My thoughts returning to Christopher, I asked, “Do you know anything about the girl he married? Her name?”
“All I know is she was some rich gal—”
“Do you think he married her for her money?”
“Now don’t put words in my mouth, missy. I didn’t say that. But it wouldn’t surprise me.” The man’s eyes returned to the paper bag and his fingers beckoned. “Now come on, you hand over that bag. I’ve been waiting long enough.”
He was right. I held out the bag, thankful for all he’d told me. His eyes darted to the door as he took it from me. Then he peered inside the bag and smiled. “Mighty grateful, missy. Don’t get much sweets around here. They tell me it’ll rot my teeth. But I tell them, ‘So what? I’ve got as much right to rot my teeth as anyone.’ More right, actually, ’cause I probably won’t need mine much longer.” He crammed a whole cookie into his mouth. “Mmmm . . . mighty good.” I stepped back as crumbs showered from his mouth.
“Well, thank you for all the information. I’d better go now. Enjoy the cookies.” I put a hand on the doorknob.
“Nice talkin’ to you, missy. Come again, anytime. I like company. You’ll always be welcome—” he grinned with his mouth full (not a pretty sight)—“so long as you bring more sweets, that is.” He winked at me impishly, and I fought a smile.
I left him munching happily and found my way to the front door. I heard pans clattering in the kitchen. “Good-bye, Mrs. Hanson,” I called, but I wasn’t surprised when the only response was another clanging pot.
As I walked down the driveway, I felt I was being watched, and I didn’t have to turn to know that the curtains of the old man’s room were cracked open and eyes were peering at me. Yet even with his strange, brisk manner, I realized I rather liked the old man. He was a refreshingly different kind of person, and he struck me as honest. I believed what he’d told me.
All the way home, I marveled that I wasn’t surprised by what I’d learned. Instead, I was satisfied. I had the feeling that this was the way things were supposed to go, that pieces were steadily accumulating, and it was just a matter of time before I would have them all and could fit them together to make a clear picture. Though slowly, I was getting somewhere, and this gave me confidence.
By late afternoon, I was curled up again with my mother’s diary, eager to continue from where I’d left off. The entries almost always mentioned Christopher.
Sometimes I meet him after he’s done with work, and we go out to a movie, or out to eat, or just walking. He’s so wonderful . . .
Blah, blah, blah . . . I sighed. This was getting monotonous. My mother and I might look similar, I thought, but in this way we’re sure different. I’d never gush about a guy like this. It’s disgusting.
But what really made me sick—and I mean a deep, causing a turning-of-my-stomach sick—was realizing how naive my mother had been about Christopher, how easily she’d let him influence her. I’d always known my mother to be a sensible person, but I was beginning to understand she hadn’t always been that way. Not when it came to Christopher. Perhaps this was why I believed Mr. Hanson’s account above my mother’s. It was simply more believable. Mr. Hanson, not being blinded by love for Christopher Renton, could see him as he really was.
September 2, 1978
Today was Christopher’s birthday. We’ve been going out for almost three months now and I wanted to get him something really special, something that would last forever. I finally decided on a watch. Not just any watch, but a charming silver one (very expensive but worth every cent). The gift of time. I had Christopher’s initials engraved on the back.
I was worried maybe he wouldn’t like it—or that maybe he wouldn’t want to accept such an expensive gift—but when I gave it to him today, I could tell he loved it. “Great,” he said, “Hanson’s gonna expect me to be on time from now on.” But then he kissed me, and that’s how I could tell. “I love it, Tiff. I’ll keep it forever.”
The entries went on, and I read how Tiffany obtained a job as an intern at the newspaper and began her senior year at Lorens High.
It’s just too exciting. One more year and I’ll be facing my future head on. There are so many decisions to make and the responsibilities are almost frightening. I hope I make the right decisions; but if I follow my heart, how can I go wrong?
Winter came, and I read about the holidays, school exams, and problems.
I can tell Peter doesn’t really like me going out with Christopher so much. I think he’s afraid maybe we’re getting too serious. But if this is meant to be, it’s meant to be, isn’t it? I can’t let anyone get in the way, not even my brother. Yet although Peter’s had to be responsible for me ever since our mother died, he’s really not an interfering person. We have an understanding to do what we believe is right, and he knows I have to make my own decisions. After all, I’m almost eighteen. My brother’s smarter than most people realize; he’ll give me advice, but he won’t force me to take it.
He’s still the same way, I found myself thinking as I fingered the dry page, ready to turn it. Maybe I’ve been too hard on him. Maybe—I’ve scared him away. I nibbled at my lip. I shouldn’t keep thinking he’s out to control me just because my mother was. Uncle Peter has let me make my own decisions. He hasn’t stopped me from doing what I want. He lets Philip visit. Sure, he has advice to give, but then he does have a responsibility . . . and it’s not even one he asked for.
I turned the page, and a new year began—1979—making my heart skip a beat. As the drama continued to unfold, I was coming closer and closer to the inevitable. Yet it was more than a drama, because this had really happened.
