“She didn’t say a thing about you being her daughter!” I exclaimed as I slid into the front seat of the car with Irene. “I guess you were right about her knowing the truth all the time.”
Irene nodded. “Now that she has found her real, flesh-and-blood nephew, she doesn’t need a make-believe daughter.”
“You’re not sorry, are you?” I asked, watching her face.
“Of course not!”
“I just thought, being a ballerina, you might enjoy pretending that you came from Russian stock.”
“Well, thank you,” Irene snorted. “But I’m pretty proud of the good, ordinary Canadian stock I do come from.” She became thoughtful. “I’m glad, though, that we had that chance meeting this morning. With all the secrets out of the way, perhaps the Countess and I can become friends again.”
We swung into the driveway next to the farmhouse. “I wonder why the Countess would have made up that story in the first place about giving her baby to Nan,” I mused.
Irene shut off the car’s engine, but remained seated behind the wheel. “Well, I have a theory about that,” she said. “The Countess and my mother were friends. And I did study ballet from her. I think, in the elderly, that the edges of memories collected over a lifetime, tend to shift and blur and run together.” She was frowning at me. “What’s the matter?” she demanded. “Why are you staring at me?”
“That’s very poetic, Irene,” I said, only half-teasing. “You really must be part of this family!”
Ernie had come to welcome us as we got out of the car. I was relieved that the dog had already picked up where he’d left off six weeks ago, following Henry McIntyre out to the barn at milking time, playing bark-and-whinny with the horse and chasing the ducks when they came to investigate.
Suddenly, the dog began to bark. A police cruiser had pulled into the driveway behind Irene’s car, and Mert Cooney got out. Ignoring the dog, he sauntered over to where we stood waiting. “Good day, ladies,” the policeman drawled, pushing his hat to the back of his head. “Had a piece of business you might be interested in.” He leaned up against the hood of the car.
“And what might that be?” Irene asked because somebody had to.
“Well, it’s about the fire, miss,” Cooney began. “It may not have been the wiring like we originally suspected. It’s looking more and more like arson.”
“Arson!” Irene and I gasped in unison.
“Looks that way. The fire marshall tells me the fire appears to have been started in the woodpile alongside your shed. Then it likely burned up the side of the shed and spread quickly to the back wall of your house, and into the attic.”
“You mean someone deliberately set fire to the place?” Irene demanded. “Who would do a thing like that?”
The policeman cast a skeptical glance in my direction. “No ideas, young lady? You can’t think of anyone with a grudge against you?”
For a minute I was flabbergasted by what he seemed to be suggesting. It couldn’t be! “You mean, Bobby Baker?”
Cooney nodded and pushed himself upright, taking a more authoritative stance. “We think so. When Mr. Fred Forth heard about the fire, he came to the station and told me that Baker blamed you for his misfortune. Forth was suspicious, and he wanted to make sure that the fire would be fully investigated. Of course, it will be.”
“Mr. Forth turned him in?” I was incredulous. “Did you know he’s sending Bobby to another store?”
“He was on his way when we caught up with him,” the policeman said, looking very pleased with himself. “Baker’s not going anywhere till we get to the bottom of this,” he promised.
When Mert Cooney drove off, Irene demanded to know the whole story and so, over lunch, I filled my aunt and the McIntyres in on what it was that had caused me to lose my job and Bobby Baker to seek his revenge. If he had. It was hard for me to believe that anyone would do that deliberately. Bobby Baker was a creep and someone who used other people, but I couldn’t believe he was also an arsonist.
Thirteen
Michael Pacey arrived at the McIntyres’ early that same afternoon, sweeping in on his motorcycle to make sure that I was really okay after the fire. “And to see if there’s anything I can do, Libby. Anything at all.” His tone was grave, his blue eyes worried. “I couldn’t believe it when I went by the place.”
“There’s really nothing anyone can do,” I said, brushing lunchtime crumbs off the front of my blouse. “But thanks anyway.”
He unstrapped a cardboard carton from the back of the motorcycle and set it on the step at the McIntyres’ back door. “When I told Mother I was coming over this aft, she insisted I bring this. Some things of Margaret’s,” he explained, wincing apologetically. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want them.”
“I appreciate it, really,” I assured him. “Everyone’s been very generous. Irene brought me a few things, but this is great.”
“Well, Mother was talking to Margaret on the phone, and Margaret told her what she thought you would like to have.”
The drone of voices, the clatter from the kitchen came to us through the screen door. “Dad told me to take an hour off and come check on you,” Michael said. “It must have been terrible, Libby. To see everything you’d worked so hard for go up in smoke.”
“It was terrible,” I agreed.
