Ascension of Larks

by Rachel Linden

  She stopped in front of the altar in surprise. Gabby was right. It had been rebuilt. All the objects were arranged in the correct place, but the bits of sea glass were now set in even rows, the stones fitted with care, forming an even, uniform structure. Maggie examined the construction more closely. It was a far cry from the children’s lopsided efforts. Maggie felt a prickle go down her spine. Who had done this? Who knew the altar was here, and who would care enough to build it again, this time so it would last? She shivered once, suddenly feeling eyes upon her.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Magdalena, she scolded herself, turning toward the house.

  He was standing right in front of her. She uttered a small scream and stepped back, instinctively curling her hands into fists. He didn’t move. She recognized him immediately. The stranger from the ice cream stand in Friday Harbor—the one who’d been watching them. And now here he was in the Firellis’ yard. What was he doing here?

  He had wanted her to see him, she understood. Dressed in the same faded camouflage pants and black T-shirt, he blended well with the shifting shadows of the trees. He could have taken a few steps and she might never have noticed him in the dimness of the tree line. He watched her calmly. Face-to-face, he was only a few inches taller than she was, broad-shouldered but with the lean physique of a runner. His long, straight black hair fell loose almost to his shoulders. His eyes, black as jet, never left hers.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, taking another step back, bumping against the altar. His gaze never left hers. He didn’t seem to blink.

  “Daniel.” His voice was a little raspy, as though he was unused to talking.

  Maggie had regained a little of her composure, though her heart was racing with adrenaline. She darted a look toward the back door, gauging the distance if she had to make a run for it. She wouldn’t make it. He stood between her and the house, and though he didn’t seem aggressive, he was not relaxed. He balanced on the balls of his feet, muscles coiled beneath the stillness of his body. And yet his presence did not seem threatening. He didn’t mean her harm, she could have sworn it. She took a deep breath, collecting herself. She was struck again by his enigmatic air. There was more beneath the surface than she could see, something strangely compelling about him.

  “What do you want?” Maggie challenged, lifting her chin.

  He smiled a little sadly. “To give you this.” He held out his hand. Cautiously, she stepped forward. “Here,” he prompted.

  She offered her hand hesitantly, and he placed the object in her palm. It was small but weighty. A porpoise, carved from wood mottled dark and light. It had a gouge above one fin, on the shoulder, a scar across the wood, as though the knife had slipped.

  “What is this for?” Maggie asked, touching the delicate detailing. Except for the gouge, it was beautifully made.

  “For the altar,” he said, almost shyly.

  Maggie examined the animal. The craftsmanship looked familiar. “Did you make the animals we found last week?” Maggie asked. Daniel hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “And did you do this?” She gestured to the rebuilt altar. He nodded again.

  “Why?” she asked him.

  He shrugged, looking at the ground, then gazed past her, out at the water. “It’s the least I could do.”

  “Why do you need to do anything?” she asked guardedly, a suspicion flitting through her mind. “Who are you?”

  He glanced up at her then, meeting her eyes. She couldn’t look away. There was something so raw there, sorrow and a terrible guilt.

  “It was an accident,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

  Maggie inhaled sharply, recalling in one instant that Marco had not been alone when he died. He had been trying to rescue someone else. She had never asked about the other man, had forgotten that anyone else had been involved in the tragedy that took Marco’s life. She took a step back, feeling as though she’d been punched. “Marco.” It was not a question.

  He nodded. “It was an accident,” he said again. He scuffed his feet in the dirt, waiting for her response.

  “I think you need to leave,” she said stiffly. He nodded and turned, lithe and silent as a shadow. Only when he’d gone did she realize she was still holding the porpoise.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “ELLEN, I NEED TO HEAD BACK TO CHICAGO FOR a few weeks.” Maggie toyed with her dessert fork, not meeting the other woman’s eyes. The children were tucked into bed and she and Ellen were sitting on the deck in the chill evening twilight, enjoying a slice of Ellen’s strawberry pie and the novelty of a few moments of quiet.

