Close to Home (18 page)

“Nothing.” So far she'd told no one about the old book she'd found in the basement, but she would have to soon. Because she needed an interpreter. The pages were so old and frail they almost cracked when you leafed through them, and the writing, a fluid feminine style, had faded with time but was still legible. The only problem? The whole diary was written in French, and though Gracie had tried typing in some of the phrases, using an online translator from French to English, she'd barely made out any of the content.

She knew the year was 1924, but other than that she hadn't made out much.

“Do you know French?”

Scottie shook her head, her brown hair shifting across her shoulders. “No. But my aunt Claudette does. She used to live in Paris.”

“Does she live around here?”

“New York. Why?”

“I need someone who can read French.” Other kids were filling the hallways, talking, laughing, and cursing, carrying books and checking their cell phones. Couples hung on each other, while packs of friends clogged the corridors. Gracie and Scottie had to wend their way through the throng and yell over the cacophony of voices and clang of slamming lockers.

“You're a dick, Carter!” one boy yelled over his shoulder as he jogged toward the cafeteria.

“Bite me, Maloney!” was the response.

“Why do you need a translator?” Scottie asked as they rounded the final corner to the cafeteria and the smell of tangy pizza sauce reached Gracie's nostrils.

Should she tell the other girl? Scottie was genuinely interested, but Scottie was a bigmouth. You just couldn't trust her with a secret.

“Oh, it's just something my dad wants me to do,” Gracie said. “Because, he, like, wants to take me to Paris and the French Riviera, and he thinks it would be best if I knew the language.”

Scottie pulled a face. “I would do it then. To go to France. My aunt Claudette, she used to be Claudia before she moved over there, she says it's fabulous. No, wait.” Scottie paused and lifted her head at an angle, as if she were posing. “Paris, the City of Light is
très magnifique!
”

“I thought that was L.A.”

“No, that's the City of Angels.” She frowned. “Or maybe lights, plural.” She shrugged. “Anyway, Aunt Claudette thinks you should do anything short of killing to get to Paris.”

“All I need is a translator.” She knew that Jade had taken a little French, but not that much, and besides, she couldn't trust her sister with a secret like this—not Jade, who didn't believe in anything and thought Gracie was an idiot, or worse. Gracie was pretty sure her mother could speak some French too, but no way was she going to ask Mom. She would utterly flip.

“So what about Miss Beatty?” Scottie suggested. “You know, the music teacher? She splits her time between here and the high school.”

“So?”

“She teaches French too. My cousin had her last year.”

“Can your cousin read it?”

Scottie shook her head. “She got a D one semester, and Uncle Ned flipped cuz he wants her to go away to school. In my family, Aunt Claudette is your best bet.” Her gaze moved away from Gracie as it always did. Scottie was one of those people who always expected someone more interesting to show up. “Oh,” she said, “There's Rita! You
have
to meet her. She's like super fun and is going with a sophomore at Our Lady.” Scottie lowered her voice. “Her parents don't know. She sneaks out to meet him behind their backs.” Her eyes glinted a bit as she shared the gossip, and Gracie decided for sure that Scottie didn't need to know about the journal.

No one did.

Not even Jade, who so far hadn't mentioned that she'd spied Gracie coming out of the basement. What was up with that?

Gracie crossed her fingers that Jade wouldn't spill the beans to Mom, or anyone else for that matter. Not until she had somehow managed to get the journal translated and then, hopefully, help Angelique Le Duc cross over.

A
t the dining room table, Sarah was making notes to the plans, caught in thoughts of somehow adding a master suite on the main level. She was having trouble with the position of the existing plumbing. She'd talked to the head of a demolition crew, as well as an excavating contractor, and reminded herself she really needed to go down into the basement and look for water damage or any cracks in the foundation, and also check the old behemoth of a furnace, which, no doubt, would have to be replaced. So far she'd avoided descending the hundred-year-old stairs to the unfinished rooms beneath ground level—what had once been a root cellar, laundry, storage, and place for the original wood-burning furnace before it was replaced somewhere around 1960. She'd been reluctant to explore that dark, spider-infested area where she'd been trapped as a child.

