by Teresa Hill
He'd pointed out, quite reasonably, that anyone could use any return address they wanted on an envelope, and if the letter writer truly wanted answers about her sister's death, he wouldn't have Megan's family writing back to a false address. All of that was true. But why would anyone write such a letter in the first place all this time? Why use Jason Getty's address? Had they simply picked it from the phone book?
It had been so odd, and it had made Allie think. She really didn't know much about how her sister died, didn't even know why her sister ran away. She didn't know why her family fell apart all those years ago. It was her mother's way, of course. To avoid all things unpleasant, to pretend they didn't exist, to hope they might go away. Well, none of Allie's questions had ever disappeared. They'd always been there, hovering on the edges of her mind. And she'd decided it was time to stop wondering, time to go after the answers for herself.
She just hadn't realized how hard it would be to come here after all these years. Even this morning, at the airport, her bags packed, her plane ticket in her hand, she'd had the ridiculous urge to get up and walk away. The past might tease at her mind, like the half-forgotten lyrics of an old, familiar song. It might haunt her like a dream at times, a nightmare at others. But she'd lived with it for so long, the questions, the uncertainties, the odd sense of yearning for something she didn't even understand. It had taken all of her resolve simply to board the flight.
But now that she was here, she made a solemn promise to herself. No matter what happened, she wasn't leaving until she found out the truth. About her father, her sister, her life. She had to have those answers before she could ever really put this behind her and start fresh.
Which meant she had no business standing here with her back pressed against the front door as if she meant to escape at the first opportunity.
Outside, she heard the ominous roll of thunder, felt electricity in the air. At any moment it would come together in a blinding bolt of lightning. More than likely, she'd lose power again before the night was over. Interminable hours of darkness stretched before her.
It was that thought which finally propelled her through the first floor, past the graceful, swirling lines of the grand staircase in the front hall, through the living room—the furniture like ghostly mounds under fading white cloths—to the kitchen in back. In the walk-in pantry, she rummaged through the cabinets until she found several large candles and some matches. She lit three candles all around the kitchen, then had the oddest feeling of the past closing in on her, smothering her.
She'd been in this room so often, and the memories seemed to come rushing back, memories she thought she'd lost completely in the intervening years. Allie turned her head and could have sworn she saw...
Herself?
She blinked twice. The image before her remained stubbornly the same. For a moment, it was as if someone had turned one of the pages of time, and she was back in this room, fifteen years ago. Like she was two people—herself, as a grown-up, watching herself, as a child.
She sat on a high stool in the corner of the kitchen, using the wrapper from a stick of butter to give a baking pan a thin coat of butter, something she'd done a hundred times. Her mother never threw away a butter wrapper. She folded them neatly into rectangles and stored them on the shelf on the refrigerator door that held the butter dish. When it came time to bake, Allie got out one for each baking pan. There was just enough butter left on the wrapper to grease a pan.
"Almost done, dear?"
Allie whirled around. There was her mother, clad in a pristine white apron her hair without a speck of gray, her face not nearly as sad. She walked over to little Allie and dumped a quarter cup of flour into the pan. Allie worked it around the bottom and the sides, so nothing they baked would stick, and her mother smiled at her. There had been times when her mother smiled beautifully, when she'd been happy, as well. Allie had forgotten that.
"Can I lick the bowl?" little Allie said, looking unbelievably young and happy and innocent.
Allie knew why. This had been before.
Their lives together were inexorably separated into before and after.
Before Megan ran away, little Allie had been happy, unafraid, thinking life would go on just like that, that nothing would ever change.
Blinking to clear her eyes, the grown-up Allie now saw nothing but the flickering of candlelight in the corner where they'd been. A chill ran down her spine. Her own voice—hers as a child—seemed to echo in the room, the sound filtering through the house, like water flowing down a gently moving stream, until it was gone and silence remained.
"Oh, God," Allie whispered. Obviously, she was in dire need of a decent night's sleep and some food. Her stomach had twisted itself into knots, and she had a bad case of the shakes, which meant her blood sugar level was crashing. She always got the shakes when she waited too long to eat.
Allie turned on the stove, put the casserole inside, and set the timer. Coffee sounded good, too, and the caffeine didn't worry her in the least. She had no prayer of sleeping well tonight. She made a pot, stood there in the kitchen waiting for it to brew, finding her gaze darting this way and that at every little creak, every whine of the wind.
It didn't matter what happened here—what she thought she saw—she was staying. If the house didn't hold the answers she sought, the townspeople likely did. This was the kind of place where people were born, lived out their whole lives, and died. She'd find people who knew her father, remembered her mother and her sister. She'd ask her questions, have her answers, no matter how painful.
She was still standing there a moment later when the wind started screaming. Even though she was expecting it, she still gave a start when the thunder finally sounded and the lights flickered and died.
She was just starting to calm down a little when she heard another sound. Someone was knocking on the door. Her heart gave another painful lurch, thinking of that eerie vision of herself and her mother in the kitchen. But the noise persisted, and Allie hurried to the front door.
