Philip. I smiled. He always drove too fast. But that was just his way. I liked him like that—all alive and enthusiastic. He had so much excess energy that when I was with him, I couldn’t help catching some of it.
I was thankful for Philip. After my strange experience at the mansion, he hadn’t abandoned me as I was afraid he would. He’d called me the next day, just to say hi and ask how I was. I told him I was fine. He told me he’d like to see me again.
Tonight we had a dinner date set at an Italian restaurant, a little place that Philip had assured me I would like. “It’s a friendly, family place,” he’d said, sounding bored.
Now, reminded of food, I stopped in at a Food Mart and bought myself a sandwich for lunch. By the time I reached the park, I was humming to myself. Picnic tables dotted the landscape, residing near bushes, in the shade of trees, and in the open sunlight. I sat down at one of the sun-drenched tables near the pond and stretched my bare legs for the rays to soak into. I gazed out dreamily over the placid, gray-green water, and slowly, I smiled. Nothing like the ocean, but it would do. There were no gulls, but a pair of ducks came floating toward me, trailing lazy ripples of water behind them.
I didn’t unwrap my sandwich right away. Kids were in school, so the park was peaceful . . . almost too peaceful. I was aware of what was coming, but I couldn’t prevent it; my thoughts returned to my mother—Tiffany Hutch—the girl who had grown up in this town. Surely she’d come to this park many times.
I shivered and unwrapped my sandwich, the plastic crinkling rudely in the quiet. Acutely aware of my surroundings, I felt like an actor trapped on a set, playing a part I didn’t want to play. This wasn’t why I had come here, to be immersed in the past and think such weird thoughts. I bit into the sandwich, not tasting it. Why wouldn’t the past stay in the past where it belonged? Why did the memory of my mother have to invade me everywhere I went in Lorens?
Because this was her home, her town; it was where she had grown up; in a way, she was still here. This answer came to me from nowhere, yet somewhere. It came to me on a flower-scented breeze, soft as a whisper. The sun beamed down on me as strongly as ever, but I suddenly felt cold.
My fingers touched the dark wood of the tabletop, the fragile peeling paint. Once upon a time, Tiffany might have sat at this very table. Perhaps, like me, she had eaten her lunch here while watching ducks on the pond. But her mind had not been troubled as mine was. She had had no ghosts of the past floating in to haunt her. Why was she letting them haunt me?
I studied the old surface of the table, the collage of scratched-in initials. My eyes searched for T.H. . . .
Stop! Don’t do this to yourself!
I lifted my head and gazed at the deserted sandbox, slides, and swings. Long ago, Tiffany must have laughed and played with her friends in this park. For a moment I believed I heard their voices and laughter drifting in from far away, echoes defying time. Perhaps if I listened hard enough, they would give me answers.
Why had my mother gone away all those years ago and never come back? Because of the accident? But that was over and done with—nothing she could change by leaving. There was so much I didn’t understand. Tiffany Hutch had married and become another person—Tiffany Finley—by changing her name. But inside, she had to be the same person. Tiffany Hutch had not vanished. She was still here in Lorens; I could feel her. Why had my mother made me come here? Could she have known how it would affect me? Did she really think she had no choice?
I tore a few scraps of crust from what was left of my sandwich and tossed them to the ducks. So much for a relaxing afternoon in the park. Why couldn’t life be simple? I watched the ducks snap up the soggy morsels and paddle around in circles, waiting for more.
Life had been simple, once. Back when I was little. I remembered what happiness and security felt like: my father, the man with a shadowy face, tossing me high into the air. “Look at little Robin fly!” And my mother would laugh.
All that had changed when my father died. My mother had loved him, that much I knew. Once I caught her sitting on her bed holding their wedding photo, just staring at it. I heard her say softly, “You were the most self-sacrificing man.” Then, even softer, “I miss you so.” And she kissed his picture. My ears burning, I’d crept away from the door before she could see me.
As I grew older I began to sense the unrest, even fear, that my mother carried with her. It was clearer to me now, thinking back. One moment she’d be smiling, the next she’d be blinking back tears, and I didn’t know why; I never asked questions. I never knew what would set her off. Unstable was what you might call her. Yet I’d never thought of her as that. After all, she had been the strong one, the one who had looked out for me and fed me and loved me all those years. By herself. It couldn’t have been easy for her. Something choked me. Had I ever thanked her for all she’d done?
I blinked rapidly and looked down at my sketchpad. Such thoughts would do me no good now; thinking them would only drive me insane with regret. I opened the sketchpad. If I started drawing, my mind would focus and I could stop dwelling on such depressing thoughts.
For a moment I felt panic. What was wrong with me? How could I sit here on this cloudless day, a breeze murmuring through the trees, birds singing in the branches, the sun and blue sky reflecting off the water, and feel depressed?
I looked down at my last drawing, a picture of the shoreline with a lone gull sailing above, and flipped the page quickly.
The sight of that fresh white paper worked like a deep, calming sigh, and I picked up my pencil. It felt natural in my hand. As I stroked in some soft lines, I found release, striving to catch not just the ducks on the water, but the whole mood of serenity that went with them. My hand and the pencil melted into one, and I became oblivious to everything beyond my drawing.
