The Other Child

by Joanne Fluke

  When Marilyn Comstock had called and asked for donations, Karen had agreed reluctantly. She was simply too busy with the house to put up homemade preserves or to make craft items. Then, luckily, Mike came up with an answer to the problem. Thank goodness it was possible to buy what she didn’t have the time or the inclination to make.

  “Here’s five dollars, kitten.” Karen drew a crumpled bill from her purse and handed it to Leslie. “Make sure you buy something from the ladies . . . anything. It’s for charity.”

  “Okay, Mom.” Leslie looked grim. She hoped her mother wouldn’t spend very much time at the bazaar. She didn’t want to run into any of the Cold Spring kids.

  Karen’s headache didn’t start until they rounded the corner. It grew steadily worse as they drove down Main Street and up the hill. By the time they found a parking place in front of the church, her face was white with pain.

  “What’s the matter, Mom?” Leslie looked worried.

  “Headache,” Karen said through stiff lips. The sound of her own voice made the throbbing worse and she winced as she reached out to shut off the motor. She thought it was strange; with all the fresh country air you’d think her headaches would be less frequent. Since they’d moved to the house, she found once in a while she’d be totally knocked out by them. But she could never predict when they’d come or go. “You take in the jelly and buy something for both of us.” She handed Leslie another ten dollars. “Say I have a headache and hurry, honey. I want to get home and take some aspirin.”

  Karen closed her eyes as Leslie lifted the jelly out of the truck and ran inside. The throbbing tightness at her temples was excruciating.

  Leslie was back in less than five minutes and Karen gave a grateful sigh as she set the truck in motion again. She began to feel a little better when she’d made a U-turn and started for home. The pain lessened slightly with every block they drove, fading to a dull ache as she pulled into their driveway.

  “Whew!” Karen drew a relieved breath. “Get me some aspirin and a glass of water, will you, honey? I’m going to sit down.”

  Her headache was almost gone by the time Leslie brought the aspirin bottle. Karen swallowed three, just to be safe, and smiled. “Now let’s see what you bought.”

  Karen opened the package and glanced inside. Her eyes widened and she made a face. “Oh, great, Leslie—just what we need!”

  Leslie giggled as her mother drew out two purple-and-green pot holders. “You said to get anything.”

  “I think you did it on purpose.” Karen laughed. “Now, what’s this?”

  “It’s a doll.” Leslie practically doubled over with laughter. “See that tie at the bottom of her skirt? You put a roll of toilet paper inside and it sits on the bathroom shelf so you’ve always got a spare. Mrs. Ness made it.”

  “I should have guessed.” Karen shook her head.

  “There’s some strawberry jam and a box of fudge in the bottom of the bag.” Leslie looked hopeful. “Would you like to try a piece of candy right now?”

  “That’s just what I need.” Karen pulled Leslie close and gave her a hug. “And because you’re such a super shopper, I’ll let you have that precious toilet-paper doll for the bathroom . . . on your end of the hall!”

  “J-A-L-A-P-E-N-O jelly.” Janet held up a jar and raised her eyebrows. “I wonder what it is! Have you ever heard of it before, Marilyn?”

  Marilyn took the jar and read the label. “Jalapenos?” She shuddered. “They’re hot peppers! You don’t make jelly out of hot peppers! Is this some kind of joke?”

  “It’s from Karen Houston.” Roberta came up to the table. “Leslie brought it in. There’s twenty-four jars of it in that box over there. Leslie said it was her mother’s donation to the bazaar.”

  “That’s Karen Houston for you.” Marilyn gave an exasperated sigh. “When we ask her for a donation, she brings something nobody in their right mind would eat. It just shows what kind of taste that family has. They’re really odd, you know? And downright unfriendly, always keeping to themselves. I haven’t been invited over once to see all that fancy redecorating they’re doing.”

