Escape Claws

by Linda Reilly

  “That’s nice of you,” Lara said. “But why don’t they just have the club at the library?”

  Sherry smiled. “They like it better here. Can you blame them?”

  Daisy came up beside her daughter. “So, Fran,” she said, “I’ve been thinking about you, sweetie. Have you been able to plant your tulip bulbs yet?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to get to it this year, Daisy. The bulbs were shipped to me last week, but they’re still sitting in burlap bags out by the shed.”

  Tulips! That’s right—Lara remembered now. Back when she was a kid, Aunt Fran was known for the gorgeous tulip varieties that skirted her house from front to back along the brick walkway. Apparently she’d kept up the tradition.

  In fact, Lara remembered one year when she “helped” her aunt plant a row of the bulbs, only to learn that she’d stuck them all in the ground upside down. Instead of getting annoyed, Aunt Fran had only laughed, ruffled Lara’s curls, and said, “Oh well, next year you’ll get it right.”

  But there never had been a next year. Lara’s folks had moved out of state, and she’d never seen Aunt Fran again.

  Until now.

  Lara didn’t want to embarrass her aunt by bringing up her current physical limitations. Instead, she made a mental note to try to plant the tulip bulbs before she returned to Boston.

  Daisy went off to clear one of the tables. Lara was putting the finishing touches on her napkin sketch when the door to the coffee shop swung open. A broad-shouldered man wearing a red-and-black-checkered jacket strode in. His bushy eyebrows matched his thick white hair, and he wore the look of someone quite enamored with himself. “I’ll take a black coffee to go,” he said to Sherry in a rather rude tone.

  A muscle in Sherry’s face twitched, but she gave him a sharp nod. With a quick tilt of her head in his direction, she shot Lara a meaningful look.

  Who’s that? Lara mouthed to her aunt, after he strode off.

  Aunt Fran leaned closer to Lara. “Theo Barnes,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you later.”

  The man’s hard-looking blue eyes scanned the room, and then he sauntered over to the book club table. “So how are all my buds today?” he said in a voice like a sonic boom. He touched the younger woman’s cheek, eliciting a smile from her. The older woman beamed up at him, and with a theatrical motion he took her left hand and kissed it. Then he clamped a meaty hand onto the shoulder of the club’s sole male member, a sixtysomething with a pasty complexion who cringed visibly at Barnes’s touch. Barnes leaned over and growled something in the man’s ear. The man nodded, slunk out of his chair, and stalked out of the cafe.

  Barnes came up to the counter to collect his takeout coffee, stopping between the stools where Lara and Aunt Fran were seated. Lara stifled a shudder. Barnes was standing far too close for her liking. She looked at her aunt, whose face had gone pale. Lara was about to tell Barnes to take a hike when he announced, “I need to talk to you, Fran.”

  “I don’t think so,” Aunt Fran hissed at him. “You’ve talked quite enough.”

  Barnes’s piercing eyes shifted and rested on Lara. “My proposal stands, my lovely, but I think I can make it even sweeter for you. We will chat later. I promise you that.”

  Aunt Fran squeezed her eyes shut and said nothing.

  With a smug look, Barnes reached across the counter and took the lidded paper coffee cup Sherry was holding out. Then, without so much as a thank-you, he left.

  “What an oaf,” Lara said after the door closed. “I mean, could he have been any louder?”

  “Theo Barnes is the town bully,” her aunt murmured. “I’ll tell you about him when we get back to the house.”

  “But he didn’t even pay for his coffee!”

  Sherry slid two plates in front of Lara and her aunt. “Don’t worry about it, Lara. He never does. He thinks he owns the place.”

  “He does own the place.” Daisy came up behind her daughter. She reached under the counter for a bottle of spray cleaner. “Unfortunately, he’s our landlord. For now, anyway. But that’s not for you to worry about. You two go ahead and enjoy your lunch.”

  Lara looked down at her tuna salad on wheat. A pile of rippled chips and two pickle rounds sat beside it—exactly the way she liked it. She set aside her pencil sketch and dived into her lunch. The tuna salad was perfect—lightly seasoned, and with just the right amount of celery and onion to give it crunch. Aunt Fran nibbled at hers, but with far less gusto.

