Inevitable Sentences (2 page)

Celeste watched two children summon enough courage to forget the storm and leave the couch, although they stayed at their mothers’s feet. They spread a set of colorful LEGOs over the fading braided rug and began constructing a building. They said it would be a lighthouse.

While Celeste gazed at them, she reminded herself that the safe house filled another need—it was a way she could honor her daughter. Plus, the lighthouse was as far as she could get from Marcus’s shallow and deceptive world in southeast Michigan.

A slight smile formed on Celeste’s aging face as she watched the tension ease from the two children. She could feel the creases forming when her mouth moved. When Celeste had anguished over her aging, Max told her, “You are still as beautiful as a model.” He always seemed to say the right thing.

Celeste touched the side of her mouth. Max. Incredible to have become so close to him. What would Pilar think of their relationship? She wished Max were here tonight in case anything went wrong. She still wasn’t used to being totally self-sufficient. Again she had the premonition something unpleasant was about to happen. She shook her head. “Silly.”

“What?” Adrian asked.

Celeste’s stomach growled. The thought of food and Adrian’s question brought Celeste back to the present. “Time for dinner, don’t you think?” she asked.

A chorus of both women and children’s voices sounded. “Yes.”

“Whose turn is it to help in the kitchen?” Celeste asked.

Marcy, the twenty-five-year-old mother of the crying child, stood. “Me. Those books”—she pointed to the bookshelf filled with the history of the lighthouse, the sea, and shipwrecks—“haven’t helped me feel any safer tonight. It’ll be good to get my mind off the weather.”

Also, Celeste thought, maybe Marcy wouldn’t feel the pain from the blood-encrusted stitches over her right eye, which was still nearly swollen closed. Marcy had been at the lighthouse only one week and already Celeste feared she would have a tough time getting enough of a handle on her life to succeed on her own. Her transition could take longer than the customary three months. Though Celeste had never forced any woman to leave if she wasn’t truly ready, which was a benefit of not relying on outside funding.

Still, she had to keep telling herself that the women needed to become independent as soon as humanly possible if they were to make it on their own. She had realized that herself when she left Marcus. Even so, Celeste often found it difficult to let the women go. Most became like her family, especially Adrian, who often managed the house in Celeste’s absence. Had she become too dependent on all of them, secretly wanting them to fill the void left by Pilar’s death?

All eyes were on her. “Great. Let’s get dinner started. I’m starving,” Celeste said and went into the small but cheerful kitchen painted in a pale pink that reminded Celeste of a baby rose. The windows faced the road and normally ushered in rays of early morning sun. Though the room was not a gourmet setting, its hominess made it a welcoming workplace.

Celeste wrapped an apron over her jeans and sweater, far more practical clothes than the silks and linens she had once worn without a thought. She tossed an apron to Marcy, who pulled the blue flower print, bibbed and ruffled apron over her head and tied it on.

“You look like a flower,” Celeste said cheerfully.

“I look like my grandmother,” Marcy shot back with a chuckle. She lifted the sack of potatoes from a bin under the counter. “Mashed tonight, right?” she asked when she checked the day’s menu tacked to a bulletin board near the refrigerator.

“Right,” Celeste answered. “It’s one thing your boy eats without a fuss.”

Marcy laughed. “He does have a stubborn streak.” She grimaced. “His father does, too.” She took a deep, shivering breath.

Celeste noted Marcy’s sudden melancholy and quickly got her attention off her past. “I won’t feel bad, either, when Matt won’t eat the outstanding meat loaf and peas that I’m making tonight. He can have some homemade applesauce instead. He likes that, I know.”

Marcy’s eyes were misty, but she forced another smile. “Yes, he sure does like applesauce.” She had a slight Southern accent. She swiped a tear from her cheek and began peeling potatoes.

Celeste choked up, too. Would Marcy ever get over her fear of the man she had run from—or of any man, for that matter?

Celeste turned to Adrian and said, “Why don’t you make sure all the flashlights work and the lanterns are filled with oil?”

“We need more than those leftover jack-o'-lanterns.” Adrian laughed and pointed at the collection still arranged on a long, narrow table near the bookshelves.

