An Accidental Woman Page 11

  “Why?” Missy asked, her dark eyes looking positively huge with her bulky wool hat nearly touching her lashes.

  “Because somebody thinks she’s someone else.”

  “Can’t she tell them who she is?” Missy asked with perfect logic.

  “She can, but we need proof. Cassie’s trying to get that now.”

  “What’s proof?”

  “Evidence. Like a spelling test with your name on it,” Poppy said. “If you had one in your knapsack right now, it’d tell me that Melissa Smith was in school on this day in February.”

  Melissa pushed out her lower lip. “There is one in here. We had a test today. I got five words wrong.”

  “Five out of how many?” Poppy asked. Five out of, say, thirty wasn’t bad.

  “Five out of ten. That’s half, ” the child informed her.

  “Oh.” That was bad. “Well. They must have been hard.”

  “That’s not why I got them wrong,” Missy stated. “I got them wrong because Heather didn’t study with me.”

  Poppy looked for Star in the rearview mirror. The child’s face was half-hidden by the hood of her parka. The part that might have been visible was turned to the window.

  Wondering what the little one was feeling and thinking, Poppy told Missy, “I could’ve helped you. You should’ve asked. I’d have loved to help you study. I’m a good speller.”

  “Did you get all A’s when you were in school?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I fooled around and didn’t pay attention, which was not a good thing to do at all. I didn’t learn as much as I could have or should have, and I disturbed kids who were paying attention, and I got a reputation for being a problem in class, and I disappointed my parents. Fooling around in school is not a good idea, Missy.”

  Missy must not have liked the answer, because when Poppy glanced back, the child was flopped against the seat, staring at the handle of the door.

  “Yes?” Poppy prompted. She shot another look back in time to catch the one-shouldered shrug Missy gave, and decided to let it be. “How was your day, Star?” she asked as she drove on through town. When Stardidn’t answer, she glanced in the rearview mirror. “Star?” Still, there was no answer.

  And so it went for the next two hours. Poppy asked questions or suggested activities, and the girls either shrugged or were silent. She made maple apples, baking Cortlands in the dark amber, late-season syrup that was less subtle than the earlier, lighter, premium syrup but best for this purpose. The girls handed her whatever she couldn’t reach in Heather’s kitchen, but other than asking when Micah would be back from West Eames, they didn’t initiate conversation.

  Then Star went outside—just picked herself up from coloring at the kitchen table, walked right through the back hall and out the door.

  Poppy watched her in surprise. “Star?” When the child didn’t stop, she wheeled around to follow. “Star, where are you going?” The door clattered shut.

  Dusk had fallen. It was dark and cold. Star wore no boots, no jacket, just sneakers, corduroy overalls, and a skimpy sweater.

  Holding the back door open, Poppy watched the child climb the snow on the hill and fade out of view. “Come back here, Star!” she called.

  Star didn’t reappear.

  “My God,” Poppy murmured, “she can’t go out like that.” It was a Maida comment, straight out of Poppy’s childhood, and ignored then by her as surely as it was ignored now. Poppy had visions of Star getting lost, being attacked by a fox, freezing to death in the frigid night air before Micah could find her. And Poppy couldn’t do anything to stop it. She couldn’t go after Star, couldn’t trek up that hill when it was bare, much less in the snow.

  “Star, get back here this minute!” she yelled at the top of her lungs, then said over her shoulder, “Missy, put on your jacket and see where she is!”

  “She’s okay.”

  “She’s not!” Poppy cried. “She doesn’t have a coat!”

  “She’s only going to Heather’s tree.”

  “What’s Heather’s tree? Where’s Heather’s tree? Go after her, Missy. I can’t.” She grabbed Missy’s coat from a low hook and handed it to her. “Boots, too,” she said, “and take Star’s.” The girl filled her arms with the things Poppy handed her and set off.

