by Susan Wiggs
Addie shrugged her shoulders, her typical reaction when Caroline brought up the topic. Neither she nor Flick had given any indication that they knew what was happening to their mother or who the abuser was, yet that didn’t mean they hadn’t seen anything.
“Well, I want you to know that whacking is never okay. Or hitting, smacking, punching, or shoving. Violence—hurting someone—is never, ever okay. You know that, right?”
Another shrug. Addie tried a denim skirt on Wonder Woman.
“Did anyone ever hit you? Or Flick? Or your mama?” These questions had been asked by emergency caseworkers in the whirlwind following Angelique’s death, and the answer was always inconclusive.
Once again, no. Addie shook her head, and Flick pretended not to hear.
“I want you to know that we can talk about anything. It’s important. And I promise I’ll always listen,” Caroline persisted. “Maybe you saw scary things.”
She paused. No response.
“Maybe you heard yelling in a mean voice.”
Still nothing.
“I want you to know that yelling is not okay, and you should never think it’s your fault. There was nothing you could have done to stop what happened to your mama. I will do everything I can to help you feel safe. Can you talk to me about how you feel?”
The kids looked at each other and held their silence.
“I miss Mama,” Addie said after a few moments. “I feel sad.”
“So do I, and Flick does, too.” Caroline drew Addie into a hug. “I wish I knew how to help you, baby,” she whispered into the girl’s soft hair. “You don’t deserve what happened to you. Your mama didn’t deserve it, either. You’re safe now, and I’ll always keep you safe.”
After a few minutes, Flick grabbed the book they’d been reading together. “Read to us. Read Old Yeller,” he said.
“Good plan. I think we’re on the last chapter.” Caroline opened to the bookmarked page and started reading. She still remembered the warmth and safety of snuggling in bed with her sisters and brothers while their mother read to them. Yeller had been her favorite. He and Travis had adventures the way she and Wendell did. Poor Yeller had harrowing episodes—getting attacked by a bear, saving Travis from wild hogs, being bitten by a rabid wolf.
As she read the part about Yeller’s festering bite, she could feel the kids coiling against her in dread. She recalled bracing herself, too, but her mom had read the reassuring final scene with a smile on her face. Just when it seemed all was lost, Yeller’s eyes cleared. He stopped foaming at the mouth. He wagged his tail and whined a sweet greeting to Travis. He was all right. He and Travis were going to be just fine.
Except.
Caroline frowned as she heard herself reading the final scene. Wait. What? This was not the story she remembered. Right there in black and white, the book said Yeller had rabies and Travis shot him dead. With a sense of betrayal and disbelief, she kept reading, but it didn’t get better. “Jesus H. Christ,” she said, tears falling as she snapped the book shut and flung it aside. “What the hell kind of ending is that?”
“Did Yeller die?” Addie asked, her chin quivering.
“Travis shot him. Why did Travis shoot him?” Flick punched his pillow.
“That’s not how it’s supposed to end,” Caroline said. “When my mom read it to me, the ending was totally different. It was totally happy.”
“I don’t want Yeller to be dead,” Addie sobbed.
“It’s just a story,” Caroline said with an angry sleeve-swipe at her tearstained cheeks. “It didn’t really happen.”
“It’s the saddest thing ever.”
“I know,” Caroline said. “I know. I’m sorry I read you such a sad story. The ending I remember was totally different. The Old Yeller my mom read us had a happy ending. Yeller got better and they kept his puppies, too.”
“Then why’s he dead now?” Addie asked.
Because my mom changed the ending.
It took Caroline another thirty minutes and repeat readings of Go, Dog. Go! to coax them to sleep. When they were finally settled, she grabbed the offensive book and went to confront her mother.
Her mom was in the living room, lost in a new novel from the library. Caroline dropped Old Yeller in her lap. “You changed the ending,” she accused.
“What?”
“You read Old Yeller aloud to us and you changed the ending so that he got better and lived happily ever after.”
