The Shadow Girl (7 page)

“I can’t explain the music, but maybe you heard your parents talking about Winterhaven sometime in the past. Or you might’ve heard it mentioned in a movie or something.”

“Maybe. But why did I write it down? Don’t you think that’s sort of random? I’m thinking maybe I’ve been there before.” I cross my arms, my head about to explode from all the questions running through it. “It’ll be easy to find out if Winterhaven’s a real place, but I don’t know how I can prove that it has anything to do with my parents’ secret. Or Jake, for that matter. Right now that’s just a feeling I have.”
Because of Iris
, I think.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” says Wyatt, but he fails to hide his concern.

Humiliated that he thinks I’m losing my grip, I say, “I know you don’t believe any of this. But you have to admit that it’s a pretty big coincidence that I zoned out twice when the music box played.”

“Twice?”

“You were there the first time,” I remind him.

He holds my stare. “Wait. When we kissed?”

I’ve never noticed how green his eyes are. “Yes,” I whisper.

“And you think the music had something to do with that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, you have to admit it was bizarre.”

He shrugs.

I don’t want to embarrass him, but I will if I tell him it was as if I was kissing the guy with black hair and blue eyes in the vision. “I just don’t understand how it happened,” I say.

“Maybe we both wanted it to,” Wyatt replies, his voice tender and warm.

Suddenly, all of my questions and curiosity, my fears and doubts and affection for him tangle together until I can’t sort out one emotion from the other. On impulse, I tilt my face up to his.

Surprise flickers across Wyatt’s features. He places a hand on the tree trunk above my head, and I can’t move or even breathe as his mouth brushes against mine. I wait for my confusion to clear, to be able to make sense of these new feelings he stirs in me. But if anything, I’m more mixed up than before. “We can’t do this,” I say. “This is just—it’s happening too fast.”

Wyatt lowers his arm and steps back, looks away. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I get it.”

“Don’t be mad at me. So much in my life is different now. A part of me is afraid for us to be different, too. One minute I want us to be like we’ve always been, then the next minute—” I take a breath.

Wyatt’s brows tug together, and the tips of his ears turn red. “I didn’t start this, Lil. I didn’t cause this change between us,
you
did.
You
kissed
me
yesterday.”

I can’t think of a single word to say as he turns and walks to his ATV. He puts on his helmet, climbs on, and starts the engine. Standing in the middle of the trail, I watch him turn and take off in the direction we came. When he disappears around a curve, I dig my fingers into my palms, trying not to cry.

No more than a minute passes before I notice that the sound of Wyatt’s four-wheeler is becoming louder instead of more distant. And then I see him driving toward me again. He pulls to a stop a few feet away from where I stand and takes off his helmet. “Damn it,” he says, sounding miserable. “I can’t leave you alone. Not here.”

Where I last saw Dad alive
. I read the words in his eyes, and I love him all the more for his kindness.

I run to Wyatt, throw my arms around his neck, and burst into tears. We hold each other for a long time, but I still sense his confusion, and I’m more afraid than ever of losing the easiness we’ve always shared.

When I get home, I check my phone to make sure I haven’t missed a call from Ty. I called him before Wyatt and I left, but only got his voice mail, so I left a message. I do have a missed call, but it’s from Sylvie. She wants to meet in town next week. I make a mental note to call her.

Cookie is awake, but lying listless in his pen. Mom’s still napping on the couch. I tiptoe to her closet and place Dad’s spare keys to the workshop back inside the shoebox on the upper shelf. Then I throw a load of towels and jeans in the wash, trying to take my mind off the ride with Wyatt.

Iris is impatient, buzzing like a bee beneath my skin. Knowing she won’t relax until I research Winterhaven, I go upstairs to my computer. Ever since last night, I’ve been putting it off because I’m afraid of what I might find—and what my reaction will be. The thought of falling into another strange daze freaks me out.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I open my laptop and Google “Winterhaven, Massachusetts.” A listing of real estate sites appears, and a link to the town’s chamber of commerce. I sit straighter. It’s a real place!

Clicking on the chamber of commerce link, I find a photo album with pictures of Winterhaven’s main attractions as well as a few places of interest in the surrounding area. It’s a storybook town. Colorful shop facades line the main drag, pots of flowers beside every entrance. Homes with huge columns stand watch over cobblestone streets shaded by giant oak trees. A boardwalk curves through a lush green park toward sparkling Winterhaven Lake, a small body of water flanked by tiny pastel cottages.