But wasn't that exactly one of the reasons she'd come home? To face her old terrors and lay them to rest, to restore this house to its original grandeur as she repaired some of the deepest cracks in her soul?

Her cell phone rang and she answered, “Hello?”

“Sarah, it's Aunt Margie! I heard you're renovating that dreadful old house, and that you've moved in.”

“Temporarily, but yes, the girls and I are here.”

“Fabulous. I'm on my way.”

“What? You mean now?”

“Absolutely. I'll be there in five and I've got a surprise for you!” She clicked off, and Sarah was left sitting at the table, holding her phone and thinking she really didn't need any more surprises. But that was Aunt Marge, or Margie, as she called herself, as different from her older sister, Arlene, as night to day.

“They're the yin and yang of the family,” Joseph had said once, years ago, when Sarah had been about ten. On Thanksgiving, when the family had gathered together at this very table, Aunt Marge, drink in hand, had flitted and smiled and flirted with all the men while Arlene had dutifully served everyone. Not to be outdone by her younger sister, Arlene drank as well, the gin and tonics flowing. But as Aunt Marge had become more gregarious, Arlene had turned sour and glum.

“Those two are more like good and evil,” Jacob had observed. The Stewart kids were all in the kitchen, running errands for their mother, making certain the holiday was perfect, at least in their mother's eyes. Jacob and Joseph were supposed to be hauling in more wood for the fire, but as usual, they were slacking off, while Dee Linn, in a bit of a snit, was checking on the pies cooling on the counter. The kitchen was warm and smelled of spices and roast turkey, the crystal glasses spotless and glittering, but the day had felt false to Sarah, a display without any true meaning. They'd prayed and given thanks, and there was a bale of hay and fat pumpkins and squash decorating the front door, but the feeling she'd thought should be a part of the holiday was missing. At least for her.

Cousin Caroline, not expected to do any work as she was a guest, had escaped the dining room and was leaning over the counter, playing with the extra salt and pepper shakers. It had seemed she was making sure her cousins caught a glimpse of her very visible cleavage. “Aunt Arlene is really on a crusade today, isn't she?” She'd picked up a basket of rolls that Sarah had taken from the oven where they'd been warming. “What a witch . . . or is she more of a bitch?” Caroline had been fifteen at the time and had wrinkled her nose, trying, as always, to be cute around the twins, or any boy for that matter. A flirt like her mother, she was pretty, with nearly black hair and a flawless olive complexion, but in Sarah's estimation, Caroline was a real pain.

“Don't!” Sarah had said. Her mother had instructed Sarah to bring the basket to the table, but Caroline had plucked a roll from beneath its orange napkin and taken a bite.

“Don't call your mother what she is?” Caroline had teased, her eyes sparkling.

“Don't . . . take a roll, yet,” Sarah had clarified. “They're for dinner.”

“But you don't care if I call your mother a b-word?” Caroline pushed, just as Clark had walked into the room and heard the end of the exchange.

“Quit picking on her,” he'd said as the swinging door shut behind him, cutting off the sounds of conversation from the adults at the table. “She's just a kid.”

Sarah had been thankful for the interruption but hadn't liked being reminded that she was the youngest.

Clark added, “Aunt Arlene wants us to take our seats.”

“Oh, my. A royal command. We'd all better hurry and obey,” Caroline said airily, again with an eye roll. She tossed her hair over her shoulders, timing things so that as she pushed through the swinging door to the dining room, then released it, it nearly hit Clark square in the face.

“So, who's the real bitch,” he muttered, just loud enough for Sarah to overhear.

“Mmmm,” Caroline had said, but her eyes had shot daggers at Clark. She and her older brother had always been at odds, and it had spilled over to adulthood as well, Sarah knew.

