An Accidental Woman Read online

  He wanted to ask about Heather. He was as curious as anyone else. But being an outsider—media in their eyes—he didn’t dare raise it himself. He did lean close when he heard the locals talking.

  Inevitably, when they caught him at it, they quieted right down.

  He gleaned a little bit from Charlie’s sons, who were running the pizza stand. At sixteen and eighteen, they were less suspicious than their elders, or so he thought. They confirmed that Heather had worked at the café right up until the time she moved in with Micah, that she used to baby-sit for them when they were kids, and that she had been the one left in charge of the store when their parents went on vacation. When Griffin asked if she’d ever talked about herself, the boys looked at each other and shrugged. They repeated the gesture when he teased them about knowing her secrets. And when he suggested that they wouldn’t tell if they did, they simply smiled.

  He wandered off and, for a short time, just stood there on the packed snow that covered the ice that the townsfolk swore was thick enough to hold an army. Snowmobiles skirted him. People walked around him. Some approached, caught his eye, passed right by.

  Poppy was everywhere, tooling around in her hefty four-wheeler with the two little girls in the box on the back. He caught her eye once and waved—and she waved back, but she didn’t come over to him. Here in town, she was in her element.

  He, on the other hand, was persona non grata.

  In time, he grew lonely. By early afternoon, he traipsed back to the truck, fully intending to return to Little Bear. He had work to do. The island might not have cell reception, but the downtown did, and he had already received three messages from Prentiss Hayden.

  He definitely had work to do. Yet Buck’s truck didn’t head for the Little Bear end of the lake. It headed for Micah’s.

  * * *

  How can a person keep so much of herself hidden? Poppy didn’t remember who asked it. She began to think more thanone had, because she kept hearing the words. It didn’t seem to matter where she was—in the Arctic Cat on the lake, taking a hot chocolate break by the woodstove at the general store, or back on the lake—they followed her wherever she went.

  Desperate for an escape, fearing that the day would be gone all too soon, she took the girls for a pleasure ride. The sun wasn’t as high as it had been an hour before, but a warmth lingered in the fingers of yellow that covered the lake.

  “Hold on,” she called back. Lowering her faceplate, she accelerated with the turn of her wrist. The Arctic Cat bucked over a ridge, then hit the lake with a growl and took off.

  Startled by the sudden speed, she immediately slowed and looked back. The girls were strapped in and secure. She gave them a thumbs-up, which they returned.

  She drove straight out, past the concession stands. Turning the large handlebars then, she wove in and out of the bobhouses, exchanging waves with the fishermen grouped there. When Missy gave a tug at the back of her coat and shouted, “More!” she circled around and repeated the zigzags. The delighted squeals she heard from the rear box warmed her heart.

  Settling into the trail left by the snowmobiles, she drove on for a bit until they reached an untouched part of the lake. Unable to resist, she turned the Arctic Cat onto the virgin snow and upped the speed. It was exhilarating. The path was open; the air was clear; the world was pure. For a few minutes, her handicap ceased to exist. Invigorated by that, she drove on through lengthening afternoon shadows, and if the speed crept up and up and up, it was worth the escape. For those few minutes, feeling an incredible freedom, she not only forgot that she couldn’t walk, she also forgot about Heather.

  Then she felt a sudden catch inside—a flash of memory—a stab of fear. Slowing quickly, she looked back. The girls were fine. She gave them a thumbs-up. They gave her one in return. At a saner pace, she made a large circle and headed back to town. The closer they got, the slower she went, so that she was all but creeping when a helmet tapped hers. Seconds later, Star’s cheek settled on her shoulder. The little girl raised Poppy’s faceplate.

  “There’s face painting over there,” the child said.

  Letting the Artic Cat idle, Poppy focused in on a sheltered spot near the shore. “Oh my,” she exclaimed. “We nearly forgot.” Shifting, she headed that way. Pulling up close, she turned off the Cat. In no time, both girls had dropped their helmets in the rear box and scrambled out.

