Authors: Misha Crews
“Yes, miss?” The woman’s voice was full of pointed respect.
Jenna had spent the drive over rehearsing what she would say at this moment, but now that it was here, the words stuck in her mouth. She swallowed and pressed on. “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said hesitantly. “I’m looking for a woman named Maya Sinclair. I was told she used to live here.”
“There’s nobody here by that name,” the woman said. From somewhere inside came the sound of a baby crying. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”
She started to close the door. Jenna held out a hand. “Wait. Do you know the people who had this house before you?”
“No. I’m sorry, miss.” She was firm, but polite. Excruciatingly polite.
Jenna’s heart dropped. Despite the huge odds, she had let herself get her hopes up. Not quite ready to admit defeat, she opened the flap on her pocketbook.
The young woman held up her hand, as if to stop her. “I don’t want money from you,” she said.
Jenna felt herself blush as she pulled a piece of paper from her handbag. “I was just going to give you my name and phone number.” She wrote quickly on the paper and held it out. “If you think of anything that might help me find her, I hope you’ll let me know.”
The young woman opened the screen and took it. She looked Jenna up and down with guarded curiosity. “Pardon me, miss, but do you mind if I ask you what this is about?”
“It’s a family matter,” Jenna said simply.
The woman gave her a skeptical but friendly look. “What — are you her sister or something?”
“I just want to make sure she’s all right. I don’t want to cause her any trouble.”
“These days, nobody wants to cause trouble. Sure does seem to happen, though.” The woman looked at the paper that Jenna had given her. “Jenna Appleton?” she asked. She looked up. “That’s you?”
Jenna heard movement inside. The crying had stopped. “Yes, that’s me.”
Hard footsteps on the wooden floor. “It’s all right, Clarice,” said a man’s voice. The woman turned around and looked over her shoulder. A man appeared beside her. He was tallish, about Jenna’s height. His skin was coffee-colored and very smooth. Something about his face seemed familiar.
“My name is Alexander Graves,” the man said. His voice was very calm and rich. “Maya Sinclair is my sister. This is Clarice, our cousin.” He stepped backward, giving Jenna room to enter. “Won’t you come inside, Mrs. Appleton?”
When the door closed behind her, Jenna found herself in a small foyer, with a stairway on one side and a living room in the other. She followed Alexander into the living room. It was a wide, airy room with a brick fireplace and a broad window gazing out onto the front lawn.
“Can I get you anything?” Clarice asked. “Coffee, tea…?”
“No, thank you,” Jenna said quietly.
“Won’t you have a seat?” Alexander waited until Jenna and Clarice had both seated themselves on the sofa before taking his own seat in a rocking chair next to the fireplace. His eyes shifted to a playpen in the corner. “This is Clarice’s son, David.”
Jenna wondered how she could have missed seeing the little boy. He had pulled himself to his feet and was gurgling at them. All trace of his tears was gone. Once he saw that he’d gotten their attention, he laughed triumphantly, then plopped backwards onto his bottom. His attention was diverted by a toy dog and a rubber ball, and he proceeded to play happily, chattering to himself. Jenna couldn’t help but smile, remembering Christopher at that age.
“He’s a beautiful baby,” she said to Clarice. “You must be very proud.”
“Yes, miss, I certainly am.” Clarice lifted her chin and cast a defiant look at her cousin.
“Why are you looking for my sister, Mrs. Appleton?” Alexander asked abruptly, interrupting the feminine small talk.
Jenna turned to face him. She could appreciate his desire to get right to the point. “Actually, Mr. Graves, I’m looking for Joseph, my nephew.
Our
nephew, I guess I should say.” She looked at him pointedly. “And as I told Clarice, I just want to make sure they’re all right.”
“And is there some reason why you think they might not be ‘all right’?”
Clarice seemed to stiffen at his tone of voice. The rocking chair creaked coldly against the floor.