“Did I?” Mom removed her reading glasses. “That was smart of me. I certainly didn’t want the five of you up all night crying over a sad dog story.”
“I lived my whole life thinking this was the best book ever because I thought it ended well for Yeller.” She made a fist around the damp tissues in her hand. “And I just finished reading this to Addie and Flick, only I read them the real ending, thinking it was going to get better. And the goddamn kid shot his goddamn dog and that was that. It took forever to console them and get them to sleep, and it’s a school night.”
“Oh dear. You should have given them a happy ending.”
Rain engulfed the peninsula in a sweep of wind and darkness. Caroline put the kids’ lunches in their backpacks, shuddering at the blustery weather. Flick and Addie stared out the window, their expressions as gloomy as the weather.
“It’s like this sometimes,” she said.
“It’s like this all the time,” Flick grumbled.
“I hate the rain,” Fern said, coming into the kitchen, flinging her backpack onto the floor. “I got soaked just coming in from the garage.”
“Then you’re going to love what I made for you,” Caroline said. “New raincoats!”
“Yay!” Addie jumped down from the table. “You make the best things.”
“It’s a popover jacket,” Caroline said, helping Addie put hers on. “Something I’ve been working on. I’ll show you how it works.” She had been inspired by the children, coming up with a unique design concept. The fleece jackets had a special pocket with a surprise inside—a rain fly and hood that covered them and their backpacks.
“It’s cool!” Flick said. “I like how you make stuff.” He offered a rare spontaneous hug.
Fern’s face brightened as she examined her new coat. “I love it. Thanks, Aunt Caroline.”
It had never occurred to Caroline to make children’s rainwear, but the feeling of pleasure reminded her of something she’d nearly forgotten—designing clothes was a way of showing love. In all the turmoil over her career, she’d nearly lost that idea. The garments bore her signature flourish—the nautilus shell motif on the front pocket. She’d added the logo with a sense of defiance, determined to fight her way back into the business.
The three kids showed off their bright fleece jackets with their custom rain coverings.
“We need pictures,” Virginia said, coming into the kitchen to admire the finished garments. “Caroline, these are really clever.” She took out her phone and snapped a few pictures. “I hope you’re prepared to get orders from all the other moms.”
“That’s the idea,” Caroline said, herding the kids out the door to wait for the school bus at the end of the driveway. She handed her sister a printout of her designs and technical specifications for the jackets.
“Well, this is brilliant. Good for you.” Virginia helped herself to coffee and sat down with the document. “I’m glad you’re moving ahead with your design business.”
“I’ve got to do something. It’s not exactly the career I thought I wanted . . .”
“Welcome to the club,” said Virginia. “Sometimes life shoves you off into the unknown, and it turns out to be amazing.”
Caroline knew Virginia was talking about her divorce. “How are you doing?”
“Ups and downs,” Virginia said. “More up than down lately. Fern and I have never been closer. Since I’m forced to share custody, my time with her is more precious than ever.” Her expression softened. “And dating . . . it’s actually fun, in a weird way. Don’
t you think dating’s fun?”
“I’ve totally forgotten what dating is,” Caroline admitted. “Been burning the midnight oil to get my workshop up and running. I have the machines from the factory in Astoria. I even have a couple of workers who were displaced when the place closed, and Lindy’s friend Echo is on board. Am I completely mad?”
“No. You’re motivated.”
“Because nothing motivates me like the prospect of imminent failure.” Caroline bustled around the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast.
“You’re starting to sound like yourself again,” Virginia said.
“Jackson and I are taking Dad’s truck down to Astoria this morning. I’ll fill you in when I get back.” With a flutter of nerves, she took out her own raincoat, an uninspired shell of a thing. A rain jacket didn’t have to be boring. She was staking her whole enterprise on the idea.
“You’re just so good,” Virginia said, paging through the printouts of Caroline’s designs, created in a fever of inspiration. “I thought you had it all. I thought you had your dream job.”
