Glancing left and right,
I crunched across the frozen weeds to the abandoned children’s home. I could
not afford to be spotted now. If only I could take a few seconds and snap some
pictures. The light from the early December sunset was perfect. Gashes of
blood-red light seeped through the clotted clouds, creating an ominous
background for the gray stone building that was rumored to be the scene of a
murder.
At the back wall of the home, I slung the strap for my
camera across my chest and climbed through an opening that once held a window.
I dropped to the bare ground, my long, dark gold braid catching on a loose nail
in the sill. I disentangled myself and crossed the dirt floor. The fire had burned
the wooden floor away. And the roof and the whole interior. The four stone
walls loomed above me like a medieval fortress as the sunset’s rays spotlighted
sections of the garbage-strewn floor.
I knelt by a large fireplace, straining to detect any
sound of psychics, ghost hunters, or thrill-seeking high school kids who had
come to catch sight of the ghost of Bella Rydell.
Nothing but a few caws from crows and sighs as gusts
of wind sailed through the empty window frames.
A lonely place. Very lonely, stuck on twenty acres of
unused county land.
Shaking off a shiver, I unzipped my down vest and
removed the two roses. I laid them on the rusty iron grate of the fireplace.
These would start everyone in the county talking
again.
I retraced my path to the window opening, hoisted
myself onto the sill, then sat suspended, my right leg swaying.
What was that?
Scrutinizing the naked trees, black against the
dimming sun, I held my breath.
Wind. Just wind, rattling the dried-up weeds. No
people.
Exhaling, I landed on the brittle grass and ran into
the woods. As I approached my battered, black truck, I took a few pictures. If
someone spotted me, I could say, with halfway honesty, I was out here capturing
the sunset.
An hour later, in my one-room apartment over Mrs.
Blaney’s garage, I warmed my hands around a mug of tea and stared at three
wrinkled envelopes.
Jason Carlisle. Walter R. Malinowski IV. Terence
O’Neil.
Those names on the envelopes were burned into my
brain.
I set down my mug, picked up my phone, and scrolled through
photos until I found my favorite. My mom and I stood on a beach in North
Carolina. She was in front since she didn’t even come to my shoulder. Her brown
hair had grown back long enough to mousse and brush back, and her cheeks had
filled out so the bones didn’t look razor sharp. I touched her beaming smile.
Mom,
I will do what you want. I promised. But I’ve got to do it my own way.
Since I’d placed the first pair of roses in the grate
on Halloween night, I’d gotten to know the men attached to the names a little
better.
But I still didn’t know which one was my father.
Or which one tried to murder my mother twenty years
ago.
Or if my father and her attacker were one and the
same.
Purchase link: Christmas Fiction off the Beaten Path
Chapter 1
I’M
NOT FOOLED, RAE. YOU’RE JUST LIKE YOUR MOTHER.
I
stared at the sheet of copier paper in my hand as the note fluttered in a gust
of January wind.
Really?
It had only taken three weeks for someone to hate me and my mom enough to leave
an anonymous insult?
Turning
over the envelope, I saw my address was written in the same marker, same all-caps style. It was
postmarked. I must have missed it when I grabbed my mail last night.
Shivering
on the miniscule landing to my apartment, I blew out a sigh, which formed a
little cloud in the freezing air. At least the idiot hadn’t crept up to my
mailbox in the dead of night. I shivered again, and it wasn’t from another
gust.
People
could hold a grudge in Marlin County, Ohio. I’d learned that in the last three
weeks since I discovered Mal was my dad and announced Bella Rydell was my
mother. The strained smiles, cold stares, conversations that didn’t get much
past “hello” and “I’m fine.” Mom had made a lot of enemies, but that was twenty
years ago. I’d told everyone who asked the story of how she’d been saved and changed
her life. Well, most of it.
I
shoved the piece of paper back in the envelope, tossed it inside my apartment,
and locked the door behind me.
Holding
my tripod and a roll of leftover bulletin board paper in one hand, I clutched
the strap of my backpack with the other and climbed down the icy steps to the
pad in front of the garage. Picking my way across Mrs. Blaney’s snow-covered
lawn, I pulled the keys to my ancient truck from the pocket of my down vest.
The Rust Bucket sat by the curb, draped in a thin layer of snow that couldn’t
disguise its demolition derby appearance.
After
ten cranks of the key, the engine caught. I grabbed the gear shift, and it
didn’t move. Not a millimeter. I hit the steering wheel. Not this morning.
Why this morning?
