Lakeside Cottage (6 page)

Yeah, that was JD, all right. He was so real there was an unauthorized movie coming out about him, so real he kept getting offers to endorse a line of camping gear or sunglasses, even prophylactics. According to the unauthorized biography that had appeared just weeks after the attack, he was “America’s most appealing brand of hero—one who was ‘just doing his job.’”

Tina had cooperated with the publisher of the instant book. So had Janet. Jessica Lynch had gotten a Pulitzer Prize–winning coauthor, but not JD. His biographer was Ned Flagg, a failed journalist with a flair for invention and a fast Internet connection. The book was heavily promoted and just sensational enough to rocket briefly onto the bestseller list.

Feeling almost defiant, JD paused in front of the recruiting office. Through the open door he could see a round-cheeked boy talking to an earnest recruiter who was no doubt promising him the same action and adventure JD had been promised years ago.

He moved directly in front of the recruiting poster, studying it while the plate-glass window reflected his true image back at him.

The strange thing was, he hadn’t really gone to elaborate measures with some complicated disguise. Coached by Sam and Penny, JD had grown out his hair and was as surprised as the Schroeders when it came in a glossy dark blond. He’d worn it in a military-style buzz cut for so long he’d lost track of the color. He had shaved off his mustache, traded his contact lenses for an ancient pair
of glasses and cultivated a beard stubble. “Backwoods chic,” Penny Schroeder called his new look. “They’ll never guess America’s hero is under that.” With the John Deere cap to complete the outfit, he looked more like Elmer Fudd than Captain America.

“I could mess up your dental work,” Sam had offered. “Get rid of that toothpaste-ad smile.”

“I’ll take my chances,” JD said. “I just won’t smile.” That promise had been remarkably easy to keep. Until today. Until Kate Livingston and her boy. He didn’t recall actually smiling at them, but he might have. A little.

Two teenage girls wandered past, popping gum and window shopping. They slowed down to admire the poster.

“God, he is so hot,” one of them murmured. For a moment, JD felt her eyes flicker over him. Shit, he thought. He’d gotten cocky about his disguise and now he was busted.

“Excuse me,” the girl said and brushed past him.

JD let out the breath he’d been holding and headed the other direction. It was crazy, completely crazy. People projected all their yearning onto an oversize poster while looking through the actual person as if he wasn’t there.

Shaking his head, he headed into the post office and checked his box. Sam had sent on a batch of bills and notices. At the bottom of the stack was an item that had not been forwarded by Sam. JD had requested it on his own, with unsteady hands and a heart full of trepidation. It came in a flat white envelope, weighty and substantial in his hands.

He couldn’t believe how intimidating this felt. It was insane. After all he’d been through, nothing should intimidate him. But this was something he’d always wanted. Always.

He opened the envelope and took out a glossy booklet the size of a small-town phone directory.

He smoothed his hand over the logo: The David Geffen School of Medicine @ UCLA.

JD told himself that he still hadn’t decided whether or not to send in his MCAT scores and begin the application process to enroll the following year. But he sure as hell might. He had the entire summer to think about it.

For the time being, he turned his thoughts to other matters. On the drive to the lake, he felt an unaccustomed ripple of anticipation. For the time being, his mother was all right, and he was finally starting to feel human again.

K
ate slammed the bedroom door behind her just in time, because the intruder was lunging for her.

“Aaron,” she screamed, clattering down the wooden steps and out the back door. “Aaron! Get in the car! Now!”

He was outside, tossing a stick for Bandit. Instead of responding to her panic, he scowled at her. “Huh?”

“In the car, darn it, there’s an intruder in the house,” she said, whipping out her harshest epithet. “Bring Bandit. I mean it, Aaron.”

It felt as if their escape took hours, but it was probably only seconds. Aaron and the dog got in back as she leaped into the driver’s seat.

She reached for the ignition.

Oh, God.

“No keys,” she said in a panicked whisper. “Where are the keys?”

