The Secret Sister (10 page)

Not that she was willing to admit it. “No. I don't believe it would work out.” That was what really stood in her way, wasn't it? Otherwise, the memories of those years right after they were married, when they were so happy, would convince her that they could have the same thing again.

“I wouldn't accept his calls,” Josephine said.

For most brokenhearted people facing a call from their beloved ex, that was easier said than done. But with Josephine it was probably true.

Maisey bit off the head of an asparagus spear. “It felt strange to speak to him after so long.”

Her mother watched her without eating. “What does he think of you returning to Fairham?”

Where she belonged... Her mother didn't add that, but she might as well have. It was there in her voice. She was claiming victory at last.

“Didn't sound as if he liked it.”

“Of course not. Now you're beyond his reach.”

Not quite. Neither was she beyond the reach of the despair that had set in after her divorce. That was what frightened Maisey, because it had the potential to drag her back to New York, even though, in her more lucid moments, she knew that wouldn't be wise.

But Maisey doubted her mother would understand how lonely she felt. By Josephine's own admission, she'd never been susceptible to depression or regret. So Maisey let it go. Instead, they talked about Tyrone and how helpful he'd been with moving the furniture, and about Pippa and how glad they were that she was feeling better after her bronchial infection, and the fact that Josephine had expanded the flower shop, where Maisey had spent so much time during her teenage years, arranging flowers, delivering them, taking orders, even stocking the coolers. She said she'd like to see these improvements and then, almost before Maisey knew it, dinner was over. There had been some tense moments when the conversation could have gone sideways, but they'd managed to keep it on track. Her mother even offered to loan Maisey the bedding and towels she needed, and asked Pippa to have them ready. Then she asked what kind of work Maisey was looking for.

“Anything that'll motivate me to get out of bed in the mornings and occupy my mind so I can't dwell on...certain things.”

“Keith said you haven't been writing, that you
can't
write. He said you're more screwed up than he is.”

Thank you, Keith.
Maisey could envision her brother trying to justify
his
problems by suggesting that she wasn't doing much better. When he blew up, nothing was off-limits—and yet he'd expect all to be forgiven when he returned.

If
he returned...

“I've been...struggling,” she admitted.

Josephine pushed out her chair and stood. “Would you be interested in going back to the flower shop to work?”

Leery of this offer, Maisey paused to take the last sip of the coffee Pippa had brought with berries and cream for dessert. For the most part, she'd enjoyed her time at the shop. She'd learned a lot there, and it had given her an outlet for her creativity. But having her mother as her boss? “I wouldn't want to take Keith's place. We have to be careful not to make him feel...expendable.”

There was a hollow look in her mother's eyes that struck Maisey like it never had before. As prickly as Josephine was, she loved her son. Why else would she continue to take him in? Keep providing for him while trying to convince him to turn his life around? Part of it was her strong sense of obligation, her desire to appear a certain way as mistress of Fairham Island. But vanity and obligation couldn't be all of it...

“He makes himself expendable,” she said flatly. “When have we ever been able to count on him?”

Despite having had the same thought many times—and more often in the past two days—Maisey couldn't agree with that statement. Not without feeling disloyal. It smacked too much of changing sides. But, ironically, it was her mother befriending her now, not Keith.

“Keith and I both have our problems.” She would've said, “We
all
have our problems,” but her mother didn't believe she had any—or not any that were her fault.

“If it comes to that, he can work there, too,” she said. “The way the business is growing, there's room for both of you. And maybe your example will help him, as I said before.”

She hadn't said it in those words, but Maisey definitely recalled when Josephine had stated that Keith could use some guidance. “I guess I could try it.” She couldn't say no without offending her mother, and it was kind of Josephine to offer. Josephine could always hire someone else; there were plenty of people on Fairham who needed work.

Still, Maisey felt a certain amount of trepidation. She wasn't strong, not these days. Could she get along with her mother well enough to work at the shop again?

Anything that put her in a subservient role threatened to cause problems. It gave her mother permission to become even more demanding and autocratic.

The question was...what else did Maisey have? She received some royalties from her books, but not a great deal and she wouldn't be getting anything for a while. As she'd already said, she needed something to keep herself busy. Besides, she
wanted
to trust her mother.

“You
guess
? Is that a yes or a no?”

“It's a yes, but...I'll have to buy a bike first, so that I can get back and forth across the island. Give me a couple of days to see what I can do there.”

She was afraid her mother would use that comment to try and persuade her to move back into Coldiron House, which was closer to the flower shop. Maisey couldn't do that, even if it offended Josephine. The one thing she knew for sure was that she preferred to stay in Smuggler's Cove.

Fortunately, her mother didn't press her to change her plans. She said there was a scooter in the garage Maisey could use.

