by Nora Roberts
Olivia carried her boxes to the toy shelf and stacked them on the floor beside it. More out of boredom than interest, she poked into some of the drawers, pondered baby clothes carefully wrapped in tissue and scattered with cedar chips to keep them sweet. In another was a blanket, all pink and white with soft satin edgings. She fingered it as it stirred some vague memory. But her stomach got all hot and crampy, so she closed the drawer again.
Technically she wasn’t supposed to come to the attic without permission, and she was never allowed to open drawers or chests or boxes. Her grandmother said that memories were precious, and when she was older she could take them out. It was always when she was older, Olivia thought. It was never, never now.
She didn’t see why it was such a big deal. It was just a bunch of old junk, and she wasn’t a kid anymore. It wasn’t as if she’d break something or lose it.
Anyway, she didn’t really care.
The rain started to patter on the roof, like fingers lightly drumming on a table. She glanced toward the little window that faced the front of the clearing. And saw the chest.
It was a cherry wood chest with a domed lid and polished-brass fittings. It was always kept deep under the overhang, and always locked. She noticed such things. Her grandfather said she had eyes like a cat, which had made her giggle when she’d been younger. Now it was something she took pride in.
Today, the chest wasn’t shoved back under the roofline, and neither was it locked. Grandma must have put something away, Olivia thought and strolled casually over as if she weren’t particularly interested.
She knew the story about Pandora’s box and how the curious woman had opened it and set free all the ills upon the world. But this wasn’t the same thing, she told herself as she knelt in front of it. And since it wasn’t locked, what was the harm in opening it up and taking a peek inside?
It was probably just full of sentimental junk or musty old clothes or pictures turning yellow.
But her fingers tingled—in warning or anticipation—as she lifted the heavy lid.
The scent struck her first and made her breath come fast and hard.
Cedar, from the lining. Lavender. Her grandfather had a sweep of it planted on the side of the house. But under those, something else. Something both foreign and familiar. Though she couldn’t identify it, the waft of it had her heart beating fast, like a quick, impatient knocking in her chest.
The tingling in her fingers became intense, making them shake as she reached inside. There were videos, labeled only with dates and stored in plain black dust covers. Three thick photo albums, boxes of varying sizes. She opened one very like the box her grandparents used to store their old-fashioned Christmas balls.
There, resting in foam for protection, were half a dozen decorative bottles.
“The magic bottles,” she whispered. It seemed the attic was suddenly filled with low and beautiful laughter, flickering images, exotic scents.
On your sixteenth birthday, you can choose the one you like best. But you mustn’t play with them, Livvy. They might break. You could cut your hand or step on glass.
Mama leaned over, her soft hair falling over the side of her face. Laughing, her eyes full of fun, she sprayed a small cloud of perfume on Olivia’s throat.
The scent. Mama’s perfume. Scrambling up to her knees again, Olivia leaned into the chest, breathed long and deep. And smelled her mother.
Setting the box aside, she reached in for the first photo album. It was heavy and awkward, so she laid it across her lap. There were no pictures of her mother in the house. Olivia remembered there had been, but they’d disappeared a long time before. The album was full of them, pictures of her mother when she’d been a young girl, pictures of her with Jamie, and with her parents. Smiling, laughing, making faces at the camera.
Pictures in front of the house and in the house, at the campground and at the lake. Pictures with Grandpop when his hair had been more gold than silver, and with Grandma in a fancy dress.
There was one of her mother holding a baby. “That’s me,” Olivia whispered. “Mama and me.” She turned the next page and the next, all but devouring each photo, until they abruptly stopped. She could see the marks on the page where they’d been removed.
Impatient now, she set it aside and reached for the next.
Not family photos this time but newspaper clippings, magazine articles. Her mother on the cover of People and Newsweek and Glamour. Olivia studied these first, looking deep, absorbing every feature. She had her mother’s eyes. She’d known that, remembered that, but to see it so clearly, to look with her own into them, the color, the shape, the slash of dark eyebrows.
