“I don’t think the wind will blow it down,” Danny said. “I twined it in there pretty well.”
“Yes, you did,” Mac said. “Good job.”
The three of them stood side by side in the hushed clearing, gazing up into the trees, etched tracings against the blue sky. Mac was willing to stand there until sunset.
“Happy birthday,” Danny whispered. She slid her drawing tablet under her arm and started back toward the trail. Cleo rested her hand on Danny’s shoulder as they stepped silently through the snow.
Now it was Mac who slowed her pace, letting Cleo and Danny walk on ahead together. They were visual opposites, the middle-aged black woman and the frail adolescent, their heads inclined as they talked quietly. They were nearly back to the house when Mac heard Danny’s faint laugh and saw their postures relax a little. Cleo opened Danny’s drawing tablet, then turned back to yell to Mac.
“Hey, she’s got some new ones!”
“Yeah?” Mac jogged to them, pleased. “Can I see?”
“Sure.” Danny flipped a few pages.
Cleo grinned broadly, tapping the sheet with one finger. “Aye, look at this handsome wench, would ye now.”
It was a great sketch of Cleo, uncannily and affectionately true to its subject. She was resting her chin in her hand, her dark eyes sparkling with deviltry. Mac whistled in admiration. “You caught her dead-on, Danny. Cleo, I can hear your laugh, looking at this.”
“Or you can hear her cough.” Danny turned a page, and both Cleo and Mac unleashed guffaws that echoed through the trees. Cleo’s position in the second drawing was identical to the previous one, but now a cigarette was dangling from her lips, billowing smoke, and its drooping ash was about to set her sweatshirt on fire.
“Abby would pay you a hefty commission for this one, Danielle.” Cleo coughed, still chuckling. “Look, Macawai, Danny and the Brit-twit are ganging up on me with this smoking thang.”
“The curative powers of good art.” Mac slapped Cleo lightly on the back. Then she turned her head, listening intently.
“Damn.” Mac lowered herself to one knee and unlaced her boot. “This little rock comes out of my shoe right now. Go on, you guys. I’ll see you at the house.”
“Okay, Mac.” Cleo closed the drawing pad and slipped her arm around Danny’s shoulders, and they continued down the trail. “I’m going to go tell Abby about the time Danny snuck one of my cigarettes when she was eight years old.”
“Fine, go ahead.” Danny said. “And I’ll tell Abby that you just called her a Brit-twit.”
Mac waited until their voices faded over a low hill before she turned and walked back a few paces. The footsteps were silent now, but they had been following, as they always did, several yards behind her. Mac closed that distance, walking slowly, her hands at her sides.
She stopped about five feet from where her ghost would be standing. She hadn’t heard it bolt. She assumed it was still there.
“I have this friend.” Mac spoke quietly. “Her name is Abby. She’s a pretty wise person. Abby tells me ghosts are here because they’re looking for something. Something they want very badly.”
Mac heard her own voice in the empty air and she closed her eyes, feeling foolish. But then she opened them again and looked straight ahead, focusing on the vacant space in front of her.
“What do you want?”
She had asked the ghost that question before. Often, when she was younger. Usually, she had shouted those words in frustration. She hadn’t spoken to the ghost without shouting for years. Now her voice was gentle. “It’s all right. You can tell me. What do you want?”
Silence. Mac waited. A breeze blew a light drift of snow across the path, but nothing else stirred. Still, Mac waited. Then she turned and walked slowly back up the path. She was cresting the rise of the small hill when she heard the footsteps behind her again.
They followed a little closer.
Chapter Eleven
Mac dozed in the deep couch in front of the fireplace. She didn’t allow herself to slip too deeply into sleep. Cleo and Abby weren’t back yet, and as the only staff on-site, Mac didn’t want to snooze through any late-night emergencies that might arise on the grounds. Danny was already asleep upstairs, but Mac wanted to hear her if she awoke and wandered down in search of company.
