The Orchard House Page 3

  The scent of pine wound around me, pulling me deeper into the hidden clutches of the old cemetery. I followed the signs to Author’s Ridge, allowed the winding paths and groves of the place to call to me in a way I hadn’t expected.

  Maybe I needed this. More quiet. More time away from the whispers of the girls in school, more time away from the Bennetts, more time away from Victoria, even. She’d been distant of late, and I couldn’t understand why, though I felt it might have something to do with her sitting with Laney Richards at lunch. Them going shopping together, whispering at their lockers in the hall, making plans . . . without me.

  I supposed this need for time apart was normal for siblings. And yet, how much of Victoria and me was sister and how much of us was best friend?

  I’d come to depend on her too much if I couldn’t respect her need to be away from me once in a while. It wasn’t her fault I never tried to make other friends, that I felt more at home alone in my room with a good book or a pen and notepad.

  I passed the Thoreau family graves and sought out those of the Alcotts. I spotted Louisa’s right away, as hers was filled with an array of pens and pencils stuck into the ground, various stones, flowers, and pennies surrounding what was supposed to be her place of rest.

  I looked around to make sure I was alone, then sat before her gravestone. LMA, it read. 1832–1888. I didn’t really think that sitting here would gift me with some magical writing powers, but I did feel something like inspiration stir within me.

  Louisa was a regular woman—once a regular teenager, like me. What made her a great writer? Was it the circumstances of her life? Who her parents and family were? Was it her voracious love of reading?

  How could I set forth this thing burgeoning within me, this passion for words and writing, into a story that would captivate others besides myself?

  Despite our regular Pickwick meetings, I hadn’t yet finished a story. Despite a plethora of beautifully color-coded outlines and character sketches and even several chapters of four different stories, I could never see the characters through to the end and finish what I’d started. That included the story Victoria prodded me to write that first day at Jo March Writing Camp—my story.

  I closed my eyes. I didn’t pray much, but being in this place where so many lay dead seemed to open up the possibility of the eternal. Of something beyond the hazy hope I’d clung to as a child. Of a greater being carrying those who had gone before me. Of a greater being perhaps willing to carry me.

  I exhaled a breath. Give me words.

  Having never experienced this sort of thing before, I really wasn’t sure if this was what one would classify as praying.

  When I opened my eyes, my gaze caught upon a folded piece of lined paper, the corner fluttering in the breeze, a smooth stone upon it serving as a paperweight.

  The wind beckoned again, pulling at the corner and lifting it up. I caught the heading. Dear Louisa, it read.

  My curiosity stirred, though I wasn’t sure if it was over the fact that someone had felt such a connection with Louisa that they had decided to leave her a message in this spot, or that the handwriting upon the paper looked so very familiar.

  I swallowed, looked around me again. It wasn’t right, invading this sacred place, snooping on another’s personal thoughts. And yet whoever had left it had done so in this vulnerable place. They must have known it was susceptible to being seen.

  I could look quickly, read just a sentence or two. Maybe this was the answer to my prayer of a moment earlier—an inspiration for a story.

  Dragging in a deep breath, I grasped the paper before I could change my mind. One part was slightly stuck on itself and it snagged when unfolded. I carefully pried it open. A small piece of the word and had cemented itself to the opposite side of the page, where it was stuck, backward upon other black letters.

  I let my eyes scan the page, tried to ignore the pinch of guilt as I realized with certainty the identity of the handwriting, which there could be no mistaking after so many Pickwick meetings. What had Victoria written to Louisa? Did she really think that Louisa—wherever she was—could listen to her, help her even?

  I read.

  Dear Louisa,

  This week was crazy. I slept over at Laney’s the other night. We’ve been hanging around together a lot. Mom came to my room last night, reminded me not to forget about Taylor.

  How could I? She’s always there. Like, always. It wouldn’t be so bad if she’d try to have her own life, her own friends, but she doesn’t. I hate that she depends on me so much, you know? Sometimes . . . well, sometimes I wish we could just go back to being friends. Not sisters.