I
fished my phone out of the other vest pocket and checked the time. If I walked
fast and ran where it was safe on the slick pavement, I’d still make it to the
library on time. Although Mal had shown me how, I still couldn’t unjam the
gears without someone helping.
Grabbing
my backpack, and leaving the paper and tripod behind, I slammed out of the
truck. Some snow fell off. I wouldn’t have been surprised if both bumpers had too.
Avoiding
the slick sidewalk, I ran along the edges of the yards, heading
uphill to Main Street. In
Marlin County, if you weren’t going uphill, you were going downhill, sort of a
scaled down version of the West Virginia county Mom and I had lived in when I
was in middle school.
The
sun shone ice white in a clear sky so blue it looked like an illustration in a
hyper-cheerful picture book. But despite the sun’s dazzling appearance, not an
ounce of warmth made it to the hilly streets. I pulled my scarf over my mouth
and nose and held my arms tight against my sides. Maybe I should have taken Mal
up on his offer to buy me a proper winter coat.
I
zipped my vest to my chin. I hadn’t spent the past seven months figuring out
who my father was and if he had tried to murder my mom when she was pregnant
with me so I could live off of him. I was nineteen. I’d been on my own pretty
much since Mom’s last round with cancer. If I froze to the bone because my jean
jacket and vest only kept me warm above fifty degrees, fine with me. Nobody in
Marlin County was going to accuse me of being a manipulator. That’s what a lot
of people thought the daughter of Bella Rydell would be like.
Whoever
sent the note thought manipulation was an inherited trait.
My
left boot hit a slippery spot. I flung out my arms, steadying myself. With my
camera only wrapped in a towel in my backpack, I didn’t want to fall. Avoiding
broken bones was a good idea too.
At
the top of the hill, I passed the sandstone courthouse, decorated in icicles
like a giant wedding cake, glittering in the piercing sunlight. No time for a
photo shoot, although if I could capture the way the icicles glistened, it
could look like an ice castle in a fairy tale without any filters or photo
editing.
I
crossed Main Street, striped with white streaks of salt, followed Woodward
Avenue down along the side of the library, and turned into the parking lot.
Jill
Cerda, second-in-command and my boss when the library director wasn’t working,
tromped over to the employees’ entrance through piles of snow, her unzipped
coat flapping in the wind, her fine, graying hair dancing around her face. The
cold must not have bothered her. She had plenty of insulation—at least 200
pounds packed onto a body that was a lot shorter than my five-eleven.
I
assembled my professional smile, friendly but not too familiar. “Morning.”
The
slight tilt of her head might have been a nod back. Jill punched in the code on
the security keypad and sauntered inside. I hurried in as fast as I could
without running her over. Lowering my scarf, I drew in a deep breath of
unfrozen air, and my lungs appreciated it.
Jill
glanced at her phone. “Leandra is late.”
“She’s
not working today, ma’am. Leandra and Devon switched morning shifts, and Devon
won’t get here until after her girls head to school.”
“I
wasn’t informed of the switch.” Jill made a scolding noise with her tongue.
“Did they clear it with Barb?”
“I’m
sure they did, ma’am.” I took off my hat and fluffed my tangle of dark gold
hair.
“That
means you’re opening alone.” Jill aimed a finger at me. “You can’t goof off.
Keep your mind on your work.”
A
protest came to my lips, but I clamped them shut. Better to say nothing and get
away from her.
In
silence, we walked down the hall to the employees’ kitchen, flipping on lights
along the way. Three weeks ago, she wouldn’t have spoken to me like that. Since
she’d found out who my mom was, she hadn’t had a nice word for me.
I
hung up my coat on a rack, changed from boots to loafers, and put my lunch in
the fridge. From my backpack, I took out two books on photography I had to
return. I placed my backpack inside an empty cupboard. Leaving it by the coat
rack seemed a certain way to get my camera broken.
When
I entered the two-story lobby, the brilliant sunshine pouring through the tall,
narrow windows that faced Main Street almost made the overhead lighting
unnecessary. The harsh ceiling fixtures lit the room in a consistent, ugly
glare, killing the homey atmosphere the fireplace, overstuffed chairs, and
couch gave to the stacks and racks of books, magazines, and newspapers. But I
switched them on as part of opening procedures and smiled when they made almost
no difference.
Behind
the checkout desk, I turned on the computers and pushed the bin with items
patrons had dropped off overnight from the slot in the front wall. As I bent
over, my hair tried to blind me, and I lifted it up and back. So, it was going
to be one of those days when my hair was out to get me. Unless I braided it or
secured it somehow, I could never be sure it wouldn’t turn on me.
