The House on Sugar Plum Lane (4 page)

He'd had one last sobering thought about heading back to work and leaving the shelter alone, but when Roscoe had peered at him through that cage, as if saying, “Hey, buddy. How'd you like to be in here?” Eddie had given in and put down a deposit to hold him until he'd been cleaned up, neutered, and deemed adoptable.

So here he was, a reluctant dog owner.

Eddie snapped the leash onto Roscoe's collar, then opened the door only to see two men walking up the sidewalk.

Roscoe strained to rush forward—to greet them warmly, no doubt—but Eddie held him back.

“Going somewhere?” the taller of the two men asked.

Eddie stiffened at the sound of his parole officer's voice. “Just taking my dog for a walk.”

“We were in the area and thought we'd stop by for a visit,” Dale Kingsley said.

Eddie would never get used to the “visits” of virtual strangers who would rifle through his drawers and closet, usually leaving his house in shambles.

“I don't suppose you'd like to make yourself at home while I let the dog take care of business,” he said, but he'd been out of prison long enough to know the routine. He'd be cuffed while the men searched his house, looking for anything that might be a parole violation.

They wouldn't find anything, though. He'd hated every second behind bars, and he wasn't going to risk ever going back again.

“We'll wait,” Dale said. “And I'd rather you kept that dog outside. I got bit by a Rottweiler once, and I'm not about to take any chances.”

Dale didn't need to worry about Roscoe doing anything other than licking him to death, but Eddie clamped his mouth shut.

It was one of the lessons he'd learned at Donovan Correctional Facility.

It was best to keep to yourself.

 

The next morning, Amy sat in front of Ron Paige's desk at Fairbrook Realty, a small, storefront office just two doors down from Parkside Community Church.

Ron had already run a credit check, and as expected, Amy had passed with flying colors. But she'd known she would. If there was one thing to be said about Brandon, it was that he was not only driven to succeed at the office, he was also determined to keep their FICO scores high.

“So far, so good,” Ron said. “The only thing I need to do now is to check on your rental history.”

“I own the house I'm currently living in. If you take a closer look at the credit report, you'll see the mortgage has always been paid on time.”

Ron glanced at the pages in front of him. “Oh. You're right.” He furrowed his brow, then looked up. “If you own a home, why do you want to lease the Rucker place?”

As a child, Amy used to tattle on herself, so she'd never been good at deception. Yet she managed a truthful response that would satisfy his curiosity without revealing her real motive. “I'm going through a divorce.”

He nodded, as though that answered everything. Then he glanced back down at the paperwork in front of him and added, “You're lucky.”

She didn't feel very lucky and couldn't help asking, “How so?”

“I've worked with people in the past who were in your situation, and their credit scores were usually a disaster.”

Yeah, well, he didn't know Brandon.

And he didn't know Amy, either. She hadn't wanted a big fight; she'd just wanted out. And since she'd heard horror stories of year-long litigations in family court, she'd suggested they get one attorney and divide things right down the middle.

Not wanting a divorce in the first place, as well as the expense and hassle of one, Brandon had agreed to her terms.

All of them, actually. But then again, she'd tried hard to be fair.

“I gotta hand it to you,” Ron said. “It sounds as though you two are dealing exceptionally well with your split.”

Amy supposed they were. Yet again, her efforts to tiptoe around the truth and her hope that Ron would buy her explanation warmed her cheeks.

Apparently, she'd been able to pull off the deception, because by eleven o'clock she'd signed a six-month lease and had been handed the keys to the Rucker place.

“I've contacted a landscaping company to mow the lawn and trim the bushes,” Ron said. “Mrs. Davila said her mom had always prided herself in a beautiful yard, but the place has been going steadily downhill for years.”

Amy supposed she'd talk to the landscaper about staying on while the lease was in effect. Something told her she'd be too busy inside the house to worry about the yard.

