked his head as well, straining to hear what she had heard, but the only audible sounds were a few birdcalls flapping in the air outside. The breeze. Nothing from the direction Piper was looking. Nothing from inside.

“Yeah, I’ll be right there,” she called, and turned back to Anders. “Sorry. It’s my husband. He’s color-blind and never can pick the right tie for church.”

Anders stared at her for a beat. “Your husband,” he said.

“Yep,” Piper said.

“Your husband, Tom,” Anders repeated slowly, for clarity.

“Yesss,” Piper said, drawing out the word and looking at Anders as if he were the one a few crayons short of a full box. “So you were saying?”

Flustered, Anders could hardly remember what he was saying. He knew this woman believed her husband, Tom, was here in the flesh; he had witnessed it with his own eyes! But the ease with which she spoke to . . . to . . . the air . . . was still unnerving. Or maybe she wasn’t talking to the air. He remembered the email from the PBHE expert, about that woman who kept her husband’s dead body in the house. He shivered. And then tentatively sniffed. Thankfully, he