I made a solemn promise to read the entries in order. No matter how tempted, I would not skip to the end. If I didn’t read the entries this way, I might miss something important. At the same time, I was repelled by the thought of actually reaching the final page. I didn’t think I would be able to face the finality of it, what the last entry might—or might not—reveal.
No. I would not skip to the end. I would reach it soon enough.
So I sat in that window seat for what must have been hours, turning pages almost feverishly, the paper rough beneath my fingers, reading how Tiffany’s friendship with Christopher grew. Through her written words, I could almost see the relationship playing out before me. I might have laughed at how it reminded me of a sappy soap opera, only the laughter choked itself off long before it reached my throat.
August 1, 1978
Christopher and I spent the whole day together. He is so wonderful. I’ve never known anyone like him. I can sit and talk with him for hours and not be bored—it’s amazing. I never tire of focusing on his face as he speaks, never tire of the unique way he smiles, the intense, vivacious sparkle of his eyes, or hearing the sound of his voice—
Pen ink streaked across the page.
Oh no! I just caught sight of my wrist, the one on which I always wear my special silver bracelet—from my brother on my sixteenth birthday—and it’s bare! The catch hasn’t been closing right lately and the bracelet must have fallen off somewhere today. Why wasn’t I more careful?
But I’ll try not to panic. Think. Think where I might have lost it. Let’s see. I spent the day with Christopher. Most likely the bracelet dropped off in his car or at his duplex. I’ll have to ask him to keep an eye out for it. Hopefully I didn’t lose it when we went walking through the park. I couldn’t bear the thought of some old lady finding it and using it for a cat collar or something equally disrespectful. If I ever find it I’ll make sure not to wear it until the catch is fixed. Oh, how could I have been so careless? What a rotten ending to a wonderful day.
I looked down at the silver bracelet on my own wrist, thinking, This must be that bracelet. But didn’t she lose it in the mansion? She must have found it, only to lose it again, I reasoned, and touched the clasp. I’d have to be more careful than her, because I’d be devastated if I ever lost it.
Absently fondling the bracelet, I returned to the diary. Excitement and expectancy beat in my heart as I read more about Christopher Renton. My mother had been so close to him. Now, in these pages, I could finally learn what he was really like.
Or could I? My mother analyzed him, praised him, gushed over how perfect he was . . . how could I be sure my mother’s perception of him was true? Even the clearest vision could be blurred by love, couldn’t it?
My contemplation was shattered by the rude ringing of a telephone. I sprang to my feet in a daze, hardly knowing where I was, I had been so absorbed in the diary. My head swelled with a rush of dizziness and I almost lost my balance. I forced myself to take several deep breaths, filling my lungs to capacity, then exhaling slowly, purposely. This cleared my head and my vision. But by this time, the phone was silent.
I was just turning back to the diary when I heard a knock on my door.
“Robin,” I tensed at my uncle’s voice, “telephone for you.”
I waited five long seconds before answering, “All right. I’ll get it in the hall.”
I listened at my door, and when I heard the creak of my uncle’s steps as he retreated downstairs, I left my room and picked up the hall phone. I said hello, then heard a click as my uncle hung up the other phone.
“Hi, beautiful. How goes the treasure hunting?” It was Philip’s voice, eager on the other line.
“Oh.” I rubbed my forehead, still feeling slightly disoriented. It took me a moment to remember our morning meeting and my promise; the morning seemed like such a long time ago. “I mean, I’m doing what I can—”
“Good, good.” He rushed on. “Look, I just wanted to know how things were going, and let you know I won’t be able to see you tomorrow. I’ll be out of town the whole day. Some relative I’ve gotta visit, you know how it is. Anyway, I’ll see you again as soon as I can.”
“All right.” A pause.
“So you haven’t found anything?” I sensed his hope and tension—so intense I almost felt it searing through the line as he awaited my answer. Suddenly, I was irritated. I wasn’t sure why, only I knew I wanted something more from him than these questions.
“What did you think I would find?” I asked impatiently. “A sign in my mother’s room with an arrow pointing to her closet saying, ‘The treasure map’s in here’?”
“Well, not something quite that obvious . . .”
“Philip,” I said, exasperated.
He laughed. “Just keep your eyes open and your mind alert.” His voice lowered. “You’ll find it. I know you will.”
I wish I had as much confidence in me. I began winding the phone cord around my finger, thinking, I should tell him about the diary. But something held me back. Perhaps I was being selfish, but I didn’t want to share the diary. Not yet, anyway—it was too intimate a thing to share with anyone—not until I’d had a chance to read it through by myself.
“I’ll try,” was all I said.
“You do that.” He gave an elaborate sigh. “Even a day seems too long to be away from you, Robin. I wish you could come with me tomorrow, but it wouldn’t be any fun for you. We’ll have to wait until we find what we’re after. Then we can go anywhere we want—together.”
I caught my breath. He was hinting again, which meant he hadn’t forgotten what he’d told me this morning. He was serious. Immediately my heart began to beat faster and my feelings softened. I didn’t want Philip to leave town, not even for a day. I was relenting, deciding I should tell Philip about the diary after all, when he said, “So do your best, and maybe you’ll have something to show me when I get back.”