  The words, written clear as the blue waters of Walden Pond, blurred before my eyes. I’d felt Victoria pulling away for some time now, felt it might even be normal on some level. But regretting that her family adopted me, that we were sisters? How could I move forward with that knowledge?

  I didn’t want to read more, and I did. Like the time I found my mom’s obituary on Uncle Rob’s table, I kept reading. Knowing there was hurt here for me, yet unable to keep away from it.

  I know you understand—you felt that way about May, didn’t you? It’s tough to feel you have to take care of another person all the time. In many ways I guess I know what it’s like to be an older sister.

  I made the mistake of complaining to Mom last night. She admitted that having Taylor has been an adjustment and not always easy, but then she reminded me that we took Taylor in for me, that we were all doing a good thing in helping her. That without us, she would very likely be stuck in the foster care system, an orphan until eighteen.

  At least I get a break when I go to Laney’s. We went to the movies, too. Eric and Phil met us there. Laney and Phil sat in the very back and made out most of the time. Eric held my hand and pulled me close during a scary part, and when I felt his face on the top of my head and looked up, he kissed me.

  I’ve never been kissed before. Like really kissed. It was strange and wonderful, but at the same time a little disappointing. I always thought my first kiss would be in a more romantic place. Will Smith fighting aliens from taking over the world wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

  But maybe it will make me a better writer. Maybe now I can write a kissing scene. Only I’ll have to make it a little more enticing than the real thing, I guess.

  I’m excited about my newest story, though Taylor doesn’t seem to like it as much as Long Gone. Thank you for letting me leave you my thoughts.

  Yours,

  Victoria

  I refolded the paper carefully and replaced it beneath the stone, cold over my sister’s innermost thoughts.

  And did Mom not feel so differently?

  “She admitted that having Taylor has been an adjustment and not always easy . . .”

  Was I a burden to her also?

  I blinked away tears. I had thought that maybe, in time, I would come to feel a part of the family, but how would that ever be possible if the family resented me?

  Victoria and I had been best friends, and now she didn’t even tell me about her first kiss?

  I tucked my knees up to my chin and let the tears come then. I’d never felt so lonely. Not even when Mom left that day when I was four, not even when they took Uncle Rob to jail and I had no one.

  Because there was something worse than being lonely without anyone—being surrounded with people you loved and finding out they didn’t feel the same about you.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Annie and John may be married in June . . . I am full of woe for I think it’s a very “tryin” thing to have men come and fetch away a body’s relations in this sort of way.

  ~ LMA

  Taylor

  2001

  I shivered beneath the sudden chill of the late July night and pulled my button-down sweater over my shoulders. The steady thrum of the live band from inside the restaurant poured out of Main Streets Cafe to the patio tables on the alley where I sat with my date.

&nb
sp; Victoria was the one who had encouraged me to go out with Anthony. He was a friend of a friend, and in a weak moment I’d agreed to the blind date. We’d gone to see a movie—Pearl Harbor—incredibly historic, incredibly romantic, incredibly tragic. I wanted to go home and wallow in the story or perhaps dissect the themes with Victoria, but when I’d tried to ask Anthony what he thought of the tragic ending, he’d shrugged off my words and started talking about the war scenes.

  The waitress placed two ginger ales in front of us, and a steaming plate of nachos between the two of us. Anthony took a metal flask discreetly from his pocket and poured it into his drink before gulping it down. He held it up and it glimmered against the restaurant lights. “Want some?”

  I shifted on my seat and shook my head. “No thanks.”

  He leaned toward me, his crisp blue eyes making me feel something not entirely unpleasant. “I bet you’ve never even had a drink.”

  I almost told him he was wrong, but only so he’d think I was sophisticated, mature. But the words would have been a lie, and really, what did I have to prove?

  I chose not to answer, grabbed a nacho instead. Anthony leaned back in his chair and studied me, letting my silence go. “You have nice teeth.”

