Olivia stared rather helplessly at Callie. ‘‘Seth said tonight that all I do is cause trouble, and I’m afraid in this case he may be right: I’m almost certain that I’m the reason Big John had the heart attack. I—’’
‘‘Nonsense.’’ Callie shook her head at Olivia. ‘‘Big John has—wandered a bit in his mind from time to time the last few years, and his health hasn’t been all that good. The man is eighty-seven, after all. I don’t want you to blame yourself for what happened. It could have come at any time, for any reason. As for Seth—he’s had a difficult few years of his own, you know. He’s running the Boatworks completely now, and that’s a lot of responsibility. And of course there’s Chloe. Seth has sole custody of her. That bitch—pardon my French, dear, but there’s no other word for Jennifer Rainey—that Seth married ran off to California five years ago. She took Chloe with her. Seth was—well, he was upset, to say the least. Last year Jennifer remarried and sent Chloe back to live with Seth. Just like that. She travels a lot with her new husband, she said, and having Chloe with them all the time made things awkward. She has seen Chloe once in the last year, two days before Christmas, when she and her husband just happened to be in New Orleans. I had to drive Chloe in to see her. Jennifer couldn’t be bothered to come out here.’’
Callie paused, and Olivia had the impression that she was once again feeling poorly. Before Olivia could do more than squeeze her hand, Callie rallied and went on.
‘‘Seth had a house in town, but when Chloe came to live with him he moved back in here so that I could help him raise her. I couldn’t leave Big John on his own, you see. Chloe has had some—difficulty adjusting, which is only natural under the circumstances, I suppose. Now Seth’s planning to get married again, which should give Chloe a little more stability. Except that, for right now, Chloe doesn’t seem to care for Mallory.’’ Callie sighed. ‘‘Life is never simple, is it?’’
‘‘Never,’’ Olivia murmured with a crooked smile. Callie’s revelations about Chloe prompted her to feel a rush of compassion toward the child. She knew what it was like to feel unwanted. As the child of her mother’s first marriage, left behind with her stepfather and his family when her mother died, she had never quite felt like she belonged in the Archers’ privileged world. She had always felt that this larger-than-life clan had somehow just gotten stuck with her, and was having to make the best of a bad bargain. ‘‘Chloe’s a beautiful little girl. Seth must be very proud of her.’’
‘‘She looks like her mother, poor little mite,’’ Callie said with some acidity. ‘‘If only she doesn’t take after her in personality, we’ll be all right.’’
‘‘Have Seth and Mallory set a date yet?’’ Olivia asked.
‘‘November sixth. Only ten weeks away. Mallory’s planning this big blowout, even though she and Seth have both been married before. She wants Chloe to be her bridesmaid.’’ Callie’s despairing tone told Olivia how likely she thought that was to occur. ‘‘She keeps inviting Chloe to go shopping for dresses with her.’’
The swinging door from the hall opened with a soft sound, and Martha came in, holding a small brown vial.
‘‘I’ve got your pills here,’’ she said, coming toward the table.
‘‘Thank you, Martha.’’ Callie took the vial gratefully and opened it, shaking two small pink tablets into the palm of her hand. Meanwhile, Martha removed a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, and brought it back to Callie. Olivia saw that Callie’s hand was slightly unsteady as she raised first the pills and then the glass to her mouth. Swallowing and setting the glass back down, she grimaced and closed her eyes. After a moment she opened them again, and looked at Olivia very directly.
‘‘How long can you stay, Olivia?’’
‘‘I could only get a week off from work,’’ Olivia said. ‘‘Even if I called and asked for more time—they might give me a few days’ unpaid leave—Sara starts back to school in eleven days. We have to be home before that. But if you want me, I’ll come back to visit just as often as I can, I promise.’’
