Mr. Lofft, steaming from his fight with Frannie Bailey. Finding himself in Friday evening traffic: hostile and edgy and even lawless. Screaming at the windshield, seeing nothing.
Anjelica, saddled with a silent houseguest, not distracted by videos or blue corn chips.
Rose, staring mutely out the side window, seeing nothing. What Rose could not see was her future. How to go on in a family that was only half hers?
But what Milton Lofft could not see was a human being standing at the side of the road. He saw only his goal: a turnpike entrance. Why should a man of Milton Lofft’s stature have to wait another sixty seconds? How could Milton Lofft endure the blockade of ordinary traffic as if he were an ordinary person? Naturally, he pulled far to the right, drove over the curb, and accelerated across the grass.
And what had Anjelica seen?
Not enough to be one hundred percent sure, or she wouldn’t have tried to tap into Rose’s memory. But enough to worry that her beloved father had killed a pedestrian and gone on without stopping.
There were two parts to such a crime: the driving part, and the driving away part. The second was so much worse. To leave a bleeding body. Give no aid. Make no calls. Milton Lofft had driven home so fast and furiously because he believed—and he was right—that he could put it behind him.
At the lake estate, he let the girls out at the front door and drove on alone to his garage. Evidence would be on his bumper or fender or broken headlight, but Mr. Lofft need never touch the car again or let anybody else touch it, because indeed he was not an ordinary man with the ordinary number of vehicles. He could give his mechanics a nice bonus and let them go; take up horses and gardens instead. After enough time passed, he could have the car crushed into a block of metal.
The worst that could happen to Rose was a collective shudder from the Lymonds. Probably a lot of shudders from her father. But Rose was nearly sixteen, a long time to be a daughter, granddaughter, great-granddaughter. They loved her. She was theirs. They’d get past this sad little story and forget about it.
Anjelica could not forget.
Only Chrissie Klein, Alan Finney, and Anjelica Lofft knew what Rose had half said in her diary. But that diary no longer existed and the author of the diary did not seem to recall the bump in the road.
From television court shows, Chrissie knew that any statement of hers would not be admissible. She’d be quoting her thirteen-year-old self quoting the scribbles of a twelve-year-old. Which didn’t exist. There was no proof, there could never be proof. In an American court, a really good guess wasn’t good enough.
Alan’s eyes were fixed on Rose, no longer somebody’s little sister annoying the big kids but a woman of mystery and action. Chrissie had a feeling she didn’t have to worry about Rose or Alan.
But Anjelica …
Justice required that Milton Lofft be investigated. But mercy required that Anjelica be spared a larger burden.
Among her confirmation class requirements had been memorizing a verse from the Book of Micah.
And what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly and love mercy?
That’s Rose, thought Chrissie. Trying to do justly and love mercy.
So Chrissie said, “What a relief for you, Anjelica. Now you don’t have to worry that your father killed Frannie Bailey.”
Anjelica Lofft glared at Chrissie Klein. “I never worried that my father killed Frannie Bailey,” she said icily. “I was present, as you recall, and I knew perfectly well he didn’t kill Frannie Bailey.”
“But I didn’t know anything,” said Rose. “How come all of you knew something and I didn’t? Chrissie, I can’t understand why you and Alan were even thinking of me. And I don’t know what you wanted, Anjelica, since you never did worry that your father was involved.”
Chrissie tried to look like a Barbie doll, smooth and wide-eyed.
Alan turned red.
Anjelica stared toward the distance as if modeling for a photo shoot.
Megan Moran folded her arms.
Chrissie broke first “Oh, Rose,” she blurted, “I read your diary way back at that slumber party. You kept saying you didn’t see anything and I didn’t believe you, and I sneaked in and read it. So when you took the police car, I knew why. I thought you did the right thing. And even though the police told me you might be in danger, I knew you couldn’t be, because your secret didn’t have anything to do with Frannie Bailey’s murder.”
Back in the car with Verne, Rose had been ready to tell everybody her secret. She wasn’t ready anymore. She felt as if Chrissie had nailed her to some wall.
“You know I read it,” said Anjelica. “For your sake I’ve hated Aunt Sheila all this time. In seventh grade the next week, I couldn’t face you, because I knew things that I had no right to know.”