  I didn’t see how he could notice with nacho bits and cheese sauce in my mouth. I swigged some ginger ale. “Thanks.” I was grateful for my teeth. The Bennetts had treated me as much like their own daughter as Victoria, including paying for braces and now college. I would never be able to repay all they’d done for me.

  Victoria and I had had our ups and downs since that day I found her letter to Louisa at Sleepy Hollow. Our relationship could be as fickle as New England weather—warm and full of sunshine one day, frigid and icy the next. I had come to accept that this was what being sisters was about. Deep down though, I believed there was something real that bound us—maybe not blood, maybe not even simple friendship, but a tender sort of love I was still coming to understand.

  I supposed that’s what being family was about. Going through the hard and the messy, even the ugly at times, but knowing that this group of people was yours. That you belonged. No matter what.

  At least that’s what I told myself, what I tried and even longed to believe. Doubts were normal, of course, but the Bennetts had stuck with me through thick and thin. If they were going to abandon me, certainly they would have done so by now.

  So why did I still feel like I was always balancing on a knife’s edge?

  Anthony and I chatted about mundane things over dinner. Anthony’s batting average. Anthony’s classes. Anthony’s part-time job as an intern for an advertising company. He emptied the flask over the ice in his glass and began getting louder. A quarter of the way through dinner I decided that I didn’t need another date with this guy to tell me he wasn’t my soul mate.

  He moved his chair closer to me. The scent of alcohol on his breath reminded me of Uncle Rob, and my stomach churned at the thought of my absent uncle. He’d been out of prison for a year but had never tried to make contact with me. I shouldn’t let it niggle as it did.

  Anthony slid his hand into mine. I sat, suddenly frozen, unsure why the small contact undid me. Probably because, as always, physical touch terrified me. And this man was quickly beginning to disgust me.

  Why then couldn’t I bring myself to pull away?

  His fingers clung to mine beneath the table, where half of a fish taco sat on my plate. His thumb hung off the end of my hand and I felt it heavy on the fabric of my jean skirt, where it stroked at first tentatively, then with more surety.

  “I have my own place, you know.” The warm scent of alcohol mixed with onions fanned my face. “We could go back there if you want.”

  Adrenaline surged through my limbs, and I stood. Anthony’s hand dropped. “I have to use the bathroom.”

  He wiggled his eyebrows, undeterred. “I’ll be waiting.”

  I scooped up my purse and went inside the restaurant. The band played to a crowded room, and I knocked on the single restroom door. When I heard no one’s protests, I slipped inside and locked the door. I looked up at the ceiling and closed my eyes.

  Help.

  It wasn’t a prayer, really. Or maybe it was. If some otherworldly being could help me in this moment, I was all for it.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d found myself with a pushy guy. I wasn’t sure exactly what quality I possessed that drew this type—was it a neediness they saw? Was it something I was searching for, first in the Bennetts, then in my writing, now in a different sort of relationship?

  I needed to get out of here.

  I dug my hand through my purse for my flip phone. I could call Victoria. She’d show up, smooth things over with Anthony, and take me home.

  I listened to the hollow ring in my ear. It went to my friend’s voice mail, and I groaned. I remembered Anthony’s thumb rubbing my thigh, the abrasive action making me feel so very small.

  I threw my phone back in my purse. My gaze landed on a sign on the back of the door.

  To Guests at Main Streets:

  Are you on a date with someone new? Are they not the person you were expecting? Here at Main Streets, we want everyone to have a pleasant experience and that includes the company with whom you’re dining. If you are feeling uncomfortable on your date, please ask your server or the bartender for an angel latte. A manager on duty will come out and help you remove yourself from the situation.

  I released a sigh that was part surprise, part relief. An angel latte. An angel. That’s what I needed. Maybe Someone had heard my prayer.

  I shook my head, imagined myself going to the bar and doing as the paper instructed. I’d feel like such a loser. No doubt I’d made too much of Anthony’s actions.

