Summer Shadows (22 page)

“You never asked me what I thought.” Abby’s voice started to rise again. “You never asked! This is my house. I’m supposed to give the invitations, not you.”

Hannah looked at Abby. Her daughter’s face was white, her eyes wide, and Hannah realized that her plan was going to be a harder sell than she’d thought. This new independent streak of Abby’s was rearing its ugly head much too often. It had to be squashed. “We love you, sweetheart.”

Abby opened her mouth, then closed it. She pressed her lips together like she was trying to hold words back. Or like she was furious.
But why should she be mad? She should be thankful that her mother and father loved her enough to put themselves out for her.

Did Abby think that Hannah would rather sleep alone in that tacky guest room than with her much loved husband in their cozy bedroom at home? Did she think that Hannah would like reaching out in the night to touch Len and finding nothing? Who was she to share her heart with? One look at Abby’s closed stance, and it was obvious that she wouldn’t be listening anytime soon.

What about Len, at home by himself, cooking his own dinners, washing his own clothes, sleeping alone. Didn’t Abby realize that they were paying a price for loving their only child so very much, a steep price of self-sacrifice, and that they’d been doing it all her life, especially the last three years? But, Hannah thought with a touch of pride, they were paying it willingly.

“Once you’ve had time to get used to the idea, I know you’ll be delighted that I could stay and help you out. We can spend the days on the beach, and in the evening we can go out for dinner and then to the boardwalk to shop. We can have a just-us-girls week.” She put her hand over Abby’s where it still rested on the banister and squeezed. “We’ll have such fun.”

Abby turned without responding, pulling herself along by the banister. She didn’t look at Hannah, nor did she say a word. It was like Hannah wasn’t there.

A spurt of anger flashed through her. Ungrateful child. Still, her mother’s heart hated to see the girl work so hard to do something as simple as climb stairs. She hurried forward, taking Abby’s arm to help her.

To Hannah’s great surprise and consternation, Abby wrenched herself free, her movement so fast that she almost overbalanced and went tumbling. Only her grip on the banister kept her from falling.

Hannah put a hand on Abby’s back to steady her. “Careful, dear, careful. We don’t want you to fall.”

Abby’s response was to pull herself up two more steps.

“Come on, Abby. Don’t be stubborn. It’ll be much easier if you just let me help.”

Abby shook her head and climbed. Sighing, Hannah followed. She had to figure out a way to break through Abby’s foolish and uncharacteristic resentment. Hannah brightened as an idea struck.
“How about if I fix us some popcorn?” Abby loved popcorn. “We can sit on the porch and talk, just you and me. There were so many people around this weekend that I didn’t get a chance to talk with you, just you.”

Her daughter continued silent and resentful.

“Abby, I’m talking to you.”

Abby acted as if she hadn’t heard. She crossed the porch, opened the door, crossed the living room, and disappeared down the bedroom hall. There she stopped, looked at her mother, and said, “Alvild.” She then turned on her heel and very firmly shut her door, just a fraction this side of a slam.

Miffed, Hannah stood in the living room, staring after her daughter. What was the matter with her? And who or what was Alvild? Another of those weird women who had given Abby so many of her bad ideas?

Hannah turned on her heel and strode back to the porch. There she paced, waiting for Abby to emerge and apologize. As she did, vignettes of Abby through the years flashed across her mind like so many movie outtakes and trailers.

Abby as a baby—happy, gurgling her joy with life, rarely crying.

Abby as a toddler—curious, active, but never a terrible two.

Abby as a precocious preschooler—reciting the alphabet at three, learning to read all by herself as a five-year-old, negotiating peace whenever the neighborhood kids got into fights. When she began school, her teachers loved her for her keen mind and her obedience, and the children loved her because she was kind.

Abby as a teen—more a friend than a daughter, cooperative, pleasant, popular, respected, never rebellious.

Abby as a college student—meeting Sam, falling for him, graduating magna cum laude with a degree in elementary ed, marrying the weekend after graduation.

Abby as a young married—decorating their apartment and then their house, learning to be a good wife to Sam, the perfect husband for her with his solicitous attitude and protectiveness.

