Blackness surrounded her. She couldn't see, couldn't hear a sound. Where was she? On the street? In a field? In the woods?
She stumbled forward, waving her arms at the murkiness so she didn't smack into a tree or a building.
Someone was calling her. Someone with a kind voice.
Mommy... ?
No, her mother was gone.
Please, don't go. Don't let him get me.
She jerked awake, panting, her heart beating hard and fast as if she'd sprinted around the school track ten times. The blackness ebbed and in its place entered the softness of night—and her bed.
"Becky."
She blinked, her eyes focusing, finding outlines through the dark: the door, dresser, the window with its lacy curtains.
On the nightstand the digital clock read 1:04 a.m.
"You okay, honey?" the voice in her dream murmured.
Remembering, she turned her head. She was staying at the bed-and-breakfast place, the Country Cabin—and sharing a bedroom with Michaela.
By the light of the moon at the window, Becky recognized Addie leaning over the bed. She wore a pair of pale pajamas. "You were dreaming," she said softly. "Was it bad?"
"Yeah." Becky wanted the memories to vanish forever, but they always returned and they always sat like fat ugly toads in the back of her mind, sometimes for days.
"If you need to talk..."
"It's okay," she said, blinking away the straggling bits, wanting to talk to Addie. She seemed like a nice lady. And she loved Michaela. That was really important to Becky. She didn't like parents who were mean to their kids, or to each other the way Jesse had been to her mom.
"Slip over for a sec," Addie said, and when Becky moved to the middle of the bed without disturbing Michaela, the woman lay on the bed's edge, on top of the quilt. A moment later her fingers curved around Becky's. Tears stung her eyes. Addie was doing what her mom would've done to make the nightmare go away.
Except Addie wasn't her mom.
The thought brought more tears, until she had to swipe her wrist under her runny nose.
For a long minute they lay motionless. Addie didn't take her hand away. And she didn't talk.
Slowly. Becky relaxed; the tears dried. In a croaky voice, she said, "I was dreaming about my mom."
Addie waited, saying nothing. Becky liked that she didn't jump in with a bunch of questions. She relaxed even more. "My dad—Jesse—killed my mom. He stabbed her with a steak knife. I—I can't eat steak now." She sniffed. "I didn't see it, but I was there before he—he... Before I ran away. To the neighbor's trailer." Addie's fingers tightened, just a hint, and Becky's throat felt less full.
"Jesse... He'd—he'd grabbed the knife from the wooden block. Mom used to love baking bread," Becky rambled on, trying to think of her mom laughing. "She'd make a bunch of loaves and freeze them. Really good bread, y'know? With lots of whole grains and stuff. On the days she baked the whole house smelled like a bakery.
"Jesse loved the smell and so did I. Then she'd take a loaf from the oven and slice the end piece off and load it with butter and give it to me. I loved the end crust. Lots of people don't, but I did. It was crunchy and soft at the same time. It's the best part of the bread."
Becky let the seconds tick by, but still. Addie said nothing. "Her name was Hedy. It means delightful and sweet. I looked it up last year when Kirsten—she's my best friend—was into finding name meanings. Hedy... It's sort of old-fashioned, but it suited Mom. She had this really sweet smile, y'know? And she was always happy."
"Hedy is a pretty name, honey, and it makes me very glad your mom was such a nice person," Addie said, and she sounded sad.
Becky didn't want to think sad things anymore. "Do you bake bread?" she asked.
"I do. Michaela loves it with butter and honey."
Becky imagined the taste. Honey fresh from Addie's bees.
"If you want, I'll bake you a loaf or two and you can take them home with a couple jars of honey."
"Sounds yummy. Do you think Dad likes honey even though he's allergic to bees?"
"He loves honey."
Becky wondered how Addie knew so much about her dad. Probably because they had grown up on the island and went to the same schools.
Maybe one day she'd have a friend she could share stuff with from childhood. Somebody, but not Kirsten. Kirsten would never live on the island, never share birthdays. Becky would be thirteen on September twenty-first. Not so old that she couldn't have a friend for life if she and her dad lived on Firewood Island forever.