“I think I might be getting close.”
“Wonderful.” He didn’t give me a chance to continue. “I have confidence in you, Robin, all you need is confidence in yourself. And then you can do anything. Remember that, and I’ll see you soon.”
This was my opportunity to jump in and tell him about the diary, but I didn’t. “Bye.”
“I’ll miss you.” He hung up, and my chance was over.
Returning to my room, I didn’t regret my hesitation; in fact, I began to feel glad that I hadn’t told him. It would have been silly, I reasoned. The diary isn’t important to anyone but me. Besides, it would be embarrassing to have Philip read it. This was what I told myself, but deep down I think I knew, and feared, that if I told Philip he would think it was a big deal, and insist upon reading the diary himself. This thought was enough to fill me with panic.
I settled down to continue reading, but it wasn’t long before the strain of the long, eventful day began to take its toll. My eyes kept falling shut and my neck would not support my head, which felt absurdly heavy. Evening draped its dusky veil over my window and the words in the diary became too dim to read.
It took all my will power to close the diary. I didn’t get up right away, but stayed sitting at the window, clasping the book against my chest and leaning my forehead against the cool glass. I watched the stars prick through the blackness of night. I was so tired that the tune came to me unconsciously, and I began to hum, “Memories are made by moments like these . . .”
When I became aware of the song I was humming, I stopped. I slapped the diary down on the window seat and got ready for bed. For once, I intended to get a good night’s sleep.
When I awoke the next morning after a night of deep dreamlessness, I was famished. I blinked my eyes groggily but made no move to get up. Until I remembered the diary.
Then I scrambled out of bed, so eager to get to it that I became ensnared in the sheets and almost fell over in my enthusiasm. Once at the window seat, I paused to open my window, because with my bedroom door closed all night, m
y room had become unbearably stuffy.
The sound of church bells floated in on the morning air. I glanced at the time and saw it was eight o’clock. I’d missed seven-thirty Mass. Great, I’d gotten a good night’s sleep, but at the expense of missing early Mass. Which meant I would have to go to the nine o’clock one. With my uncle.
I opened my bedroom door and emerged to hear my uncle just beginning to move about downstairs. I lingered uneasily, undecided, on the landing. The memory came back to me of peaceful Sunday mornings at church with my mother, sunlight beaming through stained glass windows, warming us as we prayed side by side. I think Sunday was my mother’s favorite day. We had never missed Mass. And I’m not about to begin now, I thought, returning to my room. Even if it did mean calling a truce and going with my uncle, even if it did mean the diary would have to wait.
So at eight-thirty I appeared downstairs wearing a soft blue floral skirt and a white blouse. My hair was brushed lightly from my face and held back with a clasp. I couldn’t have looked more respectable.
My uncle, who didn’t seem surprised to see me waiting for him, gave me a small nod, as if of approval, and smiled. Swallowing my annoyance, I made myself return the smile, to show I could be equally cool. As we set off down the sidewalk, my uncle made a move as if to offer me his arm. I quickened my pace. We didn’t have anything to say to each other, but I supposed we were at least back on mutual terms. I told myself it could never go beyond that.
The sun was shining, making the sidewalk look paper-white. Almost with a start, I realized that not only was today Sunday, it was the thirtieth of May. Tomorrow was Memorial Day, and the day after that was the first of June—my eighteenth birthday. A tremor of anticipation ran through me. Only two more days till freedom. I hugged this realization to myself and glanced at my uncle, doubting he even knew when my birthday was, and I was glad.
The quaint white church was perched on a hill. Nestled in morning light, it made a charming scene, like something on a picture-postcard or in a calendar, with its old bell tower and ancient graveyard stretching over the hill. Rising from the hillcrest, headstones reached for the morning sky. My fingers practically itched to draw the scene, and I had to fold them together to control them.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” my uncle asked. “Your mother used to dream of getting married in this church.”
What did he expect me to say to that?
We walked up the stone steps, through the massive wooden doors of St. Catherine’s, and were immediately engulfed in a hushed, holy atmosphere. My shoes tapped startlingly loudly on the wooden floor as I followed my uncle to a pew.
I felt people staring at me. Maybe it was just my imagination, but when I’d come to early Mass last week by myself, I hadn’t felt this way. Probably because there had not been very many people. That was the way I liked it. I had slipped into a back pew, then left soon after Mass was over. I hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone and risk having to answer nosy questions.
Now I sat rigidly.
But when Mass began, I forgot the people. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows like translucent gold and dappled us with colors. Everything was so familiar, but I didn’t fight the memories that came; they were pleasant. My one problem was trying to ignore my growling stomach.
Filing out of the pew after Mass and the “Ave Maria,” I found myself at the end of a line. Oops. Confession line. Not where I wanted to be.
Why not? demanded my conscience.
The problem with being a critical person was that judgment often boomeranged right back to me. Among other things, I guiltily recalled my vicious desire to stifle Mr. Bubble on the plane. I stayed in line.