Abby as an elementary teacher—charming the students, impressing the administration, and grading papers, always grading papers.

Abby as a loving young mother—doting on Maddie, bathing
her, feeding her, playing with her, enjoying her.

Abby as a patient—terribly injured, her survival uncertain for weeks, then her sorrow, her depression, her tears, her incredible pain, her long recuperation.

Now at twenty-nine, Abby rebellious and uncooperative.

What have I done to deserve this treatment, Lord? What have I done but pour my life into her, especially these last three years
.

The low rumble of men’s voices rose from the porch below. Hannah couldn’t understand the words, but she didn’t need to. She didn’t want to. In fact, she’d be glad if she never saw or heard from either of those men again, and doubly glad if Abby never saw them again.

A different series of pictures played across Hannah’s mind screen.

Abby smiling at Marsh last night on the porch. Abby letting Marsh hold her elbow and help her across the sand.

Abby letting Marsh dry her tears—with his T-shirt no less!

Abby flirting with Marsh at church this morning.

And that was just what she’d seen. How much more was there? Len told her Marsh had carried Abby up the stairs. Carried! It was more than enough to make a concerned mother go gray in spite of her hair treatments.

The back of Hannah’s neck itched as she heard the men downstairs laugh. She squared her shoulders. The accident had changed Abby, and not for the better, but Hannah would protect her from the wolves, especially those within the fold.

That’s what mothers were for.

H
E KNEW WHAT
he was going to do. The idea had come to him as he stood in his marble shower stall, enjoying the blasts of water from six jets. His workout this morning had been rigorous, and the hot water loosened and eased his muscles. It also stirred the idea marinating in his subconscious. He fine-tuned the plan as he toweled himself dry with a cream-colored, oversized towel. He dropped the towel on the floor for Carmen to clean up and moved to the sink. He grinned at his reflection as he lathered for his shave.

Since it would be imprudent to harm Abby Patterson physically, he would undermine her reputation. He would destroy her credibility. That way if she ever remembered anything, her word would be suspect. If she accused him, who would believe someone like
her?

She looked like such a gullible, trusting woman. It was obvious that there was no place like the Pines in her background to toughen her up. He had no doubt that she’d fold under the slightest pressure. Without a hardscrabble background, she hadn’t the experiences necessary to put the steel in her spine she’d need to escape him.

It would be easy to ruin her, easier than it had been
sinking Joe Rothman. Rothman’s once shining halo lay on the floor, tarnished beyond recovery. He would never be a threat again, never a force, never a possibility for the appointment they had both sought. All it had taken was a word or two in the right place, a whisper of corruption, of incompetency, of philandering. Such things still mattered around here in spite of the influence of Atlantic City and the casino crowd.

The first time he’d killed a reputation, he had chosen his father as scapegoat. It was part of his plan for escaping. As far as he was concerned, anything was fair game if it would get him out of the Pines. Let those sympathetic, foolish teachers think he was being harassed by his father, harshly punished, and mocked for trying to succeed. A couple of times when he’d hurt himself roughhousing with McCoy, he’d let them think his father had inflicted the bruises.

Mrs. LaDow, tenth grade biology, had been especially gullible. Funny he should think of her. He stretched his neck taut to pull the razor over his Adam’s apple. What would she think if she could see him now?

“The Pine Barrens are the eighth wonder of the world, students,” she always told her classes. “Appreciate them! You are so fortunate to live where you do.”

Not that any of them believed her. It was hard to put much confidence in a lady who admitted to sleeping with baby opossums to keep them warm. But she’d believed everything he told her, his face full of sorrow, his voice halting.

He’d played her and some of the others for three years. When it came time to be recommended for scholarships, he’d received more than his share of both recommendations and awards. He’d have been grateful to her and the others except he felt he’d earned the money himself.

This time he didn’t have the luxury of a long campaign. Her memory could kick in any time. He splashed aftershave on as he considered the steps he would take.