  Poppy found the switch for the back light. She sat at the door and watched Missy trudge up the hill through its beam and fade into the dark, then she waited. She imagined the both of them vanishing, wandering off into God-knew-what. She imagined rescue teams combing the woods in the cold and damp. She imagined all sorts of horrors. Sitting there helplessly, waiting for them to return, she had never resented her handicap more.

  It might have been one minute or five. Poppy didn’t know. Then Missy reappeared in the outer reaches of light cast from the back porch. For a minute Poppy thought she was alone. When she saw Star behind, she fought back tears of relief. She lost the battle when Star reached her. Snatching the child up, she cried softly against her silky hair.

  “Don’t you ever do that to me again, Star Smith,” she scolded brokenly.

  “Heather’s tree was lonely. I wanted it to know I was here.”

  “Well, I need to know you’re here. ” She held the child back. “I need to know you’re right here, because I can’t go after you, Star. If something happened to you up there, I wouldn’t be able to help. I wouldn’t be able to help, Star.”

  * * *

  I wouldn’t be able to help. Poppy was haunted by that thought as she drove home. It occurred to her that she had no business filling in for Heather if she couldn’t begin to do what Heather did. But she felt a responsibility—and it wasn’t to Micah, or to Missy or Star. The responsibility she felt was to Heather alone.Given her limitations, that responsibility was awesome.

  Under the weight of it, she was teary still, feeling utterly incompetent as she turned in at the road to her house. She barreled on toward the lake until her headlights picked out Buck Kipling’s old heap—now Griffin Hughes’s old heap. At the sight of it, she felt a surge of anger.

  She slammed on the brakes. The Blazer skidded. She steered into the skid, caught it, and continued on. Passing the truck, she pulled up as close to the house as she could. She thrust the gear shift into park and, furious now, maneuvered her chair onto the lift and down.

  There was some solace in the fact that she was on the ramp beforeGriffin got out of the truck and reached her side. But the solace ended there. Vulnerable as she felt, he was the last person she wanted to see.

  She barely gave him a glance as she continued on to the house. When he reached to open the door for her, she angrily waved him aside, opened it herself, and wheeled in. She went straight to the bank of phones, and yanked off gloves, jacket, and hat, while Selia McKenzie ended her call.

  Selia was one of two regulars Poppy used. Annie was a high schooler and great for filling in after hours, but Selia was the one most often there during the day. From the Ridge, she was forty-two and a grandmother seven times over. She was quick, patient, and as desperate for the money as she was for escaping the bedlam of her life at home, which made her an ideal employee.

  Wheeling up to her now, Poppy held out a hand for the headset. “Anything new?”

  “Lots of media,” Selia said and moved her chair aside to make room for Poppy’s.

  “You told them no.”

  “Correct. There were also calls from around here wanting to know what you know.”

  “Which is nothing,” Poppy snapped. Putting on the headset, she turned to the bank of buttons. Just when she needed something to happen, not a one was lit.

  Selia took her car keys from the end of the table and left.

  Griffin came up and planted himself directly in front of her desk.

  Poppy focused on the phone panel. She knew her eyes were red, and guessed that her skin was flushed. Her heart was beating crazily in sheer annoyance.

  He pushed his hands int
o the pockets of his jeans. She could see that without looking at him, thanks to peripheral vision. It also told her that he was of average height and build, with wide-set blue eyes, wavy auburn hair, and a straight nose.

  The phone bank didn’t blink.

  Slowly, defiantly, Poppy raised her eyes. By the time they met Griffin’s, she was boiling. Why are you here? Didn’t I make myself clear enough? Why can’t you leave me alone?

  She didn’t say a word, just glowered. And then he had the gall to say, “You look like you could use a knight in shining armor.”

  She exploded. “And you’re it? I. Don’t. Think. So. Besides, I couldn’t get on a horse and stay there if my life depended on it.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I answer phones. This is what I do best. I can’t climb hills, I can’t snowshoe or ski, I can’t dance or run or even walk down Main Street, and I certainly can’t take care of kids, which is good reason why I’ll never have them.”

