Daisy Lane (4 page)

Grace toured the second and third floors but there was nothing to do but a bit of sweeping; since no one used those empty rooms, they were never very dirty. Grace heard some baby birds chirping in a nest under the eaves at the back of a second floor bedroom. She hoped Grandpa, being a bit deaf, would not hear it and feel compelled to evict the feathered squatters.

Due to his bad arthritis, Grandpa didn’t come upstairs, so it was one place Grace could go and feel a small sense of privacy. In warmer months it was a good place to read and do homework; with windows open on either side of the house a cool breeze off the river flowed through the rooms. That same “breeze” was currently rattling the wavy glass window panes and seeping in around their frames in a steady cold draft.

‘Some day,’ Grace thought, ‘I will live in a house that is warm in the winter and cool in the summer, with as much hot water as I like whenever I like.”

As she swept she daydreamed about working for Matt Delvecchio and living in one of the apartments on Iris Avenue, where many Eldridge College students lived. She had imagined her apartment so many times that it seemed like a real place she actually visited. In this imaginary haven she had a brown and black-striped kitten named “Tiger” who curled up in her lap and purred as she sat in a deep, cushy reading chair. Beside her on an end table was a reading lamp, a plate of cookies and a big mug of hot cocoa. Nowhere in this dream did her grandfather appear. There was only blissful, peaceful silence. This was her idea of heaven.

Her reverie was interrupted by the bang of the front door being flung open and her grandfather yelling, “Grace! Come down here this instant.”

Grace’s heart pounded as she dropped her broom and hurried to the head of the stairs.

“What in tarnation is this?” he bellowed.

In his hands he held a small box tied with twine.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“It was hidden in the bushes next to the front porch,” he said. “Is this a gift from some boy? Is it from that paperboy you had over here?”

“It’s not mine,” she said as she came down the stairs. “I don’t know where it came from.”

“We’ll just see about that,” he said, glaring at her. “I know how these things start. Your mother and your aunt started the same way; sneaking around, meeting boys, hiding things.”

He used his pen knife to cut the twine and tore off the brown paper wrap. Underneath was an expensive looking gift box, and inside was a glass swan. It was iridescent, and sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows.

Grace’s grandpa made a funny noise in his throat, as if he were choking on something. His face became pale, and Grace was worried he was having one of his light-headed spells.

“Are you alright?’ she asked. “Do you want to sit down?’

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he said. “Mind your own business.”

“It’s beautiful,” Grace said.

Grandpa thrust it at her and Grace took it.

“Get that out of my sight,” he said. “If I ever see it again I’ll smash it with a hammer.”

“I wonder where it came from,” she said. “It didn’t get spoiled by the weather so it couldn’t have been out there long. Do you think that old man dropped it when he fell?”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “Don’t go putting your nose in where it doesn’t belong or somebody is liable to cut it off.”

Grandpa stomped back outside, saying, “Clean up this mess,” meaning the mud he had just tracked in on his gumboots.

Grace put the glass swan back in its box and hid it an old tin potato chip container in which she kept her savings. She kept the tin on top of the Hoosier cabinet in the butler’s pantry. Over the five years since her grandmother had died she had saved more than two hundred dollars out of the change left over from her grocery money, squirreled away a dollar or fifty cents at a time. She had spent this money a dozen different ways in her imagination, but generally she thought of it as her rainy day fund, which was what her grandmother had called her stash kept in the same place. Her grandmother had used it to pay for things that her grandfather deemed too expensive; things like notebooks, pens, and other school supplies, new underwear and shoes.

As she mopped up the muddy boot prints in the front parlor, she thought about the gift the old man must have dropped. He must have been bringing it to Mary. After she was through cleaning, she dug out one of her school notebooks from her backpack, and turned to the back, where she had written her notes about this morning. She had considered mailing the notes to Scott, or giving them to Tommy to take to Ed. Instead she now thought of them as the basis of their investigation into Nino’s life.

She had written, phonetically, as many of the words he had said that she could remember, along with the names. Maybe she could ask Matt Delvecchio for help. His father Sal spoke Italian, and maybe he could help translate. Grace liked Sal, who was small and wrinkled, had twinkly eyes, smelled like black licorice, and called her “bambina.”

