The Rosewood Diary

by Teri Blake

  “I don’t know.” He opened the passenger door of his red sedan and she sat heavily inside. After joining her, he then turned on the engine and the AC.

  “I was under the impression you knew everything.”

  He shook his head with a sharp laugh. “No. Absolutely not. I just play an expert for my day job. In fact, you’ve taught me a lot in the last week since you got here.”

  “Me?” She’d felt inadequate at every new crossing.

  “Yes. You’ve taught me that I can’t always go with my gut when it comes to people. I had you pegged as completely self-absorbed after I texted you the first time.”

  She had been pretty egocentric. Flashes of her past had come back the last three days. Periods when she’d just been living her life, but looking back she’d been thinking about no one but herself.

  She’d never asked for help for as long as she could remember. Self-reliance had allowed her to maintain personal distance from everyone and made sure she didn’t invite anyone in her life like Mom. But now, she needed help. Death was something completely new in her world. She’d never even lost a goldfish.

  “I can’t do this without an expert, so are you willing to put that hat back on for a minute?” How would she go through everything in the house, decide what was important, and get rid of the rest? What if those things were important too? What if she did it wrong and lost something else forever?

  “I’ll help as much as I can.” His hands gripped just above his knees. It helped to know he was nervous. She wasn’t alone then.

  “Thank you,” Quin said. He’d given pretty great advice so far. He’d said she needed time away from the house and just a few moments in his car relieved the tension through her whole body. The release was like going up in an escalator.

  “Your sister insisted on doing everything alone too, so I’m really glad you’re finally reaching out. I was worried you wouldn’t.”

  “Do you see a lot of her in me?” Maybe a little of her sister could remain. A shadow, but still present.

  “No. Not really. But I’ve only known you for a few days. Other than what Ryla told me, but she was more like your biggest fan, not your sister.

  “I found a picture of one of her paintings a few days ago. I had no idea she even painted.”

  He nodded slowly. “Just wait until I show you the attic.” His eyebrows rose steadily. “There’s enough for a gallery up there.”

  Her heart pitched, then plummeted. What if Ryla was better than her? If she was, then Ryla’s work could be sold and seen. She would leave her mark. “I want to see it.”

  “Right now?” He glanced at the church. “Shouldn’t we go back inside?”

  Except for her parents, none of those people would care about her or her sister outside of gossip after this moment. “Yes, now. Do you really want to go back in there?” Leaving now would give her an hour of peace since Mom and Dad would stay there and help clean up. That hour was precious.

  “Okay. You know them better than I do.” He shrugged.

  At least if he thought she was crazy, he might want to stick close to make sure she didn’t do anything out of hand. Best that she keep him on his toes. He turned the ignition and she buckled in as he pulled away, heading for home.

  The closer she got to Rosewood House, the calmer she felt. “I needed this. To get away.”

  “I’ve been waiting all week for you to take two minutes to come over and just…escape. I thought you might need it.” He turned into the sloped driveway and parked in front of the garage.

  “I couldn’t. There’s some kind of hold Mom has over me. She’s always been the one to tell me where to move and what to do. Even when I’m far away, I know what’s expected of me and I’ve never fought that. But now… I can’t live under her direction and do something for Ryla at the same time.”

  “What could you do for her now? Isn’t it a bit late?” He met her gaze momentarily as he got out of the car.

  “It isn’t. Not until I’m gone too.” She firmly believed that.

  “Well, if this is important, then let’s go see it.” He laid a gentle hand on her back and walked her up the steps to the front door, then unlocked it for her.

  She opened her mouth to ask him about the key, then thought better of it. If she sold the house, the new owners would put a new lock in. Why take it from him when he wasn’t going to do anything with it?

  He led her upstairs to a section of the ceiling she’d never noticed before. “Was it always like that?” If she’d had a place to hide as a child, life would’ve been so much better.

