Justin, unprepared for my sudden appearance, collided into me with such power that he knocked me to the ground.
He stood looking down at me, his expression startled. This gave me courage. I picked myself up from the ground, ignoring the pain in my legs.
Still staring, Justin said, “Where did you come from?”
“Well,” I said, brushing off grass and dirt and pretending our collision was his fault, “you could at least apologize!”
I thought I saw a light jump into his eyes. “Very sorry,” he said, and he swept me a bow.
I didn’t smile. This was no time for games. There were things I needed to know, and if I stood here silently long enough, eyeing him directly, I knew it would get to him. He would wonder how long I had been here, how much I had heard, and he would have to know.
“Did you get here just now?” he asked, his voice casual. Too casual.
“No. I’ve been here quite awhile.” I kept my eyes fixed on his, long enough so that he could read them.
“Oh,” he said finally in a voice gone serious. He frowned, his dark eyebrows turning in deeply, and shoved his hands into his jeans’ pockets. “I see.” He glanced over his shoulder.
“Looking for Philip?”
His head snapped back to me.
“He’s gone by now.” I put my hands on my hips. “What was that all about? What’s going on with you two? I thought you didn’t even know each other. What were you arguing about? I heard you say—”
“Robin,” Justin interrupted, “it’s not what you think—”
“And just how do you know what I’m thinking?”
“Let me put it this way . . .”
I waited. His face lit up unexpectedly. He pulled his hand from his pocket and held it out to me, palm up, revealing a long piece of candy. “Have a Tootsie Roll?”
I pressed my lips together, fighting an absurd urge to smile. “No I do not want a Tootsie Roll. Stop playing games, Justin. You’re only trying to sidetrack me.” What did he think I was? A little kid who could be bought off with a piece of candy? “This isn’t funny. Just what are you trying to pull?”
“Robin.” He sighed. “First of all, calm down. I’m not trying to pull anything.” He paused. “Remember I asked you yesterday if you trusted me? Well, I’m asking you again . . . to trust me.” His voice lowered. “You didn’t answer me yesterday. Answer me today.”
I didn’t know what to say. What kind of comeback was this? I suddenly recalled how he had scared me yesterday. How had I forgotten so easily, and how come I wasn’t scared now? Especially when I was here alone with him—in a cemetery, of all places. Why should I trust you? I thought, and I saw he was still holding out that stupid candy, his eyes waiting for my answer. “Yes,” I said, surprising myself, “but—”
“Then no but’s. Trust doesn’t work with that word. Forget what you heard, Robin. Don’t ask me anymore.” He held up his hand as I opened my mouth to protest. “It’s important. And I promise you, I’d never do anything to hurt you. Believe me.”
“The candy is supposed to be for the kids, you know.”
Justin’s face relaxed into a smile, and I thought hazily that giving in was worth it to see that smile. “Hey, I’m a kid at heart.” He broke the Tootsie Roll and gave me half.
Chewing the warm, gummy candy gave me time to think. Was I being weak by letting the subject drop this simply? But what else could I do? It wasn’t as if I could force Justin to tell me what he was determined not to. Truthfully, I didn’t want to argue anymore. I remembered we were standing on consecrated ground.
“You see these big headstones?” I motioned to the one nearest us, which I had been hiding behind, as we fell into step. “When I was little, I used to think people were buried inside the stones.”
“You did?” Justin laughed. “That’s a good one.” After a long silence, he added, “I used to sit in the cemetery when I was a kid and read Sherlock Holmes and the Hardy Boys.”
“A gloomy day like this would be just right, wouldn’t it?” I tilted my head to look at the iron-colored sky. But I felt warm inside, as if sharing childhood secrets brought Justin and me closer together.
We walked carefully over the uneven land. Some headstones were so old we could no longer read their inscriptions. Some were leaning at odd angles or even partially sunken into the earth. My eyes trailed over both the readable and the unreadable inscriptions, strangely fascinated by the names of people I did not know and never would. Many of the headstones that caught my attention had small American flags poked into the ground next to them, marking those who had served in war. Veterans. And those who had died in service, some of them from as long ago as the Civil War. It made me slow my steps, thinking. I reverted to my ghostlike state, moving along lingeringly, almost as if I were looking for something, but not knowing what . . . until I saw it at my feet.
Steven Hutch, 1930-1966. Beloved husband and father, died in Vietnam War.
“My grandfather.” I was only vaguely aware that I had spoken the words aloud, vaguely aware of the tall presence beside me, until I felt a hand come to rest on my shoulder.
“And . . . there’s my grandmother’s grave.” I pointed to the stone beside my grandfather’s.
Marie Hutch, 1931-1973. Beloved wife and mother.
“I—didn’t know . . .” I choked on the words, feeling guilty. It made sense that my grandparents would be buried here in their church’s cemetery. It should have occurred to me before now.
Nausea swept through me. My mother was buried in California—but she shouldn’t be. She belonged here, in her hometown, with her family, near the ones who loved her. There was room beside the two graves. Room for my mother, my uncle . . . room for me.