We moved away from the back door then, crossing the yard together and stopping at the fence, where we could see the horse grazing in the field beyond. I was aware of Michael’s eyes on me all the while.
“Why do you keep looking at me?” I asked.
“Sorry,” Michael said. “Am I embarrassing you?”
“A little,” I admitted. “I keep wondering if I’ve got food on my face, or if my hair’s a mess.”
“Let me see.” Michael leaned over the fence to study me more closely and smiled. “Nope. No food. And your hair’s fine.”
I touched the wiry mass. “It doesn’t make you think of one of those things you scrub pots with?” I was fishing, but this was fun.
Michael laughed. “No, it doesn’t. I love your hair.”
And I loved standing there with him, leaning on the fence together, feeling the warmth of his arm against mine, and wishing this moment could go on forever.
The horse, seeing company, ambled over to check our pockets for treats. She had to be content with the grass Michael pulled for her from around the fencepost. We had come unprepared. We stroked her nose and talked to her, but the animal soon grew bored with us and wandered away again.
“I guess the reason I keep looking at you, Libby,” said Michael, “is that I’m thinking how I’ve known you practically my whole life. But I never really saw you before.”
“I know what you mean,” I nodded. “I used to wish you could be my brother!”
“And now, I guess, we’re both moving on,” Michael said. “Look at all the time we’ve wasted.”
I turned around and rested my elbows on the fence behind me, thinking about what he’d just said. “It wasn’t really wasted,” I suggested, after a moment or two. “We have all that ‘getting to know you’ stuff out of the way now.”
“That’s true. Will you ever come back?” he asked.
“Of course I will! I still own property here, and one day I’ll have another house built on it.”
“No kidding? Well, I probably won’t be back much myself before next summer.” He looked down at his watch again. I noticed the fine bones of his wrist, the golden hairs that grew along his arm.
Michael had been watching the time, and now he pushed himself away from the fence with a sigh. “I wish I didn’t have to get back, Libby, but I do.”
On the way back towards the house, Michael took my hand. “I can tell you’re going places, Libby Eaton,” he said solemnly. “You aren’t going to be stuck in this place. So I won’t ask you to wait for me.”
I felt my heart turn over. “What about Anna?” I wondered out loud. “Is she going to wait for you?”
Michael laughed wryly. “Anna was more interested in the motorcycle than in me,” he admitted. “We were never going steady anyway. The day her old boyfriend turned up, driving a T-bird, she lost interest in me pretty fast.”
I never did think Anna Nobles was very bright.
It felt so right to be holding hands with Michael. “I would wait for you, if you asked me,” I told him.
“No, you wouldn’t.” He shook his head, but his smile was tender. “You’re too smart to limit your choices like that.” We’d reached the motorcycle, and he let go of my hand, throwing his leg over the machine. “That’s one of the things I admire about you, you know.”
“I want to study journalism at university,” I said. “I’m going to concentrate on my grades this year and aim for a scholarship. You can tell your father I’m taking his advice.”
“He’ll be pleased,” Michael said.
I waited while he started the engine. Then, instead of saying good-bye, Michael leaned towards me and placed his lips very gently on mine. I moved willingly into the kiss, lifting my arms to encircle his neck, joy and regret filling me at the same time. When, I wondered, would I ever see him again?
It was a long time after the dust had settled behind him before I went back inside. The phone had rung in the McIntyre kitchen and Henry, who had picked it up, held the receiver out to me as I came through the door.
“Oh, Libby dear,” cried Marjory Thomas on the other end, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your house! You must be devastated. Were you able to save anything at all?”
“Not much,” I admitted. “The house was totally destroyed. But tell me how Mr. Thomas is? I meant to call you before. Is he all right?”
“He’s going to be fine,” Marjory assured me. “The doctors said it was a mild heart attack, a warning that he must ease up on his work load.” I heard her sigh. “Maybe he’ll listen to them. He certainly never listened to me.”
“Is he able to have visitors?” I asked. “I’ll be going back to Toronto with Irene, and I wanted to say goodbye.”
“Well, come this afternoon then,” Marjory urged. “I think you’d be good for him, dear. Some young company, for a change.”
“I’m not going to tell Mr. Thomas the essay he published got me fired,” I informed Irene, who had offered to take me to the hospital and was waiting for me to get ready. I pulled a brush through my hair and hunted for an elastic band to hold it up off my neck.
“He’ll hear it soon enough,” said Irene, standing behind me and checking her own face in the mirror.
“He agreed with the stand I took, anyway,” I said. “That’s why he printed it.”
