An Accidental Woman (14 page)

No Cassie. No rights. No choice. Micah trudged over to the porch and took off the snowshoes. He might not be able to keep them out, but he sure as hell could watch what they did inside. He didn't trust that they wouldn't try to plant something there.

* * *

“They're here searching the place,” Micah replied angrily. “For all I know, the phone is bugged.” He hung up.

Poppy called Cassie, who promised to head to Micah's. She took several calls from townsfolk asking questions she couldn't answer. Then,
putting the phone bank on audio, she wheeled to the window and looked out over the lake. Visually, it was as clean, crisp, and pure as it had been the day before. Emotionally, however, it felt old today—and not unexpectedly so. Poppy experienced this same shift every year in the middle of February, when she suddenly ached for spring—and she wasn't the only one. Ice Days were held in February to give the townsfolk something to look forward to at the end of a long winter, and after Ice Days came the sap. Sugaring season was about celebrating the first crop of the year. It was about a strengthening sun, about townsfolk loosening their scarves and trekking through melting snow, about the promise of spring.

Poppy was ready. She craved a warmer sun. She craved grass on the ground and buds on the trees. She craved ice-out. She craved loons.

After a bit, she returned to the phones. The occasional call came in, but her heart was elsewhere. Frightened for Heather, unsettled by her conversation with Maida, and tired of asking questions she couldn't answer, she had nothing better to do as she ate lunch at the console than to wonder when Griffin would show up. She was surprised that he hadn't been there already. Each time she heard the slightest sound that might be a car on the drive, she held her breath.

Car on the drive? Make that
truck
on the drive.
Noisy
truck, unless Griffin had a way with tinkering under the hood of a car, which she seriously doubted since he was a city boy through and through. Car?
Truck,
Poppy.
Truck.

* * *

Poppy could curse Micah as much as she wanted for not telling the girls himself, but with Missy asking straight out, she couldn't lie. “Yes, she's in jail.”

“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 Star
didn'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.”

* * *

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 before
Griffin 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 into 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.