Celeste rolled her eyes. Although Halloween was long past, the children had persuaded Celeste and their mothers to let them keep the pumpkins for a while longer. Celeste told them it would be okay, until they started to rot. Since they had begun to lean and fold inward, the time had drawn near.

Adrian, an attractive twenty-nine-year-old, gathered up the flashlights and lanterns. She had been an ER nurse before arriving at the safe house and was the oldest of the women. She’d brought along her three children—twin ten-year-old girls, McKenna and Logan, and an eight-year-old boy, Trey. She was slightly shorter than Celeste but just as slender. She wore her light brown hair in a short, modern shag, which was the best way to describe it. Her oval-shaped eyes and almond complexion gave her an Asian beauty.

Adrian was a contradiction. She exuded confidence and a take-charge attitude within the security of the lighthouse. Yet she lacked that strength with her husband, a police officer on an elite Emergency Support Team (SWAT). Celeste learned from Adrian that just because someone’s husband was a policeman didn’t mean he was perfect. The more his fellow officers had covered up his abusive personal life, the more it undermined Adrian’s ability to trust in and deal with the world. She still jumped at every unexpected sound, as though her husband might crash through the door. Celeste knew he would be quite capable of doing it.

Fortunately, Adrian had met a woman now making it on her own who had once lived at Big Bay. The woman had encouraged Adrian to go to the lighthouse, and Adrian had gained the courage to leave her husband in southeast Michigan to start over in the Upper Peninsula. But Celeste was sure her husband would use every police resource at his disposal to locate his family. How long would Adrian’s luck hold out? How long would any of their luck hold out?

Lorraine, the third woman living in the lighthouse, entertained the children who, except for the two on the rug creating a monster building, appeared too frightened by the storm to speak or move. Lorraine was almost as timid as the children. She rarely uttered a word. Her parents had sold her to her husband when she was sixteen for money to buy cocaine. Only twenty-two, Lorraine had two children, a three-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl. Celeste could only imagine how useful Lorraine’s timidity was for her dominating and aggressive husband. Celeste also saw something else in her—a distrust so overwhelming it often turned her against the very people trying to help her. Celeste couldn’t really blame her for being suspicious of others’ intentions. However, sometimes Lorraine also seemed selfish, which had no apparent explanation.

Celeste had to fight her doubts that Lorraine would make it. The young woman’s attitude and extreme lack of self-confidence could be her downfall. Celeste had seen it before. Women like Lorraine returned to their abusers because they lacked the stamina to live on their own and because they believed the abuse was what they deserved.

Q
UIET CHATTER AND GENTLE
teasing filled the warm house as each woman pursued her evening task. Let the storm rage outside; they all seemed to have decided that inside they were safe.

“Make sure those lumps are whipped out of those potatoes,” Adrian said when she peered into the kitchen.

“You know lumps are the sign of real mashed spuds,” Marcy shot back and the two women laughed.

While Adrian tended to the lanterns and flashlights, she sang a Thanksgiving hymn in her rich mezzo-soprano voice: “Come, ye thankful people, come, raise the song of harvest home; all is safely gathered in, ere the winter storm begin …”

Celeste paused from mixing the meat loaf ingredients. Perhaps Adrian should have been a singer. Would that have made a difference in the partner she chose? She doubted it. At the moment Adrian still believed what her husband had told her: she was useless and could never make it on her own without him. She didn’t see herself as a talented or worthwhile person. Celeste intended to help Adrian change the image she had of herself.

Celeste spooned the meat mixture into two large loaf pans and placed them in the oven. She turned the timer to one hour. “That’s done.”

Lorraine left the children and began setting the table. She hummed along with the hymn. Adrian finished her task and carried Matt while the other children queued up. She led the line of children like a mother duck and her ducklings to the bathroom to wash up. For the moment, their world was filled with peace and love. The only flaw in the scene for Celeste was the storm. When the weather raged like this, she could almost touch the darkness beyond the sturdy walls.

S
ILHOUETTES OF THE BARREN
tree limbs flashed across the kitchen wall as a vehicle pulled into the drive. Celeste and Marcy stopped their dinner preparations and peered out the window.

“Who can that be?” Marcy asked.

“I’m not sure. I wasn’t expecting anyone.” Although concerned about the sudden intrusion, Celeste didn’t let it show. She wiped her hands on her apron and went to the door. She hesitated before she cracked it wide enough to get a better look at the visitor.