After browsing through thirty-six unfamiliar images, I click on number thirty-seven and goose bumps erupt on my arms. I stare at the picture of a dock jutting out across an inlet of water on Winterhaven Lake, and a certainty I can’t explain washes over me. Somehow, I know that when the water rises after a hard rainfall, a child can sit at the edge of the deck and easily dip her feet in. I know that the lake is freezing cold, even in the summer, and the planks on the deck creak when you walk across them. The wood is weathered, and you have to be careful of splinters if your feet are bare.

I brace my hands on the bed, overwhelmed by sound and sensation:
A gentle lapping of waves against a shoreline of sand and pebbles. The distant putter of a fishing boat motor. Masculine laughter. A spray of cold water across my face. Sunshine warm on my back. My toes gritty with sand.

“I
have
been there,” I murmur.

Yes
, Iris whispers.

In the sketch of myself as a toddler that’s hidden in Dad’s workshop I’m standing with my parents on a weather-beaten dock. The same dock pictured on the Winterhaven chamber of commerce website.

“Lily? Are you here?” Mom calls from below.

“Upstairs!” I yell, then quickly erase the computer’s search history.

Afraid of something I can’t name, I swing my feet to the floor and go to her.

8

Yesterday evening, Ty called and said he’d be happy to help with the roof. For the rest of the night, I kept hearing the way his voice sounded when he said my name. And I kept remembering how he looked at me with an intense, single-minded focus when I was standing with Sylvie at the lake. Even now, I get pathetically lightheaded just thinking about it.

This morning when he pulls up in front of our cabin, I go out with Mom to introduce them. It’s even warmer today than yesterday. A hummingbird is flitting around the feeder that hangs from the porch eave. Its hyperfast wings are no match for the fluttering in my chest when Ty sees me and his mouth curves into a crooked smile.

I bite my lip and look away for a second to calm down. I don’t want to do anything stupid, like trip down the stairs.

In the yard, as Mom talks to Ty, I do my best not to check him out in an obvious way. But it isn’t easy. As pitiful as it sounds, I could stare at him all day. His hair is messy, like he forgot to comb it when he got out of bed. All I can say is, tangles look good on him—
really, amazingly good
. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, ripped jeans, and black Converse sneakers. His arms are brown and strong—not in a bulky weight-lifter way, just lean, firm muscle. I notice a small tattoo on his right bicep, but can’t make out the design without staring.

As I watch him walk around the yard peering up at the roof, it’s as if my skin catches fire. There’s just something about the way Ty moves, so loose-limbed and sure, that gets to me. He doesn’t seem to possess even an ounce of self-consciousness. Then there’s his quiet, low voice. And the way his head tilts to one side and his eyes narrow when he talks, like he’s daring you to question him. He doesn’t come across as unfriendly, just sure of himself.

“I have a couple of other people to interview later today,” Mom says to Ty as she leads him back to the front of the house.

She’s lying. He’s the only person we’ve talked to about the roofing job. I don’t call her on it, though. She’s using a cane to help her walk this morning—something I’ve never seen her do before. I didn’t even know she
owned
a cane.

Mom glances at the list of references Ty gave to her when he arrived. “I’ll get in touch with a few of these folks this afternoon and let you know tomorrow.”

“Cool,” he says, and I get the most uncanny sense that although Ty is talking to Mom, he’s as tuned in to me as I am to him. I can almost
feel
his attention being magnetically drawn toward me. “I’d really like to work for you, Mrs. Winston,” Ty continues. “I’d do a good job, and I can start right away.”

“You’re sure you’ve shingled a roof before?” Mom asks, even though Ty already told her at least twice that he has.

“My parents own rental property,” he says. “I started helping my dad with maintenance during high school, and he and I have replaced a few roofs together since then. I also did maintenance part-time on some apartments one of my professors owns.” Ty gestures at the page Mom holds. “He’s on the list. Dr. Rigsby.”

She frowns. “Why aren’t you in school anymore?”

“
Mom.
” I glare at her.

Ty isn’t fazed. “I’m going back in the fall,” he says. “My family’s been dealing with some difficulties lately, and I needed to get away.”

“You lived with your parents while you were going to college?”

