Eddie

Surveying her home, her personal domain, Robin exhaled a delighted breath. Everything was as it should be. Jimmy, her devoted and loving husband, was at work, providing a plentiful income for her family. Her children were engrossed with their studies at school, looking forward to tonight’s share time. Because on Friday night, the child with the week’s best learned fact picked the Friday Night Movie. Their sincere desire to learn continued to impressed the teachers. Groceries have been purchased and stored. Dishes washed and put away. The laundry done. Toilets scrubbed. Bathroom tissue, facial tissue, paper towels, paper plates, and napkins replenished. Floors mopped and vacuumed. Cat fed. Dog walked. Checklist complete. Her house was in perfect order for a fun filled family weekend. In addition, the crock pot contained a family’s favorite meal to be ready the moment Jimmy walked in the door with his fist full of mail and arms spread wide for a hug and a kiss. Could her life get any better?

With thoughts of finishing her book prior to the kid’s arrival, Robin walks onto the back porch to lounge in a chair for a few hours of peace. A gentle breeze tickles her face in a teasing burst of cool autumn air. The hot summer days will change to afternoons by the fire pit in the next few weeks. Fall is pushing its way forward with each gust. Glancing back toward the house, she contemplates starting this year’s Halloween costumes for the coming Harvest Festival. They have reached no obvious choices except Penny. Her precious daughter had decided to be an actual penny, only life-sized. How was she going to begin the overwhelming project? A reassuringly warm gust of air blows the project from her mind. She had time before she must start this year’s Halloween prep. Perhaps her daughter would change her mind in the meantime. To her book…

On the front porch, she hears the letter carrier drop the lid on her mailbox. Normally she’d let her husband bring in the mail, but she was anxiously awaiting her mother’s reply regarding Thanksgiving. In a world of email, Facebook, and cell phones, her mother insisted on handwritten letters for personal communications. “It takes effort.” She would always say. “I know someone really cares when they send a handwritten letter.” Well, she proved she cared usually six times a year. But in the last letter, Robin asked her parents to visit over Thanksgiving weekend. Jimmy’s parents had spent last Thanksgiving. It went so well, they agreed to ask her parents this year. It had been years since she shared a holiday with them.

Reaching into the custom crafted mailbox, she wondered how long had it been since she got the mail? No matter. Jimmy would be pleased for the break. She searched through the pile. A personal letter would stand out from all the advertisements, and junk mail. She paused as a small lavender envelope slipped free and fell to the front step. On the front, she saw in stunning cursive script “Eddie.” Forgetting her original task, she tosses the mail onto the couch and snatches up the note. “Eddie?” Only two “Eds” came to mind. Ed Harrelson next door, and Ed Sands across the street. Both men were attractive, if you liked that richly tanned, firm, muscle-built type of man. If she did not have someone as wonderful as her charming Jimmy, she could see herself trying to catch their eye, but they were happily married men. Who would dare send such a romantic-looking note?

She held the note to her nose. The all too familiar scent of rose with a hint of vanilla sprang forth the image of only one woman - Emma Cromdon, the preacher's wife. Rumors had spread over the years that she was having an affair, but no one knew for sure or with whom. When the rumors did flare, the preacher squashed them with a fiery sermon on judging one’s neighbor. Regardless of the lack of evidence and fiery lessons from the altar, the rumors never completely stopped or produced an accomplice to her wicked behavior. Could this small scent infused envelope be the final clue to a long time town mystery? She held the evidence to her chest and closed the door behind her.

Feeling the tingles of next week's gossip blossoming at her fingertips, she tried to find a legitimate reason to unfold the love letter held in the palm of her hand. It was clearly a personal item. Anyone with half a brain could see that. She would need to provide beyond a reasonable doubt that she had an obligation to open the mystery envelope. Otherwise, her reputation could be at stake.

At usual, her thoughts began with using simple ignorance as an accuse. If not for the very specific scent, the note could be from anyone. But she knew Emma’s perfume. However, the note could be a message from Pastor Cromdon to one of his church goers. Both Ed Harrelson and Ed Sands attended the weekly service at their church. She tapped the note on her lip. The smell filled her airways, refreshing the image again. Perhaps she should return the item to the source, she thought cunningly. She could say she did not know the recipient, but the perfume was undeniably Emma’s scent. He could open it. Let him figure out which “Eddie” it was addressed to.

However, he might just leave it unopened, and the mystery would continue. She could not count on him to jump to her same conclusions. And if she spoke her thoughts, he would give yet another sermon on jumping to wrong conclusions. He would be sure the entire congregation knew (without dropping a single name) that she, Robin O’Donnald, had misjudged his wife in the worse way. His next sermons would address town gossip like they did every time the rumors got loud enough. She must open the envelope to see the tantalizing details before giving up the evidence. Besides, the address or full name of the intended recipient could be inside the lavender sleeve. But it was not enough. Her rational mind demanded a better reason to open the tempting evidence.

Yet if she just peeked at the note, she could find out which “Eddie” the script was addressing on the front. Neither of the two burly men ever answered to the name Eddie. All the years of living near them, she could not recall a time that Nancy or Tanya had called their husband Eddie. Shaking her head at the fussy memories pushing forward, she could not grasp a single instance of that nickname springing forth. Looking back, it seemed odd. Perhaps she could strike up a conversation and toss the name out to one or both. See how they react to such a slip? She paced the living room floor as she considered the idea. She had to do it with absolute caution. This note could be explosive enough to split a happy home asunder.