She was looking forward to spending lunches in the computer lab with Tommy rather than doing her homework in the library with the nerds, or outside in the cold air with the emos and Goths, or the sleepy, friendly potheads who gathered under the football field bleachers. These socially peripheral outcasts were nice enough to her but she didn’t belong with them. She and Tommy, whom Charlotte had recently discarded for her new rich, popular friends, represented a club with membership requirements so specific they were the only two kids at school who qualified. They had barely spoken since the previous fall; now it seemed like they might be friends again.

Grace took out her homework, which she had to finish today as she was not allowed to do any work on Sunday, the Lord’s day of rest, according to her grandfather. For English class this month the assignment was
Jane Eyre
, which Grace had read but not liked. How, she wondered, could anyone be attracted to Edward Rochester, a man with such a grandpa-like temperament who also turned out to be hiding a crazy wife? Grace had had enough experience with both domineering bullies and crazy women in her short life to have developed an aversion to both, even in great literature. Grace thought Jane should have thanked her lucky stars she escaped, and then looked for another governess job somewhere, working for sane people. Grace couldn’t understand why, when Jane finally inherited enough money to take care of herself, she had gone back to find this cranky man.

Grace had already read next month’s assignment, Emma, which she also thought was depressing. Emma Woodhouse, whom her English teacher almost swooned over, seemed like a spoiled, selfish snob to her, someone who could easily cast aside her friends when it became obvious they were from very different stations in life. It was fine for Emma to toy with Harriet’s life as long as the less fortunate woman didn’t presume equality or claim entitlement to the man Emma deemed a more appropriate match for herself. Grace admired Mr. Knightly, and felt he was too good for Emma.

In class Grace would keep these opinions to herself, of course, and instead obediently parrot the interpretations and opinions that would constitute correct answers on the test. Privately Grace believed that although the clothing and manners may have changed, the class prejudices and sexist attitudes of these classic books were still well-established, even in the small town of Rose Hill, even in the twenty-first century.

Underneath her school assignments was the book she really wanted to read, also from the school library. It was the second book in the
His Dark Materials
trilogy by Phillip Pullman, titled
The Subtle Knife
. She had read the first book in the series,
The Golden Compass
, the previous week. Grace considered these the best books she had ever read, and she had read a lot of books.

The protagonist Lyra stayed with her long after she closed the cover. At night she dreamed about huge polar bear protectors. She longed for a small furry companion called a daemon who would always be with her and from whom she couldn’t bear to be parted. Lyra was someone she could relate to; a cast-off child at the mercy of grownups, a young girl who had to rely on her own wits to survive. Lyra was brave; reading her story made Grace feel brave. Grace had heard that books could do this for a person; this was the first time she had experienced it for herself.

So immersed was she in her book that she only remembered the wet laundry when she heard her grandfather walking up the back stairs. Heart pounding, she tossed the book toward her backpack and raced to the kitchen, where she hurriedly took out the damp clothes, flung them in a basket, and ran to the back hallway to hang them on the clothesline strung there. She heard him open the door to the screened porch and then kick off his rubber boots. She was pinning the last damp shirt as he opened the door to the back hallway from the screened porch. She tried to seem unhurried, as if she had not been behind schedule at all, but he could not be fooled.

“Had your nose stuck in a book I suppose,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she said, “for school.”

“I hate to think what they’re teaching you up there that you feel entitled to sass me and defy my wishes.”

Grace knew better than to argue that she never sassed him or defied his wishes; his saying so was just like the awful glue traps he set for the mice in the cellar.

“As soon as you’re sixteen you’ll leave school and take over some of my work,” he said. “I could use the help and you can finally earn your keep. One of these days I’ll be too crippled to do any work and you’ll have to take care of me. That’s what children do.”

Grace felt as if her heart had stopped. It had never occurred to her that he would take her out of school or that she would be stuck here forever. Tears stung her eyes; she blinked hard to keep them from falling.

“I suppose you want to stay in school,” he said.

“I do,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Well, don’t go to pieces,” he said. “I’ll let you finish out this year.”

Grace couldn’t speak, so overcome was she by horror at what he had envisioned for her.

“You go on and see to supper,” he said. “Call me when it’s ready.”

Luckily, after supper he took no more notice of her, only paid a visit to the bathroom and then retired to his room to listen to the evening news on his radio. As soon as his bedroom door closed Grace fled to the pantry off the kitchen and crouched down at the very back, in the corner. Her grandmother’s apron hung nearby and she wadded it up against her face and cried into it, smothering the sound. It still smelled like her grandmother, a mixture of cleaning products and medicated powder.

