Endless Fear (15 page)

For a fleeting moment April wondered what had become of the old furniture. Had it been sold?

The austere sunlight angling through the plate glass windows mocked Helga’s efforts to make the black lacquer table tops dustless.

“
Hi.” Stirring yet more dust, April sank to the nearest couch. She scrutinized Haro Strait in the distance as though the view would yield an opening line for the subject she wanted to delve into.

“
You look glum this afternoon. Something the matter?”

Pulling her gaze from the window, April asked, “Where is everyone?”

“
Scattered about. The twins and Ms. O’Brien went to Friday Harbor to do some shopping and pick up your little sister. I expect your pa’s in his workshop. As for the others, I couldn’t say.”

Relieved that Spencer wouldn’t walk in on them, she leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and asked, “How many time do you suppose you’ve cleaned this room over the years?”

“
Whew—now that’s a question. Too many to count.” Helga balanced the spray can on her ample hip and smiled a smile of remembrance. “Your folks ain’t much for entertaining these days. Ah, but your ma, now that was a different story. I expect you remember that, don’t you?”

Nodding, April snatched a floral throw pillow from the stack beside her and hugged it to her middle. “I remember almost everything.”

“
Yes…well,”—the housekeeper gave the table another swipe—“they say what a body don’t know can’t hurt ‘em.”

Whoever wrote that old saw
,
thought April disparagingly,
didn’t know a thing about
post traumatic stress disorder.
Keeping her voice low, she plunged ahead. “Even so, I know I’d feel better if I could clear up some questions I have regarding one of my mother’s…er…admirers.”

Noticing the woman’s white-knuckled hold on the can, April suspected she’d trod sacred ground too soon. Helga asked, “What would I know about that?”

“
I’ve noticed people tend to treat servants like…like electricity. It’s always there, but as long as it works when you want to use it, who thinks about it?”

“
Ain’t that the truth.”

“
I imagine you’ve observed lots of things without actually being observed, if you know what I mean.”

“
I see.” Helga moved to an end table and squirted liquid wax across its black surface, then furiously wiped until the top gleamed. Seeming to be satisfied with her effort, she finally raised her gaze to April. “That was a long time ago. My memory ain’t as good as it once was. Still, I noticed a few things.”

“
And…?”

“
And, your ma had lots of admirers. Which particular one you asking about?”

“
I was hoping
you
could tell me that.”

The housekeeper’s defensive stance eased, but didn’t altogether disappear.

April once again withdrew the envelope from her jeans pocket, extracted the poems, and held them out for inspection. “Would you happen to know who might have written these to Lily?”

Helga’s rosy cheeks paled and a film of sweat appeared on her upper lip.

“
Well?” April asked, after several seconds, impatient for Helga to finish reading. The eyes that lifted to hers held a glint of distaste. “I know,” April said. “They’re rather crude.”

“
W-where did you find these?”

“
In the attic. In a trunk full of Lily’s things.” She waved the envelope offhandedly. “Stuck in with some love letters.”

“
Love letters…? What love letters?”

“
Oh, the letters aren’t important. I know who wrote them.” She stuffed the empty envelope back into her jeans. “I want to know about these poems.”

Sighing, Helga dropped to the sofa beside April. She kept her head bowed, her gaze fixed on the can of spray wax and the rag in her lap. Her voice was low as though she were ashamed of revealing something she’d promised to keep secret. “I don’t expect your ma set out to cause anyone harm. Least of all your pa. But the mister, he never has had a mind for much but his inventions.

“
Lily, she was lonely is all—in a real desperate way. And, believe it or not, jealous, I think—of the marriages her friends had.” She glanced sideways at April, a touch of pity in her expression.

None of this was news to April, nor did hearing yet another person tell her what a tramp her mother had been resolve the question she most wanted answered. She couldn’t contain her impatience a second longer. “Do you know who composed those poems?”

“
Yeah. But it ain’t fair to blame the men. Why, they could no more help wanting her, than Lily could help being such a b…beauty.”

For crying out loud, did she have to drag it out of the woman? “Who wrote the poems?”

“
Definitely one of the twins. The handwriting looks like Spencer’s.” Helga handed her the poems and struggled to her feet. “’Course, it could be Thane’s.”

“
Thanks.” Shakily, April rose and headed into the foyer.
It could be Thane’s.
Wasn’t that exactly the doubt she’d hoped to raise? Then why did her heart feel run over by a steam roller? She returned the poems to the envelope, then to her pocket and started up the stairs. She’d gained but a few steps when the front door swung open.

Through the gaping portal, she could see Thane and Vanessa at the open car trunk, but it was Spencer who held her unerring attention as he guided July over the threshold. The very sight of him quickened her pulse. He’d exchanged the soup stained sweatshirt for a black sweater, she noted, the dusty jeans and sneakers, for black Levis and leather Reeboks.

“
April!” July’s lightly freckled cheeks glowed pink from the cold weather, and her dark blue eyes were as round as quarters. “I bought you a surprise!”

Making straight for her, the little girl struggled to wriggle out of her coat, while at the same time, retain possession of a small, gift-wrapped package. The effort proved too much for the tiny hands to manage. Together, jacket and box spilled onto the Oriental rug.

April hastened down the stairs and met her sister on the last one.

“
Don’t worry,” July said, holding forth the yellow ribboned package. “It can’t break.”

