The Forever Stone (29 page)

The next morning, Aunt Lin didn’t appear until almost noon. Her headache must have been a bad one. Bria and Jude weren’t coming today, so Madeleine and Tara did laundry, vacuumed, and started on the Blue Room. They opened the draperies and gave it a thorough dusting.

Madeleine had just finished with the piano when Aunt Lin spoke from the doorway. “You two are working hard.” She was holding a piece of dry toast. “Had to get up for a while.”

She walked farther into the room. “I’ve been wondering what we could do with all this.” She waved her toast at the lamp shaped like a flamingo. “Get rid of things like that, for sure.”

Tara patted the bird’s ceramic head. “Never saw a blue one before. Dixie loves this kind of stuff.”

Aunt Lin took a last bite of her toast. “And who is Dixie?”

“My aunt.” Tara’s gaze shifted out the window. “Mr. Kennedy! Who told him I was here?”

A blue station wagon was winding its way toward them. Aunt Lin rubbed at her forehead and moved slowly into the hall.

The man at the door was gray-haired and built like a football player past his prime. He nodded at Aunt Lin. “Good morning, ma’am. Name’s Kennedy, from Social Services. Fine old house you’ve got. Glad to hear you’re fixing it up.”

“Thank you.”

“Now the reason I came out . . . let me see.” He pulled a ragged notebook from his jacket and thumbed its pages. “Miz Dumont. We got a call you’re concealing a juvenile runaway. Is that correct?”

Aunt Lin’s back stiffened. She took him into the kitchen, and he sat purposefully at the table. Madeleine listened with growing dismay as he asked polite questions and took notes.

He glanced up from his notebook, and his gaze fastened on the doorway. “Hello there, Sally.”

“That’s not my name, I
told
you.” Tara stepped into the room, her eyes blazing. “And you can’t make me go back.”

“It’s the law,” he said in a monotone.

His unconcern loosened Madeleine’s tongue. “Mr. Kennedy, this juvenile has been hit. I’ve taught school, and I know what the law says about child abuse.”

He wrote in his notebook. “Any visible bruises?”

With an effort, she kept her voice cold. “You know as well as I do that an adult can damage a child without leaving visible bruises.”

He wrote again. “We’ll have to look into this. Ol’ Dixie must be losing it.”

“And what about the pistol that woman has? She’s threatened the girl with it.”

“Can you prove any of the alleged abuse with the gun?”

Tara folded her arms. “She hit me with it and said she’d kill me.”

“Hmm.” He wrote again. “Any witnesses? Would your uncle be willing to swear?”

Tara shook her head. “You know Sid.”

Aunt Lin’s voice was crisp. “How did you find out the girl was here?”

“A phone call, Miz Dumont. From a concerned citizen, I believe he called himself. The Marricks want you back, Sally. They promise it’ll be okay.”

“Sure, sure, sure.”

He looked down at his notebook again. “They’re claiming a theft. Said you stole a silver pendant of your aunt’s.”

“She’s lying!” Tara’s voice rose to a shriek. “It’s mine!
She
stole it from
me
.” A hand went to her throat, and Madeleine remembered the leather cord with something hanging from it.

The man shrugged. “Calm down, girl. Guess you’ll have to work that out with her. Better pack your bags.”

“Wait a minute!” Madeleine said. “You’re going to take her back there? I want your name and the phone number of your agency. This is insufferable.”

The man shrugged. “We’ll keep an eye on it, like I said, ma’am.” He handed her a business card and gave one to Tara. “You call me the next time Dixie lays a hand on you.”

Tara put the card into the pocket of her jeans and turned away. Once again she wore the staring look on her face.

As soon as Tara returned with her duffle bag, the man stood. He nodded at Aunt Lin, and they walked out the door.

Madeleine followed. This could not be happening. How could she let her go—just let her go?

“Tara,” she called, “where do you live? I’ll come see you.”

But Tara put her nose in the air, clamping her lips shut. She stalked behind the social worker, and she didn’t look back.

After Tara had gone, Aunt Lin took her headache back to bed, and the house sank into an exhausted stillness, as if a tornado had passed through.

Madeleine leaned against the kitchen doorway. Make the Schnecken, that’s what she was going to do. And cinnamon-walnut bread. And cookies. Baking might keep her sane.

She thought of phoning Jude to let him know about Tara, but it seemed a cruel way for him to find out. She’d tell him tomorrow, on the way to church.

She put on a Bach CD, one of the slow mournful ones that did the weeping for her. Then she hauled out the ingredients she’d need, and the bowls, measuring cups, and pans. Good thing the Schnecken recipe was complicated enough that she’d have to focus on it.

Don’t think, just work.

She kneaded the Schnecken dough more vigorously than required, set it to rise, made the topping and spooned it into a muffin pan. Now back to the dough. She was rolling it out and trying to decide about raisins in the filling when Nathan phoned.

“Do you like raisins?” she asked.

“Yes. I mean, usually, but not in porridge. Why?”

“Just needed a vote.”

He paused, but only for an instant. “Could you use some zucchini? Or are you too busy? And would you mind if I dropped by?”

“Yes, no, and at your own risk. I’m baking.”

“Would you rather—”

“—There’s no one I’d rather see.”

She hadn’t meant to say that. Never mind, she didn’t care. She picked up the box of raisins and ripped it open. Somewhere, that girl was staring off into space while someone hit her.

Get the Schnecken baking.