  She had not mentioned her encounter with the mysterious Daniel that afternoon in the woods. It had shaken her, and she was still puzzled by it. She didn’t quite know what to do, if anything. The little carved porpoise was tucked in her nightstand drawer, safely out of sight.

  After supper, while Ellen corralled the children for baths and teeth brushing, Maggie had put her new plan into action. She’d bought a ticket back to Chicago, leaving in three days, and left a message for Alistair letting him know when she would arrive. Once she stepped onto the plane, she’d be back to Chicago in less than four hours, back to her normal life. Then she’d begin preparations for the Regent. She figured there was just time enough left to do so if she was both very diligent and very lucky.

  “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” she continued, staring at the strawberries spilling from their flaky golden crust on her plate. “But I can’t wait any longer.” She glanced over at Ellen, who was listening calmly, a bite of pie balanced on her fork. “I think I have a chance to help Lena out of this financial mess, but I don’t have much time.”

  She explained about the Regent Fellowship, about what it would take to win and the cash involved if she did.

  Ellen listened closely. “Well, then, you have to go, don’t you?” she said, accepting the news as she seemed to accept everything else, with a stoicism that would have done the ancient Spartans proud.

  “We’ll miss you for sure, but you do what you have to do,” Ellen told her, “and, my lands, it would be good to know that terrible debt was taken care of.” She sighed heavily. “I think it’s a real generous thing for you to help Lena out of this mess.” Maggie didn’t mention what winning the Regent would do for her career as well. Her motivation was not entirely self-sacrificing.

  “When do you head out?” Ellen asked.

  “Saturday morning. I’ll come back as soon as I can. It might be awhile, though,” she said honestly, feeling a twinge of misgiving. She could see no other way, but she couldn’t rid herself of the niggling feeling in the pit of her stomach that she was making a mistake. “If anything changes with Lena, you’ll let me know immediately? I can be back here in a few hours if I need to be.”

  Ellen nodded. “Of course. Don’t worry about us. We’ll make do. You focus on winning that award.” She ate her last bite of pie before continuing. “It would be a blessing for Lena and these children, make no mistake. Besides, I’ve been thinking about asking Ernie to come out here for a spell anyhow. I don’t like to be away from him for so long, and he could help with things around the house.” She put her fork down on her plate. “You go ahead and catch your flight. We’ll handle things on this end.”

  “Good,” Maggie agreed. It was a relief knowing she wasn’t abandoning Ellen to cope alone. She ate the last of her pie without tasting it, tamping down a twinge of guilt and savoring the taste of freedom, sweeter than strawberry pie filling, lighter than air.

  Late Friday morning the doorbell rang. It had rained all morning, and Maggie and the kids were in the family room watching a nature documentary about dolphins. Ellen was mixing up blueberry muffins at the kitchen counter and listening to Elvis’s greatest hits turned down low. Maggie was stretched out on the sofa, Gabby draped over her legs, watching as a marine biologist took a boat up the Amazon in search of the elusive pink river dolphin. Maggie’s bags were already packed. She was leaving on the earliest ferry the nex
t morning and returning the rental car at the airport. Ellen had already reserved a car from a local company and would pick it up that afternoon. All the details for Maggie’s departure were in place.

  At the sound of the doorbell, Ellen looked up. “Are we expecting anybody?”

  Maggie shook her head. “I’ll get it.”

  She slid out from under Gabby’s warm little body and went to the mudroom door. On the step stood a small, neatly dressed woman in a business suit, clutching a clipboard.

  “Is this the . . . Firelli residence?” the woman asked, consulting her clipboard when Maggie opened the door.

  “Yes,” Maggie said, waiting. There was something about the woman, a tightness that set Maggie’s teeth on edge.

  The woman looked her up and down. Maggie had the distinct impression she was being weighed in the balance and found wanting somehow.

  “My name is Jane Bigelow, and I’m from Child Protective Services,” the woman said, introducing herself. She did not offer her hand. “I’m here about the children of Lena and Marco Firelli.”

