An Accidental Woman Page 17

  “She has good taste,” Griffin said so sweetly, so gently, that Poppy was left without words. He was close, very kind, and handsome, definitely handsome with his wavy auburn hair, his blue eyes, and a shadow on his jaw that said he hadn’t shaved since he had been in her shower two days before.

  Looking at him now, something caught in her throat. In the space of a breath, she was swept back to the first time they’d met, she in her wheelchair, he on foot at the back of the meeting room in the church at the center of town. Prior to that, she had felt a connection between them on the phone, but in person it was stronger—stronger than anything she had known—stronger than anything even before the accident. Was it chemistry? She hadn’t taken the chance of finding out whether it was or not, and, if so, whether her body could sustain it. She had been too frightened of failure.

  She still was. But something inside her had mellowed. Or maybe it was the cat. How to be anything but mellow when a beautiful, blind cat was at hand?

  The cat leapt to the ground.

  “Wait!” Poppy cried, and her eyes flew to Griffin. “Catch her.”

  “No, no. She’s okay.”

  “She doesn’t know her way around. She’ll hurt herself.”

  The cat looked back at them, her body arching gracefully. Seeming to draw her head up with pride, she straightened and sat back on her haunches facing the curved desks that held the phone bank. Her nose twitched ever so slightly, her whiskers aimed forward. Smoothly coming up on all fours, she began to walk toward the desks. With startling precision, she stopped at the nearest leg, explored it with her nose, rubbed it with her cheek, then her neck and back, on down her body. With thesame uncanny exactness, she moved to the next leg and the next. When the desk had been mapped, she moved with regal grace toward the wall.

  Poppy held her breath, fearing she would hit it head-on. Instead, she stopped short and turned to walk its length as if she’d done it hundreds of times before. She rubbed against the open archway, then, carrying herself nobly, proceeded on down the hall.

  Griffin said a quick, “She’s looking for the bathroom,” and before Poppy could tell him that cats were like camels, he had dashed back to the door, pushed his feet into his boots, and raced out.

  Following the cat, Poppy started down the hall just as the elegantly held orange tail disappeared into the kitchen, and the scene was the same there. The cat explored. She walked, she sniffed, she rubbed. At one point, she rose on her hind legs with her front paws on the cabinets leading up to the counter. Wheeling close, Poppy picked her up and gently set her on the granite.

  There was noise back at the front door—open and shut, boots kicked off—then a padding trot down the hall. “Litter,” Griffin announced, snowflakes still in his hair. He carried a large plastic pan, with a huge bag of litter inside.

  “We need food,” Poppy said. She had turned on a trickle of water. The cat had her rear paws on the rim of the sink, her front paws inside, and her mouth perfectly positioned under the trickle.

  “Food,” Griffin repeated. Setting his armload on the floor, he went back out.

  By the time he returned, the cat had jumped down from the counter and was exploring Poppy’s wheels. Not wanting to disturb her by moving, Poppy pointed Griffin in the direction of the dish she had taken from a roll-out drawer. He quickly filled it with pellets of food.

  “Mmm-mmm,” he said as if he were coaxing a child, “chicken and liver.” He held the bowl under the cat’s nose for the split second it took to get her attention. Looking around, he set it down in a corner out of harm’s way.

  The cat was there in an instant.

  “How does she do that?” Poppy asked in amazement.

  “She smells. She hears. She feels. Those whiskers are antennas. Theytell her when she’s near something, and her reflexes are so sharp that she can navigate with precision.” He turned around and filled the litter box, then arched his brows at Poppy. “Where?”

  She hitched her chin toward the room off the kitchen that held her washer and dryer. It was more a deep alcove than a room, with an ultra-wide opening and the same pocket doors that were in the rest of the house, ones that could be tucked neatly away in the wall to allow for the easy maneuvering of a wheelchair. In this instance, there was plenty of room for a litter box inside the door, around the corner, and out of the line of traffic.

