Second Child Part 3

Pulling off a length of thread, she expertly slid its end through the eye of a needle, then began to work.

Her fingers moving quickly, she began to reset the right sleeve into the body of the dress. The needle flashed up and down, each st.i.tch tiny and perfectly even.

Oblivious to her surroundings, she worked steadily and silently in the flickering light of the oil lamp.

The hours pa.s.sed, but her fingers never tired, and her arms never ached from holding the material.

For it was not truly Melissa who worked through those endless hours. Not Melissa, but some other child, who sewed steadily in the silence of the night until the first rays of sun began to creep up out of the sea. Then, her work completed, she allowed herself to sleep.

Cora Peterson woke promptly at five-thirty the next morning, just as she had nearly every day of her life. She dressed, then made her bed, glancing uneasily out her bedroom window every now and then, looking across the yard and up at the closed windows of Melissa's room. She thought about breaking her normal routine and going directly to the main house to see if Melissa was all right.

Certainly, she hadn't looked all right last night, when she'd been unable to finish her supper. The poor child's nerves had been strung tight as a violin string, and her face had looked positively drawn. But perhaps she'd simply been tired, Cora thought, and forgotten to reopen her windows when she'd gone to bed. After all, there hadn't been any trouble at all so far this summer, and so the housekeeper decided not to worry about it.

She finished making her bed, and rapped sharply on Tag's door before going downstairs to fix their breakfast. Of course, it would be a lot easier for her to make their breakfasts in the big kitchen of the main house, but the second Mrs. Holloway-she still thought of Phyllis that way, even after all these years-had her rules, and one was that the staff cooked for themselves.

"The staff," Cora snorted to herself as she began scrambling half a dozen eggs. Just like there were a lot of footmen and maids, and maybe even a butler around. Well, that had been a couple of generations back, and even Cora, at seventy-three, could barely remember those days. Now it was nothing more than a weekly cleaning crew coming in, with she herself making do from one day to the next. Still, she didn't mind. After all, she'd been taking care of Charles Holloway since the day he was born, and she'd go on taking care of him and his children as long as she had a breath left in her.

Thinking about Charles brought back Polly, and for a moment Cora thought she might cry. But that wouldn't do any good at all, and if there was one thing Cora prided herself on, it was her own practicality. No, she mustn't dwell on Polly at all. Instead, she would start thinking about Teri coming home.

A bedroom would have to be chosen for her-maybe the nice sunny one at the northeast corner, which looked straight out over the cove.

She paused. What was she thinking of? It wasn't a baby who was coming back to Secret Cove in a few days. It was a teenage girl. A girl who would certainly want to decide for herself which room she wanted.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Tag, wearing only a pair of worn-out cutoff jeans, loped into the kitchen and sprawled on the chair. Cora eyed his clothes archly. "You planning to take another day off?" she asked.

Tag shook his head. "I'm gonna work in the vegetable garden. Mrs. Holloway won't even see me."

Cora grunted, and put a plate of food in front of her grandson, wondering, not for the first time, where his personality had come from. Certainly not from her son, who had spent almost every day of his childhood wiggling out of whatever task she a.s.signed him. And not from his mother, either, who, as far as Cora had been able to tell, had spent most of her time in the tavern where Kirk Peterson had met her. The two of them had taken off while Tag was still an infant, leaving the baby with her "for a couple of weeks." The weeks had stretched into months, and then years. So she'd raised Tag herself, and been pleased to find that her grandson was turning out exactly the way her son hadn't. He worked hard, never seemed to get angry at anybody, and regarded the world with a sunny disposition that Cora thought he must have invented himself, since he hadn't gotten it from anywhere else. Now, putting her own plate on the table, she glanced again at his disreputable cutoffs. "Well, if she tells you to change into pants and a shirt, don't say I didn't warn you."

Tag grinned impishly. "Come on, Grandma. You really think Mrs. H would show up in the vegetable garden? I bet she doesn't even know where it is."