Without even looking to see who it was, she flung open the door, forgetting all about the candle in her hand. The wind came at her in a rush, the light dying abruptly. Lightning crashed around them, for a second providing dramatic backlighting for the man. She'd thought Mr. Webster might have returned for some reason, but this man was much younger, taller, broader through the shoulder, darkly handsome, and he looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him.
"Oh, my God," he said softly. "Megan?"
Chapter 2
A bit of light flared between them—from a cigarette lighter, she realized—and Allie gaped up at the tall, dark stranger. He reached for her, and it wasn't until she'd likely made a fool of herself that she figured out he only meant to light the candle she held in her hand. She was trembling so badly he put his hand over hers to steady it, then took the candle from her. He slipped the lighter into the pocket of his raincoat and carefully shielded the candle flame from the wind as he held it up to her face. The man stared at her for a long moment, as if he couldn't reconcile the image he saw with the truth—that the girl he remembered was dead. Surely he knew that.
"She died," Allie said. "Fifteen years ago, she ran away and never came back."
"I know. That's why I was so startled by the sight of you." He stared at her, his eyes narrowing, recognition dawning yet again. "Allie?"
"Yes." She gave him a tentative smile. "I'm afraid I don't remember you."
"I doubt you would. You were what? Six or seven years old? When you and your mother left town?"
"Nine," she corrected. She'd just finished third grade and had so few specific memories of that time. Struggling with multiplication tables. Watching with curiosity and envy as a few of the older girls started filling out in all the right places and gossiping about boys.
She didn't remember this man.
Just then, the rain came thundering down, running off the sides of the porch and blowing toward them. The man came one step closer. Alli
e hesitated only a moment. She dreaded the idea of being alone in this house, and he had known her sister.
"Would you like to come inside?" She would never have invited a stranger into her apartment in Connecticut, but this wasn't Connecticut, and he wasn't exactly a stranger.
"Yes, thank you."
As she closed the door she realized there was no other car in the driveway. He must have walked here before the rain started, and she wondered if he was a neighbor.
He set the candle on a small table at the bottom of the stairs, took off his obviously expensive and now very wet raincoat, and hung it over the banister. He was wearing a beautifully tailored suit in a rich brown color, the jacket showing off the wide expanse of his shoulders. He ran a hand through his hair, which was short and dark and wet, then stared at her once again.
"Sorry," he said. "I can't get over how much you look like your sister."
Allie found herself absurdly pleased by the idea, and she liked knowing someone still remembered Megan. Sometimes it had seemed she was the only one. Her mother hadn't so much as mentioned Megan's name in years, and Allie had learned not to, either, as she'd learned not to ask about so many things over the years.
She let the man take his time looking at her as she studied him. He was in his mid-thirties. Tall, trim, with the build of an athlete and an air of self-assurance and power. Money, too. It was evident in the cut and quality of the suit. He looked like a man used to having the best, to getting his way.
A second later, he turned his head a bit, and the light hit his face at just the right angle. Allie saw something there, something she recognized. The shape of his eyes, maybe the hint of gold in the dark green irises or the shape of his lips when they stretched into the barest hint of a smile.
"You used to live next door," she said.
"Still do."
"Stephen Whittaker?"
He nodded. "I'm surprised you remember."
"I'm surprised now that I forgot," Allie said. "Megan talked about you nonstop from as far back as I can remember. She watched from the window of my bedroom when you went out on your first date. Then she cried for days."
He looked surprised, then a bit embarrassed. "Megan was a sweet kid."
Allie nodded. Stephen, if she remembered correctly, had been a few years older than Megan. Allie wondered if he'd always viewed her sister as nothing but a sweet kid, if there had ever been anything more between them.
Allie's memories of the time she'd spent here had always been vague, but strangely, the closer she tried to get to her memories of that summer Megan ran away, the more difficult it was to recall anything at all. Was it merely the fact that she'd been so young? Or something else entirely that made it difficult to remember those last days with her sister?
Allie couldn't say. But Stephen would have been in high school or college. He'd always lived next door to her family. His mother did volunteer work at her parents' church, and his father was a judge. Surely she could trust him.
Impulsively, Allie said, "Someone was kind enough to leave me a casserole for dinner. I think it had enough time to heat before the power went out. I also made a pot of fresh coffee. Would you care to stay for dinner?"
"Coffee and a hot meal? In the middle of one of these storms? That's an offer I couldn't possibly refuse."
By the time she served the casserole, Stephen was sitting at the small table by the window in the kitchen, the flames of a half dozen candles dancing around the room. Outside, the thunder and the wind had subsided, but the rain still fell heavily, the wetness glistening against the windowpanes, the atmosphere suddenly intimate.
They ate hungrily. Stephen had her laughing as he came up with news of people and places she remembered. The food was warm and settled her stomach. She'd stopped shaking, was more relaxed than she'd been in weeks.
"I don't remember the last time I enjoyed a meal more," she said.
"Then the man in your life ought to be ashamed of himself."
