An Accidental Woman (44 page)

“Red squirrels,” Griffin murmured sleepily as he pulled her into the curve of his body.

“Sleet,” she whispered, wondering if he'd deliberately pulled her that way to support her when she couldn't do it herself. She didn't mind, actually. It was a totally natural, totally comfortable, totally pleasurable way to sleep.

Only she didn't sleep, not for a while. As she lay there trying not to
think about why she still felt guilty being with him, she listened to the sleet. She could tell from its resonance when it turned into freezing rain, and knew that it picked up force as morning approached. However, since monitoring freezing rain was akin to counting sheep, she eventually fell asleep.

* * *

Then Griffin bolted up and checked his watch. “Omigod. It's ten-thirty.”

“It's Sunday, and it's cold,” Poppy murmured. “I need your warmth here.”

Twisting at the waist, he looked down at her. “I was supposed to be at Micah's.”

“I don't think you'll make it. Look outside.”

Swearing softly because the woodstove was out and it was cold, he hurried naked to the door, inched it open, peered out. When he finally spoke, his voice held awe. “Everything is frozen. Good thing we finished tapping yesterday. We'd have had to chip away ice to do it today.” He shut the door tight and returned to the layers of quilts and pillows that they called a bed.

Poppy felt the chill on his body and rubbed at it to warm him up. “You're not going over there today.”

“Don't know as I'd make it,” he said, pulling the covers higher. “Don't know as we'll make it back to shore, period.”

Poppy grinned.

* * *

“What's your first memory?” Poppy asked.

Griffin smiled. “First ever? That's going back a ways.” He thought for a minute. “Randy going to school, so I guess I was three. He was my playmate. I hated him for leaving. I remember standing at the screen door watching him get on that school bus. What's yours?”

“My dad holding me. Reading a story. I wish you could have met him. He was a gentle man. What's your best memory?”

“Best? Thanksgivings, right up through college. We used to have more than thirty people. I loved it. By the time I was done with college, Cindy was gone. It was never the same. What's yours?”

She would have liked to hear more about Cindy, but her own best memory came right out in front of that thought. “It's a new one. Maida hugging Lily in the meeting house last October. It was symbolic.” Moments after that, she had seen Griffin for the very first time, making it a best memory and a new beginning, all in one. Then she scolded herself for being unduly imaginative, and asked, “Worst memory?”

“The night my mom died. Yours?”

“You know.” The accident.

“One wish,” he said. “If you could make just one, what would it be?”

“You first.”

“Five kids, three dogs, and a cat, the cat to keep the others in line. Your turn.”

“Two. I'd settle for two kids,” she said and looked at him in surprise.

He didn't say anything—didn't tease her for blurting it out, or remind her about the odd ways in which the subconscious worked—which made her love him all the more. Given her druthers, she'd have stayed at the cabin for a week.

Then came the
craa-aack
and thud of a pine limb breaking from its trunk and hitting the ground, and Poppy felt a glimmer of worry. Griffin, not being a native, took a little longer to understand, but when the worry hit, it hit harder.

“If there's damage to the sugarbush in a storm like this, what happens?” he asked.

When Poppy refused to say the words, he began gathering their things.

* * *

Seconds later, the deck door opened and Maida, Lily, and Rose came out. When Maida slipped and nearly fell on the ice, Lily and Rose caught her. All three stopped then and stared—not at the tree, but at Poppy and Griffin.

Griffin pulled up as close as he could behind the fallen tree, turned off the snowmobile, and lifted her, and it wasn't as fast or as fun as it had been the day before. What had been snow then was now a thick coat of ice. Twice he slipped and nearly fell. By the time he had her inside, she was grateful to be there.

“Thank God,” Maida cried, following along as Griffin carried her through to the weight room. She had a hand to her chest and was taking deep breaths. “Thank
God.
Do you know how frightened I've been?”

“About me?” Poppy asked.

“Of course, about you. I came over first thing this morning to make sure you were all right, and you were gone. Your chair was here—your chair and your car—but no you. Do you know what went through my mind?”

