An Accidental Woman (50 page)

He tightened his hold of her. “Well, I would never do that. So you don't have to worry.”

“Does Heather's baby miss her now?”

Micah didn't know that. He didn't know what Poppy had found. Nor did he know what Heather felt about it all. “The baby isn't a baby anymore. She's almost grown up, and she has her own daddy.”

“Me, too, but I miss Momma. If she had to choose, would she choose that baby instead of us?”

“She'd choose us,” Micah said. But he wasn't sure, and therein lay the crux of his fear. Heather had a past now. Regardless of the outcome of Cassie's dealings, she was free to be Lisa again. He couldn't imagine her choosing to return to California. But how could he know for sure?

He loved Heather. If she became Lisa again, he and the girls would be on their own.

* * *

Me, too.
She had said it and then hung up.

He wanted to know if she meant it. Assuming that she would call back, certainly on her way to the airport as she had promised, he kept the phone in his pocket the whole time he'd been at Micah's—only to pull it out when he returned to the truck and find it stone cold and blank. The thing had gotten turned off somehow. He must have bumped it in just a certain way. When he turned it on and called her back, the messaging system picked up.

Her house was quiet now, dark and cold. He lit candles, built a fire, poured himself a glass of wine. A lengthy search turned up Victoria sleeping on a pile of spare blankets in Poppy's closet, but the cat had no desire to come out and visit, not with him, at least.

With a candle in one hand and his wineglass in the other, he wandered around the house. He would have thought that after being with other people so much lately, he would welcome the solitude. But being with Poppy wasn't like being with “other people.” She was easy and, aside from the occasional venting, totally agreeable. She was fun, smart, caring. She was certainly brave.

He had thought he was the brave one, surviving Little Bear, weathering the isolation of being an outsider in an insider town. But there was Poppy, wheelchair-bound in Florida, getting around on her own and no doubt doing it well—while here he sat, afraid to call the phone number on the scrap of paper in his pocket.

Disgusted with himself, he pulled out the paper, turned on his cell phone, and punched in the number. Heart pounding, he listened through four long rings. He was fully expecting an answering machine to come on, when a groggy female voice murmured, “This had better be good.”

Griffin swallowed. “Is Cynthia Hughes there?”

There was silence for several seconds—muffled sounds to suggest the transfer of the phone—then a different voice. This one was gentler, more cautious, familiar even after seven years. “Yes?”

Griffin had trouble breathing. “Cindy?”

There was such utter silence on the other end that he feared she'd hung up.

“Stay with me,” he begged. “Please don't hang up. I've looked for you for so long.” Still she said nothing. His heart positively thundered. “Cindy?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “How did you find me?”

“Your poem. The one in
Yankee
magazine. Robin Chris. Christopher Robin. You always loved Winnie-the-Pooh. Remember I used to read the books to you?”

There was a pause, then a quiet, “That was a long time ago.”

“Your poem was beautiful—but sad. Is that how you are?”

“I'm okay.”

“I get your notes, but they don't say much about you.”

“I know.”

“When you just disappeared, we didn't know if you'd make it.”

“Neither did I,” she said, and he imagined he heard the trace of a smile.

“I know why you left,” he went on. “It was an untenable situation. There was no give from Mom and Dad, and none of
us
helped. You know that Mom's gone.” He figured Cindy knew everything that had happened since she had left.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“And that we've all kind of . . . separated.”

“Yes. I feel guilty about that.”

“It wasn't your fault. It was us.”

“I caused it.”

“You were a kid. Kids rebel. We were older and should have been more responsible. But we each stayed in our own little lives and kept our mouths shut—like if we ignored the trouble at home, it didn't exist. We were wrong. We were
wrong.”

She didn't respond.

“Cindy?”

“I ran away,” she said, “because I couldn't deal with the mess of everything. I wanted to leave it all behind, start fresh, y'know? And I have. But you don't forget. Not with family. You don't stop feeling.”

Had they been carrying on a casual conversation, Griffin might have told her about Heather, because there were analogies there. But this was no casual conversation. It was a groundbreaking one. The focus had to be on the here and now. “Are you . . . okay?”