And 1979 was the year. I had a premonition that these pages would give me the final pieces I was searching for. Suddenly, I imagined the remaining pages as a countdown, a countdown to the fateful date of May 3, 1979. I longed to reach the last page, and yet I feared doing so because of what I might or might not discover. But I reminded myself that whether or not I would like it was not a factor. I must know the truth.
On the second day of January, my mother made her first reference to the Ingerman Mansion.
It’s been years since I really thought about the old Ingerman Mansion. When I was little, all the kids used to dare each other to knock on the door. We thought the mansion was a real haunted house.
But then I grew up and it became just an old house sitting on the outskirts of town, forgotten . . . until Christopher and I drove by it today and he started asking me about it. Even though he used to live only twenty miles from Lorens, I was surprised he’d never heard of the mansion before. I couldn’t help feeling slightly proud, telling him about it and all the old legends. Lorens might not have much, but it does have the Ingerman Mansion to make it unique.
The mansion hasn’t changed. It looks as eerie as ever. Christopher was really interested in it, especially the treasure map story. He started speculating, making big plans, saying we could find it.
But we were just fooling around. Most people don’t even believe the story about the map is real, or if it is, they say the map was lost or destroyed long ago, maybe even found and the money spent. How can we know?
Christopher wanted to go inside the mansion. I laughed at this, but he was serious. I finally convinced him it was impossible. Old man Ingerman still owns the place, and he doesn’t let anyone inside. He keeps it locked, and from what I’ve heard, he’s a real recluse—almost a hermit—and we’d have a better chance of breaking in than getting permission.
But sitting out there in the crisp New Year’s night, anything seemed possible. And for a moment, I think both Christopher and I believed we could find the map. Even now it makes me shiver.
It made me shiver, too. This sounded too familiar for comfort. Uncanny. As if it were happening all over again . . . this time to me.
As if controlled by a spell, I resumed reading. The next couple of entries were less interesting and more difficult to keep my attention on because I was in suspense, wa
iting for the mansion to be mentioned again.
At one point, I suddenly realized rain was pelting my window, and I looked up to see droplets slithering down the glass like tiny silver snakes. I wondered how long it had been raining. I’d been so absorbed in this other world that I hadn’t noticed when it started. I got up and switched on the bedroom light because it had become too dark to read without “ruining my eyes,” as my mother would say. The wind began rattling the house, and I detected a rumble of thunder far in the distance. Telling myself to ignore it, I returned to the diary.
Christopher won’t forget the mansion. Neither can I now, though . . . I almost want to. Ever since that night we drove past and I told him about it, he’s become . . . preoccupied with it. His interest in it is almost like a hobby, I guess. Kind of.
I’m being silly, I know. But the mansion makes me uneasy.
I wanted more of an explanation, something less vague than these evasive sentences. But my mother became wrapped up in school and work again, and there was no more mention of the mansion. Until one day in late February . . .
Big news: I’m going to write a feature story for the newspaper—on the Ingerman Mansion! It’s such an opportunity, and I never would have thought of it if it weren’t for Christopher and his intense interest in the mansion. Mr. Stafford—chief editor of the paper and my boss—was intrigued by the idea. Amazingly, this story has never been done, only passed from generation to generation among the townspeople by word of mouth. Mr. Stafford knows how hard I work and agreed to run the story on the condition it is up to standards. “I’ll consider it on spec,” he said. “I’m not going to give you any special treatment, understand?” He likes to act gruff, but he’s a good guy. Fair. And I’m not asking for any special treatment—just a chance to prove what I can do.
Christopher was thrilled when I told him. “This is just the opportunity we’ve been waiting for,” he said. “Who knows what possibilities this might open up?” Now I’m eager to begin. I was being foolish before, letting my childish fear of the mansion get in the way of rational thinking. I plan to make the most of this and I’m going to work my hardest—harder than I ever have before. I’m going to find out everything there is to know about the Ingerman Mansion.
And you did, didn’t you? I thought, allowing myself a moment to admire my mother. At least this much I recognized in her: once she set her mind to something, she did everything possible to make it happen. She was a determined person. Thinking this, I began to wonder . . . what obstacles had come in her way when she was researching the mansion’s history? And what had she done about them? There was so much for me to wonder as I read.
The following entries confirmed my mother’s enthusiasm and devotion to her project as she began doing research.
Christopher’s almost as eager as I am about this story, and if it weren’t for him, it never would have occurred to me to do this story in the first place. So he deserves credit. We’re a team now, Christopher and I, and yet so much more than a team. When I came home from the library today with an armload of local history books (which I couldn’t wait to read), I found I couldn’t get into the house. I realized I’d somehow lost my key between yesterday afternoon (when I also came home with an armload of books) and today. It seems I’m always losing things lately! Maybe because I have so much on my mind.