“I bought it for Keith,” she explained. “But he doesn't need it now. He didn't drive it much when he was here. He always took my car or the truck, once Tyrone left in the evenings.”

Maisey finished her coffee and pushed her cup away. “Thanks. I appreciate you lending it to me. And we'll figure out something else if he does need it.”

When her mother had Pippa drive the box of linens and another box of kitchen utensils and dishes over to Smuggler's Cove so that Maisey could follow on the scooter, Maisey felt a surge of gratitude. Maybe Josephine hadn't come through for her at other times, but she'd come through for her tonight.

* * *

Maisey put down the kitchen stuff she was carrying as soon as she saw the coffee can sitting on her porch. It was painted a sloppy purple and had some rocks, flowers and even weeds shoved inside. She might've thought anything left on her doorstep had to have come from Rafe, since they lived away from everyone else. Except it had obviously been created by a child. So...Laney?

There was a note with it. That
was
from Rafe.

Laney made this for you at her grandmother's today. I realize it doesn't look like much, but she doesn't know that. She's convinced it's a masterpiece, and I didn't want to disappoint her, so... I hope you don't mind.

—R

Mind?
He'd clued in to the fact that she'd been a little remote earlier. But she had too much at stake to get seriously involved in the type of relationship they'd started.

Pippa came up the stairs with her box of towels and bedding. “What's that?”

Maisey lifted it carefully so that the flowers wouldn't fall out. “A housewarming gift,” she said, and unlocked the bungalow so they could go inside.

“From who?” Pippa asked as she followed Maisey.

“The little girl who lives next door.”

“Isn't
that
nice.”

It was nice. It was the nicest thing to happen to Maisey in a long time. Maybe that was why it put a lump in her throat. She supposed it had to do with the heartfelt simplicity of what Laney had created, the sweetness of Rafe's daughter and his reluctance to disappoint her, despite the way Maisey had treated him earlier. “Yes.”

While she arranged the flowers on the table Tyrone had helped her carry in earlier, Pippa set down her box and began to inspect the property. “This place will be ideal once you get the repairs done.”

“I hope so. I love this side of the island.”

Pippa smiled, and Maisey realized how gray her hair had gone in the past ten years. She had to be approaching sixty...

“I'm sure it holds many fond memories.”

“It does,” she agreed.

“Will you have everything you need?”

“I think so. I have the basics, at any rate.”

“Well, if there's anything else, give me a call. I'll see what I can scrounge up and bring over from Coldiron House—” she winked “—with your mother's permission, of course.”

Maisey caught Pippa's arm before she could leave. “Speaking of my mother...”

Pippa waited expectantly.

“She was...kind tonight.”

A shadow passed over Pippa's face. “I know there are times when it might not seem like it, but...she loves you—in her own way.”

Maisey nodded. She wanted to believe that.

10

M
aisey had nothing she could make to give Laney in return. She didn't even have the groceries needed to bake cookies—and yet she wanted to acknowledge Laney's gift in some small way.

She decided she'd have to wait until she could get to a store. But then she remembered the books she'd stuck in her carry-on. She always brought a few when she traveled, in case she ran into a fussy child who might benefit from the distraction. She'd been too focused on her own problems this last trip to notice if there'd been any children on her flight, so she hadn't given any away. One was her first book. The cover featured the illustration she'd done of Molly Brimble, which included two yarn braids, providing a tactile experience for five-to eight-year-olds. Braiding was something Laney could learn to do with her hands, even if she couldn't see.

Suddenly feeling as if Rafe's daughter was the child for whom she'd created this story, Maisey found a pen in the same carry-on and wrote a few words in the front. Then she peered out her window, trying to determine if there were any lights on in Rafe's bungalow.

His place was just far enough away that she couldn't see it through the trees. She'd have to take the chance that he might still be up.

Rubbing her thumb over the book's shiny cover, she walked next door. She missed her work and wished she could get back to it. But she understood why she couldn't. She had nothing to give, was totally depleted.

Sure enough, there was a light on. She didn't want to feel as if she was creeping around in order to avoid Rafe. But she walked more quietly than usual as she went up the steps to his porch and silently propped the book against the lintel.

She was about to leave when she realized she could see him in the living room, sitting in his recliner. Judging by the moving images reflecting off the window, he was watching TV.

Unable to resist, she paused to study him as he drank from a bottle of beer. Then Laney came from somewhere behind him, crawled into her daddy's lap, and Maisey saw him drop a kiss on her forehead.

Feeling oddly nostalgic, she smiled at the sight before hurrying back to her own bungalow.

* * *

Rafe wasn't sure what he'd done wrong. He'd thought he'd given Maisey exactly what she wanted. The way she'd snubbed him when he came to help her move confused him. Was it that he'd left after they made love? Did she resent waking up alone in a strange place?