  “Is that what you were crying about?”

  “That, and a million other little things. I have a right, y’know.” She produced a singsong mimic. “ ‘Poppy’s a saint. Poppy’s always smiling. Poppy never curses her fate in life.’ ” Her pitch returned to normal. “Well, I do. My best friend is in jail, her kids are lost without her, her significant other is on the verge of the busiest weeks of the year for his business, and I’m stuck in a wheelchair—and with dirty hands.” She glared at them. “I hate these hands. No matter what I do, they’re callused, and they get dirty whether I wear gloves or not.” Sticking them under her thighs and out of sight, she glared at Griffin. “If things were different, I’d be helping Micah in the woods, with the girls, but the reality is that I can’t help any of them. Right now, I hate this chair.”

  She stared him in the eye, daring him to say something patronizing.

  What he said, after a moment’s thought, was, “Want a kiss?”

  “I do not want a kiss!”

  He pulled a small foil-wrapped candy from his pocket and held it out.

  She tried to make like she’d known all along what he meant. “I said no. I get them from Charlie’s too, y’know. Kisses are a dime a dozen.”

  “Actually, a dime for ten,” he said. Returning the candy to his pocket, he went around the desk to the back of the room. A long sectional sofa was there, dividing its focus between the television and the fireplace, which sat waist-high in a floor-to-ceiling wall of fieldstone. A low fire burned there.

  The fieldstone wall also held a woodbin. Removing a log, he added it to the fire and brushed his hands together. “Reverse psychology won’t work,” he said as he returned.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Turning me off with a show of self-pity.” He sat against the edge of the desk. “All of us have moments of self-pity.”

  “When do yours come?” she asked.

  “When I think about my sister and wonder why I can’t find her,” he said. He began to gnaw on his lower lip, suddenly apprehensive. “Actually, no. Right now, I’m feeling sorry for myself because I inadvertently mentioned something to my brother that probably resulted in bringing the FBI here. If I could turn back the clock, I would, because I know you’re going to hate me for what happened to Heather, which means I’ve lost something I wanted. But you might as well know. It was me. My brother is FBI. He’s on the cold case squad. When I left here in October, I went to his office and kept staring at the picture of Lisa that was hanging on his wall. She looked so much like your friend. I’m sorry.”

  The confession stopped Poppy cold. She hadn’t expected it, hadn’t suspected Griffin of this. Taken so by surprise, she was without words. After a minute, feeling utterly deflated, she lowered her head to her folded arms. She was suddenly dreadfully tired. And sad. Profoundly sad. She didn’t know why, but there it was.

  With her head on her arms, she began to cry again. It was quiet and deep now, a soulful weeping, the venting of so many confused emotions that tears were the only possible form of expression.

  She didn’t look up. Her head stayed on her arms, not out of embarrassment but from an aching fatigue. “Oh God,” she whispered finally, pressing her eyes to her forearm. “It’s been a wretched two days.”

  When Griffin said nothing, she mopped her eyes with her hands, raised her head, and dared to meet his gaze. “What?” she invited in a nasal voice and dropped her hands. “No slick words?”

  Not only didn’t he come up with any, but those blue eyes of his actually seemed unsure. “I don’t know what to do. I want to go over there and give you a hug, only I don’t know if you want that.”

  “I don’t need hugs,” she informed him as archly as one who was all blotchy could do.

  “Not need. Want, maybe.”

  There was no “maybe” about it. It had been a long time since Poppyhad been held by a man. It had been a long time since she had been held by anyone, certainly not in the full way that would have given her the comfort she craved. Her chair was the proverbial third person, always there to remind her of her handicap.

  She drew in a long, ragged breath. “I’m fine.” But she couldn’t talk about this. “So. You were the one who told them about Heather.” It was safer to focus on that than on her own private needs.

  “No. I just told my brother that someone here reminded me of Lisa. He’s a good snoop.”

  “But not good enough to find your sister.”