Cora's brows rose slightly. She thought she should say something about respect for their employer, but changed her mind. After all, Tag was right. Ever since she'd married Charles Holloway, Phyllis Martin had carefully avoided any reminder of her own humble origins; a farm somewhere in Pennsylvania, Cora believed. A farm, as far as Cora could tell, was nothing but an oversized vegetable garden, and certainly the high and mighty Mrs. Holloway wouldn't go anywhere near it. "Well, all right, but if she catches you dressed like that, don't say I didn't warn you."

"I won't," Tag promised, then picked up his plate and took it to the sink, where he began washing the dishes. Cora stacked her own breakfast dishes on the sink, gave Tag a quick hug, then headed toward the main house to start her day. But as she crossed the lawn, she once more noticed Melissa's closed bedroom windows. Entering the house, she didn't even stop at the kitchen, but went directly to the second floor and opened Melissa's door without knocking.

As she'd feared, Melissa was not in her bed.

Cora climbed the stairs to the attic slowly, joints aching as she pulled herself up the steep flight and paused at the top to catch her breath. The attic gloom was only partially relieved by the sunlight filtering in through the dormers. She wove through the clutter, pausing at the door to the tiny room beneath one of the gables. At last, taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open.

Curled up on the dusty sofa, sound asleep, was Melissa. "Oh, baby," Cora whispered almost silently. "Not again."

She went to the sofa, lowered herself down, and gently began waking Melissa, taking care not to startle her. At last Melissa's eyes fluttered slightly, then opened. For a moment she smiled up at Cora, but then the smile faded as she realized where she was.

Gasping, she sat up straight, her eyes darting around the tiny room. Finally she faced Cora, her face pale with fear. "Don't tell Mother," she begged. "Please?"

Cora took Melissa's hand gently in her own. "Now, Missy, you know I have to tell your mother. If you're going to be walking in your sleep again, she has to know. You could hurt yourself."

"But I've only done it once this summer," Melissa pleaded. "I won't do it again-I promise! Please don't tell Mama. Please?"

Cora rose to her feet, drawing Melissa along with her. "Well, now, let's just get you back to your bed, and we'll think about this later, all right?"

Melissa bit her lip but nodded, and let Cora lead her back through the jumble of castoffs that cluttered the attic floor. A few moments later she was back in her own room and Cora was tucking her in bed. "Now you sleep for a couple more hours," the housekeeper told her. "You just get your rest and don't worry about anything. What happened wasn't your fault, and your mother won't blame you. She just wants to help you."

Cora gently kissed Melissa's forehead, then, before leaving, opened the windows to let the room fill with the fresh morning air.

When she was alone, Melissa lay in bed trying to remember what had happened last night. Slowly, it came back to her.

Her mother had come in and been angry with her. In fact, she'd been so angry that she'd torn up her pink organdy dress. And then she'd slapped her. After that Melissa didn't remember anything at all.

For after that, D'Arcy had come to help her, as D'Arcy always came to help when her mother was angry at her.

She lay in bed for a few more moments, and her mind went back to the dress. She got up and went to the closet, hesitating only a second before pulling the door open.

The dress was hanging neatly on a hanger.

Melissa stared at it for a moment. Had she been wrong? Had her mother not come in at all? Had she imagined the whole thing?

At last, her hands trembling, she reached out and took the dress off the hanger. Turning the seams inside out, she examined them care fully.

Some of them looked perfectly normal. But others-the ones that held the sleeves on, and the one up the bodice-were different.

The st.i.tches were tiny and perfect, but the thread was a few shades different from the dress itself.

She smiled, then glanced up at the ceiling. "Thank you, D'Arcy," she whispered. "Thank you for mending it for me."

CHAPTER 4.

"For heaven's sake, Cora! What are you doing?" Phyllis Holloway's sharp voice startled the housekeeper, and the paring knife in her hand clattered into the sink.

