An Accidental Woman (25 page)

“Back
there?”

“There,” Poppy corrected.

“Did she come from California?”

“No. I don't want to talk about this, Mom.” Leaving a hand on Victoria—her ally—she went to the phone panel. “Oh my.”

“What?”

“Griffin left a list of every call he answered. I need to use this man more.” He had even switched on the audio, so she would hear if another call came in. He had also left his own papers in a pile at the end of the desk, and his briefcase was on the floor nearby. It was either a statement of trust or an invitation for Poppy to take a look.

Not up for deciding which, she wheeled past the phone bank and followed the scent of bay leaves and sage down the hall. The closer she got to the kitchen, the stronger the smells grew. Once she crossed the threshold, they became positively divine.

She opened the oven to peek. Victoria stirred enough to lift her head and sniff right along with Poppy. “Ahhh,” Poppy sighed with satisfaction. “No one does pot roast like you do.”

“Nothing's fresh there,” Maida cautioned, more like her exacting self now. “I had to get everything from the freezer or the pantry, not that it's the season for Mary Joan's red potatoes anyway, so I had to use canned ones. But I walked in the door, put the meat in the microwave to defrost, and had the whole thing starting to cook before I unpacked.”

Poppy was used to Maida's doting. She was forever sending Poppy cooked food, uncooked food, clothes, candy, and books. Still, Poppy was touched by the effort made now. “You didn't have to do this.”

“I wanted to.” She grew serious. “It was lonely down there, Poppy.”

“But you have lots of friends.”

“Friends aren't my girls.” Seeming embarrassed, she turned to the counter. Opening a bag, she began to put fresh oranges in a large wooden bowl. “You're all good girls.”

“Well,
that's
quite a statement,” Poppy blurted out. “You wouldn't have said it so long ago. You
hated
what Lily was doing.”

“I was frightened,” Maida confessed. She didn't look at Poppy, just continued arranging oranges in the bowl.

“What's changed now?”

Maida added an orange to the pile, set it here, set it there, studied the arrangement. “I don't know. At my age, well . . .”

“You're only fifty-seven.”

“Almost fifty-eight.” She removed that orange and two others, and put them back in different spots. “I used to think that was old, but here I am with three daughters who'll be in their forties before I know it.”

“I'm only thirty-two.”

“My point is, the three of you are grown up.”

“We have been for a while.”

“I'm trying to accept that.” She looked up from the bowl. “If you're adults, that means I can't control you. I can't tell you what to do. You have to live your own lives. Make your own mistakes.”

There it was. That was Maida. Afraid of mistakes. Afraid that her life wouldn't be perfect.

She went on. “But that doesn't mean I don't worry. I worry a lot. You can't change the thinking of a lifetime in a few short months.”

“Be glad you're not Heather's mother,” Poppy said, and was suddenly curious. “What if you were her, reading about all this in the paper? What would you be thinking?”

“Are we assuming that Heather is not Lisa?”

“Yes,” Poppy said with only a glimmer of guilt. They were talking hypotheticals, after all. Still, she tossed in one fact. “Heather's mother left when she was little.”

Maida thought about that for a minute, then asked, “What kind of woman does that?”

“I don't know. But let's say there was a reason. Let's say the separation was necessary. So what would you, as Heather's mother, be feeling?”

“Exposed,” Maida immediately said. Then she followed it up with a quieter, “Frightened. Worried. Confused. I'd be wondering what she did to bring this on herself.”

“Would you go to see her? Would you support her? Would you scrounge up money to help with her defense?”

“That would depend on the nature of the relationship, on why she left all those years ago.”

“We're talking mother and daughter,” Poppy said impatiently. “Would you
support
her?”

Maida let out a reluctant breath. “Well, that would certainly be the right thing to do.”

“But would you
do
it?”

“I'd have to know the truth about what she'd done,” Maida said.

Poppy could have screamed, because she didn't want waffling. She didn't want conditions. She wanted an answer. A definitive answer. A positive answer.

