The Lost Girls (28 page)

When I got in the house, Lilith was drying the last of the dishes, and from the knowing look she gave me I knew she'd seen Matthew and me through the window over the sink. She wasn't the only one.

“What were you doing with that boy?” Mother said.

I put the basket on the table. “Nothing.”

“What did he give you?”

“Nothing.”

“I saw him give you something.”

“He gave her a present,” Lilith said. “So what?”

Mother ignored her. “You stay away from him.”

I opened my mouth to say I would, but Lilith spoke first. “Why does she have to stay away from him?”

Mother's eyes flicked to the hallway. “Keep your voice down.”

Lilith spoke louder. “Why? Don't you want Father to know Lucy has a boyfriend?”

“Shut your mouth,” Mother hissed.

“There's nothing wrong with having a boyfriend. Didn't you ever have a boyfriend, Mother?”

“He's not my boyfriend,” I said, but neither of them heard me.

Mother grabbed Lilith's arm. She was taller, but she seemed smaller, and although she was gripping Lilith tightly, Lilith didn't seem to feel it. “Stop it,” Mother said. “We're going home tomorrow. Everything will be all right then.” It was so close an echo of my own thoughts that I had to look away for a moment. Mother was not my ally. Even though we both wanted the same thing.

Lilith smiled without a hint of sympathy. “Do you promise?” The energy that had hummed around her all day sizzled and cracked. Outside, the skies opened and the rain roared down.

Mother's mouth quivered. I felt a sudden, seething contempt for her, hunched between us like a cornered animal. Of course she couldn't promise. She couldn't promise us anything.

Then the screen door opened, and Emily came in. She was dripping rain from her dress onto the floor. In her arms she held a blanket. The little calico raised her head from its folds and looked at us with her round eyes. Mother's hand went to her throat.

“This is Mimsy,” Emily said. “She's the one I told you about.”

Mother tried to smile, but she looked dizzy. She reached behind her for the counter, and I knew right then how it was going to go.

“Can I keep her?” Emily said. “Please? I'll take care of her. I won't let her make a mess.”

Mother started shaking her head before Emily finished speaking. “No. No. I can't have a pet in the house. It's too much.” She pressed back, against the counter. “And it's wild, sweetie. A wild animal. It belongs here, in the forest.” She tried to make her voice reasonable, placating, but I saw the way her neck constricted, the tendons straining, the way her hands gripped the counter. I saw the way she looked at that kitten and at the way Emily held her close, and I knew. I knew Emily wasn't allowed to have anything but her. My face grew hot.

“Why can't you let her have it? Why can't she have this one thing?”

Lilith looked at me, perplexed. She had no idea what I meant. But Mother did. The shame of it was there in her face, but she shook her head again. “Your father would never allow it.”

“Father wouldn't care if she had a kitten. He's not the one who sleeps in her bed every night.” That was a mistake. I knew it as soon as the words left my mouth, and I could tell from Emily's flinch that she knew it, too.

Mother drew herself up. “She can't have it. And that is final.”

Emily cried then, as only a six-year-old can cry, her face crumpling and tears mixing with the rain on her cheeks. She said please, Mother, please, but Mother was unmoved. “Take it away, right now,” she said, and sent her favorite child back into the rain.

When the door had shut behind her, I stared at Mother with eyes that felt like coals in my head. She couldn't promise anything, but she could take things away. It was her only power. I could feel Lilith looking at me, but I saw only Mother. Mother, who wouldn't
meet my eyes, because she was a coward. Neither of them said a word as I followed Emily out the door.

It was raining so hard I could barely see her, a dark shape crossing the Williamses' yard. She ran with her head down in a vain attempt to keep Mimsy dry. I ran after her, my feet splashing in the puddles. But when she disappeared under the lodge I stopped. I didn't follow her into the crawl space. I didn't sit beside her and put my arms around her while she cried. I didn't help her smooth the kitten's ruffled fur as it settled into sleep. I didn't tell her Mother might change her mind if she asked again tomorrow, or that the kitten would still be here next summer, or that it didn't matter because I would be the sister she'd always wanted. I just stood in the rain between the Joneses' and the Williamses', feeling the water soak through my clothes until even my underwear was wet. Then I walked around to the front door of our house and went up to my room to change.