Her eyes automatically flicked to the large clock on the wall: it was only nine-thirty, at least half an hour before Mrs. Holloway made her usual appearance in the kitchen. She picked up the knife, set it on the drain board, then turned to face her employer. "I thought I'd make an apple pie," she offered. "You know how Melissa loves my pies."

Phyllis's lips tightened. "After her behavior yesterday, I hardly think she deserves a treat, does she?" Cora, knowing the question was purely rhetorical, said nothing. "And you have better things to do than make pies today, don't you?" Phyllis went on.

Cora's brows rose and she quickly reviewed what she'd already done that morning. Melissa's breakfast had already been finished and the dishes washed, and Mrs. Holloway's pot of coffee had been waiting in her room as usual. Downstairs, the last of the mess from the party had been cleared away, and every room thoroughly dusted. Then she thought she understood. "I was holding off on the vacuuming," she explained. "I didn't want to disturb you."

"And that was very considerate of you," Phyllis replied, relenting slightly. "But it was Teri I was thinking of. It seems to me we ought to start getting her room ready."

Cora felt a wave of relief flow over her as she realized she was going to be spared one of her employer's tirades over some minor detail she had overlooked. "I've been thinking about that," she said. "I thought maybe the corner room in the east wing..." Her voice trailed off as she saw the dark look that immediately came into Phyllis's eyes.

"The east wing?" Phyllis repeated. "But that's the guest wing, with all the best views. No, I was thinking about the room next to Melissa's."

Cora's brows knit in puzzlement. Melissa's room was in the corner of the south wing, and there was nothing next to it except the small nurse's room, connected to it by a bath. "Well, I don't know," Cora began. "It's awfully small-"

But Phyllis didn't let her finish. "We'll go up and take a look at it."

"Yes, ma'am," Cora murmured. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, then followed Phyllis through the butler's pantry and dining room into the large foyer. Upstairs, they turned to the right, and a moment later stepped into the small chamber that adjoined Melissa's large and airy room. Cora looked around doubtfully. The room was spa.r.s.ely furnished with only a small daybed, a worn bureau against one wall, a table in front of its single window, and an old wooden rocking chair. Covering the hardwood floor was a threadbare oriental rug that Cora knew had originally been in one of the guest rooms, but which had been consigned to this room when it had been deemed too frayed for further use.

Except in the servants' quarters.

"It-Well, it's kinda small, isn't it?" Cora asked, then regretted the question as Phyllis's impatient eyes fastened on her.

"This was my room once, Cora," she reminded the housekeeper. "I don't recall complaining about its size at all."

And you didn't stay in it long, either, Cora thought darkly to herself. When she spoke, she was careful to keep her voice neutral. "I was just thinking that for a teenager, with all her clothes and things, maybe we ought to look for something bigger."

Once again Phyllis's temper flashed. "Don't be silly, Cora," she said sharply. "I talked to Mr. Holloway this morning, and Teri has nothing-she barely got out of the house alive. Now, doesn't it seem silly to put her in some enormous room with empty closets and dressers? And," she added, "I think we have to remember her background. We want to make her feel comfortable here, and how is she going to feel rattling around a room that's the size of the entire house she grew up in?

"There's a lot we can do to make this room more cheerful," she continued. "In fact, I think in a way you're right. I always hated the furniture in here. I can't believe there aren't some things up in the attic we can bring down. Call Tag, and we'll go up and take a look."

Twenty minutes later, with both Melissa and Tag following along, Phyllis led Cora up the stairs to the attic. She opened the door, stepped inside, then stopped short.

Illuminated by a brilliant beam of sunlight, there were clear footprints in the thick layer of dust that covered the attic floor. Phyllis stared at them, then turned back to face her daughter. "Melissa, is there something you want to tell me?"

Melissa's eyes widened in sudden fear as she saw the incriminating footprints in the dust. Instantly, she turned to Cora in a silent plea for help.