‘‘If I want you—’’ Callie shook her head at Olivia. ‘‘Honey, of course I do. We all do. With all the twists and turns and barriers and potholes we’ve encountered along the road, we’re family. One thing I’ve learned since getting sick is that family is all that matters.’’ She took another drink of water, then grimaced. Olivia watched Callie’s changing expression with concern, but this time Callie seemed to recover swiftly. With only a slight hesitation, Callie continued: ‘‘But we can talk more tomorrow.’’
She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly and looked up at Martha. ‘‘I think I better take Seth’s advice and go to bed now. I’m so tired I can hardly sit upright, all of a sudden.’’
‘‘It don’t surprise me none,’’ Martha said with a sniff, reaching for Callie’s chair as if she would pull it back for her. ‘‘What with everything that’s happened today, anybody’d be plumb wore out. And you bein’ sick like you are, well, that’s just too much. Like Mr. Seth says, you need to let everybody else worry about everybody else, and you just take care of yourself for a change.’’
‘‘Martha’s been staying with us since I’ve been ill, helping to look after things. She won’t even go to bed until I do. I don’t know what I’d do without her,’’ Callie said to Olivia, with a tired smile for Martha.
‘‘Kill yourself with exhaustion, most like,’’ Martha muttered, giving the chair a tug.
‘‘I’m going to bed, too.’’ Olivia stood, watching with increasing worry as Callie slowly and carefully got to her feet. Martha’s proffered help was rejected, and Callie led the way out of the kitchen, her movements determined but slow. At the top of the stairs, the three paused. Callie looked at Olivia, and smiled at her rather mistily.
‘‘Oh, honey, I am glad you’re home,’’ Callie said, enfolding Olivia in a warm embrace. Returning the hug, Olivia once again became aware of how fragile her aunt’s body had become, and it frightened her.
‘‘I’m glad I’m home, too,’’ Olivia murmured. Her heart swelled with love and pity and regret as she let Callie go. She’d been wrong to stay away so long, she thought with sorrow. Wrong to let pride and stubbornness keep her away from her family. But until tonight, she’d been too young to realize how truly fleeting life was.
The lesson was being taught her with a vengeance.
They parted, with Callie and Martha heading one way and Olivia going the other. Even after she was curled up next to Sara, Olivia couldn’t get out of her mind the way Callie had felt as she’d hugged her: Her body had felt like it was wasting away. She was scarcely more than a bag of bones.
And Big John had suffered a heart attack. No matter what anyone said, the guilt of causing it would stay with her forever.
Please, God, don’t let him die, Olivia prayed. And keep Aunt Callie safe, too.
She needed time to make amends. To both of them. To all of them, this family that she had once been so eager to leave behind.
The fear of imminent loss, as sharp and sour-tasting as bile, rose in Olivia’s throat and settled like a stone in her heart. Tears welled in her eyes, and trickled down her cheeks to wet her pillow. For a long time she lay there in the bed that had been hers as a child, weeping silently so as not to disturb her own beloved child snuggled next to her, until finally exhaustion claimed her and she fell asleep.
CHAPTER 11
Jeanerette, Louisiana—April 14, 1971
IT WAS THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, AND SOMETHING was outside her bedroom window. Becca Eppel heard the faint crunch of footsteps in the pea gravel her mother used for mulch around the shrubbery, followed by rustling in the shrubbery itself, and then a thumping sound as whatever it was hit repeatedly against the glass. She was too afraid to look. It might be a werewolf, which was the monster she feared most of all, trying to get in. Or a vampire—her big brother, Daniel, thought vampires were scarier than werewolves—or even Frankenstein, although they both agreed that Frankens
tein wasn’t as scary as the other two because he was easier to outrun. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to know about it. She huddled on her side, her knees drawn up to her chest and her back to the window, hoping that whatever it was would go away.
But the thumping continued.
Becca wished she could go to her mother. But her mother was in the hospital having another baby. Number five, like they really needed more kids in the family. Daniel was nine, she was eight, David was six, Mark was three, and then this baby, a girl who didn’t have a name yet. She’d been born that morning. Dad had taken them all to the hospital so they could see her through the glass window. She and Daniel and David had all looked at each other and rolled their eyes when Dad said, ‘‘Isn’t your sister beautiful?’’ because that skinny little bald-headed baby was about the ugliest thing any of them had ever seen. But they hadn’t let Dad see. He might get mad. Dad was like that. He got mad at the stupidest things.