I
lifted a mass of books and DVDs from the bin. Could Jill have sent the
anonymous note? It didn’t seem like something a person in her fifties would do.
She would have been in her thirties when Mom lived here and preyed on any guy
with a decent bank account. Had Mom had an affair with Jill’s husband? But the
unsigned note indicated someone afraid of revealing his or her true feelings.
Jill had no problem showing me how much she disliked me.
I
had almost finished scanning in the materials when Devon Majors and her two
daughters, bundled to their eyes, rushed past the windows. I got the keys from
the drawer, went to the inner doors, unlocked them, crossed the tiny room with
the mat —what was the special name for this little room?—and opened the outer
doors.
Devon
waved to Liberty and Serenity as they trudged down Main Street. She ducked
inside and tugged off her knit hat. The sides of her long, dark brown hair were
pulled back in a series of braids, revealing the studs that lined the edges of
her ears and a glimpse of the vivid feathered serpent tattooed on the back of
her neck, while the rest of her hair poured over her shoulders like molasses.
“Rae.”
Jill’s heavy voice dropped from the balcony overlooking the lobby. “Have you
pulled the items for the hold shelf?”
“Just
about to print the list.” I hurried behind the desk.
“You
haven’t even printed it?” Jill sounded outraged, like I’d let the toddlers in
Storytime make a collage with broken glass.
“Rae’s
working alone this morning.” Devon looked up to Jill, shrugging out her red
parka. “I just got here.”
“I
know that.” She planted meaty hands on the black metal railing. “I’m not sure
the library can afford to have you come in after your daughters go to school,
Devon. Perhaps you’ll have to stick to the regular schedule like the rest of
us.”
A
fire leaped into Devon’s forest green eyes. She might have been more than half
a foot shorter than I was, but she never looked small, especially when she was
mad.
She
glared up at Jill. “Don’t you think—”
“Here’s
the list.” I waved the sheets. “We’ll get the items pulled and set aside in no
time, ma’am.”
“You’d
better.” Jill disappeared into the shelves of nonfiction adult books, the
floorboards creaking under her footsteps.
Devon
tossed a braid behind her shoulder. “I owe you. I was about to tell Jill what I
thought of her, and I can’t afford to lose my job.”
One
of the million things I liked about Devon was that she didn’t filter her words
or her feelings. I also liked that although she was thirty- two, she treated me
like a friend, not a kid. The only real friend I’d made in the county before I
discovered who my father was and that I had about 6,000 relatives.
“I
can’t afford for you to lose your job either.” I handed her half of the list.
“You’re one of the few people around here who doesn’t care that I’m the
daughter of Bella Rydell.”
“Don’t
let Jill, or anybody else, get you down.” She glanced at the sheets. “Everyone
will get used to the truth about you, and most of them won’t care. But that’s
one of the problems of living in a small town or a rural county like Marlin.
There’s not a lot of new blood moving in. It gives people time to hold on to
old wrongs.”
“Mom and I usually lived in small towns. It
was cheaper and safer than the city. But it was hard getting accepted.”
“Wellesville
is better than most in that area. I wasn’t sure how people would react to two
little girls who were half Native American in a county that’s ninety percent
white. When Shayne and I were traveling around the country, we never knew when
someone would take offense to his non- white bread looks. But, except for a few
losers, no one has made any nasty comments. The kids at school think it’s
cool.”
Devon
stepped closer and added, “Give it time, Rae. It’ll get better.”
I
rolled the hem of my sweater. “I don’t like how people treat Mal because of me.
Even people at church. I don’t want to cause him trouble.” “Your dad knew what
a storm he’d stir up if he acknowledged you. He’s an adult. He can take it.”
I
hoped she was right. I prayed she was right. Since early Christmas morning,
when Mal and I figured out he
was the only one who could be my dad out of the three men my mother had told me
were possible candidates, getting to know him and his family had gone better
than anything I had imagined.
My
stomach tensing, I swallowed hard.
I
didn’t want to mess things up now.
Purchase Link: A Shadow on the Snow
In the book, Blessed
are the Misfits, Brant Hansen, Star 93.3 radio DJ, poses the question,
"Can a person have depression and joy at the same time?" That got me
to thinking, can we invite joy into our hearts during the holidays, regardless
of our circumstances or our feelings? Can I be joyful during the holidays even
when....png)