The SUV belonged to Priscilla Madden, the prison psychologist and volunteer counselor at the lighthouse. Celeste’s jaw tightened. Priscilla hadn’t been expected that evening.

Priscilla bolted from the driver’s door and rushed around the car. At the sight of Priscilla’s obvious concern for whomever was in the front seat, Celeste grabbed her parka and ran to help.

When Celeste reached the car, Priscilla was bending over the passenger. As she stood she lifted a baby and turned to Celeste. “Hello,” she said in a not so joyful voice and handed the baby to Celeste. “Sorry to do this to you without notice. But it is truly an emergency. I’ll explain when I get inside.”

Priscilla turned to the woman in the front seat, whose face was frozen in terror. “Come on, Tomika. You’re safe now.”

Tomika didn’t move.

Priscilla grabbed hold of Tomika’s arm and gently tugged her.

Tomika pulled back. “I can’t,” she whispered.

“No one here will harm you. Give it a try.” Priscilla again took Tomika’s arm.

“Where’s Gemma? Where’s my baby?” Tomika finally turned in her seat.

“She’s right here with Celeste, the woman I told you about.” Priscilla stood slightly to one side to let Tomika see them. “Celeste will take care of you and Gemma.”

“What about you?” Tomika shrieked. “Where will you be?”

“I’ll be back. I come here almost every day.” Priscilla paused and offered her hand. “Let’s get you and Gemma inside where it’s warm and safe. Do you remember what I told you about the lighthouse?”

“Yes,” Tomika murmured. She glanced at Priscilla, then Celeste, and finally at the lighthouse. She lifted one leg out and placed a foot on the ground, then hesitated. Gemma started crying. Tomika stood, supporting herself against Priscilla, whose six-foot frame towered over the young woman. Tomika reached her arms out for the baby.

“Why don’t we get you inside and settled into a comfortable chair? Then you can take Gemma,” Celeste said gently. She hadn’t wanted to overwhelm Tomika or scare her more by being too welcoming.

“Okay,” Tomika mumbled her agreement.

Celeste smiled. “Let me get this little one safe inside, shall I?”

Tomika nodded, her eyes not leaving the baby.

Tucking the baby under her jacket, Celeste said, “There. See?” She turned and ran for cover.

Priscilla wrapped Tomika, who wore only a lightweight jacket, inside her own coat to stave off the bracing wind. She nearly carried the slight, fragile woman to the house.

By the time the entourage reached the kitchen, the other three women and the children had assembled to look out the window.

Adrian reached to take the baby gently in her arms, making soft cooing noises to the worried child. Priscilla escorted Tomika to the wingback chair closest to the fire. Celeste turned to Lorraine and said, “Get some warm clothes for her, please.”

“Why do I have to be the gofer all the time?”

Adrian flashed Lorraine a hard stare. “You don’t do any more than the rest of us. Do as Celeste said.” She looked down at the whimpering bundle she held. “Hush, hush. You’re safe.”

Tomika sat in the chair and drew her legs under her. She curled into the cushions, hugging her knees to her chest. She said nothing, but her eyes darted from one person to another, over and over. Finally they settled on the fire.

Celeste noticed that Lorraine still hadn’t moved. Instead, she was glaring at Tomika. Celeste studied her for a moment. Was it that Lorraine didn’t want another person in the house, or was it because Tomika was African American? “Lorraine, did you hear what I asked?”

Lorraine jerked her head toward Celeste, as sullen as a teenager. “Yes, I heard you,” she spat and stomped off to get the clothes.

“What’s up with her?” Adrian asked.

“I’m not sure.” Celeste shrugged. “Perhaps she’s afraid that anyone new could bring someone searching for one of us.”

Adrian looked in the direction Lorraine had gone. “Yeah. And that’s a fear for all of us, right?” She was bouncing Gemma lightly as she spoke.

“Right.”

“Where does Lorraine get off?” Adrian pressed.

Celeste smiled warmly at Adrian. “I appreciate your support, Adrian. Nevertheless, you don’t need to worry about me, you know. I’ve handled tougher cases than Lorraine.”

Adrian’s eyes twinkled. “I bet you have.”