Justine didn't call Patrick at the Motel 6 the next day, or the day after that. She hadn't figured out what to say to him, and when he didn't come to the house she convinced herself she was right to wait; he wasn't ready to talk to her, either. Maybe, she hoped, she could avoid the whole thing until the day after Christmas, when they'd leave—though the greater part of her knew that was unlikely. This was Patrick, after all.

Maurie, Angela, and Melanie acted as though Patrick hadn't shown up at all, though a couple of times Justine caught Melanie looking at her. When she did she looked away. She left the lake only once, to pick up her car from the repair shop, and she watched for Patrick's truck all the way there and back. She didn't see it. Yet his presence, seeming to lurk just beyond her vision, kept her on edge. So when Maurie insisted they go to Arthur Williams's Christmas Eve party, Justine welcomed the distraction.

She put on the only dress she'd brought, a beige pleated silk with white buttons and a peter pan collar that she'd planned to wear for job interviews. It was not a festive look: in the mirror above Lucy's dresser she was drab and sexless. Even the freckles the San Diego sun had dusted across her cheekbones had faded, leaving her skin the same washed-out color as the dress. On impulse she dug out the mascara she'd bought from the makeup counter girl and brushed it on. It made a small but gratifying difference.

Maurie, of course, looked fabulous. When she came out of her room in a black suede circle skirt, black leather boots, and a red scoop-necked sweater cinched around her waist with a gold belt,
Angela applauded. Maurie shook her head so her gold double-hoop earrings chimed against her cheek and curtseyed, spreading her skirt like an ink stain on the floor.

Melanie and Angela were wearing jeans because Justine hadn't brought any of their dresses; they weren't suitable for winter. Maurie told them not to worry—jeans could be dressed up, if you knew how. She took them to her room and laid out scarves, ribbons, necklaces, makeup, and nail polish. “Accessories are how you give your outfit a sense of occasion,” she said as she opened a jar of bobby pins. Justine watched Angela finger a light blue scarf and smiled. In this grandchild, Maurie finally had a girl who wanted to play dress-up.

Maurie turned first to Melanie. “You have a strong face. For you we need rich colors, the colors of royalty.” Melanie's eyes widened at this flattering reinterpretation of her stern, haughty features. Maurie wrapped a ruby pashmina around her shoulders and turned her to the small makeup mirror she'd put on the dresser. She was right: the red scarf made Melanie look exotic, like an aristocratic gypsy. Melanie lifted her chin, studying her reflection. Maurie groped through her jewelry case, pulled out a gold necklace studded with red glass, and clasped it around Melanie's neck. “You'll wear red lipstick, of course.”

“Mom,” Justine said. “She's eleven.”

“Oh, please. It may suit you to look like that”—Maurie waved at her—“but this one's got fire. You've got to let her express herself.”

Stung, Justine wrapped her arms around her waist. When she blinked, her eyelashes felt heavy beneath the mascara.

Maurie rearranged the necklace so the heavy pendant in its center lay in the hollow of Melanie's throat. “Let's think about your hair, shall we?”

An hour later, standing beneath the streetlight outside Arthur Williams's house, Melanie looked years older than she was. Her
hair was pulled tight in a French braid, her eyebrows were tweezed into Audrey Hepburn arches, her lips were bright red, and she touched her necklace with red-painted nails. She reminded Justine of that infamous shot of a ten-year-old Brooke Shields with her oddly adult, made-up face above her naked little-girl chest. Justine's stomach tightened, even though she knew that there'd been no stopping Maurie once she got started.

Arthur Williams lived in a big Victorian on a tree-lined Williamsburg street. Tasteful white lights sparkled along the wrought iron fence and in the bushes. It was five o'clock; the party had started an hour earlier, and through the windows the front rooms were crowded with people.

“That's the one that used to be ours.” Maurie pointed to the brown house next door. It was smaller, with simpler gables and a more modest porch, but genteel nonetheless. It was neatly maintained, with plastic candy canes lining its front walk. Justine recognized the front steps from the picture of Lilith, Lucy, and Emily in the photo book.

“It's pretty,” Angela said. The blue scarf was around her neck, and Maurie had tied blue ribbons in her hair. With her curls teased she looked like Shirley Temple.

