What Happened to Hannah (6 page)

“How come that doesn’t make as much sense now as it did Friday or yesterday or even this morning?

“Because the closer you get to your true destiny, and to what is real and vital in your life, the harder the devil tries to tempt you from your path.”

Hannah wasn’t a religious person, but Joe was—and he and his life were the best things she’d ever known. Even second hand, his faith was an encouraging comfort.

“Could the devil disguise himself as a county sheriff?”

“He could. But with all the self-doubt you have already, why would he bother?” Good point. “Were you speeding again?”

“No. I ran into Grady. He’s a sheriff now.”

“Grady . . . the boy. He arrested you?”

“This would be a whole different call if he had. And he’s not a boy. He’s a big, tall man.”

“You like big, tall men. Many big, tall men.”

And Joe would be delighted to see her pick one and settled down like the classic Jewish princess she wasn’t.

“Yeah, well, this one makes me nervous.”

“Nervous is good.”

“Not that kind of nervous.” Not altogether. “What if he starts asking questions?”

He paused. “Then tell him the truth, Hannah. Make yourself free. It’s time.”

“I . . . had an attack. Like before.”

“The panic again?”

“Yes. But worse.”

“That makes sense, doesn’t it? First you face your fears, then you conquer them. A minor setback. Are you better now?”

“Yes.” But for how long? What else would sneak up and grab her unexpected? Could she fight it off again, or would it drag her into the madness forever?

“This is all good, Hannah. It’s time. Truth and peace, they are sisters.”

She shook her head, slow and doubtful. “I’ll do what I can for the girl because you think it’s important, but I can’t promise anything else.”

“
Not
because I think it’s important but because—”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s my responsibility. Because it’s what I’m meant to do.”

“And because
you
want to do it.”

“I do?”

“Deep down, yes. And because it will save me a great deal of time, in what few years I have left, not to have to listen to you whine about the regrets you would have if you stood by and did nothing.”

“So, once again, this is all about you?”

“Of course.”

“And you know me so well.”

“Also true.”

Hannah sighed and wished he had come with her. “In that case, wish me luck because I am about to meet her.”

“You don’t need luck, Hannah, you need faith,” he said, then he made it a wish. “Have faith.”

He disconnected and she flipped the cell and the earpiece back in her purse.

The most frustrating thing about Joe Levitz was that in all the years she’d known him, he hadn’t once ill-advised or misdirected her. That made telling him to stuff his opinions extremely difficult. To make it worse, he never offered them unsolicited. Oh, she knew the trick was to not ask him what he thought in the first place, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Joe was more than simply her former boss and business partner; her mentor and her dearest friend. He was her savior, her confessor, the father she should have had . . . and he was always right—about everything.

Except maybe now.
Hell of a time to start being wrong, Joe.

Have faith,
he’d said.

Okay. So how hard could this be? Most people have families, and most of those involve children. She’d spent the better part of her life professing the importance of and selling the means for sound financial futures for them. She knew about kids. She’d heard all the boastful stories and seen the joy that most people share with their children. She knew they weren’t impossible to live with.

Living with a fifteen-year-old girl could not be worse than
being
a sixteen-year-old girl living alone . . . and somehow the thought comforted her.

“I can do this.”

But children were famous for their intuitive judgments of adult character. What if this kid sensed that Hannah wasn’t the purest soul on the planet and ran off screaming? Another rumor: They could sense fear like horses and dogs, in which case this . . . Anna would definitely have the upper hand.

“Be calm. Have faith.”

Caravanning behind Grady, they soon left tarmac for gravel and rumbled four more miles down the road before the house came into view. The sky was growing dark, but there were no dark billowing clouds hovering overhead, no lightning, no ominous thunderclaps from a B-rated horror movie.

It was just an old silver-gray farmhouse with a dull red roof and a wide front porch, left to weather and ruin by years of neglect. Smaller than she remembered. A matching barn stood off to the left at a distance, but barely. Hannah estimated that the next stiff wind would provide the new owners with enough firewood for the next thirty years. Two of the three smaller outbuildings were heading that way as well. There were three cows in the four-acre field west of the house and the rest had gone to grass, for hay perhaps.