Jenna shifted. There was an unpleasant tension in the room, crosscurrents of hurt that she couldn’t quite place. She met Alexander’s eye with a placidity that she didn’t feel. “Mr. Graves, I have no desire to fence with you. My intentions are good. Would you please tell me where I can find Maya and Joseph?”
A faint smile crossed his face, as if he were amused at her directness. “Mrs. Appleton, I do not know, exactly.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Excuse me?”
Alexander looked past Jenna, to where Clarice was poised tensely on the edge of the sofa. “I haven’t spoken to my sister in quite some time.”
“And why is that?”
“We had a falling out.”
Clarice moved slightly, then stilled. In the playpen, David flapped his arms and gurgled. Jenna looked at him and smiled. He grinned back, eyes bright, showing his purple gums.
Jenna spoke without thinking. “When my son was that age, he would laugh so loud it sounded like he was crowing.” She turned and looked at Clarice. “Like Peter Pan, you know?”
Clarice relaxed and shared her smile. “How old is your son now?”
“He’s five. His name is Christopher.”
Clarice fingered the simple silver band on the third finger of her left hand. “David’s father is in New York,” she said. “I’m just here for a visit.”
“How nice,” Jenna said mildly. Her eyes flicked to Alexander. He was watching the two women with an unreadable expression as he rocked in his chair.
“I’m a student at Julliard,” Clarice went on. Her voice was placid, but her eyes held a defiant gleam.
“Oh, are you a dancer?” Jenna asked.
“Yes, I’m studying ballet.”
Jenna smiled. “I always wanted to dance ballet, but I have no talent for it. I envy you.”
“Thank you.” Again there was that odd shine to Clarice’s eyes. She looked past Jenna to Alexander. In a rebellious rush of words, she added, “My cousin doesn’t approve of my marriage. Or my child.”
Alexander stopped rocking and leaned forward. “I love your child,” he said intensely. “But your husband is a garage mechanic, and he’s beneath you.” His eyes flicked to Jenna. “And we do not air our dirty laundry in public.”
Somewhere in another room, a phone began to ring. Alexander got up to answer it, leaving Clarice and Jenna without another word.
Jenna felt a touch on her arm and looked up into Clarice’s lovely eyes. They were wide with sympathy.
“You mustn’t take him too seriously,” she said earnestly. “Alex is a good man, but he feels the weight of the world on his shoulders always. And he tends to make things difficult for those around him without meaning to.”
“He doesn’t think your husband is a good match for you?”
Clarice smiled ruefully. “My family believes in education above all else, and my husband barely finished high school. But he’s the best man I ever met,” she added with quiet pride. “And love doesn’t care where you come from.”
Jenna understood.
“As for Maya,” Clarice went on, “Alexander never did approve of her relationship with your brother. And Maya’s not one to put up with people disapproving of her. She and Alex parted ways not long after her baby was born, and I know that the separation has been heavy on him. That’s one of the reasons that I try to visit as often as I can.”
Alexander returned to the room. “That was one of my professors. I’m afraid I have to go into the city.” He turned to Jenna. “I’ll walk you out, Mrs. Appleton.”
Jenna wasn’t quite ready to leave, but she knew that her visit was over. She rose from the sofa. “And what about your sister, and our nephew, Mr. Graves? Can I count on you to help me find them?”
He looked away, his jaw working. Emotion was rolling off him in waves. It wasn’t anger; Jenna understood anger, and she could recognize it when she saw it. This was something else. Grief, maybe. Or regret.
Finally he looked back at her and smiled faintly. “You can count on me, Mrs. Appleton. When I find my sister, you’ll be the first to know.”
C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN
O
N THE
F
OURTH OF
J
ULY, TWELVE-YEAR-OLD
Rose Stanislaw sat by her front window and contemplated Independence.
It was raining. No, scratch that: it was storming. A thunderstorm had landed on the DC area, and it was pounding them with a vengeance. So, nix on the fireworks, the dinner party, or any chance to get out of the house today at all. The wind was so violent that Stella didn’t even want Rose to go out onto the front porch. So much for being independent.