It was her grandmother who had planted the seed in Grace’s mind that she could escape as soon as she graduated from high school. At eighteen, her grandmother had told her, Grace would be free to do as she pleased. This point in the future had been a beacon of hope. With one short declaration her grandfather had snuffed out that light. What was the point in going on, she thought, in trying to learn or do anything, when she would just end up an over-pruned sapling damaged beyond repair by stunted growth?

A dark thought entered her head and she allowed herself to consider it. It overwhelmed her with sadness, but at the same time it seemed like it might offer relief. If she were lucky, she might be able to be with her grandmother; if she were not, she might end up wherever it was her mother had gone, which was probably not a pleasant place. She thought of the blissful look on Nino’s face as he spoke to whomever it was who had arrived to escort him into death. She imagined her grandmother coming for her, hugging her, telling her everything would be alright.

‘How would I do it?’ she wondered.

‘What would Lyra do?’

The thought popped into her head seemingly without her producing it.

‘What would Lyra do?’

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose while she considered this. She wished she had a giant polar bear to protect her, a small furry friend to devotedly love her, a compass that told her the truth about every situation, and a boy named Will to team up with.

She thought of Tommy. They were not close friends; he had always just been the boy who had a big unrequited crush on her ex-friend Charlotte, her friend since kindergarten. The two of them had been more like satellites revolving around the same planet than friends. Could he be her Will? It was dangerous to trust anyone, but maybe if she was brave like Lyra she could find a way out of her predicament.

‘If I’m desperate enough to kill myself,’ she reasoned, ‘I’m desperate enough to try to change things instead.’

Grace left her dark thoughts behind her in the pantry with her grandmother’s apron. They would still be there where she could find them later, but first she would be brave and try to save herself.

Scott entered Little Bear Books and scanned the room for Maggie. He caught sight of her red curly hair and felt butterflies in his stomach; he’d fallen in love with her a long time ago but she still had this effect on him. She was helping a child pick out books from a stack on the floor. Scott thought the little girl was probably around seven years old, and Maggie was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her, her long curly hair draped back over her shoulders. Maggie’s facial expression was soft and kind. A twinkly smile played about her eyes and lips. The little girl’s expression as she looked up into Maggie’s face was wide-eyed and earnest.

‘She’s not as fierce as she’d like everyone to think,’ he thought to himself. ‘Look how good she is with children.’

This reminded Scott that he would never be able to give Maggie children, which transformed the scene into something a little more bittersweet. Never totally convinced of her commitment to their renewed relationship, he was always looking for the thing that would derail it. They hadn’t talked about this particular issue, but then Scott wasn’t looking for ways to rock their leaky boat.

Although he had once been married to someone else and Maggie had lived with a good friend of his, there had always been a special place in his heart for Maggie Fitzpatrick. She may have a red hot temper and way of speaking her mind that continually got her in hot water, but her passion for life and her love of family and friends reflected her better nature. He had known for several years that she was the only one for him; it had taken her a lot longer to come around to this particular point of view.

Three years earlier he had issued an ultimatum that she rejected, and they had been estranged until recently. A few weeks earlier, when Scott’s mother lay dying of cancer, it was Maggie he wanted by his side. One night, in desperation and pain, he had called her, and to his amazement and relief she came running. They hadn’t discussed it, or made any public declarations, but they hadn’t spent one night apart since then.

In a haze of grief for the first week after his mother died, Scott had clung to Maggie like a drowning man to a lifeboat. She and her large extended family had taken care of all the details surrounding the funeral and burial. Surrounded by Fitzpatricks, Scott had allowed himself to be borne along like a leaf on a river.

All that was left to do was clean out his mother’s house, which Scott insisted he had to do himself, yet every time he went there he turned around and left. Maggie, who argued with people like others breathed, had been patient, kind, and compassionate throughout. Scott, who had not thought it possible that he could love Maggie any more than he already did, was convinced anew that she was the best woman in the world, and the only one for him.

The mother of the little girl Maggie was conversing with retrieved her and thanked Maggie. As Maggie caught sight of Scott she at first smiled sweetly, then scowled and stuck out her tongue. Scott laughed.

“My mother said to tell you she missed you at church,” she said as she approached.

“I went,” Scott said. “I just couldn’t go inside.”