  “Hi, Aunt Poppy!” came a shout from the short line of little girls. It was six-year-old Ruth, her sister Rose’s youngest, waiting her turn. The middle daughter, seven-year-old Emma, was right beside her. In the space of a breath, so were Missy and Star. Missy and Emma were classmates and friends.

  Rose separated herself from a group of mothers standing nearby. She was as well put-together as always in a plum-colored parka and pants, with navy hat, gloves, and boots. As she reached Poppy, she put a hand to her throat.

  “I was watching you,” she half whispered. “I can’t believe how fast you were going.”

  It was a Maida moment. Poppy steeled herself against a wave of guilt. “Oh, I wasn’t going that fast.”

  “You were,” Rose went on, sounding frightened. “You started speeding up as soon as you cleared the bobhouses. I was amazed. We all were—it wasn’t just me. You kept going faster and faster. All I could think was that this thing would flip right over and the three of you would fall out and be crushed.”

  Poppy tried to make light of her fear. “Rose, these things don’t flip. We’re talkin’ a megawide wheelbase. They stick to the ground like glue.”

  “You were going over snow and ice, not ground. It’d be one thing if you were alone. But with the girls?”

  “The girls had helmets. And they were belted in.”

  Rose looked at the girls, then at the lake. “I don’t know if you should be doing this.”

  Poppy had an uncomfortable feeling. “Why not?”

  Her sister made a dismissive gesture.

  “No, Rose. Tell me. Why not?”

  “You know,” Rose said with a glance at Poppy’s legs. “And it isn’t justthis,” she added, rapping a gloved hand against the Arctic Cat. “I know you’re Heather’s friend, and helping with the girls is a wonderful gesture, what with everything else Micah has on his plate. But isn’t it taking an awful lot on yourself? I mean, what if there was a problem? What if one of them fell? Could you pick her up?”

  Poppy bristled. It wasn’t that she hadn’t asked herself the same questions, and not so long ago. Having Rose ask them, though, was humiliating. So she said a defiant, “Yes. I could pick her up.”

  “How?”

  “The same way anyone else would—in my arms. My arms are strong, Rose. I’ll bet they’re stronger than yours.”

  Rose sighed. “They may be. But spills are only the start. You’ve never been a mother. You don’t know what the challenges are.”

  “Blind women have kids,” Poppy argued, because Rose was offensive. “Deaf women have kids. Women with rock-bottom IQs have kids. Are you saying I’d be any worse off? But hey, I’m not planning to have kids. I know the risks. I know the problems. All I’m doing here is helping my friends. If you’re so worried about Missy and Star, why don’t you pitch in, too?” She regretted it the minute she said it, because she knew what was coming. Rose was nothing if not the consummate mom.

  Sure enough, she said with genuine enthusiasm, “That’s actually a terrific idea. Hannah’s staying over with a friend.” She lowered her voice to murmur a wry, “Would you believe that?” Then she went on. “We figured these two would be exhaused after today, so Art is renting a couple of movies, and we’re bringing in pizza. I’d love having Missy and Star, too. Do you think Micah would let them come?”

  Poppy figured that Micah would be working well into the night and would be glad that they had somewhere to go. She had been planning to suggest that they stay with her, but given the choice, they were better off with their friends. Emma and Ruth were sweet children, and Poppy trusted Rose. She didn’t
always like her, but she trusted her.

  Of course, that meant Poppy would spend the evening simmering about what Rose had said, but it couldn’t be helped.

  * * *

  Griffin felt a keen sense of satisfaction. Micah hadn’t said more than a handful of words all afternoon, but as daylight waned, the main room of the sugarhouse, which was warm and moist and smelled faintly of bleach, was filled with the fruits of their labor. They had washed and triple rinsed innumerable coils of plastic tubing, many buckets of spiles, and a dozen implements of the stainless steel variety. Thermometers, hydrometers, refractometers, skimmers, and scoops—Griffin had no idea what they were for, and he wasn’t about to ask. It felt like small talk, for which Micah didn’t seem to have the patience. Indeed, what few words Micah had said seemed more to himself than to Griffin.“No matter that this was all washed at the end of last season. Can’t take the risk,” he murmured at one point, and at another, “Microorganisms grow behind your back. They can ruin the quality of the syrup,” and at another, “Gotta keep washing. Keep washing the whole time.”