"Were you walking in your sleep again last night?" Phyllis asked.

Melissa bit her lip but said nothing, and it was finally Cora who answered. "She was just upset from the party yesterday," she suggested. "It's the first time it's happened this summer-"

Phyllis's eyes narrowed slightly. "Is it? Or is it simply that no one's told me about it before?" She gazed steadily at her daughter, and when she spoke, her voice betrayed nothing of what she might be feeling. "Tell me, Melissa. Is Is this the first time this summer?" this the first time this summer?"

Melissa felt a knot of fear forming in her stomach, and wished her father were here to help her. What should she say? Why was it that with her mother there never seemed to be a right answer? But as her mother's eyes remained fixed on her, she knew she had to say something. "I-I don't know, Mama," she murmured. "I don't remember doing it at all."

Phyllis took a deep breath, then slowly let it out, finally turning back to Cora. "Very well," she said. "If she doesn't remember, perhaps you can tell me what happened, Cora."

As briefly as she could, Cora told Phyllis what had happened. "But she was perfectly all right," she finished. "She just went into the little room at the back, the one right above her bedroom. She was sound asleep when I found her."

Phyllis's eyes bored into Melissa once again. "I want you to look around up here," she said, her gaze never leaving her daughter, though her words were directed to Cora. "See if you can find anything Teri might like. I'm afraid I have to talk to Melissa now."

Grasping Melissa's arm, she marched her down the stairs and along the wide corridor toward her room. A moment later, as they heard Melissa's door close, Tag looked uneasily at his grandmother.

"What's going to happen, Grandma? What's she going to do to Melissa?"

Cora was silent for a few seconds, then shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I just don't know."

In Melissa's room, Phyllis closed the door, her eyes fixing on her daughter, who stood near the fireplace, her back against the wall, her hands held defensively behind her back. Phyllis said nothing, but simply stared at Melissa until, cheeks scarlet with shame, Melissa turned away. At last Phyllis moved across to the closet and pulled open the door. The pink organdy dress hung on its hanger where Melissa had left it.

Phyllis lifted the hanger off the rod and took the dress to the window, where she began carefully inspecting its seams. At last her gaze shifted back to Melissa.

"This is very good," she said. Melissa relaxed ever so slightly, but her wary eyes remained on her mother. "Did you do this?"

Melissa hesitated, then finally shook her head.

"If you didn't do it," Phyllis asked, her voice deceptively low, "then who did?"

The question seemed to hang in the air while Melissa groped in her mind for an answer that would satisfy her mother. But in the end she decided simply to tell the truth. "D-D'Arcy," she breathed, her voice barely audible.

Phyllis's eyes narrowed. "Who?" she demanded.

Melissa cowered back. "D'Arcy," she said, a little louder. "I'm not very good at sewing, so D'Arcy came and helped me."

Phyllis's hands tightened on the gauzy pink material, and for an agonizing moment Melissa thought she was going to tear it up again. But then her mother flung the dress onto the bed. "But D'Arcy doesn't exist, does she?" Phyllis demanded, her voice rising.

Melissa shrank back against the wall, but managed to shake her head.

Phyllis moved across the room once more. Her hands clamped onto Melissa's shoulders, her fingers digging into the girl's flesh until Melissa thought she would cry out from the pain. When she spoke again, Phyllis's voice had dropped to a furious hiss. "Melissa, we've been over this again and again. D'Arcy doesn't exist. You made her up in your head. Do you understand?"

Too terrified to speak, Melissa managed to nod.

"You're thirteen years old now, Melissa," Phyllis went on, her grip never loosening. "You're far too old to be making up people who don't exist. And you're old enough to start taking responsibility for the things you've done. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Once more Melissa forced a small nod.

"Now, why did you walk in your sleep last night?"