  Lara was attacking the last bite of her sandwich when her aunt, who’d barely eaten half her lunch, suddenly pushed aside her plate. “Why are you here, Lara?” she asked quietly. “I mean, why are you really here?”

  Lara felt a hard lump form inside her stomach. The cats weren’t the only reason she’d driven to New Hampshire. Sherry had confided that a local businessman had been harassing her aunt, making her life a living nightmare. She hadn’t given details, but Lara now suspected she knew who it was.

  Theo Barnes.

  In a voice that came out shakier than she intended, Lara said, “I came because I want to help you. Because I care about you.”

  “You care about me,” Aunt Fran said flatly. “Isn’t it strange, then, that I haven’t seen or heard from you in sixteen years.”

  Her aunt’s sudden vitriol surprised Lara. Feeling tears push at her eyelids, Lara snatched up her crumpled napkin and blotted her eyes. “I don’t know what else I can say, Aunt Fran. I care and I want to help. Can we talk about this back at the house?”

  Aunt Fran looked suddenly flustered. “Of course we can. I shouldn’t have brought it up here.” She reached into her purse for her wallet, but Lara quickly covered her hand.

  “No, Aunt Fran. It’s my treat, remember?”

  “Actually, it’s our treat,” Sherry said, coming up to the counter. “When you walked in together, I was just…so glad to see you both.”

  “Thank you, Sherry,” Lara said.

  Since Aunt Fran hadn’t eaten her mummy cookie, Sherry slipped it into a paper bag and handed it to her. “You’ll both come back tomorrow, right?”

  “You bet,” Lara said.

  Aunt Fran only smiled. “I’ll try.”

  Lara helped her aunt off the stool. Just then, Brooke, the teenager, excused herself from the book club and dashed over to them.

  “Hey, are you Lara?” she asked, beaming as if she’d spotted a rock star.

  “I am, and I understand you’re Brooke.”

  “Yup. Guilty as charged. Your hair is like, so gorgeous. Is that the natural color?”

  Lara laughed and fingered a coppery strand. “It is,” she said, charmed by the girl’s bluntness. “I’m glad you like it, but I wouldn’t mind doing with fewer curls. By the way, I have something for you.” Lara handed her the napkin sketch.

  Brooke pushed a strand of aqua hair behind one ear. “You drew this?” she asked, gawking at the napkin. “It looks just like me!”

  “Lara is an artist,” Aunt Fran put in. Lara detected a hint of pride in her aunt’s voice.

  “Can…I mean, may I keep it?”

  “You sure can.” Lara smiled at her. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Brooke.”

  “This is so cool!” She gave it back to Lara. “Would you bring it back to the house for me? If I put it in my backpack it’ll get wrinkled.”

  “Um, yeah, sure,” Lara said, perplexed.

  “Thanks!” And then to Aunt Fran, “See you in a few, Ms. C.”

  Chapter 2

  Back at the house, her aunt had insisted on tidying up the kitchen counter, and Lara didn’t argue. She knew Aunt Fran needed something to make herself feel useful, in spite of the strain it put on her knees. Lara took that opportunity to explore her favorite room—the room where she’d spent so many hours as a kid.

  The smaller of the two parlors resembled a playroom more than a parlor. Thick brocade curtains, somewhat faded now, hung from black, wrought iron rods. The room’s papered walls were lined with shelves crammed with child
ren’s books. One entire corner, Lara remembered, had once been devoted to books that taught children how to draw. Curious, she went over to that spot, the special place where those treasured how-to books once sat. But they weren’t there. They’d all been removed. She knew it was silly, but a tiny bit of her heart felt empty.

  Through one of the windows, Lara spied a short, yellow school bus rumbling up High Cliff Road. It chugged along slowly, its engine idling for a minute or so before turning around at the end of the road and motoring back down the hill.

  In front of one of the windows, a low table painted cherry red was strewn with books. Lara smiled when she saw The Jungle Book, a childhood favorite of hers. She started to pick it up when she heard the kitchen door open and then close again. The low murmur of a child’s—no, two children’s voices—drifted into earshot. She returned to the kitchen, and was surprised to see Brooke Weston and a little boy of about eight or nine. Ah, so that was why Brooke asked her to hold on to the napkin sketch. She’d planned to pay a visit later.