Excitement, grief, pleasure swirled through her in a tangled mass as she stroked a finger over each glossy image. She’d been so beautiful, so perfect.
Then her heart leaped again as she paged through and found a series of pictures of her mother with a dark-haired man. He was handsome, like a poet, she thought as her adolescent heart sighed. There were pictures of them in a garden, and in a big room with dozens of glittering lights, on a sofa with her mother snuggled into his lap with their faces close and their smiles for each other.
Sam Tanner. It said his name was Sam Tanner. Reading it, she began to shiver. Her stomach cramped, a dozen tight fists that twisted.
Daddy. It was Daddy. How could she have forgotten? It was Daddy, holding hands with Mama, or with his arm around her shoulders.
Holding scissors bright with blood.
No, no, that couldn’t be. It was a dream, a nightmare. Imagination, that was all.
She began to rock, pressing her hands to her mouth as the images began to creep in. Panic, burning fingers of it, had her by the throat, squeezing until her breath came in strangled gasps.
Broken glass sparkling on the floor in the lights. Dying flowers. The warm breeze through the open door.
It wasn’t real. She wouldn’t let it be real.
Olivia pushed the book aside and lifted out the last with hands that trembled. There’d be other pictures, she told herself. More pictures of her parents smiling and laughing and holding each other.
But it was newspapers again, with big headlines that seemed to scream at her.
JULIE MACBRIDE MURDERED
SAM TANNER ARRESTED
FAIRY TALE ENDS IN TRAGEDY
There were pictures of her father, looking dazed and unkempt. More of her aunt, her grandparents, her uncle. And of her, she saw with a jolt. Of her years before with her eyes wild and blank and her hands pressed to her ears.
JULIE’S CHILD, ONLY WITNESS TO MOTHER’S SLAYING
She shook her head in denial, ripping quickly through the pages now. There, another face that awakened memories. His name was Frank, she thought. He chased the monster away. He had a little boy and he’d liked puzzles.
A policeman. Soft, hunted sounds trembled in her throat. He’d carried her out of the house, the house where the monster had come. Where all the blood was.
Because her mother was dead. Her mother was dead. She knew that, of course she knew that. But we don’t talk about it, she reminded herself, we never talk about it because it makes Grandma cry.
She ordered herself to close the book, to put it all away again, back in the chest, back in the dark. But she was already turning the pages, searching the words and pictures.
Drugs. Jealousy. Obsession.
Tanner Confesses!
Tanner Retracts Confession. Proclaims His Innocence.
Four-Year-Old Daughter Chief Witness.
The Tanner trial took one more dramatic turn today as the videotaped testimony of Tanner’s daughter, four-year-old Olivia, was introduced. The child was questioned in the home of her maternal aunt, Jamie Melbourne, and videotaped with permission of her grandparents, acting as guardians. Previously Judge Sato ruled that the taped statement could be introduced as evidence, sparing the minor the trauma of a court appearance.
She remembered, she remembered it all now. They’d sat in Aunt
Jamie’s living room. Her grandparents had been there, too. A woman with red hair and a soft voice had asked her questions about the night the monster had come. Grandma had promised it would be the last time she would have to talk about it, the very last time.
And it was.
The woman had listened and asked more questions. Then a man had talked to her, a man with a careful smile and careful eyes. She’d thought since it was the last time, she’d be able to go back home. That it would all go away.
But she’d come to Washington instead, to the big house in the forest.
Now, she knew why.
Olivia turned more pages, narrowed her eyes against tears until they were stinging dry. And with her jaw tight and her eyes clear, read another flurry of headlines.
SAM TANNER CONVICTED
GUILTY! JURY CONVICTS TANNER
TANNER SENTENCED TO LIFE
“You killed my mother, you bastard.” She said it with all the hate a young girl could muster. “I hope you’re dead, too. I hope you died screaming.”
With steady hands, she closed the book, carefully replaced it along with the others in the chest. She shut the lid, then rose to go turn off the lights. She walked down the stairs, through the empty house to the back porch.