Once again Melissa's head swam. She wanted to tell her mother the truth, that D'Arcy had come to help her last night, that D'Arcy must have taken her up in the attic to work on the dress and that she'd simply fallen asleep there. But she didn't really remember it at all. All she remembered was D'Arcy coming to help her. After that, everything was a blank until Cora had awakened her this morning. But now, at least, she knew what her mother wanted her to say. "I-I was upset about what happened at the party yesterday. And when I get upset, I walk in my sleep."

Her mother's hands relaxed, and the sharp pain in Melissa's shoulders eased off to a gnawing ache.

"And why were you upset about the party?" Phyllis pressed.

Melissa closed her eyes tight and summoned up the proper answer. "Because I was rude to everyone. It was a very nice party, and I ruined it for everyone. It was my fault, Mama."

At last Phyllis's hands dropped away from Melissa's shoulders. Her expression softened into a smile. "That's right," she said. "What happened yesterday was your fault, and it was your own guilty conscience that made you walk in your sleep."

Melissa nodded numbly, then looked pleadingly up at her mother. "Is it all right now?" she asked.

Phyllis's smile remained in place, but a cold look came into her eyes that renewed Melissa's terror. "We'll see," she said. "We'll see what happens for the rest of today."

At a little past noon Phyllis pulled her Mercedes into the parking lot of the Cove Club and flipped the visor down to examine her hair and makeup in its illuminated mirror. A single strand of her pale blond hair had escaped the severe French twist at the back of her head, and she carefully worked it back into place, then applied a touch of gloss to her lips. At last she got out of the car, acknowledged the valet's friendly greeting with a curt nod, and walked into the foyer of the club, pausing for a moment, as always, to admire the view of the open Atlantic from the picture windows that comprised the entire eastern wall of the building's main lounge. She glanced around, almost nervously, then chided herself for falling victim once more to the uneasy sense that even after thirteen years she still didn't quite feel as if she belonged here. She glanced into one of the full-length mirrors that covered the huge pillars supporting the roof, and rea.s.sured herself that she was dressed perfectly-the emerald-green suit was made of pure silk, as was the cream-colored blouse beneath it. Her stockings, with their fashionably patterned seams, were free of snags, and though her shoes weren't quite comfortable, they went perfectly with the suit. As the maitre d' approached, Phyllis smiled at him with just enough coolness to keep him gently in his place.

"I hope I'm not the first," she said. "I always hate sitting by myself."

"Not at all," Andre replied smoothly. "The rest of the ladies have just begun their drinks." He turned, leading Phyllis into the main dining room where, in the far corner, she could see the other three members of the club's Social Committee already seated at Lenore Van Arsdale's usual table.

And then, as she approached the table, her blood froze.

Lenore, and the two other women, too, were all wearing warm-up suits, their feet clad in tennis shoes or sandals. None of them wore even a hint of makeup. As Andre held Phyllis's chair out for her, Lenore smiled with what might have been sympathy. Phyllis was certain it was a look of amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I'm so sorry," Lenore apologized. "I should have called and let you know some us were having a game of tennis this morning and we'd decided not to dress. But you look wonderful! I'd never have the nerve to wear that color so early in the day-I always save the really bright things for big parties where I want to be sure Harry can keep track of me."

Phyllis felt herself flush with humiliation, and hoped the color in her face wouldn't show under her makeup. So they'd played tennis but hadn't invited her. And how dumb did Lenore Van Arsdale think she was, coyly suggesting her clothes were wrong? Why shouldn't shouldn't she wear this suit at lunch? Yet as she nervously glanced around the dining room, she realized Lenore was right-all the women in the room were dressed in soft pastels-simple cotton skirts with expensively casual knit tops. How could she have been so stupid? At the last meeting- she wear this suit at lunch? Yet as she nervously glanced around the dining room, she realized Lenore was right-all the women in the room were dressed in soft pastels-simple cotton skirts with expensively casual knit tops. How could she have been so stupid? At the last meeting- And then she remembered. At the last meeting all the other women had been going on to a large c.o.c.ktail party.