Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When the world seems dangerous and angry, I look for the counterbalance of goodness.

It comes in the form of a seventy-nine-year-old widow who lives down the block from me.

Lucille Reed's house is the opposite of the Barclay mansion. There's a crocheted blanket on the back of the old brown couch in the living room, and the avocado-green kitchen hasn't been updated in decades. A stack of Reader's Digest sits on the coffee table by a slightly wilted bouquet of pink chrysanthemums. A few dust bunnies reside under the carved wooden TV hutch.

When Marco lived with me, we invited Lucille to dinner every now and then, and he shoveled her walk after snowfalls. When he moved out, I took over the shoveling. Lucille always invites me in for hot chocolate afterward. She makes it from Swiss Miss packets, the kind with mini-marshmallows. Few things taste as good to me as Lucille's hot chocolate on a snowy day.

Lucille spent her adult life as a homemaker. Her husband died years ago, and her children are grown. For a while, she lost her purpose.

Now she tends to wounded souls. It's her passion. Her calling.

I'm desperate to reach Rose, to find a way to connect with her. Her life may depend on it.

So our first outing won't be for pizza or mani-pedis. What Rose needs is a baby squirrel.

Lucille is caring for two at the moment. After a storm shook their nest from a tree, Lucille watched over them, hoping the mother would come back to retrieve them. But a dog or a car must have gotten her because she never did.

"When an injured animal comes to me, I try not to handle it so I don't stress it," Lucille tells Rose as she bustles around her kitchen, preparing a formula that includes goat milk and egg yolks. "But these two are so little they need to be held while I feed them."

Rose is sitting on Lucille's couch, staring at a plastic bin filled with fleece bedding. Beneath the bin is a heating pad. The tiny squirrels are mostly hidden, burrowed into the warmth. But the light brown tip of a tail peeks out from beneath the soft fabric.

I'm sitting on the couch with Rose, but I'm careful not to crowd her.

Three wounded souls are being tended to now.

It was surprisingly difficult to convince Beth and Ian to let me take Rose on an outing. At first both insisted they wanted to come along. When I reminded them I'd been hired to get to know Rose, not spend time with them, I had to promise I'd bring her home within two hours. Beth wanted to know the address and phone number of the neighbor we'd be visiting, but my instinct told me to keep Lucille's personal information private. I merely told Beth she had my cell phone number in case she needed to reach me, and that I'd bring Rose back well before dark.

"She's fragile," Beth said.

"I'm not sure this is a great idea," Ian chimed in.

Even Harriet stood on the front porch, watching us walk to my Jeep and calling after Rose that she'd help her with her math when we got back.

I took note: None of them tried to find out what Rose wanted.

"Lucille is putting the syringe of food into a mug of water to warm it," I tell Rose now, keeping my tone warm and unhurried.

Rose's body language is shifting. At first she sat up straight as a soldier in the pink cloth coat she kept buttoned despite the warmth of the room, her hair in twin braids, her hands folded in her lap. Now she has one leg curled beneath her. A hint of animation is warming her expression.

"I also need to set up my new heating pad for the squirrels. My old one has been acting funny." Lucille slices through the tape holding together a package with a box cutter. "Can you plug it in for me, Stella? There's an outlet to the side of the couch."

I stand up and take the heating pad from Lucille. Then I hesitate.

"Rose, can you do it?"

I hold my breath, watching Rose lift her eyes from the plastic bin.

Take it, I will her, holding out the pad.

After a moment, she does. Relief pours through me. It's a tiny, vital step. The first time we've directly communicated.

Rose finds the plug, then places the heating pad next to the bin.

"Thank you," I say. "That will keep the squirrels cozy."

Lucille tests the formula by squeezing a drop onto her inner wrist. "I could use some help feeding them, if one of you would like to hold the babies. They're too small to support their own heads and necks."

I look at Rose. She makes full eye contact with me for the first time. I can read her yearning.

"Rose, would you like to?" I ask.

She nods eagerly.

I exhale. I wanted to connect with Rose today, to help her begin to feel safe with me. I've achieved my first goal.

"Put on these gloves." Lucille hands Rose a pair and slips another pair onto her own hands. Then she lifts out the first baby squirrel, keeping it snuggly wrapped in a scrap of flannel.

