“Justine Ryan,” Baby said. “We have to find her house.”
“Justine Ryan?” The librarian pinched his patch of beard. “Do you mean the painter from the college?”
“Yes! That’s her!” I said. “The one who went to France!”
“Indeed she did. You children certainly are sharp. I recently attended her lecture on Impressionists. Fascinating woman.”
“So which one is her house?” I asked before he could tell us more or Nightingale got interested. I hoped Justine wouldn’t give us a lecture on impressions.
“I can’t tell you that for certain,” he said. “But if I had to choose, I’d choose the one on Claremont. Claremont makes more sense.”
“What about directions?” I said. “How long of a walk?”
“You’ll walk?” he said. “In that case, I would estimate an hour. It isn’t really close.” He looked up at Nightingale. “Of course you understand, I can’t guarantee this is her house.”
“We do,” she said.
“Well, then.” He wrote down our directions, sketched a little map so we could follow left and right. Penciled in small arrows.
“Okay.” I grabbed his little map even though the arrows looked like Old Finn’s math to me. “Let’s go find Justine,” I said to Nightingale and Baby.
So far the house on Claremont was the only hope we had.
• • •
The house at 427 Claremont was fancy and yellow with a wooden, purple porch swing, a purple picket fence, and a garden so overgrown with wild bright flowers it covered the front yard. A little fountain bubbled in the center; tiny statues and cracked dishes were mixed in with the dirt. It looked exactly like a place where a painter would live, with bright blue flower boxes underneath the window just like Justine had loved in France.
“I bet you this is it,” I said. We stood there on the sidewalk staring at the house. Even walking all this way, I still wasn’t certain what to tell Justine. I didn’t want to say I’d read her private letters; Nightingale was right, they were almost like a diary. Justine wouldn’t be happy that I snooped. “Maybe you should do the talking,” I said to Nightingale. “You know more about impressions and lectures and things professors like—you know, like Beethoven and Thoreau.”
“I don’t know about impressions,” Nightingale said. “You just say we came about Old Finn.”
“And I’ll say we like the garden,” Baby said. “And her house is really pretty. And maybe she can even feed us lunch.”
“Are you hungry?” I asked Baby. He’d eaten one or two of Old Finn’s cookies, but I’d forgotten all about feeding Baby lunch.
“Starving,” Baby said.
“But we can’t ask for food,” Nightingale said. “That wouldn’t be good manners. If Baby’s hungry we should eat before we knock.”
I pulled a flattened sugar sandwich from my bag, unwrapped the waxy paper, and handed it to Baby. Then I handed a second off to Nightingale. My stomach was too nervous to take a single bite.
Help. I wasn’t even sure how it would sound. Or how to say a thing like we need help—and hope that it would happen.
“It’s been so long since we went someplace besides Goodwell,” Nightingale said. Justine’s house looked too fancy for the Stars—climbing vines and roses, a birdbath with an angel. Nightingale bent down and tightened the loose laces on her shoes. “She’s a painter from a college,” Nightingale said. “A professor like Old Finn used to be, so she’ll be smart.”
“Maybe that’s why they were in love,” I said.
“But she could tell the county,” Nightingale added. “Like anybody else. And they’ll put us all in fosters. Maybe by tomorrow. Or a shelter in Duluth. And Miss Addie would be left.”
“I know,” I said. I’d had the same dark thought exactly, walking all this way. It was possible Justine could call the sheriff, have us sent away. My heart pulsed in my throat; a bitter taste spread over my tongue. What if asking for her help would only hurt? The way Old Finn always warned us asking would. “But she knew Old Finn didn’t want us in that shelter; she wrote it in her letter. And anyway, I can’t figure out what else.” I couldn’t forget Old Finn slumped down in that chair. And we couldn’t sell our pony rides unless we got insurance. And Nash might still be knocking at the cabin. And Thor still had his questions. And Dr. Madden was sending someone to our house. And Old Finn needed love to help him heal at St. Mary’s. Henri even said so, and we couldn’t be here every day.