What she wanted, she realized, was for Maida to say that if she were Heather's mother, she would love Heather no matter what. Poppy wanted Maida, the perfectionist, to express this kind of unconditional love.
That
would have made Poppy feel better when she had phoned Maida the other day.

But it was asking too much, and that upset her. She was relieved when Victoria chose that moment to jump off her lap and go to her food.

Maida, too, was distracted. “How did she know it was there?”

“We showed her before. She remembers.”

They watched in silence while Victoria ate. After a minute, the cat went to the litter box. She didn't enter, just sniffed the lip of the box. Then she returned to her food.

“How does she
do
that?” Maida asked. “Is it by smell?”

“Smell, memory, whiskers. I would think that since she lost her sight, her other senses are heightened.”

“I take it she's an indoor cat.”

“I certainly wouldn't let her out.”

“And Griffin brought her for you? What a sweet thing.”

“Well, he didn't bring her for me, exactly. He brought her in to show her to me, and she seemed to like the place, so it made sense to let her stay. But it's just for the time being, until Griffin leaves.”

“I think he brought her for you.”

“He didn't. Trust me.”

Maida went on as though Poppy hadn't spoken. “He knew you needed a pet.”

“I don't need a pet.”

“You were always good with our cats. Do you remember that tabby?”

“I do. We called her Tabby. But that was then, Mom. My life is pretty busy now. I'm in and out all the time. I have plenty of responsibility. I don't need a pet.”

“He saw this one and knew you'd take care of it. He knew you would understand her special needs.”

Poppy didn't like the sound of that. “What needs are those?”

“This cat's blind. That takes understanding. You know what it is to have special needs.”

Poppy bristled. “The handicapped cat for the handicapped girl?”

“No,” Maida replied with care. “The handicapped cat for the girl who understands. That's all I meant, Poppy.”

But Poppy couldn't get the other out of her mind. “The handicapped cat for the handicapped girl,” she repeated. She wondered if Griffin had thought that, too—and was suddenly furious that Maida had pointed it out. “Did you have to say that?”

“I didn't say it. You did. That wasn't what
I
had in mind.”

“I've made a life here, Mom. I've made a life that's good and full. I've gotten used to being in this chair, and part of the reason is that people around me accept that I'm here and don't talk about it or question it or even . . . even
notice
it. I don't know why you have to throw it in my face.” She wheeled around and headed out of the kitchen.

“I didn't, Poppy,” Maida called, following quickly.

“You did. You took something innocent on Griffin's part and made it into something so . . . so pathetic that it makes me feel like a
cripple.”
She wheeled her chair in an abrupt one-eighty and faced Maida. “No one else makes me feel that way. Why do you have to do it? Why can't you accept me as I am? Why can't you treat me like I'm normal? It'd help, y'know. It'd help a whole lot!”

Doing another one-eighty, she wheeled off toward her bedroom. Once in that wing of the house, though, she turned into the weight room and pulled the door closed. For a minute, she sat fuming with her jaw clenched and her hands tight on her wheels. Then she heard a sound at the door.

Had it been Maida's voice there, she might have asked for time alone. Angry as she was—
hurt
as she was—she knew she had overreacted.

But the sound she heard wasn't Maida's voice, just a plaintive, questioning meow.

Poppy slid the door open only enough for Victoria to slip through. The sight of the cat brought a whisper of calm. Sitting back, Poppy watched her explore the room. She walked along two walls first, getting a grasp on the width and length. Then she moved in toward the equipment, finding one piece after another. She walked around each, using her whiskers, nose, and paws to plot height and shape. She rose on her hind legs to explore the weights, and jumped onto the seat of the recumbent bicycle. Seconds later, she was down again. When she reached the parallel bars, she stepped daintily on the thin runner and walked its length. At its end, she sat and turned toward Poppy.

“You're a smart one,” Poppy said softly, feeling fully in control again. She came forward, putting her elbows on her thighs. “Tell you what. You can have that one. It's yours. Walk on it all you want. Sit there. Grin. That one's yours, the others are mine. Does that sound like a fair deal?”

* * *

Is it too painful being Poppy?