“No, they live with my younger brother in Baltimore. I lived on campus.”

“Columbia. Right.” Mom analyzes him skeptically. “New York City wasn’t far enough away from your family problems?”

“Mom!” I step between them. “I’m sorry, Ty.”

“It’s okay,” he insists, but his jaw clamps tight, drawing my attention to the scar just above it on his cheek.

Mom doesn’t apologize for her rudeness. Instead, she sends me a silencing look. “How long do you plan to stay in Silver Lake, Ty?”

“I’m not sure.” He glances at me, then back to her. “I can definitely stay another week or so.” With a short laugh, he adds. “I wouldn’t get far if I left now, anyway. I’m a little short on gas money.”

“I can’t pay much.” Mom quotes a ridiculously low amount.

Ty nods. “I’m fine with that.”

“Well, then . . .” She clears her throat. I suspect she was hoping he’d reject her offer. “I’ll be in touch,” Mom says. Leaning into the cane, she walks toward his car, a not-so-subtle hint that she’s ready for him to leave.

Ty and I follow, but I ignore her monotone chatter about Dad’s tools and kneepads and nails and her instructions that, if she hires him, she’ll expect Ty to clean up and put everything away in the storage shed when he finishes each day.

Clasping my hands behind my back, I risk a sideward glance at Ty and find him watching me, too. We both smile, but I look away first, self-conscious and giddy. I can’t recall ever being so aware of another human being in my life.

The three of us pause beside Ty’s beat-up old sports car, which is faded turquoise, with double white stripes down the center of the long, narrow hood. It sits so low to the ground that I don’t know how he gets around on our rocky dirt roads. It’s great, though. It’s just like him—cool, but not trying to be.

Mom tells Ty good-bye, then heads for the cabin as he backs out of the gravel drive. Reluctantly, I follow her, pausing when Ty calls, “Hey, Lily!” I look back to find the car stopped and Ty rolling his window down.

I shoot a glance at Mom, but she concentrates on climbing the steps to the porch. “Did you forget something?” I ask Ty.

“No, I wanted to ask about your dog. Cookie, right? I was hoping I’d see him.”

“He’s inside. He’s been so lazy since he came home from the clinic that he hasn’t been good for anything,” I say jokingly, not wanting to reveal just how worried I really am about Cookie.

“He’s better, though, right?” Ty’s grimace crinkles the space between his brows in the most appealing way.

I nod. “Yeah. He’s getting there,” I say, even though I’m not really sure.

“I’m glad.” A hint of a smile plays around Ty’s lips. He rests his elbow on the opening of the window and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Hey, I was thinking . . .” He clears his throat. “Even if your mom decides not to hire me, I hope you’ll still call when you’re ready to go for coffee.”

The fluttering wings in my chest take flight, lifting me off the ground. At least that’s how I feel—like I’m floating. “I will,” I blurt out, thinking he seems a little nervous. Which is completely surprising and really sweet.

One of Ty’s brows lifts as he tilts his head to the side. “Even if your mother doesn’t think it’s a good idea?”

“She won’t care,” I assure him, although I know that isn’t true.

“After that grilling she just gave me?” He laughs, and I immediately love the sound. It’s unrestrained and without an ounce of bitterness.

Wincing, I say, “Sorry about her interrogation.”

“I don’t blame her. I’m just some strange guy she doesn’t know from Ted Bundy; she’s smart to be careful.”

“Please tell me you aren’t
that
strange,” I say, teasing. Ty laughs again, and I add, “Mom’s just extra cautious lately. Because of what happened. Don’t take it personally. I’m sure she doesn’t think you’re a serial killer.”

His face is suddenly serious and filled with compassion. I look down at my boots, struck by emotion again. One thing I’ve learned about grief—it can catch you off guard and grab you by the throat. “I promise I’ll call you,” I say, to keep from crying.

“Good,” he says. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you. ’Bye, Lily.”

“’Bye.”

He waits three heartbeats before pulling away—I count them. Three wild, pounding heartbeats while we look at each other.

Ten minutes later, I’m in the kitchen washing the breakfast dishes when Mom comes out of her bedroom. My schoolbooks are on the kitchen table. I’m going to try to get back into my routine of working in the mornings for the next few days so that I can finish, turn my lessons over to Mom, and graduate by the end of the week.