“Let’s go now.” I clutched Justin’s arm. “I’ve seen enough.” I hadn’t meant to grab his arm, and I quickly let go, though I would have liked to keep holding it. The solid muscles under the leather of his jacket made me feel safe. How strange that at times Justin made me feel secure, while at other times he scared me.
We left the cemetery and walked down the sidewalk, eventually joining the crowd on Main Street, which had come alive now that the solemn mood of the morning had passed, leaving a day promising fun and picnics. But I wasn’t really there with them. I didn’t know where I was anymore, or what I was doing. I felt suspended in a dream, from which I desperately wanted to wake. And yet I don’t think I was trying hard enough, or maybe I just didn’t have the strength.
“Yoo-hoo!” Somehow, that call stood out above the clamor of the crowd. When I turned in its direction, I saw Martha Myers bustling toward me, her round face beaming, her hair swept back in a bun and wound around with red, white, and blue ribbons. “How nice to see you here, my dear!”
She chattered on with great enthusiasm and I found myself relaxing as she told me how she’d enjoyed the parade and that the sky was clearing and wouldn’t that be nice for all the gardens?
Then Martha noticed Justin standing beside me. She had been smiling, which by now I’d decided was her natural state, so her sudden frown surprised me. It was ever so slight, really just the fading of her smile, as if she were confused about something. But the look was so unsuited to her face that it worried me.
“This is Justin Landers,” I said, making introductions. Martha continued to stare at him, her brow puckered, and I was about to question her when Justin took my arm.
“Nice meeting you,” he said, giving Martha a nod. Then he turned and walked away, practically dragging me with him. All I could manage was a hasty “bye” in Martha’s direction before she was swallowed by the crowd.
“I hate crowds,” Justin said. “Why don’t we—”
“Let go!” I pulled myself free from his grasp. “What do you think you’re doing? Couldn’t you see I was talking with Martha? What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.” Justin looked at me but avoided my eyes. “I just thought maybe you were getting sick of the crowd. I know I was.” He pulled
at the neck of his T-shirt. “I was just about ready to suffocate. Why don’t we get away from this crowd and spend the day together? We could take a picnic to the park. Do some fishing?”
“No,” I said, “I can’t.” My irritation was fading, but the diary was tugging at the back of my mind, and I knew I had to get back to it. Today. Now. It had been waiting long enough. I felt a surge of determination, which formed into a decision. No more excuses. Today I would finish the diary.
As I hurried away, I called over my shoulder, “I don’t have a fishing pole!” My heart quavered, wondering if Justin would follow me, wondering what I would do if he did.
But he didn’t.
I wondered what had happened back there. Why had Justin acted so strangely? But he always acted strangely. Realizing this, it surprised me how this didn’t matter—I almost enjoyed his unpredictability. I frowned. He influenced me too easily. Weird. I always realized this when he was gone, but when he was with me, it was like I didn’t care. Like he had a spell over me. I knew I should stay away from him, but if I did, would he stay away from me?
With all these worries cluttering my head, my concern about Martha’s odd reaction to Justin quietly slipped to the back of my mind.
* * *
My uncle met me at the front door.
“That young Mr. Barnstrum was here looking for you. You just missed him. He said he would stop in again later today.”
“Oh—all right. Thanks,” I answered, edging my way past my uncle. I ran up the stairs. I didn’t feel all that eager to see Philip. I felt relieved he’d never given me his number so I didn’t feel obliged to call him. I didn’t want to talk to him. Things were too confusing for me right now, and I knew talking to him would only add to my problems; I knew he’d be asking me all about my progress in finding the map, and I couldn’t deal with that right now. Any more pressure and I’d scream. Once in my room, I took a deep breath, sat down on the window seat, and picked up the diary.
April 14, 1979
It’s almost startling the way things are winding down now. There’s so much for us seniors to think about and prepare for. There’s studying and term papers and—worst of all—exams. But then there’s prom and the yearbook and graduation to look forward to.
Everything’s rushing to meet me too soon! I still have so much to do before I graduate, and I’ve been feverishly busy on my story for the paper, trying to fit it between all my schoolwork. The mansion’s history is intensely intriguing, more so than I’d ever imagined. Every time I learn something new, I jot it down, and by now I have quite a collection of notes and papers—I don’t know how I’m going to make sense of them all. Yet though it’s a lot of hard work, I don’t regret taking up this story. Especially since it’s been bringing me and Chris so close together. We talk about the mansion all the time.
April 16, 1979
It’s happened—what I’ve been waiting for and expecting for so long, and yet it still came unexpectedly. Suddenly the whole world no longer seems real . . . nothing seems real . . . nothing but me and Chris.
Today he asked me to marry him.
My stomach flipped. But you didn’t! I cried silently. You didn’t marry him! How I wished that if I stopped reading the diary, I could stop these events from taking place. But the words, and my mother’s past, were already written, and reading them would not change the outcome.
I think he made up his mind all of a sudden and couldn’t wait. That’s why he walked over to the schoolyard and asked me between my classes, outside under a beautiful tree. (Okay, I admit it was a bare and ugly tree, but everything looks beautiful to me now!) And I said yes.