Until the shadow.
My hand froze on my pencil. The shadow lay over me and my paper, and I knew someone was standing behind, watching me. A breath of wind stirred my hair and goose bumps rose on my arms.
Get a grip, I ordered myself. Then I swung around.
Justin Landers, reporter, smiled down at me.
“Not bad,” he said, referring to my drawing. “In fact, it’s very good.”
I stiffened. Our last encounter was too clear in my mind for his little compliment to mean anything. It didn’t matter what he said about my drawing; I knew it was good, simply because I had been so connected to it, so absorbed in it. His opinion meant nothing, and I turned my back on him.
Unfortunately, he didn’t get the hint. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t care.
“Mind if I join you?” He strolled around to the other side of the picnic table, plopped down a brown paper bag, swung his long legs over the bench and sat directly across from me. “This is a nice spot, isn’t it?” He glanced over his shoulder at the pond. “When I work, I always come here to eat lunch. Unless it’s raining, of course. Then I eat at Mary Anne’s. But you know all about that place.” He smiled at me and I could see the laughter in his eyes. I hoped my eyes looked stony.
“So I see my friends are waiting for me,” he went on, “but they don’t look too hungry.” He frowned. “Were you feeding my ducks?”
Just my luck, I thought. Out of all the picnic tables in this park, I would choose the one Justin Landers thinks he owns. “Yes,” I said, hoping it sounded like a challenge. His ducks, indeed!
“Oh, well.” He shrugged and pulled out a sandwich. “The greedy little things are just having a lucky day, I guess.” He took a big bite of his sandwich and began chewing.
Obviously, Justin did not intend to leave anytime soon. I closed my sketchpad.
“No, don’t do that. You can keep drawing. I don’t mind.”
“Well, I do.”
Justin arched his dark eyebrows. “Do I detect a note of animosity in your voice? Yes, I do. I don’t know how exactly I offended Your Majesty, but why don’t we call a truce? It’s not very comfortable eating lunch with an enemy.”
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br /> “Then I’ll move,” I said, standing up.
“Go ahead, but it won’t do you much good. I can move anywhere you do.”
Exasperated, I sat back down. “What is it you want?”
“Are you always this hostile?” Justin shivered. “You make it feel like January instead of May.”
I can’t believe that made me smile.
“That’s more like it,” Justin said. “Now maybe your mood ring will change to a nicer color.”
I looked down at my right hand, where I wore my mother’s ring. Sure enough, the stone shone murky black.
I shook my head, a mixture of amusement and aversion confusing my feelings. I could leave and go back to the bookstore, but curiosity got the better of me. I stayed.
“Now tell me,” Justin said, tearing off a crust and throwing it over his shoulder to the ducks, “how are you finding our little town so far?”
“It’s all right.” I twirled my pencil between my fingers. “I’ve had the ‘grand tour,’ and I guess it’s like any other small town.”
“Maybe. But every small town has its unique qualities. Even Lorens.”
“I know.” I paused before adding, “I’ve seen the Ingerman Mansion.”
Justin’s eyes shot up to meet mine. At first I thought I saw alarm, but I must have been mistaken, for when he spoke, his eyes were as calm as his voice. “Already? I’m surprised your uncle let you—”
“He didn’t. He didn’t know.” I couldn’t resist tossing my head. The effect, however, would have been much more impressive if I’d had long hair. “A friend took me. He’s the one who gave me the tour of town.”
“Oh? What’s his name? Maybe I know him.”
I doubted it. Yet this was a small town, and I’d heard everyone knows everyone in a small town.
“Philip Barnstrum.”
“Hmm . . . can’t say it rings a bell.” He crumpled his lunch bag and went on. “So I’m guessing you already know the story behind the mansion—the rumors about ghosts, a curse, and a treasure map?”
“Sure,” and in an attempt to impress him, I told him about my mother’s ambitious undertaking to write the mansion’s story.
“Sounds like your mother would have made a good reporter.”
My eyes wavered from his.
“Sorry,” Justin said, apparently realizing the tactlessness of his comment. Unexpectedly, I felt my heart warm at the way he said it—so much like he meant it. He wasn’t making fun of me now.
He stood up and suggested we take a walk.
“Don’t you have to get back to work?”
“Nah, I’m important enough that I can afford to make my own schedule.”
We walked in silence for a while along the bank of the pond, the ducks trailing hopefully beside us. I was thinking how nice this was, and how absurd that I should feel comfortable walking with Justin; I never would have imagined it after our last encounter. The reason must be that this time he wasn’t barraging me with questions or provoking me with strange comments. Consequently, I didn’t feel intimidated. I looked up at the sky, clear except for a few chalky-white jet trails. I’ll be on one of those jets soon, I promised myself.
But for now I enjoyed walking along the river, pausing now and then to pick scattered violets or buttercups, and I asked Justin if he really came here every day to eat lunch. “I think you just made that up about the ducks.”
“Now why should I do that? Don’t you trust me?”
“Truthfully? No. Besides, you’re the one who told me not to trust strangers.”