That baby girl was going to have to share her room, because they were the only two girls. She and her mom had already rearranged everything to make room for the crib, and a little chest with a pad on top for changing the baby’s diapers.
Becca didn’t want to share her room with a loud, smelly baby. She knew how babies were from Mark. Basically, all they did was poop, puke, and cry.
Thump. Thump.
Becca shivered. Mrs. Granger from across the street was sleeping in her parents’ bed. She was staying with them while her mom was in the hospital, because her mom needed her dad with her. Which was okay, except Mrs. Granger was about a hundred and smelled like cabbage and hardly ever smiled.
No matter how scared she got, Becca couldn’t go to her.
But maybe she could go to Daniel. He would tease her for being a baby, but that was better than being ripped to shreds by a werewolf.
Thump, thump.
Becca couldn’t stand it any longer. She eased the bedclothes away from her face. If she was going to make a run for the room the boys shared, she wanted to take a good look around first. Maybe something was already in her room, but hadn’t noticed her yet. Maybe it would see her only if she moved.
Their house was a three-bedroom brick ranch house, and her window looked out into the backyard. Mrs. Granger hadn’t pulled the shade down like Mom always did at night, and moonlight poured right in through the window. Her bedroom wasn’t really that dark at all, Becca discovered, peeking. The moon made an awful lot of light.
She could see the thing at the window.
Becca’s eyes widened, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. It wasn’t her imagination at all. Although it was just a black shape with the moonlight pouring in around it, she could definitely make out two pointy ears.
Sylvia. Her cat. In all the confusion of her family going to see her mom at the hospital earlier, Sylvia must have slipped out the door. Now she was sitting on the windowsill, asking to be let in.
Even as she watched. Sylvia butted her head against the glass.
Thump.
Smiling with relief, Becca got out of bed and crossed to the window. Her bare feet padded silently over the hardwood floor. She was wearing only a T-shirt and panties because of the heat, and her long light brown hair was twisted up on top of her head in a bun, but she was roasting. If her mom had been home, they would have gotten out the fans, hot as it was, but Mrs. Granger had opened up all the windows instead, saying the night air would be cool enough. Well, Becca couldn’t sleep with only a screen between her and whatever monsters lurked in the night, so she had shut her window and paid the price in sweat.
Now she unlocked the window and raised it, then lifted the screen, too, just enough for Sylvia to swarm in along with a breath of relatively cool air. The breeze felt so good on her overheated skin that Becca stood there for a minute, wishing she was brave enough to just leave the window open and go back to bed. After all, the windows were open everywhere else in the house. But she was not. Just because Sylvia wasn’t a werewolf didn’t mean there wasn’t a werewolf out there.
There was a full moon tonight.
Sighing, Becca closed and locked the window again, then bent to pick up her cat. Sylvia was weaving around her legs.
‘‘What a smart girl.’’ Becca stroked the animal, who began to purr and butted her chin with a cold nose, and turned to head back to bed.
She wouldn’t be afraid with Sylvia to sleep with her, she thought.
She was still smiling faintly when something grabbed her from behind and yanked her back against a warm, strong, adult-size body. Hard arms, bare and hairy with gloves on the hands, wrapped around her. A werewolf? No . . .
Sylvia leaped for safety. Becca tried to scream. As her mouth opened, a sick-smelling rag was clamped down over her face, suffocating her.
Becca never even managed to make a sound.
It had been a long time. Almost two years. Carrying the little girl’s limp body to his van, he quivered with anticipation. He didn’t know how he had managed to hold out for so long. The need to do this had been building up inside him, spiraling tighter and tighter until he could hardly stand it. He’d fought it, he really had. But when he’d seen this little girl, and followed her home, and realized that he could do it, that it would be easy, his control had snapped. He just couldn’t resist, couldn’t hold out anymore. And it wouldn’t be like the last time. The last time had been messy, with newspaper headlines and a circus of a trial that had resulted in the girl’s father being convicted of murder—well, he had learned from his mistakes. He should never have taken Missy back to her bed. With this girl he’d do better.