Mac smiled drowsily and dug her bare feet beneath the soft cushion. She had grown to really like this kid. Talented, funny, and every bit as diamond-bright as Cleo claimed. All of Fireside had adopted Danny in the past two weeks, staff and residents alike, especially the younger children. Danny got a kick out of playing with the little ones, and their mothers were beginning to trust her enough to pester her for babysitting services.
Mac turned her head and watched the flames. She hoped Abby would be up for a cup of tea when she got back. She wanted to tell her about Danny and Cleo, about watching them walk home together on Lily Sherrill’s birthday. Abby would understand the pleasant ache that had risen in her throat. She wanted to ask Abby for her thoughts on motherhood, and about Abby’s own mother, why she found it so hard to talk about her.
When it came down to it, Mac wanted to talk to Abby about damn near anything. Trivia would be fine. She would happily expound upon laundry soap for hours on end, if it meant spending those hours in her company. But she knew very well that she and Abby had more important matters to discuss, and that talk needed to happen soon.
She stared out the dark bay window over the breakfast nook, turning her silver christening ring on her finger. Maybe one day, Mac would even tell Abby about her ghost.
Was it hovering outside the dark window even now, staring in at Mac with longing? Where did it go when it wasn’t following her? How old was this mystery wraith? Was it male or female? It amazed Mac, the questions she’d stopped asking decades ago, because she had decided that trying to find answers was futile.
She was hearing the ghost behind her more often now since she came to Fireside. It was almost as if it had come to know this land and liked to roam it with her. It was following more closely too. She was sure of that.
Mac heard a low rustling sound. Adrenaline shot through her, and she scrambled out of the couch. She felt like an idiot when she realized it was only Abby’s key in the front door.
Cleo stepped down into the living room behind Abby and frowned at Mac, who still stood rigidly next to the couch. “Look at that guilty face, Ab. See, I told you Taco Belle was toking up in here while we were gone.”
“And she didn’t save any for us?” Abby smiled while Cleo helped her remove her coat. “I’m sorry, Mac, did we scare you? You look a bit wild-eyed.”
“Just too much Stephen King on the brain tonight, I guess. How was the board meeting?”
“Well, we ain’t drawing straws next time, sunshine,” Cleo grumbled. “You’re taking the next two meetings. Dry as damn dust, every minute of it.”
“Any luck getting funding for a child advocate?”
“Perhaps next quarter.” Abby settled into one corner of the deep couch, folding her legs gracefully beneath her. “But Vivian was able to talk the board into paying Danny for some housekeeping, now that she’s up to it.”
“Hey, that’s great.”
“Yeah, but we have to keep it to a few hours a week.” Cleo coughed, then leaned against the back of the couch and yawned. “Danny’s heading back to school on Monday. She’s missed a lot of classes, and she’ll need study time at night if she still wants to graduate in June.” She yawned again.
“We’ll make sure she gets it.” Mac grinned. “Aw, look, Abby, I think our sweet ball of mush here is about ready for her jammies.”
“No lie.” Cleo chuckled. She scratched her head with both hands. “Hokay. I’m gonna check in on Dan, and turn in.” She started toward the staircase, then turned back to them. “What say you two stay up for a while? Unwind. Maybe have a nice conversation.”
Mac and Abby stared at each other as Cleo’s heavy tread moved up the stairs.
> “Did you tell her?” Abby whispered.
“No.” Mac smiled ruefully. “I just think our attorney has her wise finger on the pulse of everything that happens at Fireside, especially under this roof.” She still stood next to the couch, waiting, she realized, for an invitation.
Abby provided it, patting the cushion beside her. Mac eased down, close to Abby, but not too close. They regarded each other in a silence that Mac found comfortable.
“The new PTSD group you started Tuesday night seems to be going well, Mac. Tina was telling me just this morning how helpful those breathing exercises you taught her are—”
“Abby.” Mac spoke gently. “I don’t think this is the conversation we’re supposed to be having tonight.”
“Well. No, it isn’t.” Abby’s gaze drifted to the crackling fire.
Mac hoped like hell that she sounded at least nominally serene and balanced, because her butch equanimity was fast deserting her. She’d thought she was ready for this conversation. She had planned what she’d say in her mind for days. In the past, Mac had carried on rational discussions with clients in the grip of manic psychosis, but tonight the sight of Abby’s downcast eyes robbed her of speech.