Maybe it was that he didn't tell her he was leaving. But he'd had to work and he hadn't wanted to wake her up. He'd assumed she'd be more comfortable at his place, anyway, where she had a bed and plenty of food.

Laney wriggled in his lap, trying to get comfortable. He knew he should be stricter with her and insist she stay in her room after he put her to bed. More often than not, she fell asleep in his arms while he watched television. But he didn't mind. She was growing up too fast as it was. He feared the day he could no longer protect her like he did now...

“Daddy?”

“What?” She'd interrupted an analysis of preseason football.

“Did the Gators win?”

She heard a lot of the sports talk he listened to before he turned in every night. No doubt the mention of football on TV had reminded her that he'd been watching the Gators last week. But the fact that she'd asked him about it, after all this time, made him chuckle. He'd taught her what the game was, let her hold a ball and tackled her gently to show her what the roar she heard on TV was about—that it showed the approval of the spectators when someone was either tackled or escaped being tackled. It always surprised him how much she retained.

“They did.”

She put her arms around his neck and wet his cheek with a sloppy kiss. He sometimes wondered if every child had as much love to give as Laney. “How many touchdowns did they get?”

“Three, and a field goal.”

“They kicked the ball?”

“That's right.” He smoothed her hair so it wouldn't tickle his chin.

“How many touchdowns did the other team get?”

He doubted this meant anything to her. She just liked being involved, liked his attention. He supposed it was difficult to feel a part of something when she couldn't see what everyone else could see. “Just one.”

“Were they sad?”

“I'm sure they were. But someone has to lose. We can't take losses too seriously or there'll always be one side that's sad.”

“We want the Gators to win all the time, don't we?”

“We do. But no one wins all the time.” He changed the channel. “Don't you think it's a little late for you to be up?”

“
You're
up.”

And
he wasn't pushing her out of his lap. She knew she wasn't in any real danger of being shooed away. “I'm a lot bigger than you, which means I get certain privileges—like choosing when I go to bed.” Lately, his life had become so routine. He had to get to bed at a decent hour so he could take care of Laney and start work as early as he did. Maisey remembered him as a partier, but those days were long gone.

Laney yawned. “I can't go to sleep
yet
.”

“Why not?” He yawned himself. “I can tell you're tired.”

“I'm waiting to see if our new neighbor likes my present.”

“We won't know tonight,” he said to buy some time in case Maisey didn't respond at all. With the chilly reception he'd received earlier, he was afraid Laney might be ignored simply because she was
his
child.

“Why not?”

“She told me she'd be getting home late.” Maisey hadn't said what her plans were. She hadn't talked to him much at all, not after the sex was over or later, when he stopped by to help her move. But he figured Laney might be able to sleep if he altered her expectations.

“Can we go over and check if it's still there?” she asked a few minutes later.

He picked up the remote on the table next to him to change the channel. “No, we're in for the night, bug.”

“Please?”
she begged. “I want to know if she got it.”

He changed the channel again and was presented with the image of a man being stabbed. Sometimes he was glad his daughter couldn't see what was on TV. “She'll find it when she gets home later. She can't miss it.”

He wasn't paying too much attention when Laney slipped off his lap. He'd found an old James Bond movie he liked. But he heard her open the front door, knew she was poking her head out. She listened for cars when she was trying to determine if someone might be coming past.

How she'd discovered what she brought back to him, he had no clue. Maybe she put a foot out and stepped on it, or it had been propped against the door and fallen, but she came hurrying over with a book in her hands.

“Daddy! What's
this
? Did you put it on the porch? Is it one of
my
books?”

Rafe accepted what she was trying to show him—then did a double take. It was a children's book, but it wasn't one of theirs. And Maisey Lazarow's name was on the cover.

He'd had no idea Maisey was a children's author...

“It's from our neighbor,” he said.

“For
me
?” She clapped her hands at the prospect of a present.

“It's definitely not for me.”

“What's it called?”

“
Molly Brimble Conquers the World.
And it's written and illustrated by Maisey Lazarow.”

“What does that mean?” Laney asked.

“It means Maisey wrote it herself—and she drew the pictures.”

Her face lit up. “She wrote me a book?”

“Looks like she wrote it for all children, but this is your own copy. Would you like me to read it?”

“Yes!” She hopped eagerly back onto his lap. “Wait,” she said before he could start. “What's this on the front? I can feel something...”

“Those are braids coming from the head of a girl.”

“What does the girl look like?”

“Well, she's not pretty like you,” he said. “She has big teeth that stick out and lots of freckles. She has a black eye, too. And her hair is bright orange. That's what you're feeling—the hair.”

“Oh...” She breathed as her fingers slid down the yarn.