“She thought you were kidnapped,” Rose said, materializing beside Maida as Griffin settled Poppy in her chair. “Kidnapped, raped, and murdered. Didn't it occur to you to call one of us and let us know where you were?”

It hadn't. Poppy felt instant remorse. She reached for Victoria, who was on her hind legs wanting up, but putting the cat in her lap brought only a modicum of comfort. She shot Griffin a helpless look.

“There's no phone on the island,” he said. “We would have been back
this morning, but I thought the going would be too rough. I'm sorry. It was my fault.”

He had been addressing Maida, but Rose was the one to reply. “Poppy should have known better. She should have known we would worry. How could you
not
know that, Poppy? You don't take off overnight. You never do that. And without your chair?”

“Rose,” Lily said quietly. “She's back. It was a misunderstanding.”

“It was selfishness,” Rose corrected. “The chair was sitting here, empty except for the cat. What did she think we would think?”

“I didn't know you would come,” Poppy said.

“Not when it started to storm?” There was a thud outside. Rose's eyes flew to the ceiling. Seeming validated, she said with satisfaction, “There. That's perfect reason to worry. God knows what can happen in a storm like this, and here you are, insisting on living alone, which is selfish in and of itself, though that's a whole other story. Mom
always
checks on you. You've aged her ten years.”

“I'm all right,” Maida murmured.

“She has,” Rose argued. “You were absolutely panicked. You're not as young as you used to be.”

“And I'm not as
old
as you make me out to be, Rose. I'm all
right,
” Maida insisted, but Rose turned back to Poppy.

“It was one thing when we were kids and you had to do your own thing. The wilder the better—you didn't care what Mom and Dad thought. You didn't care that they worried. Well, I'm a mom myself now, and I know what it feels like when a child is irresponsible. Only you're not a child. I thought the accident gave you some sense of responsibility.”

“Apparently not,” Poppy said, because it was the only way to quiet Rose. “Life's events come and go. I'm an adult, and I'm still irresponsible. You're a mom, and you're still small-minded.”

“Poppy,” Maida begged.

But Poppy was annoyed. “She's right about one thing. I don't take off overnight, and without my chair? I haven't done that in twelve years, but I did it this time, because there was something I wanted to do badly enough to get past the idea . . . the idea,” she struggled to articulate it, struggled to say it
aloud,
“that I didn't have a right to do it. I've lived that
way for twelve years, while Rose had a good time at college and married sweet Art and had three wonderful children, and that's fine, because she deserves all those things, and I don't.”

“Poppy—” Lily whispered, moving toward her.

“I don't,” Poppy said, but she didn't look at Lily or at Rose, only at Maida. “I was driving that night. Griffin guessed it. You must have, too.”

Rose gasped. “
You
were driving?”

Poppy's eyes didn't leave her mother. She had been needing to say this for twelve years, solely to see Maida's reaction. Back in the cabin, when Griffin had asked about her dream, she had nearly said that she wanted her mother's love. Now, vigilant, she watched.

“We were up there drinking and laughing,” she said, “and when it came time to go home, Perry was tanked, so I drove. I wasn't drunk. But I went too fast and lost control. We were both thrown off. I hit the ground, so I'm in a chair. Perry hit a tree, so he's in a grave.”

“Do the police know this?” Rose asked, sounding horrified.

“Rose,”
Lily scolded and put a reassuring hand on Poppy's shoulder.

Poppy faced Rose. “I never told them. You can if you want.”

“I didn't say that— I just— I didn't mean—”

“She won't,” Maida told Poppy. “There's absolutely no point.”

“Maida's right,” Griffin said, standing behind Poppy's shoulder. He didn't touch her, but Poppy felt his presence. “What law was broken? Reckless driving? Well, maybe there was that, but it can't be proven one way or another. Negligent homicide? Maybe, but how would you punish her, Rose? What would you do?”

Rose waved a hand. “I wouldn't— I didn't say—”

“Would you put her in prison?” Griffin asked. Poppy sensed his anger and loved him for it. “Would you sentence her to life in a wheelchair—oops, she's already sentenced to that, so you can't get her that way. Would you sentence her to guilt? To self-flagellation? To a public flogging?”

