The Ring on Her Finger (24 page)

“Miss Lucy?”

She looked up to see Abby Cove standing in the doorway, watching her. She was wearing a pink dress with a big bow beneath its white collar, and she was obviously uncomfortable about something. But as she straightened her little round glasses, she smiled a nervous little smile.

For some reason, Lucy suddenly felt guilty. She knew there was no reason to feel that way. She was the housekeeper, doing her job. She hadn’t been prying into Abby’s personal things—she’d only been cleaning up the little girl’s room. Then she realized she didn’t feel guilty because Abby had discovered her. She felt guilty because of Max. She’d discovered something about him he obviously didn’t want her to know. And she couldn’t help wondering why he didn’t want her to know. This was obviously something that had been a huge part of his life at some point. This obviously had been his life at some point. But even when she’d asked him about his past, he never mentioned anything about it.

“Hi, Abby,” Lucy said, smiling what she hoped was a reassuring smile in response to the little girl’s nervous one. “I was just doing some cleaning up in here. I hope you don’t mind.”

Abby shook her head. “No, I don’t mind. Rosemary usually does it, though.”

“Well, I thought since she was gone today, I’d give her a hand. It is my job, after all.”

Abby nodded but said nothing.

Lucy started to ask how her testing went, then noted that Abby’s nose was red, and her eyes were damp behind her glasses—she’d been crying. Lucy remembered being tested when she was about Abby’s age. She’d cried, too, afterward, when her mother had berated her for her performance. All three times. And she hadn’t wanted to talk about any of them.

So she tilted her head toward the pile of magazines and said, “I didn’t know you liked car racing.”

“I don’t,” Abby said. “I just like the pictures of Max in them.”

Understanding dawned on Lucy like a screaming freight train. Hurtling toward a stalled car. Full of nuns. And orphans. And kittens. Her mouth dropped open, and she pointed at the stack of magazines that stood nearly a foot high. “There are pictures of Max in all of these?”

Abby nodded again and entered the room, collapsing onto the floor beside Lucy. She crossed her bare legs pretzel-fashion, unconcerned about how unladylike it was to do so in a dress, and thumbed through the stack of magazines until she found one near the bottom. It, too, had Max’s photo on the cover. This time he was wearing yellow coveralls decorated with a variety of patches and logos, and he was leaning with his arms and ankles crossed confidently, almost arrogantly, against a low-slung, bright yellow racing car. He was smiling in this photo, too, a huge grin that clearly indicated he was sitting on top of the world.

Sitting on top of the world? Lucy thought further, biting back a distressed sound. Oh, he looked as if he owned the world.

“This is my favorite,” Abby said.

But instead of showing Lucy the cover, she flipped the magazine open to an article inside. Through long practice, Lucy was able to ignore the printed parts and focus on the photographs instead, one after another of Max Hogan, Formula One driver. One page in particular was filled with pictures. One with him standing between two other men in coveralls different from his own, all of them grinning as if they’d shared a private joke. Another of him sitting in the yellow car on the front cover with a helmet half on and half off his head, yelling something at a man who stood beside it. Another of him in soiled coveralls, wiping his dirty face and damp hair with a towel as he watched another car burn, an expression of grim resolution on his face.

And there, at the bottom, the photo Abby was pointing to, of Max in his coveralls again—he must have fairly lived in them back then—having obviously just won a race. His hair was matted with perspiration, he held a bottle of wildly frothing champagne in one hand, and he had his other arm looped around the neck of an exceptionally beautiful, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman. The two of them were smiling at each other, the kind of smile a man and woman share when they know each other very well and love each other very much.

“This is the one I like,” Abby said. “I like his smile in this one.”

Lucy did, too. She just wished he wasn’t smiling at the woman who was with him.

So focused on the photograph was she, that she spoke without thinking when she asked Abby, “Can you read what it says beneath the picture?”

Abby’s head snapped up at that, and the smile she had been wearing vanished. She stared at Lucy in a way that was at once hurt and defiant, but she said nothing in response.

“Oh,” Lucy said when she realized what she’d done. “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, Abby. I didn’t mean... I mean... I forgot you can’t...”

“I can, too, read,” she countered defensively. “I just don’t like to, that’s all. I could tell you what it says there if I wanted to.”