Oh, he heard a loon or two—Billy did love his pipe. Otherwise, though, the lake was beautifully quiet and still.

Then he saw a fox. At least, he guessed it was a fox from its skinny dog size and large bushy tail. Holding its head down in a way that few dogs did, it walked through the snow across the lake. It stopped once to look his way, then continued on toward the shore and disappeared into the trees.

Growing cold, Griffin went inside. He built up the fire and checked his watch. He made coffee and checked his watch. He opened the door, looked out again, and checked his watch.

When it was late enough, he put on his warmest things and walked to shore through the footprints that he'd made on the way to the cabin. He climbed into the truck, let it warm a minute or two, then drove off. When he was at just the right spot, he pulled over, set his blinkers, and called Poppy.

“Hey,” he said, feeling a lift at the sound of her voice. “I didn't wake you, did I?” She didn't sound so much sleepy as deep in thought.

“No. I'm awake.” She sighed softly. “Lots on my mind. Uh, I thought you didn't have cell reception.”

“I don't on the island. I'm sitting here in the truck on the side of the road at the exact spot where I know the reception starts. You learn these things.”

“What time is it?” she asked, and must have looked at the clock, because she answered herself. “Nearly eleven. It must have been cold crossing the lake.”

“Not as bad as it's been. There's no wind. But I didn't want to do it earlier. I wanted to make sure your mother was gone. How did it go?”

“How did what go?” Poppy asked with a sharpness that reminded him about her visit with Heather. But first things first.

“Dinner with your mother.”

There was another pause, then a surprised but gentler, “It was okay. Thank you for asking.”

Relieved that he'd hit on something safe, he said, “She was perfectly lovely to me. But I sense that you and she don't always get along. I guess it's a usual mother-daughter thing. You know, competition. Woman versus woman. Generation gap. Pull and tug of who's in charge.”

“I guess,” Poppy said, but she didn't pick up on anything he'd offered, and her tone suggested something else was on her mind. “Griffin? I have to ask you something.”

His heart beat a little faster. He was ready for a personal question, like whether he was seeing anyone in Princeton, or whether he liked Lake Henry, or what he
really
felt about her being in a wheelchair. He could answer these questions. He truly could.

“I'm listening,” he said. “Ask me whatever.”

“Did you take this cat with me in mind?”

Well, it was a personal question, albeit not one of those he had anticipated. He wondered if the cat was sick and Poppy was trying to break it to him gently. “Is something wrong with her?”

“No. She's sleeping up here on the bed, right beside me. Charlotte was
right. She's a lap cat. But she's also blind. So I'm asking whether the instant you realized that, you thought of me?”

“As in, thought you'd want this cat?”

“As in,” she pushed, “thought it'd be a good
pairing.
She's handicapped. I'm handicapped. Was that it?”

“No,” he answered honestly. “I didn't think that. I didn't take her from Charlotte with you in mind at all. I took her for myself, because she . . . touched me.”

“Because she's blind?”

“Because she deserves a good home.”

“Because she's blind?” Poppy repeated with some insistence.

“Yes. Maybe that.”

“Is that how you feel about me?”

He chuckled. “Looks to me like you have a good home.”

“But not a man. Not a relationship. So there you are with the kind of sensitivity that makes you want to give a blind cat a home, and that same kind of sensitivity might be what's bringing you here to me. I just wanted you to know I'm not that hard up. There are lots of men who've been after me since the accident.”

“I'm sure there are.”

“Have you met Jace Campion? He owns a forge over in Hedgeton.”

“A forge?”

“He's a blacksmith. Well, he only does that once in a while now. It was his father's business, but there aren't many people around here with horses anymore. Jace shoes the few that need shoeing, but when he's not doing that, he forges metal into beautiful pieces of art. His stuff is shown in New York. He's been written up in all the magazines. He's rolling in it. I mean, he's really made it.”

Griffin didn't respond. He sensed that the way to deal with Poppy was to let her air everything out.

