The Other Child

by Joanne Fluke

  Karen stared, horrified, as he stalked from the room. He was blaming her for everything and it wasn’t fair. All he cared about was his series! She turned her face to the wall and sobbed.

  Mike knew he had to get out of the house. He rushed past Leslie without a word and ran to the truck. He’d drive around until he calmed down a little. Forget Karen and her precious antiques! She cared more about them than him! He was still fuming.

  “Morning!” Rob looked up with a smile as Mike came through the door. “How’s Karen?”

  “Oh . . . she’ll be all right.” Mike dropped into a chair and sighed. Now he felt terrible for having yelled at Karen. It must be this damn hangover. His head was killing him.

  “You look like you could use a little Comstock remedy.” Rob pushed the aspirin bottle Mike’s way. “Shake out a couple of these and I’ll fix you up.”

  Rob opened the small refrigerator under the counter and took out a pitcher of juice. “This’ll do the trick. I mixed up some for myself this morning.”

  Mike sipped from the glass Rob gave him. “Not bad. What is it?”

  “Tomato juice, Worcestershire sauce, and an egg.” Rob laughed as Mike made a face. “It sounds terrible, but it works. We really tied one on last night, didn’t we!”

  “Yeah.” Mike sighed. “I wish I’d had this sooner. I had a big fight with Karen, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to make it up to her.”

  “Tell me about it and maybe I can think of something.” Rob leaned forward and crossed his legs. “I’m a master at things like that. I’ve been pacifying Marilyn for years.”

  By the next morning Karen was much better. The doctor said she could sit up, but she still had to stay quiet. Leslie was determined to keep her mother cheerful. Mike was busy in the darkroom and it was her responsibility to make sure Mom didn’t get bored or upset.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Mom?” Leslie was dusting the huge carved oak coatrack, which stood at the foot of the bed. “Is it really the same one that used to be in the downstairs hallway?”

  Karen nodded. “It’s the original. When Rob’s grandfather bought this house, he took it for his office. It’s been in the Comstock family for eighty years. Just as soon as I can get out of bed, I’ll put it back where it belongs.”

  She sighed slightly as she stared at the lovely antique. It was a peace offering from Mike—a bribe, really. It was intended to make her forget the fight yesterday. Of course she had accepted the gift and Mike’s apologies. But she didn’t believe for a minute that he hadn’t meant the things he’d said. She’d never trust him again, and she’d never forget his awful accusations.

  “Shall I bring a trunk down from the ballroom?” Leslie suggested, warming to the task of entertaining her mother. “I could ask Mike to help me.”

  “No, he’s very busy, honey. We shouldn’t bother him unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “I could ask Mr. Fischer,” Leslie offered, noticing how her mother had brightened when she’d mentioned the trunk. “I’m sure Mr. Fischer would be glad to help me.”

  “Yes . . . that would be fine.” Karen spoke absently, her eyes on the miniature. Mike had carried it up here last night and placed it strategically where she could see it from the bed. She supposed it was his way of priming her for all the work that had to be done on the house. Mike didn’t seem to realize that she needed no coercion to go back to work. She was eager to get on with the renovation. It was the only thing that made her happy lately.

  She reached out to finger the glass case, her touch almost a caress. How she wished it were 1900 again. She’d be dressed in rich silks and laces. She could walk around this house and see for herself exactly how it was arranged. Perhaps she’d have become friendly with Dorthea and they could have confided in each other. She identified more and more with Dorthea these days—her unhappy love for an unworthy man, her feelings of being cast off, abandoned. Still, she imagined life in this house must have been much easier then. Amelia Appleton had a full staff of household help, and her husband was rich. What she wouldn’t give to turn back the clock for just a day.

  Leslie pushed the trunk next to the bed so Karen could see. She propped pillows behind her mother’s back and helped her sit upright. Then she opened the lid and both of them peered inside.

  “Here’s a bunch of old letters, Mom.” Leslie picked up the bundle and handed it to Karen. “Maybe there’s something in them about Dorthea and her baby.”

  “That’s odd. These letters have never been opened. They’re addressed to Amelia, see?”