Maurie sighed. “It's all right. Nothing like the Lloyds', though.” She pointed to a brick monstrosity on the corner that was twice the size of the brown house. Its flat, small-windowed facade gave it a sinister presence, like an abandoned asylum, and the paint on the front porch was peeling. Justine would pick the brown house if she had the choice, but Maurie said, “That's the one that should have been ours,” and her mouth was bitter.

They opened Arthur's door to an assault of color and sound. The entryway was full of people with drinks in their hands. A twelve-foot Christmas tree twinkled in one corner and a staircase trimmed in red ribbon curved up in the other. Through wide doorways on either side more people filled a living room and a dining
room. A few turned to look at them, and Justine felt conspicuous, even though it was Maurie they were looking at. She caught a few quick exchanges, just audible in the hubbub: Is that Maurie Evans? Her aunt passed, you know. Left everything to the granddaughter, I heard.

A server walked by with champagne flutes on a tray, and Maurie grabbed one. A moment later another server appeared and collected their coats. The Williamses had spared no expense, it seemed, which surprised Justine. Arthur didn't seem the ostentatious type.

Maurie led them to the living room, where twenty or so people stood in groups, chatting. Justine did a quick, nervous survey for Patrick—his appearance at the chorus concert made her think anything was possible—but he wasn't there. Most of the guests were about the same age as Arthur and Maurie, and the party had the relaxed feel of a gathering at which everyone had known everyone else for a long time. Justine recognized Dinah the librarian by the window wearing Christmas tree earrings with blinking red lights, and in the far corner she saw Quentin from the diner, talking to a man who was not his brother. Nearby, Maisy the shoe store owner gabbled to a woman who looked covertly for an escape. Several other faces looked familiar, too, although she couldn't place them. Maybe she'd seen them at the Safeway, or the library. She felt a rush of pleasure, then discarded it. What did it matter that she knew people at this party?

Maurie grabbed her arm. “I can't believe it,” she hissed. “The bitch is still alive.”

Justine followed her gaze to a love seat and a group of chairs around the fireplace. They were empty except for two of the chairs, where an old woman and a doughy blonde in blue scrubs sat. The old woman's skin was as wrinkled as a dried fruit, and her sparse white hair lay in a thin, careful net over her scalp. She was dressed in a black pantsuit and a blue blouse. On her lapel was a green and
red pin the size of a silver dollar. She sat very erect, balancing a plate of sausage rolls on her lap with a gnarled but well-manicured hand. “Who is it?” Justine asked.

“Agnes Lloyd.”

Justine felt Melanie press closer for a look as she did some quick math. If Charlie was Maurie's father, then this woman—his mother—would have to be close to one hundred years old, maybe more. Then again, she was the oldest person Justine had ever seen. She glanced at Maurie. Her mother was pale, her mouth a grim line. Before Justine could say anything to her, Maurie broke to the left and grabbed the arm of a portly man in a green sweater. “Johnny Swensen!”

Johnny looked taken aback, but said, “Hey, Maurie.” Maurie kissed his cheek and wedged herself into his group, which included two other men and a woman who, judging from the disapproving look she gave Maurie, was Johnny's wife. Maurie kept her back to the old woman by the fire as she launched into an energetic patter about how Johnny hadn't changed a bit. Johnny's face reddened as Maurie kept hold of his arm. She made no move to introduce Justine.

Justine, uncomfortable standing there with no one to talk to, eyed the empty love seat by the fire. Feeling quietly daring, she led the girls over to it. She was careful not to look at the old woman; instead she watched Maurie with Johnny Swensen. Usually her mother was fearless in a crowd, and Justine had always envied her that. Now, though, her expansive gestures seemed brittle rather than brave.

“We haven't met. Are you new in town?” The question came from Agnes Lloyd. Justine turned with what she hoped was a friendly smile. The old woman's voice was thready, but her eyes were sharp.

“Yes. We've just arrived.”

“Agnes Lloyd. Pleased to meet you.”

Instead of introducing herself, Justine said, “Agnes Lloyd? Are you the person the library is named for?”

Agnes gave a small, gratified nod. “I am.”

“It's a beautiful library,” Justine stammered, while she tried to find something of Maurie—or herself—in Agnes's face. Age had sunk the old woman's cheeks, scored deep lines around her mouth, and faded her eyes to the color of weak tea. But they once had been dark brown, Justine decided. Almost black.