Sitting there, she stared out into the rain.
She didn’t understand how she could have buried everything that had happened, how she could have locked it up the way her grandmother locked the boxes and books in the chest.
But she knew she wouldn’t do so again. She would remember, always. And she would find out more, find out everything she could about the night her mother died, about the trial, about her father.
She understood she couldn’t ask her family. They thought she was still a child, one who needed to be protected. But they were wrong. She’d never be a child again.
She heard the sound of the Jeep rumbling up the lane through the rain. Olivia closed her eyes and concentrated. A part of her hardened, then wondered if she’d inherited acting skills from either of her parents. She tucked the hate, the grief and the anger into a corner of her heart. Sealed it inside.
Then she stood up, a smile ready for her grandmother when the Jeep braked at the end of the drive.
“Just who I wanted to see.” Val tossed up the hood of her jacket as she stepped out of the Jeep. “We’re loaded here, Livvy. Get a jacket and give me a hand, will you?”
“I don’t need a jacket. I won’t melt.” She stepped out into the rain. The steady drum of it was a comfort. “Are we having spaghetti and meatballs for dinner?”
“For Jamie’s first night home?” Val laughed and passed Olivia a grocery bag. “What else?”
“I’d like to make it.” Olivia shifted the bag, then reached in for another.
“You—really?”
Olivia jerked a shoulder and headed into the house. The door slapped shut behind her, then opened again as Val pushed in with more bags. “What brought this on? You always say cooking is boring.”
That had been when she’d been a kid, Olivia thought. Now was different. “I have to learn sometime. I’ll get the rest, Grandma.” She started out, then turned back. The anger was inside her, didn’t want to stay locked up. It wanted to leap out, she realized, and slice at her grandmother. And that was wrong. Deliberately, she walked over and gave Val a fierce hug. “I want to learn to cook like you.”
While Val blinked in stunned pleasure, Olivia hurried outside for the rest of the bags. What had gotten into the girl? Val wondered as she unpacked fresh tomatoes and lettuce and peppers. Just that morning she’d whined about fixing a couple of pieces of toast, all but danced with impatience to get outside. Now she wanted to spend her free afternoon cooking.
When Olivia came back in, Val lifted her eyebrows. “Livvy, did you get in trouble at the campground?”
“No.”
“Are you after something? That fancy new backpack you’ve had your eye on?”
Olivia sighed, shoved the damp hair out of her eyes. “Gran, I want to learn how to cook spaghetti. It’s not a big deal.”
“I just wondered about the sudden interest.”
“If I don’t know how to cook, I can’t be independent. And if I’m going to learn, I’d might as well learn right.”
“Well.” Pleased, Val nodded. “My girl’s growing up on me.” She reached over, brushed Olivia’s cheek with her fingertips. “My pretty little Livvy.”
“I don’t want to be pretty.” Some of the fire of that buried anger smoked into her eyes. “I want to be smart.”
“You can be both.”
“I’d rather work on smart.”
Changes, Val thought. You couldn’t stop them, could never hold a moment. “All right. Let’s get this stuff put away and get started.”
With patience Val explained what ingredients they’d use and why, which of the herbs they’d add from the kitchen garden and how their flavors would blend. If she noticed that Olivia paid almost fierce attention to every detail, she was more amused than concerned.
If she could have heard her granddaughter’s thoughts, she might have wept.
Did you teach my mother how to make the sauce? Olivia wondered. Did she stand here with you when she was my age at this same stove and learn how to brown garlic in olive oil? Did she smell the same smells and hear the rain beating on the roof?
Why won’t you tell me about her? How will I know who she was if you don’t? How will I know who I am?
Then Val laid a hand on her shoulder. “That’s good, honey. That’s fine. You’ve got a real knack.”
