Then just like that, we were dancing. Carried away by the sweet strains of music, I became lost in the enchanting candlelight atmosphere. It didn’t seem real that I, the school wallflower, could be dancing so easily, and yet it seemed more real than anything else. So I’d missed my prom back home. Big deal. I hadn’t even had a date.
I forgot everything but the moment. No longer was the wind and rain and thunder a threat, but rather it became a piece of atmosphere to be tucked into the background along with the music.
In Justin’s arms, I felt protected. Completely. I never knew being held by someone could feel like this. And now that I was convinced the storm couldn’t touch me, my worries and anger melted. In retrospect, I think it’s frightening that I could be so easily subdued. But the thing is, I wanted to be.
I didn’t know what station Justin had found; I only knew it was perfect. Nothing too rocky, nothing so dull that it would make us fall asleep on our feet. It was just right to keep us dancing. No more did I smell the musty basement, but a mix of rainwater and leather, which was odd because Justin wasn’t even wearing his jacket. The moment was magical.
Even now I can easily recall the songs we danced to. And every once in a while I catch one playing somewhere—unexpectedly—and I have to stop what I’m doing, wherever I am, and remember . . . All else vanishes and I am there again in my uncle’s basement, dancing by candlelight with the strangest man I’d ever met, while a storm rages outside.
“Memories are made by moments like these . . .” There was something so soft and soothing in the rhythm of that song, and as we danced, my feet never felt the ground. “ . . . but memories fade. Oh, darling, please . . . be more than a memory to me.”
“I thought you said you weren’t a good dancer,” Justin whispered into my hair.
It was a moment before I answered. “I guess it depends who I dance with.”
My head only reached Justin’s shoulder, yet we danced so easily together. Being close to him made me feel small and light and, I’ll admit, even beautiful. Resting my head against his chest, I could hear his heart beating. Fast.
How long did we dance? Time meant nothing to me, so I cannot say. All I know is, it lasted forever yet went by too swiftly.
A song came on with a wonderful tune, and I liked it—until I heard the lyrics “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
It was foolish of me, really. I’d heard the song before; I knew it was referring to the Audrey Hepburn movie (a strange movie that I never had figured out). But at that moment, when I was very susceptible to emotion, “Tiffany” was all I heard, and it brought thoughts of my mother rushing back to me. My throat tightened and my eyes blurred.
I stumbled. Almost stepped on Justin’s foot. “Please, let’s stop,” I said.
The spell was broken. Justin let go of me and, as if he knew why I could no longer dance, walked over to the radio and turned it off.
I couldn’t look at him, didn’t want him to see my eyes for fear of what he might read there. The only sound was the sound of breathing. I held my breath a moment and listened to Justin’s deep breathing, convinced I had ruined everything. All the beauty that we had just shared was destroyed like a beautiful painting splashed with black paint. I wondered if he regretted his offer to dance with me, an offer that had surely been made on impulse. Was he ashamed? Please, don’t be, I pleaded silently. I know I must look like a fool, but if you have any compassion, you’ll understand. I wanted so much for him to understand.
“Listen—the storm’s stopped!”
“You’re right!” I cried with too much enthusiasm. I wondered how long the storm had been over. We hadn’t noticed. Neither of us. This cheered me slightly, to know I hadn’t been the only one seduced by the atmosphere.
Justin blew out the candle and we climbed the stairs, emerging just in time to see my uncle enter the house.
I was standing slightly behind Justin, and I had to gather my courage to step out into full view. My uncle stood in the doorway, streaming rainwater and staring at me, making me feel as if I’d done something terrible. I half expected his mouth to drop open.
Justin spoke first. “Hello, sir. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave your niece a ride home. She got caught in the storm—”
“We went downstairs to be safe,” I cut in. “There was a tornado warning—”
“I know,” my uncle interrupted. “It was a false alarm. The tornado didn’t come within three miles of us.” His eyes fixed on Justin and would not move. My eyes darted back and forth between the two men. Like the first time they’d met, I felt they were in some sort of silent battle.
“I was just leaving, sir,” Justin said, as if refusing to fight the battle. He gave me a nod as he went to the door. “Take care, Robin.”
“Thanks again for the ride,” I called after him.
He was almost to his Jeep when he stopped in a puddle and turned around. “No problem,” he called back.
I closed the door and leaned against it, confused. Confused about everything. Philip, Justin, my uncle… I looked at my uncle, who still stood dripping in his rumpled coat. His wet hair looked thinner than ever, plastered to his head. I realized I had forgotten to return Justin’s jacket and that it still hung draped over the desk chair in my bedroom. I would have run out the door to stop Justin so I could return it, if my uncle weren’t here.
“What were you doing out in the storm?” he asked, slowly taking off his coat and shaking it so that water droplets hit me.
“Getting some plants. The storm took me by surprise. It came up so suddenly, I—”
“You should be more careful in the future.” His voice was grave. “You don’t want to have to accept rides from strangers.”