He let her explore the barrettes that kept the braids from unraveling. Then he nudged those curious, questing fingers aside. “Shall we see what it says?”

“What does Molly Brimble do to the world?” she asked.

Like most children, Laney had a way of asking questions about things he couldn't possibly know—in this case, not until after they'd read the story. But she didn't seem to think about that. “I'm guessing she conquers it. Isn't that what you're going to do?” he teased.

She didn't seem too sure. “How?”

“Maybe the story will give you some ideas. But first, there's a part Maisey wrote just for you.”

Her mouth formed an excited O. “Read it!”

“Dear Laney,

Thank you for the lovely pot and the flowers. It put a smile on my face—especially because you made it. I want all little girls to understand how special they are, so I thought I'd give you a copy of my book. (And if your father doesn't know how to braid, bring this back to me, and I'll teach you myself so you can rebraid Molly Brimble's hair whenever you want.)

Your new neighbor, Maisey”

“She's nice,” Laney said with a sigh.

Rafe wasn't feeling quite so generous. He thought Maisey was, for the most part, confusing and standoffish—even if she was beautiful and someone he'd enjoyed in bed.

He couldn't think badly of her
after
he'd read the book, however. It was a sweet story about a tall, gawky girl with uncontrollable hair and a huge heart who sees beauty everywhere except inside herself—and how she comes to accept and even celebrate her own uniqueness.

“Do you like
my
hair, Daddy?” Laney asked, touching her head.

“You have very nice hair,” he told her.

“But it's not red, like Molly Brimble's.” She sounded disappointed.

“No, it's blond, remember?”

“What does blond mean again?”

“Golden.”

“And what does golden mean?”

He wanted to tell her to imagine the prettiest color she could, but how could that help when she had no concept of color? “It means your hair looks the way sunlight feels,” he said.

“I like that.” Her hands moved back to the braids on the cover of Maisey's book. “Can you teach me to do this?”

“'Fraid not, bug. Can't say I've ever tried to braid anything.” He'd once considered trying with her hair, but he considered ponytails or pigtails difficult enough.

“Can Grandma show me? Because she's my teacher. She taught me all the braille letters.”

“She loves to homeschool you, doesn't she? But we don't want to ask her to do this. It'll make her fingers hurt.”

She frowned. “Poor Grandma. Does doing braille make her fingers hurt, too?”

“No.” He rubbed his nose against hers. “Just touching something, like braille dots on paper, is different.”

“Can I ask Maisey to help me, then?”

Since Maisey had extended the invitation, he wasn't sure he could say no. He didn't want to deny Laney something that might be a pleasant experience just because Maisey had kicked
him
to the curb. “I suppose so,” he said reluctantly.

She scrambled down as if she expected to march over there immediately. “When?”

“Not tonight. It's time for bed.” With another quick peck on her cheek, he got up to carry her to her room.

* * *

There was a knock at the door early the next morning. Maisey had stayed up late getting her house organized, so she felt a bit bleary-eyed as she forced her eyelids open. Her first thought was that she had to get some blinds; her next was that Keith might've returned. She hadn't heard from him.

But this knock was far too timid.

“Coming!” she called, and dragged herself out of bed.

After pulling on a pair of cutoffs and the yoga tank that had now dried, she rushed down the hall and past the kitchen to squint through the peephole.

She couldn't see anyone. “Hello?”

“Is it you, Maisey?”

A child's voice...

After unlocking the door, she swung it wide to find Rafe's daughter on the porch.
Alone.
The girl had her cane in one hand and her Molly Brimble book in the other. How she'd managed to make her way over and climb the steps to the front door without help, Maisey couldn't even guess. But Rafe wasn't anywhere in sight.

“Laney!”

She put a finger to her lips. “Don't talk too loud,” she warned. “I don't want to get in trouble.”

“Where's your dad?”

“Making my lunch since Grandma's out of lunch meat.”

“Does he know you're here?”

She didn't seem to want to answer.

“Laney?” Maisey prompted.

“Um, he said I had to wait, but it was taking
so
long. And I just wanted to tell you how much I love my book.”

Maisey crouched down so they were on the same level. “I'm happy to hear that.”

“I wish
I
had red hair and freckles like Molly Brimble.”

“No, you don't,” she said with a laugh. “You shouldn't wish to be any different from exactly the way you are, remember? That was the message of the book.”

“But Molly's so tall. She can reach things on the tiptop shelf.”

“Yes, she came to appreciate what her differences brought to her life. Just like being unable to see probably makes you a much better listener.”

She frowned as if she was thinking about that. Then she handed Maisey her cane and her book.

“What...” Maisey began but fell silent when Laney's fingers moved unerringly to her face and slid lightly over her forehead, her eyes, her nose, her chin.