“I don't do drugs, if that's what you mean. I haven't since soon after I left. I wrote that in my note. I wanted you to know.”

Griffin also knew that addicts sometimes had setbacks. He was relieved that Cindy had stayed clean. “You're not married?”

“No. I don't trust myself enough for that.”

It was the guilt thing, he knew. She blamed herself for destroying a family. “Are you seeing someone for it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need help paying?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” When she didn't answer, he asked, “Are there good things for you there?” He needed to know that there were. “Who was that who answered the phone?”

“A friend. We share the rent. And yes, there are good things. My friends are . . . offbeat, but I love them. To hear the stories some of them tell, our family's dysfunctionality was mild. But we've kind of formed a family ourselves. And I get pleasure from my work.”

“You should. It's incredibly good. Tell me more about your life.”

“It's . . . fluid.”

That was a warning. She meant she could go anywhere—as in, disappear—on a moment's notice. “Are you happy?” he asked.

“Often.”

That was something. “Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“Can I see you?”

“No.”

“I'll come to wherever.”

“You
know
wherever,” she said with a bit of the spirit he remembered. “You dialed an area code that tells you exactly where I am. Are you going to show up here? Or tell the others?”

“If you say no, I won't.”

“I say no. If anyone else finds me, I'm out of here.”

“Even if it's Peter or Alex?” Griffin asked. They were the gentlest of his brothers.

“I'm not steady enough on my own, Griffin. Just the mention of their names takes me back to the person I was, and I don't want to go there.”

Griffin suspected she had too solid a grasp of what she wanted to do much backsliding now, but she had to realize that herself. “You've always stayed one step ahead of us. When I saw that pseudonym, I was afraid to believe. A tiny part of me hoped you were sending me a message.”

She didn't deny it. Quietly, she said, “I have to go now, Griffin. Give me your number.”

He gave her his cell phone, along with his Princeton address and phone number, along with Poppy's address and phone number.

When he gave her the last, she asked, “Is Poppy Blake related to Lily Blake from last fall?”

“Sister. She's an incredible woman—spunky like you, which is probably why I felt an immediate connection. She's dealing with a lot of past stuff, too.”

“And you're helping her because you can't help me?”

“I'm not sure I'm helping her. She's doing that herself. I just love her.”

“Oh my,” Cindy said, again with the kind of spirit Griffin remembered. “You'll have to keep me apprised.”

“Will you stay at this number?”

“As long as no one comes. I keep tabs on Ralph. But you knew that.”

“Yes. If you move, will you let me know?”

“That depends on why I have to move. I know what Ralph is up to. Randy's more roundabout. He broke the Matlock case. Is he up there in New Hampshire with you?”

“No. His role in it ended with the arrest.” Griffin paused. “Dad would want to know you're okay. Can I tell him we've talked?”

“No. He'd subpoena your phone record, get my number, and be here in no time, judging . . . me again. I'm not ready for that. Maybe someday. But not yet.”

Griffin knew that “someday” would come. If he had learned anything from Poppy and Heather, it was that. For now, he understood what his sister was feeling. As long as she stayed in touch with him, there was hope.

* * *

Her plane was late. He had another cup of coffee and stood alternately watching the arrivals board and asking the airline agent for the latest news. The agent was female, and old enough to be his mother, which was probably why she took pity on him. Once he had shown identification, submitted to a search, and satisfactorily answered every one of her questions, she assisted him in getting through the security checkpoints to meet “the woman in the wheelchair” at the gate.

Griffin's eyes were on the board when the
ETA
changed to
IN.
He watched the plane taxi to the terminal and connect to the jetport. Eyes on the jetway, he waited for Poppy to come out. She was the very last one to emerge, but the wait was worth it. The sight of her made his heart swell.

He started forward as soon as there was room, shifted her carry-on from her lap to his shoulder, and bent over to hug her. When her arms went tight around his neck, he scooped her up and whirled her around. He didn't care who was watching, didn't care if the whole world saw his girl and him. He was so proud of her, so proud to be with her.

She was laughing by the time he set her back in her seat.