I remembered the key I had found lodged down the side of the chair, and I pictured Tiffany—my mother—letting herself into the house and plopping down with all her things. Eager to begin, she’d forget about her key, which probably slipped down the side of the chair . . . not to be discovered for twenty years. By me, her daughter. I knew it could happen, because I could see myself losing it in the same way.
Since Peter wasn’t due to be home for at least another hour, I went over to Hanson’s, and Christopher left early so we could take the books over to his place and look through them there. Of course, old Hanson put up a fuss. That man watches us like an eagle when I come in his store, and he always has some piece of candy rolling around in his mouth. Ick! I don’t like that man, and he doesn’t like Christopher. Luckily, Christopher doesn’t care.
“He’s probably gonna fire me one of these days anyway,” Christopher told me. “So I don’t care what he thinks. If I want to leave early, I will.”
How I love Christopher. But he can be stubborn. Take his name, for example. He insists I call him Christopher, never Chris. It’s some hang-up he has. Odd, because most people would have it the other way around. But not Christopher. Oh well, it’s just one of the many strange things I love about him.
Still, I’m tired of writing that long name (and I sure do write it enough!). From now on I’ll just write Chris. So there! What Chris doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
I sniffed. Contrary to what she might think, I didn’t think my mother was proving anything by writing “Chris” in her diary. Not if he never knew she was doing it. That just defeats the purpose, I thought indignantly.
The next entry was for April 13, Tiffany’s eighteenth birthday. How strange, I thought, feeling a shiver shoot up my spine, that I should read this entry when my own eighteenth birthday is only a day away. Then my whole body began shivering, revealing I was afraid this was more than mere coincidence.
Chris came over today and gave me a Victoria Holt novel (he knows how much I like to read). It was so sweet of him that I couldn’t bear to tell him I already have this title. Especially since he wrote an inscription inside. I’ll treasure this book forever. As for my other copy, I had a brilliant idea. I removed the dust jacket and put it around this diary. It fits perfectly, camouflaging it so no one will ever know I have a diary. I’ll donate the duplicate novel to the library.
Then, as if the novel weren’t enough of a present, Chris surprised me with a little velvet box. For a wild second I thought it might contain—but no, I won’t even write it. If my intuition is right, I believe it won’t be too long now, anyway . . .
Uneasiness curdled my insides. I knew very well what my mother was implying.
I found a beautiful gold locket inside, with his photo in it. I couldn’t imagine a lovelier gift. Now whenever I want, I can open the locket and look into Chris’s deep gray eyes, even when he’s not with me. I told Chris I would wear the locket forever, just like he wears the silver watch I gave him.
But she hadn’t worn it always. I knew that, because I had found it hidden away in the wooden chest with all the other things she had wanted to forget. After the accident she “didn’t like the boy no more,” Mr. Hanson had told me. Yet before the accident, she had been infatuated by him. Why the change? I wondered.
And what about the photo? There hadn’t been any photo inside the locket when I found it. So she must have taken it out. How I wished she hadn’t.
I don’t even know what Christopher Renton looks like.
A strange thought. Should it matter what he looked like? But I wanted to know. I wanted to be able to put a face to this person whom I had been trying to find out so much about, who had been such a significant part of my mother’s life. I stared into space, wondering how I could go about doing this.
At that moment there was a tremendous clap of thunder, followed almost instantly by a gigantic crash that reverberated through the house.
My room went black.
Chapter Nineteen
When the lightning struck, I sprang to my feet. The diary tumbled from my lap to the floor, and I forgot it as I stumbled through the inky blackness, groping for the door and blinking, feeling blind. Gradually I made my way downstairs, following the clear path that was illuminated for me by periodic lightning flashes.
Downstairs, my immediate fear of the storm faded, giving way to annoyance. “Another one?” I grumbled. “Didn’t we just have a storm yesterday?”
My uncle was lighting a candle when I entered the kitchen. I watched the flame stretch and swerve on the wick as he set the candle on the counter. “So much for dinner. I was just about to put the pizza in the oven.
” He shook his head. “I should have known better than to replace the old stove with one of these modern electronic ones. They’re supposed to be so efficient, but there’s nothing efficient about an oven you can’t use when the power goes out.”
A great crash shook the house. I wondered if we should go down to the basement, but my uncle continued complaining about the stove as if he hadn’t heard the thunder. “I should never have replaced the old one. So what if it was fifty years old? At least it would have cooked dinner.”
Still frowning, my uncle opened a drawer and took out a sleek battery operated weather radio, one I’d never seen before, and tuned in to the weather report. “Thunderstorm warning . . . high winds and rain . . .” I waited tensely, but there was no mention of a tornado.
Of course I began remembering yesterday and the contrasting static-box that Justin had turned on, the crackling songs we had danced to . . . it seemed so very odd and distant to remember it now. I began wondering where Justin was at this moment, if he were alone or not, and if he were afraid. I shook my head. No. He wouldn’t be afraid.
Another, even louder, crack of thunder jolted me out of my thoughts, and I hurried to follow my uncle downstairs.
Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense) Page 20