  “Hey, Brooke.” Lara retrieved the napkin from atop the fridge and gave it to her. “Here it is, safe and sound. I put it in a clear plastic bag for you.”

  Brooke lowered her turquoise backpack to the floor. “Hi, Lara. Thanks for this. It really does look like me!”

  Aunt Fran slid an arm around the boy’s shoulder. His chocolate-brown eyes were only a shade lighter than his straight, dark hair. “Lara, this is Darryl Weston, Brooke’s younger brother. He and I practice reading aloud every day. Darryl, this is my niece, Lara. Lara is an artist from Boston.”

  Lara grinned at the boy and stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Darryl.”

  Darryl took her hand shyly, then quickly withdrew it. His face lit up. “You’re a real artist?”

  Brooke waved her sketch in his face. Her brother slapped it away.

  “As real as it gets,” Lara said with a laugh.

  “Lara, if you don’t mind,” her aunt interrupted, “Darryl is going to spend some quiet time reading in the small parlor while Brooke does her homework. He’s asked if he can practice without me today, so I won’t be joining him.”

  “But I will,” Brooke sniped, “so you’d better not try to slack off, dork face.”

  Darryl stuck out his tongue at his sister. “You’re not the boss of me. I’m—”

  “Brooke. Darryl.” Aunt Fran spoke with a sternness Lara suspected was only half-serious. “Please go into the parlor and do your schoolwork. I’ll bring you both a snack in a few minutes.”

  The siblings argued and picked at each other as they made their way into the parlor. Lara followed them to be sure they got settled without killing each other. She watched as Brooke dumped the contents of her voluminous backpack onto the floor. The girl then dropped down next to it all and plucked an algebra textbook from the jumble in the pile.

  Lara noticed that the edges of the books were damp, and stained with something purple. “Oh wow, what happened to your books?” she asked Brooke.

  “After you left the coffee shop I spilled my grape soda. The whole bottle went, like, right into my backpack. What a mess it made. I had to dump out all my books on the table so Dora and Mary could help me wipe them up. I’m such a klutzo sometimes.”

  “Nah. Everybody spills things.”

  Brooke dug a pair of earbuds from her pocket, stuck them into her ears, and started fiddling with her smartphone. She threw a dark look at her brother. “Do not bother me while I’m studying, Darryl, or you’ll be sorry.”

  The boy stuck out his tongue behind his sister’s back and then snatched up The Jungle Book. Chuckling softly at their antics, Lara closed the door nearly all the way and went back into the kitchen.

  “I’ll make the kids a snack, if you’d like,” she told her aunt.

  Aunt Fran looked pale. Lara knew she needed to sit for a while. “Thank you. I would appreciate that. That way I can take a few minutes and skim through the paper.”

  Her aunt sat at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out before her. Lara took a box of salty crackers from the cupboard and hunted around for the peanut butter.

  “In case you’re wondering,” Aunt Fran explained, “Darryl struggles with reading. I’ve been helping him after school. It also helps his mom, who has a day job. I guess I’m sort of a tutor-slash-babysitter. As for Brooke, for some reason she likes doing her homework here. On Wednesdays, when she has book club, the school bus driver lets her hop on Darryl’s bus in front of the coffee shop. It gives their mother peace of mind, knowing where her kids are every day.”

  Because you’re a natural at nurturing, Lara wanted to say, but kept the thought to herself. There were so many other things she wanted to say, so many questions she wanted to ask. But right at the moment she was chicken, so she stuck to a safe subject. “They seem like great kids. Is Darryl dyslexic?”

  “No,” her aunt said. “But in school he’s extremely shy, nearly phobic about reading aloud in class. He knows the words, but when he has to pronounce them he gets all tongue-tied. He’s making progress, but it’s slow going.”

  Having located the peanut butter, Lara made the kids a bunch of cracker “sandwiches.” She set them on plates, poured two glasses of milk, and plopped everything on a tray. It was the same treat, she remembered, that her aunt used to give her every day after school.