“I thought so, too.” Caroline stared out the window at the waterlogged landscape.
“You snagged a spot at a major fashion show in New York,” Virginia said. “You were so excited.”
“And it turned into a disaster. I’m scared of another disaster.”
“If it was easy, everyone would be doing it.”
“Well, I did solve one problem today. I found a space for the workshop.” Currently everything was stowed in the garage. The garments were being fabricated there, but she knew she needed a better space.
“Yeah? Where’s that?”
“The barn at the old Jensen place. Will and Sierra agreed to rent it to me, so I’m moving everything over there.”
Chapter 20
Will helped Jackson Shelby unload the last of Caroline’s sewing machines from the back of the pickup truck into the barn on his property. He was soaked in sweat from the job.
“Who knew sewing machines were so damn heavy?” Jackson asked, sucking down a bottle of water in one go.
“I warned you,” said Caroline. She was sweaty, too, having done her share of lifting and moving. “These aren’t your grandmother’s sewing machines. They’re industrial workhorses.”
Sierra gave her a glass of sparkling water. “You’re on the road to fame and fortune.”
“Hope the floor holds up,” Will said. “This place hasn’t been used for anything but storage in years.”
Caroline lifted her water glass. “You guys are so great to let me set up in your barn. Seriously, this is the coolest.”
Will and Jackson brought the last machine into the space and Caroline showed them where to park it.
Jackson turned to Caroline. “You’ve always had nutty ideas.”
“Who’re you calling nutty, Mr. Liveaboard?”
He ruffled her hair. “Speaking of which, I’m outta here. I’ve got a date tonight.”
“Oooh. Anyone we know?”
“Someone I met on a dating app.”
“Sounds . . . promising?”
“We’ll see.”
“Thanks again, buddy.” Will shook hands with him and Jackson took off.
Caroline turned in a slow circle, looking around the lofty space, lit by rays of sunshine through the high clerestory windows. “Not a cobweb in sight now.”
“Will spent half a day getting the place ready,” Sierra said. “It was a total cobweb factory in here.”
He hoped he was the only one who could detect the bitter note in her voice. Lately there was no pleasing her.
“I owe you guys big-time,” Caroline declared. “When your little Wills and Sierras come along, they’ll get a lifetime supply of C-Shell apparel. That’s a promise.” She turned to Will. “Sierra once told me you wanted to convert the barn into a play area for kids. I want you to know that when you need the space, I’ll move out, pronto.”
“It was just an idea,” he said. He couldn’t help shooting a look at Sierra. She was turned away, checking out the long cutting table in the center of the space. Mutual avoidance of the topic of babies had become their norm.
“I have to get going, too,” Sierra said. “I have a meeting at my agency in Portland tomorrow, and I need to get some things ready. Pop in the house before you leave, okay?”
“Sure thing. Thanks again, Sierra.”
“Get to work.” Sierra made a shooing motion with her hands. “Do great things.”
Caroline checked a sketch she’d made of the room layout. “She sounds like Marley at the bank where I got my small-business loan.”
“Marley’s a good guy,” Will said. “I’ve had both of his kids as students. He’s the one who started the special loan program to keep business and talent on the peninsula. Good job getting that loan, by the way,” he added.
“Thanks. One of the perks of living in a small town. They know where to find me if I default.” She looked up from her sketch. “Not that I intend to default. I promise, I won’t miss a single rent payment.”
“I’m not worried about the rent.”
“I am. I mean, not worried, but I intend to make this work.”
“You will. You’ve always been a go-getter, Caroline.”
“Have I?” She smiled, and just for a second, she looked like she was about twelve years old again, the kid he’d met years ago at the start of their long and sometimes confusing friendship. “Give me a hand with this, will you?” She indicated a wide roll of white paper. “I need to hang it over the end of the cutting table.”
They each took an end of the roll and lifted it into the brackets.
