Ms. Zephyr's Notebook (17 page)

“What's that?”

“It's a key, goofball.”

“I can see that,” he replied impatiently. “My question is, what is it a key to?” He looked at the keychain. “A car, maybe?”

“Nona hasn't driven since I've known her, so your guess is as good as mine.” Cleo unfolded the rest of the letter, a surprisingly large piece of paper with both sides closely covered in a spidery script.

Logan took one look at the length of the letter and turned away to prowl the cupboards. It was time for breakfast.

The phone on the counter rang with a shrillness that made them both jump.

“Are you going to answer that?” he asked after the second ring.

“I don't want them to know I'm here,” Cleo said. “Unless…”

The answering machine attached to the phone clicked on and a lively voice spoke.

“This is Sophia. You've missed me. Leave a message.”

Cleo's face was white. “Nona…,” she whispered.

“Cleopatra darling, are you there? It's Mother. If you are there, please pick up the phone.”

Logan reached for the receiver but Cleo pushed his hand away, gesturing wildly. Her mother's voice continued.

“Sweetie, I've just come off the phone with Mrs. Beadle at the nursing home. They told me you were with Nona when she passed yesterday. I'm… I'm a little confused, sweetie-pie. I got a message from the hospital on my voicemail saying you'd been transferred to a different unit, but when I called the hospital, they said you'd been signed out for a weekend pass. But never mind that now — we can sort it all out later. Honey? Are you there? Please pick up. I'm so sorry, baby, I wanted to spare you this after all you've been through lately.”

“You should talk to her, Cleo,” said Logan. “Hurry, before she hangs up.” He reached for the phone again, but his hand froze at her next words

“Honey, I'm coming down to get you. Logan's dad is here, too. I know he's with you down there. Mrs. Beadle said you were there with someone claiming to be your cousin…”

“Oh, now that's good,” muttered Cleo. “They probably think we planned all this.”

“Shhh!” said Logan, trying to hear.

“… all have a lot to talk about, don't you think? We'll be there…”

Click.

The answering machine cut her off and the tape began to rewind.

“Oh, great,” said Logan. “Some kind of freakin' modern answering machine your Nona has — now we don't even know when they are going to get here.”

Cleo still looked like she'd seen — or heard — a ghost. “I think maybe you need a cup of tea,” he said quietly, mentally kicking himself. She was right — he really was Mr. Sensitivity. Not.

Cleo spoke through white lips. “We need to decide what to do, don't you think? She said your dad…”

“Just think a minute. It's okay. Even if they leave right now, it'll still take them a couple of hours to get here,” Logan said. “Let me get you a drink at least.” Cleo nodded and turned back to the letter.

Logan walked into the pantry but found himself staring blindly at the shelves. Dad? Here? Why would…?

His thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of a slamming door. His heart went into his throat. How could they be here already?

Logan stuck his head into the kitchen. “Is somebody…”

But the kitchen was empty.

Hunger forgotten, Logan grabbed his coat and ran for the door. He leaped over a broom Cleo had left
tilted against the wall but caught the toe of his shoe and crashed heavily to the floor. By the time he wrenched open the front door there was no sign of her. He stared stupidly down at the footprints still frozen on the doorstep from the night before. No fresh prints, so he slammed the door shut and headed for the back of the house. He hadn't been back here before and it took a minute to find the door. It wasn't quite closed and a pall of cold hung in the air. But when he opened it he could see where she'd bolted through the large yard and past an outbuilding.

Logan ran back inside to grab his shoes and saw the letter where she'd dropped it on the floor. His heart still hammering, he walked over and picked up the letter. What was going on in that girl's head? Maybe the letter held the answer.

The key was still on the counter. His fingers toyed with it absently as he read.

