The View from Prince Street (20 page)

“Thank you.” Hugging her was a natural response, but my hugs were always awkward and stilted.

She walked me to the front door. “I'm glad you came to me.”

Dearest Mother,

My milk remains dry and I cannot nurse my three-month-old daughter, Hanna. The witch cares for all three children, who get along well enough. The best times of the day are spent reading to my son, who adores the written word. I read the Bible to him and I can see he is captured by the stories. Marcus, the witch's son, likes to be outside and enjoys rough play. Never were there two boys so different. Baby Hanna spends most of her days with the witch. The child is always irritable and it suits me fine not to have to deal with her.

—P

Lisa Smyth

S
ATURDAY
, A
UGUST
20, 10:00
A.M.

W
ith Charlie at my side, I watched Rae leave and smiled when she got into her car. Waving, I kept my body relaxed and casual until I saw her drive away. When I closed the door, my shoulders slumped. “I did that to her, Charlie. I'm the one who screwed up her life. If I hadn't been drunk, the accident might have never happened.”

I tipped back my head, and a tear trickled down my cheek. Over the last couple of days, my doubts about carrying a secret shame had grown heavier and more cumbersome.

“Stop whining, Lisa. We both screwed up that night. I was drunk before we got in the car. We both know I created the chain of events.”

“Doesn't matter how it all started. It's how it ended.” I groaned. “Why are you here, Jennifer? Just go to the light and find some damn peace.”

“For now, I'm stuck here in Purgatory, just like you.”

“Shit.”

“Look on the bright side. Maybe that's why I'm here. Maybe I'm here to help you fix all this.”

“How can we fix this? She gave up her son. She can never get back the time they lost.”

“There's so much more time for them, Lisa. I don't want to see her lose that as well.”

My head pounded. “I could use a drink.”

“You and me both, sister, but that's off the table. I need your head in the game.”

Charlie pushed his nose against my hand, sensing something. When I didn't look at him, he nudged me again and barked. “It's okay, boy.” I scratched his head. “I've lived with all this for a long time. Some days are just worse than others.”

The front doorbell rang, startling me from my mood. I wiped my cheeks with my palms and looked into the mirror hanging in the hallway before I opened the door. Standing on the porch was Colin, along with a very sleek-looking woman wearing a red suit, crisp white shirt, and black high heels. Pearl earrings matched a necklace and a bracelet. Her manicured hands reminded me a bit of Cruella de Vil.

“You're early,” I said.

“Hopefully, this isn't too much of an imposition,” Colin said.

Cruella de Vil grinned. “It was my fault. My schedule is insane today.”

“No worries,” I said.

Colin made a quick sweep of my appearance, taking in the jeans and bare feet, then looking beyond me to Charlie. “I'd like you to meet Rebecca Tuttle. She's one of the best real estate agents in the city.”

I'd intended to change before they arrived, but Rae had tossed the schedule out the window. Whatever. I wasn't looking for love or approval right now. I simply wanted the house sold. “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Tuttle. Please come in.”

Charlie pushed past me to Colin, who rubbed him on the head. “How you doing, boy?”

“He's fine,” I said, tugging him gently out of the way to allow them
to enter. I slid my feet into clogs I kept by the front door. “I'm a little off schedule this evening. A friend just stopped by, but the house is ready for your inspection.”

Ms. Tuttle openly appraised the walls, the flooring, and the furniture. “The house has been remodeled. And it doesn't smell like dog.”

“Amelia remodeled and Lisa's been taking good care of the place,” Colin said.

Praise from Mr. West. I wasn't sure if I should make a smartass comment or accept him as an ally. I chose the latter. “The original finish has been removed from the floors,” she said. “That won't help with the value.”

Feeling a need to rise to Amelia's defense, I said, “I would think the brighter colors would attract more buyers. These older houses can be a little stuffy.”

“Not stuffy,” she corrected. “They're traditional and represent a very specific market that will pay for that colonial look.”

“The house is in a prime location,” Colin said. “It's not negotiable but colors can be changed. It's all about selling the product.”

As she passed, I gave him a thumbs-up. Smiling, he held out his hand and gestured for me to go first. She moved straight through the center hallway into the kitchen. I wasn't much of a baker, so there was no cookie aroma to entice anyone, but I had purchased a bundle of irises and arranged them in a crystal vase that now sat in the center of the polished marble island.

