Finding Fortune (22 page)

“I guess so,” I murmured.

Stretch gave me a thumbs-up sign. “So let's shoot for a report on Monday, okay?”

I nodded and picked up my paintbrush. I'd have to think about Monday later. For now, all I needed to worry about was finishing my mantel with its tiny Christmas stockings and creating the tissue-paper fire underneath. That way I'd have all next week to figure out the people—the sisters and Marmee and Father—before SAG ended and before Dad came home.

*   *   *

Dad loved the Fourth of July. He kept the same ritual every year. Each June, he and Uncle Spence would drive all the way across the border to Missouri, where it was legal to buy fireworks. They kept it secret what they bought, always claiming that this year's show would be the best ever. The suspense would build throughout the day. First we'd have a cookout for friends in our backyard. Then we'd troop to City Park to watch the Jaycees put on their annual fireworks extravaganza. And at last, while everyone else headed home, tired and satisfied, the Winningham family would drive out to the country to see our own private fireworks display.

It happened in a field overlooking the river on the other side of Fortune, where my father had permission to hunt and wander with Old Blue whenever he wanted. Mom, Nora, and I would sit on the hood of the car clapping and cheering while off in the distance my father and his brother sprinted around in the dark like teenagers, lighting off their stash.

Of course I knew the Fourth wouldn't be the same this year. I didn't feel like going to the park without Dad. Uncle Spence had other plans, and there'd be no fireworks in the field. “Since we're not doing anything,” Nora said as she sat at the counter eating toast that morning, “can I go hang out with Alain? His host family's having a party so he can see all of that rah-rah USA stuff before he goes back to France. You know, like hot dogs and a flag cake and sparklers…”

Mom and I had been emptying the dishwasher. She swung around with a glass in her hand. “But we
are
doing something,” she said. “There's a big get-together for all the military families at the rec center this afternoon. They're having a barbecue and everyone's going to make welcome-home banners.”

I stopped plunking forks into the silverware drawer. “You actually want to go to that?” I asked.

“Of course I do, Ren,” Mom said with a sigh. She dropped her arm, letting the glass dangle at her side. “I can't wait for your father to get back home, safe and sound. Don't you know that? No matter what happens between Dad and me, we're still a family, right?” She gave Nora a firm look. “So we're going to go make banners. You'll have to wait and see Alain tomorrow.”

Nora didn't argue. “Okay.” She sniffed and went back to eating her toast. I wanted to be that way—to be able to give a little shrug and get on with life. But in my head, the reunion movie—the one I'd been starting and stopping in my imagination all year long—had begun to play again. So Mom would be there to greet Dad after all, smiling and crying tears of joy just like Marmee would be in my shadow box. But then what? Why couldn't life be more like books, where you could read ahead and find out the end?

*   *   *

Operation Homecoming in the big gym at the rec center should have been renamed Operation Chaos. The organizers had rolled out long sheets of butcher paper on the floor and distributed buckets of markers so that we could get right to work on our creations. But anticipation in the air was so high that all the little kids had revved themselves into a hyperactive frenzy. With the doors open to the grills out back on the patio, it looked as if someone had set up a fog machine, and the kids ran screeching through the smoky gym with their fists clenched around markers and drippy Popsicles. Within fifteen minutes, the banner Nora and I had been making—
WELCOME HOME SGT. WINNINGHAM! WE
❤
U
—had three dusty shoeprints across it and a grape-colored splash right in the middle of our perfectly outlined heart.

Mom had been off chatting and trading hugs with a group of wives across the gym, but suddenly she was hurrying toward me, weaving through the buffet tables and throngs of stampeding kids. She thrust out her cell phone, practically shouting over the racket around us. “It's for you!”

I staggered up from the spot where I'd been kneeling and reached across our trampled banner for the phone. “Who is it?”

Mom mouthed something, but I couldn't tell what. I pressed the phone to my ear and hurried outside. “Hello?” I barked into the phone. “Hello?” By the time I had dodged my way around the grills and the condiment station and a noisy game of volleyball to a place under the trees where I could hear, Tucker was shouting too. “It's Tucker! Where are you? The circus?”