At the hospital, the newspaperman was looking pale, but more rested than I’d seen him in a long time. “I’ll be out of here before you know it,” he insisted, struggling on his elbows to force himself up higher in the bed. “The doctor made me promise to take it easy.”
Marjory tucked another pillow behind her husband’s back and folded the sheet under his arms. Mr. Thomas took her hand, putting an end to any further fluffing or patting. “I’m glad you were able to come, Libby,” he said. “And I’m just sick about the fire.”
“The main thing is no one was hurt,” I found I was able to say.
“True enough,” agreed William Thomas. “So, what are your plans now, my dear?”
“I’m going back to Toronto with Irene,” I told him. “I’ve got to finish high school, and then I hope I can study journalism. Russian history interests me too.”
I gave him a sheepish smile. “I guess I sort of got caught up in looking for Anastasia. But I really think Alex planned to write the Countess’ story. Maybe I could be the one to finish it.”
I shot a glance at my aunt where she sat just inside the door. “And I think Irene and I still have a lot we can learn from each other,” I said. “After all, we are the only family either of us has.”
“Oh, don’t say that!” cried Marjory Thomas, coming around to my side of the bed, her eyes luminous and her arms ready to enfold me in a hug. “William and I want you to think of us as family!”
“Indeed we do,” her husband echoed, blowing his nose. “And don’t forget the Pinkney Mirror, either. I think it’s very likely that essay of yours woke up a lot of people around here. They’ll be wanting to hear more from you.”
“I know for a fact that it did,” agreed Marjory. “I overheard a couple of the nurses discussing it at lunchtime today. Of course, I tuned right in when they mentioned the story in the Mirror.
“One of them was saying she bet most men had never thought that when they whistled at or ogled a woman, it might make her uncomfortable. And the other nurse complained that some men behave as if women were just objects, that their feelings don’t count anyway. So, people are definitely talking!”
“Well, there you are, then,” declared William Thomas triumphantly. “Forget about looking anywhere else next summer. There’s a job for you on the Pinkney Mirror, Libby. And every summer from now on.”
I was speechless with gratitude.
“You can stay with us when you come back.” Marjory continued the enthusiasm. “William and I have already talked this over. We have a big place, plenty of room. If your dog will agree to share a home with my three cats, we’d love to have him come too.”
“Oh, he’ll come,” I said happily. “Ernie’s very adaptable.”
William Thomas cleared his throat. “I’m not getting any younger, you know,” he informed us, trying to look serious. “I might even be able to use a junior editor one day.”
I bent over him in the hospital bed, unable to restrain myself any longer. “Oh, I just knew if I badgered you long enough you’d have to hire me!” I exclaimed. I pressed my cheek to his. This was the man I would have chosen as my father all along.
“I’ll be ready to start as soon as school’s out next June.” Less than a year from now! I thought. I could hardly wait to tell Michael.
Peggy Dymond Leavey was born in Toronto, Ontario. Her father was in the Canadian military and, as a result of his frequent postings, she received her education in nine different schools between Winnipeg and Fort Chambly, Quebec. The mother of three grown children, Peggy now lives in the Trenton area of Ontario with her husband and their Labrador retriever, Belle. She works part-time as a public librarian.
Her first novel for children, Help Wanted: Wednesdays Only, was published in 1994 by Napoleon, and the second, A Circle in Time, in 1997. Her third book, Sky Lake Summer (1999), was nominated for the Silver Birch Award and the Manitoba Young Readers’ Choice Award.
More books by
Peggy Dymond Leavey
Sky Lake Summer
Twelve-year-old Jane expects a peaceful summer at her the family cottage but is instead presented with a mystery in the form of an old letter desperately asking for help. She enlists the help of the handsome but troubled Jess in solving the puzzle. This novel was nominated for the Silver Birch Award.
ISBN 0-929141-64-4 paperback $7.95 in Canada, $6.95 U.S.
A Circle in Time
Twelve-year-old Wren thinks the mirror she found in an abandoned movie studio will make a good souvenir. Enthralled by the thought of the movie stars who might have gazed into it, she is determined to have it. Even after she sees the reflection of a strange man standing behind her. A man who isn’t there.
ISBN 0-929141-55-5 paperback $6.95 in Canada, $5.95 U.S.
Help Wanted: Wednesdays Only
Mark knew that Grandpa Luigi had Alzheimer’s, but he hadn’t counted on it turning his life upside-down. When his mother suggests that they move in with Grandpa to care for him, Mark reluctantly agrees. He doesn’t know how strange Grandpa’s behaviour has become or that the kids at school have a name for him: Crazy Luigi.
ISBN 0-929141-23-7 paperback $6.95 in Canada, $5.95 U.S.
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Finding My Own Way Page 14