All the Way Home (9 page)

A month later, he gave her an engagement ring for Christmas. In January, she transferred to a state school on Long Island and finished her degree there. Lou talked her into changing her major to elementary education so that she could teach art, pointing out that she could hardly expect to build a career as a painter. Lou had always been practical. And she was always a dreamer.

Still am,
she tells herself now with a faint smile as she spirals a bit more red paint onto her paper. She watches Ozzie mix a splotch of red with blue to make purple, and wonders whether he inherited her artistic talent. Too early to tell.

“Good, Ozzie,” she tells him. “That’s purple. See? Red and blue make purple.”

“Purple. Like Barney.”

“Like Barney,” she echoes, smiling.

She and Ozzie work quietly, she with careful strokes and he in slapdash toddler style, and she’s lost in her memories of the past
.
She remembers the crummy one-bedroom apartment she and Lou rented in Smithtown after they were married, and how she worked two waitressing jobs to support them as Lou struggled through law school. He had terrible study habits—he liked to be active, out playing sports or hanging around with friends, rather than sitting in a chair poring over texts and notes.

Still, he graduated and managed to pass the bar—on the third try—then landed a job with a small practice in their hometown. He had hoped to settle in New York City with a high-profile firm, but Michelle refused, wanting to be near her widowed mother. As an only child, she felt obligated.

Thank God Lou finally gave in on that one. At least I had a few years with Mom before she died. And if we hadn’t lived with her and saved money, we would never have been able to afford this place,
she thinks, looking up at the back of the big house.

Pretty soon, the shady spot where she and Ozzie are sitting at the picnic table will be encompassed by the new family room. The yard will still be a good size, though, she concludes, glancing around. It stretches quite a distance back, with raspberry bushes rambling along the property line.

Michelle and Ozzie had inspected the briars this morning before settling down to paint. There’s going to be a large, early crop this year. Another day or so, and the berries will be ready to pick.

Maybe I’ll make a berry pie,
she decides.
Or preserves, even
.

Her mother had always put up jars of homemade jam in midsummer.

Then again, the thought of slaving in a hot kitchen isn’t entirely appealing. Especially with Ozzie getting underfoot, and her belly growing more enormous with every passing day.

“Mommy paint,” Ozzie commands, realizing she’s stopped and jabbing her in the arm with a purple finger.

“Careful, Ozzie!”

Michelle grabs one of the damp paper towels she had the foresight to bring outside, and wipes at the streak of paint. It’s the washable kind, but she doesn’t want to get any on her one decent pair of maternity shorts.

“I think we’re done painting for this morning,” Michelle tells her son, who promptly lets out a shriek of protest. She wipes both of his hands, and then her own, on the paper towels. Then she wearily grabs him by the arm, careful not to brush his paint-smeared hand against her clothes, and starts pulling him toward the house as he continues to bellow.

“Quiet, Ozzie,” she says firmly, glancing over at the Connollys’ house on one side, then the Wasners’ on the other. “The neighbors don’t want to hear you screaming.”

“Don’t worry about it,” a voice says.

Michelle gasps and spins around.

“Sorry . . . didn’t mean to scare you.”

A face peeks through the honeysuckle hedge on the property line, and Michelle recognizes Rory Connolly. She’s never met Molly’s older sister, though she vaguely remembers seeing her around town years ago, when Michelle was in high school and Rory just a freckled little kid with that distinct mop of red hair.

In fact, Michelle’s friend Sarah had baby-sat for the Connolly brood a couple of times, before declaring them too wild. Especially Carleen, the oldest—the one who had later disappeared, that same summer Michelle was in Paris. She had returned home to find Lake Charlotte in turmoil over the four missing girls.

Now Michelle looks at the middle Connolly sister and decides she looks nothing like Carleen or Molly, both of them dark-haired and blue-eyed. Rory’s auburn curls fall in a glorious mass to her shoulders, and Michelle’s artist’s eyes note the intense, varied shades of red glinting in the sunlight.