  “I bet Mr. Appleton put them away and never gave them to her,” Leslie suggested. “This is his trunk; his name is on the lid. Maybe he hid them for some reason.”

  The letters were arranged by date. It gave Karen a strange feeling to tear open the old envelopes and read them for the first time.

  “They’re from Dorthea!” Karen gasped as she glanced at the signature. “Look, Leslie, this one’s from San Francisco.”

  “Read it to me, Mom.” Leslie clasped her hands together and sat on the edge of the bed. She listened attentively as Karen began to read.

  “You were right, Mother. I should have heeded your warnings. Kirby is a gambler and a drunkard. I shudder to think what will happen when my resources run dry. Please take me back, Mother. Tell Father I beg for his forgiveness!”

  “But her mother never got the letter!” Leslie twisted her hands nervously. “Oh, Mom! What happened to Dorthea?”

  “This one’s almost five months later.” Karen read quickly.

  “He ran off and left me, dear Mother. I am writing this from the lying-in-hospital and my time is near. I only wish that I could be with you. I am so desperately lonely! Please, Mother . . . if you still love me, tell me you have forgiven me.”

  Karen swallowed past the lump in her throat and blinked away a tear. Dorthea was frightened and alone. She knew what the girl was going through, pregnant and deserted. Karen was sure that Amelia would have forgiven her daughter, but these letters had never been opened. Dorthea’s pleas for help were never heard. William Appleton was a hardhearted man to hide them from his wife.

  “Here’s the next one.” Karen’s voice was shaking as she opened it.

  “I cannot lose faith, Mother, even though you have not answered my letters. You have a grandchild, a beautiful healthy boy. I miss you so, Mother. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, please tell me so. As soon as my son is able to understand, I will tell him about his family and the heritage of the fine name he carries. I pray that someday you will welcome him into your home. Please do not blame him for the pain I have caused you, and try to think kindly of us.”

  “Poor Dorthea! She wants to come home so badly.” Karen sighed. “I’m so glad the baby is all right.”

  “There’s something heavy in this one.” Leslie handed her mother the last envelope. “Hurry and open it, Mom.”

  Karen noticed there was a lapse of ten years between this letter and the last. She tore open the envelope and a tintype fell out. It was a picture of a somber-faced blond boy, approximately Leslie’s age. He was standing stiffly by a chair, facing the camera directly. Dorthea was sitting in the chair, holding his hand, looking even more beautiful than in her portrait over the fireplace.

  “He looks like me!” Leslie bent closer to look. “See, Mom? Dorthea’s son looks just like me!”

  Karen nodded. Leslie was right. The boy bore an uncanny resemblance to Leslie.

  “Can I keep it, Mom?” Leslie’s voice was eager. “It would look great on my dresser!”

  Karen nodded again and handed her the tintype. She swallowed and sighed heavily. Reading Dorthea’s letters made her feel like crying. The story was so real to her that Dorthea’s pain was her own. They were alike in so many ways, and now Karen was living in her home. Every time she touched a piece of antique furniture or finished a room exactly as it had been in Dorthea’s day, she wished that Dorthea were alive somewhere, so she could return to
her home and find it hadn’t changed, at all.

  “I think I’ll rest for a while, honey.” Karen forced a smile. “We can go through the rest of the trunk later. Can you find something else to do for an hour or so?”

  “Sure, Mom.” Leslie closed the lid of the trunk and put the letters on her mother’s night table. “I’ll go up to the tower room. I haven’t been up there in ages.”

  Leslie shut the door quietly and hurried down the hall. She bounded up the steps two at a time and arrived in her favorite room, panting. She flopped down on a pillow and looked at the tintype again. Yes, she looked like Dorthea’s son.

  Gently Leslie removed the picture from its paper folder. She turned it over and saw there were words on the back.

  CHRISTOPHER APPLETON, MAY 1901.

  “Christopher!” Leslie gasped and stared at the inscription for a long moment. Christopher Appleton was her friend, her ghost! And this was a picture of him when he was alive! Leslie was so stunned she could barely think. She looked just like her ghost. No wonder he had picked her for his special friend.