“
It can’t?” Accepting the present, April sank to the bottom step. The slight jewelry-sized box settled into her palm like a bar of precious gold. “What is it?”

“
You’re ‘spose to open it and see.”

“
Oh.” Smiling, she removed the bow and slowly pried at the Scotch Tape.

“
Faster.” July urged.

Ripping away the last edge of striped paper, she set the wrapping aside and lifted the lid. Nestled in tissue paper were two clunky green objects with a cluster of gaudy rhinestones in their centers. She lifted one by its silver hook. The light caught the faux gem and glinted at her. “Earrings.”

“
Spence said they’d be right ‘cause you have pursed ears.”

“
Pierced,” he corrected, softly.

Her gaze flicked over July’s head to Spencer. Why did it have to matter so much that he noticed her ears were pierced?

“
July picked them out herself,” he explained, wondering at the pain he noticed in her beautiful aqua eyes, hoping he wasn’t somehow the cause of it.

Coughing away the lump forming in her throat, she returned her gaze to the gift, then looked at July. “What’s this design on the earrings?”

“
Turtles. Like your Turtle Rock. See the sparkly eyes.”

In that instant, April realized it wasn’t her heart that felt flattened. It was her spirit. Before she came here she’d looked forward to returning to her structured, if somewhat sterile, existence in Phoenix, but these two people had made a difference in her she hadn’t counted on. And now her future stretched before her in Technicolor loneliness.

* * * *

At eleven-twenty that night Spencer was still dressed, sitting on his bed, working a crossword puzzle. His thoughts were as fretful as the breezes railing the house. After ten minutes trying to come up with a definition for sixteen down, he decided, the strain was too much. Sleep would be the best cure for what ailed him.

Setting pencil and paper on the chenille spread, he reached for a shoe lace. A knock at the door stayed his hand. “Who the devil….?” But as he strode to the door, he figured he knew who it was. And he was right.

Wearing brown-striped pajamas, a brown-and-white robe, and brown leather slippers, Thane didn’t wait for an invitation. He shoved into the room and immediately began to pace.

Spencer shut the door, leaned against it, and watched his brother traipse the length of the bedroom like a cuckoo counting to ten. It was ironic. Usually Thane was the one with the cool head in a hot situation. Tonight, their roles were reversed. “Why don’t you calm down before you wear a path in the carpet? We know April has the poems. We’ll get them tomorrow when she’s out of her room.”

The wind complained against the rooftop, groaning with all the irascibility visible on Thane’s face as he ground to a halt and pinned Spencer with an angry glare. “Tomorrow? I don’t intend to give her chance enough to flash those poems around. We’re getting the damned things tonight.”

Shaking his head, Spencer tried to reason with his twin. “I know it was a shock to discover any of those poems still exist. I felt the same way this afternoon. But you’re not thinking straight. What if she wakes up and catches us searching her room? That’d make her even more suspicious.”

Raking his hands through his hair, Thane growled, “I don’t care.”

“
Of course you do. Think about Vanessa.”

“
I
am
thinking about Vanessa. Not to mention her family. They’ll freak-out if any of this crap comes to the surface.”

Spencer let out a heartfelt sigh. The situation kept growing uglier; all these lies and deceptions. He hated it. The longer he put off telling April the truth, the more rotten he felt. But as his brother had just pointed out, he wasn’t the only one who’d be hurt by such a confession. Damn!

“
Look, I couldn’t very well take them away from her this afternoon. And it’s too risky to do it now.”

Thane shook his head, as thought he pitied Spencer. “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

The thought of another man, even his brother, pawing through April’s personal things raised his hackles. As Thane started for the door, Spencer caught him by the arm. “Like hell you will. If anyone searches her room tonight, it’ll be me.”

For six whole seconds the twins glared at one another. Thane blinked first and jerked his arm free. Pulling a large flashlight from the deep pocket of his robe, he slapped it in Spencer’s palm. “Then get going. I won’t rest until those poems are ashes.”

With that, Spencer found himself standing in the hall, his back to the closed door, wondering how in blue blazes he was supposed to pull this off. He glanced anxiously at his watch. Eleven-forty-five. At least she should be asleep.

As he started down the hallway, the lights suddenly dimmed, then burned brighter. Realizing the power might go out at anytime, he was glad to have the flashlight.

* * * *

April stared at the illuminated bedside clock. Nearly midnight. By now the rest of the family would be fast asleep. Maybe she should wait another hour to be certain.
No.
There would be no better time to go to the basement, to confront her memories without the chance of outside distractions. Besides, she couldn’t bear to wait a minute more. Every day her memory stayed blocked, the more painful it would be to leave Calendar House.

Sitting up, she turned on the table lamp. Soft white light bathed the hardcover version of LaVyrle Spencer’s latest novel, situated within easy reach atop the nightstand. Earlier, she’d tucked the envelope containing the poems between the book’s pages. Quickly double checking, she assured herself it was still there.

Tossing off her covers, she climbed out of bed and donned her robe and slippers. Armed with a purse-sized flashlight, she cracked the door and scanned the hallway. Nothing but the wind creaking through the old bones of the house. Then why was she shaking?

Fighting the fear building inside, she forced herself into the dimly lighted passage and shut the door behind her.
You can do it,
she whispered, but she had to repeat it three times before her knees no longer felt wobbly. As she turned toward the back stairs, she heard footsteps coming along the adjoining hall from the opposite direction. Her pulse braked, then shifted into overdrive. She hurried to the stairwell.