Charlie and I followed as Ms. Tuttle ran a manicured hand over the marble and inspected her fingertips. “Compliments to your cleaning lady.”

I hitched my hands on my hips. “You're looking at her.”

The real estate agent turned from me, unwilling to give away any hint of what she was thinking.

However, Colin's gaze didn't waver. “You've done a good job getting the place ready for sale.

“Rebecca,” he said to the agent, “she had the basement cleaned out over the summer. The space was jam packed.”

He slid a hand into his pocket, and the joint of his jaw pulsed. Turning, he spotted a collection of my prints on the farmhouse table. “Is that the picture you took of the house yesterday?”

“It is. Not exactly finished, though. I developed a few prints last night, but as you can see, I've experimented with several different types of exposure. Once they're dry, I'll wax them, and that will really make the contrast pop.”

He hovered over a print, not touching, but clearly interested. “These are really good, Lisa.”

“Thanks.”

“Rebecca, you should come and have a look,” he said.

Tapping a finger on her purse, Rebecca obliged. To my satisfaction, her focus lingered. “Very nice.”

“Thank you.”

“So, is this your hobby?” Rebecca asked.

“It's what I do.”

“A professional artist?” Rebecca said.

“That's right.”

“I'm very active in the art community and know most of the up-and-coming artists,” Rebecca said. “I've not heard of you.”

“Until yesterday, I'd not heard of you.”

“Stick around another few weeks. You'll find I'm very well known in this city, and a good person to know.”

I honestly didn't care. “Do you want the listing or not?”

Rebecca didn't miss the intentional bite snapping behind the words. “I'll list it.”

“How long will it take you to sell the place?” I asked.

“Hard to say,” Rebecca said.

“I bet you have an idea,” I countered.

“The markets are hard to predict,” she said.

“You have forty-five days,” I said, using her tone. “If you can't move the property at a competitive price by then, you're out.”

Colin looked amused but didn't interfere. Props to him for that.

A plucked eyebrow arched. “I'll sell it.”

As much as she criticized the place, she knew it was worth good money. Bitchy, but not stupid. “Then it's a win-win for us both.”

“I'll draw up the paperwork tonight and have it for you to sign in the morning.”

“Drop it by my office,” Colin said. “I'll review it first and then bring it by with comments.”

“Of course.” Rebecca pulled her car key from her slim purse and made for the front door. “Then I'm off. Keep the house clean, and I'll sell it.”

Colin closed the door behind her. “She's a top producer.”

“Lovely woman.”

“No, but she'll sell the place and get you top dollar. She's the best.”

“As long as I get the money for Amelia, I'll deal.”

He didn't make the hasty departure I expected. Stepping closer, he said, “Your aunt is lucky to have you.”

“I could say the same thing about her.”

His eyes lingered an extra beat, and I wasn't so lost in my own world that I didn't pick up on his interest. One word from him and we'd be upstairs messing up the bed I had so carefully made an hour ago. But Colin West was Amelia's attorney and business came first, especially when helping Amelia.

“Thanks for your help and for finding Rebecca,” I said, folding my arms.

He nodded, understanding the evening was over. “Glad I could help.” As he moved toward the front door and reached for the doorknob, he paused. “I almost forgot. I found a picture that I thought you might want.”

“What?”

He reached in his breast pocket. “I'm still reviewing Mr. Murphy's files, and this picture was tucked in the back of one. I don't know how it came to me.”

The three-by-five photo was black-and-white, and the coating reflected the light. The picture showed a group of high school kids, their teacher, and a couple of parents in front of the warehouse at the corner of King and Union Streets. The printed date on the side read
September 1968
.

I scanned the faces, searching for anyone I knew, and then I saw Amelia, standing in the center. She would have been in her midtwenties. “Who are these people?”

“That was taken the year Amelia came back to Alexandria and taught high school.”

“She taught high school? I thought she was trying to crack Broadway in those days.”

He tapped the face of a tall, lean man standing by Amelia. “See that young twenty-something-year-old man next to your aunt?”

The man had warm eyes, and instead of staring at the camera, he was looking at Amelia. “Yeah.”

“That's my dad's law partner, Mr. Murphy. They opened Murphy and West in 1970.”