  A sudden wave of nostalgia washed over her—a longing for things to be the way they used to be. In her mind’s eye she saw Aunt Fran, young and healthy with her knees in perfect condition. The kitchen scrubbed clean, the linoleum gleaming. Lush pots of spider plants hanging in the windows. A pan of butterscotch brownies cooling on the stove. And on the kitchen table, a large pad of sketch paper and a package of colored pencils waiting for her when she got home from school.

  Home from school, but not really home. Lara had never actually lived with Aunt Fran. But since her folks had regular day jobs and Aunt Fran taught middle school, she went to her aunt’s each afternoon and stayed until her dad picked her up.

  Shaking herself of her memories, Lara carried the tray into the small parlor and abruptly stopped short. On the floor sat Darryl, The Jungle Book open before him on the red table. He was reading aloud without hesitation, pronouncing each word perfectly.

  But that wasn’t the most shocking part. Next to Darryl was a beautiful Ragdoll cat with shining azure eyes. Peering over Darryl’s arm as he read, the cat glanced up at Lara in mild recognition and swished her tail. Lara took in a sharp breath.

  “Blue?” The name escaped her lips in a ragged whisper.

  Her heart pounded. Adrenaline gushed through her like a busted water pipe.

  But it can’t be Blue. How could it be? After all these years, Blue would be long passed. This cat looked young and vibrant, her eyes bright and inquisitive.

  The cat looked up at Lara, swished her tail again, then returned her gaze to the book. It was almost as if she were reading along with Darryl.

  Lara’s knees felt wobbly. She wanted desperately to dash over and stroke the cat, to see if it was really her Blue. But Darryl was obviously on a roll, reading every word aloud with amazing ease, so she didn’t want to interrupt. She couldn’t help wondering, though, if her aunt had exaggerated the boy’s reading problem.

  With a quick wave at Brooke to let her know the snacks had arrived, Lara set the tray on the floor. She backed quietly out of the room, pulling the door almost closed.

  “Aunt Fran?” she asked, back in the kitchen. “Didn’t you say Darryl had trouble reading out loud?”

  Her aunt looked up from the newspaper. “He does, yes. Why?”

  “Well”—Lara scrubbed at her eyes with her fists—“he’s in there reading aloud at the level of a…a…high school senior! And there’s a Ragdoll cat sitting next to him. She looks exactly like my Blue. Remember Blue?”

  An odd expression came over her aunt’s face. Slowly, she rose from her seat and grasped her cane. “Lara, I don’t have a Ragdoll cat,” she said quietly.
“As for Darryl, he can barely read a simple sentence without stumbling over the words. Are you sure?”

  Lara aimed a hand at the parlor. “See for yourself.”

  For a long moment, Aunt Fran studied her niece’s face. Then she grabbed her cane and moved toward the parlor, taking every step with care.

  Lara rubbed her eyes again. Maybe they’d played a trick on her. Could her stress over her aunt have pushed her senses into some crazy mode where she imagined things the way she wished them to be, not the way they were?

  She was tired, that was for sure. The day already seemed twenty hours long, and it was only a little after four.

  Thirsty, she went to the fridge and scanned the top shelf. She was pulling out a carton of OJ when Brooke paraded into the kitchen. The girl pulled out her earbuds, plunked her smartphone on the Formica table, and dropped into a chair. “Ugh, I hate algebra. If I have to look at it for one more second, I’ll… I’ll scream.”

  Lara held up the juice carton, but Brooke shook her head. She poured herself a small glass and went over and joined Brooke. “So how did you get to be part of the classics book club? It seems like an eclectic group.”

  “Eclectic.” Brooke grinned, displaying even white teeth. “I like that word. Someone, I think it was Mary—she’s the pretty one—posted a note in the library. I only joined because I’m going to have to read a lot of the classics once I’m in high school. I figured the others could help me if I got stuck on something.” She snorted. “Of course Glen is useless. He’s only there ’cuz he’s crushing on Mary. He’s, like, this weirdo who can never keep a job. Dora, she’s the older lady, is really nice, though. I just wish we could ditch Glen.”

  “Well,” Lara said, not sure how to respond. It wasn’t her place to comment on a man she didn’t know. “So, what classic are you reading now? The book looked pretty thick.”

  Brooke rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “The Pickwick Papers. The most utterly boring book ever written.”