  Crunching sounds came from the food bowl. While Griffin positioned the litter box, Poppy filled a second bowl with water and set it down near the food. The cat took a sip, returned to the food, munched a bit longer. Every few mouthfuls, she turned her head sideways to chew, and the occasional bit of food fell on the floor. She sniffed it, pawed it, abandoned it. Poppy didn’t mind the mess one bit.

  When the cat was done eating, she sat up and set to cleaning her face, first with her tongue, then by licking a paw and using that to scrub her muzzle. With each pass of the paw the area widened, until it included her eyes, then her ears. One ear folded backward. Just when Poppy was thinking what a silky thing it was, it popped right.

  The cat turned her head. Griffin was still hunkered down near the laundry room. He made a clicking sound and tapped his fingertips on the tile floor. The cat approached. Familiar with his scent, she gave his leg a full body rub in passing, and went on to the litter box.

  Griffin straightened and brushed his hands together. “There. Now I feel better.”

  “You do,” Poppy said with a chuckle. “She probably does, too. So what’s her name?”

  He looked pensive. “I was thinking about that driving over here. ‘Baby’ seemed a good enough name then, but now I’m not sure.”

  “You cannot call this cat ‘baby.’ That’s an insult, given how courageous she is.”

  “So what’s a courageous name for a girl?”

  Poppy thought. “Gillian. That’s a strong name.” But the orange catdidn’t look like a Gillian to her. “Whitney.” That didn’t sound right, either.

  There was a sandy scratching, a tapping, then the emergence of the cat from the box. She paused on the laundry room threshold for an instant’s orientation. Then, raising her tail, she walked with surefooted grace straight to Poppy.

  “Victoria,” Poppy said. “For majesty.” With exquisite aim, the cat jumped up onto her lap. “Victoria?” Poppy asked the creature.

  The cat gave Poppy’s chin a rub and began to purr. Then she turned in a slow circle on Poppy’s lap and, like silk drifting down, settled in a ball.

  “And you can’t take her to Little Bear,” Poppy decided. “She’s oriented here now. It would be cruel to uproot her again.”

  “But she’s my cat,” Griffin said.

  “She can stay here.”

  “Only if I stay with her for part of the time.”

  With a hand on Victoria’s warm neck, Poppy looked up, suspicious. There was a devious side to Griffin. There had to be. He couldn’t be all goodness and light. “What does ‘part of the time’ mean?”

  Griffin bounced a look off the ceiling and said a patient, “It means absolutely nothing except that I have work to do, and you have a huge desk with more than enough space for me to spread out my stuff. You have heat and electricity. You have a bathroom. And a fax machine. And cell phone reception. You have extra phone lines, so that I can use one to access the Internet without having to pray that my wireless connection will hold up. You also have a level head, so you know that what I’m saying makes sense. And you have a kind heart. Don’t try to deny it. I didn’t ask you to take in this cat.”

  No. He hadn’t. And it struck Poppy that Victoria’s arrival would raise a few brows. For years, Maida had urged her to get a pet—most regularly mentioning a Doberman, a rottweiler, or a German shepherd—but Poppy had repeatedly rejected the idea of a watchdog. She refused to think she needed one. Rose often urged her to take one of the litter of golden Lab pups that their own dog mothered. But a golden Lab pup grew into a golden Lab dog, and that could be large. There was no way Poppy, her chair, and some
thing that size could fit into the shower for awash, and Poppy didn’t see the point of having a pet if she couldn’t take care of it herself.

  And then there was Charlotte, showing up with a basket of cats to give away at crafts shows, plant sales, and bake sales, Memorial Day parades, Fourth of July fireworks, and Labor Day picnics—and not only in Lake Henry. Charlotte was a regional institution. Children flocked to her baskets; adults steered clear. For Poppy to have taken a cat from Charlotte would have meant she was suckered.

  Funny, but she didn’t feel suckered now. Granted, she hadn’t been suckered by Charlotte. If she’d been suckered by anyone, it was Griffin. But Victoria was warm against those abdominal muscles that did sense warmth, and, curled up in Poppy’s lap, she was a perfect fit.