“You didn’t miss much,” Maggie said. “Hannah came but had to leave when Sammy started screaming for her from the nursery. Big surprise.”

“Maybe next week,” he said.

“What are you up to today?”

“I’m trying to find out who the old guy was who died on the Branduff’s front porch,” he said. “No identification on him. All I have is a bus ticket to go by and an old letter. His name was Nino Vincenzo, he spoke Italian, and his trip originated in Sardinia, Italy.”

“Paid for with a credit card?”

“Cash,” Scott said.

“Sounds like he didn’t want anyone to know who he was.”

“The Italian Embassy is less than interested in helping,” Scott said. “The FBI says unless he committed a crime they are not interested.”

“Call Congressman Green or Senator Bayard,” Maggie said. “This is an election year; they should be happy to help as long as it gets in the paper.”

“Cynic,” Scott said.

“Realist,” Maggie said.

“Putting it in the paper is a good idea,” Scott said. “I’ll talk to Ed about writing about it in The
Sentinel
.”

“For all five people who read it.”

“He also writes for the Pendleton paper,” Scott said. “Plus his ex-wife is somebody important on the all-news channel now.”

“Eve the Aggrieved,” Maggie said. “Did she ever divorce him?”

“No,” Scott said. “We don’t talk about that.”

“Of course not,” Maggie said. “Feelings are like cooties to you boys.”

“I would love to talk to you about my feelings,” Scott said.

“Do we have to?” Maggie said.

“See?” Scott said. “You’re allergic to cooties, yourself.”

“Spoke Italian, huh?” she said.

“Changing the subject, huh?” he said.

“You may want to talk to Sal Delvecchio,” Maggie said. “His father came over here more than a hundred years ago. Sal might remember the name if it was one of the Italian families who immigrated to Rose Hill in order to work.”

“Good idea,” Scott said.

“I’ve got to get going,” Maggie said. “I have homework.”

“What class is this?”

“American Poets of the early 20th Century,” she said.

“All the passions, loves, beauties, and delights of the earth,” Scott said.

“You just quoted Walt Whitman,” Maggie said. “Who are you?”

“I keep telling you I have depths to my soul that you have not yet plumbed,” Scott said. “I’m not just a pretty face.”

“What’s the rest of it?” she said.

“That’s all I remember,” Scott said. “My mother said it was a dirty poem and called Miss Phipps to complain about it.”

“I bet Miss Phipps gave her an ear full.”

“She did, but she also suggested I tackle Robert Frost instead.”

“Do you remember any of his poetry?”

“I only had to memorize one poem to recite,” Scott said. “So I picked the shortest one I could find. It was called Fireflies in the Garden.”

“Go ahead,” Maggie said. “I’m waiting.”

A staff member interrupted their conversation to ask Maggie a question, so Scott took this as his opportunity to leave.

“Gotta run,” he said. “See ya later.”

“I will have that poem,” Maggie called out after him. “So you better practice.”

Scott walked down Rose Hill Avenue and crossed the street to the Bee Hive Hair Salon, where Maggie’s cousin, Claire Fitzpatrick, was working. Recently retired from her globe-hopping career as the private hair stylist to a famous Hollywood actress, she had returned home to help her mother, Delia, care for her father, Ian, who was suffering from the effects of several small strokes.

When he entered the Bee Hive he found Claire was alone, sitting in the hydraulic chair with her feet up on the counter, reading a tabloid magazine while listening to loud music. Scott turned down the volume on her stereo in order to get her attention.

“Hey, Scott,” she said, putting her feet back on the floor. “Need a haircut?”

“Who is that singing?” he asked her.

“Patty Griffin,” she said. “Like it?”

“She has a beautiful voice,” he said. “Yes, I do like it. Have you seen her in concert?”

“Yep,” she said. “She’s one of my touchstones. I can always remember where I was and what I was doing when each of her albums was released. This song reminds me of a film shoot in Paris where I finally decided to quit my job. It only took me six more years to do it, but still … what do you like to listen to?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I listen to whatever Patrick’s playing in the Thorn, or country music on the radio in the squad car, but that’s about it.”

“I love the old bluegrass and Irish fiddle music, too,” Claire said. “But there’s so much good stuff out there. Listening to new music makes me feel like the best might still be ahead of me, you know?”

“I will listen to anything you recommend,” Scott said.