When it was my turn, I stepped inside the little booth, closed the door, and knelt. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a month since my last confession.”
It seemed a lot longer.
“Since then, I’ve gotten angry—well—more times than I can count. I’ve been selfish, ungrateful, disrespectful, proud….” The list kept growing until I suddenly thought, and actually said, “Wow. I’m a bad person.”
I heard the priest shift position behind the screen. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You’re not a bad person. Just a teenager.”
“But I’m angry at God.”
“Do you know why?”
I thought a moment. “He took my father. He took my mother. He took me away from my home.”
“But have you considered all He has given you? God’s ways are not always our own. In fact, most often they’re not. He usually has a greater plan in store for us than we could conceive for ourselves. Have faith. It will give you hope and direction.”
Sure, this sounded nice, but I had to be honest: I wasn’t convinced. “I don’t think I’m headed in any direction. I feel like I’m floating. My past is a mess . . . why should my future be any different?”
“The surest way to a bright future is to live well in the present.”
“But I don’t even want to live here. It’s not my home.”
“As long as God is in your soul, anywhere can be home. Peace can be found in accepting His will. Pray for guidance. Prayer will be your most powerful tool.”
I wanted to say I’d prayed for my mother, and that hadn’t stopped her from dying.
Nevertheless, stepping out into the dizzying sunlit morning afterward, I felt refreshed, though very hungry, and ready to make a clean start, including being nice to my uncle.
Maybe he felt somewhat the same way toward me, because on the lawn he turned to me and said, “About last night, Robin—I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.” He put his arm lightly on my shoulder, a gesture I tried not to resist. “I want you to be happy, to have friends, and I think you’re old enough to decide for yourself who they are. I’m only asking that you be careful whom you choose. I don’t want you to—jump into anything. And I want you to know that you can talk to me anytime, that I’m here for you, if ever you want to ask my advice.” He led me away from the front steps, where other parishioners were gathering to chatter, and under the shade of a giant tree. My eyes observed the new leaves. Maple.
“But you don’t need to fight me. I’m not going to stop you from seeing whom you want to see. It wouldn’t do any good. It’s up to you to make your own choices. Only,” he paused, looking me straight in the eye, “don’t disregard me. I have my reasons for saying this. Perhaps you think them strange. Nonetheless, I’m asking you to trust me, and when I offer you advice, at least consider it.”
This was quite a long speech for my uncle. I wondered how long he’d had all this on his mind. Ever since we first met? It wouldn’t surprise me.
“Advice such as?” My voice sounded prickly.
“Such as being careful whom you choose for your friends.” His voice lowered. “There’s something not quite right about that young man.”
“You mean Justin?” Of course I knew he did.
“What I mean is, you don’t know him—”
“We’ve been through all this,” I cut in, any patience I’d had evaporating. “If you have a reason for my not seeing him, tell me.” I shrugged, bumping his arm off my shoulder. “But if you don’t, then don’t lecture me.”
I swung around, my long skirt swirling dramatically around my ankles, and marched out from behind the tree trunk. I felt a sudden impact as I collided into something solid. With a gasp, I looked up to see that that something was Justin.
At first, he looked as startled as me; but he recovered faster and smiled—apparently finding something amusing in the situation—while I, still flustered, managed only a mumbled, “Sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” he said, bowing down graciously before me. I glanced around quickly, hoping no one was watching.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded in guarded tones.
“Here? You mean at church?” He lifted an eyebrow. “It’s Sunday. Is it so strange to go to church on Sunday?”
“You don’t believe me? All right. Let’s just say I thought today would be a nice day to go to church and get knocked over by a pretty girl who, unfortunately, seems to get offended by everyone and everything.”
His words, of course, offended me. I sniffed, well aware I sounded arrogant, but not caring. I wondered why I bothered defending Justin to my uncle. Why didn’t I simply forget him and satisfy everyone? It would make life so much easier. But also more boring, I had to admit. Because part of me enjoyed Justin’s company, even found it stimulating, in an absurd sort of way.
The expression on Justin’s face suddenly changed, became more subdued, and I realized he’d only just caught sight of my uncle hidden by the tree. I’d forgotten about him, and was almost as surprised as Justin to realize he was standing near, listening. Yet I found a strange satisfaction at the thought of Justin being taken off guard. Already I could sense the tension rising like smoke between them.
I was almost beginning to enjoy the awkwardness of the situation, wondering who would win this battle, when I realized we weren’t going to be alone long enough to find out. The other parishioners decided to interrupt the drama by wandering in our direction. It didn’t take me long to figure out why; they were eager to meet the newcomer. Me. I wished I could shrink into the bark of the maple tree. Doing the next best thing, I retreated into the shade.
They came anyway, and all I could do was put on a smooth face and smile my way through the introductions. I knew I’d never be able to remember all the names, so I made it easy on myself and didn’t try. I stuck to a safe monotone of, “Hello, nice to meet you,” and it worked surprisingly well. No one guessed I wasn’t listening to what they were saying. My mind had wandered to concocting ways to escape the crowd, when a name caught my ear and I snapped back to attention.
Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense) Page 17