“I'm telling you this,” she obliged, “so you'll know that I could be with someone if I wanted. I don't want your pity. I don't
need
your pity. Jace is asking me out all the time, and he isn't the only one. So if you're here because that soft heart of yours is touched by my
situation,
I want
you to know that the situation isn't what you think it is. I'm not desperate.”

Griffin barked out a protest. “Thanks a lot.”

“That came out wrong.”

“I'm not desperate either, Poppy. I could be dating lots of other women.”

“Why aren't you?”

“Beats me,” he exclaimed. “They'd be a hell of a lot less prickly than you are.” He thought about that and calmed. “But prickly is fun. It's interesting. Those others don't intrigue me the way you do.”

“It's curiosity, then? Wondering what it's like to do it with a paraplegic?”

“Oh, come
off
it, Poppy,” he scolded. “If you don't have more faith in me than that, there's no hope for us at all. You intrigue me because you think. You're a leader. You act. You do what you want. I've never aspired to make love to a paraplegic.” His voice softened. “I do aspire to make love to you. I spend lots of time wondering what that'd be like. It's making me physically uncomfortable.”

“Physically uncomfortable, as in repulsed?”

“As in hard, Poppy. Hard.”

She was silent for the longest time.

He wondered if he'd grossed her out. “Are you still there?” he finally asked.

“I'm here,” she said, but her voice sounded different. He could swear it had a broken quality to it.

“Are you crying again?” he charged, trying to make a joke of it so that he wouldn't hurt quite so much inside himself.

She sniffled. “It's been a rough day.”

“Your visit with Heather?” When he heard something that sounded like a moan, he said, “Are you okay?”

“I guess.” But she didn't sound it. He heard a soft hiccuping.

“I'm coming over.”

“No.” There were more sniffles, and then a half-wailed, “No, I'm okay, it's just that you say amazing things sometimes, and I have my sensitive side, too.”

“I can be there in ten minutes.”

She gave a nasal laugh. “You can not. You'd kill yourself—skid right off the road into a tree—just like Marcy McCleary—Marcy Smith—Micah's wife—former wife.”

“Late wife,” Griffin amended. “I get the picture. Now tell me about Heather. Did she say something?”

“I don't know.”

“What do you mean?”

“She might have. Or I might be wrong.”

Griffin waited. When the silence stood, he said, “You're not gonna leave me hanging like that, are you?”

“I just don't
know,”
Poppy cried, and he sensed they'd come full circle. This was where she'd been when he had first called.

Quietly, he asked, “Is she Lisa?”

“I don't know.”

“Did she give you any clues?”

Poppy didn't answer. And he didn't want to push. She was independent; he liked that about her. She had lived a long time without him. He had to let her think things through. “Can I come over in the morning and make you breakfast?”

“I can make myself breakfast.”

“I know that,” he acknowledged, “but I like to cook, and the setup on Little Bear is primitive. So indulge me, Poppy. Either that, or take pity on me. Let me use a real stove. Come on. Be a sport.”

“Haven't I heard that one before?”

“Let me make breakfast.”

There was a pause, then a hedgy, “What do you make?”

“What do you like?”

“I asked you first.”

“Okay. I make omelets. I make pancakes. I make a terrific French toast.”

“Baked?”

“Can be. What do you say?”

“That sounds pretty good. I like French toast.”

“Is eight too early?”

“No.”

“It's a date, then.” He instantly regretted his choice of words, half expecting her to object. When she didn't, he was heartened. Very gently, he said, “When we're done, will you tell me what upset you so about Heather?”

There was a pause, then a quiet, “We'll see.” And an even quieter, “Griffin?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.” It was half whispered.

“For what?”

“Calling. To see how things went with my mother. Caring that I was upset. People don't usually do that.”

“That, dollface,” he quipped, because his heart was beating up a storm and he had to make light of the moment, “is because you put out messages saying that you're entirely independent and self-sufficient—and you
are
those good things. But it's nice to have someone do something for you once in a while, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” she drawled, apparently agreeing that a lightening of emotions was needed. “Drive carefully.”

“I will. Sleep well.”

“You, too.”