  I pulled back my shoulders. I wasn’t a baby. I didn’t need a manager to help me. I didn’t need Victoria, and I didn’t need an angel. I could handle Anthony myself. I’d been handling myself my entire life—one tipsy man shouldn’t bowl me over.

  I raised my chin and returned to the patio. Anthony stood, wavering over the table, a small wad of cash in his hands. I reached in my purse for my wallet.

  He swatted my wallet away. “I got it. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I—I’d like to go home now.” I offered him a twenty and felt dirty doing so. Why was it that I would have let him pay if we’d had a nice time? If I didn’t plan on ditching him now?

  He blinked. “You don’t want to hang anymore?”

  I shook my head, still holding out the cash.

  He swore at me. “I don’t need your money.”

  “I’d feel better.” I offered it again, and he shoved me away. The diners looked at us with skewed glances, which seemed to further annoy Anthony.

  “Let’s go.” He grabbed my arm, dragged me into the alley that led to his parked car.

  I tried to wiggle from his grip but was unsuccessful. “You’re drunk. I’m not driving home with you.”

  He laughed at me. “I can handle my liquor better than you might think.” His hot hand still clasped my wrist. My mind churned.

  “I forgot something in the bathroom,” I said.

  He sneered at me. “No, you didn’t.”

  “I did. Please, Anthony. I’ll be right back.”

  “Promise?”

  I nodded, not feeling guilty for the lie and knowing he would have been able to see through it if he wasn’t already two sheets to the wind.

  He loosened his grip. “Go ahead, and when you come back, I’ll take you home.”

  I slid my arm from his fingers and walked back into the restaurant. I wondered if Anthony saw me at the bar through the windows. I wondered if he would come in and make a scene. I half hoped he would, for then I wouldn’t have to explain myself. Although wasn’t that the entire idea behind the angel latte? Not having to explain oneself?

  A woman in her midtwenties with red hair handed a drink to an older gentleman in a Red Sox cap. She turned to me. “Can I help you?”

 
I looked toward the door. No Anthony. “I—I heard you have angel lattes here?” This was stupid. I was stupid to get myself in this predicament in the first place.

  For half a second, she looked confused, and I thought about running back outside, running toward the Bennett house. But then realization seemed to dawn over her features. “Oh—yeah, we do. One second.”

  She went into the kitchen and came out a moment later with a tall man with dark whiskers on his face. He wore a black Main Streets T-shirt that strained against the muscles on his arms. A dish towel sat on his shoulder. He couldn’t have been much older than Anthony, but I thought he would be enough to intimidate my date.

  The bartender gestured toward me, and the man came out from behind the bar, taking the towel off his shoulder and wiping his hands on it. He nodded at me. “Hey, I’m the manager here. Someone giving you trouble?”

  I glanced out the window, but I couldn’t see into the dark. “He was. Maybe—hopefully he left. He was drunk. I didn’t want to drive home with him.”

  His mouth tightened. “The waitresses are supposed to be on the lookout for problems like that.”

  I shook my head. “It wasn’t her fault . . .”

  His face softened. “No worries. Where is he?”

  “In the alley, just past the tables. Blue shirt on.”

  I hovered near the door as my “angel” approached Anthony. I saw my date roll his eyes and scowl at him.

  The manager spoke, his body language calm. I watched as Anthony held up his hands, palms out, his busy mouth running a mile a minute. The manager pointed away from the restaurant, and Anthony spat some angry word, then left.

  I ducked back inside the restaurant, waited for the manager to come in. His tall frame filled the door.

  “Thanks,” I breathed.

  “No problem. Do you need me to call a taxi for you? Where do you live?”

  I told him. “I can walk home, but I really appreciate your help.”

  “My shift’s over in ten minutes. I can bring you home if you’d like.”

  I wavered. I’d just been wondering if I was inadvertently promoting my neediness to men—I didn’t have to wonder with this one. He knew my neediness; I’d asked for his help.