An Accidental Woman (24 page)

“A tip,” Ralph said. “That's the way it works. You get a lucky break, you talk to the right person, you get a tip.”

Griffin thought of Randy's case. He was thinking that he didn't want to wait fifteen years to find Cindy, when he heard a car approaching the house. He felt a quickening at the thought of Poppy returning. “I'm impatient, I guess.”

“I'll keep on it.”

“Thanks, Ralph.” He disconnected the call and would have gone to
the door if a button hadn't lit up on the panel just then. It was Poppy's private line. Hoping to look thoroughly in control when she walked through the door, he said a lyrical, “Poppy Blake's residence.”

“Who is this?” asked an accusing voice.

“Who is
this?”
he asked right back.

“Poppy's sister, Rose.”

“Rose, it's Griffin.” They had met twice before, once in October and once yesterday. In both instances, he had sensed that Rose was a force to contend with. He would have liked to talk with her and win her over a bit, but this was not the time. Poppy was leaving the Blazer; he heard the door slam. And Rose wasn't in a chatty mood.

“Is Poppy there?” she asked coldly.

“No.” And with
that
tone of voice, he wasn't putting her on hold until Poppy came in. He could protect his girl. “May I take a message?”

“Tell her I need to talk with her. Thanks.”

The line went dead at the same time the front door opened, but Poppy didn't wheel through. The woman who slipped in, set down a thermal bag, lowered the hood of her parka, and looked hopefully around was twenty-plus years older than Poppy. Her hair was short, dark, and cut stylishly enough so that even after being mussed by the hood, it fell well. Her eyes were gentle and her skin tanned. Below the parka were jeans and tall, Sherpa-lined boots. Her hands were graceful as they emerged from one glove, then the other. If ever there was an indication of how handsomely Poppy would age, Maida Blake was it.

* * *

She was distracted. She was fighting a panic that came in spurts. With each one, she accelerated. With each skid, she slowed.

It's no mistake.
That was what Heather had mouthed. Poppy had been telling her about Griffin's pictures of Lisa, and was remarking on the similarity
in their looks.
You can understand why someone made this mistake,
Poppy had said.

It's no mistake,
Heather mouthed.

Poppy kept trying to find other words that might have looked the same. She kept telling herself that she had misread Heather's lips. But she kept coming back to,
It's no mistake,
and it left her stunned.

No, not stunned.

Well, maybe yes, stunned—by the enormity of the confession.

But Poppy felt other things, too. She was disappointed. She was frightened. She was heartsick. She was confused. She was
hurt,
though she didn't know why she should be. All these years, Heather hadn't lied. She simply hadn't told the truth.

Well, hell, Poppy hadn't either. But that didn't mean she wasn't a good person now—at least, not if Griffin's theory of growth was to be believed. He claimed people who experienced trauma could learn from it, wise up, and adapt. If so, Heather was a good person now. If she was responsible for Rob DiCenza's death, there must have been justifiable cause.

The only one that came to Poppy's mind was self-defense, and the person she wanted to run it past was Griffin. But when she went down the newly plowed drive to her house, his truck wasn't the only one there. Maida's SUV was parked beside it.

In a split second, Poppy ran through the list of people who might be driving Maida's car while she was in Florida. A little voice inside, though, told her that it was Maida herself. There had been something in Maida's tone the other day—something different, tentative, unsure.

Uneasy on several counts, Poppy pulled up to the house. All the while she was wondering what Maida would be saying to Griffin and vice versa, and thinking that whatever it was, she wasn't up for it.

She quickly maneuvered out of the Blazer. The ramp was damp but free of snow. She was barely at the top when Maida opened the door and said with a grin and the kind of dry wit that Poppy didn't usually see in her, “I'd shout
‘Surprise!'
except that isn't my style.”

Seeing the grin on her mother's face, Poppy felt pleasure in spite of herself. “You're not here, Mom. You're in Florida.”

“Oh, it got boring there,” Maida said breezily. “More was happening
here, so I packed up and flew home. Someone must have seen me driving through town, though, because Rose just called here. Griffin said she sounded in a snit.” She gave an urgent little wave. “Come inside. It's freezing.”

“Did you call Rose back?”

“No. She'll hold. I wanted to see you first. Poppy, come
in.
You'll catch
cold.”

Poppy crossed the porch and entered the house just as Griffin was pulling on his parka. He called out a discreet, “Did you have a good afternoon?”

“Good” was not a word Poppy would use to describe the afternoon's events, but suddenly she didn't even want to
think
about them, much less get into the whole thing with Maida. So she said to him, “Are you leaving?”