He grinned as he said it, and there was power in the easy smile that rested so naturally on his lips, in the richness of his voice, the warmth in his tone, the mere hint of flirtation in his sparkling eyes. She couldn't help but admire the elegance infused within every move he made. Everything about the way he carried himself spoke of unfaltering self-confidence and an assurance of his place in the world and with women.
He had to know women found him charming. All women, she suspected. Allie suspected he could get most anything he wanted, simply by asking. She wondered exactly what was happening to her. If it was some trick of the soft, pretty light or her gratitude in having someone to keep her company tonight. Whatever it was, she was enchanted with him. And she found it was easy to sit there in the dark with him. She wasn't nervous or tongue-tied, as she often was around men like him, because she knew him. It seemed she'd always known him, and that at the core, the man was not so different from the boy. He'd always been kind to her and Megan.
"So, who is this man who's treating you so shabbily?" Stephen asked.
"There is no man," she said quickly.
No one at all. The thought sobered her faster than anything could have. She was all alone, missing her mother, missing her sister and her father more than she had in years, and she still had to face the night alone in this house.
"So what brings you back?" Stephen asked. "The house?"
He'd poured her another cup of coffee when he'd gotten up to refill his own cup. Even lukewarm, it still tasted good. They'd pushed their plates to the side, and Stephen was leaning back in his chair now, watching her intently in a way she didn't think she'd ever feel comfortable being watched. And he would be gone soon. If she had questions, she had to get to them.
"My mother died recently," she said.
"I'm sorry." His hand slid across the table to hers in a simple, eloquent offer of comfort.
"Thank you," she said, unable to remember the last time a man held her hand. "I miss her. More than I had imagined I would." Particularly given the fact that she'd been angry at her mother for most of her life.
"It was just the two of you? Once you left here?"
"Yes."
"You must have been close..."
"I wouldn't say that." Allie sighed. "We just never quite got it right, you know? The mother /daughter thing. I always thought one day we would, but we didn't, and I let her rob me of all those years with my father."
"Rob you?"
"We both acted as if my father didn't even exist. She wouldn't talk about him, except to say that he didn't want us anymore," Allie explained. "Of course, I did what she wanted. I can't blame it all on my mother."
Janet Bennett painted herself as a frail, wounded woman her whole life, and Allie had always known her biggest responsibility was not to upset her mother. That included not starting any conversations about her father. Not asking any questions. Giving up on the letters, and never trying to see him.
"Your mother was all you had left, Allie. You were just a little girl. It's natural for you to want to please her."
"Maybe when I was nine. I'm twenty-four now."
"You grow up a certain way, expected to do certain things for your family, and it's hard to break those habits. It's hard to stop wanting to please them, hard to do what's right when you know it's going to hurt them."
"You do things like that for your family, too?"
"We all have our little eccentricities." He laughed humorlessly. "Eccentricities is a generous word for the things that go on in some families. Don't beat yourself up because you didn't handle your mother's problems as well as you think you should have. She was the one with the problem, Allie."
"No. It was my life. I let her do this to me."
"What did she do?"
"I think the current psychology term would be that she had control issues. She liked having me under her thumb. She was unhappy and the biggest hypochondriac I've ever known. Every time I managed to pull away just a little bit, she came up with these mysterious little problems, va
gue weaknesses and complaints. It was like she couldn't stand the idea that I might actually be happy. If she wasn't happy, nobody was going to be happy. I feel guilty that I didn't stand up to her more often—especially when it came to my father. Even felt guilty because I didn't want to give up my job and my apartment to care for her in the end. I kept thinking she was willing to do anything to stop me from having a life of my own—even get cancer."
"Oh, Allie—"
"I know. It's crazy to even think it. Even crazier to miss her so much now that she's gone."
"You took care of her? All by yourself? In the end?"
"For a while. I quit my job. As an accountant," she said with what she thought was only a tad of distaste.
"You don't like being an accountant?"
"No." She grimaced. "It's so dull."
Stephen laughed.
"I suppose it was a good thing—that I quit, I mean. I should have figured it out long ago. I just... I've always been good with numbers, and accounting is so logical, so predictable. There was a time when that appealed to me." One place in her life where everything made sense. No surprises. No disappointments, just sheer logic. "But I've hated it. All except the last few months, at least."
"What was different about the last few months?"
"There was an organization in town that was very helpful to my mother and me when she was sick. A church group, sort of an umbrella organization that provided all sorts of services in town. They had a home health nurse who came once a week and a support group for women battling cancer. They brought my mother hot meals, before I moved back home, that sort of thing.
"They lived constantly on the verge of financial ruin, lived on sheer faith alone at times." She admired them for their nerve, their renegade do-gooder tactics. "I ended up doing volunteer work for them when I had the time, juggling funds as best I could to keep everything going."
"And you enjoyed that?"
"I did. Clients, to me, had always been a bunch of numbers in long rows on a computer screen. These people had records scattered from one end of the county to the other, so I ended up visiting a lot of the different sites where they provided services. Seeing all those people they helped... It made it all real. It made the job important in a way it never had been before."