The memory faded just as Sarah heard a car arrive. Marge hadn't been kidding when she'd said they would be right over. As she walked out the door to meet her, she saw not just Marge, but Caroline and Clark too, all of them getting out of an older model Mercedes. Marge was still tall and slim and walked steadily, without so much as a cane for support. She was wearing a sweater and a hip-length jacket over slacks. A long scarf was wrapped around her neck. She'd slowed down, of course, but there was still a bit of spring in her step, and she greeted Sarah with a bear hug. Caroline and Clark, both bundled in long coats, looked on a bit uncomfortably, Sarah thought.

“Surprised?” Marge asked.

“Very much so, yes.” Sarah stepped out of the doorway. “Come in.”

Marge bustled forward, and her children, not nearly as enthusiastic, each muttered a brief “hi” as they passed by. Sarah pulled the door closed behind them.

“Oh, my,” Marge said, eyeing the inside of the house, walking slowly from the foyer to the living room/parlor and hallways. “So dark in here. I just had to see for myself, and I was hoping the place was in better shape on the inside than out. I haven't been here in years,” she admitted. “You know, your mother and I . . . well, it was always complicated.”

“You hated each other,” Caroline said, unbuttoning her coat.

“No, it was just—”

“Don't lie, Mom. We all remember how it was,” Caroline insisted flatly.

Some of the gaiety went out of Aunt Marge's eyes. She wore glasses now, and her once-auburn hair was lighter and blonder. Her children too had aged. Clark had filled out, become a tall man with broad shoulders. Caroline was still trim, but her hair was shorter and streaked to hide the beginnings of gray that were invading her once-dark locks.

“Come into the parlor,” Sarah offered. “I have coffee—”

“Oh, no, don't bother. I really just came by to see the place and ask if you'd seen Arlene.”

“Once,” Sarah admitted. “I hope to go back to Pleasant Pines soon.”

Marge made a big point of visibly shivering. “Dreadful place. So institutional. Take note, kids. I do
not
want to end up there.”

“Is it that bad?” Sarah asked.

“No,” Caroline was quick to reply. “Mom's just sensitive about it.”

“As any sane person would be. And poor Arlene. She can't drive anymore, well . . . I guess she's beyond all that now, of course,” Marge admitted.

They walked into the living room, where the fire had died, and Marge propped herself on the couch against a faded cushion while Clark shifted from one leg to the other and checked his cell, presumably for the time or a message, while Caroline couldn't help wandering around the first floor, her footsteps fading past the staircase.

“I'm worried about Arlene,” Aunt Marge said, still eyeing the interior of the house. “I, um, I'm afraid she might not last much longer. She's confused, you know.”

“Some of the time,” Sarah agreed.

“She probably doesn't make good decisions.”

“Probably not.”

Caroline returned to the living area and stood near one of the posts. “Just get to the point, Mom. We do have other things to do. Clark and I have jobs, you know, and family duties.”

Sarah gazed at Marge, who cleared her throat. “Okay, fine,” she said. “Sarah, I wanted to talk to you alone.”

“Alone?” Sarah repeated.

“Oh, brother.” Caroline was getting impatient.

“Well, I mean, before Dee Linn's extravaganza,” Marge explained. “From what I hear, she's invited half the town.”

Sarah looked from Marge to Caroline.

“She wants to know about your mother's will,” Caroline explained, while Clark sighed and pretended interest in the far wall, where old wallpaper was peeling.

“Well, yes. Yes, I do,” Marge said, slightly flustered by Caroline's bold statement.

Sarah steeled herself, wondering, for the first time, if all the comments Arlene had made over the years about her younger sister being envious of her were true. Arlene had forever insinuated that Marge, left in poor financial straits after her husband divorced her, had been jealous that Arlene had “married well.”

“I mean, I don't understand.” Marge looked to Clark for support, but he was having none of it. “The house was your mother's, Sarah. How can you just start renovating it? I would have thought all of the acres and buildings would be a part of Arlene's estate, but, of course, she never confided in me.”