  Ellen came up behind Maggie, drying her hands on a dish towel. She had flour scattered down the front of her blouse. She looked at Maggie, then at the woman on the step who was watching them in a cool, analyzing way. Maggie stood there for a moment, not sure how to proceed. Her instinct was to back up and close the door. She didn’t want this woman in the house.

  “Of course,” Ellen said finally, around Maggie. “Please come in.”

  In the front parlor, over a plate of day-old oatmeal cookies and some freshly made coffee, Ms. Bigelow wrote down their names and explained the nature of her visit.

  “It has come to our attention that Mr. Firelli is recently deceased and that Mrs. Firelli has sustained a life-threatening injury and is currently hospitalized and unresponsive on the mainland. Is this the case?”

  “Yes,” Ellen affirmed, shooting a questioning glance at Maggie as if to ask if she should elaborate. Maggie shook her head slightly, unwilling to give this small, starched woman any more information than was absolutely necessary. She knew all about Child Protective Services from her days in Chicago. Once they had taken away Gloria Gomez’s two girls for nine months and placed them in a foster home. When the girls came back, the little one, Elena, had stopped talking and was eating her own hair. In Maggie’s neighborhood government agencies were not your friends.

  “Where are the children now?” Ms. Bigelow asked, peering around as though she might find them hiding beneath the furniture.

  “They’re watching a nature show in the family room,” Ellen said. “About pink dolphins.”

  “I will need to see them before I leave,” Ms. Bigelow stated. It was not a request. “Now, Mrs. Foster, what is the exact nature of your relationship to Mr. and Mrs. Firelli?” Ms. Bigelow turned to Ellen, her pen poised over her clipboard.

  “I’m Lena’s aunt,” Ellen replied. “Her father’s sister.”

  “And you, Ms. Henry?”

  “I’m a . . . close family friend,” Maggie said, for the first time realizing how flimsy that sounded. “The children have grown up with me. I’m like family.”

  “But you are not in fact a biological relation,” Ms. Bigelow clarified.

  At Maggie’s reluctant assent the woman marked something down on her paper. She did not touch her coffee or the cookie on her plate. “Do the Firellis have any closer family members who could have an interest in the welfare of the children?” she asked. “Grandparents? Or Mr. or Mrs. Firelli’s siblings, perhaps?”

  Maggie answered briefly but truthfully. “Marco’s family is all in Sicily except for his youngest brother, Anthony, who lives in Miami. He and Marco weren’t close. Marco’s parents are in poor health. They don’t travel now. Lena is an only child, her mother is unwell, and her father wouldn’t be able to care for the children on his own.”

  “I see.” More markings on the clipboard. “Now, Mrs. Foster, were you given or are you aware of the existence of any legal forms or specific written instructions from either Mr. or Mrs. Firelli regarding their wishes for you to care for their children?”

  “Well, no, but of course it isn’t as though they planned for this to happen,” Ellen pointed out. “No one thought they’d both have accidents so close together.”

  Maggie shifted uneasily at Ellen’s words. Marco hadn’t planned for this to happen. She wasn’t so sure about Lena.

  “Ms. Henry, did Mr. or Mrs. Firelli give you or anyone else any specific instructions regarding the care of their children?” Ms. Bigelow was watching her closely.

  Maggie swallowed hard. She had a sinking feeling in her stomach. “Lena told me to take care of them, right before the accident,” she replied.

  “Did she put that in writing?” Ms. Bigelow asked.

  “No. She told me to take care of them, and then she walked out the door. Not long after, she had the car crash,” Maggie said.

  “I see.” More markings. Ms. Bigelow looked up, examining them through her glasses.

  “Ms. Henry, Mrs. Foster, I will be blunt. What you have done by taking care of these children during an uncertain and tragic time is admirable. However, it is not the practice of the State of Washington to allow minors to be cared for by people other than close relatives without direct parental instructions unless the court has determined that the individuals in question are the best possible caregivers for the children . . .”