July 15

My darling Cleopatra,

I'm very tired these days, my dear and you mustn't fret about my imminent departure. I'm not one to hang around after a party gets dull. But the old girl has a few surprises left in her. Your mother will be able to stop
worrying about pushing poor Helena toward a career as a terminal starlet. In your case, of course, your brains will carry you wherever you need to go, my dear. However, your Nona has made a few financial provisions for you as well. Somehow I don't think you care about money as much as your parents do and that is as it should be. Parents are made for worrying; it's what we do.

The worst thing about being gone will be missing out on watching the fun you are going to have in your life. But perhaps I won't miss it, after all. I may just hang around on some spiritual level to make sure you keep enough starch in your petticoats. (Just a little joke, my dear. Personally, I've never favoured petticoats.)

When I think of all the good times I've had in my life, I realize that most of them have stemmed from not standing still. I love to have roots; my home has been here in Clearwater since before your father was born. It is very important to me. But I must say I enjoyed my home the most when I was returning to it from someplace far away.

I don't think you've had exposure to nearly enough wandering, my dear. And I want to give you the opportunity. So let's just say this little silver object is more than just a key. It's a way of life. You will not be able to use it immediately, but as I know all too well, time passes more quickly than we ever imagine. I hope you embrace my gift to you and get as much enjoyment out of it as I have. I might add that over the years I
found it never hurts to have a handsome navigator along for the ride.

Time for me to say a final goodbye now, Cleopatra. But, my girl, please remember this: when I say I will love you into eternity, that is exactly what I plan to do.

Your grandmother,

Nona Sophia

Logan dropped the letter onto the counter. He still didn't have a clue what Cleo was up to. But she had quite the cool grandmother, he thought. He picked up the key and examined it curiously. He rubbed his thumb across the tiny logo on the key again, and lifted his eyes slowly from the key, out the kitchen window to the small building behind the house. He ran for his shoes.

The door wasn't even locked. The handle turned as smoothly as any well-oiled machine in his hand. And even though the key dangled from his fist, he still couldn't quite believe the sight before his eyes.

Number one on the list.

Number one.

The Ferrari. His dream car.

Okay — it wasn't a 1961 — if he guessed right it was a '68 or a '69. And it wasn't silver. It was red.

Cherry red. A cherry red rag top. Logan leaned against the wall. After everything that had happened in the past few days, he wasn't completely sure he could trust his legs to hold him up.

He'd never been in the presence of a car like this one before. He'd never even known anyone who had been. His dad had talked about seeing one once, but even that was only at a distance.

It was beautiful. It was a jewel. But instead of dropping it into his lap, the car gods had bequeathed it to a weird skinny girl who couldn't even drive yet.

He ran his hand along the chrome and something akin to an electric shock shot through him, snapping him back to reality. He'd forgotten Cleo. Some helpful guy he was. The ex-rugby player drops the ball again. Where had she gone, anyway?

He looked out the garage window and realized she'd run towards the water. Was she suicidal with the light of day and the loss of her grandmother? Was the thought of her mother's arrival enough to make her want to throw herself into the lake? And what had he done to help? Fainted on her and nearly broken her nose. Fallen asleep on the couch. Time to get his act together.

He wiped his hands on his coat and then reverently placed them on the hood of the car again. Stealing a car was okay if the owner gave you the key, wasn't it? She'd left him the key, hadn't she? That made it not stealing. Of course it did.

But the car would never start. Not in this cold. Not a chance.

Logan looked around. Heated garage, car plugged into a block heater. Maybe the car gods didn't completely hate him after all.

Afterwards, he couldn't even remember sliding in behind the wheel. The vehicle started like a dream and purred like a panther. It didn't matter that he'd never heard a panther purr. If a panther purred, this is what it would sound like, no question.

“I might just have to kiss that little weirdie sometime,” he said out loud, and then laughed at the sound of his own voice. But first he needed to find her.

Logan jumped out of the sleek, red machine and lifted the garage door up on its hinges. He didn't give a thought to flipping up the convertible top. He just hopped in and roared down the block toward the lake. Almost right away he caught a glimpse of her sweater, like a drop of blood against the falling snow. She was loping slowly along the shore beside the black water.