  So, fine. Poppy wasn’t at the mountain, because she didn’t want to dwell on what she couldn’t do. But she could do a cat. Thinking that, she felt better. She felt stronger. And then there was Griffin.

  “Where’s your stuff?” she asked. “Your papers and all?”

  “At Little Bear,” he replied.

  She glanced at her watch. It was nearly noon. “If you were to go back and get what you need, then stop at Charlie’s for chili”—she still had a yen for that—“could you be back by one?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Because if you can, and if you’re willing to cover the phones while you work, I could go visit Heather. Think the driving’s okay?”

  * * *

  The driving was fine, but then, Poppy was still feeling strong. She had chili in her stomach and the comfort of knowing that Griffin was at her house. He was working. Nothing wrong with that. He was covering the phones. It was perfect.Besides, she was a pro at driving in snow. Give her a broad wheelbase, steel body panels, four-wheel drive, and big tires, and she was fine. By the time she passed through the center of town, the first of the plows had been through. She reached West Eames without so much as the hint of a skid.

  By then, the chili was digested, Griffin seemed far away, and she wasalone with her thoughts. To her chagrin, they were the same ones that had disturbed her sleep, and they weren’t going away. Nor did she try to make them. This was what she had to discuss with Heather.

  She hadn’t counted on a large room filled with other inmates and their guests, or on the alarm that hit her seeing those others, who were so unlike Heather. But there was nothing to be done about either. She managed to grab a free chair and an empty space by the wall.

  Heather spotted her immediately. After a quick glance around, she came over and slipped into the chair. She put her elbows on her knees, leaning close. Poppy did the same, giving them an element of privacy.

  “I know,” Poppy began, because she had seen that quick search of the room and the flicker of disappointment. “I’m not Micah. I’m sorry.”

  Heather seemed resigned. “I figured he was working, but when they said someone was here, I was hoping . . .”

  “He’s been washing all weekend. I think he’s planning to lay tubing this week. He wants to be ready when the sap starts to flow. First run’s always the best.”

  “I should be there. Are Missy and Star helping?”

  “No. I think he needs to be alone.”

  “But he can’t do it alone. Well, I guess this part he can handle. Has he called Camille about the paperwork?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She knows everything, Poppy. Make him do it. Tell me about Missy and Star.”

  “They were with me yesterday. They slept over last night with Emma and Ruth. Today they’re at the mountain with Marianne.”

  “They must hate me.”

  “They love you. But they don’t understand all this. None of us do. That’s why I’m here. Talk to me, honey. Tell me what happened.”

  Heather’s eyes glazed over.

  “No no no,” Poppy whispered, grabbing her hands. “Don’t do that. It doesn’t help. When you tune out, you hurt yourself and everyone else. Talk to me. Talk to me. You and me, we could always do that. Way back, when Micah first asked you to be a nanny for the girls, we discussed it, remember? We went back and forth, pros and cons. We agreed that ifyou’d wanted a career, you’d have been better staying at Charlie’s, but you really, really wanted to take care of the girls. Remember? I could see that. And then when things heated up between Micah and you? I could see how you felt. And then when it happened, you told me, because you needed to know it was okay, and you knew you’d get a fair answer from me, and I gave you one. So why can’t you trust me that way now?”

  “There’s no point,” Heather whispered.

  Poppy whispered back a desperate, “Why not?”

  “Oh, Poppy. Did you ever wish you could live your life over—just go back and do things different from how you did them the first time around?”

  “All the time. You know that. One ride on a snowmobile—thirty minutes—and everything changed. I’d give anything to do those thirty minutes over again.”

  “But you can’t. All you can do is go on.”

  “That’s what you always said. We both did. We said it over and over again, trying to convince ourselves that was the only way to go. Only maybe it isn’t.”

  “It is.”

  “Heather. They’re going to try you for murder. Whether you’re Lisa or not—”

  “I’m not Lisa.”