  Griffin compressed his mouth and shook his head.

  His admission gave Poppy a vague sense of power. “So what good is he? What good are you? And why are you here? Major question. If you’re looking for me, the me you might have scored with left here twelve years ago, and if you’re here looking for a story, you’re still in the wrong place. I’m not helping you out.”

  “Turn that around. I was thinking I could help you out.”

  “Were you.” It wasn’t a question. She didn’t want his help. “That’s some bruise on your face, by the way.”

  A mite gingerly, he fingered the purple slash. “There was a struggle before I could convince the truck which of us was in charge.” His hand rasped coming down over the stubble on his jaw. It was even darker than the auburn his hair had become since the autumn before.

  “Your thumb looks awful, too. Who is winning the war?”

  “Me. Definitely me. I got the cabin warmed up and the electricity on. I can’t get the water going, but I’m working on it.”

  “Don’t bother,” she took pleasure in informing him. “The piping is bad. It can’t be fixed until spring.”

  Griffin looked dismayed. “Are you serious?”

  “Totally. We all know it. And another thing. There aren’t any loons here this time of year. What you heard was Billy Farraway playing his loon pipe. He’s seventy-five years old and spends the winter moving his bobhouse around.” She wondered if Griffin had ever been ice fishing. “Do you know what a bobhouse is?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t see one near the island.”

  “You wouldn’t if it was tucked behind one of the other islands on the lake. Do you know how many of those there are?”

  Griffin smiled. “No. How many?”

  “Thirty-eight. Thirty-eight islands on Lake Henry, and as lakes go, we’re not overly big. If you haven’t met Billy yet, just wait. He’ll find you.”

  “A loon pipe? Are you sure? It sounded very real. I was talking at Charlie’s about hearing a loon. No one there mentioned Billy.”

  “They wouldn’t,” Poppy replied and held his gaze until he got the message.

  “Ahhh. They were letting me put my foot in it deeper.”

  She nodded. It struck her that between the bruise on his cheek, the one on his thumb, the stubble on his jaw, and the rumple of his hair, he looked a little worse for the wear, but it was a good worse. More rugged. She motioned him to move back from the desk so that she could see him head to toe. When he had done it, she said, “Nice boots. Nice vest. Nice thermals up there under that nice flannel shirt. Warm now, Griffin?”

&
nbsp; He smiled again. “Yes, thank you. Quite warm. Your house is very comfortable.” He meandered around the desk and sank into the sofa.

  Poppy turned to watch. She liked the way he moved. She liked the way his shoulders looked when he put both arms along the back of the sofa. She also liked the way he smiled.

  Then his smile faded. He shot a glance at her over his shoulder. “Have you seen Heather?”

  Reality returned. “Yes. She’s in bad shape. If you were the one who tipped off the cops, that makes me feel responsible, too. You came in October to see me.”

  He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “So we can sit here and fixate on that, or we can talk about how to solve the problem. I take it it’s a matter of proving that Heather is Heather. What does she say on that score?”

  “Not much,” Poppy remarked. “She seems unable to talk about this. And don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.”

  “Is that what upset you just now?”

  Poppy thought about the crying jag he’d witnessed. “I don’t usually do that,” she said.

  “I’m sure.”

  “I was taking care of the girls. The little one, Star, wandered out into the woods and I couldn’t go after her. I was totally panicked. It’s been a while since I felt as helpless as that.” And then there was Micah, returning all stony from visiting Heather. And then Poppy’s talk with Maida. She still didn’t know what she had wanted her mother to do.

  “You’re good to be staying with them,” Griffin said. “I can’t believe half the town hasn’t volunteered to do it.”

  “They have. But the girls are mine.” She rushed to explain. “I mean, only in a way. Of course, the girls are Heather’s.” But she had to qualify that, too. “Not legally, but in every other sense.”

  “Why not legally?” he asked. “She could adopt them.”

  “She and Micah aren’t married.”

  “Why not? They’ve been together . . . how many years?”