“I’ll put together a playlist for you. Remember when we used to make mix-tapes? Now every piece of music I own is on my phone,” Claire said. “Come over here and let me shampoo you.”

Once seated in the shampoo chair, Scott surrendered his head to Claire’s magical massaging fingers. He closed his eyes and listened to her quietly sing along with the music. It was very relaxing. He felt warm and cozy here, and her fingers were making firm circles on his scalp. His mind wandered.

“Scott,” Claire said, and woke him up.

“Sorry,” Scott said as he sat up. “I’m working way too many hours right now.”

“I heard some man died down at Branduff’s’,” Claire said.

Scott walked over to the hydraulic chair, sat down, and Claire unfurled a silky cape around his neck and shoulders. He gave her all the background on the case, and mentioned he wanted Ed to put an article in one of the papers.

“Did Ed tell you we’re running every morning?” she asked him.

“He said you run three miles and he runs one mile and then has heart palpitations.”

“He’s coming along,” Claire said. “Those two dogs of his need the exercise. Hank sticks with Ed, but Lucida could easily run six miles.”

“Maggie’s been trying to get me to walk with her,” Scott said. “I just haven’t.”

“Things still good there?” Claire asked.

“Yes, at least I think so,” Scott said. “Has Maggie talked to you about it?”

“Not much,” Claire said. “There were those rumors about you and me, you know.”

“Sorry about that,” Scott said. “And for anything I did to start them.”

“A kiss and a hug between friends is nothing,” Claire said. “Don’t think twice about it. Everyone knows you and Maggie belong together. It just took her awhile to realize it.”

“Gabe may have disappeared,” Scott said, “but they didn’t find a body; he could come back.”

“He won’t come within a hundred miles of Rose Hill,” Claire said. “Besides, Maggie made it clear to him that she did not want him back.”

“I should never have given her that ultimatum.”

“Nope,” Claire said. “But it all worked out in the end.”

“I hope so,” Scott said. “I’m afraid if I propose she’ll kick me out on my rear.”

“I wouldn’t just yet,” Claire said. “No hurry, though, right?”

“It’s hard not to want more,” Scott said.

“My advice is just to take your time, enjoy being together, and be thankful for what you have,” Claire said.

“She’s so fierce on the outside,” Scott said. “But she’s got the biggest heart.”

“I know,” Claire said. “Just don’t let that get around.”

“Why is she like that, do you think?”

“Well, you know her mother, Bonnie,” Claire said. “But you didn’t know Bonnie’s mother-in-law, Grandma Rose. She was hateful. Bonnie and Rose couldn’t stand each other but worked side-by-side in the bakery every day for years. Maggie grew up right there in the middle of those two; it was probably just self-defense.”

“Do you think Maggie wants kids?” Scott said.

“Oh, I think Maggie could be happy either way,” Claire said softly.

“I don’t know if you know it …” Scott started to say, but Claire put a hand on his shoulder.

“I know,” she said. “Don’t let that stop you. Maggie loves you, and you’re together now. Just let that be enough.”

“I hope it is,” Scott said.

After dinner Grace told her grandfather she had to go to the library to use their computer. He grumbled but allowed it on the condition that she was home before dark. Seeing that dark came around 9:00 p.m. these days, Grace had plenty of time to do some research with Tommy.

After an interior debate and with major trepidation, she decided to take her notes about the man who died to Scott at the police station. The deputy on duty said Scott was not in so Grace gave her notes to him.

Grace left the station and crossed the street to meet up with Tommy at the corner of Rose Hill Avenue and Peony Street. He had his bike with him, and he pushed it up the hill as they walked together. Up ahead, sitting on the wall outside the Rose Hill Community Center, were three women who turned and watched them approach. Grace recognized the tall red-headed one, who was Maggie Fitzpatrick, and the little blondish-brown-headed one, who was Sammy’s mother Hannah Campbell, but not the tall thin one with long dark hair. They all waved.

Tommy took one hand off his bicycle to wave back at them, and as he did so the front tire of his bike rolled into the sewer drain next to the curb in the street. When he attempted to pull the bike out, it became entangled in his jacket and backpack, which had fallen off the shoulder. He fell over, tangled up and flailing.

Maggie rolled her eyes and shook her head, Hannah laughed out loud and pointed, but the dark-haired one jumped up and came running to assist, saying, “Are you okay?” Grace immediately decided she liked this one best.