  Now, though, curiosity nagged. Griffin figured that a few questions while they cleaned up wouldn’t hurt. Pausing while wiping down the long steel sink, he pointed to a large machine not far from the smokestack. “What’s that?”

  Micah shot the item a glance. “R.O.” He bent over to wipe down the legs of the sink. “Reverse osmosis machine. It removes water from the sap before the sap even hits the evaporator. Saves time. Saves fuel.”

  “And that?” Griffin asked, indicating another machine.

  “A filter press. As soon as you have syrup, you pour it hot through there. You can’t have sugar sand in your syrup, not in top-quality syrup. Lower-quality syrup, lower price.”

  “So how much do you make?” Griffin asked, wondering about the profit margin.

  “In a good season? Twelve hundred gallons, give or take.”

  It wasn’t the meaning of “make” that Griffin had intended, but he rode it out. “What makes a good season?”

  “First off,” Micah said, squatting now to wipe the floor under the sink, “a good summer before. If a tree gets sun and water, it thrives. A thriving tree produces sweeter sap. Then you need a good late winter and early spring. Sap can run for six weeks. Or it can stop after two. Obviously, the longer it runs, the more you make.”

  “What determines the length of the run?”

  “The weather. Sap runs when the nights are below freezing and days are above. A fifteen-degree swing is ideal. All cold or all warm, and the sap won’t flow right. If you get a snowstorm and there’s damage in the sugarbush, you’ve got trouble unless you can fix it quick. You get no sap to boil if the mainline’s broke. In any event, you have to do what you can before the buds start to swell, because after that, the taste of the sap is off.”

  “You learned all this from your father?”

  “And his father. And my uncle.” Sitting back on his haunches, he looked at Griffin and came close to smiling. The expression gentled his face, made it less dark and forbidding. “Sugaring’s always been a family thing. Back before the Civil War, it was billed as the only crop that didn’t use slaves. Immediate family, extended family, adults, kids—everyone helped. My mother used to bottle and can. My grandmother kept everyone fed. The men, they were doin’ the rest of it themselves at a time when you didn’t have reverse osmosis machines or filter presses. Hell, they weren’t using tubing when I was a boy. I remember buckets. ” He paused, seeming lost in the thought, and it was a pleasant one, to judge from his expression.

  Then the pleasure faded and there was fatigue. “Of course, they didn’t have the acreage I have now. There’s no way I could haul buckets in from fifty acres every day, and you just can’t get help. Four weeks a year? Six weeks at best?” He grunted and went back to wiping the floor. “Young guys want the big money that comes from the trades. So we use tubing now, and it cuts the work way down. That keeps it a family operation. At least, it’s supposed to be. I was counting on Heather.”

  He stopped short.

  Griffin remembered the warmth a minute ago. He wanted to think that Micah had let a wall down. If any part of it remained down, there was hope. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

  Micah shot him a disparaging look. “I was wondering when that’d come.” He gave the floor a last few swipes.

  “I can help. I have contacts. I can get information other people can’t. You need to know about Lisa? I can get information on Lisa. Give me clues about Heather? I can get info on her, too.”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  Griffin couldn’t get himself to talk about guilt. The softer side of Micah was gone now. Mentioning Randy would be disastrous. So he said, “Poppy. I like her. I want to help her friends.”

  Micah went from his haunches to his feet. “Did she send you here?”

  “No. She wouldn’t. She’s protective of you. She’s not sure I’m a friend.”

  “If she isn’t sure, why should I be?”