Rose huffed out a frustrated breath. She was supposed to go with friends to see the fireworks on the Mall. Christopher Appleton from across the street was going to come along, and Rose would help keep an eye on him. He was a good kid and no trouble, so she didn’t mind at all. Plus, Jenna had offered to pay her a whole dollar for the night. And even though Rose wasn’t going to the dinner party, she had been looking forward to the preparations. She loved the way the house smelled when her mother was cooking, and later in the afternoon, she probably would have wandered across the street to the Appleton’s house and watched as Jenna dressed for the party.
It had become kind of a tradition between the two of them. Rose would sit on the bed while Jenna sat at her dressing table, putting on her makeup and jewelry. Sometimes Rose would sketch while they chatted about music and movies and art — and even occasionally, boys.
Jenna wasn’t always nice in the way that other people were nice, but she behaved as if Rose were just as good as any adult. And at least Jenna was honest, which was always the tricky part when dealing with grown-ups.
Rose leaned forward and rested her cheek on her arm, tapping her fingers on the rain-splattered window. She had pushed a dining room chair up against the front window, where she could watch the rain overflow the gutters.
There was nothing to
do
; that was the problem. On a cooler day she might have gone upstairs, taken Stella’s copy of
Peyton Place
out of its usual hiding spot, and whiled away the afternoon listening to records and reading what her principal had called “scandalous literature.” (Which, as far as Rose could tell, was the best kind of literature.) But there were no air conditioners on the second floor, and it was too hot and muggy to stay upstairs for long. She curled her bare legs under her and huffed again.
“Rose, sweetie, cheer up, would you? The fireworks have been rescheduled for tomorrow. It will still be fun.” Her mother’s voice came from the living room, where her parents were watching some boring afternoon movie. From time to time her father would get up and adjust the antenna, trying to keep the picture clear despite the weather.
Rose heard the sound of ice cubes clinking as her mother leaned forward to peer into the dining room. “It’s not the end of the world, you know.”
That was Stella’s favorite phrase. When the Russians finally attacked, Stella would be calm and cheerful, assuring everyone it wasn’t the end of the world.
“You have some new pencils in the sideboard there,” Stella went on. “Why don’t you draw something?”
Rose brightened. “Okay,” she said. But she kept her expression subdued, not wanting to let her mother know how much she liked the idea. Then she relented and called out, “Thanks, Stella,” as her mother leaned out of sight.
There was a pause. “You’re welcome, Rose,” came the pointed answer.
Rose winced. Her parents didn’t like it when she called them by their first names. But why shouldn’t she? Jenna called her parents-in-law “Bill and Kitty,” and she sometimes referred to her father as “Lucien.” If Jenna could do it, why couldn’t Rose?
That was an old mystery, and one that she didn’t feel like solving today. It was probably impossible, anyway.
Inside one of the shallow drawers of the sideboard, Rose’s pencils and sketchpads waited like old friends. She couldn’t help but smile as she pulled them out, her nose filling with the good scent of lead and paper. Why hadn’t she thought of this herself?
She sat down at the dining room table, facing the window so she could watch what the weather was doing. It was still gloomy outside, but somehow the day seemed brighter as she flipped through her recent sketches. Her art teacher at school said she was developing quite a talent, and while Rose was still painfully aware of the flaws in her work, she did find that each drawing she made seemed better than the last.
Take this one, for example. She stopped at a sketch she had made of Jenna just a few days ago. Everybody said that Jenna was beautiful. But Rose didn’t think many people knew she was also sad most of the time. And that’s what Rose had tried to draw — awkwardly, and with frustrating slowness.
Now, looking at the clumsy swipes of pencil, she was pleased to see what she had captured. Not Jenna’s exact likeness, but her
sorrow
. It was in the tilt of the eyes, the cast of the mouth. It poured out of Jenna’s very being, for anyone who had eyes to see.