She was friends with Michaela. Okay, Addie's daughter was five years younger, but when they were in their twenties, it wouldn't seem so different. At least she didn't think so. Her mom's best friend—Aunt Clair to Becky—was almost nine years older than Mom.
She said, "I like Blake. Michaela's lucky to have him for a cousin."
Another long minute passed. "I should have stopped Jesse from hurting Mom," she said, and her voice sounded like when she was five. "I should've—should've hit him or something to...to get him to stop. But all I did was run away."
"Oh, baby. Don't you ever believe that," Addie said, her voice stern, but loving. "You are not at fault for what Jesse did, okay?"
"That's what my counselor keeps saying."
"And she's one hundred percent right. She knows what she's talking about. If you trust no one else on this, trust her, all right?"
"That's what Dad says, too."
"He wouldn't steer you wrong, Becky."
She began to feel better—and sleepy. "Thanks, Ms. M.— Addie."
"You're welcome."
Becky yawned widely. "Can we bake bread soon?"
"The minute my house gets fixed."
"Okay." Her eyes slid closed. "'Night. Addie."
"'Night, honey."
Becky smiled. Honey. Her mom nicknamed her honeypot back when Winnie the Pooh was Becky's favorite bedtime story. And, like Addie, she used to hold her hand when Becky was afraid of the boogeyman. Addie sure seemed an awful lot like her own mom.
Thank goodness Skip wasn't anything like Jesse.
When her child's breathing deepened, Addie slipped from the bed and walked to the window. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a cuticle moon topping the timber on the hill behind the B and B.
While she couldn't clearly see the back garden, Addie recognized Kat's green thumb. Every flower common to the island flourished in the beds encompassing the bricked patio and patch of grass between house and hill. Roses, delphiniums, asters, hydrangeas, brown-eyed Susans, phlox, coral-bells.. .the list went on and on.
A haven to be sure, where the work-weary and retired could rest and enjoy a fragment of island serenity. Tonight, however, the thought of that serenity evaded Addie.
Down the hallway from Kat's living room where Addie slept on the couch, she had awakened, sensing something was wrong, and had come straight to the girls' room. At first she thought it was Michaela calling for her, but it was Becky thrashing through a dream.
About her mother's murder. Hedy. A happy woman who had been the mainstay for Becky in a house of misery.
Tears pricked Addie's eyes. She was so thankful—so thankful— Becky hadn't actually witnessed Hedy's violent death but, instead, the child had run outside to pound on a neighbor's door.
But, oh, God, she'd sensed Jesse's intent.
The thought shook Addie. Becky had been eight, a year older than Michaela.
Fingers trembling, she mopped at her tears and turned from the window. After softly kissing both girls on the cheek, she left the bedroom to walk silently to the kitchen, where she flicked on the range light. Cordless in hand, she sat on a stool at Kat's spacious butcher-block island. Unconcerned of the time on the wall clock—1:32 a.m.—she dialed Skip's number.
"Bean?" His voice was gritty with sleep.
"It's Addie."
She heard the beat of confusion, pictured him snapping awake, propelling himself onto an elbow. "Is Becky...?"
&n
bsp; "She had a nightmare."
"Ah, hell."
Addie heard him grunt as if he'd swung back the covers and climbed out of bed. "She's back asleep," she told him. "Oh, Skip. She told me about... About her mother's— God, it's making me ill to my stomach to think our little girl went through that."
"I hear you," he said, his voice as rough as bark.
She pinched her eyes closed, stemmed another flow of tears. "We... We talked a little. I didn't ask questions. I think she just needed to talk."
"You're good for her, Addie. She never talks after a nightmare."
Her heart gave a little hop. Not with happiness—who could be happy about a child's trauma?—but because Skip had given her hope that this time she might have done something right for her firstborn. That this time she hadn't failed Becky.
"It shook me," she admitted. "It always will. I could barely speak when she'd ask me a question. And afterward... After she'd gone to sleep... Skip, I wanted to beg her forgiveness. I wanted to...to walk over hot coals if it meant taking away her pain and those dreadful memories. I wanted..." Again her eyes filled and she reached for the tissue box on the counter. "I hate myself so much for giving her up and letting this happen."