“Amelia's husband?” My memories of the man conjured three-piece suits, a stern face, and a deep voice.

“Yes.”

“I thought they met in New York.” I knew the story well. She was waitressing in a coffee shop, hoping for a callback from her last musical audition, which she swore would be her last. Distracted, she spilled hot coffee on a young man and when he looked up at her, his irritation immediately melted. That man was Mr. Murphy, Amelia's husband.

“Yes, but apparently when he asked her out there, she said no. Fast-forward a few months and they both found themselves back here in Alexandria.”

Behind the crowd stood a tall brick building with a large glass window that was boarded up. “That looks like the Shire Architectural Salvage yard,” I said.

“It certainly is the salvage yard.”

The corner didn't look as tony or smart as it did now. There weren't tourists, and judging by the rubbish on the brick sidewalk, the city had been in rough shape. “I wonder what the group was doing there.”

“The city was struggling in those days. Lots of crime and poverty. I have to hand it to your aunt for taking a bunch of kids there.”

I pressed the picture to my chest. “Thanks, Colin. It was kind of you to give this to me. I don't have much history on Amelia.”

“Glad you like it.” He grinned, pleased with himself. “I'll get back to you tomorrow about the contract.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

When I closed the door behind him, I studied the image again. There must have been twenty kids in the picture. I studied Amelia's smiling face, so full of life and happiness. Her concentration appeared clear and sharp. “So unfair.”

A closer look showed she was holding something in her hand. I grabbed my glasses and held the picture up to the light. I realized Amelia was holding a witch bottle.

“I'll be damned.”

Dearest Mother,

I've lost so much to the witch who has an uncanny mind and memory. She grows more beautiful with each year. There is not a gray hair intertwined in her auburn locks nor is there a wrinkle marring her flawless skin. My children love the witch who now reads to them and helps them with their letters and numbers. I also now fear that my husband has fallen under her spell. I am certain the Devil conjured this woman and sent her into my life to taunt me.

—P

Rae McDonald

S
ATURDAY
, A
UGUST
27, 6:00
A.M.

T
he boy and I'd e-mailed in a rapid-fire exchange as we'd tried to settle on a meeting time. I suggested Saturday. He had a Saturday morning soccer practice that ended at noon. Would one
P.M
.
work? I'd agreed and asked him to select the restaurant. The pizza place on Duke Street. Lisa had been right. Teenagers loved pizza. A date was set, and I'd sent a quick text to Lisa of the place and time.

Done.

Simple, right?

Not even close. The idea of meeting Michael churned up so much turmoil that I could barely concentrate or sleep more than a complete hour on Friday night.

Finally frustrated with pretending to sleep, I rose before sunrise and went for a jog. My hope was that the run would elevate endorphins and calm my nerves. I sweated out a five-mile run along part of the Potomac, but my nerves were just as unsettled as they had been when I first stepped out the front door.

As I finished up the run and turned down the street that led to my
house, the morning sun rose over the treetops, coloring the green leaves with a bright shade of orange. I rounded the final corner and jogged down my cul-de-sac. The sunlight streamed over my property, hitting the slate roof and cascading down the sides of the house's worn red brick and glinting off the windows' wavy glass panes. Breathless, I slowed to a walk and picked up the morning edition of the
Washington Post
on my way toward the backyard and its barren patch of land, where the stones had once stood for centuries.

The soil remained soft and small puddles of water still pooled, but according to the news, we were due for a stretch of dry weather. Perhaps a string of sunny days to finally dry the patch of land. I hoped we'd turned a corner.

Though the rain had bought me time to hem and haw over the design of the garage, it was time to decide. Zeb had said he would have to move on to other projects if I couldn't, and I knew he would do it out of principle. To the back of the line I would go. Just like in grade school.

I stood at the edge of the neat square of raw dirt, now wondering if my decision to remove the stones had set off a chain reaction, overturning my entire life. That sounded like blasphemy for someone in my line of work.

My mother hated the stones, would have loved to see them gone, but would never have actually considered getting rid of them. She couldn't articulate why they needed to stay, but insisted they did. Maybe she had good reasons.

Kneeling, I picked up a clump of the dark, wet earth and tested the weight of it in my hand. “Mom, what have I started? Where will it lead to?”