So just as Abby had been the first to move to meet Mac’s kiss those long nights ago, now she was the one to begin.
“We’re not going to be able to explore this any further, Mac.” Abby’s gaze was tender, and Mac was the one who had to lower her eyes. “You understand why, don’t you?”
It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Abby wanted to know if Mac had thought it all out, and whether she agreed with her decision. Mac had, and she did. It would just hurt to hear it said aloud. It would hurt to explain it, too, and Mac could feel Abby’s regret shimmering between them. “Tell me your thoughts, Doc.”
Abby nodded. “First, I need you to know this about me. At this stage in my life, I couldn’t possibly be sexual…I couldn’t possibly make love to someone, Mac, unless I was in a committed relationship. It simply isn’t in me. Perhaps it’s some kind of odd British prudery. I don’t know, but there you have it.” Abby placed her hand on Mac’s knee, a movement so spontaneous and natural it prompted no immediate shock. “Please don’t think I’m talking about being frightened of touching a woman. Or of loving one. That’s not what this is about.”
Mac nodded. “I believe you.”
“What happened between us, the other night.” Abby sighed, a soft mourning breeze. “My body did respond, when you touched me. As I said, you’ve had that effect on me since the first day you joined us, Counselor. I suppose my libido isn’t entirely dead. I can’t imagine anyone being indifferent if you touched them. I mean, good Lord, woman, have you seen yourself?”
Abby gestured at Mac’s body helplessly, and Mac had to smile.
“I can’t tell you how I struggled with this. I have many reasons for wanting to see what we could build together. But I keep coming up against one very good reason we shouldn’t try. Mac, we came here, you and I, because of Fireside. To serve the women and kids who turn to us for help. And this chemistry between us might hurt this place. If things were to go wrong.” Abby fell silent, but there had been a note of pleading in her voice, as if she wanted to will Mac to understand.
“And they might go wrong.” Mac sounded a little hoarse, and she cleared her throat. “I can’t be casual about making love either, Abby, to tell you the truth. And if our hearts get involved in this, and then things turned out badly…it would be very tough to share living and work space, twenty-four-seven.”
“Yes. I don’t see how we could do our best work with these women, if some painful tension developed between us. It would be especially unfair to Cleo, Mac.”
“Yeah, I see that.”
They both watched the flames snap in the fireplace.
“But I’d like to think…” Abby sounded almost timid. “That after enough time has passed, we might have another talk like this, some night. When we know each other better. Not anytime soon, maybe not for several years, but eventually. Mac, would you look at me? Is that a foolish hope?”
“Ah, Doc.” Mac lifted her head and smiled at Abby, sadly. “I’ve never stayed anywhere for several years.”
“Yes.” Abby closed her eyes. “I know.”
It took a few seconds for the sound of grating gravel to register, but then Mac realized a vehicle was pulling up to the main house. There was no sweep of headlights across the bay window, and she and Abby exchanged puzzled looks.
“Is it Vivian’s car?” Abby turned and tried to see out the frosted glass.
“Sounded like a truck.”
The faint squeal of an opening door reached them, but they didn’t hear it close. Mac was already on her feet when she caught Abby’s whisper.
“Mac, we didn’t bolt the door.”
Mac was around that sofa like lightning. But the front door opened before she was halfway to the entry, and in marched Samuel Sherrill, big as life and drunk as a lord.
Chapter Twelve
“You tell me where my girl is.”
Abby automatically moved to block Sherrill’s path to the staircase, and Mac could only hope he was too soused to draw the connection. She thought fast.
“You missed her by three hours, Sam. Danny was here, but she left to spend the night with a friend in town. Sam? Are you—”
“Danielle!” Sherrill bellowed, his bloodshot eyes darting around the room. He stumbled down the three steps leading from the entry into the living room. “Danny, you get in here, right now!”
“Hey, whoa!” Mac pivoted into the big man’s path, her hands raised. He stopped short, but just barely. “Sam! Look at me. Danny is not here. She’s not in the house, all right? Just talk to me for a minute.”