“Sort of,” I said with a quivery laugh. “Sorry about that.” I wandered over to the nearest maple tree and leaned against it. “I can hear you now.”

“Hildy had your mom's number on her phone,” Tucker said. “She wanted me to call you.”

“She did?” Then I bit back my excitement. Maybe Tucker was only calling to make the message official.
Don't come back.

“How's Hildy doing?” I asked carefully. “I still don't know what happened. Did she break her hip?”

“No, turns out she only bruised it. She keeps bragging about having the bones of a forty-year-old. But she sprained her ankle and her blood pressure kept shooting up, so the doctors made her stay in the hospital until they could get it back to normal.”

“So she's home now?”

“Yep.” Tucker exhaled. He sounded drained. “She got home a couple of days ago. Garrett built ramps to the stage and the front door for her wheelchair, but so far she's stayed in bed most of the time.”

“Poor Hildy,” I said softly. “I bet that's driving her crazy.”

“Totally. She hates feeling useless. That's why I called. I think it would cheer her up if you came to see her.”

I sagged deeper against the tree. “What about your dad? Is he still there?”

“No. Mine's been helping a ton and she talked him into going back to Des Moines yesterday.”

“I'm really sorry, Tucker.” I sat down in the nest of roots at my feet. “Your father started asking me all kinds of questions and I had to tell him that we weren't in the gym when Hildy had her accident. Did you get in huge trouble?”

I could hear Tucker's drawn-out sigh. “My dad did what he always does. Yelled and stomped around and then when I explained what we were doing—why we were looking at the mural—he freaked out all over again. But he calmed down eventually … like he always does,” he repeated.

“You admitted we were trying to find the pearls?”

“Yeah. He thinks it's ridiculous. And I have to say I think it's pretty goofy myself, after all the time I wasted crawling around on Hildy's boat.”

“What?” I let out a surprised laugh. “You did? Didn't Hugh tell you that we already looked there?”

“Yeah, but I thought I might as well give it a try too. Just in case. Anyway,” he went on, “I think Hildy might have gotten wind that my dad gave you a hard time. She wants you to come over and visit her one day if you can.”

“Of course I can come,” I told him with a catch in my voice. “What about tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Tucker said just as a rowdy cheer from the volleyball game came drifting through the trees. I smiled into the phone.

On my way back to the rec center, I spotted Mom standing on the lawn near the volleyball court, searching for me. Her face cleared as I came trotting out of the grove of maples. “I was worried,” she called out. “What did Tucker say? Is everything all right with Hildy?”

I could see our welcome-home banner with its Popsicle stains rolled up under my mother's arm. She almost dropped it in surprise when I hurried over to hug her. “Everything's fine,” I said as I rested my head against her chest.

Maybe Fourth of July wasn't so bad this year after all.

 

TWENTY-EIGHT

MY FIRST GLIMPSE
of Hildy after her accident was so scary that I stood frozen on the stage like a bad actress struggling to remember my lines. The lighting probably made things worse. With the heavy velvet curtains shrouding all four sides and dark rafters where the ceiling should have been, the only brightness came from a few dim lamps scattered around the stage.

“I know, I know,” Hildy said once I had floundered through my hello and taken a seat in the straight-back chair beside her bed. “I'm a mess.” She reached up and patted her scalp and the sparse gray fluff that sprouted from it. Her skin matched her hair. Without makeup it was the color of ashes, and she looked more shrunken than ever, propped in the middle of her giant four-poster bed, swallowed in her robe and covers. “Bring me my wig, will you, Mine?” Hildy called. “Ren looks like she's about to faint.”

Mine laughed and scooped the clump of stiff brown curls from the top of a dresser that sat in the corner. When she delivered it, Hildy plunked the wig on her head like a hat. Then she put on her glasses. “Better?” she asked.

I didn't know how to answer. Luckily Mine leaned over and gave the wig a couple of quick little tugs. “There,” she said. “You look awesome.” She moved the glass of water closer on Hildy's bedside table. “Need anything else?”