Rose found it surprisingly bracing that Anjelica had loathed Aunt Sheila for her sake. “But why,” asked Rose, “did you keep my secret when the police came to talk to your father? You could have cleared up the whole thing.”
There was a funny little pause, in which Chrissie and Alan seemed to participate.
Anjelica said, “You and I weren’t friends, Rose. I didn’t know how to be a friend back in seventh grade. But staying silent seemed like what a friend would do.”
Staying silent, thought Rose. No longer a choice with my parents.
She looked at Alan.
“Okay,” said Alan, shifting his weight from foot to foot, licking his lips, and tugging at the neckline of his sweatshirt. He looked approximately one hundred times more guilty of something than Verne had looked. “Okay, so, Rose, so don’t hate my guts.”
“I could never hate your guts,” she said. Or anything else about you, she thought, the old crush flaring up like a bonfire.
“Yeah, well, that’s about to change,” said Alan. “See, I read the diary, too. The last dozen pages anyway.”
Alan had read her book of crushes? Rose’s blush covered her entire body.
“I mean, in the kitchen, you acted as if I’d belted you in the jaw when all I did was mention the word ‘diary.’ I figured you had some serious secret in that thing and I thought it would be all blood and gore and crushed skulls. I didn’t know the fatality would be your own family.”
I won’t cry, thought Rose.
“So here’s the thing,” said Alan, without taking a breath or pausing between words, “this is why you’re going to hate me, Rose, it’s because I told Megan Moran what was in the diary, see, because when I called the police, I was afraid they’d think you were protecting Verne and they wouldn’t worry enough, and what if they didn’t act fast? Because I was positive Verne meant to run you over and he’d convince you to lie down under his car and change the oil or something and I could picture you thinking of Civil War battles instead of noticing that you were getting squashed, so I called my sister Cecily, who was at St. Mary’s with Megan Moran, and Cecily said, ‘Trust Megan,’ so I did.”
So the police knew. Rose Lymond was right back where she had started. She might as well have let the police keep the diary.
Another car arrived. The familiar Crown Vic, driven by CJ Pierson. Her father was in front, hand on the dash, looking everywhere for Rose.
“Your mother’s office is on the far side of the city, so it’ll be another half hour before she gets here,” said Megan Moran, “but Detective Pierson picked up your dad.”
“You told Dad about my diary?”
“No. That’s your choice. But you know what, Rose? All your father will care about is that you’re safe.”
The Crown Vic was pulling up close. The door was flung open, and her father jumped out before it stopped and ran to Rose and enveloped her. His arms were tighter than they had been since she was about five, when hugs really could keep away the scary things. He kept thanking everybody, hugging her again, saying incredulously,
“Verne?”
and hugging her more.
Megan Moran rounded up Alan and Chrissie and Anjelica like stray kindergartners and nudged them toward their cars.
CJ Pierson suggested that Rose and her father sit in the Crown Vic for a while. He had to check on a detail or two with the other police. Then he’d drive them home.
Rose and her father got in. When they shut the door, it was like shutting out the world.
Rose thought her father could have slumped there for days without talking, just keeping his arm around her and knowing that she was warm and safe. But Megan Moran had been generous enough to let Rose know she had only half an hour before Mom arrived. It was a big topic to cover in half an hour. “Daddy, I’m going to tell you what I wrote in the diary.”
“Okay.” He didn’t even look worried. He probably figured that since his baby girl hadn’t been murdered after all, there were no worries left in the parent list.
“And when I’m done,” Rose told him, “you’re not going to love me the way you did.”
“That would be impossible.”
“Maybe.” Rose found herself imitating Alan, breathing deeply, fiddling with her collar.
“That bad, huh?” Her father was smiling.
“Yes,” she said briefly. “So that November. Friday. Four years ago. I skipped swim class. I came home early. Aunt Sheila and Mom were in the kitchen, talking about things I hadn’t known. I blamed Aunt Sheila, but the blame belongs to Mom. If blame matters. And what I wrote in the diary, and what I had to destroy so nobody else could read it, was what they said. I’m sorry, Daddy. I don’t want to be the one who tells you. I’m sorry anybody has to tell you.”
Now he was alarmed.
“I’m not your daughter. I’m not a Lymond. Mom had an affair the year you were starting up your business. I’m a stranger’s child. Not yours.”
“Oh, that,” said her father.
