by Неизвестно
"Don’t fall for it, Meara," Fletcher warned. "She’s a shameless freeloader."
"I am not a freeloader," Tia defended. "I work off my room and board. I’ll paint anything she wants. Do you like murals?" she asked me. "I’m great at kid’s rooms. I also do wallpapering, when I’m in the mood. Just don’t ask me to paint your house trim—I don’t do the outdoors."
Fletcher humphed. "Now there’s an understatement."
"Most normal people," she fired back with a glare, "recognize that humans evolved to our present state of enlightenment in order to avoid living in squalor."
"It’s called camping, Tia."
"Whatever."
I laughed heartily, losing a splash of my tea. Tia grinned at me, her gaze turning intent again, as it had been doing periodically all evening.
"I’m sorry to keep staring," she apologized. "But it bugs the heck out of me that I can’t remember you."
"That’s all right," I said quickly, wishing to get off the topic of me and back to the laughing. "You were only five."
I knew that Fletcher had filled his sister in on my saga at some point earlier in the day, and I wondered with no small amount of guilt whether the news of her ex-stepmother’s nefarious past had contributed to her puffy eyes. But Tia had said nothing to me about Sheila. She merely seemed delighted to know that we had met before.
"An ex-stepsister and an ex-foster sister," she said warmly. "Amazing. I wonder if I gave you a nickname? I gave all the kids nicknames back then. I was great at it." Her eyes veered toward Fletcher, and her face turned devilish.
He reddened instantly. "Go ahead," he said heavily. "I dare you. Just remember that two can play at that game."
She twisted her lips in contemplation. "Okay, okay," she announced peevishly. "We’ll table that one for now. At least you finally told Meara what you do for a living. And incidentally, if you hadn’t, I would have."
"I didn’t tell her," Fletcher admitted. "She saw the statue of Ferris and figured it out."
Tia grinned broadly. "Well, well! Not only does she cook, but she’s smart enough to get the best of you. I think I’ll disable her car."
I laughed out loud. "Tell you what, Tia. You tell me his nickname, and I’ll serve you breakfast in bed."
Fletcher growled. "I should have known it was only a matter of time before the two of you ganged up on me." His face bore a scowl, but his eyes shone with merriment. "It’s probably not the first time, either," he lamented.
The thought prompted Tia to stare at me again. "I’ve just got to remember you," she insisted. Then a lightbulb seemed to turn on. "Oh wait, pictures! That’s why the album is out, isn’t it?"
She leapt up from her seat at the table and crossed over to the wall of bookcases in the common room. "I saw it sitting out this morning," she explained, pulling down a brown album from where it lay horizontally over a row of encyclopedias. "But I didn’t think much of it. You guys were looking for pictures, weren’t you? Did you find any?"
Fletcher and I exchanged glances. "I didn’t get an album out," he corrected. "I didn’t even think of it. Last I saw any of the old ones was when we were packing up the attic."
Tia dropped the book on the table with a puzzled expression. "But look," she argued, pointing at the spine. "It’s the right timeframe, isn’t it?" The stretch of blue plastic tape had been embossed with an inexpensive label maker. 1977-1980.
I nodded.
Tia opened the book and sat down. "Dad must have gotten it out himself, then," she theorized. "Or else Sheila did."
I leaned in closely over her shoulder as she flipped through the pages, my breath held. Fletcher watched from the other side. She stopped short a few times, then moved on. I couldn’t process the pictures half as rapidly as she could, and I wished that she would slow down. But the next time she stopped, it was with a squeal of joy.
"Meara!" she cried, turning to me. "There you are, see! There we are."
My pulse quickened; my face felt hot. I gazed into the photograph.
It had been taken inside a living room, probably at the white house. Six children, all wearing church clothes, beamed at the camera. A few held baskets. "Easter," I whispered, touching the corner of the paper tentatively with a fingertip. Fletcher was there, looking big for a boy of six, all white teeth and bright red hair. Another boy of eight or nine stood next to him, while a shy-looking, fair-haired girl of three or four stood close in front of them both, hiding her face behind Fletcher’s arm. A bald toddler sat on the floor wrestling with a basket as big as he was, but the indisputable hog of the limelight was Tia, who stood poised with one leg in the air, brandishing a chocolate bunny above her head.