  “She didn’t even have the nerve to bring it in herself.” Roberta sniffed. “She sent Leslie with some excuse about a headache. Now, if that isn’t a slap in the face, I don’t know what is. Can’t see how they expect to make any friends at all in this town. Well, let’s toss this out before some poor unsuspecting person buys ajar and tries to make a jelly sandwich.”

  ELEVEN

  “You’re sure you can do it?” Karen clutched the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. Two weeks had passed since they’d photographed the miniature and sent out pictures of the couch. At last someone had responded!

  “Cream-colored satin . . . that’s right . . . as close as you can come to the material in the photograph. Yes, I realize it’ll be expensive . . . eighteen hundred? Oh, dear!”

  She bit her lower lip sharply as the furniture maker explained the painstaking skill that was necessary to duplicate the intricate carving on the arms and legs. She didn’t have time to shop around for a lower estimate. It was the second week in August and she had promised Mike the parlor would be done by September first.

  “All right.” Karen sighed in resignation. No one else could do it and she had to pay the price. “And you can deliver by September first? Fine, then. I’ll mail the check today so you can start immediately.”

  “What was that?” Mike appeared in the doorway, unshaven and rumpled. He’d been up in his darkroom all night again and he rubbed his red-rimmed eyes.

  “Sebastian Furniture in St. Paul can do the sofa.” Karen poured him a cup of coffee and set it on the table. “They promised delivery by September first. The only bad news is the price—eighteen hundred.”

  “Can they duplicate it exactly?” Mike’s mouth tightened as Karen nodded. He didn’t want to lay out eighteen hundred dollars for a sofa, but it was the focal point of the room. The pictures of the miniature were due to run in the September issue; and now that they’d committed themselves to the restoration, they had to carry through. Rose wanted the parlor for the October issue and that meant they had less than a month before the deadline.

  “We can always make do with something else”—Karen’s voice was hesitant—“but that piece is one of a kind. Nothing we can buy in a regular outlet will even come close, Mike.”

  “Then we’ll have to do it, won’t we?” Mike shook his head and looked pained. “Just make sure to keep all the receipts. We’re going to have one hell of a tax write-off.”

  “Of course, dear.” Karen let her breath out in a relieved sigh. Thank goodness Mike realized that the sofa was necessary to preserve the character of the room.

  A tiny worry line appeared on Karen’s forehead as she stared up at Mike. He looked terrible. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hands were shaking. He’d never looked this tired before.

  “Why don’t you try to get some sleep, Mike?” Her voice was filled with concern. “Don’t you think you’re overdoing it a bit? Working too hard?”

  “I’ve got to, if we want to meet the deadlines.” Mike slurped a mouthful of coffee and grimaced. He was sick to death of coffee. Karen had hooked up an old percolator in the darkroom and he’d been swigging the stuff all night. Everything was going so slowly and he had trouble concentrating. This series had to be his best work, but he wasn’t satisfied with anything he’d done so far. What he really wanted was something to take away the taste of stale cigarettes, but he couldn’t bear the thought of breakfast. His stomach was churning and he blinked to clear his vision.

  “Another hour and I ought to be through. Then I’ll sleep for a couple of hours and run in with the prints. Call a gardener, will you? The grounds have to be done and ready to shoot in two weeks—just the area around the house for now. We’ll cover the rose garden and the greenhouse later. Maybe Rob can suggest somebody around here who does gardening cheap.”

  “I’ll do it right away, honey .
. . but really, Mike, you ought to think about getting a little more rest, or at least some food in your—” Karen stopped in midsentence as she realized she was talking to an empty room. Mike was clumping up the stairs to his darkroom again.

  Karen shook two aspirins out of the bottle on the kitchen table and washed them down with her coffee. She could feel another headache coming on. Two weeks ago, when she’d first found the miniature, she’d been so sure everything was looking up. Now she knew better, and her tension headaches were coming back. It seemed as though their lives were in a continual crisis. Leslie was still alone and moody. She spent all her time in the tower room or out in the yard by herself. Karen had taken Mike’s advice about buying a night-light, but she still found the overhead fixture burning brightly in the morning. Leslie was having nightmares.