  “It’s always been there, but before it was just outlined in paint. I put up trim around it to make the edges look nicer.” He tugged on a handle and the section of ceiling pulled down and a ladder dropped, stopping when it almost reached the floor.

  “I can’t believe this was always here…”

  “When I cut it, all that was up here was cobwebs. Ryla cleaned it out. She hasn’t been up here in at least three months though.”

  So, the spiders had probably taken over again. Quin shuddered but grabbed the ladder. Looking at art, something she knew better than anything else, could help her deal with the loss of her sister.

  “Want me to come with you?”

  She stalled on the third rung. “I…” She didn’t know. If he was there, it wouldn’t be as private, but nothing he’d done had ever led her to believe she couldn’t be exactly who she was around him. “…sure.”

  He waited until she was a little higher, then climbed up to follow her. A light switch on the floor almost made her laugh. What a strange place to put it, but where else was appropriate? She flipped it and three bulbs flickered to life.

  All along the walls, three layers thick, were various sized canvases. “How many years—” She couldn’t finish her question as she wandered to the other end of the attic.

  “Longer than I’ve known her. They were originally stacked along the walls in the two upstairs bedrooms. Then she filled the storage room. When she met me, she asked if I would help her with a project. Cutting that door was the project. It took her a week to clean up here and move all of them.”

  They seemed to be ordered from earliest to latest. All of her teenage paintings were watercolor, and they were all seascapes. Quin recognized the landscape portions in every painting, not simply because she knew the area but because the paintings were good enough that it was obvious.

  “All this time, she had more talent than me.” Quin moved a few aside to look at a large painting in the back. It stalled her breath and tears burned her eyes.

  “That one is one of my favorites, though I’m a little jealous,” Paxton said.

  She knew he was only trying to lighten the mood, that he wasn’t jealous at all, but there, in life-sized canvas, was an oil painting of her kissing the boy whose name she couldn’t remember. Her red dress skimmed her knees and the boy held her gently around the waist. Ryla hadn’t even attended the dance. The painting had been from memory and imagination, but she’d painted every detail of the clothing perfectly.

  Quin dropped to her knees, her head in her hands. Her thoughtlessness had weighed so heavily on Ryla’s heart that she’d left reminders of her own pain up anywhere in the house she happened to be. And Quin had flippantly forgotten. Just like the blanket.

  How was she ever going to make up for all she’d done to a woman who was gone?

  Chapter Eleven

  “Your mother and I have decided to stay until the house is sorted out. She doesn’t think you can handle this.” Dad reached out and laid his hand over Quin’s. “You shouldn’t have to deal with it alone.”

  She’d looked forward to watching them drive off so she could deal with how she felt on her own. Now, she wouldn’t get that until she returned to Manhattan. If not for the paintings in the attic and how her parents would probably deal with them, she’d ask Paxton to drive her to the airport now.

  “Stay? I don’t think that’s necessary.” She tugged her han
d away. While she’d never stood up to either of them, yesterday’s episode at the funeral had released new feelings in her.

  “Your mother believes it is. She doesn’t know what Ryla’s affairs were like. If she didn’t take care of any of this in a will, we’ll be the ones paying for it.”

  Why did everything always have to be about money with her parents? They had plenty, yet it seemed to consume them. “My plan was to sell the house. Ryla wouldn’t want you to be burdened with worrying about it.” Nor would she want them to stay in her house too long.

  He sat up in his chair. “You haven’t seen us in months. You act like it would be a bad thing to have us here to help you. You sound a little…ungrateful. Your mother and I made sure we rearranged our entire schedule to stay and help you.”

  The guilt had been a steady diet as a child, and she could see it would still be. Quin opened her mouth to insist they not bother when someone knocked on the door. She leaped to her feet, glad for the distraction and hoping it was Paxton. He’d left the day before as soon as her parents had arrived at home.