Then there was me. I was wearing a frilly white dress, tied at the waist with a wide blue ribbon. My hair was long and loose, but orderly in a way that only a brushing in the previous few seconds could achieve. I stood sideways to the camera, my arms clasping the much-taller Tia tightly around the waist. Her free arm encircled my shoulders; my face was pressed into her side. We were laughing.
"See there," she announced softly. "I knew you had good taste."
My eyes swelled with tears.
She flipped a few pages forward and back, but there were no other posed "family" pictures and no other pictures of me, just casual shots of various children playing outside, and several of adults that had been taken at the inn. She returned to the page with the picture of us, and Fletcher reached forward and removed it.
Tia stood up and looked at me, her own eyes moist. "Don’t start," she ordered firmly. "Because if you start, I’ll start, and I’m over quota for the day."
I tried to comply, but a drop escaped my left eye. "Sorry," I whispered, smiling. It was a pleasant change to produce happy tears, even if they were bittersweet. I knew now, from my own little face, that I had been happy here. I had been part of a large family, if only for a short while. I wondered if I had never forgotten that—if my childhood longings had not been daydreams so much as memories. Memories of the playmates I had lost.
More tears threatened, and Tia stepped forward and hugged me tight. "There’s no point in getting mushy," she quipped over my shoulder. "You probably just wanted my candy. And knowing me, I didn't give it to you."
I broke into laughter again, and when she released me, we exchanged a red-eyed smile. Realizing suddenly how quiet Fletcher had been, I looked over to see him still holding the photograph. He seemed deeply absorbed by it, although he wasn’t looking at the picture itself. He was looking at the back of it.
Tia noticed as well. "Did Mom label it?" she asked him. "Does it say Amanda?"
The question seemed to startle him. He looked up with a puzzled expression. "It says Mandy."
His voice was neutral, but his eyes seemed troubled, and a vague sense of dread crept over me. "What’s wrong, then?" I asked.
"Nothing," he assured, forcing a smile. "It’s just curious, that’s all."
"What’s curious?" Tia demanded.
He turned the front of the picture toward us. "This little girl here," he explained, pointing to the fair-haired preschooler. "You remember the listing in my mother’s ledger?" he asked me. "The only entry that could possibly fit you, assuming there was some reason why you would be registered under another name?"
I nodded. "Lisa Dobson."
His eyes held mine, and he tapped at the picture again. "This little girl is Lisa."
I tried to digest the fact, but it made little sense.
"But Meara has to be in the ledger somewhere," Tia insisted. "She was obviously here, and Mom kept records on all the foster children."
"Yes," Fletcher agreed thoughtfully, "she did."
Chapter 23
Tia considered her brother’s words. "But if Meara wasn’t here as a foster child," she said speculatively, "why would she be here? I can’t see Mom sheltering a child outside the system—she was never one to buck protocol."
Fletcher shook his head. "No, because she would never have let an abusive situati
on go on without reporting it."
The siblings exchanged a glance.
"Meara must not have been here for sheltering, then," Tia declared.
I looked from one to the other, not sure what they were getting at, and wishing fervently that they would talk about something else.
"Meara," Tia asked. "How old was Sheila when she died?"
"Fifty-two," I answered.
Her eyes met her brother’s again, and the two of them transmitted a rapid nonverbal message. "Did she grow up around here?" Tia asked me.
"I don’t think so," I responded, my frustration growing. "She was born in Uniontown, and her mother died there when she was 19. But I suppose they could have moved around in between. Why?"
More pregnant glances.
"The Turkeyoughas?" Tia asked.
Fletcher nodded.
"I’ll go get them," Tia offered. "They’re in the attic—and I know exactly where." She turned and darted off toward the stairs.