“They were going to tear it down,” Agnes said. “They couldn't afford the repairs. I told them there'd been a library in this town as long as I'd been alive, and would be long after I was dead if I had anything to say about it.” She smoothed an invisible crumb from her lap, a proud little gesture. Her suit was cheap, like something Justine might buy at Ross, and her purse, a black clutch that sat by her feet, had a broken clasp. Her brooch, though, looked to be studded with real emeralds and rubies. Inherited, probably. Like the diamond ring Charlie had given Lilith. And her house, which was sliding into ruin. How much of her money had she given to the library? According to Maurie, Agnes's children—Charlie and the unnamed sister—had died long ago. Her husband was dead, too, no doubt. The attendant, whom Agnes hadn't bothered to introduce, stared into the middle distance. Justine thought she knew what books had come to mean to Agnes Lloyd.

Ray, her thick legs in panty hose, her large bust swaddled in a cardigan embroidered with brightly colored and inappropriately placed Christmas balls, strode over to them. Her dyed black hair rose in an even more exaggerated bouffant than usual. She held two cocktail glasses. “God knows what Suzanna puts in this nog,” she said in her deep rasp, “but it's fantastic.” She sat in one of the chairs and gave Justine a glass. “I didn't bring you one, Agnes. Did you want one?”

Agnes's lips pursed. “No, thank you.”

“I didn't think so.” Ray nodded at Melanie and Angela. “Are these yours?”

“Yes,” Justine said. The eggnog smelled of nutmeg and burned her throat.

“It's good to see children at this party. It used to be filled with them. Now it's like happy hour at the nursing home. No offense, Agnes.”

Agnes narrowed her eyes. With her thumb and forefinger she inserted a sausage roll into her mouth like a token into a slot machine. It was odd seeing someone so old eat, as if, at Agnes's age, the body should have outlasted the need for sustenance.

“Who are you?” Melanie asked Ray.

Justine frowned at her; her tone was blunt, even rude. Ray extended her hand with exaggerated propriety. “My name is Rachel Susan Spiver, and you may call me Ray.”

Melanie took her hand with equal gravity. “My name is Melanie Annabel Evans,” she said, “and you may call me Mel.”

Ray threw back her head and laughed. Justine stared at Melanie, then started to laugh, too. Melanie smiled her crooked smile. Justine could sense Agnes watching them. Melanie's last name hadn't escaped her notice.

Arthur Williams appeared then and took the seat next to Ray. “Justine, I'm so glad you came.”

“Well, my mother wanted to,” Justine said. “I did, too,” she hastened to add.

“This party is a family tradition. My grandparents had it every year, and so did my parents. Maurie used to come when she was young, with Lucy and Lilith. So did her grandparents, I imagine. Didn't they, Agnes?”

“I'm not as old as you think I am, Arthur.” Agnes gave a cagey laugh that did little to ease the lines around her lips and didn't reach
her eyes at all. Her gaze darted from Melanie to Angela to Justine. Was she, too, looking for resemblances?

“It's strange to meet people who knew my family,” Justine ventured. “I never knew them.”

“There have been Evanses here as long as there have been Williamses,” Arthur said. “Dafydd Evans and Rhys Williams founded the town. Along with Merlyn Lloyd, of course. Although Rhys got the naming rights.”

“Because Lloydburg would have sounded silly,” Ray said. Justine covered a laugh with a cough. She rather liked this tipsy version of the diner owner.

“I'll settle for the library,” Agnes said. “It's legacy enough.” The attendant, to whom no one was paying any attention, rolled her eyes. Arthur looked down and smiled despite himself. Then he turned to Angela and Melanie.

“You must be excited to see all this snow.”

Angela said, “I like the ice. I want to learn to skate.”

“Skating is very popular here,” Arthur told her. “There are hockey leagues even for little girls.” Angela nodded, even though her aspirations ran more to Michelle Kwan than Wayne Gretzky, and Melanie refrained from saying anything negative about ice skating in general. Justine relaxed, feeling the eggnog warm her muscles and dull her worries about Patrick. Even with Agnes's disconcerting presence, it felt good to be sitting here, in front of the cheerful fire.