The Great Escape (18 page)

The woman’s eyes brightened. “I do?”

Bree nodded.

“Excellent.” She took the shovel, scooped up the mouse detritus, and tossed it into the gully.

It had been forever since another person had done something nice for her—even if she’d been manipulated into doing it—and Bree couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so touched.

C
URIOSITY ABOUT
T
OBY AND HIS
grandmother had made Lucy stop at the cottage. Or maybe she’d simply been procrastinating because, if Panda’s SUV was still in the drive, she had to pack up and leave. Still, as tense as she was, she couldn’t be any more uptight than Toby’s guardian.

Bree was a beautiful woman, despite being almost brittlely thin. There was an old-fashioned fragility about her sharply cut features and translucent complexion. Lucy could see her in Victorian dress, that long neck rising out of a high lace collar, auburn hair caught up on her head. Something told her the woman was carrying a boatload of trouble on her thin shoulders. But how did Toby fit into the picture?

It was none of her business, and she shouldn’t have given in to the impulse to invite Toby to the house, but as soon as she’d heard that his grandmother was dead, she couldn’t help herself. Gutsy kids were her weakness. Right along with throwing herself at the first man she’d met after she pulled her runaway act.

She rounded the last curve, held her breath, and turned into the drive.

His car was gone. She’d never have to see him again.

As she leaned the bike against the back of the house, she wondered if jumping into bed with Panda had been her twisted way of justifying running from her wedding. She couldn’t have found a better way to prove to herself how unworthy she was to marry a man like Ted. Both a comforting and a disturbing thought. It would explain why she’d acted so out of character, but it was hardly a positive reflection on her character.

Determined to file away that short, painful chapter of her life forever, she let herself into the house with the key she’d unearthed from a broken wicker basket buried underneath expired pizza coupons, outdated ferry schedules, dead flashlight batteries, and a ten-year-old island phone book. She headed for the kitchen and found Toby sitting at the table, eating a bowl of cereal.

“Do make yourself at home,” she drawled. The German coffeemaker had been freshly rinsed out, and she doubted Toby had done it. Other than that, she saw no signs that Panda had been here.

Toby gave her his customary hostile glare. “How much are you going to pay me?”

“How much are you worth?”

He munched another spoonful of Cheerios. “A lot.”

“I’ll pay you by the job. Now hand over that house key you’ve been hanging on to.”

He was all bravado. “I don’t need a key to get in here.”

“Right. You used your Spidey powers.” She marched over to him and held out her hand.

He scratched a mosquito bite on his arm, and she could see him trying to decide whether to brazen it out, but he finally dug into his shorts’ pocket. After he’d given her the key, he poked his spoon around in the cereal. “How come you’re not mad about my grandmother?”

“Who says I’m not mad?”

“You don’t look mad.”

“I’m good at hiding my feelings. Serial killers learn to do that.”

“You’re a serial killer?”

“Not yet. But I’m thinking about starting. Like maybe today.”

The beginnings of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He quickly reined it in. “You think you’re funny, but you’re not.”

“Matter of opinion.” She’d told herself she wouldn’t get involved, yet here she was. Typical of those who didn’t know how to deal with their own problems. They poked around in other people’s troubles so they could feel better about themselves. She pocketed the key. “Bree seems nice.”

He made a dismissive sound. “She’s only staying with me till my dad gets home. He’s a tower dog. They’re the guys that put up stuff like cell phone towers. It’s the most dangerous job in the world.”

He was lying—she knew an orphan when she saw one. She poured some water from the tap and drank half of it. As she dumped the rest down the sink, she thought of how much she used to love working with kids like Toby. She’d been good at it, too, and giving up that job had been heart-wrenching. But as a caseworker, she could help only a few kids, and as a lobbyist, she helped thousands, something she always had to keep in mind whenever she was tempted to quit.

“Here’s the thing, Toby. I have a brother and three sisters, so I know when a kid isn’t telling the truth. If that’s the way you want it to be between us, it’s your choice. But it means I can’t really help you if you ever need help.” He opened his mouth to tell her he didn’t need help from anybody. She cut him off. “And … it means I can never ask you for help if I need it. Because there’s no trust. See how that works?”

