An Accidental Woman (20 page)

“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 relative,” 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.

* * *

“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?”

“No. I left them in town with the Winslows. They were having their faces painted with Emma and Ruth, and even Star was having fun. Rose invited them over for dinner and movies. She'd like to turn it into a sleepover, but I told her I'd have to check with you.”

Turning away, he went to the sink. “Fine. They'll be better off there. I'm not good for much.”

“I wouldn't say that. Neither would Heather.”

He turned, hands braced behind. “I can't do a damn thing, Poppy. I don't
know
a damn thing. I've been going over everything, thinking back.” Raising his arms, he pushed his fingers into his hair. “I've been digging, digging, digging, and I'm hitting rock.” He dropped his hands in defeat. “How can I know so little? We were close. She knew me inside out. She knew what I was thinking. I thought I knew what she was thinking, too.” He paused, eyes tormented. “I was a fool. A person doesn't just . . . just appear out of nowhere at the age of nineteen with no history at all. Why didn't I ask?”

“Because it didn't matter.”

“Clearly it does. How could I not know any of it?”

“Because she didn't say.”

“But why
not?
I'm her man. Why didn't she say?”

“If it was bad . . . if she was afraid . . .”

“Of me? But I love her. She knew that. And besides, how can someone like Heather have done something so bad? She's so
good.
She's patient and kind and understanding. She's generous. In all the time I've known her, there's been nothing—
nothing
—she's done that was bad. She doesn't yell at the kids. Doesn't yell at me. She doesn't have a mean bone in her body. So what could she have done that was so bad?”

“I don't know,” Poppy said. “I wish I did.”

“She never said anything to you, either?”

“No.”

Studying the floor now, he considered that news. His jaw flexed spasmodically. Finally, like a man condemned, he looked up. “Do you think she's Lisa?”

“No,” Poppy said. “No. I think it's something else.”

“If it's something else, why can't she say?”

“Sometimes you just can't.”

“I'm sorry. That doesn't work for me.”

Poppy laced her fingers. They lay in her lap, on thighs that looked perfectly normal under flannel-lined jeans but weren't good for much at all. Just then, she felt as useless as they were.

But there was no one else to help Micah. She had to try. So she said, “Suppose something terrible happened to her—something so horrible that if she kept thinking about it, it would have driven her mad—something so upsetting that she couldn't eat or sleep or think about anything else.”

“She should have told me.”

“But how do you survive something like that? How
do
you survive?”

Micah remained silent and tense.

“You push it out of your mind,” Poppy went on with the conviction of one who had been there. “You deny that it happened. I don't know what Heather lived through. I do know what she's like now, and it's everything good that you say. So how to explain why she can't talk about the other?”

Micah didn't answer.

But Poppy was desperate that he understand. “She loves you, Micah.
She loves the girls. If she can't talk about the past, maybe it's because she can't
let
herself do it.” Oh boy, did she know about that, too. “Okay. So maybe you don't work this way. But don't you think it's possible—just possible—that a person who has gone through something bad may need to let go of the past and become someone else in order to survive?”

* * *