It was like a slap in the face. “Justin’s no stranger! You met him before, and he was nice enough to give me a ride. The least you could have done was show some appreciation.” I narrowed my eyes. Back when Justin had wanted to write that story, I’d sensed my uncle’s hostility toward him. I hadn’t understood it then and I didn’t understand it now. Yet I’d felt that the resentment had nothing to do with the story. Now I was convinced. “What do you have against Justin?”
“I assume you mean Mr. Landers.” My uncle ambled into the kitchen, and I followed. “What makes you think I have something against him?”
“It just seems like every time you see him, you get—I don’t know—defensive, and—and rude.”
“Every time I see him? I’ve only seen him twice. Should it be more?”
“You looked like you wanted to throw him out!”
“Was there a reason for him to stay? The storm is over.”
“That’s beside the point!” I practically shouted. “You’re not hearing what I’m saying. I’m talking about the bigger picture. What do you have against Justin?”
My uncle turned to face me. “Truthfully, I don’t trust him.” He looked at me, and I could see his eyes behind his glasses, gazing so strongly into mine that my eyes wavered. “And I’m concerned his intentions aren’t what you think.”
“Oh, so now you can read minds.”
My uncle opened the refrigerator door and stood looking into it. “No, I don’t claim that. But it’s my responsibility to look out for you. I think you should be careful whom you choose for your friends.”
I straightened to my full five feet two inches. Not that it mattered, my uncle wasn’t even looking. “I should have known. It’s a control thing—you don’t want me to have friends. You just want me to—” my eyes shot around the clean kitchen, skipping over Philip’s roses—“to wait on you. Having friends would be asking too much. I’ve already lost everything I used to have—why should I even try to have a life?” I wanted him to say something to fuel my anger, but he remained silent, apparently fascinated by the interior of the fridge. Maybe because it was stocked for a change, thanks to me.
“It’s a control thing,” I repeated. “But guess what? Here’s a news flash for you: I can take care of myself. And I certainl
y don’t need you telling me what friends to have or not have.” I threw up my arms. “You’re just like my mother! Overprotective. Suspicious of everyone and everything!” I turned on my heels so hard that the rubber soles of my sandals squeaked on the linoleum floor.
Feeling the pressure of tears, I raced up the stairs two at a time and shut myself in my room by slamming the door. Pictures rattled on the walls. Toppling onto the bed, I let the tears fall. I cried till I wore myself out. Then I lay with my tear-stained face, staring up at the ceiling, not really seeing it. I could feel the tears evaporating, leaving dry salt trails on my face.
I kept picturing my uncle standing before the fridge, deaf to my words, contemplating what to eat when all he’d end up eating anyway was pizza. That was how much I mattered.
My anger gave way to a dull, aching sorrow. I held it inside me, nursing it so it wouldn’t die, until I suddenly became disgusted with myself. Self-pity would not help me solve my problems.
I propped myself up on one elbow. Maybe my accusations against my uncle had been somewhat exaggerated and unjust, but his own accusations had been harsh. I remembered what he’d said about Justin, how he’d called him a stranger and warned me not to trust him. I screwed up my face. What he means is I should beware, I thought sarcastically. He might be an escaped convict or a psycho killer or something. My eyes fell on Justin’s jacket draped over the desk chair, and I remembered how soft and warm it had felt.
I sighed and sank back down. Justin’s just a normal guy. Like Philip, and my uncle doesn’t make a big deal about him. I stared up at the white ceiling. How awful to be my uncle or my mother, always worrying, never having a moment’s peace. A person couldn’t live like that—it would drive them insane.
I yanked the pillow out from under the quilt and buried my head, fearing that already this obsessive mistrust was infecting me. Hadn’t I had similar suspicions about Justin? Was it in my blood, this suspicious nature? Was it in my genes? Had I been born with it? Or had I caught it, like a disease? Would it grow until it consumed me?
I jumped up from the bed. Why wouldn’t my mind just shut up? As I looked for something to throw in frustration, my eyes landed on the Victoria Holt novel I’d been reading recently, the one my mother had received from Christopher Renton. I grabbed the book, but instead of throwing it, I dropped myself onto the window seat and, tucking my legs up under me, determined to finish it.
I certainly had no difficulty keeping that resolution. Almost instantly, I was pulled back into the story. The characters came alive in my mind, and I became the heroine. I felt her feelings, her desperation and terror, and for a little while, forgot my own problems.
When I finished reading, I sat holding the closed book in my hands, savoring the suspense. It was all very fine in a book, where it belonged, and as long as it was happening to someone else.
Eventually, I tilted my head back, letting my gaze trail along the titles of the books packed tightly in the shelves above the desk. I stood, eager to look through the collection of Victoria Holt novels and choose my next read. I stepped up on the desk chair, enjoying the thrill that knowing I now owned these books gave me. The Victoria Holt novels were lined up neatly. Probably in order, I thought, seeing that Mistress of Mellyn was first in line.
It fascinated me to think that these books had stood packed exactly like this, collecting dust for twenty years. My mother had been the last to touch them, to open them.