Not if what Lucy had heard from Rosemary was true. The nanny had voiced her concerns about Abby’s inability to read since the day Lucy arrived. But instead of challenging Abby, she said, “That’s okay. I don’t really want to know what it—”

“I can!” Abby insisted vehemently. “I can read! I just don’t like to! But I can!”

As if she intended to prove it once and for all, she turned her attention to the magazine, studying the picture of Max and the beautiful woman, and the tiny, tiny words beneath it. “It says,” she began, “it says...it says...”

Lucy watched with much interest as Abby clenched her jaw and gripped the magazine in both fists. She was concentrating very, very hard. She was very, very focused.

“It says,” she began again, “‘Hogan.’ It says, ‘Hogan...a-and...S-s-s...’ I don’t recognize that word. And the next one is too long. But after that, it says...” She continued to grip the magazine fiercely in both hands, her eyes never leaving the page. After a moment, her body began to sway back and forth a little, and her skin began to grow pale.

“Abby?” Lucy asked cautiously. “Are you okay?”

Abby continued to sway slightly back and forth for a moment, then she shook her head. “I think I’m going to throw up. I feel sick.”

“Look up,” Lucy told her. Unable to wait for Abby to follow the instruction—knowing she may not have even heard it—Lucy took the girl’s chin gently in her hand and urged her to glance up. “Look at me,” she said. “Abby, look at my face.”

Abby did as she was told, her brows arrowing downward as she focused on Lucy’s face, her own face squinched up with much concentration. She looked pale and panicky and vaguely dazed, as if she’d fallen into some kind of trance. But after a minute of looking at Lucy, her expression began to clear. Eventually, the color returned to her face, and she blinked a few times in rapid succession.

“Miss Lucy,” she said, as if she’d forgotten for a moment that Lucy was there.

“Do you feel okay now?” Lucy asked.

Abby nodded. “Yeah.”

Lucy considered the little girl carefully. “Does that happen often? Do you start to feel sick when you look at letters and numbers for too long?”

Abby’s lips parted slightly, as if she was surprised by what Lucy said. She nodded again. “Yeah. I do.”

“And sometimes, when you’re concentrating really hard, do you forget where you are?”

Abby nodded again.

“And then the letters start moving around on the page so you can’t make out what order they’re in, or even if they’re right side up?”

Again, Abby nodded slowly.

“Oh, honey...”

“Lucy? What are you doing in here?” This time it was Rosemary’s voice, and when Lucy looked at her, she realized the nanny had been standing in the doorway for some time.

“I came in earlier to clean up Abby’s rooms,” Lucy said. “I had some, ah, excess energy to work off. I figured I could clean up and surprise you.”

“Well, you certainly did that,” Rosemary said. But it obviously wasn’t the cleaning she was talking about. “What are you and Abby going on about?”

Lucy smiled halfheartedly. “Reading.”

“Reading,” Rosemary repeated flatly.

Lucy nodded.

Although Rosemary continued to look at Lucy, she directed her next question to Abby. “How did your test go today, sweetheart?”

Abby, who had been gazing with fixed fascination at Lucy, dropped her gaze to the ground. “It didn’t,” she said softly.

Rosemary strode quickly into the room and dropped to her knees on the carpet. She picked up one of Abby’s hands and held it gently in her own. “What happened?”

For a moment, Abby said nothing, then, very quietly, she told Rosemary, “I didn’t want to take it. So I didn’t.”

Rosemary’s expression grew concerned, but her voice was calm as she asked, “You didn’t answer the questions the reading lady asked you, the way you were supposed to?”

Abby shook her head, but remained silent, still staring at the ground. “I didn’t do any of the things she told me to do. I didn’t want to.”

“What did your mother do?” Rosemary asked, her voice still calm, but her expression hardening some.

There was another brief silence from Abby, then, “She yelled. A lot.”

Rosemary’s cheeks went ruddy at that, but her voice was deceptively mild as she continued. “And what did the reading lady do?”

“She told Mom to stop it.”

“And then what happened?”

“Mom stopped yelling and took me out to the car. And then she started yelling again. She yelled all the way home. She told Mrs. Hill she was going out and won’t be home for supper.” Abby turned her face up to look at Rosemary. “She didn’t say where she was going.”