It was a nightmare, worse than the scariest horror movie ever made, the kind in which a character named Julie (it was always Julie, no last name) fumbled in the
car, desperate to escape, but the car wouldn’t start and the next thing you knew, old Julie was chopped liver.

“I blew it,” Kate said, sinking back against the headrest as she remembered leaving her keys on the kitchen counter.

A hulking dark shape loomed at the driver’s-side window. Bandit went into a barking frenzy, baying at the glass.

“Don’t hurt us,” Kate babbled. “Please, I beg you, don’t—”

“Mom.” Aaron spoke up from the backseat. He quieted the dog.

“Hush,” she said. “I have to negotiate with—oh.”

The monster, she saw, was holding out the car keys. “Looking for these?” the monster asked.

Except it wasn’t a monster, Kate observed as the red haze of terror faded from her vision. It was…a girl. Cringing at the sight of the dog.

“For heaven’s sake,” Kate said, rolling down the window. Bandit inserted his muzzle into the gap, and the stranger moved back a few more steps. “What in the world is going on?”

The girl looked as embarrassed as Kate felt. Her face turned red and she stared down at her dirty bare feet. Her messy hair fell forward. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Well, you did.” Kate’s adrenaline had nowhere to go, so it crystallized into outrage. “What were you doing in my house?”

The girl straightened her shoulders, shook back her hair. “I was, um, like, cleaning the place. I’ve been working with Yolanda for Mrs. Newman, cleaning summerhouses.”

Judging by the sleep creases on one side of her face, the kid was cleaning the way Goldilocks had for the
Three Bears. In fact, she even looked a bit like Goldilocks with her coils of yellow hair. She was older, though. Pudgier. She’d clearly helped herself to a bellyful of porridge.

But like Goldilocks, the girl appeared to be quite harmless and full of remorse. Kate felt her anger drain away. “What’s your name?”

“California Evans. Callie for short. Am I in trouble?” The girl snuffled and wiped her nose. She had bad skin and carried herself awkwardly.

Studying her, Kate felt a wave of compassion, though she tempered it with caution. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Can we get out now?” Aaron asked.

Kate still felt a bit apprehensive. The cottage didn’t have phone service and her cell didn’t work here. Yet the girl truly seemed remorseful and embarrassed by the whole incident. Kate’s customary impulse to trust took over, and she nodded. “Okay.”

Callie gasped as Aaron and Bandit jumped out. When the dog wagged his tail and sneezed a greeting, she wrapped her arms around her middle and backed away. Her face changed from red to stark white. “I’m scared of dogs,” she said.

“Bandit won’t hurt you, honest,” Aaron said.

“Hold him anyway,” Kate advised, recognizing the terror in the girl’s face. “I’m Kate Livingston and this is my son, Aaron. And Bandit.”

“He’s mostly beagle,” Aaron said. “We call him Bandit because of the black mask on his eyes.” He pointed out the dog’s unusual markings but the girl withdrew even more.

“What are you doing here?” Aaron asked bluntly.

Callie looked a bit queasy. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead and upper lip.

Oh, heavens, thought Kate. Was she sick? An addict? This was not good.

On the other hand, she reflected, the situation was terribly interesting. Kate reminded herself that she was now a freelance journalist. She thought she’d have to go looking for stories. Maybe a story had come to her.

“Let’s go inside,” she suggested. “Bandit can stay out.” He had a bed on the porch, one of those overpriced orthopedic sling beds from a catalog. Spoiled thing. Callie regarded Kate through narrowed eyes, but she went along readily enough. In the kitchen, her eyes widened as she took in the wealth of groceries on the counter.

Kate poured glasses of ice water for everyone and put out a bowl of Rainier cherries, summer’s most fleeting delicacy.

“Have a seat,” she said. “Tell me about yourself, Callie. How long have you worked for Mrs. Newman?”

“A few months.” The girl eyed the cherries with yearning.

Kate pushed them closer to her. She noticed that the old pine table, one of the original pieces in the house, had been scrubbed shades lighter than she remembered, and then waxed until it shone. Similarly, the floor and all the fixtures gleamed and not a single cobweb lingered in the corners of the windows. If this was Callie’s doing, it was impressive, though she needed to increase her understanding of boundaries.