  She swung the door wide and threw a smile on just in case. A blonde woman with a gentle smile stood outside with a casserole dish. “I heard about Ryla and that her sister was staying here at the house.” She held out the pretty baking dish. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the funeral. I didn’t find out until after the service. I live just down the street.”

  Quin took the pan and balanced it on her arm as she held out her hand. “I’m Quin and thank you.”

  “Karla Maples, pleased to meet you. I live in the house on the other side of Paxton’s. He had me come over to feed Duggy while Ryla was in the hospital a while back. I’m so sorry to hear she’s gone. So young…”

  Quin’s chest ached like a giant had squished her. “Yes, far too young.”

  If her father weren’t still sitting at the table waiting for her to return, she’d have invited Karla in to talk. She longed to spend time with more people who’d had a connection to her sister…as long as they weren’t her parents.

  “If there’s anything I can do, please let me know. Your sister kept to herself, but that doesn’t mean we all didn’t care about her. We were all surprised and happy anytime Paxton forced her to come to a neighborhood event.” She laughed softly and crossed her arm over herself, gripping her elbow.

  The little demon of jealously knifed Quin at the thought of Paxton caring so deeply for Ryla’s mental health that he would make her seek out people. He really had been her closest friend. “She never liked to go out in public without a sure friend by her side.” Growing up, Quin had been that friend.

  “I’m glad you were able to be here for her.” Karla stepped back. “I should get back to my house. I work at home, but the work still has to get done.” She turned to leave.

  “Would you like to come back for coffee sometime?” Letting Karla leave without some reason to return was like being stranded on an island and letting a ship pass by.

  “Sure. My phone number is on the instructions for warming that casserole. Call me when you’d like.” She waved and jogged down the steps.

  Quin closed the door and sighed as she closed her eyes. That was the closest she’d come to making a friend in a long time. Paxton didn’t count because he’d had to be nice to her.

  Dad strode over from the kitchen. “Who was that?” He avoided Duggy as he made his way down the hall.

  “One of Ryla’s neighbors. She thought we might like some food we didn’t have to cook. It was thoughtful.” Quin glanced at the note written in thick black pen on the top of the tinfoil cover.

  “She brought something to bake in the summer? She must not have lived here long.” Dad rolled his eyes. “I’ll just make us some salads when the time comes. Might as well put that in the freezer. If it rains you can use it.”

  Quin slipped the dish into the refrigerator. “You can make what you’d like, but I thought it was a really nice thing to do. I’ll heat it up later and you can have some or not.” She’d eat it for days if it meant she wouldn’t have to sit with her parents for a meal.

  “We’re going to the bank to see if Ryla had any sort of will or bank box there that might have important documents in it. Do you want to come along?”

  She’d rather be stung by a million jellyfish. If they were gone for a few hours, she could read the first of Ryla’s diaries. “I’m going to stay here. There are a few things I need to get done.”

  “Don’t move or sell anything yet,” he scolded, his brow dipping.

  So much for thinking Dad was the one who was always the push-over, though maybe her accusations the day before had turned him against her. “I don’t plan to sell anything until we know what Ryla wanted.”

  “Good. We’ll be back in a few hours.” He grabbed his keys from the hook in the kitchen and headed for the bedroom he and Mom had shared the last few days.

  Mom had been angry the night before, not only because Quin had made a spectacle at the funeral but because she’d left and hadn’t returned to help clean up. She had not been out to face Quin yet that day.

  Duggy lay on the floor in a patch of sunlight, stretched out with his legs spread behind him. He seemed much longer than he should. Quin gathered the green diary and lay on her stomach next to Duggy. He twitched slightly at the disturbance but didn’t get up to move.

  She stroked his head a few times and he stretched, so much like a cat, she wanted to laugh. This was the Duggy Ryla used to tell her about, not the naughty side of him that tried to escape. A pillow laid on the nearby sofa. She stretched, grabbed it, then tucked it under her chest to prop herself up.