“Which really pissed you off, didn't it?” Caroline said with a sigh. “I told you that I talked to Jacob and he told me how it worked. Arlene doesn't own it any longer.”

“So you bought it from her? You and your siblings?” Marge asked Sarah.

“Yes . . . essentially. I'm not trying to be secretive or coy, but I can't really discuss it.”

“Arlene had always indicated that I was going to be left something when she passed,” Marge said, cutting to the chase. “I . . . well, I'd hoped it would be enough to . . . make me more secure. You know that when Darrell left me and the children, things were tight.” All of a sudden tears filled her eyes. “Oh, my . . . for the love of God,” she whispered, digging through her purse until she found a tissue. “That man!”

“Mom,” Clark warned, long-suffering.

Marge sighed, “Oh, I know he was your father—”

“Is, Mom,” Caroline cut in. “He
is
still our dad.” All traces of the flirty girl Sarah had once known had fallen away. She turned to Sarah. “I'm sorry. This is inappropriate, but she insisted. Clark and I didn't want to come.”

“I'm just letting Sarah know what Arlene intended,” Marge defended herself. “I know my sister's a little . . . confused . . . now, but when she was in her right mind, she wanted me to be secure. Comfortable. We talked, you know. She didn't have an easy time with her husbands, either. First that dreadful Hugh, and then Franklin . . . Oh, I know he was your father and you loved him, but the man was a philanderer, a player. Trust me, I know. He came on to me more than once and even cornered Caroline that time by—”

“Mom! Stop!” Caroline's mouth dropped open, and her skin turned red. To her brother she said, “I knew this was a bad idea.”

Clark scowled. “So what were we going to do?”

“Say no, that's what.” Caroline was shaking her head and cinching the belt of her coat more tightly around her.

Clark reminded, “She would have just made a scene at Dee Linn's.”

“Don't talk as if I'm not in the room. Okay, I'm sorry!” Marge got to her feet and lifted her chin a notch. “I thought you were different from your brothers and sisters, Sarah. That you would be more compassionate, being a divorced woman and a single mother. That you would understand what happens when a marriage crumbles and the financial underpinnings, not to mention the emotional support, are stripped away. Your mother always mentioned that I would inherit something . . . I mean, even that little cabin that we used to rent from your father, or—”

“Let's go.” Clark, suddenly in charge, took his mother by the crook of her elbow and propelled her out of the living room and through the foyer.

“I'm sorry,” Caroline whispered again as Sarah got to her feet too. “I guess we're saying that a lot. Don't mind Mom. She's just bitter.”

“I heard that!” Marge declared as Clark opened the front door with his free hand.

“You were meant to, Mom.” Caroline shook her head. “Bye, Sarah,” she said as they all walked to the front door. “I'll see you at Dee Linn's extravaganza, I guess. Unfortunately, we'll all be there.”

“See you there,” Sarah said, and felt a welling disappointment that it had all come down to money with her aunt. She watched as Aunt Marge's aging Mercedes drove away, leaving a trail of blue smoke and sadness in its wake.

 

At lunch, Jade discovered her phone had sustained a major crack and barely worked, but fortunately Mary-A and her gang left Jade alone to down a Diet Coke and sneak outside. She thought about a cigarette but didn't have a pack and really wasn't that into it. Using the cell was a real pain now; reading texts was nearly impossible, and she found herself wanting to strangle Liam Longstreet and his loser of a friend.

The rest of the day didn't get any better, but she suffered through until last period, when, still avoiding her “angel,” Jade made her way to the science wing, with its 1950s charm, ancient labs, and acrid smells that wafted into the hallways. Without saying a word to anyone, she slipped into an empty seat at a lab table in the back. Though most of the students in biology class sat in pairs, two lab partners at each table, she had, as yet, not been assigned a partner, so the other chair at the table was vacant.

Which was perfect.