“No, dear. You've done enough this morning.” Wincing, Hildy sank back against the pillows that were piled up behind her. “You go tend to Hugh. Ren will keep me company for a little while.”

“Did you see Hugh when you came in?” Mine asked me.

“He and Tucker opened the door for me. They were headed out to the labyrinth. Sounds like it's almost done,” I added brightly.

Hildy's expression turned bleak. “I told Garrett I wanted to be the first one down the path.” She sighed. “But who knows how long that will take. You all will have to go ahead without me, I suppose.”

I shot Mine a worried look. “The labyrinth will be good motivation for you, Hildy,” Mine said. “The sooner you get back on your feet, the sooner you can get rid of this stuff.” She picked up the walker and thumped it down next to the wheelchair at the end of the bed.

Hildy smiled wanly, closing her eyes like an obedient child.

“I'll be right next door in the kitchen,” Mine told me as she stepped through the curtains at the front of the stage. Once Mine had gone, I glanced back to start a conversation with Hildy, but she had drifted off to sleep. I couldn't help staring for a few seconds, at her sunken cheeks, at the tiny blue veins in the hollows of her temples. Then I forced my gaze away and let it roam around the stage. There were Oriental rugs on the wooden floor and heavy antiques with doilies on top—like what you'd expect to see in an old woman's bedroom. Still, I couldn't help imagining that any minute the curtains might open, the lights would lift, and there, lined up below, would be the shadowy audience ready to watch us—Hildy and me—starring in our own little play.

I jumped when Hildy suddenly spoke up beside me in her husky voice. “Your dad will be home soon,” she said.

“That's right.” I smiled. “Only one more week.”

“That's wonderful, honey. I bet you can hardly wait.”

“I can't. But—” I knotted my fingers together in my lap. “But I'm scared too.”

“Why's that?”

Was I really going to say it? Out loud?
I took a deep breath in and then let it go, pushing my words free at the same time. “My dad moved out, right before he left for Afghanistan. All year I've been telling myself my parents will get back together as soon as my dad comes home. But now … I'm not so sure anymore.”

“That's a bitter pill to swallow, isn't it?” Hildy's tone was so matter-of-fact, almost like she was talking to another grownup, that I glanced up in surprise.

“We can't hold back change, Ren,” she said. “Sometimes things change for the better. Sometimes for the worse. Either way, we've got to be grateful for what we have and take life as it comes—good and bad—one step at a time.”

I leaned forward, considering, and rested my chin on the heel of my hand. “It sounds pretty simple when you say it that way.”

“Simple!” Hildy snorted and shook her head. “No, ma'am. Change is hard. If it were simple, would I be wearing this darn wig?”

We were still laughing when Hildy turned to look at something on the bedside table. At first I thought she might want a drink of water, but then I realized what she was gazing at—an old photograph propped against her lamp. It was the picture of her father and brother standing on the back of her dad's clamming boat—the same one she had tucked in her apron that morning when I had found her up on the balcony and confessed to opening the safe in the principal's office.

“Can I see?” I asked, reaching for the photo. Hildy nodded.

I peered down at the faces, searching for a family resemblance. “Your brother, Tom, was pretty cute,” I said. “How old was he when this was taken?”

“Oh, probably twelve or thirteen. About Tucker's age. And yep, he was a looker, all right. The girls were crazy about him. They used to fight over whose books he would carry at school.” I smiled. It sounded like Tucker and his great-uncle had a lot in common.

I tilted the photo into the lamplight. There was a name painted on the back of the boat, just underneath the spot where Tom and his father were standing. “Wait,” I said suddenly. “I thought your dad's boat was called the
Little Miss
.”

Hildy plucked at the collar of her robe in exasperation. “No, those fools that I hired to do that new paint job got it all wrong. Instead of doing what I told them, they went by what they could still read on the stern. They thought the ‘Miss' stood for Mississippi and they completely left off the best part of her name. The word
Pearl
was the one closest to the waterline and it had worn completely away over the years.”