Lightning Strikes (Hudson 2)

As soon as I got home, I sat in my little room because I still had some time to myself and wrote a letter to Grandma Hudson.

Dear Grandmother...

I began smiling to myself at how she would react to my addressing her so.

I have an important thing to tell you and ask your advice about. With a friend at school, I located my real father, using the little information my mother had given me about him. He did become an English professor specializing in Shakespeare. He's married and has two children, a daughter and a son. I spent some time spying on him. I couldn't help it. I wanted to see him, to learn more about him. I actually attended one of his lectures and to make a long story short, I've been discovered.

We had tea together and I told him who I really am. He was shocked of course, and for now, like my real mother, he wants me to keep it all secret. He has invited me to his home, nevertheless, and I have decided to go.

Am I making a terrible mistake? Should 1 permit him to make a decision about revealing me to his wife? Should I just walk away and try to forget him? What do you think my mother would say if she found out about all this? Of course, I don't want to upset you, but I don't have anyone 1 can trust here or anyone wise enough to give me advice.

Please think about it all and let me know what you advise me to do.

I miss you and look forward to your coming here as you promised. I hope you're doing what the doctors tell you to do and you're not so stubborn as to prolong your recovery and make a trip to England impossible.

Please give my love to Jake.

PS. Of course, your sister knows nothing of any of this, but I can't help wondering how long it will be before Victoria tells her something more.

Love, Rain

I sealed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and then hid it in my drama text to express mail the next day when I went to school.

Afterward, when I entered the kitchen to help with dinner, Mrs. Chester told me Mary Margaret wouldn't be working today.

"The poor girl's sick to her stomach and had to rush home. Got one of them flu bugs, I think," she told me. "So we got plenty to do. Mr. Endfield has invited a business associate and his wife to dinner tonight. I'm makin' poached salmon. Set the table for four," she ordered and I went to work.

With Mary Margaret absent, Boggs hovered over us even more. He made me nervous with his intimidating looks, inspecting every aspect of the dinner preparation to the point where he practically measured the spaces between pieces of silverware.

"When you bring out that food, don't let your fingers touch any of it. I don't want to see you servin' them with your hands in their fish," he warned me.

"If you're so worried about it, why don't you serve the dinner yourself?" I shot back at him.

Mrs. Chester was so surprised at my remark and tone of voice, she gasped and brought her hand to the bottom of her throat, holding her breath as if she expected Boggs to explode like a stick of dynamite.

"Just do yer job," he muttered, his face red with fury.

"I'm trying to," I muttered, "and will if you leave me be." He sucked in some air, blowing his shoulders up, bit down on his lower lip, and left the kitchen.

"Oh, dearie, you've gone and done it now. That man holds a grudge?'

"So do I," I said, but I couldn't help being afraid. I had nightmares about him coming into my room and smothering me to death with a pillow.

After they had all arrived in the dining room and I entered, my Great-aunt Leonora introduced me to their guests, the Dorsets. Mr. Dorset was a banker. He was a man well into his sixties with thinning gray hair. His cheeks were robust and slightly crimson. They grew more and more so as he drank more wine. His wife was a fragile woman, bird-like with diminutive facial features and short, poorly dyed brown hair that was the color of rust with traces of gray at the roots and even along some strands.

"This is our an pair from America who is going to become a famous actress someday," my Great-aunt Leonora said. "Her name is Rain."

"Rain?" Mr. Dorset asked. "Where did you get that name?" he asked me with a wide grin.

"My mother gave it to me when I was born," I replied.

For a moment no one spoke, Mrs. Dorset looking as if her mouth had locked open, her little pink sliver of a tongue curled up, and then Mr. Dorset nodded and said, "Indeed."

The table was as silent as a funeral parlor, which made the sound of the dishes and silverware seem so loud. Great-uncle Richard watched me finish serving. I felt his gaze so close that I couldn't wait to return to the kitchen.

Boggs was standing right there. I nearly ran into him. He seemed to grow larger and wider in front of me, his eyes like two small drills at my forehead.

"Your insolent ways will get you tossed out on the street," he threatened.