Suspicious Origin

by MacDonald, Patricia

  “You need to think about yourself,” said Nancy.

  “I do,” Britt insisted. “But this is a great job.” Sometimes, she thought, Nancy could overdo the motherly concern. Britt knew it was genuine, but all the same…She glanced at the monitor and saw the guest shaking hands with Donovan. “I’d better get out there,” she said.

  An hour later, Britt unlocked the door to her apartment and gratefully closed it behind her. She tossed her briefcase on a table in the hallway and picked up her mail. She carried it through to the living room and sank down into the cushions of the sofa. Among the usual bills and catalogs, a powder-blue envelope caught her eye. Britt recognized her sisters handwriting. She tore the envelope open and pulled out the sheet of notepaper. A photograph fell from the fold and fluttered to the floor. Britt bent over and picked it up. It was a school photo of a young girl with long, lank blond hair and braces, smiling shyly. On the back it said, “Zoe, Grade 6.” Britt held onto the photo and unfolded the note. “Dear Aunt Britt,” it read. “Thank you for the check for Halloween. Sorry I took so long to write. My costume was a female vampire. I am putting the check into the bank to save it for college. I’m sending you my school picture from this year. I hope I will see you one of these days. Your niece, Zoe.”

  Britt sighed, studying the picture. It was hard to believe Zoe would be twelve soon and Britt had never even met her. She and Zoe’s mother, her older sister, Greta, had been estranged for years. Ever since their father died. What started as a feud was now little more than a bad habit. They exchanged the occasional note or phone call, but they seemed to have little to say to one another. Britt never failed to send Zoe something on her birthday and holidays. Greta had thanked her stiffly for that during one of their rare exchanges. Still, the only way their relationship was ever going to change was if one of them broke down and went to visit the other. When Britt had lived in San Francisco, it had seemed impossible. Now that she lived back in New England, she thought about it from time to time. But every time she thought of it, she felt defeated by the prospect.

  On the trunk Britt used for a coffee table sat the Christmas card that Greta had sent two years ago. Britt had framed it, and kept it there, as if to remind herself of why she didn’t want to go to visit. The card was a photo surrounded by a holly-and-ivy border. In the picture, Greta, her good-looking husband and daughter were posed, smiling, around a snowman in front of their huge, pristine white farmhouse with green shutters and a lighted Christmas tree glowing on the front porch. Greta was a nurse, and her husband was a successful businessman who sold mopeds or snowmobiles or some such thing. Zoe was healthy and beautiful, and everything you could ever want in a child. The house looked like something out of a fairy tale. Britt could just picture spending a weekend there, being reminded in ways, subtle and not so subtle, of how Greta had managed to be successful in her relationships, while Britt, of course, had not.

  Stuffing Zoe’s note back into the envelope, Britt suddenly noticed that she was hungry. Donovan’s eager young assistant had gone out to get him dinner tonight, and hadn’t bothered to ask Britt if she wanted anything. Typical. Still clutching Zoe’s picture, Britt went into the kitchen, and added the photo to the gallery of Zoe portraits on her refrigerator door with a magnet. Then she rummaged through her cabinets until she found some crackers and a can of Cheez Whiz. It was better than nothing, she thought. She drank some milk out of the carton and ate her snack standing up, leaning against the cabinets while a row of Zoe’s, each one slightly older than the last, smiled innocently at her from the refrigerator door. How had she done it, Britt wondered? Somehow Greta had managed to get through all the heartache of their childhood relatively unscathed. After their mothers desertion, and their fathers death, she had still had the will to love and to be happy. Britt, on the other hand, never seemed to be able to relax enough to trust anyone. Not that Britt would ever be interested in that provincial, small-town family life. But she knew exactly how Greta would see her choices. Interesting maybe, but empty. Proof of the selfishness Greta had always accused her of. Britt didn’t need that. She liked her life. She didn’t need the perfect home and all that family togetherness crammed down her throat or held up as an example of how life should be.