“But Old Finn could get well,” Nightingale said, like she’d been inside my mind.
“That man said that he would,” Baby mumbled with his mouth full. “That man at the library.”
I unwrapped another sandwich, tore off a chunk, and stuck it in my mouth. I needed something to hide the taste of fear, something in my mouth to calm my nerves. I tried to pass the rest to Nightingale, but she wouldn’t take it.
“He said there might be hope,” I said. “Might be. But in the meantime . . .”
“But this might not even be the house,” Nightingale said, like she hoped deep down it wasn’t. “We might have walked all this way for nothing—”
“I think it is,” Baby interrupted. He pointed down the sidewalk. “’Cause there she is, coming toward us now.”
Justine. She looked exactly like her picture—a wide straw hat, a blouse, white linen pants rolled just above the ankles, woven sandals, her bright hair curled against her shoulders in a bob. She rode toward us on an old green bike with a bag of groceries propped up in the basket, a long loaf of French bread.
No one said a word; we just stood still. She didn’t look like a woman who would send us to a shelter; she looked like someone Old Finn would have loved.
As soon as she got closer, she slowed the bike down to a stop, got off, and walked it toward her house. “Hello.” She smiled, but just strolled right past us, steered her bike into her yard, and walked straight up her stone path. It wasn’t until she reached the porch steps that she stopped. “Hello?” She turned and looked at us again. “Hello?” Not a greeting but a question. “May I help you children?”
Nightingale huddled in against me; I laid my hands on Baby’s tiny shoulders. I didn’t know if she could help or if anybody could. I only knew Old Finn had taught us not to ask, to solve things for ourselves if we were able. And here we were hoping on a stranger. A woman from some letters I stole from Old Finn’s drawer.
48
I KNOW WHO YOU ARE
It’s us,” I barely managed to squeak out. “Kathleen, Elise, and Baxter.”
Justine set her bag of groceries on the porch, took off her wide straw hat, and pressed it to her chest. “Kathleen, Elise, and Baxter?” she repeated. Maybe after all this time she’d forgotten who we were.
“Pride,” I said. “And Night—”
“Oh yes.” Justine kept her hat over her heart. “I know who you are.” She brushed her snowy hair back from one cheek, searched up and down her street like she had hoped for someone else. “And Mick?” she finally asked, confused.
“He’s sick,” I said. Nightingale had inched behind me now. For once, Baby stood there silent. “They sent him to St. Mary’s.”
“St. Mary’s Hospital? Someone sent him here? Who?” she asked, alarmed.
“The doctors at St. John’s Hospital in Goodwell,” I said. “They sent him to St. Mary’s to get better, but it hasn’t really helped.” Old Finn hadn’t been that bad when he left Eden with his fever—the day he sent us to Miss Addie’s he could walk and talk.
“Oh no!” she said. “Oh my. What horrible news, Mick sick.” She shook her head and sat down on the step, pressed her arms close to her stomach like she had a sudden pain. “Mick sick? I’m so sorry to hear that. But how . . . ?” She stopped and stared again like she still couldn’t understand what the three of us were doing waiting
at her gate. The children from the tales Old Finn wrote. “But how did you find me?”
“The librarian,” I said. I didn’t want to say I stole Old Finn’s private letters or that I’d read her love words meant for him.
“The librarian?” Justine shook her head again. “I’m afraid I’m just confused. So confused. Forgive me.” She stood and spread her blousy arms open in a greeting. “I don’t know where my manners are. Please come inside, dear children.”
Inside Justine’s house was another kind of garden—a garden full of paintings, fresh flowers on the tables, fancy hand-carved furniture, stained-glass windows, polished floors shining in the sun. The whole house smelled like summer or laundry off the line. We stood there in the entry, too shy to take a step. Justine’s house looked nothing like the lodges at Serenity or Old Finn’s small log cabin or Miss Addie’s messy trailer.
“Come in, come in,” she said, waving toward us. “Don’t bother with your shoes.” I looked down at my feet; I wasn’t sure what Justine had meant by bother. “It’s fine,” she said. “You can leave them on.”