Hannah caught herself holding her breath, anticipating memories that would launch up to stun and overwhelm her, memories to be filled to the gills with toxic emotions, but . . . Well, perhaps she was maxed-out emotionally and the house was the least of her worries. The strange fact was, all she felt as they turned into the drive was a detached curiosity—and nervous about meeting the girl.

The sound of their tires crunching across the gravel toward the house alerted those inside to their arrival. A light came on, bathing the porch in a soft welcoming bug-light yellow as a woman in a black skirt and sweater pushed open the screen door and stepped out. She stuck her head back in briefly, then let the screen door swing shut, and started down the steps to meet them.

Grady pulled up on the grass in the front yard and Hannah did the same as there were already two vehicles parked in the space along the side of the house where her parents used to park, closer to the back entrance. Tonight she was a guest being received at the front door.

Her fingers shook when she reached for the keys in the ignition. She grabbed that hand with her other and held them in her lap for a second, taking a deep bracing breath. She might have taken several more—and hyperventilated—if she hadn’t glanced up through the windshield to see Grady waiting for her. He winked and flashed his dimples at her. He had her back.

Right. She turned the engine off and pulled the keys out.

“. . . and I’ve been on pins and needles all day. I can’t believe it,” Mrs. Steadman was saying when Hannah opened the car door. “All this time and you’re back. Look at you, all grown up. And so beautiful. You always were such a pretty girl and now look at you . . .”

Mrs. Steadman taught freshman algebra at the high school and talked faster than a speeding bullet. Blessed with this knowledge she repeatedly invited her students to ask her to slow down if they needed her to, but neglected the offer during her less complicated social discourses—which tended to run on. She was very kind, Hannah recalled, from the few times she’d gone to her after class for extra help. And trustworthy . . . if she’d never told Grady about the night before she left town.

She dressed in the same skirt, blouse, and cardigan sweater–a style she’d favored years ago—perhaps a size or two larger—in a tasteful shade of dark plum, not black. Time had taken its toll gently on her face; her curly cap of dark brown hair had turned to white, but the generous smile remained the same.

“A grown woman. My stars, it’s like a miracle that you’ve returned to us.”

Hannah stood beside the open car door as Mrs. Steadman reached her, then reached
for
her, pinning her arms to her sides in a smothering hug. Bending her arms at the elbows—for balance mostly—Hannah patted the woman’s hips in greeting.

“Hi, Mrs. Steadman. It’s good to see you, too.”

“Let her get out of the car first, Mom.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She captured Hannah’s face in her hands. There were tears in the hazel eyes behind the thin pink plastic-rimmed glasses. “It’s you, isn’t it? I can’t believe it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m so glad to see you safe, dear.” She searched Hannah’s face thoroughly, and when she was satisfied that all was as it should be, she lowered her hands. “Now, where are your things? In the trunk? Grady. Get her things, dear, and bring them into the house. Let’s get you in out of this cold. March is always so unpredictable. Last Wednesday the children went to school without coats. Can you believe it? How was . . .”

Grady circled them, stopped beside Hannah with his hand out for the keys. She looked up, met the merriment in his eyes. Obviously she looked as uncomfortable as she felt and this wasn’t the part where he would come to her rescue. She was on her own with his mother.

But before she could glare at him, the screen door squeaked, drawing their attention to the porch.

A stocky young man dressed all in black—jeans, T-shirt, and boots—and silver—chains, rings, earrings, and eyebrow stud—stepped to the edge of the porch. He tilted his head—and the jet black shag of hair thereon—to one side and stared down at them.

Someone gasped, soft and incredulous. Hannah could feel herself staring.
My God. A Goth in Clearfield.
Some things
had
changed—a lot.

“How was your trip?” Mrs. Steadman drew a second breath. “You must be tired. Oh, here they are now. They’ve been so busy. The children are very excited, you know. They worked like troopers today, getting things ready. They’re eager to meet you and they’ve been asking questions for two days solid. Since Grady told us you were coming, and . . .”