  Britt cleaned up the crumbs, and then went into her bedroom, where a pile of books written by would-be talk show guests sat on the window seat, awaiting her perusal. Not tonight, she thought. I just don’t care. I’m going to watch an old movie and go to bed. She undressed and pulled on her bathrobe. Maybe a nice, hot bath, she thought.

  Just as she turned on the water, she was startled by the sound of the phone ringing. For a minute, her heart leaped. It was Donovan. It had to be. He was the only one who would call her at this hour. He often used to call her late at night, when he was sitting up and his wife was already in bed. That was marriage for you. His wife in the next room while he whispered that he was crazy about Britt. These days, they had hurried meetings at the studio before airtime that were all business. Maybe he was thinking about those times and missing them, she thought. And then, almost immediately, she felt disgusted by her own hopefulness. Why would you even want him anymore? He’s a career philanderer. If you had any sense at all, you’d call him and tell him to stuff his job. She turned off the faucet and walked toward the phone.

  She snatched up the receiver and growled, “Hello.”

  There was a hesitation at the other end. Then, a gravelly, unfamiliar male voice said, “Is this Britt Andersen?”

  Britt was instantly on her guard. A single woman in a high-profile business had to be careful about callers. Especially male callers late at night. “Who is this?” she said coldly. “What do you want?”

  “Sorry to call so late. I didn’t know…My name is Alec Lynch. I’m…Greta’s husband.”

  Immediately, Britt’s heart started to pound. Greta’s husband? Britt had never even exchanged so much as a hello with this man. And at this hour, it was something bad. Something terrible. “What?”

  His words were halting. “I know you and Greta aren’t…weren’t… I thought I should let you know…”

  “Somethings happened,” she said.

  “Yes. I’m afraid…” He stopped and Britt heard the catch of a sob in his voice. Oh no, she thought. The room seemed to be suddenly airless. Britt could hardly breathe.

  “There was a fire tonight. Your sister…was trapped in the house. She…she’s been killed…”

  Britt sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. “Oh God,” she gasped.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a clipped tone.

  “Greta is dead?”

  “That’s right,” he said. And then he added, perfunctorily, “I’m sure it’s a shock.”

  A shock? Britt felt as if the man had reached through the phone and grabbed her by the throat. No, it’s not fair, she thought. She stared out the window into the blackness of the night. A feeling of shame crept through her, making her flush hotly all over. Here she had been thinking some nonsense about Donovan Smith, while her sister…her only sister…was dying. Images of Greta flooded her mind.

  Usually, when she thought of Greta, the habit of bitterness made her remember the scoldings she’d endured from her sister, the bossiness. Greta was eight years older than Britt, and had virtually taken over raising her when their mother left. But now, Britt had a sudden, vivid memory of watching in awe as Greta got dressed for dates. Combing her shining blond hair, brushing mascara on the black fringe around her pale blue eyes. Turning to Britt for final approval. Britt’s memories tumbled over one another. How Greta tried to fill the void left by their mother’s desertion. Greta taught her to drive. And baked valentine cookies for Britt’s class party. Tears began to seep out of Britt’s eyes. She wiped them away, but new tears instantly replaced them.

  Why did I blame her for everything? Britt thought. Why didn’t I make that visit and apologize to her while I had the chance? I was so concerned about what she would think of me. Now, it’s too late… An
other thought suddenly jolted her. “Zoe?”

  “Zoe’s in the hospital… She’s going to be okay, though.” His voice was shaking.

  “Thank God,” said Britt.

  After a moments silence, the man on the other end said abruptly, “Well, I thought I should tell you.”

  “Yes,” Britt said. His tone of voice was flat, but she didn’t want him to hang up. She needed to know more. “Yes. I’m just so…stunned. And I’m so sorry. I know how much…how happy you all were. I was just looking at the Christmas card before…” She felt as if she was babbling. There was silence from the other end of the line but she thought she heard a muffled sob. “What happened? How did it happen? Tell me about Zoe. Are you sure she’s going to be all right?”

  Alec Lynch cleared his throat. “The house caught fire. We don’t know how… I wasn’t home when it happened. Apparently it started upstairs, in our bedroom. The fire spread very rapidly. Engulfed the place. A neighbor went in and found Zoe. The firemen were able to bring Zoe and the neighbor out. But Greta was still in our room and they couldn’t get to her.”