I felt like we were tracking dirt just walking in. I grabbed hold of Baby’s hand; I didn’t want him rushing in, breaking some fragile crystal vase or marble statue. The three of us sat down on a settee—which looked like a small sofa—Baby on my lap, Nightingale and I glued nearly arm to arm, while Justine disappeared into the kitchen with her groceries and her bread.
“Please,” Justine said and sat down in a fancy cushioned rocker. She set her hands down on her knees, painter’s hands, with little specks of color on her skin. “Help me understand.”
“Well.” I coughed. Something dry was stuck down in my throat. I wished I had spent more time thinking of my story, what I’d tell Justine when we finally found her house.
“So Mick is sick?” she said, like she was trying to help me speak, trying to coax a sentence from my mouth. I nodded. Her eyebrows frowned down in a crease; a mix of worry and confusion washed over her blue eyes. Sea blue. Or maybe azure like the sky. Azure like the sea. Justine was as lovely as she sounded in her letters; no wonder Old Finn loved her so much once. “Sick with what?”
I bumped my knee into Nightingale’s. “Explain,” I said. I didn’t want to say that big word wrong.
“Encephalitis,” Nightingale started. “An infection of the brain.”
“Oh no!” Justine’s hands flew to her cheeks. “That sounds terribly serious.”
“It could be mild,” Nightingale said, even though I didn’t believe it was. “That’s what the medical encyclopedia said. But right now he isn’t really better.”
“But he will be,” Baby added. “Once he learns the ABCs. And how to walk more steady. And how to talk.”
“He can’t talk?” Justine said, shocked. “Or walk?”
“Only just a little,” I said.
“But he can write,” Nightingale added, although we hadn’t seen it. “Henri told us that he could.”
“Oh no.” A red flush rose up her smooth, sweet face. “I’m just so sad to hear this.” She shook her head, stared down at her hands. “And now he’s asked for me?”
I could see in Justine’s face the story that she wanted; she wanted me to say Old Finn had sent us here for her. And I didn’t have the heart to say he didn’t, to tell Justine he’d never mentioned her, not once.
I coughed again; another lie was caught low in my throat. I gave a nod, then Baby nodded with me. When two of us were nodding, it made the lie seem real.
“Well, thank heavens that he did!” Justine stood up. “I’m glad he didn’t let pride get in the way. Your grandpa can be stubborn.”
“I know,” I said. I guess I was stubborn, too. Maybe that’s why Mama named me Pride. Not for pride and joy, but stubborn pride.
“I have to go to see him!” Justine stood like she was ready now to leave.
“He’s already gone to therapy,” Nightingale warned. I could tell she didn’t want Justine rushing to St. Mary’s, finding out our first words had been lies; Old Finn hadn’t asked to see her after all. “They only let us visit for ten minutes.”
“Still.” Justine sighed. “I can’t very well sit here. Not knowing Mick is sick.” It was the same have-to-see-Old-Finn way that I’d felt ever since he’d gone in with the fever. Justine felt like I did. “Is someone coming for you children?” Justine asked. “Someone from the library? Did you say Henri?” She glanced out her large front window like that man might be outside.
“No,” I said. I didn’t know how she’d mixed Henri and the library, but I didn’t bother to explain. “We walked.”
“You walked?” Justine said, surprised. “From where? Did you walk here from St. Mary’s?”
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s miles. You must be exhausted. Do you need something to eat? Drink?”
“No,” Nightingale said, before Baby had a chance to blurt out yes. “We just finished lunch.”
“Oh fine,” she said relieved. “Then we can hurry to St. Mary’s. You’ll come with me. We’ll all go check on Mick.”
49
OLD FINN AND JUSTINE
I didn’t know what we’d say when we got there to St. Mary’s, how we’d explain Justine to Old Finn or what we’d finally tell Justine. I only knew we were riding in the backseat of Justine’s yellow Beetle and I had Nightingale’s knobby elbow poking deep into my ribs. An urgent what-next message she was trying hard to send me. I didn’t know what next so I stared out at the lake, wondered if the water really ended, if somewhere on the other side, there’d ever be a shore. Old Finn always told us that there was, but I couldn’t see it. Same way I couldn’t see God.