Rose's eyes widen. Palpable excitement vibrates off her. I smile at her, and I swear I see the flicker of a smile in return.

The squirrel is the size of Lucille's palm. Lucille briefly opens up its wrapping to reveal its furry little body with big feet and ears the size of peas.

For the next fifteen minutes, Rose comes alive. She helps feed the squirrels, then nestles them back into their cozy beds. I quietly pull out my phone and snap a few pictures of Rose, capturing what I hope will be a happy memory for her.

Lucille asks Rose to wash her hands at the kitchen sink as a precaution, even though she had on gloves, and when Rose leaves the living room, Lucille leans close to me.

"Poor girl."

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

Rose returns a minute later, and after Lucille washes her own hands, she shows us an album of pictures of other animals she has taken in—sparrows, starlings, more squirrels, an owl, and baby racoons.

For the first time since I've met Rose, tranquility softens her face. When Lucille shows a picture of a hawk that was hit by a car and could never fly again, Rose reaches out with a fingertip to touch the image of the broken wing, staring at that photo for a particularly long time.

"When wild creatures are hurt, some people say nature should take its course. But there's a better way," Lucille says softly. "People can call their local wildlife rehabilitation center, and sometimes the center will ask someone like me, who has been certified, to help."

I let Lucille's words linger in the silence, hoping Rose can intuit a larger meaning. Help is available to her. She isn't alone.

After we bid Lucille goodbye, I drive Rose home. Since she's too small to sit in my front seat, I occasionally glance at her in the rearview mirror while I make gentle comments about the pink tummies of the baby squirrels, and the noises they made while they ate.

At one point my phone vibrates, but I ignore it.

As we pass through the security gate and head up the drive toward her house, Rose's body language changes. Her arms fold across her stomach. She stares straight ahead, the animation draining from her face.

It's as if she's building a fortress around herself.

"Rose, I was thinking I could take you out for dinner later this week. Your dad mentioned you like waffles for dinner, and I know a great place. Would that be okay?"

She gives me the tiniest nod. But she doesn't meet my eyes.

Beth is waiting on the front porch. She leaps up from the settee and waves as Rose and I step out of my car. I'm seized with the urge to grab Rose's hand, to keep her close to me so I can protect her.

I know what it's like to be delivered to a house you want to escape from. When I was seven, after my aunt was given custody of me because no one tried to find out what I wanted, I walked up the steps to her house, my head hung low and my suitcase in hand, knowing I was leaving a bad environment and heading into a worse one.

My mother, for all her faults and struggles, loved me.

My aunt resented me. Judged me. Hated me.

A sick sense of dread fills my gut as I watch Rose walk through the front door, her hands now tucked into her jacket pockets. I'd given Rose one of my business cards and told her to call anytime, that if I ever heard silence on the line I'd know it was her and I'd rush to the house right away. She'd nodded again, but her eyes were vacant.

The little girl who came alive around the orphaned baby squirrels had vanished.

"We had a nice time," I tell Beth. "I'll be back tomorrow to chat with Harriet." I'm eager to get a sense of the grandmother who came to stay for a few weeks and never left.

Beth smiles and nods. "Of course. See you then." Again, I experience the strong feeling she doesn't want me around.

She wishes I could vanish.

Like Tina vanished, my mind whispers.

When I return to my car, I wait until I'm through the security gate before I check to see who called. Lucille. I hit the callback button.

"Are you alone, Stella?" Lucille asks.

My skin prickles at her question. "Yes. I just dropped off Rose."

"It's the strangest thing. I noticed it right after you left."

I dread what's coming.

Or maybe I sense it.

"I put down my box cutter right next to the package I opened; I'm certain of it. Did you happen to move it?"

"No, I didn't touch it."

"Hmm. I can't find it anywhere. My little grandsons are coming to visit tomorrow, so I wanted to make sure to put it away since they get into everything. Well, maybe it'll turn up." Lucille still sounds puzzled, but she's letting it go.

I can't.

The box cutter was close to the sink. Rose walked into the kitchen alone to wash her hands while Lucille and I remained on the couch.

I flash to an image of Rose, her face vulnerable and innocent.

And her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat.