I could hardly control my excitement. My legs jittered up and down with anticipation even as I reached to fill another taco. I hadn't yet had a chance to call the twins, and planned to do it after supper. I'd put my father on first to talk to Mr. Marggrander, and then tell the twins about the need to see Tully before we left.
"How long does it take to get to Massachusetts, Dad?"
He leaned over his plate to catch a crumbling taco, stuffed to the brim with all the goodies. I almost laughed when it broke in half and burst onto the plate, but it had happened to me twice already. He calmly picked up his fork and attacked the pile. "At fifty-five miles per hour, without construction or delays, it will probably take us about eight and a half hours without stops. But if we stop for fifteen minutes every two hours to use the facilities, I'd say we should plan on nine to ten hours."
My eyes widened. "Wow. That's a long drive." I wiped my messy chin with a napkin. "We can take Shadow, right?"
My mother answered this time. "We can. Mrs. Brown mentioned him before you two got home. She said her family always had dogs there."
"Does she rent it?" My father looked up over his glasses, still scooping the errant mixture into his mouth.
"I don't think so. It sounded to me as if it had been a family home for generations. She has cousins and nieces and nephews who use it on occasion, but it isn't reserved for the next three weeks."
"Can we go for the whole three weeks?" I burst into the conversation without really thinking about my dad's business.
That earned me the "dad look" again. "Not likely, Gus. We're lucky to get away for one week this summer."
I almost hung my head, but was too excited to go through with it. "Okay. One week is sure better than none. Can I have another taco, Mom?"
A tolerant smile touched her lips. "May I, son. And yes. If you don't explode first."
I hurried through the next two tacos, rolled myself away from the table, and bothered my father for the next half hour to call the Marggranders. To my delight, Mr. Marggrander readily agreed. We'd always spent summers in Maine vacationing side by side at my grandparents' camp, and when we couldn't go this summer, they'd opted out as well. I'd heard they planned a two-week trip to Germany in the fall, but wasn't certain if it was a sure thing. I grabbed the phone from my father when he was done, danced around the kitchen and got the cord wrapped all around me, and whispered plans to head out to Tully's first thing the next morning.
Chapter Thirty-three
That night I scrambled into bed, too excited to sleep, too excited to read, too excited to do anything but think about the ocean. I lay with my hands clasped behind my head, staring at the ceiling and imagining the waves and sand and silver minnows that would swim across my toes. At nine o'clock, darkness began to close in and crickets' songs drifted in on a breeze smelling faintly of my mother's roses. The room was hot, the sheets felt cloying on my legs, and flutters of anticipation raced across my belly.
I threw off my sheet and got up to turn my window fan to high. Raising my arms high above my head, I turned in the hot breeze to dry the perspiration. When I turned back to my bed, hairs stood up on the back of my neck. Something electric filled the air I breathed, and I smelled peppermint.
I stepped slowly toward the bed, but before I could sit, a depression formed on the sheets where I'd been laying.
Penni.
The scent of peppermint intensified. I inhaled it with surprising greed, stopping to listen to the whispering in my head. Her voice, soft and insistent, tickled my brain.
Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.
I looked around the room. The curtains stayed put and my bed returned to normal. She was up, but where had she gone?
In seconds, rustling came from beneath my bed. The chenille bedspread billowed like sheets drying in the wind, then suddenly stopped.
Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.
I knelt down to remove the books I'd taken from Tully's family home, and whispered to Penni, hoping my mother didn't pick this minute to pop in to say good night.
"Okay. I'll do it."
I grabbed the pile I hadn't checked yet and slid it up onto my bed beneath the sheet. Penni quieted, and with a whoosh that was more internal than something happening in the room, she disappeared.
The nightstand drawer held my flashlight. I shut off the lamp and eased the drawer open, hoping it wouldn't squeak. The chrome barrel felt cool to the touch when I slid it out and buried it beneath my pillow. My mother's light tread on the hall rug made me jump into bed and slide the sheets over my legs. I lay back and tried to still my thumping heart.
"Honey? You awake?" She stepped inside and whispered the words in her velvety soft voice that always made me feel safe.
"Yeah. I'm going to sleep soon though."
"It's hot in here. Will you be able to sleep?"
"I think so. If it gets really bad, I'll shove my bed closer to the fan."
"Good idea. Want to do it now?"
"No, thanks. I'll wait and see."
She leaned down to kiss my cheek. "Love you, big boy."
"I love you too, Mum."
When she swished out of the room, I waited until I heard her bedroom door open and close, then reached for the flashlight with a guilty surge of pleasure. In spite of how hot I was, I pulled the sheet over my head and ran the light over the frail pages, squinting when the penmanship got too scrawled to make out.
By ten o'clock, my eyes grew gritty and I didn't think I could stand another second of the heat or eyestrain. But at one minute past ten, I hit pay dirt.
It was an old diary, written in spidery penmanship in a book with a marbled cover. Embossed on the cover was the year, 1905. There was no name inscribed in the flyleaf, nor any indication of the author. I suspected it was one of Tully's parents, but wasn't sure. The writing seemed feminine, with more curls and swirls than I'd expect on a man's penmanship. But in the old days, guys wrote pretty fancy, too, so I couldn't tell at first.
It was in the month of March that I found the reference to the Ambuscade.
My father's papers have revealed a testimony that shakes me to the core. If this is revealed, the Ambuscade history will be significantly rewritten. I must decide. It will not be easy. Should I tell? Should I bury it and keep the secret?
I read more, but it took until April for another mention of the Ambuscade.
I've been reviewing the historical documents owned by the town. There is no mention of this Indian girl and her brother. These names don't exist in the official documentation. Did they simply not know? Or have they, too, buried the truth?
With a certainty that stood up and shouted back at me, I knew this was what Penni wanted to show me. It didn't have all the answers, but it implied something. Something about the Ambuscade history wasn't right. The information had been stifled to protect someone. Or a bunch of someones.
I read on, and amidst all the family issues and births and deaths reported, I found one more entry in July that caught my interest.
I can't handle the burden of the decision. I'm moving Father's records to the cottage, to let the next person to read them make the decision. I'm with child now, and must spend my days tending to my health and my first child. God forgive me.
The cottage?
My mind raced.
I tossed the rest of the books under the bed and rolled around in the hot sheets for two hours before I finally dropped off to visions of Penni and her brother romping through cornfields under a dull gray sky.
Chapter Thirty-four
Although I was only five minutes late for our usual rendezvous, the twins weren't waiting at the halfway point on Sullivan Hill the next morning. Concerned, I turned Pancho in the direction of their house, cutting across the edge of a cornfield to save time. The gelding's canter was like a rocking chair, easy and comforting. He moved with agility over the ruts and rocks. I slowed him to a jog when we reached their lawn, skirted it so I wouldn't leave hoof prints in it, and trotted
up the gravel drive to the barn.
Both horses were still in the paddock. Another ripple of unease streaked along my spine. Where were the twins?
A sound caught my attention from the barn. I went around back and tied Pancho to the fence. Something in my gut—based on similar bad experiences like this—told me that I might not want the twins' parents to know I was there.
"Elsbeth? Sig?" I raced down the center aisle, and back again. Nothing. A faint whimper carried over the air that smelled of sweet hay. Backtracking, I peeked over the empty horse stalls and found Elsbeth crumpled in the corner of Golden Boy's stall with a pitchfork in her hands. Her swollen eyes told the story. The raised red splotch on her face resembled a handprint.
Rushing to her side, I crouched beside her. "What happened?"
She shivered and wept against my chest, spilling the story between hiccups and sobs. "My mother went crazy this morning."
"Again?" My voice held no judgment. Mrs. Marggrander frequently suffered through memories of the concentration camps in Buchenwald. Sometimes it went on for days. And when it did, Mr. Marggrander's temper became frayed. The twins usually ended up bearing the brunt of his frustration.
"Ja. Again. And my father…"
"He got mad?"
"Ja. He gave us a list of chores that could never be done in a day. Maybe not two days. I told him so, and he went berserk."
"Oh, geez. You know you shouldn't—"
"I know. But I wanted to see Mr. Tully and Penni again before we left for vacation."
"So what happened?"
"He grounded us for the whole day, and doubled the list of chores. I was furious. Really furious. I stomped upstairs to Siegfried's room, where he was looking at the old books."
"Is he okay?"
"Nein. My father followed me and saw the books. He forced us to tell about the abandoned Tully house, and asked where we got the books. We didn't say anything about Mr. Tully or Penni."
I blanched, with as much fear for myself as for the twins. "Oh my God. What did he do?"
"He said we stole the books. He made me show him my pile. I told him we were going to bring them back, but he didn't believe me.” Shaking, she touched her face. “Then he slapped me."
My heart clenched. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry." I drew her to me and held her close, rubbing my hands on her back the way my mother did when I was sad. In a totally unexpected surge, my feelings of tender nurturing changed. I wanted to protect her, to help her, to be her champion, her prince.
"Is there anything I can do to help, Elsbeth? I'm so sorry."
Something more than affection pulsed through me, and it may have happened to her, too, for she nuzzled closer to me.
"Hold me, Gus."
She reached her arms up to my shoulders and kissed my cheek. I kissed her back, close to—but not on—her soft lips. Tears still streamed from her eyes, and when she laid her head against my neck I felt the warm moisture wet my skin. We held each other until Siegfried called to her from the doorway.
"Coming!" She looked at me with a rush of affection and whispered, "You'd better go. Try calling tomorrow morning. See if my father will let us talk to you."
I fell back against the rough wooden planks that separated both stalls and nodded. "Okay." It was all I could manage.
"Thank you." She lifted her hand to her lips and blew me a teary kiss. I was too dumbfounded to catch it, but smiled back with a goofy grin. "Tomorrow."
Mixed feelings surged within me. I felt awful that she'd been hit again, and that her father found the books. I wanted to protect her. I cared so deeply for her.
But I also I felt all floppy and happy inside.
I didn't know what to think.
I wanted to see Siegfried, but was afraid if we took too long Mr. Marggrander would come out and yell at them again. Plus, I didn't want him to see me all flustered like this. I was confused, elated, and embarrassed. Also, I was sure Siegfried bore the same marks of discipline Elsbeth did, and I didn't want to be the cause of more problems.
Slowly, I stumbled to Pancho's side and swung onto his broad back. I made sure to keep the barn between the house and me so they wouldn't see me and traveled down the center of the field, between two narrow rows of shoulder-high corn, until I reached an opening that brought me back to Sullivan Hill.
"Come on, boy. Let's go." We cantered up the dirt road toward Tully's under a canopy of green maple and wild cherry tree leaves. I kept replaying the scene over and over again. Elsbeth's poor cheek, covered in a red blotch. The strange way my body changed when I held her close.
Had I actually kissed a girl? Almost on her lips? And my best friend, to boot? Was it possible?
I touched my lips with my fingers and smiled. I had. I kissed a girl.
And I liked it.
But it wasn't just any old girl; it was Elsbeth, my pal since the age of five. We'd spent many lazy days together as little kids, and then had explored the wonders of the woods and valleys with Siegfried when we got older. We had called ourselves the Three Musketeers of Sullivan Hill. Always together. Inseparable. Totally devoted to each other.
So how could I feel this way toward my best friend?
I thought about it as Pancho made his way steadily toward the Ambuscade. We trotted up the hill past the graveyard, and the splendor of the Conesus Lake basin came into view. I paused at the top of the hill to take it all in, sifting through my feelings.
If I was honest, I'd started feeling twinges of affection for her off and on over the past year. When she was near, I'd begun to grow warm in embarrassing places, and I'd seen her in an increasingly different light. I'd appreciated the curve of her creamy cheek beneath her tumbling curls, had noticed the way her eyes sparkled when she got a great idea, and had felt that shivery excitement when I'd ridden double with her after she hurt her ankle.
It had been coming for a long time.
A sense of foreboding hit me. What would Siegfried think? Would he want to punch me? Would he care?
Of course he would. He'd feel weirded out by the whole thing. We'd always been so close, the three of us. Now there would be this awkwardness between us. And in spite of how much I wouldn't want him to, maybe he'd feel left out, like a third wheel.
Pancho turned into the Ambuscade road before I could shift my weight and reins to guide him. I chuckled. It was as if he could read my mind.
I hoped Siegfried couldn't read my mind like my horse.
We jogged toward the park entrance and through the white fence.
Chapter Thirty-five
I smelled smoke curling from Tully's chimney a good ten minutes before I made it to his cabin. Relieved that he was home, I tethered Pancho to the usual bush and strode to the door. It opened with a whiff of peppermint, and I figured Penni must have alerted Tully that I'd arrived.
"Come in, boy. We're glad to see you. Where are your friends?"
The expression on my face must have stopped him. He grunted, closed the door behind me, and motioned to a chair. "No matter. You can tell me when you're ready."
Penni's presence felt stronger than ever. A window curtain fluttered over the sink, the water in the kettle suddenly spouted steam, stopping as fast as it started. A few dry leaves burst into mini-cyclones outside the windows. I figured I must have riled her up with my findings in Mrs. Tully's journal.
Before I asked him about Penni's past, I turned to him and blurted out my thoughts. "Mr. Tully. Why didn't you tell us you were Mrs. Brown's brother?"
Tully cocked his head and squeezed one eye shut. "Why didn't you tell me her husband died in your driveway?"
I realized he was right. We'd never had a conversation about her. How would he know I knew her? "I…" I ran my finger in circles over the rough oak stand beside my chair. "I guess it never came up, did it?"
"Eudora said your family was very kind to her. But she didn't realize until later that you were descendents of Marlowe. She said it was such a blur that night. She barely remembered your first names."
"It was just awful. I felt so bad for her."
"Me too, boy. Me too."
I slid the diary out of my knapsack and laid it on the table. "I found this in your house. I hope it's okay that I read it. Penni kind of made me."
He chuckled and reached for it. "She can be rather insistent when she wants something. What is it?"
"I think it's your mother's journal. Just before you were born."
"Ah. Yes. We have one of these for every year. Where did you find it?"
"Penni showed it to us when we were at the house." A few pages flipped on their own, and Tully just ignored it, as if having a ghost flip pages in his book was something he dealt with every day. I stopped and thought about it. He probably did deal with it every day.
"Was it in the living room cabinet?"
"Yup." I leaned over and opened it to the page where the Ambuscade was mentioned, and told him the gist of the story. "See?"
He was quiet while he read. The sound of the woodstove pinging and the fluttering of something on the roof were all I heard. Tully pointed to the roof without looking up. "She likes to play with the tree branches that overhang the house. Sometimes she taps out rhythms."
I looked up and smiled.
He finished reading the passages, closed the book reverently, and ran his hands over its cover, as if touching his mother's hand. "By jingles, this is big. Really big."
I nodded with wide eyes. "It is, isn't it?"
"If we can find the papers she's referring to, we might rewrite history."
"I wonder what the secret is?" I let my imagination run wild, replaying the scenario that Elsbeth had envisioned, with Penni attacking her lover's killer. "It's definitely about Penni. And her brother."
"Indeed." He started to pace around the living area, head down and deep in thought. "If Penaki was somehow involved in this, or privy to the information, and had to keep it quiet…"
"It would explain why she's still hanging around, right? She wants to set the record straight."
The tin cups on the wall clanged at once, rattling against the pots and pans that hung beside them.
Don't Let the Wind Catch You Page 12