We’re keeping it secret, of course. There’s no reason to make this difficult. I’m not telling anyone, not even Martha. They’ll find out eventually. Oh—my head’s spinning! There’s so much to think about. So much to plan!
We’re going to marry after I graduate. I mentioned St. Catherine’s, where I’ve always envisioned I’d be married someday, but Chris wants to elope. The more I think about it, the more romantic it sounds. We’ll go anywhere and everywhere; it won’t matter as long as we’re together. It will be an adventure.
Of course, Chris did have to choose today of all days—just before class photos were taken for the yearbook—to pop the question. I went back inside in such a euphoric daze, I bet I’ll look freaky in my photo. But I really don’t care, because Chris made this the happiest day of my life. The happiest so far, that is.
My mother’s senior photo from the yearbook flashed before my eyes. The starry-eyed, enchanted look. I understood now what I had seen captured in her face, preserved in her smile and her eyes. Love.
Then I thought of where my mother was, just one month from this, and I felt queasy. I returned to the diary, my fingers numb on the page, but not too numb to realize that only a few pages remained.
April 20, 1979
Somehow, the days keep passing, slipping by too fast when all I want is to hold each one forever and savor each wonderful moment. Today Chris and I drove out to the mansion, and I decided to draw it; it makes such a delightfully challenging subject. Perhaps I can persuade Mr. Stafford to run my drawing alongside the story.
After drawing the mansion, I had a fabulous idea to draw Chris’s portrait. He sat very patiently while I worked, content to stare at the mansion (sometimes I think it hypnotizes him). And now I have a large likeness of his captivating face to keep forever. I wonder why I never thought to draw him sooner.
Clutching the diary in a death-grip, I reread the entry, my heart pounding. Here was what I’d been waiting for, a chance to put a face to the name of Christopher Renton. I set the diary down, went over to the wooden chest, and opened it. My mother’s portfolio of drawings lay inside, the ones I had never finished going through. All I could think was, The portrait must be in here.
I lifted the portfolio and held it on my lap, conscious of the precarious way it balanced on my knees. Slowly, I removed each page, examined each drawing . . . drawings of animals, people, and nature. I recognized the picture of the bridge over the river with the weeping willow beside it.
Near the bottom of the sheaf of papers, I found the drawing of the mansion. Holding it in my hands, I shivered, so that the paper trembled with me. Somehow, drawn all in shades of gray, the mansion looked eerier than in real life . . . more ancient and ghostly. There are phobias for so many things, I wondered if there was a phobia for fear of old mansions. If there was, I had it. And if there wasn’t, I’d just invented it.
I lifted the paper, expecting to finally meet Christopher Renton in the drawing beneath, and instead came face to face with Justin Landers.
Chapter Twenty-One
I told myself it wasn’t possible. Yet there was no denying that the face staring up at me was Justin’s, no denying the angular features, cool eyes, and unique nose were his.
I shook my head. My mother could not have known Justin. Even if he had lived here when she drew this—which I seriously doubted—he would have been a baby. Right?
I realized then that I didn’t know how old Justin was. I’d simply assumed he was, well . . . as old as he looked. Early twenties. Twenty-six at the oldest.
But there was my mother’s name, signed unmistakably in the lower right-hand corner of the portrait, verifying that this was her work. I flipped the paper over, desperately searching for some explanation, anything that would make sense.
Chris was scrawled on the back of the drawing, and underneath it, a date: 4/20/79. My hand steadied itself. This was a drawing of Christopher Renton. I let out a nervous laugh. What had I been thinking? That Justin hadn’t aged, or that he was some kind of . . . ghost?
Still, I was only partially relieved, because this did not explain the resemblance. It also added a new dimension to my worries. My hands shaking again, I pulled out my sketchpad and turned to my most recent drawing, the one I had done in the park of Justin only yesterday. Comparing the two faces, the likeness was indisputable. But wait—ho
lding the drawings side by side, I studied carefully, with an artist’s eye, and saw that the jaw lines were slightly different, and not slight enough to be contributed to oversight; and the ears were a different shape. Chris’s jaw was squarer than Justin’s, and his ears were larger, while his nose was less prominent.
Still, these minor differences hardly reassured me. The resemblance that remained was still so mirror-like it was frightening. There was no denying a connection between Christopher and Justin . . . and as I thought this, things began to slide together in an ominous way.
Justin is related to Christopher Renton. That’s the only way the likeness can be explained.
Justin could be Christopher’s son. And what did this mean? I took a deep breath before allowing myself to think—aware that once I did, there could be no turning back.
It meant that my meeting Justin had been no coincidence, no matter what excuses I’d made in the past. Justin had a purpose—a sinister purpose—in wanting to know me. I recalled his visit to the bookstore. Somehow, before he’d even met me, he had known who I was and when I would arrive in Lorens.
Justin had sought me out, but for what reason?
I frowned at the drawings. The answer was here. It was something to do with Christopher Renton. And Tiffany, my mother. Something…being carried on from the past to the present.
Alone in my mother’s old room, steeped in fears fed by imagination, my scalp prickled and my spine tingled. I glanced over my shoulder. In such an atmosphere, it was difficult to think logically, and I struggled with my thoughts.
Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense) Page 22