  Ms. Bigelow continued talking but Maggie couldn’t hear her. A whole hive of yellow jackets was suddenly buzzing angrily in her head. She had a mental image of the littlest Gomez girl with her wide, blank eyes, chewing a strand of hair always coated with spittle at the corner of her mouth. This could not be happening. The State had no business interfering here. She wouldn’t let them. When she focused on the conversation again, Ellen was asking a question.

  “But what happens if there are no written instructions?”

  “We will be following up with all the next of kin. I believe you said Mr. Firelli had a brother in Miami? We will contact him immediately.”

  “He and Marco didn’t get along,” Maggie blurted out. She had never liked Anthony. He and Marco had fallen out years ago over some family matter. He was an attorney in Miami, handling divorce cases. She had met him only once, but the impression he left on her was decidedly negative. His eyes had been so cold, his handshake firmer than necessary. Lena had always said he made her uneasy and that she preferred to imagine he wasn’t part of the family.

  Ms. Bigelow peered through her glasses at Maggie. “Be that as it may, he is next of kin, unlike you, Ms. Henry. And we will be contacting him as well as the children’s grandparents to determine their interest in the children’s future. We will allow a reasonable amount of time for the next of kin to respond, and then we will proceed with what the State feels is in the best interest of the children. I would like to see them now.”

  Ellen led her into the family room while Maggie stayed in the front parlor, seething with outrage and struggling to get her emotions under control. Who did this social worker think she was, marching into their house and ordering the children’s lives when she knew nothing about them? It was ludicrous. But Maggie felt helpless to change anything. She knew how futile it was to fight the system. No one ever won.

  Ellen and Ms. Bigelow returned in a few moments. Ms. Bigelow finished making notes and then turned to Ellen, ignoring Maggie.

  “It is my opinion that the best thing for the children now is to remain here in the home with you, Mrs. Foster, until such time as other arrangements can be made for them to be put under the guardianship of a closer relative. Are you willing to allow the children to remain under your care until we have investigated this matter? I will need your verbal and written consent.”

  Ellen consented immediately.

  Ms. Bigelow turned to Maggie. “Ms. Henry, as you are in no way related to the children, I am afraid we are not able to put them under your care, even on a short-term basis.”

  Maggie
did not respond. She clenched her hands together hard to avoid throttling the woman. She should have felt relieved. She had no more responsibility here. Ellen was in charge of them now, and perhaps in a few weeks it would be Marco’s parents or brother. She was free to catch her plane to Chicago. Instead, she felt exactly the opposite.

  The children’s lives were suddenly being decided by people who understood the letter of the law but knew nothing about them, not who they were and certainly not what was truly in their best interest. They didn’t know Gabby would fall asleep only if Bun Bun’s head was tucked under her chin, or that you had to keep sweet snacks hidden behind the bins of beans and flour in the cupboard so Luca couldn’t sneak them. And Jonah . . . She winced when she thought of Jonah, those dark, somber eyes and the downward slope of his young shoulders. He was a little boy carrying a misplaced guilt so heavy it was slowly crushing him.

  “We will notify you as soon as possible when we are in contact with the next of kin,” Ms. Bigelow said to Ellen. “The children’s provisional placement with you should last no longer than thirty days.”

  “What happens after thirty days?” Maggie asked, tuning back in to the conversation.

  Ms. Bigelow cleared her throat. “If no suitable next of kin have come forward by that time, the court will determine the best placement for the children in a long-term care environment. That could be a family member such as Mrs. Foster, or it could be a situation such as a group home or foster family. It varies from case to case.”

  “Are you serious? You can’t do that to them,” Maggie protested, trying to keep her voice calm and reasonable, although she wanted nothing more than to grab the social worker by the arm and shake her until her teeth rattled. “They’ve been through hell recently. This is the most stable and loving environment for them, at home with people who’ve known them all their lives in a place that’s familiar to them.”