I was barely breathing by the time we got to Old Finn’s floor. We had Justine, but I couldn’t concoct a plan that went beyond this minute. Love heals. That’s the best that I could think. It was better than the nothing hope that had sunk my heart this morning. And if everything went wrong we could still run. “Back again so soon?” the nurse said when we stopped at the front desk. “Your grandpa sure is popular today. But, I’m afraid he’s gone down for some testing. You’re welcome to wait there in the lounge or grab a bite to eat. Peach pie in the cafeteria today.”
Peach pie sounded better than two bites of sugar sandwich, but we didn’t have the money for peach pie.
“We’re fine,” Justine said politely. Baby took her hand and led her to the lounge, offered her a cup of coffee or Swiss Miss. A couple dried-out oatmeal cookies still sat there on the napkin, just the way I had arranged them when I set out Old Finn’s snack. Looking at those cookies made me sad and scared to see Old Finn again, Old Finn slumped down in that chair, that horrible open mouth. But I didn’t want to leave him sickly either. I just wanted him all better, wanted him to stand up and walk with us out the door.
“He can’t really speak,” I said again; I didn’t want Justine’s love for Old Finn to disappear when she saw the way he sagged. “Not much at least.”
“Okay.” Justine rubbed her lips together, straightened up her spine like she was nervous. “I will curb my expectations.”
“And he may be confused,” I added. “Because he was this morning when we came.”
“Of course,” Justine said.
“So don’t be disappointed.” I sounded just like Mama when she didn’t want to see our hopes hurt.
“You children needn’t worry about me,” Justine said. She kept her eyes held to the elevator. “Mick and I know each other well. We were . . .” She stopped.
In love, I thought. We knew that from the letters, but I didn’t tell her that.
“Quite close,” she finally said, as if she’d settled on two plain words that could work. “He knows that I will help, in any way. He knows I would do anything. . . .”
Nightingale glanced at me. “Anything?” she asked, her s
hy voice firm and flat. I knew what she was asking—she was asking if Justine would give us money or help us get the license for our business or stand in as our grown-up if someone came to snoop. She was asking if Justine would keep us from the shelter, if her true love for Old Finn could reach the Stars.
But before Justine had a chance to answer, the elevator bell rang, and there was Henri wheeling Old Finn once again.
“Mick!” Justine cried. “Mick!” She jumped up from the couch, ran over to his chair, and kissed him on the forehead. “Mick, my dear.”
Old Finn’s eyes misted up with tears; he lifted up his one good hand and touched Justine’s pink cheek. A low moaning sound rose out of his mouth. “Jus—” He dropped his head, defeated.
“Yes, it’s me, Justine!” She kissed his bristled hair just the way I did to Baby. I’d never kissed Old Finn on the head.
“More company today.” Henri smiled. “Michael just won’t rest. And you children . . .” He made a little tsk sound with his tongue. “Weren’t you coming after dinner?”
“I brought them here with me,” Justine said, in case Henri’s scolding might be serious. “And I certainly couldn’t wait until tonight, not once I knew.” She ran her hand over Old Finn’s face, again and again, like she wasn’t even bothered by his mouth or that terrible tongue just bulging at the edge. “And these children,” she said to Old Finn. “They’re every bit as special as you said. And smart. And obviously they have your independence! My goodness! They walked out to my house!”
Old Finn looked in our direction, tightened up his face like he couldn’t quite understand. “How?” he managed to get out and everybody heard it. I didn’t know if he was asking how we found Justine or how we made it to St. Mary’s or how we were getting back to Goodwell—so I just sat there, silent, hoping that one word would pass.
“I don’t know myself.” Justine shook her head. “What was it, children? You’re here with a librarian? Somebody named Henri?”
Keeping Safe the Stars (9781101591215) Page 17