Fifteen minutes later, she arrived on Sugar Plum Lane. She parked her car in the drive, removed several empty cardboard boxes from the backseat, and carried them down the walkway to the front door, intending to follow through on her part of the bargain. Somehow, that made what she was doing seem right.

The lockbox had yet to be removed, but she used the key she'd been given to enter.

Once inside, she inhaled the scent of dust and age, along with the hint of stale sugar and spice. She was tempted to open up the windows and air out the old Victorian, yet she also felt compelled to leave everything just the way it was.

She was reminded of the dozen or so two-story clapboard houses that had been relocated from various sites in San Diego to Heritage Park and refurbished, the interiors decorated and furnished just as they'd been a hundred years ago, with a rope stretched across the doorways of the rooms to block people from entering or touching the displays.

But Amy was free to walk through the rooms of the Rucker place, to touch each item that had once passed through the fingers of the great-grandmother she'd never known.

She dropped the boxes onto the floor in the entry, then placed her hands on her hips and scanned the living room, with its faded blue walls edged with a floral wallpaper trim. Her gaze was drawn to a soot-stained red brick fireplace, where several framed photographs were displayed on a carved oak mantel.

Curiosity urged her to take a closer look at the people who'd meant something to Mrs. Rucker, and she crossed the room. As she lifted each frame, she studied the smiling images in an effort to see her mother in one of them.

There was, she supposed, a family resemblance. Or maybe she just wanted there to be one.

She lifted a brass frame that held a black-and-white photograph of a smiling young couple. The man had on an Army uniform, and the woman, an attractive blonde, was wearing the style of clothing worn in the 1940s.

There was something about the woman that reminded Amy of Betty Grable, the popular pinup girl during the war years. And while it was a stretch to see Jimmy Stewart in the fair-haired soldier, his tall, lanky build and a down-home grin lent credibility to her musing.

“Who are you?” she whispered. Friends of Mrs. Rucker? Other family members?

She returned the picture to its place on the mantel, and even though she supposed the framed photos were the sort of personal effects she should be wrapping in tissue and packing away, she couldn't bring herself to do so. Instead, she took a long, lingering look at each person.

Most of the photographs appeared to be thirty years old or more. Weren't there any more recent than that? Didn't Mrs. Rucker have any great-grandchildren?

The Rossi house was loaded with pictures and portraits of both Susan and Amy when they were young, and now Callie's photographs had a prominent place on tabletops and walls.

Deciding to leave the living room intact for now, Amy headed for the kitchen, then paused beside the lamp table, where the dirty china cup and saucer sat. She glanced at the Bible she'd noticed during her first visit to the house, its worn and cracked leather embossed with the name
Eleanor Rucker
in gold letters. It rested next to a television guide, the kind that came with the local newspaper. The date, she noted, was a little more than two months ago.

Was that the week when Eleanor Rucker had been frightened by imaginary hippies?

Was that how long the house had been empty?

Suspecting she might never get the answers to any of her questions, Amy carried the dirty dishes to the sink, turned on the spigot, and waited for the water to heat. After placing the stopper in the drain, she reached for a plastic bottle of lemon-scented dish soap that sat on the counter and squirted a stream under the faucet spray.

She lifted the dirty cup, but before placing it in the soapy water, she took time to study the pattern—tiny pink roses with a delicate gold trim.

She tried to imagine a special occasion, the dining room table draped with freshly starched white linen, the dishes set out with sparkling crystal goblets and polished silver.

In the middle of the table, she could easily see newly clipped rosebuds—pink to match the china pattern—carefully arranged in a vase and flanked by two long, tapered candles, the flames flickering in the evening light.

She could almost hear the hum of happy voices, of faceless family and friends.

Perhaps “Betty Grable” sat at the head of the table with her husband standing at her side, his hand resting gently on her shoulder, a smile on his face as he welcomed the guests with a Jimmy Stewart drawl.

The doorbell sounded, drawing Amy from her crazy thoughts, and she frowned. No one knew she was here. Maybe it was the real estate agent coming to remove the lockbox and the sign. Or maybe it was a door-to-door salesman.