“I am not the bad guy here,” Rose protested.

“Am
I?”
Poppy asked her mother.

Maida's face held pain, though not surprise. Then a sadness took over, and, through it, incredibly, she smiled. “No, Poppy. You're no more the bad guy than any of the rest of us.”

Tears came to Poppy's eyes, and in that instant, she remembered the game she and Griffin had played. Best memory? Maida hugging Lily. Best memory to replace that one? Maida hugging Poppy.

Before it could happen, though, another tree fell, this one with a louder crash and a tremor that sent Victoria flying off Poppy's lap and running for cover with unerring aim. Then the lights went out, leaving the room in the late afternoon darkness.

“Oh dear,” said Maida.

“Lanterns?” Lily asked Poppy.

“In the kitchen.” She headed that way herself.

“I have to get home,” Rose announced and caught up her coat as they passed the living room. “Art's with the girls, but if other lines are down in town and the mill is out, he'll have to get over there.”

The phone rang. It was Poppy's private line. She picked up in the kitchen. “Hello?”

“It's Micah. Is Griffin with you?”

“He is.” Her eyes found Griffin's. “What's wrong?”

“You name it. Lights out, trees down, mainline split. I need help.”

* * *

Poppy was able to spend an hour making calls before the phone lines went down, and though she switched to her cell phone then, other town phone lines were down as well. Fortunately, an increasing number of locals used cell phones when they were in their trucks or at work, and Poppy, being Poppy, had their numbers. She reached the people she wanted to reach, and this time she wasn't deferential. She wasn't settling for sympathetic murmurings about tough luck. Nor did she want to hear meteorological talk about layers of cold air sandwiching one of warm. She had been around Lake Henry long enough to know how ice storms worked. Precipitation fell through the top cold layer, melted through the middle warmer layer, chilled again in the cold air above the ground and
then froze on contact with trees, wires, and tubing, not to mention roads—on which issue she had no patience at all. She didn't want to hear that getting to Micah's might be too difficult. Everyone she called had trucks, sand, and chains like those under Buck Kipling's seat.

“Here's the scoop,” she said time and again. “Trees are down in the sugarbush, and the mainline is split. It can't be repaired until the trees are
off.
We need chainsaws and manpower, as much and as early as possible tomorrow at Micah's. Can you be there?” When she heard hemming and hawing, she said, “It's do-or-die for Micah. Without the mainline, he has no sap to boil. Sugarmakers have been wiped out by storms like this.” When she heard buts, she said, “I seem to recall Micah fixing the leak in your roof on Christmas day two years ago,” or reminded them of his replacing a broken window, hauling a sunken boat from the lake, even building a treehouse—he was always doing something. “He didn't charge you then, so you can pay him now with this.”

She wasn't taking no for an answer.

* * *

But this was Sunday. If it was the Lord's day, He would surely excuse her, because her mission was a humanitarian one. The clock was running down; the court order keeping Heather in New Hampshire expired in twelve days. Given the way some jurisdictions worked, that wasn't much. Her first call would therefore be to Jonathan Fitzgerald. Given the story that Heather had told, finding the child was a must. The DiCenza family
maintained that she hadn't been carrying Rob's child. If it could be proven that she was, there would be a major hole poked in their case.

She waited until the time difference made her call a late afternoon one in Chicago. Then, turning in her chair, Ethan and all—and refusing to think about the absurdity of it—she angled herself in a way that gave her cell phone the best reception. Directory assistance provided Jonathan Fitzgerald's home number. Feeling so close to success, not to mention restricted by her sleeping son, who was nowhere near as light as he used to be, she splurged and allowed the call to be automatically placed.

After a single ring, a woman's voice said a fast, “Hello?”

“Jonathan Fitzgerald, please.”

There was a release of breath and a quieter, “Who is this?”

“Cassie Byrnes. I'm a colleague. I'm calling from New Hampshire. We've been working on something together.” It was a stretch of the truth, but a harmless one, she figured. “I'm sorry to be calling on a Sunday—”