  NINETEEN

  “Here, honey. Let me help you with that.” Mike came into the kitchen as Leslie was putting away the dishes. It was a week since Karen’s accident and he’d finished one assignment and started on a second. Rose said she could use his features heavily in the next few issues and everything was looking up. His last bets, the ones he’d placed before he promised to quit gambling, had paid off. He was going to take the money he had won and spend every cent of it on Karen.

  Leslie smiled up at Mike tentatively. He’d been around more after the big fight with Mom and she knew he wasn’t drinking. She’d gone in the darkroom this morning and there weren’t any bottles or glasses. Of course she knew it wasn’t right to check up on Mike, but she’d had to make sure.

  “I got paid for the third installment today.” He reached up to put the mugs on the top shelf. “That’s the section featuring this kitchen. They’re printing the shots of the miniature opposite the actual pictures of our work so the reader can compare.”

  Leslie was excited. She could hardly wait to see it. There was one shot of Mom and her, sitting at the antique kitchen table.

  “I need your opinion on something, Leslie.” Mike looked down at her seriously. “We’re going to have some money left over this month. Do you think we should use it to hire a housekeeper?”

  Leslie thought hard. “I don’t know.” Taking care of the house was a lot of work and it would be nice if Mom didn’t have to do it.

  “You know school starts next week and you won’t be here all day to help,” Mike went on. “I’m taking a couple of assignments on the road and I don’t like the idea of leaving your mother all alone here. I thought a housekeeper might be the answer. We could hire a lady to do the cleaning and the cooking and that would leave your mother free to work on the house. Does that sound like a good idea?”

  “Yes . . . I think it does.” Leslie nodded thoughtfully. Mom couldn’t do all the housework and decorate besides. And she did have to go to school, even though she was dreading it. They really did need a housekeeper.

  “I thought you’d agree. That’s why I talked to Rob Comstock yesterday. He suggested Harry Wilson’s older sister, Thelma. She’s a widow and she lives all alone out in the country. Rob thought she might be willing to move in for a month or so, until your mother has the house all finished.”

  Leslie frowned. “Would she live right here? In the house with us?”

  “I think that would be best. Thelma doesn’t drive and transportation would be a problem for her. We’ve certainly got plenty of room and it might be nice, having someone right here when we needed her. Rob could call her for us; and if we like her, we’ll hire her right away.”

  “I guess I could live in.” Thelma Schmidt settled her large bulk into a chair and faced the three of them. “Of course I just hate to close my house, but it could be arranged if you really need me.”

  “We certainly do!” Karen smiled at the older woman. “This house is too big for me to handle all by myself, and it would be nice to have company.”

  “When could you start, Mrs. Schmidt?” Mike gave Karen a quick smile. She had taken to the idea of a live-in housekeeper right away.

  “Why, I can start later this afternoon, if you like.” Mrs. Schmidt gave them all a big smile. “There’s certainly plenty for me to do. I’ll give this whole place a thorough turning out and have it spic and span in no time. You just leave everything to me.

  “Of course you realize I have to bring Trixie with me.” She looked at Karen anxiously. “I just couldn’t put her in a kennel. Poor Trixie would pine away of loneliness. She won’t be any trouble, Mrs. Houston. Trixie’s very well behaved and your little girl will love to have a dog to play with.”

  “Rob didn’t say anything about a dog.” Karen looked slightly dubious. “How big a dog is Trixie, Mrs. Schmidt?”

  “She’s just a tiny little thing.” Mrs. Schmidt laughed. “Why, you’ll hardly know she’s here. She’s a Chihuahua, registered and purebred.”

  Leslie glanced at her mother and looked away quickly before she started giggling. All three of them hated small, yapping dogs. Mike said Chihuahuas looked like bug-eyed rats.

  “Trixie sounds very nice, Mrs. Schmidt,” Leslie said politely. She supposed she could put up with a Chihuahua for Mom’s sake.

  “Why don’t you go out and get her right now,” Mrs. Schmidt suggested. “That way we can all get acquainted. She’s tied to the railing on the front steps.”