  Britt realized, with a desolate feeling in her heart, that she had never seen the house where they lived. She’d only seen the picture on the Christmas card. The tree, glowing on the front porch. “I still can’t believe it. How did the fire start?” Britt asked.

  “I don’t know. I heard them say it might have been started by a candle, setting the curtains on fire or something,” he said brusquely. “Anyway, the doctors tell me that Zoe will be fine, thank God. We won’t have the services for Greta until Zoe is out of the hospital, of course.”

  Services, Britt thought. A funeral. The last time Britt had seen Greta was at their father’s funeral. Where they had fought so bitterly and severed their relationship. With no parents to reunite them, it had been easy to drift apart and stay that way. She’d always thought that someday, somehow they would meet again. Now, Greta’s life was over. There would be no more chances.

  “Don’t feel you have to come,” Alec continued coldly. “If you want to send flowers. She loved flowers…”

  “I know,” said Britt, her voice breaking. “I remember. Oh, why didn’t I… I feel so badly. About everything. It was all so long ago. So foolish. Please, if you would, tell Zoe… I just got her note today. Tell her…I’m thinking of her.”

  “Sure,” said the man on the phone. “I’ll tell her. Okay, well, that’s all. As I said, I thought I should let you know.”

  “Yes, I’m…I’m grateful that you did.” Britt said. There was another silence between them. Hang up now, she thought. Instead, she said, “Where… is the funeral going to be there? In Coleville?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I’ve never been there,” said Britt. She looked around her familiar bedroom. She thought about her job. And Donovan, and this week’s guests. Her work calendar was cluttered. Obviously this man did not expect Britt to show up for the funeral. No one did. Not even Zoe. She thought about the gallery of Zoe’s on her refrigerator. Greta’s only child. The awkward little thank-you note on blue paper which Greta probably insisted that she write. The oversize, curliqued way her niece signed her name. Zoe. Britt took a deep breath. “I’d like to come,” she said.

  There was a silence from the other end.

  “If that’s all right,” she said.

  Her caller remained silent.

  “You probably think it’s kind of… too little, too late, but…”

  “Do whatever you want,” he said in a clipped tone.

  What she wanted to do was hang up the phone and forget he had ever called. But that would not be possible. Instead, she said, “Just a minute…Alec. Can you wait a minute? I need to get a pencil. I’m going to need directions.”

  Chapter Four

  Britt drove toward Mt. Glace, glancing occasionally at the directions she had scrawled out while she was talking to Alec Lynch. Britt had rented a car at the airport and now she was navigating the mountainous landscape. Around every curve was a breathtaking vista. Gray December clouds hung low over evergreens which appeared black in the gloom. The ground was dappled white, gray and dun-colored. Mt. Glace loomed ahead, its snow-covered face freckled with antlike figures descending the barely visible trails. A stream ran alongside the road, rushing over piles of rocks, glinting like molten silver. Britt passed the first sign for Coleville and realized that she had almost reached her destination. It was a beautiful but melancholy place that Greta had called home, she thought.

  Britt’s face reddened when she thought about her call to Donovan to tell him about Greta’s death and her intention to attend the funeral. She realized that she had been hoping for some expression of concern or sympathy from him. But when she said that she was going to Vermont he replied, “I didn’t even know you had a sister.”

  Recalling Donovan’s remark made her face burn with shame. She had told him about her family. He just hadn’t remembered.

  Yes, I had a sister, she had wanted to yell at him. A sister who once meant everything to me. But that would have only been more embarrassing. Instead, she’d said, “I thought I told you,” and ended the conversation. As a child, Britt had been both coddled and disciplined by her older sister. Greta had always helped her with her homework, made sure she had clean clothes for school. On Britt’s birthday, Greta had always baked her a carrot cake. It wasn’t until the teenage years that Britt had rebelled. She had criticized Greta’s homemaking skills, and scorned her ambitions to be a nurse. Britt’s face burned as she drove along, remembering how condescending and obnoxious she had been toward her sister. Why didn’t I appreciate what she tried to do for me? Oh, Greta, I’m sorry, she thought, and the tears rose again to her eyes and made it difficult to see the road.