Rising, I tossed the dirt down and went inside, toed off my running shoes at the back door, and climbed the back staircase. I took a long, hot shower, tipping my face toward the spray and savoring the warmth. If only the stress would melt away as easily as the sweat on my body. Normally
on Saturdays, after my morning run and shower, I would eat a quick breakfast and work on patient files. But today, concentration was impossible. Instead of working, I retrieved the photo album of Michael and sat at the kitchen table, examining each picture with careful scrutiny, looking for any clues to help me prepare for my visit with him.

“Please don't be mad at me,” I whispered as I traced the outline of his round face. This was a picture from his fourth birthday party, where he held up what looked like a red soldier. The caption on the back said,
Michael loves the Red Power Ranger
.

That note from Susan led to an Internet search of Power Rangers, which I discovered had an involved storyline around the main characters. The Red Rangers, I learned, were Jason and Rocky. The Red Ranger was the team leader and carried the most powerful weapons.

“He's sixteen, Rae,” I muttered, turning the page. “He doesn't care about Power Rangers anymore.”

I flipped to the last image and found him standing at the finish line of a cross-country race. He ran on his high school team. Like me. In fact, I'd run fall track during my first trimester. The silky synthetic jersey top had remained untucked for the regionals, billowing over my still flat belly.

I searched the cross-country picture for more clues about the boy and saw a silver medal glistening around his neck. I'd won a couple of meets, though I'd never really possessed the speed that Jennifer enjoyed. If she'd focused, she would have had a shot at All State. My last race marked the end of my first trimester. I came in third; however, I could have taken first place if not for the morning sickness.

When the clock in the hallway chimed twelve times, I realized I had lost the whole morning. Quickly, I dressed, slipped on my heels, and straightened my hair. A glance in the mirror should have been quick and cursory, but the image I discovered staring back wasn't a very friendly-looking woman. She looked stiff. Old beyond her years.

“When did I turn into my mother?” I whispered. I reached for the
ponytail band holding back my hair and pulled it free, allowing the long strands to tumble around my shoulders. Practicing a few smiles took some of the edge off, but still, it was Mom's cool eyes that stared back at me.

Where did the time go?

I was thirty-two, but on the inside I felt twenty years older. Life was not waiting for me to get my act together.

What did I want Michael's first impression of me to be? Without thinking, I fumbled with the buttons of my button-down blouse before quickly peeling it off. I hurried to my closet and stood for a long moment, searching for something that would make me look like a reasonable woman who gave up her son for all the right reasons.

But all the outfits had a similar starchy feel. Nothing created an approachable impression. The ice around my heart shifted and cracked, heated by the anger and frustration churning underneath.

In the end, I settled on a black pair of slacks, flat shoes, and a sleeveless red sweater. The sweater had been a gift from Amelia several years ago, but I never wore it, feeling that its bright color drew far too much attention to me. Feeling exposed, I slid on a black jacket. Not exactly cutting edge, but better.

I hurried to my car, suddenly fearing that the extra time frittered away would be needed for any unexpected traffic, which on any given day could easily add another fifteen minutes for no apparent reason.

Racing down the parkway, I quickly ducked into the city and pulled in front of Lisa's house on Prince Street. Immediately, I noticed the Realtor's large
For Sale
sign fastened to the front of the house. The agent's bright smile pictured on the sign stared back at me. More change was coming into our lives. Had the removal of the stones caused that as well? Putting the stones back was as impossible as shoving the genie back in the bottle. There was no going back.

I texted Lisa, told her I was outside. “Please don't be late,” I muttered.

My hand slid to the horn and before I thought, I tapped it. It blared, making me flinch.

The front door opened and she appeared, dressed in a dark loose-fitting dress, with a collection of bright necklaces around her neck and her brown midcalf worn boots. She turned to yell good-bye to Charlie, then closed and locked the door before turning and smiling at me. She looked so carefree, and I envied it.

She slid into the front seat, smelling of fresh soap and apple shampoo. “Sorry. The real estate agent has a showing today and I was just wiping down the counter.”

“Where's Charlie?”

“In his crate in the kitchen. He's not a happy camper.”

“Amelia said he never minded the crate.”

“He hasn't seen the inside of it since I arrived. He's feeling a little put out right now.”

“Better to be in the crate if people are coming in and out of the house.” I started backing out of the driveway, almost before she'd hooked her seat belt. “The house shouldn't be a hard sell. Everyone loves this street,” I said.