I was about to pull out a promising title, when I paused, noticing the book below. It was identical to the one I had just finished reading and still held in my hand. Curious as to why my mother had two copies of the same book, I pulled it from the shelf. When I opened it, I almost choked on the dust that flew from the pages. A stale odor assaulted my nose, but that wasn’t what made me catch my breath. The pages were filled with cursive writing. I recognized that writing. Thumbing through the coarse yellow pages, I realized what I was holding. Not a printed novel, but a hand-penned account of my mother’s life.
My mother’s diary.
A passage into her past.
I almost fell off the chair. My mother had kept a diary! I never would have guessed it. Yet here it was, in my quivering hands.
I let the paper jacket flutter to the floor. Fleetingly, I assumed my mother must have used the novel jacket to camouflage her diary. How well it had worked. All these years it had sat here, waiting for me. Now that I had this diary, would the pieces of the past that I had been pondering over finally come together? I gripped the book tightly. It had to hold the answers to my questions, the questions I wanted to ask my mother but could not. Tiffany could answer them.
Feeling giddy, I stepped down from the chair and carried the diary to the window seat. It was time to do some serious reading.
I opened the cover and read an inscription: This very secret diary belongs to Tiffany Hutch. Then I turned to the first page.
April 1, 1974
No, it isn’t a joke. (Please note the date.) I really am starting a diary! It’s amazing that I never started one sooner, because I like to write. I’m always writing stories, and maybe writing about my own life will make it more exciting.
Some girls buy those dinky little books with the even dinkier locks that are easier to open than keep locked, but I decided if I’m going to go to the trouble of keeping a diary, I want to do it right. And who wants to have a million little diaries, one for each year, cluttering up their room? Not me. So I bought this big fat blank book. It should last me a really long time. Unless, of course, something exciting happens and I write constantly!
Now, of course, I face the problem of keeping this diary secret. But it really isn’t much of a problem. It will blend in perfectly in my bookshelf, just like any other book. Besides, who’s going to look for it? There’s only my brother, Peter, and he isn’t a nosy person. Sometimes I almost wish he was, because that would be more fun. But he’s old—23—so I guess that’s why he’s so serious. And he works hard, on account of it’s just him and me. I wish he could learn to have more fun, but I guess you just get boring like that when you get old. I turn 13 in twelve days, but I’m always going to have fun and stay happy, no matter how old I get.
Last year was hard—to stay happy, I mean—but time helps, I guess . . . I’ll always miss my mother and I’ll always love her, but that doesn’t mean I have to be sad. That’s what Peter told me.
I wish my mother had kept a diary. It would be the one thing I’d want to keep of her if I had to choose one thing. Because it would be like a part of her.
Oh well, at least someday my daughter will have this diary. Then again, maybe I’ll never get married! Most boys are so annoying. When they’re with their friends they either ignore you or tease you, and when they’re alone they either act really stupid and think they’re groovy, or else they’re too shy to talk.
Tears trickled into the corners of my smile as I continued reading. A number of short entries followed, just little accounts of day-to-day happenings. Nothing exciting. I guess my mother thought so too, because the entries became less frequent, and it was obvious her interest was waning.
Keeping a diary is becoming boring. It’s not that I don’t like writing, but nothing ever happens in this monotenous (did I spell that right?) little town, and I can’t write about nothing.
When I found the next page blank, my heart skipped a beat; I was afraid that was all there was. I turned the page before I could get too disappointed, and when I discovered another entry, relief flooded through me.
The handwriting looked more mature on this page, smaller and more uniform. The date above the entry confirmed my guess that this entry had been written quite some time later.
June 6, 1978
Here you are, still waiting to be filled after all these years. I’d almost forgotten about you, but not quite. Today I remembered because I actually have something worth writing about!
It came about in the most unlikely way. Today Peter finally decided to fix the dripping
kitchen faucet. Then of course when it was all apart and he had his hands full, he needed me to go pick up some washers for it. As if I know anything about that sort of thing.
I went anyway, to Hanson’s Hardware. It’s just off Main Street, and although I’ve seen it a trillion times, I’ve never actually been inside.
If I’d only known what I was missing!
You see, I needed help finding what Peter needed, and this guy who works there helped me. He was stocking shelves when I came in, and when the bells rang he turned and smiled at me. That smile . . . from the moment our eyes met, I knew.
With his help, it only took a minute to find what I needed, but I stayed much longer. (And it turned out Peter didn’t need the washers anyway—what we need is a completely new faucet.) Somehow, like magic, we were talking, and we got to know each other so that I feel like I’ve known him forever. Yet there’s something about him, something that makes my heart pound when I’m near him, that makes me want to know him more.
I’ve always thought it corny when I heard or read about “love at first sight.” And it is corny—unless it happens to you. Then it’s real. Very real. And not the least bit corny.
Oh, how easy it’s going to be to fill this diary now! Suddenly, my life looks thrilling, so full of promise, and all because I met this guy. He asked if he could see me again, and I said yes. His name is Christopher Renton, and oh, I know he’s going to change my life.
Chapter Sixteen
It was as if I’d begun some awful drama, one that I knew ended in tragedy; yet because I’d begun, I had to follow through to the end. But where would it end, and did I even want to know?
Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense) Page 16