Only after she was gone did Fletcher take a good look at my face. "I’m sorry," he said quickly, chagrined. "We should have asked if you wanted to pursue this." He turned toward the stairs. "I’ll call Tia off."
"No," I insisted dutifully. "This is about your family, too. If you want to understand why I was here, that’s fine." I tried to smile at him.
He studied me, unconvinced. "I mean it," he said softly. "If you don’t want to know any more, we’ll drop it. Just tell me."
The tenderness in his voice sent a shudder through me, but I short-circuited the stirring with a deep breath. "I don’t want you to drop it," I insisted, lying. I did want them to drop it. Fletcher and Tia had already accepted me as a friend. I was welcome here, and I was enjoying their company more than I could say. Couldn’t well-enough be left alone?
"I would like to know what you’re thinking," I continued, trying hard to suppress my insecurities. Surely Fletcher and Tia, of all people, would not hold me responsible for either of my birth parents’ actions. I had nothing to worry about. "Turkey what?"
He grinned, and the sight warmed me. If only I could make him happy more often—truly happy. So far, I'd brought him precious little but grief.
"The Turkeyougha," he explained, "is the yearbook for the Turkeyfoot Valley Area High School. My parents graduated from there. So did Tia and I."
My eyebrows rose. "Your high school’s mascot was the wild turkey?"
"Of course not," he said with false indignation. "It was the ram. What do you take us for?"
I grinned myself. Even under duress, joking with Fletcher was easy. "My mistake," I responded, besieged with another aggravating pang of attraction.
"What occurred to Tia and me," he explained, "is that you might not have been here for protection so much as babysitting. My mother was the same age as Sheila. It’s not inconceivable that they were friends."
Friends. The word pierced through me, bringing with it a glimmer of joy I was almost afraid to acknowledge. The idea was too fantastic to be true. "They were the same age?" I asked incredulously. "How old was your mother when she adopted you?"
"Barely twenty-one," he answered. "Yes, I know—she was a brave one. She and Dad were rare in wanting to adopt so young, and in being willing to adopt Tia and me together. But they wanted a family, and they knew from the beginning that they couldn’t have biological children."
My head spun, but it was a pleasant confusion. Why couldn’t Sheila and Rosemary have been friends? Maybe Rosemary knew that Sheila’s marriage was rocky and agreed to help keep me out of the fray whenever things got rough. But maybe she hadn’t realized how rough. Maybe at the inn that night, she was as surprised as anyone when Sheila pulled the trigger. Maybe she had tried to testify in Sheila’s defense. But maybe it hadn’t come out that way. Maybe—
"Are you sure you’re okay with this?"
My thoughts stopped racing, replaced by a sudden awareness of the present. Fletcher was right in front of me; his hands were on my shoulders.
I looked up at him, and my pulse pounded.
He was close. Much closer than he usually allowed himself to be. I wondered if he had any idea of the effect his nearness had on me, and decided that he did not. Because if he did, he wouldn’t be standing where he was standing, or touching me like he was touching me. He wouldn’t let those gorgeous eyes of his look at me with such concern, and he certainly wouldn’t wear flannel.
My teeth clenched, and I felt a flash of annoyance at his carelessness. I had nothing but respect for his devotion to whoever she was, but did he have to leave his top three shirt buttons open? Did he have to exude such an enticing aroma of wind, sweat, and wood? I might be ethical, but I was not made of steel.
He removed his hands and stepped back.
I let out a breath, wondering if my glare had transmitted my thoughts. I hoped not all of them. But the fact was, if Fletcher expected us to coexist as friends, he would have to stay farther away from me than that.
Like in Siberia.
"I’m fine," I answered.
"Good," he responded. He moved back a few more steps. An awkward silence descended. He studied his feet.
"Found it!" Tia announced, strutting into the common room with a thin blue yearbook. The interruption startled me, but Fletcher was clearly relieved.