“Careful,” Grady whispered. He had to reach in front of her to get the keys still dangling from her right hand while she remained rapt by the boy in black. “He’s a visiting dignitary. This is a test, and
you
are the United Nations.”

The nylon of his jacket grazed the wool of hers; his shoulder blocked her view all too briefly. The impulse to hide her face against his chest until this whole nightmare ended was almost more than she could bear.

She turned to look at him, hoping for more of an explanation, but he’d turned to the rear of her car. She started to follow but the screen door opened again—for a girl wearing what Hannah could only describe as fairy-clown clothes.

Starting from the bottom up, she had on black high-topped army-type boots with thick red tights or leggings, a yellow floral-print silk or nylon skirt with multiple handkerchief hems, and a purple cable-knit sweater. She didn’t appear to be pierced anywhere but her earlobes, and her hair was short and straight . . . and pink and orange, if the yellow bug light on the porch wasn’t affecting it.

Following her, a relatively bland couple: a tall, lean youth in jeans and a Clearfield High School hoodie with short, soft brown curls and Grady’s mouth set mutinous and grim on his face. The girl wore jeans as well, with a yellow-and-white striped V-neck T-shirt and red tennis shoes. She had thick, long wavy blond hair, like her mother—and an oval-shaped face with a straight narrow nose set between Hannah’s eyes, and a wide, full mouth. She was disarmingly pretty.

“Of course, we didn’t know what all to tell them about you, we’ve been out of touch for so long. In . . . in fact, some people thought you were dead, dear. At first . . . But we’ll get caught up in no time, you’ll see. Come down everyone, don’t be shy now. Hannah’s come a long way to meet you.”

“Come help me here,” Grady called out with his head in the trunk.

The boy in black skipped down the steps, loped toward them, chains clinking, loose and graceful despite his size. The girls followed at a slower pace. The other boy remained on the porch, leaning against a support post, his arms folded defensively across his chest. Did that mean he didn’t want to meet her?

Already she could feel the young people communicating in a language she didn’t understand—and they had yet to speak. Or was she overreacting again? It made perfect sense that they would understand one another’s moods and nuances better than she did.
One step at a time, Hannah
.

Grady hung the strap of her garment bag on the boy’s shoulder and gave him her small tote bag and briefcase, going back for the larger, heavier suitcase himself. He pulled it out of the truck like she’d packed two weeks of feathers and set it on the ground. By the time he’d tapped the lid of the trunk down, the girls had joined them on the dry brown lawn.

“Hannah, let me introduce you to everyone,” he said. She pulled her gaze from her niece’s face and looked at Grady. He picked up her bag and motioned with his head to the Goth. “That’s Biscuit.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Grady’s mother interrupted. “That’s Bobby Walker. I don’t know why you people insist on calling him Biscuit.”

“We told you, Gramma,” the fairy-clown said, even as she watched Hannah like a carnival attraction. “His head’s shaped like a biscuit.”

“Why, it is not. His head’s shaped like a . . . ah . . . the business end of a dust mop today.”

“Not his hair, his head . . .”

And while the two debated the shape of Bobby Walker’s head, he smiled at Hannah and said, “My mom calls me Sweetie-pie and my dad calls me Mr. Lippy.”

There was a warm, intelligent look about his eyes that led Hannah to believe his mother understood him best.

“What would you like me to call you?”

“Biscuit is okay.”

“Just don’t call him to dinner,” Grady said. “He’ll eat your cupboards bare.”

“Man, Sheriff, do you have to spoil all my fun?”

“It’s my job, son.” He walked by them to stand near the girls. “This is my little Lucy.”

“Dad.” The girl with the pink and orange hair had his eyes . . . and gave them a practiced roll.

“Colorful, don’t you think?” He nodded his head at her as if he was indeed pleased with her creativity. She didn’t seem to be embarrassed by the introduction. Or maybe she was simply too busy checking Hannah out to notice.

The boy, Biscuit, looked interested in her quietly elegant Volvo—one of the top three safest cars in the world, the insurance agent in her was always willing to point out . . . just not today.