  Then there was Mike. Karen sighed and pressed her hand to her head. He was running things around here like a general, giving her orders when she knew perfectly well what had to be done. Every time they talked he gave her another task to add to her list.

  She looked down at her notebook, open to the section on the parlor: Clean fireplace, order new granite slab for mantel, polish gas fixtures, clean and rehang drapes, repair Oriental rug, replaster and hang paper, reposition artwork. Deadline: September 1.

  With a sigh she turned the page to the dining room: Resurface parquet floor, clean wainscoting, locate china for display, order drapes, repair chairs, fix chandelier. Deadline: September 15.

  Karen shut the book with a snap. The worst of it was that Mike didn’t care if things were done well, with complete authenticity. She was sure that he’d approve of stapling the wallpaper to the walls as long as he could save time and paperhanger fees. It was all just another magazine piece to him. All he cared about was his damned darkroom. Once the feature was finished, he might even want to sell the house and buy another place to fix up and photograph for the magazine!

  “No!” Karen’s voice was anguished. He couldn’t do that! Didn’t he realize how important this house was to her and Leslie? It was the only house for her, the only house for them. She’d never forgive him if he sold it. The house had given Karen a sense of the past. She felt that she was part of a family—the Appletons. It filled a void, and it gave her a purpose—a reason to wake up every morning.

  “I’m just tired.” Karen spoke the words aloud and she was surprised at how weary her voice sounded. And she looked every bit as exhausted as she felt. She hadn’t been sleeping well, alone in her beautiful antique bed. Mike spent most nights in the darkroom and she awoke at the slightest sound, padding down the hallway on bare feet to check on Leslie at least twice a night. And when she was finally in bed, she tossed and turned all night, planning, going over details in her mind.

  Karen pushed back her chair resolutely. Calling Rob about the gardener could wait. The wallpaper selection could wait. The whole house could wait for a couple of hours while she took a much-needed break.

  Karen armed herself with tools and climbed the stairs to the ballroom. She deserved a little time to herself, and she was determined to get the cover off the carved wooden box to find out what was inside.

  It took a long time, but finally, after careful manipulation of her tools, Karen managed to pry off the lock. She lifted the lid and frowned when she saw what was inside. Old books bound in leather . . . somehow she’d expected something else.

  “What on earth?” Karen’s voice was a mere whisper as she opened the first book and began to read. They were Dorthea Appleton’s diaries, this volume dated January of 1890.

  The Midwest is so barren. How I long for Boston again. I am pining for color and gaiety, longing for romance. I’m only seventeen; naturally, surrounded as I am by granite masons and farmers, I suffer an empty and utterly boring existence!

  Karen smiled. Poor Dorthea was obviously experiencing the restlessness of youth. She was sure that life here wasn’t that boring. Such a pretty girl must have been very popular.

  Karen stopped to smile again as a passage written in mid-June caught her eye.

  He has come. I am alive again! Kirby Shaw. He is a portraitiste, having studied in Paris under Duval himself. He brings the news from Boston. Silk is in fashion and running to greens this season. He is doing a portrait of Mary. If I were she, I would be enraptured. Mother has been promising to have my portrait done for well over two years. I shall ask Father to commission Kirby this very afternoon!

  Karen laughed aloud. There, that’s more like it. Such enthusiasm! The diary was a peek into the past, into the life of young Dorthea, who had actually lived in this lovely mansion. She might have danced right here, on this very spot.

  Kirby Shaw . . . Karen wrinkled her forehead in concentration. Yes, his name was on the portrait downstairs. Dorthea had convinced her father. But why had the painting been hidden in the bottom of the trunk? Eagerly Karen read on.

  He loves me! He told me so!

  The entry was dated early July. It was written in Dorthea’s elaborate hand, but the letters were huge, filling the whole page. They were in love!

  Karen glanced quickly over the next few entries. Dorthea feared her father’s disapproval. Their love must be kept a secret until the time was right. Kirby would be an unsuitable match until he had gained recognition. Poor Dorthea.