Her concern fades as her thoughts travel to another reason for such a card. “A condolence card.” She whispers in reverence. Emma’s beautiful, flowing handwriting would accompany all the preacher’s sympathy cards and thank you cards. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? This note could be any of those innocent forms of communication between caring preacher and parishioner. But it still did not answer which “Ed” she should deliver the note to this afternoon. As the innocent reasons filled her mind, she forgot about her desire to spur a cheating duo, and worried more about the importance of the personal note. Pastor Cromdon might have been asking “Eddie,” through his wife’s perfect penmanship, to provide aide to a person in need—a ride to the doctor, a meal for a family, or someone moving in or out of their house. Yet, for all the thousands of reasons for the note, the answer could only be found inside.

The envelope trembled in her hands. A sudden thought like a bolt of lightning sprang forward. Was the envelope sealed? The answer to her afternoon mystery could be easily discovered if the sender simply forgot to secure the sticky closure. Perhaps, they merely tucked the closing flap. Her heart races as she flips the delicate piece of folded paper. The sides of the folding triangle were begging to reveal their secret, but the smallest drop of saliva had sealed the note closed from prying eyes. Once she separated the locking seal, her guilt would be evident to its intended reader once received.

Tapping the lavender piece of excitement on the palm of hand, she tries to rationalize which man was the recipient. Ed next door seemed the likely candidate, but surely, no matter which Ed was supposed to receive the note, Emma would have known she was delivering to the wrong house? Unless Emma sent someone with the note. An unknown messenger must have left it at the wrong house by mistake. If Emma told the messenger 332 Overland Drive, Ed Harrelson’s address, but the unknown deliverer heard 322 Overland, her address, then the note should go to Ed Harrelson. That seemed very reasonable. Or Emma could have said to deliver to the beige house three from the corner? Ed Sands had the third house from the north end while her home was third from the south end. How could she know? She had to open the note to learn the truth.

Before she could pop the seal, she saw the damp circles left by her fingertips, and one corner was slightly bent. They would know her extended delay and examination of the parcel for sure. She could destroy it and no one would be the wiser except Mrs. Cromdon and possibly her husband. Yet, shouldn’t she read it first? Oh, her evil little heart wanted to know what Emma could possibly be writing to either Eddie. In a sudden impulse, she ripped open the envelope. The secret was no longer hidden. Emma, one of these Eds, and she now held a secret. The rose and vanilla fragrance filled the entire room. Trembling hands quivered with sure pleasure; she would be a part of the secret of the century. Maybe not the century, but the better part of an anxious five years. Did she really want the responsibility? A pang of guilt paused her apprehensive hands with uncomfortable indecision. She had to respect the preacher and his wife. If she could not give them the benefit of the doubt, who could she? Although, giving them the benefit of the doubt meant there would be no secret, and the note was a completely innocence piece of paper to tell one of the two Eds how sorry they were for their lost, or to come by for dinner, or that they were sorry he missed last week service. It would be completely innocence. She should just look to see which Ed she should deliver the note to. As she unfolded the perfume scented slip of paper, a plastic card slipped free. She picked up the plastic rectangle to see blazed across the front, “Sleep Well. Sleep Inn.” That was a hotel about twenty miles west notorious for its questionable clientele.

All the gossip, all the rumors, all the cover up. Finally, the evidence rested in the palm of her hand. Returning her attention to the page, the same beautiful script wrote out a few informative numbers “201” nothing more. Robin’s mouth went dry. Her breath caught in the horror. The note was purely malicious. Although she had the proof of Emma’s blazing sinful heart. She still did not know the person who was to be on the receiving end. The anger must have surged through her arm and into her fingers for the note was now a tiny ball, crushed and crumbled. She no longer cared if she was found out. She had to tell someone. Without knowing who the note was meant for, she decided to go to the preacher himself. He should be told. His wife was orchestrating an affair with a married man. The pit of stomach trembled as she feared the tragedy her news was about to bring on her dear friend, and spiritual leader. She closed the front door, approaching the car door her confusion became evident. She could not open the car door. In her dazed stupor, she had forgotten her purse, car keys, and shoes. She went back inside to collect herself along with the needed items. She wondered if she should drive at a time like this. Maybe not, but she could not have the preacher drive after he found out the truth.

She gathers her belonging, slips on her loafers, even puts a brush through her hair before starting out again.  “Pull it together.” She tells herself as she slips into the driver’s seat. “At least you are not on the receiving end.” She was blessed to have a husband as good as gold. Married fifteen years, his eyes never wondered. He treats her like a princess, never a queen. The running joke made her lips turn up as a small prayer of thanks left her lips. How devastating it will be for Preacher Cromdon to hear the truth. Throwing the car in reverse, she caught sight of a shingle her parents had given them on their wedding day. Hanging over the garage, in beautifully craved polished mahogany, she eyes lifted to the same words she had read for fifteen years. “Welcome to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Edward James O’Donnald.” And her world came crumbling down.