Nathan came sooner than she’d thought, and he didn’t seem to notice that dishes were strewn across the table, cookie sheets sat askew over the sink, and flour dappled the counter, the floor, and most of her apron.

He carried a brown paper bag and a zucchini that looked a yard long.

“A gift from someone’s garden?” she asked

“More like a castoff.”

“Okay, just put it somewhere.”

She went back to mixing dough for raisin bread. The timer for the Schnecken rang. “Would you mind checking those?”

“Smells good. What’re they supposed to look like?”

“Snails. Golden brown ones.”

“Then your snails are done. Want me to take them out?”

“Please.”

Her throat cramped tight. She’d planned to make them with Tara.

He took out the muffin pan, looked at her, and put it on the wire rack.

“Good.” She dropped a cookie sheet over the muffin pan, flipped the two of them upside down, and set them back onto the rack.

She jiggled the muffin pan. “In a minute you can lift off this pan, if you don’t mind. Scrape up any of the nuts and syrup that fell away. Try one when they’re cool. Get yourself something to drink. Milk’s in the fridge.”

“Sure.” His voice was reflective. “Always wanted to taste a snail. Thank you.” He stood for a minute, watching her.

She knew she sounded brusque, but she turned away, threw a handful of flour onto the kneading board, and yanked the bread dough out of the bowl.

She rounded it up, pounded it down, turned it over, and began to knead it. Too soft. She sprinkled it with flour and kneaded some more, pressing in hard with the heels of her hands, folded it over, and began again.

Her thoughts kindled. She’d been the one who told Tara that God loved her. How could He let this happen?

She folded the dough, turned it. Walnuts fell out. She snatched them up, punched them back in. Press, fold, turn.

Lord, I’m so . . . angry. Please talk to me about this.

Still too soft. She dropped a handful of flour onto the dough, and kneaded some more.

You keep doing things I don’t understand.

Press, fold, turn. She pinched the dough. Better. She leaned on it, hard. Fold, turn. Another walnut dropped out. She smacked it back into the dough. Almost elastic now—keep kneading. Turn it. Mash it down and start again.

The kitchen was quiet except for Bach’s “Largo” sobbing in the background.

She glanced over her shoulder.

He was leaning against the sink, eating one of the Schnecken, still watching her.

“Don’t you think,” he said, “that by now it’s sorry?”

Her hands stilled. She bent over the mound of dough. “Nathan . . .”

He came to her, his footsteps unhurried. “What happened?”

“They took her away. Tara.”

“That poor kid. You were doing so well with her. Where to?”

“Back to where they treat her like dirt.” She flattened the dough, slowly now, folded it in, turned and kneaded it again.

“Why?”

“Kent.” She flipped it over. “He filed a complaint.”

She gave the dough another pat, shaped it into a large round, and dropped it into a bowl.

“I’m going to find out where she lives, and I’m going to go see her. Some day that man will get a taste of justice.”

And she hadn’t done a thing to hurry it along. Not yet. 

She covered the bowl with a cloth. “It has to rise. How nice of you to bring the zucchini.”

“Do you treat all your breads that way?”

She tried to smile. Failed. “Only when I lose my temper.” She sank into a chair at the table, and put her face in her hands. “How juvenile! I’m sorry, Nathan.”

He brought her one of the Schnecken, along with a dishtowel.

She looked up at him. “What’s this for?”

“For you to eat. The raisins are good. Why do you call them snails?”

“That’s what
Schnecken
means in German.”

He swirled a finger through the empty pan and licked off the syrup. “They’re even better than sticky buns. Would you like some milk?”

“Yes, please. And the towel?”

“To wipe your face and hands. Or I could do it for you.”

She smiled then, and scrubbed the flour off her face. “I’m sure you’d do a good job. When did you get back?”

“Last night. The zucchini was on my doorstep with a note, like an abandoned child.”

She had to take a look at it. “They don’t know about zucchini bread.” She thumped the rind. “Hard as leather. I might need a machete for this one.”

“I brought you something else.” He handed her the brown paper bag.

“A book? From that store?”

She slid it out.
The Art of Eating
. “M.F.K. Fisher? Nathan! How wonderful!”

A grin crept across his face and he looked like a boy quite pleased with himself.

She skimmed the contents list. “Five gastronomical works!” She paged through it. “Here’s the one I read:
How to Cook a Wolf
.”

“I hope you took it to heart,” he said. “Might come in handy.”

What did that mean? Quickly she said, “Fisher wrote it during World War II. It’s about making do with wartime shortages. I love these chapter titles: How to Catch the Wolf; How Not to Boil an Egg; How to Keep Alive; How to Rise Up Like New Bread.” 

She stopped to take a bite of Schnecken. “You don’t read this straight through, like a novel. It’s a book to be dipped into at odd moments, and savored.”

“Savored, yes,” he said, looking at her, and something in his smile made her face grow warm. Fortunately he kept talking. “Want to come for a ride? One of my patients lives up near Chatsworth, and I think she’d like to meet you.”

“Okay.” She glanced at the bowl of dough.

He followed her gaze. “How long does that have to stay incarcerated?”

“A couple of hours, or until I let it out. Wait—I’m so dusty, let me change—I’ll be quick.”

He opened the door of his Jeep for her, and she had a moment to wonder at herself. Driving off alone with him, without a flicker of anxiety?

Now he was telling her about Mrs. Bozarth and how she’d had a stroke a few weeks ago.

“What kind?”

“Left CVA, not severe.”

She’d heard enough medical conversations to know that the woman would be partially paralyzed on her right side. “How’s she doing with therapy?”