  “Oh, no!” Leslie untied the leash from the railing and groaned as she surveyed the damage Trixie had done. In the few minutes she’d been outside, the tiny Chihuahua had managed to dig under the new arborvitae shrub and uproot it. And she had messed all over the brick steps!

  Leslie pushed the dog out of the way with one hand and gently replaced the small shrub. She patted the earth around its roots and made a face as she turned to the steps. She had a notion to just leave the evidence of Trixie’s mischief right here where Mrs. Schmidt could see it, but the hose was handy and someone had to clean it up eventually.

  “Bad dog!” Leslie hissed, squirting the steps clean with one hand and holding Trixie’s leash with the other. She sighed as the dog started yapping sharply.

  “Come on . . . let’s go inside, Trixie.” Leslie tried to be friendly, even though she already disliked the noisy little animal. “Let’s go in and see Mrs. Schmidt.”

  Trixie dug her hind legs into the grass and wouldn’t budge. Leslie pulled a little harder on the leash and the tiny dog was forced to move. As she pulled the yapping dog forward, Leslie saw something that made her giggle. Trixie’s toenails, every one of them, were painted bright red! That, coupled with the fake diamond collar Trixie wore, made the dog look just plain ridiculous!

  “Oh, well.” Leslie scooped the squirming little dog up in her arms and carried her inside. Maybe it wouldn’t be all that bad, having a dog in the house. She’d offer to walk Trixie so she wouldn’t have accidents inside. Trixie might even be nice, once she got to know her.

  TWENTY

  “Leslie? Will you walk Trixie? I’m right in the middle of waxing the floor!”

  Mrs. Schmidt’s voice carried clearly through the whole house. Leslie groaned as she got to her feet. Their new housekeeper had been with them for three days now and the house had never been so clean. Mrs. Schmidt was a ball of energy, waxing and polishing and sweeping until the downstairs glistened. Leslie thought Mrs. Schmidt was working out fine, but Trixie was another matter. The little Chihuahua was a terror, destroying everything in her path.

  She glanced at the two books on her dresser and frowned. There was a ragged hole in the corner of one of them and the cover of the other was chewed half off. With Trixie in the house, she had to close her door at night. And it didn’t do a bit of good to complain to Mrs. Schmidt. She would never admit that her precious dog did anything wrong.

  “I wish I had a lock!”
Leslie sighed as she pulled her door tightly closed and hurried downstairs. The latch was worn and Trixie was a smart dog. She had already discovered how to push it open.

  “There you are.” Leslie found Trixie and snapped the leash on her rhinestone collar. “You’d better be a good little dog this morning or I’ll—”

  “Let Trixie lead you now,” Mrs. Schmidt called out loudly, interrupting Leslie’s threat. “She knows where she wants to go. She’s a good girl, aren’t you, sugar? Hurry and walk her before it rains. My arthritis tells me there’s a storm brewing.”

  Leslie winced as the yapping Chihuahua led her around the flower beds and over the lawn. Any of these places would be fine, but Trixie had other ideas. She sniffed and yapped, but that was all. The little dog pulled Leslie on a merry chase all over the yard until finally they were forced to cross the crushed-granite driveway. There, defiantly, Trixie squatted in the exact center of the path.

  “No! Oh, Trixie! You’re a bad dog!” Leslie glared at her and the little dog glared right back, growling low in her throat. This was the third time in as many days that Trixie had gone in the driveway. The little scooper Mrs. Schmidt had given her didn’t work on the crushed rocks, and Leslie had to remove the stones from that section and wash them with the hose before she replaced them. It seemed as if Trixie deliberately made things as difficult as possible. Leslie was sure the little monster did it on purpose.

  Finally the odious chore was done and Leslie took Trixie back inside. She hung the leash on the nail by the kitchen door and tried to decide what to do. Mom was upstairs going over paint samples, and Mrs. Schmidt was scrubbing down the bathroom walls and floor. Mike had left for the Cities early that morning to shoot another series of buildings. There was no one to talk to.