Rosemary dropped an arm around Abby’s shoulder and pulled her close, stroking her hair in a soothing gesture. Lucy wanted to mimic the action from her side of the little girl, but knew Abby needed Rosemary more. She wished she could have five minutes alone with Mrs. Cove. With Mrs. Cove and a blunt object. But since she couldn’t have that, maybe she could do something else that would help Abby.

“Rosemary,” Lucy said softly. “I think I might know the problem.”

Rosemary looked at Lucy, her expression confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think I know what Abby’s problem is.”

Rosemary looked skeptical. “Oh?”

Lucy nodded. “I think she might be...” She inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly. “I think she might be...dyslexic.”

Rosemary’s eyebrows shot up, and Abby snapped up her head to glare at Lucy.

The little girl thrust out her bottom lip in defiance. “I am not,” she said. “I’m not...whatever that was you said. I’m not anything. I just don’t like to read.”

Lucy gave her the most reassuring look she could. Very softly, she said, “Actually, kiddo, I’m pretty sure you are dyslexic.”

“What makes you say that?” Rosemary asked.

“I say that because...because Abby has the same reaction to the printed word that I do. And I’m...” She hesitated only a moment before finishing, “I’m dyslexic, too.”

Lucy sipped from a delicate china teacup, savoring the flavor of the chamomile before swallowing. At Abby’s request, she and Rosemary had left the little girl alone to recuperate from the day’s ordeal, then they’d retreated to Rosemary’s rooms, which adjoined Abby’s, for a cup of tea. Her rooms were smaller than most of the rooms at Harborcourt but, like the rest of the house, were furnished beautifully. The sitting room walls were papered with tiny violets, and an ivory rug spanned much of the hardwood floor. For furniture, there was a sage-colored loveseat and chair, a birds-eye maple writing desk and end tables, and a couple of lamps. It gave Lucy the impression of a coastal getaway cottage. Cozy and old-fashioned. It fit Rosemary perfectly.

In one corner hung an oversize bulletin board that was covered from top to bottom with childish artwork—crayon and marker drawings of rainbows, trees, and a little girl holding the hand of an orange-haired woman. Numerous clay figures lined the bookshelves in front of the books, though Lucy was able to identify what few of them were. She had seen no such artwork displayed elsewhere in the Cove home. It was nice to know someone appreciated Abby’s creative endeavors.

“Now you must tell me more about your dyslexia,” Rosemary said as she dropped two sugar cubes into her cup and stirred. “If that is indeed what Abby’s problem is, we can seek treatment for it, yes? I mean, I don’t know much about it, but it’s my understanding that many dyslexics do just fine.”

Lucy set her teacup down and wondered exactly what to say. Finally, she settled on, “Actually, I’ve never been treated for my dyslexia. And I really don’t know very much about it.”

Rosemary was clearly startled by the statement. “Why not?”

“It’s kind of a long story.”

The other woman gazed at her expectantly, obviously unbothered by the time investment.

So Lucy said, “I was diagnosed as a child as being dyslexic. But my parents always said the results of the tests were wrong and insisted that I wasn’t dyslexic. That I couldn’t be dyslexic. My mother said there was nothing wrong with me, except that I was lazy and didn’t apply myself. She was adamant that I couldn’t have a problem, because Hol—” She stopped herself before she would have uttered her last name. “Because people in my family don’t have problems. We’re perfect, you see,” she added derisively. “No one else had ever been dyslexic, so I couldn’t be, either.”

Rosemary sat up straighter at that. “That’s what Mrs. Cove says about Abby and the Coves. She thinks her and Mr. Cove’s bloodlines are perfect. That they couldn’t possibly have a ‘flawed’ child.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Lucy said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Mrs. Cove and my mother have a lot in common.”

Rosemary eyed her with much consideration. “Really,” she said, the word coming out as a statement, not a question.

Lucy hurried on, “So I can’t really help much with Abby, beyond telling you that she’s like me. Or, at least, she has the same reaction to reading that I have. But, as you said, there are people who can help dyslexics learn to read. Certainly she can do better than she is now, I would think. Provided Mrs. Cove looks for someone to help her.”

“You don’t read well enough to get by yourself, then,” Rosemary said, another statement instead of a question.