Nobody—except him—would ever see her again.
CHAPTER 12
EVEN AFTER SHE FINALLY DRIFTED OFF, OLIVIA slept fitfully. For a moment or two after she awoke, hazy remnants of the night’s dreams floated through her mind. Her mother had appeared in one, sitting in the small wooden rocking chair in the corner of the bedroom softly singing a lullaby to the little girl, Olivia, in the bed. The smell of her perfume—White Shoulders, Olivia remembered with sudden clarity—had been the most magical thing in the world. But another dream had been terrifying. Olivia wasn’t quite clear on what had happened in it, although she had a vague impression that it involved the lake and a voice calling to her from its depths. Run away. Run away. Except for the voice, the details were lost in the mists of sleep. Not that she wanted to remember anyway. Her morbid fear of the lake was not something she wanted to dwell on, waking or sleeping.
Olivia rolled onto her back, determinedly banishing the last cobwebs of sleep from her mind. They were dreams, nothing more, and she was glad to let them go. She glanced at her daughter. Sara lay sprawled on her stomach, deeply asleep, her arms outflung and one bare brown foot thrust out from beneath the covers. Olivia smiled. Even as a baby, she had never been able to keep Sara’s feet covered at night.
Beyond Sara, a few slivers of pale, early-morning sunlight filtered through the crack in the curtains. Olivia thought almost longingly of turning onto her side and going back to sleep. But she knew as well as she knew her own name that she would sleep no more that morning. Therefore, she crept from bed without waking Sara and was in the kitchen at ten minutes before seven, according to the big clock that had hung above the stove for as long as she could remember. Wide awake but fighting the incipient pangs of a headache, she turned on the coffeemaker and looked over at the chalkboard next to the telephone for any messages.
There were none, which Olivia supposed was good news.
A knock sounded at the door. The curtains were still drawn over the wall of windows, leaving the kitchen gloomy and concealing the identity of the visitor. Who on earth would come over so early? Still clad in the chenille robe and gown that Martha had loaned her, Olivia considered ignoring the brisk taps. Then it occurred to her that perhaps some family member had been locked out. Or maybe it was news of Big John. If he died, would they call, or would they send someone like a friend or a priest to break the news?
That tho
ught made Olivia’s heartbeat quicken with dread. Pushing her hair back from her face with one hand, she hurried to the door, then hesitated with a hand on the knob. Instead of opening it, she parted the curtains slightly so that she could check the identity of the visitor first.
There, on the wide veranda, bathed in bright shafts of morning sunlight, stood Lamar Lennig, her cheap black suitcase and Sara’s cheap red one at his feet. He was gazing off toward the lake, which gave her a moment to study him. An inch or so less than six feet tall, he was broad-shouldered and muscular-looking in jeans and a white T-shirt. His black hair was long enough so that it curled into small, flat ringlets at the nape of his neck, and his features, just as she recalled them, were bluntly good-looking. He had matured physically from the teenager she remembered, although she would have recognized him anywhere. Relief made her feel suddenly limp: No one in the family would ever dream of using Lamar as a bearer of bad tidings.
He must have felt her eyes on him, because he glanced at her then, just as she was considering letting the curtain drop back into place again. She was not exactly dressed to receive visitors, she thought, especially not a visitor like Lamar Lennig. As a teenager, he’d been the local hunk, and the girls had made collective fools of themselves over him. As the hot-to-trot daughter of the town’s preeminent family, she had caught his eye early on. Not that she had minded. Not then. Then she had considered Lamar Lennig exciting. Though he’d never formally been her boyfriend, they’d gone out a few times on the sly and messed around a little. All right, more than a little. Too much, in fact.
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