I turned back to Tia. The book’s cover was adorned with a pattern of white diamonds enclosing an atom; the words "Turkeyougha ’70" appeared beneath. She opened the book to a page she had marked with a finger, then laid it in my hands. "Check it out."
I hesitated a second, my mind still mired in a vain attempt to read Fletcher’s mind. But after noting the excitement on her face, I opened the book in haste.
My eyes scanned over rows of long-haired boys and longer-haired girls before coming to rest on the words Tia was pointing to. Photograph not available: Sheila Tresswell.
I stared at the words a moment, unable to take them in. It was true. I had not been randomly assigned here as a foster child. I had been here as a friend of the family.
A friend of the family.
"I can’t believe it," I murmured, my cheeks flushing with heat. I felt almost giddy with joy, but was embarrassed to express it. How could Fletcher and Tia possibly understand? How could they know how much it meant to me that my connection to this place—and to them—was based on something real?
"So Sheila was a friend," I repeated incredulously.
No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I realized that, for them, the revelation might not be such a happy one. There could be no question, now, that their father had known exactly who Sheila was when he married her. He would have to have known everything.
I looked at Tia with apprehension, and found her casting a sideways glance at Fletcher. He was gazing pensively into space.
She turned her attention to me. "It doesn’t surprise me that my father would have looked up an old friend after Mom died. He was certainly lonely. It’s a bit odd that he would reconnect with Sheila after what happened, but—" her voice trailed off, thought brewing behind her eyes.
"He did have an amazing capacity for forgiveness," she asserted. "He was one of the most loving and nonjudgmental people I’ve ever known, and he did believe that people could change."
She looked meaningfully at her brother, but his eyes were still averted.
"This explains a lot, actually," she continued, turning back to me with a smile. "Why my father kept the relationship a secret. Maybe he was concerned about what we would think, or what his friends would think, given Sheila’s history. Or maybe it was Sheila who didn’t want anyone to know. Either way, they needn’t have worried. If he knew the whole situation behind what happened, and still thought enough of Sheila to marry her, then I accept his judgment. She must have had a good heart."
Her eyes held mine. "The car accident was a terrible tragedy," she said gently. "But it would be wrong for any of us to blame what happened on the fact that he and Sheila got married. If they’d never met, either of them coul
d still have hit a deer any day, any time—only then they would have died lonely. I think we should just be glad that they were able to make each other happy—at least for a little while."
My heart skipped a beat. A powerful feeling of warmth surged through me, and I lurched forward and hugged her close. "Thank you," I whispered. "You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that."
"Sure I do," she answered. "I’m buttering you up so I can get more cheesy potatoes."
I laughed out loud. But as my eyes caught sight of Fletcher over her shoulder, my glee waned. He was watching us with the most peculiar expression—seeming in one second to be touched; the next, irritated.
Tia’s gaze followed mine. "Fletch feels the same," she announced, her voice louder. "Don’t you, Fletch?"
He blinked at her as if he had been miles away, then smiled. "Of course."
Before I could begin to contemplate the exchange, Tia took me firmly by the hand and led me toward the couches. "You want to see my parents’ pictures?" she asked eagerly. "They’re a scream." She sat down, pulling me with her, then took the yearbook from my hands. Fletcher didn’t follow, but began clearing away the dinner dishes instead. And though ordinarily the sight of any man cleaning up after a meal would thrill me, I couldn’t look at him now without angst. He was preoccupied. Distressed. And the source of his problem, once again, seemed to be me.
"I didn’t see Sheila’s name in the junior yearbook, so she must have only lived here a little while," Tia began cheerfully, opening the book between us and flipping pages. "But they were all in the same graduating class. Mom and Dad were childhood sweethearts since they were, like, ten. They got married after they graduated, when Mom inherited the inn."
My eyebrows rose. "Your mother took over the inn right out of high school?" I asked, amazed. "She was responsible for it all by herself, from then on?"
"Why not?" Fletcher piped up suddenly, clear from the kitchen. "Is there some reason you think she wouldn’t want to stay here?"