"Addie, listen." His voice held a force she hadn't heard before. "We can curse ourselves about the past until we're sick. But that won't help Becky. It isn't going to bring back Hedy. or erase the memories of that night. You need to be strong. And be there when she needs you. That's all either of us can do."
"She wants me to bake bread for her."
"She does, huh?" His smile filtered through the line.
"I'm going to teach her how. I want to give her something she can do with her hands whenever the hurt gets too much."
He was quiet, then said, "Only a mother would think of that. You won't fail, Addie."
"Baking bread is nothing compared to being there every day and for every mistake or hurt or confusion."
"Think I'll be there for every one? She'll be a teenager in a month. That alone will have her suffering things I'll never know or understand."
Addie sighed. "True."
"Give yourself some credit. You were there tonight. You've been in her life a little more than two weeks and already she's turning to you in ways she has yet to do with me after ten months."
"I'm not trying to take her away from you. Skip."
"Good." Anger punched into his voice. "Because if that's why you think I'm here, to dangle her in front of you like some fish on a hook, you are so far out in left field— Dammit, Addie." She heard his heels drum the hardwood in his room. "Don't you get it? I want you in her life. If I had my way, we'd..." An explosive sigh.
"We'd what?"
"Get married. Like we should've done years ago."
Her breath halted. Was he proposing? She rubbed her forehead. And why now, for God's sake? They didn't know each other, not anymore. Their lives were different. Yes, he'd be coaching the high school team, and teaching chemistry seventy feet down the hall from her. but their lives lay poles apart.
"Addie, did you hear me?"
"Yes." She swallowed back her fear. "It wouldn't work, Skip. We're practically strangers."
"We've known each other since grade school."
"What about the last thirteen years?" Why was she going on about this? She was not, not marrying him—nor anyone else, for that matter.
"What about those years?" he asked. "They're history. But we aren't." Again the sigh. "I've never stopped thinking about you."
She shook her head, chuffed a laugh, remembered the women, the beautiful, stunning women. "Oh, don't even go there."
He was silent long enough for her to think he'd hung up. Then quietly he said. "They weren't you, Addie. They were never you."
Words. Letters of the alphabet strung together for her comprehension. Except these words, his words, she did not comprehend. She said, "We don't love each other anymore. If we ever did."
"I loved you."
The certainty in which he spoke streamed through her, an invisible power that lodged a knot in her chest.
"But not today," she replied. "Good night, Skip."
"Are you so sure?"
Again he'd taken her breath. "It's too late for this conversation."
"Are you sure?" he repeated.
In all honesty she wasn't sure of anything. Not him, or the oncoming day, or what the future held with her broken house, or the girl down the hall. "It's two o'clock. I need to get some sleep."
"Marry me, Addie."
Oh, the hurt. He could not be this callous. "Stop right there. We have two children to think about. I will not upset Michaela— or Becky—by marrying someone I don't love." Liar, Addie! You've loved him since you were thirteen. Becky's age soon.
"Right," he said. "What was I thinking? Good night, Addie." He hung up.
Damn. She gazed at the phone. She hadn't wanted the conversation to end with bruised feelings. She hit redial.
"I need to go to Seattle tomorrow," she said without preamble when he answered, "to buy another truck. Would you like to come along? Kat or my mother could watch the kids for the day." When he didn't respond immediately, the constriction in her chest moved to her throat. "I'd like us to be friends again, Skip. Maybe we could start there?"
"All right," he said slowly. "When would you like to go?"
The tension in her stomach dissolved. "After breakfast. After we explain the trip to the girls."
"I'll be there at eight. And Addie? You've always had me as a friend." This time the phone hummed gently in her ear.
She sat listening to the night before finally rising from the stool to flick off the stove light.
Warm under the duvet on the couch, she heard the rain begin again, pattering on the roof, the sound comforting.. .the way his last words comforted her heart.