“Um, are you going to tell her?” Callie asked.

“I should,” Kate said.

“Mom.” Aaron’s voice rose in protest. He hated it when people got in trouble, probably because that’s where he found himself so often.

Unjustly fired only a week ago, Kate was quick to
sympathize. “I won’t,” she reassured her, “but I’d like an explanation.”

The girl sipped her water. “I, um, I’ve been staying in the houses I cleaned, the ones that are empty,” she confessed. “I never bothered anybody and I always cleaned up after myself, a hundred percent. I didn’t know you’d be coming today, I swear. I had you down for tomorrow.”

“We decided to come up early.” Kate studied the girl’s troubled eyes, the pinched and worried forehead. “Where’s your family, Callie?”

“I don’t have a family,” she said flatly.

“That needs a little more explanation.”

“My mom’s away and I’ve never known my dad.” She shook back her hair, acting as though it didn’t matter to her.

“So are you homeless?” Aaron asked.

Callie plucked a cherry and ate it. “I’m supposed to be in a foster home, but I had to leave the last one. I couldn’t stay there.”

“Why not?” Aaron asked.

Callie’s eyes, as gray and turbulent as the lake during storm season, expressed a truth Kate knew she would not utter in front of Aaron.

“I didn’t really get along with the family,” the girl said.

“You can stay with us,” Aaron said.

Kate nearly choked on a cherry.

Fortunately, Callie anticipated her reaction. “I wouldn’t do that to you and your mom, kid,” she said, pushing back from the table. “Totally time to clip. I’ll go up and get my stuff and then I’ll be out of your hair.” She headed for the stairs.

As Kate watched her go, something about Callie touched a chord in her. The girl moved awkwardly within
an oversize gray sweat suit, and she kept her head partially ducked as though anticipating a blow. Yet despite the ugly sweats and dirty bare feet, there was a touch of teenage vanity. Her fingernails and toenails were painted a beautiful shade of pink.

Aaron eyed Kate reproachfully.

“Don’t even say it,” Kate warned, getting up. “I’ll go talk to her.”

“I knew it,” he said, shooting out of his seat and punching the air.

“You can go play with Bandit while I sort this out.”

In the big bedroom, Callie had opened the drapes to let in a flood of afternoon sunlight. A large backpack was propped by the door, and Callie was busy putting the sheets on the bed.

“I used my sleeping bag, honest,” she said. “I didn’t use your linens.” She tucked the fitted sheet around one corner of the mattress.

Kate tucked the opposite corner. “I’m not worried about the linens,” she said. “I’m worried about you. How old are you, Callie?”

“I’ll be, um, eighteen in July,” she said, her gaze shifting nervously. “That’ll be good because I’ll be a legal adult and I can do whatever I want.”

Kate wondered what she wanted but decided to start with a different set of questions. Callie didn’t look as though she was nearly eighteen. There was a subtle softness and roundness in her face and a haunted, lost look in her eyes that made her seem younger. “Talk to me, Callie,” she said. “I’m not going to turn you over to the authorities. Where are you from?”

Callie opened the top sheet with a snap. The motion stirred a golden flurry of dust motes as though the house
was waking up. The air was filled with the sunny smell of clean laundry.

“California,” she said.

“That narrows it down,” Kate commented. “Do you mind telling me why you were in foster care?”

“Because my mother belonged to this creepy commune,” she said, giving up the information without resistance. “It was near Big Sur, and it was supposed to be this incredible self-sufficient utopia.” Callie must have noticed Kate’s surprised glance. “They homeschooled us, and some of us actually got a decent education. Brother Timothy—he was the founder—has a Ph.D. in cultural anthropology from Berkeley.” She opened the cedar chest at the end of the bed. “Is this quilt okay?”

Kate nodded and helped unfold the quilt, a sturdy, colorful family heirloom stitched by one of the Livingston women a couple of generations back.