Either way, she shut off the water and strode to the entry. When she opened the front door, she found a petite, thirty-something Latina on the porch, holding a plate of brownies covered with plastic wrap.

The woman, who wore her long, dark hair straight, smiled warmly and introduced herself as Maria Rodriguez. She nodded to the left. “I live next door and thought I'd come over and welcome you to the neighborhood.”

Amy hadn't counted on any visitors, nor had she intended to stretch the truth any more than she already had. Still, she took the plate of chocolate goodies and managed to introduce herself and return the woman's smile. “These look delicious. Thank you.”

“One of the women in the neighborhood brought a lemon cake to me when I moved in. So when my son told me he'd seen our new neighbor, it seemed like the right thing to do.”

The conversation lulled. If Amy had truly been a new neighbor moving in, she might have known what to say. As it was, she felt like a fraud. So she thanked the woman again.

“I heard you have a daughter,” Maria said.

Amy nodded, thinking that the web she'd begun to weave was expanding without any effort on her part, and she wasn't sure how to stop it from growing any further.

By sticking to the truth whenever she could, she supposed. “Her name is Callie. And she's five.”

Maria flicked a long strand of hair over her shoulder and smiled. “I have a five-year-old, too. Her name's Sara. It'll be nice for her to have someone new to play with. There aren't too many girls living on the street.”

Amy hadn't planned on bringing Callie to Sugar Plum Lane, but again she nodded. “That would be nice.”

“Is she here?” Maria asked.

“No, not today. She's with a sitter.”

A slow grin stretched across Maria's face, as though she understood how difficult it would be to have a child underfoot.

“I thought I'd pack up Mrs. Rucker's belongings first,” Amy added.

Maria's smile faded. “I would have offered to pack up things for the Davilas. I didn't realize they were going to hire someone to do it.”

Had Maria found that a little unusual, too? Either way, Amy decided to let it go. There were probably a lot of things she didn't understand, so she thought it best to change the subject. “I heard Mr. Davila had a heart attack. Is he doing all right?”

“There were some complications, but I think he's going to be fine. From what I understand, it's going to take some time.”

“I'm sure his illness took the family by surprise,” Amy added.

“Yes, it was completely unexpected. He was pretty active and appeared to be healthy. In fact, Ellie was supposed to move in with him and his wife, but that didn't pan out.”

“Did she move in with one of her children instead?” Amy asked.

“She only had one child. A daughter. But they weren't very close.”

Which meant what? That her daughter, who had to be Barbara Davila, wouldn't take the old woman into her home to live with her? Or that she couldn't for some reason?

Amy hated to ask too many questions, especially up front. Yet that's why she was here, wasn't it? To find the answers her mother had been seeking?

“Have you lived on Sugar Plum Lane very long?” she asked Maria.

“I moved in with my
tía,
or rather, my aunt, when my mother died. I spent my teenage years with her and left when I got married. But after I filed for divorce, I brought the kids and came home.”

Apparently the women had several things in common. They'd both lost their mothers, and they'd wanted out of bad marriages, which left them raising their children alone.

“So you live with your
tía,
” Amy assumed, realizing Maria's aunt probably knew more about the Ruckers—or, more specifically, about Barbara Davila.

“No, not anymore. Sofia passed away a few years ago.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” And for more reasons than one. Maria's aunt might have held the key to Amy's search.

“Well, I'd better let you get back to work,” Maria said.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” The question rolled right off Amy's tongue without any forethought, and she wasn't entirely sure why.

Just to be hospitable?

Curiosity about the Ruckers?

The commonality she shared with the woman she'd just met?

“Actually,” Maria said, “I'd love a cup of tea. Ellie would often brew a pot whenever I stopped by. But I need to get back home. I left my son in charge, and he's…” She sighed almost wearily. “Well, he hasn't been getting along with his sister lately.”