“I hope you're right. I'm not sure how long I can keep it clean and spotless. And I suspect it will cost more than a chew stick to get Charlie back in the crate next time.” She twisted in her seat and looked at me. “I like your hair down, Rae. You look very . . .”

Flipping on my blinker, I turned left on Union Street. “Please do not say
old
or
like my mother
.”

She grinned as she arranged the folds of her dress. “So very not like your mother. You look like the Rae I remember from high school. And the red suits you.”

A lump formed in my throat, and swallowing it took effort. That girl—
that Rae
—was long gone. She had been buried under ice and isolation for sixteen years. “Thanks.”

“Why the change?”

I turned left on Union Street and then drove up King, knowing I could cut over to the pizza place on Duke in about a mile. “Because I
realized today I dress like my mother. I look like my mother.” And with a rising sense of panic, I said, “I am my mother.”

“And you only just realized that?”

“Yes. It all hit me this morning when I was dressing. I dressed like I always do and then I looked in the mirror and saw Mom looking back. I don't want to be Mom. I want Michael to see me, not her.”

“He'll like you, Rae. He's reached out to you. He wants to know you.”

“But what if he meets me and he's disappointed?”

“Why would he be disappointed?”

I stopped for a red light. “There are a thousand reasons.”

“Name one.”

“I never answered any of the letters from his mother. Each year she sent me pictures and I never looked at them until last week. Who does that?”

“A woman who's in pain,” Lisa said, softly. “A woman who's struggling to put one foot in front of the other.”

“I've been doing so well. My career is booming. I have more work than I can handle. I exercise. Eat right. I don't drink hardly ever. I don't act like a woman in pain.”

“You act like a woman who's using work to numb pain.”

Driving along with the creeping traffic, I was grateful to look away and focus on the road. “How would you know something like that?”

She raised her hand. “Queen of the AA meetings. I've been to meetings in two dozen states in the last twelve years. I know all about avoidance and numbing techniques. You'd be surprised what people do. At least you didn't use drugs or alcohol.”

“Maybe I should have a drink to loosen up.”

A frown wrinkled her brow. “A drink might loosen your control for a short time, but it never solves anything.”

“Then how do I loosen up? I have no idea how to let go of the reins.” Panic tightened my tone.

“You're about to miss the pizza place.”

Glancing to the side, I saw the sign featuring a huge flying pizza. “Damn.” Pulling into the parking lot, I found a spot at the very back.

“Just be yourself, Rae. You owe it to Michael and yourself.”

I shut off the engine and stared out the windshield for a long moment as I gathered myself. “In my office I know who I am. I know how to act and behave. But outside those walls, not so much.”

“I don't know the professional incarnation of Dr. Rae McDonald. She and I have never met. But I knew the other Rae when we were kids, and I liked her.”

“You never wanted that kid to tag along.”

“That wasn't on you,” she said. “You were a good kid. Jennifer and I were immature shits. There's no nice way to say it. We were so wrapped up in our own stupid dramas, we were rarely gracious or kind. It was all about us. And for that, I'm sorry.”

The apology soothed an old wound that I never realized hadn't healed. “It was a long time ago.”

“Sometimes it feels like yesterday with her sitting right beside me, egging me on just like when we were kids. I can almost hear her.”

“She had a great laugh.”

“Yes, she did. And she could be nice once in a while.”

I relaxed back in the seat, willing the tension away. “She could.”

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Do you want to go inside now?” Lisa asked.

“I just need a minute.”

We sat in silence for several minutes, and I was almost feeling like I could deal with seeing Michael when I saw the green minivan pull up in front of the restaurant. On the back bumper was a cross-country high school sticker as well as a
My Kid Is on the Honor Roll
sticker.

My heart jumped and I reminded myself to breathe. “I think that's them.”

Lisa sat forward, shadowing my line of sight. When the woman got out of the driver's seat, I didn't recognize her. She was rail thin,
and her shoulders stooped slightly. She wore crisp jeans, a white blouse, a cardigan, and a scarf wrapped around her head. It was the kind of scarf worn by patients undergoing chemo. When she turned slightly, I thought I recognized Susan's profile, but weight loss had made all her features sharper. She was at least fifteen pounds lighter than I remembered. How old was she now? Forty-five?