Annie drove around Mystic, down the rain-rutted back roads, up the bare, harvested hills, until the tears on her cheeks had dried to thin silver streaks. She knew she had to put on a happy face when she saw her dad. Finally, when she’dregained some measure of self-control, she went home.
Hank was seated in one of the old butter-yellow chairs beside the fireplace. A book of crossword puzzles lay open on his lap. At her entrance he looked up. The smile on his face fell faster than a cake when the oven door was slammed. “Holy hamhock,” he said slowly.
Annie couldn’t help laughing. “I’ve been cast in G. I. Jane, the sequel. ”
Hank’s laugh started slowly, gathering strength. “It looks . . . good, honey. ”
“Good? I wanted to look younger, but I didn’t want to look like an infant. ”
Hank got to his feet and opened his arms. The magazine fell to the floor in a flutter of paper. “Come here, honey. ”
Annie walked into his embrace and let him hug her. When he drew back, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped piece of candy. Butterscotch. He’d always thought those candies would help Annie through the dark times. He’d given her one when her mom died. Here, honey, have a piece of candy. For years afterward, whenever she smelled butterscotch, she looked around, expecting to see Hank.
Smiling, she took the candy and unwrapped it, popping it in her mouth. It rolled around on her tongue, tasting of sweetness and memories.
He touched her cheek. “Real beauty is on the inside. ”
“That’s something women say to each other, Dad. Trust me, men don’t believe it. ”
Hank gave her a crooked grin. “I believe it, and last time I looked, I’m a man. And I think your haircut is stunning. It’ll just take a little getting used to. ”
“Well, I feel like a new woman, and that’s what I wanted. ”
“Of course it is. ” He patted her shoulder. “Now, how about a rousing game of Scrabble?”
Annie nodded and let him lead the way. He pulled the Scrabble box out from the armoire in the corner of the living room, where it had probably been sitting since the last time they’d played—twenty years ago. He dusted off the box and set out the board on the coffee table.
Annie stared at her seven smooth wooden squares, trying to come up with a word to start the game. “So, Dad, you didn’t tell me about Kathy Johnson. ”
He didn’t look up. “Didn’t I? I thought I wrote you about it. Or maybe I told you when I was down for Christmas?”
“No. ”
He shrugged, and she could tell that he wasn’t going to look up. “Oh, well. I guess you know now. That Lurlene’s the mouth that roared in Mystic. Sorry you had to find out about it that way. ”
Annie could tell that Hank was uncomfortable. He kept pulling at his collar, though it wasn’t even buttoned to his neck, and he was staring at his letters as if they were the original ten commandments. He was not the kind of man who liked to discuss death. Anyone’s. But certainly not the untimely death of a woman he’d watched grow up.
Annie let the subject rest. Forcing a thin smile, she plucked up four letters and started the game. Anything she wanted to know about Kathy’s death, or her life, would have to come from somewhere else.
Chapter 6
Nick Delacroix stood in his front yard in the pouring rain, staring down at the limp, sagging, half-dead cherry tree he’d planted last year. Slowly, he fell to his knees in the muddy grass and bowed his head.
He hadn’t cried at his wife’s funeral, or yesterday when his daughter had been kicked out of school, but he had the strangest goddamn urge to cry now—and over this stupid little tree that wouldn’t grow. He pushed to his feet and then turned away from the tree, walking tiredly back up to the house.
But when he was safely inside, with the door slammed shut behind him, he couldn’t forget about that damned tree.
It was all because of yesterday; it had been a bad day— and in the past eight months he’d had enough of them to know.
His Izzy had been kicked out of school.
At the thought, the anger came crawling through him again. When the anger faded, all he had left was shame.
Yesterday, his Izzy had stood in the principal’s office, her brown eyes flooded with tears, her full, little girl’s lips quivering. Her pink dress was stained and torn, and he’d known with a sinking feeling that it had been like that when she’d put it on. Her long black hair—once her pride and joy—was a tangled bird’s nest because no mother’s hand had combed through it.
He’d wondered fleetingly, absurdly, what had happened to all those pretty ribbons she’d once had.
We can’t have her in school anymore, Mr. Delacroix. Surely you see that?