  “Because you have my word. And my reason goes beyond Poppy,” he added, feeling that he was telling the truth, albeit not the whole truth. “I come from a different place. I’ve been lucky that way—spoiled that way—but I do have these contacts. I use them for all sorts of stuff that I don’t really care about. This I care about. I like Lake Henry. I like the people here. Lily Blake got a raw deal last fall, and Heather’s getting one now.”

  Micah started snatching up wet cloths from around the room. “I have Cassie.”

  “You do. But Cassie’s resources are finite. Mine are greater.”

  Arms half filled, he turned to Griffin. His eyes were dark. “What’ll it cost me?”

  “Nothing. That’s what I’m saying. I’m a friend. I have a network of friends. This won’t cost me anything, so it won’t cost you anything. The thing is, you’re the linchpin here. You’re the one who has the most information right now. You’re the one who can point me in the right direction.”

  With a snort, Micah went back to collecting wet cloths.

  “I don’t need much,” Griffin coaxed. “A birthplace would be great, but if you don’t know that, a town, a school, a church?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t.” Arms laden with cloths, he went out the door.

  Griffin grabbed up their jackets and shirts and followed him. “Because you don’t know? When you first met her, she must’ve talked about where she’d been.” The cold air was sharp in his heated lungs.

  “Why? She’d been in Lake Henry a while by then. Why would I ask about the other?”

  “Curiosity?” Griffin offered. “Okay. So you didn’t ask. But you’ve been together four years. She must have mentioned something, must have dropped hints.”

  “If she did, I didn’t get them,” Micah muttered as he strode toward the house along the path of packed snow. His boots crunched with each step.

  “Mail,” Griffin tried. “Does she ever get mail?”

  “All the time. We run a business here.”

  “Personal mail. A birthday card, a postmark from somewhere strange.”

  “No. But I’m not the one who picks up the mail. What do I know?”

  “You’re thinking she might have hidden something?”

  “No.” He pulled the back door open and went inside.

  Griffin caught the door before it slammed and followed him in, through the kitchen, to the adjacent laundry room. “It’s not like we need a biography. All we need is one thing. One thing to put her in a place other than the one where Lisa Matlock can be proven to be at a given point in time.”

  Micah stuffed the washer with towels and dropped the rest on the floor. In a tight voice, he said, “I don’t have one thing.”

  “A trip she took,” Griffin tried. “A birthday party. A birthday present. ”

  Soap went in. The lid slammed down. The washer went on.

  “A relative, any relativ
e,” Griffin went on, following him back into the kitchen. “A hobby. A dream. Dreams tell a lot.”

  Micah turned on him fast. His voice was controlled, but just barely. “She didn’t dream. She worked hard and long, and she slept deep.”

  “Christ, man, you must know something,” Griffin charged, pushing, hoping that the heat of anger might produce a crumb. “She had to be somewhere before she came here.”

  Micah lost it then. Eyes blazing, he shouted, “If she was, I don’t know where! I don’t fuckin’ know where! Do you think that makes me feel good?”

  A dead silence followed the outburst. In its midst, Griffin caught the smallest movement in the corner of his eye. Glancing back at the door, he saw Poppy. Her eyes were on Micah. She looked devastated.

  Griffin let out a breath. “No, I don’t suppose it does,” he said quietly.He glanced at Poppy again, but she continued to look at Micah. Discouraged, he said, “I’ve done enough for today, I guess,” and let himself out the back door.

  * * *

  Poppy didn’t think she had ever heard Micah shout before. Beyond being silent, he was controlled, private, and proud. The admission he’d just made must have hurt.“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t know he’d come here.”

  Hanging his head, Micah wrapped a large hand around his neck. “What does it matter? Maybe he’ll let it go now.”

  Poppy wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure Griffin should let it go. He did have contacts, and everyone else was stymied.

  Quietly, she asked, “Is it true? Do you really know nothing?”

  He raised weary eyes. Hurt eyes. “I know nothing.” Suddenly alert, he glanced past her. “Oh Christ. Did the girls hear?”