At the sight of her so close to the ice, Logan actually forgot about the car. All the fears he'd had for her came rushing back into his throat, making it hard to breathe. He careened off the road and down a boat launch ramp, screeching to a stop only as the tires hit the edge of the ice.

She looked over her shoulder and started running. Logan didn't stop to think. He jumped over the door
of the car and bolted after her. He saw her glance over her shoulder again. She couldn't run very fast and he was gaining on her, his legs windmilling like a cartoon character on the slippery surface of rock and ice. She finally skidded to a stop and without a second glance at him, flung something high over the line of ice and dark water.

“What are you doing?” he yelled, trying to grab her to slow himself down.

“What are you doing?” she yelled back as he slid by. She reached out for him but her red mittens slipped uselessly across the back of his coat as his momentum carried him past her. His feet scrabbling for purchase and, totally out of control, he slid on.

At least it's me and not Cleo, he thought. Gravity finally won the fight and he fell to his knees in the slush, within an arm's reach of where the ice grew black and wet and became lake again. Right beside him was Cleo's missile.

It was wrapped in plastic. The corner was torn, and Logan didn't need to look inside to see the familiar cover. He scooped it up and inched backwards while the ice crackled ominously beneath him. One knee back… one hand… the other knee. And somehow the ice held.

After what seemed forever he scrambled back onto the rocky shore up to where she waited, shoulders drooping.

“Great throw,” he said, panting. “You should consider pitching as a career.”

Cleo sat on the rocky beach, hugging her knees to her scarlet sweater. She shrugged as he handed her the package and absently brushed some of the slush off it with her sleeve, dropping it beside her on the ground with a sigh.

“Typical. I couldn't even do this right.”

“You maybe want to tell me what this is all about?” He sat down beside her on the beach, still panting a little. It was a pebbly, uncomfortable surface that didn't lend itself to prolonged sitting, in his estimation. Nevertheless, he stretched out his legs. He gingerly tried to lift some of the wet fabric away from his skin but his jeans were glued to his knees. He gave up. “I don't get it, Cleo.”

She pulled her woollen hat a little lower and didn't meet his eyes.

“It's just got so many awful things in it. Getting caught barfing. Putting dog poop in the toilets. All the stupid stuff I did. Every failure. Good marks mean nothing when you're vomiting your life away and somebody's documenting your every mistake.”

She picked up a rock and threw it onto the icy surface of the lake where it skittered a remarkably long way before coming to a rest.

“When I left the hospital, I was going to see Nona. But on the way here I decided I would never go back. Nobody would miss me — my mom is busy with my sister and her acting and my dad has his work at the
college. I didn't know exactly what I was going to do, just that I had to get away from all of it. Then you showed up and everything changed. But when I heard my mom's voice on the answering machine, I just panicked. I had to get rid of the evidence; this notebook is like proof of all my mistakes.”

Logan had to smile.

“You know it's all on computer, don't you? Abbie has an electronic file of all this stuff and so does the hospital. Throwing Abbie's notebook into the lake changes nothing. No matter how far you run, your records follow you forever.”

She looked at him, incredulous. “But why would Abbie keep this, then? I mean, I've seen her working on the computer, but I just thought she was surfing the internet or something.”

Logan shrugged and rubbed absently at the rime of frost that was creeping across the wet parts of his black gloves. It was cold… and getting colder. “She's old fashioned, maybe. Teachers love notebooks and journals. Who knows what makes them do the things they do? And who cares, anyway? I don't. There's loads of crap in there about me, too, you know. All the stuff I wrote about how rugby is my future and what a hotshot lawyer my dad is.” He shook his head. “None of it's true. My dad hasn't got the time of day for me. It's all crap.”

She punched him gently on the arm. “It isn't, you know. So maybe you don't become a rugby star. You
still get to make it a part of your life — you told me so yourself. And my mom said your dad was with her. Maybe he's actually come back here to make things right between you.”