  Luckily, a sign for the route number which signaled the turnoff for the town of Coleville appeared in front of her. Britt made the turn and was able to drive more slowly for a few miles until she reached the center of town.

  The main street in Coleville was charming, filled with quaint shops, and restaurants with smoke curling from the chimneys. People dressed in parkas and jeans came and went in pickup trucks. Others in sleek skiwear browsed the shop windows, although it was clearly not yet the height of the season. There were a number of parking spaces available, and people moved at an unhurried pace. The houses on the main street were a mixture of chalet-type buildings as well as green-shuttered, white colonial houses that appeared to be very old but extremely well kept. Britt consulted her directions again and peered at the street signs until she found a cross street called Medford Road which led away from town. She turned down it and drove, noticing that the homes quickly thinned out as she drove away from the center of town. Number 67 was a small, cedar-shingle cottage, gray with age. Alec had explained to her on the phone that it was the house of a friend, who spent the winter in Florida. Someone had called him with news of the fire, and he immediately offered Alec and Zoe his empty house as a temporary place to stay.

  Britt parked in front of the house, got out of her car and stretched. Her stomach felt queasy and her teeth were chattering, both from the cold, for it was noticeably colder here than it had been in Boston, and from anxiety for the encounter that was ahead of her. On the other side of that door was a brother-in-law who was clearly resenting her arrival as an intrusion, and a niece whose growing up she had missed entirely. Coward, she said to herself. They have it much worse than you. They have lost a wife and mother. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. She left her duffel bag in the car, walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

  After a few moments the door opened and the man she recognized from the Christmas card photo stood in the doorway in front of her. He was fortyish, his thick, dark hair shot with gray. He had deep-set, hooded gray eves and sensual features in a face etched with grief. His chest, neck and shoulders were broad for a man of medium height. An unshaven stubble gave his complexion a gray tone and there were dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes.

  “A
lec?” she asked warily. “I’m Britt.”

  He made no effort to smile or look welcoming. “Come in,” he said gruffly, moving to one side, to make room for her to pass. “Pardon the mess. People have been bringing us all lands of stuff.”

  Britt saw what he meant as she squeezed by him into the dimly lit hallway. There were cartons everywhere full of clothing and food, forming haphazard towers, gloves, socks and shirtsleeves visible in the tops of the boxes.

  “We’re used to a lot more space. We had a very big house.”

  Instantly, Britt felt critical of him. As if a big house mattered, she thought. You’re lucky to have a roof over your head after that fire.

  “This house is cute,” she said.

  “Nowhere to put anything,” he muttered. “Hang your coat there,” he said, pointing to a hallway closet beside the staircase, “if you can find room.”

  His complaint irritated her. Britt had to wend her way carefully to the closet. He waited while she awkwardly jammed her full-length tweed coat onto a hanger and stuffed it in among the ballooning parkas. Then he pointed to a doorway on the right.

  “This is the living room,” he said. “Such as it is.”

  Britt entered the room. Like the hallway, the room had worn wood floors and parchment-colored walls. It was a simple, comfortably furnished room with armchairs and a sofa grouped around a brick fireplace with a white mantel and built-in bookcases covering up much of the wall space. This room also had boxes and shopping bags shoved against one wall. Curled in one of the armchairs was a somber-looking young woman with long, black hair and creamy skin. She was dressed in a tight, raspberry knit shirt and faded jeans.

  The young woman looked up gravely at Britt as Alec said, “Lauren, this is my sister-in-law, Britt Andersen. Britt, Lauren Rossi. She works for me at the dealership.”

  Lauren gave Britt a fleeting smile and stood up to shake her hand. As Lauren rose from the chair, Britt noticed that her feet were clad only in woolly socks. A pair of hiking boots lay beside the chair on the jewel-tone oriental rug. “Sorry about your loss,” said Lauren.