She pauses behind me. “I’m still not sure how I feel about hiring Ty.”

“Why?” I look over my shoulder at her, my hands submerged in lemon-scented bubbles. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing, except that we don’t know him. It’s only you and me now. We can’t let just anyone hang around. Besides, all that talk about his father owning rental property might be pure fabrication and he can’t even hammer a nail.”

“That’s why you check references,” I say, with just a hint of sarcasm.

Mom crosses her arms. “I don’t know his references, either.”

Drying my hands on a dish towel, I face her. “Some of them are professors at Columbia. Jeez, Mom. If you doubt
that
, I’ll check the university’s website and make sure they’re listed. Why are you so nervous and suspicious?”

“Why are
you
so adamant that we hire him? If it’s a crush, you’re setting yourself up to get hurt. You heard what he said; he’s not sticking around. He’s going back to New York soon.”

Bristling, I toss the dish towel onto the drying rack. “It isn’t a crush. And
nobody’s
permanent. Dad didn’t stick around, either, did he?”

Mom flinches, and I instantly wish that I could snatch the words back. How could I have said something so cruel? Until now, I didn’t realize how angry I am at Dad for leaving.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Tension stretches between us, wraps around us, tugging tight. The clock ticks steadily. A crow caws outside. Beneath those sounds lies the constant undercurrent of friction that I recognize as Iris. She’s nervous about everything, too, lately. Pressuring me to ask Mom about Winterhaven and Jake, to find out what’s going on. But I don’t think Iris understands Mom’s state of mind right now, how easily she might crumble.

A full minute passes before Mom walks to the coffee table and picks up her cell phone. “I’ll call his references,” she says, avoiding my scrutiny. “If everything checks out, Ty can start work in the morning.”

Ty’s references had only good things to say about him. Mom said they used words like
diligent, dependable,
and
motivated
to describe him. She’s obviously impressed, especially since one of them said that he started college on a full academic scholarship. Mom calls Ty and offers him the job.

On Tuesday he arrives at eight o’clock sharp. I’m already at the table with my work spread out in front of me, and Mom is looking over my assignment. Each time I get up to take a break or tend to Cookie, she watches me as if she thinks Ty’s a coyote and I’m a rabbit, and he’ll gobble me up.

At least monitoring my every move keeps Mom out of Dad’s workshop. She doesn’t even escape out there when Ty leaves at three o’clock after clouds move in and it starts to sprinkle.

Disappointed that I didn’t get a chance to talk to Ty before he left, I decide to go see Wyatt. I haven’t heard from him since our ride up the mountain. I don’t want him to think I’m avoiding him.

When I arrive, Wyatt’s helping Addie paint the guest room purple. Addie insists the shade is
eggplant
and scoffs each time Wyatt makes a snide remark about the color.

I grab a paintbrush and join them. While we work, Addie chatters on about everything imaginable, but Wyatt barely utters a word, which is unusual for him. I try to draw him into the conversation, without much success. More than once, I catch him watching me, or he catches me watching him, and our gazes lock for a moment before we both look away. Each time it happens, I wonder if his pulse is ticking as fast as mine.

Addie finally runs out of things to talk about and starts singing under her breath, but I’m so caught up in trying to figure out what Wyatt’s thinking that I don’t pay attention to the song. I also don’t notice purple paint dripping from my brush onto the white baseboard until it’s too late. I grab an old rag off the floor, and stoop to wipe up the mess when Iris says,
Listen
 . . .

I go still and immediately recognize the lullaby Addie is singing.
It’s the song on the music box
, I tell Iris.
You used to hum it to me at bedtime when we were little
.
It’s not so strange that Addie knows it. It’s a well-known song.

Yes
, Iris hisses
,
sounding urgent and confused.
But I remember it on a violin. Did you play it?

You know I can’t play the violin,
I silently remind her, baffled by the strange question
. It must’ve been Mom,
I say
.

Then why does the music seem to flow out of me instead of in?

She starts humming along with Addie, and suddenly the tune transforms in my mind.
Notes cry out from vibrating strings and quiver inside of me, the sound as clean and airy as morning light. A hazy image appears. A hand holding the bow as it flies across the strings. Long, feminine fingers so much like mine. Mom’s fingers when she was younger, I think, yet it’s as if I’m looking down at them like they’re my hands, not hers.