  “—they’ll take you back to California and put you on trial. They’re out for blood. You could be totally innocent, but unless you give Cassie something to work with, you’ll be convicted. So then there won’t be any going on. It’ll all have been bravado on our part. Nothing more.”

  “I’m not Lisa,” Heather repeated.

  Poppy looked down. She gave Heather’s hands a squeeze. “Is that because it would be too painful to be Lisa?” When Heather didn’t answer, she looked up. “Then is it too painful being Heather, to talk about what she went through before Lake Henry?”

  Heather shot back, “Is it too painful being Poppy?”

  Poppy had known the question would come. This was one of the things that had haunted her through the night. She welcomed the chance to air it, actually needed that chance. Even with all that was happening,all she didn’t understand, she trusted Heather more than anyone else to listen without passing judgment.

  Is it too painful being Poppy?

  “Being the Poppy I was? Yes. It is. She did some things wrong, and that brings pain. There’s pain, too, in good stuff that’s lost.”

  “Like?”

  “Her spirit. Her daring. Her energy. She was on the go all day, every day. I don’t know where she’d have been today—maybe in another part of the country or the world, or maybe in Lake Henry in spite of it all—but she was fun. She was also difficult. And defiant. And foolish, and a lot of that’s really hard to think about. But my situation’s different from yours. For me, the past is done. Everyone knows I was born and raised here. No one’s coming after me with handcuffs. Besides, if something happened to me, no one would be the worse for it. I don’t have a Micah, and I don’t have a Missy or a Star. They need you.”

  With a tiny tremor, Heather sat straighter. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she sat back.

  “So maybe it comes down to punishment,” Poppy suggested. “Something happened in your life, something so bad you can’t talk about it. You could have married Micah and had more kids, only you didn’t. Were you punishing yourself for whatever it was that happened before?”

  For a minute, there were only low murmurs from the rest of the room. Then Heather asked, “Don’t you do that?”

  “Punish myself? How?”

  “By limiting what you do.”

  “I do what I want. I accept what I can’t do.”

  “But do you ever want to chance it? To take that little risk?”

  “Like how?”

  Heather gave her a you-know-how look. “Like with a man. Aren’t you curious?”

  “About what?” Poppy asked, whispering again. “Sex? I
had it. I had plenty of it before the accident.”

  “That was then.”

  “I have a full life. I’m not looking for more.” To make her point, she said, “Take Griffin. He’s back in town.”

  Heather’s eyes went wide. “He is? When did he come?” As quickly as excitement had flared, it died. “Oh. He wants to write about me.”

  “No. He says he just wants to help. He has contacts that none of us have.” Poppy nearly told her about the pictures of Lisa, but something held her back. “And there are other kinds of help. He’s at my house right now answering the phones, so that I can be here. But do I want to go to dinner with him? No. I’m home with the phones tonight, and having dinner with Lily and John tomorrow, then Tuesday night you all are over.” Of course, Heather wouldn’t be over this week. She might not be over this month. In fact, her absence could drag on longer, much longer.

  “I love our group,” Heather wailed softly.

  “Then help us. Help us help you.”

  She looked torn. Tentatively, she asked, “Where are Griffin’s contacts?”

  Poppy felt a glimmer of hope. “All over. He has a network. If there’s someone you need to find, or documents, or relatives—he’s good at this.”

  “There’d be a price. There’s always a price.”

  “He’s rich. He doesn’t need money.” She couldn’t quite get herself to tell Heather that Griffin’s brother was the one who had tracked her down, which would ensure his doing everything for nothing. But the time seemed right for the other. “He has pictures. Pictures of Lisa. Looking at them is the most amazing thing. You can understand why someone made this mistake.”

  Heather sat very still. Her eyes had gone wide; they held Poppy’s without blinking. Then, without taking a breath, she opened her mouth and, soundlessly, formed three words. Before Poppy could react, before she could even wonder if she’d read those words right, Heather was up out of the chair, across the room, and out the door.