“So, this Brother Timothy?” she prompted, sensing Callie’s dislike.

“He’s not anybody’s brother and I’m sure by now Berkeley’s ashamed to claim him. He’s doing time for child molestation.”

Kate’s skin crawled. “Are you one of his victims?” she asked.

Callie worked with brisk agitation, creating perfect hospital corners. “When I was a kid, I had fun living there. We ran around and swam in the ocean and actually had a couple of good teachers. But once we hit puberty,
pow.
We didn’t get to be kids anymore. Brother Timothy called us—the younger girls—his angels.”

Kate abandoned making the bed. She sat on the side of the bed and motioned for Callie to do the same. “Didn’t your mother…” She hesitated, knowing she ought to
choose her words carefully. “Do you think the adults in the commune were aware of this?”

Callie snorted and nodded her head. “None of the mothers lifted a finger to stop him. They were all, like, under his spell or something. He convinced them that we were their gifts to him. Even if a girl got hysterical and fought back, the mothers made her go to Brother Timothy. They did everything they were told, like they were Stepford hippies, you know?”

“That’s a nightmare,” Kate said.

“You’re telling me.”

Kate noticed that Callie hadn’t answered her question about whether or not she was one of Brother Timothy’s victims. “So is this commune…still around?”

“Nope. This girl named Gemma O’Donnell, like, three years ago, she saved us all.” Callie studied the floor. “Gemma kept trying to tell someone what was going on, and every once in a while, somebody from social services or the school district would come up and take a look around but they never found anything. To an outsider, it looked like utopia—vegetable gardens, a flower farm, our own milk cows, everybody reading William Carlos Williams. Nobody listened to Gemma until she finally found a way to make them listen.” Callie paused, took a gulp of air. “She went to the Big Sur Family Services Agency and threatened to kill herself if they didn’t believe her.” Callie’s voice lowered to a shaky whisper. “She was pregnant by Brother Timothy. They took him away, and I never saw Gemma again. I don’t know what ever happened to her or the baby.”

Kate put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. The girl flinched and Kate removed it. “I’m sorry. I hope things got better for you after that.”

“They did for some of us,” she said. “For me, for a
while. But in the last home I was placed in, well, that was bad so I had to leave.”

“Callie, where’s your mother?”

Callie dropped her gaze. She picked at her nails. “I haven’t seen her in over a year.”

“Do you think she might be worried about you?”

“She should have worried about me when we were all living with that pervert,” Callie snapped. Then she lowered her voice. “You going to call social services?”

“Not if you’ve been straight with me.”

“You can check out my story on the Internet,” Callie said. “Millennium Commune, look it up.”

“I don’t have Internet service here. If I need to go online, I have to drive to the library in Port Angeles.”

“Whatever. I’ve been straight with you.” She looked out the window as she spoke.

There were still secrets concealed within Callie, Kate was sure of it. She studied Callie’s profile. The girl was quite pretty, though that wasn’t immediately apparent thanks to the acne and some dark patches on her skin where she’d probably forgotten to wash. Her hair needed a trim, and the shapeless sweatpants and old Big Sur Folk Festival T-shirt didn’t flatter her heavyset figure. Yet when the sunlight from the windows outlined the tender curve of her cheek, Kate saw a different person sitting there, a girl who was still a child no matter what the calendar said.

The protective instinct rose inside Kate, stronger now, urging her toward a leap of faith. She knew she had to give this girl a chance.

“Would you like to stay in the guest suite?” she heard herself saying. Back in the early days of the lakeside cottage, the first Livingstons had traveled with a housekeeper and cook, who had occupied the small bedroom
and washroom off the main floor. Later generations used it to accommodate visitors, giving them more privacy than the upstairs rooms.

Callie narrowed her eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch. You need a place to stay, I have tons of room here, so—”

“I’d better not.” She stared at the braided rug on the floor.

“You’re going to run out of options,” Kate pointed out. “In the off-season, plenty of houses are vacant, but now that summer’s here, everything will change.”