  Karen stopped at a page that contained several angry ink blots. Catching her breath, she read Dorthea’s angry words.

  Mary came to call this afternoon. She said that Kirby sought to compromise her one night in the moonlight. She is lying! I am convinced Kirby would not touch the hem of her gown, much less kiss her as brazenly as she claims. Mary is a poor foolish girl. I wanted to shout that Kirby loved me, but I kept our promise. Mary is woefully ignorant.

  Karen raised her eyes from the diary with a start as she heard Mike calling her name. He sounded impatient and she got quickly to her feet.

  It took her a moment to pull back from the past. She blinked and steadied herself, still caught up in Dorthea’s story. It was entrancing, like reading a Victorian novel—a glimpse into the life of a woman who had lived and died years ago, a woman who had gone to fancy-dress balls wearing lace, a girl who had fallen in love with a handsome artist. She wasn’t sure she wanted to come back to reality, to her own not-so-glamorous time and place—coping with housework, Mike’s demands, and Leslie’s strange moods. She wanted to hide here in the past, where life was romantic, and people so cultured and well mannered.

  “Coming, Mike!” Karen shouted, forcing her mind back to the present. This was 1972 and her husband and daughter needed her. She closed the diary quickly, feeling a little guilty about taking so much time for her own private thoughts and pleasure. She’d have plenty of time to read when she had finished the work around here.

  Karen carried the carved box down to the bedroom and slipped it into her desk drawer. It was strange how real Dorthea’s life seemed to her. Perhaps it was the restoration, working on the house, bringing back the appearance of Dorthea’s time period. It made the young girl seem so real. Karen half expected to see Dorthea emerge from the doorway and take her place at the old desk in the corner of the bedroom to write another entry in her diary.

  “Hey! How about some breakfast for a starving man?” Mike’s voice carried up the stairway. Karen blinked and closed the drawer hastily. She’d make some breakfast for Mike and then she’d get started on the woodwork in the parlor. There were a million things to do and never enough time to do them.

  At the end of the day Mike felt he was finally entitled to a break. The layout was good. He smiled with satisfaction and stubbed out a cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. That about did it for today. Rose would be pleased and he could hardly wait to show her. Now all he had to do was drive into the Cities and he’d be back in time for dinner with Karen and Leslie.

  “Where did I put them, damn it?” Mike grumbled impatiently as he rummaged through the antique storage chest. He was sure he remembered putting some print folders in here somewh
ere. Perhaps they had fallen down in the bottom of this huge old wooden cupboard.

  He reached in as far as he could and felt around in the back. The shelf tipped and his finger scraped against some sort of catch.

  Curious, Mike knelt down and examined the space carefully. What he had taken for a solid piece of wood was a false bottom. As he released the catch and raised it, his eyes widened in astonishment.

  “Well, I’ll be!” Mike drew out a dusty bottle and pursed his lips as he read the label. Napoleon brandy bottled in 1897! This was a real find and there appeared to be a full case here. Twelve bottles of valuable, aged brandy. What an incredible discovery!

  Mike ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. He’d never tasted brandy this fine, but he could imagine the smooth, rich gold ambrosia, created to be sipped and savored. For superior brandy of this vintage he could get two, maybe three hundred dollars a bottle at a collector’s auction.

  “I suppose I should sell it. . . .” His voice trailed off in a sigh. Of course it would bring in some badly needed cash, but it might be worth even more if he waited a couple of years. He knew he didn’t dare taste it personally, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate it as a good investment. One thing for sure, he wouldn’t tell Karen he’d found it. She’d be worried sick if she knew there was any liquor in the house. She’d insist on selling it right away so it wouldn’t be a temptation to him. No, he’d never mention it. It would be safe right here, hidden where it had been for years and years.

  Mike licked his lips again and sighed. He wasn’t getting any work done just kneeling here and staring at the brandy. He replaced the bottle with reverence and dropped the false bottom back into place. It was almost a sin to find brandy this fine and not even taste it.