“Who cares?”

“Apparently not you.” There were no dirty dishes in the sink. Either Panda hadn’t eaten or he’d washed up after himself. She took a banana from a bowl on the counter.

“My dad really was a tower dog,” Toby said in a small voice from behind her. “He died when I was four. He was saving another guy who got stuck, and that’s the truth.”

She peeled the banana, deliberately keeping her back to him. “I’m sorry about that. I don’t even know who my father was.”

“What about your mom?”

“She died when I was fourteen. She wasn’t a great mom.” She concentrated on the banana, still not looking at him. “I got adopted, though, so I was lucky.”

“My mom ran away not too long after I was born.”

“It doesn’t sound like she was a great mom, either.”

“My grandma was great.”

“And you miss her.” She set aside the banana and finally turned to face him, only to watch tears gathering in his big brown eyes. Tears he wouldn’t appreciate her witnessing. “We have a lot of work to do.” She moved briskly toward the sunroom. “Let’s get to it.”

For the next several hours, Toby helped her carry broken furniture, moth-eaten cushions, and desiccated draperies to a spot at the end of the drive where she’d get someone to haul it away. Panda might not have any respect for this house, but she did, and if he didn’t like it, he could sue her.

Toby tried to make up for his lack of muscle with a seriousness of purpose that touched her to the core. She never got to work one on one with kids anymore, not unless they were related to her.

Together she and Toby struggled to carry out an ancient television that no longer worked. He filled trash bags with the decades-old magazines and tattered paperbacks she handed him from the sunroom bookcases, then wiped the shelves as she rearranged what was left. Although they tried, the awful green kitchen table proved too heavy for them to move, and they both ended up with nasty splinters for their efforts.

When she’d had enough for the day, she carried some money out to the screen porch Toby had just finished helping her scrub down. His eyes widened when he saw what she was paying him. He quickly shoved the bills in his pocket. “I can come back anytime,” he said eagerly. “And I’ll clean the house, too. I know it didn’t look too good before, but I’m a lot better now.”

She regarded him sympathetically. “Panda’s going to need a caretaker who’s a grown-up.” As his face fell, she went on, “But I have some other jobs in mind for you.”

“I’m just as good as a grown-up.”

“He won’t see it that way.”

He stomped across the porch and banged the screen door behind him, but she knew he’d be back, and he was.

Over the next few days, they swept up cobwebs and scrubbed floors. She covered the worst of the outdoor cushions with more beach towels and discovered the metal baker’s rack that looked clunky in the front hallway fit perfectly on the porch. Gradually the ceramic pig, chipped canisters, and other detritus that had cluttered up the counters disappeared. She filled a blue pottery bowl with ripe strawberries and a jelly jar with roses she found growing on an old rambler behind the garage. The arrangement was a far cry from the incredible creations that came out of the White House flower shop, but she liked it just as much.

By the fourth day after Panda had left, they were ripping up the ugly carpet in the gloomy den. “You got any more bread?” Toby asked as they finished the job.

“You polished off the last slice.”

“Are you gonna make more?”

“Not today.”

“You should make more.” He studied her newest accessory, a gorgeous dragon tattoo that curled from her collarbone around her neck with its fiery mouth pointing toward her earlobe. “How old are you anyway?”

She started to tell him she was eighteen, then stopped herself. If she wanted him to be truthful, she had to be straightforward. “Thirty-one.”

“That’s old.”

They moved outside, and Toby held the stepladder while she pulled away the vines that had grown over the den’s only window. Once this room wasn’t so gloomy, it would be a good place for her to start writing.

Through the window, she could see the warm, honeyed tones of the hardwood floor. From the moment she’d stepped through the doorway, the house had called out to her. Panda didn’t deserve this place.

B
REE UNDRESSED IN THE TINY
laundry room at the back of the cottage and dropped her dirty clothes directly into the washing machine, right down to bra and underpants. The smoker she used to calm the bees had left her smelling like she’d spent the day around a campfire. She wrapped a towel around herself and made her way to the bathroom shower. She’d never worked so hard in her life, and every muscle in her body ached.