Olivia stirred the herbs into the slow simmer of the sauce. And for now, let the rest go.
six
Because the first night Jamie and David came to visit was always treated as a special occasion, the family ate in the dining room with its long oak table set with white candles in silver holders, fresh flowers in crystal vases and Great-Grandma Capelli’s good china.
Food was abundant, as was conversation. As always, the meal spun out for two hours while the candles burned down and the sun that had peeked out of the clouds began to slide behind the trees.
“Livvy, that was just wonderful.” Jamie groaned and leaned back to pat her stomach. “So wonderful, I haven’t left room for any tiramisù.”
“I have.” Rob twinkled, giving Olivia’s hair a tug. “I’ll just shake the spaghetti into my hollow leg. She’s got your hand with the sauce, Val.”
“My mother’s, more like. I swear it was better than mine. I was beginning to wonder if our girl would ever do more than fry fish over a campfire.”
“Blood runs true,” Rob commented and winked at his granddaughter. “That Italian was bound to pop out sooner or later. The MacBride side was never known for its skill in the kitchen.”
“What are they known for, Dad?”
He laughed, wiggled his brows at Jamie. “We’re lovers, darling.”
Val snorted, slapped his arm, then rose. “I’ll clear,” Jamie said, starting to get up.
“No.” Val pointed a finger at her daughter. “You don’t catch KP on your first night. Livvy’s relieved, too. Rob and I will clean this up, then maybe we’ll all have room for coffee and dessert.”
“Hear that, Livvy?” David leaned over to murmur in her ear. “You cook, you don’t scrub pots. Pretty good deal.”
“I’m going to start cooking regularly.” She grinned at him. “It’s a lot more fun than doing dishes. Do you want to take a hike tomorrow, Uncle David? We can use my new backpack.”
Olivia slanted her grandmother a look, struggling not to smirk.
“You spoil her, David,” Val stated as she stacked dishes. “She wasn’t going to get that backpack until her birthday this fall.”
“Spoil her?” His face bland, David poked a finger into Olivia’s ribs and made her giggle. “Nah, she’s not even ripe yet. Plenty of time yet before she spoils. Do you mind if I switch on the TV in the other room? I’ve got a client doing a concert on cable. I promise
d I’d catch it.”
“You go right on,” Val told him. “Put your feet up and get comfortable. I’ll bring coffee in shortly.”
“Want to come up and talk to me while I unpack?” Jamie asked her niece.
“Could we take a walk?” Olivia had been waiting for the right moment. It seemed everyone had conspired to make it now. “Before it gets dark?”
“Sure.” Jamie stood, stretched. “Let me get a jacket. It’ll do me good to work off some of that pasta. Then I won’t feel guilty if I don’t make it over to the health club at the lodge tomorrow.”
“I’ll tell Grandma. Meet you out back.”
Even in summer, the nights were cool. The air smelled of rain and wet roses. The long days of July held the light even while a ghost moon rose in the eastern sky. Still, Olivia fingered the flashlight in her pocket. They would need it in the forest. It was the forest she wanted. She would feel safe there, safe enough to say what she needed to say and ask what she needed to ask.
“It’s always good to be home.” Jamie took a deep breath and smiled at her father’s garden.
“Why don’t you live here?”
“My work’s in L.A. So’s David’s. But we both count on coming up here a couple of times a year. When I was a girl, your age, I suppose, I thought this was the whole world.”
“But it’s not.”
“No.” Jamie angled her head as she looked over at Olivia. “But it’s one of the best parts. I hear you’re a big help at the campground and the lodge. Grandpop says he couldn’t do without you.”
“I like working there. It’s not like work.” Olivia scuffed a boot in the dirt and angled away from the house toward the trees. “Lots of people come. Some of them don’t know anything. They don’t even know the difference between a Douglas fir and a hemlock, or they wear expensive designer boots and get blisters. They think the more you pay for something the better it is, and that’s just stupid.” She slanted Jamie a look. “A lot of them come from Los Angeles.”
“Ouch.” Amused, Jamie rubbed her heart. “Direct hit.”
“There’re too many people down there, and cars and smog.”