“I asked him to dinner,” Maida put in, ever the consummate hostess, “but he said he had work to do.” Poppy smelled something cooking. It was a familiar smell that brought back memories. She wondered how long Maida had been there.

Griffin stretched the blue band over his head. “You and your mom want time together.”

Poppy was thinking that she wasn't sure about that, when a movement on the sofa caught her eye. She had forgotten about Victoria. But what a nice surprise she was. The cat was sitting on Poppy's favorite chenille throw, simultaneously arching her back and stretching her front legs, looking as though she'd just woken up.

“Did you meet my cat?” Poppy asked Maida.

“Your
cat?” Griffin asked.

The words were barely out of his mouth when Victoria leaped off the sofa. With unerring aim, she approached Poppy. She slowed only for an orienting rub alongside one of the wheels, then she jumped right up. Poppy's heart melted. Wool jacket and all, fingerless gloves and all, she wrapped her arms around the cat and, letting go of Heather's confession in the balm of this warm little creature, buried her face in that soft orange fur. She imagined she smelled her own cologne there, picked up on the chenille throw, no doubt.

A soft purring started. Poppy absorbed it with her face in the fur. Unable to resist, she raised smug eyes to Griffin's.

“Okay,” he said, butt against the wall for balance as he put on one boot, then the other. “That's it. A guy can only take so much rejection in one day. I'll leave you three ladies to yourselves.” He went out, closing the door behind him.

Poppy stroked the cat's head with the bare finger of one hand and used the other hand to unwind her scarf. “So
did
you meet Victoria?” she asked her mother.

“Oh yes. She woke up for that. Then she went right back to sleep. So now she's awake. She seems to be interested in you, only you.” Maida smiled. “And so, my dear, does Griffin.” She took the scarf out of Poppy's hand.

“Griffin,” Poppy informed her, “is interested in using my shower, my desk space, and my phone. I don't know what he told you, but the truth is no one else in Lake Henry will do that for him.”

She might as well have saved her breath, because Maida had already reached her own conclusion. “He seems like a nice person,” she mused. “He behaved well enough during Lily's problems last fall. I wish he weren't a reporter. But John's one, and Lily's doing just fine with him. I suppose if I can live with one journalist son-in-law, I can live with a second.”

“Don't get used to the idea, Mom.” Poppy tucked her gloves in her pocket. “I am not marrying Griffin.”

Maida held out a hand for Poppy's coat. “Oh, I know that, Poppy. You aren't getting married at all.” She took the coat when Poppy slid out her arms, and hung it on a hook by the door. “You've been saying that since you were five. For the longest time, I worried that it was something your father and I did to turn you off to marriage. Then I realized you just loved
him
that much.”

Poppy had. George Blake had been gentle and kind, old-fashioned in the most positive of ways. He believed in wearing overalls, in cooking with fresh butter, fresh cream, and fresh eggs, and in doing the books in longhand in a large leather-bound ledger. When Poppy pictured her father, she could smell warm sun, damp earth, and ripe apples.

When she pictured her mother, she smelled tension. It hung heavy over her memories.

“There's a contradiction here,” she challenged. “You know I'm not getting married, but you say you can live with Griffin as a son-in-law.”

“Wishful thinking,” Maida replied.

Poppy knew she was being humored, but it was odd coming from her mother. Maida was a perfectionist. She liked things just so. More typically, she would have urged Poppy to
encourage
Griffin because, after all, getting married and having children was the ideal. That she didn't argue now—that she had actually been honest enough to acknowledge that she wouldn't necessarily get her way, and to do it with grace, gave Poppy pause.

“Are you all right?” she asked. There had been an issue of headaches the summer and fall before. Poppy didn't want to think that a doctor had diagnosed something dreadful, which had in turn mellowed Maida. Maida certainly seemed healthy enough.

“I'm fine,” she confirmed.

“You look rested. You're tanned. But you've never been bored down there before.”

Maida grew reflective—and Poppy wasn't used to that, either. She and her mother had never been friends. They had never shared their innermost thoughts. She doubted Maida did that with anyone. Yet, there was a pensiveness now, and a quiet, “This year's different. Lily's back, and she's married. I want to see her happy. Rose is being hard on Hannah, which makes me uneasy, because . . . well, just because. So I was down in Florida thinking that I could be here giving Hannah extra attention. And now there's you and Heather.”

“Me
and Heather?” Poppy countered.
“Heather
and Heather.”

“What's happening there?”

Poppy wanted to tell her the latest, but she couldn't. And it wouldn't have mattered had Lily, or John, or Cassie been there instead of Maida. She closed a lid on that particular Pandora's box, locking in the meaning of those three mouthed words. “Nothing's happening. Heather's sitting in jail while the people in California put together enough of a case to get her sent back there.”