At seven the next morning Addie explained her plans about buying a new truck to Kat while they sat in the family kitchen eating cereal and fruit.
"Skip's coming with me," she said, and ignored Kat's raised brows. "I'm going to ask Mom to look after the girls."
"Let them stay here," Kat said. This morning she'd pulled her mahogany hair into a stubby ponytail. "I'm taking Blake to the pool this afternoon. He'll love the company."
"Sure?"
"Positive. I have only one guest and he's leaving before lunch. So take your time over there. If you need tomorrow, too, do it. Don't buy the first thing you see."
Staying overnight in Seattle with Skip? The idea had Addie flushing, quivering. "I don't think—"
"That's the trouble, sis. You think too much. Spending an evening with Skip—hell, a night—might be just what you guys need."
"Kat, for God's sake. Yesterday you were all for me kicking Skip in the butt, now you want me to stay the night with him?"
Over the brim of her coffee mug, her sister's brown eyes bored into Addie's. "I've changed my mind. There's a child between you. Maybe it's time you had some frank discussions about that. Without interruptions." She set down her mug. "And maybe you need to see what's left between you."
"We're opting for friendship for now."
"For now." Kat ate a strawberry. "Talk to me tomorrow, after you've had a night alone with him."
"Kat." Addie admonished. "I'm not going to Seattle to sleep with him."
"Who said anything about sleeping? But—" her eyes were animated "—consider this. A lot of major issues have been resolved with a bit of pillow talk."
Addie stared at her sister. "What's got into you?"
"No, honey. It's what's gotten into you. You've been on a cliff since he came back. And now this thing with Becky... You're crazy about her."
"Does it show that much?" Addie murmured.
"Oh, yeah. Your eyes follow her every move. And if she says anything, you hang on her words."
"It kills me to think how much I've missed."
"Don't you think Skip feels the same?" Kat said quietly. "Don't you think he's got guilt issues? Have
you ever asked him why he went looking for her?"
"Not really," Addie whispered. Not the deep-down reason. "I've been..." Too wrapped in my own heartache. "I just want her in my life," she said simply.
Kat reached across the table, laid her hand over Addie's. "I know you do. That's why you need to take the night. Sort it all out so you each know where you stand and what you want for her. Now, go pluck your eyebrows, do something cute with your hair and get ready. He'll be here before you know it."
Upon Skip's arrival, Michaela barely kissed Addie goodbye.
"Whoa," she said, feeling a twinge of abandonment. Gently, she turned her daughter around. "Not so fast, young lady. You do exactly as Aunty Kat says, okay? No silly stuff."
"Okay, Mom."
Touching Michaela's hair, Addie glanced at Becky. No vestiges of the dream, of the heartrending discussion last night, lingered in the older girl's eyes. Instead, she shot a grin over her shoulder, called, "Later, Dad," and disappeared up the stairs to the playroom with the other two children.
How could Addie not chuckle over their glee? Kat had promised a swim at the pool, an afternoon of cookie baking, a library trip and a pizza fest at suppertime.
Skip's mouth quirked. "Never thought I'd feel like second fiddle."
Kat laughed. "Get used to it. By the way, it's nice to see you again, Skip."
"Same goes."
Addie watched them shake hands. God, he smelled good. Like the woods and fields she loved.
His gaze returned to her. "Ready?"
Momentarily reluctant to leave, she scanned the empty kitchen. Since Michaela's birth, Addie had never left her daughter for more than a few hours and she'd always been within five minutes traveling distance. Today would be a landmark. For them both.
"Go." Kat ushered Addie and Skip out the door, shoved their jackets into their hands. "I need to cook breakfast for my guests. Call me later." With a wink, she shut the door.
Addie stood beside Skip on the stoop. The storm had vanished. This morning offered cerulean skies and balmy temperatures. But none of it held her attention. She'd done as Kat suggested. She'd fixed her eyebrows and hair and put on one of her sister's summer skirts.
For me, she told herself. Not for him. Except her heart said different when she saw how he looked at her—as if he wanted to nibble on every visible part of her skin.
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