“True. And I meant it. It’s good advice. But it doesn’t apply to me anymore. I’m not a stranger.”
“Oh, don’t be too sure of that,” I began, a playfulness rising inside me. “You never answered the five W’s for me yet.”
“You’re not a reporter.” There was a sudden lack of humor in his voice, but I went on anyway.
“Doesn’t matter—I’ve just as much right to ask questions as you. How’s this for starters?” I fired off questions as fast as I could think them. “Where did you grow up? Who were your parents? What made you decide to become a reporter? When did you leave home? Why did you come to Lorens?”
An unusually long silence followed, during which my cheeks grew warm, waiting for Justin to speak. Suddenly, my questions seemed childish and rude, and I wanted to take them back.
Finally, he said, “It would take me a long time to answer all those questions.”
“I have time—”
“Not enough.”
Startled by the bitterness in his voice, I stopped walking.
Justin turned to face me. “Sorry.” He tried to smile. “Look, how about we drop the questions? They’ll probably just get us into an argument. Besides, I don’t think I know the answer to all those things myself. And if I did, I can guarantee you wouldn’t want to hear them.”
I didn’t know what to say. But Justin took my hand and I found myself walking over a wooden bridge. It creaked with every step we took. I wanted him to say more.
“Robin,” he hesitated, “once you get to know me . . . you’ll realize that I sometimes say things . . . without thinking, things that don’t make a whole lot of sense, so don’t try to make sense out of them—or me—and you’ll be a lot better off.”
This strange speech was probably a good example of what he was trying to say. I laughed and let it go.
There were other things to think about. Like how peaceful the river ran under the bridge and ambled its way downstream, the enchanting way the weeping willow dipped its new green leaves into the water.
I believe it was a full minute before I realized.
Chapter Nine
Oh,” I said, feeling slightly dizzy as I took in our surroundings, “I recognize—I know this place.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“Yes. No.” The picture in the yearbook flashed before my eyes. “I mean—my mother drew this scene. Years and years ago, but it looks—exactly the same.” I lifted my hand to my forehead, feeling the blood swirling in my head like the water over the rocks in the river below.
“That makes sense,” came Justin’s voice, gently, through the confusion. “You said your mother grew up in Lorens. Of course she’s been here, and it’s not surprising she’d want to draw it. This is one of the prettiest places in the park.” He knew what I meant, and I didn’t even have to explain. “A place like this doesn’t change much in twenty years.” The logic of his words helped to calm me.
“You’re right.” I let my hand fall. “I don’t know why I reacted like that . . . it almost felt like I jumped back in time. I’m not usually so sensitive. Only lately,” I fumbled with my words, “I can’t seem to shake these weird feelings.” I sighed. “Maybe if the past weren’t so—so unreachable, I wouldn’t feel this way. Like something is missing.”
“Maybe,” Justin said quietly. “But remember, that’s what makes it the past. No one can ever go back.”
I lifted my head and tried to look into Justin’s eyes, searching for something hidden behind his words, trying to discover what he was feeling. Because it was as if he understood—understood even more than I did—and I felt a sudden need to connect with him. But now when I wanted them to, his eyes wouldn’t meet mine.
We left the bridge and returned to the picnic table, where I gathered up my sketchpad and pencil, still feeling disturbed. For days I’d been trying to avoid my feelings, but all that got me was fear and insecurity. I couldn’t take it anymore; it was time to do something. Time to quiet these ghosts of the past so that they, and I, could rest in peace.
The only way to settle my uneasiness was to find the answers to my questions about my mother, about her life here in Lorens. About her accident. I ventured to speak, breaking the solemn mood. And yet somehow I didn’t break it; when I spoke, my voice blended in as if it belonged. “I wish I could go back. There’s so much I want to know.” I clutched my sketchpad to my chest. “Connie Ingerman wasn’t the only one w
ho fell from the mansion’s balcony.” I took a deep breath. “My mother did, too. When she was my age. When she was there researching her story.”
Justin didn’t speak. His eyes still told me nothing. Yet I felt he was listening seriously, so I went on.
“How could it happen? I don’t understand—but I need to.” I clapped a hand to my throat as all the emotion I’d been building up and holding back surged over me. “She never told me about the accident or where she grew up. How could she keep so much from me? It’s horrible. I know nothing about my mother. Not really—all I’ve ever known or thought I knew—none of it is real. I’ve been living in a dream.”
Even now, I felt as if I were in a dream, and I wondered if I would ever wake up. Justin put a steady hand on my shoulder, and I thought numbly, He probably thinks I’ve lost my mind.
Instead, he surprised me by saying, “If you really want to find out more—about what happened to your mother—there are ways.” He paused. “But only if you really need to know.”
“I do.”
“Something like this isn’t a game. Once you start, you can’t quit.” “I wouldn’t want to quit.”
“What if you don’t like what you find?”
“At least I’d have the truth.”
“But is it that important to you—important enough to risk the pain it could cause? It might end up being worse for you. It might not be what you think . . . sometimes it’s better not to know. You can’t change the past, and that can be a hard fact to face.”
“You sound as if you know.”
Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense) Page 9