For the last few days, she’d been outside from dawn until nightfall getting the hives ready for summer. Following the directions in the manuals she’d read, she moved frames, checked for queens, replaced the old brood comb with fresh comb, and added more brood boxes. She’d also cleaned the honey house from top to bottom, wiping the dust from hundreds of jars filled with last summer’s harvest. When that was done, she’d attached Myra’s labels.

Carousel Honey
Charity Island, Michigan

Bree had once dreamed of being an artist, and the illustration of the gaily beribboned carousel on the labels came from a watercolor she’d painted when she was sixteen as a birthday gift to Myra. Myra had liked the watercolor so much she’d asked to use it for her labels.

Bree dried herself off, working gently around the numerous bee stings she’d accumulated, the oldest of which were itching like crazy. But she hadn’t gotten stung once today. It was nice to feel proud of something.

She found Toby sprawled on the living room couch playing with the Nintendo portable game player she’d brought as a gift when she’d arrived. The room had changed little over the years. Peach walls, a blue and navy floral carpet, overstuffed furniture, and a pair of ceramic Siamese cats on each side of the fireplace mantel. She and Star had named them Beavis and Butt-Head.

It was almost eleven. Toby should be in bed, but if she mentioned it, he’d pretend not to hear. She picked up a dirty cereal bowl. “I’m going to open the farm stand tomorrow.” It sounded more like a question than a statement.

“Nobody’ll stop,” he said, without looking up from his game.

“It’s on the main road to the south beach, so there’s plenty of traffic. If we fix it up a little, I think people will notice.” She had no idea whether they would or not. “I’ll need some help, so you’d better get to bed.”

He didn’t move.

She had to be firmer, but she didn’t know how, so she escaped to the kitchen. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but even though she wasn’t hungry, she made herself open the refrigerator. The shelves held only milk and lunch meat. She shut the door, glanced toward the pantry with its supply of canned goods, cereal, pasta, and beans. Nothing tempted her. Nothing except …

The single jar of honey she’d brought inside sat on the counter. Golden amber in the sunlight, it looked dark as maple syrup in the kitchen’s artificial light. She picked up the bottle and studied the fanciful carousel label. Finally she twisted the lid. It opened with the lightest pop.

She touched the honey with the tip of her index finger. Shut her eyes. Brought her finger to her lips.

All the summers of her childhood came flooding back. She tasted the faintest hint of cherry blossom; a dash of dandelion, clover, and strawberry; a whisper of honeysuckle and touch of sourwood, all the flavors clean and fresh as a June morning. She dipped her finger again and tasted the days of summer growing longer as the bees gravitated toward lavender patches and blackberry brambles, bringing a complexity to the flavor notes. Then August arrived with summer nearing its end. The honey became rich and buttery from thistle, sage, and alfalfa.

Her weariness faded, and for a moment she felt as if all life’s secrets clung to the tip of her finger.

T
HE NEXT MORNING, SHE COULDN
’
T
get Toby out of bed, so she set to work alone. Her arms ached as she piled the old wheelbarrow with the brushes, rollers, rags, and paint cans she’d found in the storage shed. She maneuvered it awkwardly down the drive. The farm stand sat gray and weathered in the shade of a hundred-year-old oak. A sloping roof and rudimentary floor supported its three walls, and a pair of splintered shelves ran beneath a long wooden counter. With the exception of a small storage shed attached to the back, the whole thing could have fit inside her old kitchen pantry.

A blue Honda minivan whizzed by, followed by another just like it, both bearing families heading for the still-chilly waters of the south beach, the island’s best swimming locale. She made two more trips back to the house for tools, the temporary poster-board sign she’d painted, and a dozen jars of last summer’s honey. This year’s crop wouldn’t be ready for harvest until August. She hoped she’d be long gone by then, although she couldn’t imagine where. She stomped to wake Toby up and discovered a deserted bedroom.

Her spirits lifted when the first car stopped just as she was sticking her poster board sign in the ground. “It’s about time you opened up,” the woman said. “We finished our last jar of Myra’s honey a couple of weeks ago, and my arthritis is starting to flare up again.”