“Butcher paper?” he asked.
“Pattern paper. One of the tools of the trade.” She sighed. “I wrote my career’s death sentence on this paper.”
“What? How’s that?”
“It’s a long story.”
He looked at the boxes and equipment stacked around the room. “We’ve got a long way to go.”
Her face lit again. That smile still got to him. “You’re going to help me set up?”
“It’s Sunday. I’ve got all day.” He had plenty of chores to do around the house, but Sierra always said it was hard for her to concentrate when he was banging around.
They worked as a team, mounting rolls of fabric, organizing gear, moving furniture and equipment, checking electrical connections. And Caroline talked. She had always been a talker. She told him a bit about how the fashion industry worked, with independent designers doing contract projects for major companies. “I was always creating my own material after hours, nights and weekends, lunch hour, any time I could squeeze in some design and patternmaking. Finally, after more setbacks than I’m willing to bore you with, I got a shot at exhibiting an original collection. Behind my back, the big designer I was working for stole my designs and launched them under his label at a major show.”
“Jesus. Some guy just stole your designs? How can he do that? Sounds totally illegal.”
“Fun fact about the fashion industry—copying isn’t illegal. Certain things can be copyrighted, like a textile print or a sculptural shape, but there’s no prohibition against one designer copying another, stitch for stitch. And even if I wanted to fight back, there’s no way I could afford to make a case for myself. When I confronted Mick Taylor—that’s the guy who took credit for my designs—and his design director, they pointed out that I’d made some of my patterns in their atelier. Who knew they were keeping tabs on me? He could claim I created the designs while under contract to him, using his resources.”
She unrolled a length of the paper, spreading it across the big table. “So that’s how I went down in flames,” she said. “It was horrible, like somebody assaulted me. I did try to fight back. I told every reporter and blogger I knew. Tried shaming Mick on social media. But my threat turned out to be as empty as my bank account. Unless a major media outlet picks up the story, no one pays attention.”
He was quiet for several mom
ents, trying to imagine her sense of betrayal and disappointment. “Damn, that sucks. Are you sure there’s nothing else you can do?”
She shook her head. “Mick actually seemed slightly remorseful—not because he regretted or would even admit to appropriating my designs. No, I’m pretty sure the remorse had to do with the fact that I was so damned useful to him. I designed a ton of things for his label. He’s going to have to find a replacement now.”
“Sorry that happened to you,” Will said. “I wish I could help.”
“Are you kidding? You’re totally helping by letting me set up here. He killed my chance to show a collection in New York. Out here, I’m so far off the radar, he wouldn’t be able to find me. So you and Sierra are helping me restore my sanity.”
“Along with the local economy,” he said.
“Well, I don’t know about that. But I’m going to give it my best shot. I’ve got two people coming to work for me. And two interns from the high school vo-tech program—did Sierra tell you?”
“That’s great, Caroline.” He liked her energy and focus; he always had. “Tell you what. I’ll install these overhead work lamps for you.” He gestured at a stack of boxes that had been delivered.
“You don’t need to do that. I can call an electrician—”
“Or you can let me help,” he said.
“I—yes. I can. And thank you.” Surprise and delight lit her face. “I’m impressed that you know how to install light fixtures. Electrical things have always scared me.”
“I learned a lot, restoring the old house,” he said.
“It’s really beautiful, Will. I can see the love you put into the place.”
“Yeah?” He buckled on his tool belt.
“Definitely.”
“It’s always been my happy place,” he said.
“I remember that. You and your granddad were forever making things.”
“Remember her?” He extracted an old cobwebbed icon from a pile of junk.
“Justine! That old ship’s figurehead.”
He dusted off the piece. His grandfather had saved it from a shipwreck at the mouth of the Columbia. It was a classic pose, a sturdy Valkyrie with a bare chest, tangled hair, mouth open as if shouting at the waves. “I used to be obsessed with her boobs.”