“O
H, THAT?” REPEATED ROSE
. She was almost furious. How could he dismiss this? This was supposed to have killed him. This had been her nightmare for four years.
She pulled out of his hug and twisted to stare into his eyes.
“I know about the affair, sweetheart. I’ve always known. It means nothing. You’ve been my daughter from the day we brought you home from the hospital. I wouldn’t change a hair on your head. In fact, I’m grateful to your biological father. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be you.”
“But, Daddy, I’m not a Lymond.”
“Yes, you are. Sometimes you’re so much like your great-grandmother I start laughing.” He pulled her hair into a ponytail and brushed her face with it, as if she were six years old and worried about her teddy bear. “If I had guessed that that was the secret in your diary … but I never would have, because you’re so completely mine I forget the facts. Rose, this was my fault. I never sat you down to talk. You had to find out in a shabby way, lurking in a back door. You thought you were somebody else’s all this time, honey? Well, you’re not. You’re mine.”
He pulled out his white cotton handkerchief, stiff with the creases Mom had ironed into it, and dried Rose’s tears. “Right now it’s also my fault you almost got killed by Verne. I can’t believe he tried to run you over. How many pizzas did I supply that kid with? How many times did I give him gas money?”
How could Dad change the subject? How could he possibly care about Verne under these circumstances? “Verne thought I had a crush on him,” she said crossly. “He thought I was protecting him. Yuck. Well, who cares about him? Daddy, I’m afraid of what Nannie and everybody else will think about—well—what Aunt Sheila said. Because even the police know now. It turns out Alan and Chrissie read my diary. I don’t care about them, though, they’re okay. But what about Mopsy and Popsy and Aunt Laura and Nannie and all the rest of our family?”
“I never talked about it, Rose, and they never asked. New Englanders, you know. We like to let things lie there, hidden under the autumn leaves, so to speak. But I’m pretty sure my parents and my sister and my grandmother all know. They wouldn’t have told your cousins and certainly I’ve never spoken to your brother. If Alan knew all this time and Tabor didn’t, maybe I’d better bring Tabor home early for real. He’ll love that.”
“But Aunt Sheila—”
“—is an idiot.”
Rose began to laugh and then to cry. “Mom said it would kill you to find out. That’s why I kept the secret, Daddy. I thought it would kill you.”
He held her tightly and then he had to let go, because they both knew now that no parent could build a complete fence around his child—and no child could build a complete fence around her parent.
“It could have killed me, I suppose. Tabor was a toddler, work was so demanding, life seemed so good—and my wife found somebody else. But it didn’t crush me. It brought me you.”
“Weren’t you furious with Mom?”
“Sure. But I let go of it.”
I didn’t let myself be furious, either, she thought I’ve inherited traits from Dad even without genes. “What about
him?”
she said.
“Since I love you, Rose,” he said, “how furious can I be about
him?”
“We haven’t used his name.”
“Let’s not. For years I had this nightmare that he’d return and claim you and somehow, in the viciousness of courts and lawyers, I’d lose my precious daughter to some stranger. But you’re too old for that now. I can stop worrying.”
It had never crossed Rose’s mind that her father was the one worrying. She leaned on him. After a while, she realized that he was leaning on her, too.
“Tell me if you want to meet him, honey.”
“Eeeeeeeeeuuuh!” shrieked Rose. “No!”
They laughed. “Another nightmare set to rest,” said her father.
Any minute Mom would arrive. There was still so much to say. “You and Mom never talked about it?” she asked.
“Not once. She doesn’t know that I know.” He swished her ponytail again. “I guess you inherit your skill at silence from me.”
We
are
alike. I
am
his. Instead of sorrow, Rose began to feel joy. “Why didn’t Mom guess that I myself was the secret I stayed silent for?”
“I suspect your mother has more or less forgotten. She’s quick to forgive herself, you know,” he said wryly. “When I think of you coming to terms with that all by yourself! Oh, Rose! I’m so sorry.”
“You know what, Dad?” And the truth of what she was about to say astonished even Rose. “It wasn’t that big of a deal. Life swept on. In fact, I forgot, too. I guess I’m just as much Mom’s daughter as I am yours. Then when the police had the diary and I remembered what I’d written, I fell apart. I couldn’t let anybody read it. I had to take action.” They were laughing helplessly. “Pretty dumb action,” she admitted.