C
ELIA LOOKED AT
Karlee as she lay sleeping in the shabby blue bedroom the girls shared. She could hear the TV playing softly in the living room as Jess watched the Disney movie on ABC. It was Sunday night, two days after the accident, but still Celia’s heart contracted and her stomach pitched every time she looked at Karlee and thought of what might have happened if the driver hadn’t swerved at the last minute.

What kind of an idiot feels grateful to a hit-and-run driver because he didn’t hurt her child as badly as he might have? She frowned.
He
didn’t hurt her child? Maybe it was a she. He. She. Either way, she reminded herself grimly, the person hadn’t stopped. How could he not stop? How could she just drive on, leaving a child lying in the street?

Lord, I don’t know who the driver was and I know I’m nuts, but I do feel thankful to whoever it was that he or she was willing to swerve. Work in the heart of that person. Help whoever it is to come forward and admit guilt. The law deals more easily with those who confess, doesn’t it? And there is such a thing as responsibility. I’ll never believe that any driver would hit a child on purpose, but every driver should be a big enough person to admit responsibility, to stop and help or at least call for help
.

Celia reached out, pushing Karlee’s hair back from
her forehead. She made her touch butterfly light so as not to hurt her baby. Tears stung her eyes as she looked at the bruises and the scrapes.

Celia let her head fall back, looking beyond the cracked ceiling of the shabby bedroom with the twin beds wearing limp, washed-out blue chenille bedspreads and no headboards. Her eyes squeezed shut.
Oh, God, thank You for keeping her safe!

She lowered her head, and her eyes fell on the pink cast that enveloped Karlee’s right arm. It was now covered with the signatures of everyone who had been at Abby’s house yesterday and this afternoon, even a rocky J-o-r-backwards d-a-backwards n from Jordan.

Abby. Celia smiled. Another gift from the Lord. It amazed Celia how her new friend had stepped in with her offer to watch the girls yesterday. People just didn’t do things like that for her. There was the invitation to be part of the fun at Abby’s place today, like she belonged. Celia couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so accepted, so wanted. She hugged the warm feeling to her like Karlee used to hug her security blanket. It was true that God did bring good things out of bad. If not for the accident, she’d never have met Abby.

But Abby started her new job tomorrow and couldn’t help with the girls again. So what was she to do with Karlee and Jess all day? It was a given that the woman who had been in charge of Karlee on Friday wasn’t getting near her ever again.

Celia scowled. If she felt a weird gratitude to the driver, she felt nothing but resentment and bitterness toward the woman to whom she’d entrusted Karlee and not a little anger at herself for choosing so poorly. All she could say in her own defense was that she had been desperate for help, and the woman had seemed nice. In fact, she probably was nice. She just shouldn’t be responsible for small children.

Celia shut her eyes and swallowed. Letting herself get angry with the woman wasn’t helping anything. It was creating its own nasty wrinkle in her spirit, a wrinkle that would grow, expanding until she was so rumpled spiritually and emotionally that she’d be fit for only the rag pile.

Whatever happens, Lord, don’t let me become like Aunt Bernice, all
nastiness, suspicion, and bitterness. But, Lord, I do have to go to work tomorrow. What am I to do? I can’t not go to work. I need the job. I need the income. I need the insurance coverage
.

Tears stung her eyes. Sometimes she got so tired of fighting to survive.

She looked again at her sleeping daughter. What would they have done if there had been no health coverage? She knew how rare it was that fledgling massage therapists were employed fulltime with all the perks that entailed. Pinky, that brilliant and flamboyant owner of the Seaside Spa, was one in a million. She was also a single mom who understood what it was like to be squeezed in the ever-present, ever-tightening vise of no relief. No relief from the financial problems of paying the rent or buying new shoes for little growing feet. Crank it tighter. No relief from the laundry, the shopping, the cleaning. Crank it tighter. No relief from the presence of kids, the disciplining of kids, the energy of kids, the needs of kids. Crank it several turns tighter.

“Oh, Lord, what should I do?” she whispered into the darkened room. “Help me, please!”

“Mom.” Jess stood in the doorway. She held out the cell phone. “It’s for you.”

Celia looked beyond the ceiling once again. “You use cell phones today instead of still small voices?”