  The pages of the diary were thick and didn’t stay open without holding them. Even though it was obviously written by someone young, true to Ryla, the spelling and script were perfect. Almost as if she’d dictated it to an adult. Anyone else looking at it would think that was what happened. Quin knew better.

  The memory from long ago flooded her. She’d sat at her desk in her room, poring over a paper due the next day. Mrs. Rivvens had been angry with her for not writing neatly and she knew she’d lose points again if she handed in messy work.

  Ryla hung by her door. “Come on. I want to go down to the shore. There are only a few more weeks of nice weather.”

  “Unless you want to fix this paper, I can’t.” Quin bunched her hair behind her ears, then let it fall in a frustrated sigh. With a paintbrush, she could do anything, but writing neatly had always escaped her.

  “You know I can.” Ryla flounced in and picked up a pen, then slid the notebook away from her sister. “Your writing isn’t half as good as your art.” She laughed.

  Back in the present, a tear streaked down Quin’s cheek. If Ryla hadn’t helped her rewrite so many papers that year, she’d have failed. Mrs. Rivven didn’t like her. She’d thought all artistic students were trouble. No one had ever found out Ryla had been helping and no one would’ve believed a third-grader could write so neatly, so her sister would always be safe from blame.

  The date on the first page put Ryla at about fifth grade. It marked the first year Quin and Ryla went to separate schools. Seventh grade marked the beginning of high school and she’d bused across town to join the “big kids” as her mother had called them.

  Dear Later Self,

  Quin is enjoying her time with her classmates while I’m stuck at the little school. I’ve never gotten along with those in my own grade. They are too young for me. They tease me for having no friends. They don’t understand what it’s like having a sister.

  Quin closed the book and Duggy jumped, then stared at her. His little nose twitched and he thumped his back foot in annoyance.

  “Really? I thought we were past that?” She stroked the front of the book. Ryla was young. No matter that she sounded like a teen and her writing was impeccable, she’d still been a child when she’d written it. Twelve years old.

  Duggy grudgingly moved out of the ray of sun to get away from her, then ran off towar
d Ryla’s room. If Duggy didn’t come around to her, she’d have to find a new home for him. He wouldn’t be happy living in her little apartment if he didn’t like her, and only if her landlord would allow it.

  She opened the diary a few pages in and pressed the page open. She had only a brief window of time to read the words Ryla had felt were important enough to write down. The words might hold clues about what she should do, and how she could make a legacy for her sister.

  Slowly, turn after turn, she read Ryla’s notes. Her school life had been tortuous. Most teachers compared her to Quin, just as their parents did. She didn’t need the diary to tell her that, she’d heard that much from Ryla’s own mouth.

  Dear Later Self,

  Quin and I went to the beach earlier today and skipped rocks into the water. She’s been complaining about Mom and Dad forcing her to paint for hours. I asked Mom if I could try and she said no. She said it would be a waste of expensive canvas. How does she know it would be a waste if I never get to try? Someday, I’ll show her that I can do anything Quin can. Someday, I’ll show the world my sister and I are an unstoppable team.

  Could the wishes of a child…a seventh-grader …be counted on? Was that really the wish of Ryla, to be known, or just the wishes of someone tired of sitting in her sister’s shadow? Before she’d died, she wanted to feel important. But were important and known the same when she’d spent so much of her time hidden away?

  Tucked behind the last page of the diary was a letter dated the day before she’d died.

  Dad and Mom,

  I’m sure you’re disappointed in me because I asked Quin to come and not you. I’m sure if you’re reading this that I’m gone. I haven’t looked at this book in a long time and I won’t be looking at it again, so that’s a safe assumption.

  I wanted Quin here to start the process of explaining to her why it was always so important to me that she was my sister. I had to do that without any interference. As much as I love you, both of you have always listened to Quin above me. I won’t be ignored on my deathbed. I doubt the fact that I’m gone will make you any more willing to listen. Maybe if the words come from Quin, you will?