“She’s telling the truth, Mr. Sherrill.” Behind her, Abby had managed a calm, even sympathetic tone. “Please sit down. Let us try to help.”
Sherrill peered at them both, scowling, weaving slightly on his feet. Mac made a fast visual check and didn’t see any weapons. Then she froze at Danny’s tremulous shout from the second floor.
“Cleo, don’t you do it!”
“Danny, you stay up here.” Cleo’s muffled voice.
Sherrill’s mouth yawned open and he lunged for the staircase. Mac braced her forearms against his flabby chest and heaved back, and for a sick moment they grappled in place. Breath exploded between Mac’s clenched teeth as she fought for leverage, and some of her self-defense training kicked in. His hairy hands gripped her shoulders, and she focused on peeling his pinkie fingers back to the point of pain.
Sherrill bawled in rage, and then Abby was beside her, flourishing a poker from the stand on the hearth with apparently deadly intent. “You take your bloody hands off her, you bastard!”
All three of them flinched hard when the gunshot rang out, shockingly loud in the high-ceilinged room.
Cleo stepped down off the staircase, her pistol pointed at the floor at her side. A small wisp of smoke issued from the end of its barrel. She raised the gun slowly and aimed across the room directly at Sherrill’s flushed face. “Let her go, motherfucker.”
The panting man’s hands were still clenched in Mac’s shirt. He pulled them free, staring at Cleo now with an animal cunning that seemed to burn away his intoxication. Mac stepped back immediately, grasped Abby’s wrist, and got them both out of range.
“Abby, Mac, go to the kitchen and call the cops,” Cleo ordered.
Mac didn’t like the sound of that—Cleo’s suddenly wanting them both out of the room. She touched Abby and moved past her to Cleo’s side. Mac shifted close and spoke quietly, so only Cleo could hear.
“Danny’s listening, mi amiga. You know she’s standing on the second-floor landing.” Mac tried to see if her words were registering, but Cleo’s eyes still held that frightening, murky glow. “Think, Cleo. Don’t do anything you can never take back. Don’t leave Danny that kind of legacy. You hear me?”
The stark fire in Cleo’s eyes faded b
y slow degrees. Mac saw her fury ebb toward sanity in the lowering of her gun—not entirely, she still aimed it at Sherrill, but in a more controlled stance now, off that hair-trigger edge. Then Cleo raised the gun again immediately as they heard Danny’s light step on the stairs, and Mac tensed.
“You stay right there, Sherrill.” Cleo spoke quietly. “If you take one step toward her, I swear to God I’ll cut you down.”
Mac saw Danny step into the living room, dressed in the T-shirt and shorts she slept in, tousled blond hair making her seem heartbreakingly young. Abby crossed to her and lifted her hand. Danny didn’t take her wide eyes off her father, but she listened to Abby’s whisper, her head inclined toward her, and nodded.
“Danielle.” Sherrill stayed in place. He scrubbed his hand across his mouth. “Danny, girl. You need to come home with me.”
“No,” Danny said. Her voice came out whiny and sullen, but then she swallowed, and when she spoke again her tone was firm. “No, Dad. I’m not going with you. You need to get out of here.”
“Danny,” he whispered.
Mac looked at Sherrill and saw everything she didn’t want to see. The naked pain in his face, his genuine love for his daughter, his self-hatred for hurting her, the humanity that was as much a part of him as his addictions and violence. Those things were there, or Danny wouldn’t love him so much.
But Mac remembered that Sherrill had doubtless felt all those things for Danny’s mother too, and his humanity hadn’t stopped him from whaling on them both.
“Danny,” Sherrill repeated. He rubbed his hands clumsily. “You know how sorry I am, little girl. You got to come home, sugar. I miss you so much.”
Danny met Mac’s gaze, and her thin shoulders straightened. She had practiced these lines a dozen times on their morning walks, and her message was succinct. “Dad, I’m never coming home. I’ll never live with you again. If you don’t get help, you’re going to lose me entirely. Call me when you’ve been sober for a month.”
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