“I’m Rory Connolly,” the woman says in a likable, straightforward way. “I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

“Michelle Randall. I don’t think so, either, although I do remember you when you were a little girl.”

“Really? You’re from Lake Charlotte, then?”

“Yup. I used to be Michelle Panati.”

“Shelley Panati?”

“That’s me. At least, it
was
.” Michelle smiles at the old nickname, the one she’d had her whole life, until she met Lou. He was the first one who had ever called her Michelle.
“Michelle, ma belle . . .”
He used to sing the old Beatles song in her ear when they slow-danced. He hasn’t sung it in a while. Years, probably.

But then, when was the last time they slow-danced? At their wedding? And if they tried now, he wouldn’t be able to get closer than a few feet away, Michelle notes ruefully, glancing down at her protruding belly.

“I remember you,” Rory is saying. “You hung around with Sarah Carter, our old baby-sitter.”

“That’s right.”

“She stopped coming after that night Carleen locked her in the linen closet. God, she was always such a terror when we had sitters . . .”

Rory trails off and her green eyes cloud over.

Michelle realizes she’s thinking about her sister. Nobody ever did find out what had happened to her or the other girls.

It’s bad enough when someone close dies, Michelle thinks, an image of her mother popping into her head. But it must be even more horrible to live your life wondering whether someone you love is dead or alive, the way Rory Connolly has.

Michelle can’t think of a thing to say. For a moment, the only sounds are chirping birds and a lawn mower rumbling in the distance.

Luckily, Ozzie fills the gap by announcing, “Paint.”

“No, Ozzie, we’re through,” Michelle tells him, then sees that he’s pointing to Rory. She realizes her neighbor is dressed in a dark T-shirt and shorts that are covered in white spatters, as are her arms and legs.

“That’s right, little guy,” Rory says with a wry grin. “I’m covered in paint. Just like you.”

“Luckily, his is the washable kind,” Michelle says.

“Unfortunately, mine isn’t. I never should have started this project. I’ve only been at it a few hours and I’m already sick of it—not to mention a mess.”

“What are you painting?”

“The trim in the kitchen. I thought I’d perk the place up a bit
.
It’s so damn dreary. Oops, sorry.” She belatedly covers her mouth with a hand and glances down at Ozzie. “I’m not used to watching my tongue.”

“It’s okay.”

“Anyway, I had planned to do some painting when I decided to come home for the summer, but I was thinking more along the lines of oils and watercolors than latex semigloss.”

“You paint, then? I mean—”

“I majored in art in college. Berkeley.”

“Me, too. Buff State. Then I switched.”

“Majors?”

“And colleges. I ended up majoring in education and teaching art—but I’m not even doing that anymore. This is about as artistic as I get these days,” Michelle says ruefully, gesturing toward the picnic table, where the finger paints are still spread out.

“Hey, don’t knock it. Looks like you have a Picasso in the making. Huh, little guy?” Rory reaches down and ruffles Ozzie’s hair. “Molly baby-sits for you, doesn’t she?”

“Molly? Where’s Molly?” Ozzie brightens and looks around.

“He loves your sister,” Michelle tells Rory. “She’s terrific with him.”

“She is?” Rory looks incredulous. “I mean, I don’t know her all that well these days. She’s just kind of quiet when she’s around here. Your typical sullen teen. But then, she’s a thirteen-year-old girl. I guess we all go through that stage—miserable at home, and all sweetness and light everywhere else.”

“The old adolescent angst,” Michelle says, nodding. “I should probably be happy with two boys. At least they don’t seem as moody as teenaged girls.”

“So you know what you’re having, then?” Rory asks with a gesture at Michelle’s stomach. “Another boy?”

“That’s what the doctor says.”

“When are you due?”

“Not soon enough. Early August, supposedly.” Michelle pushes a damp strand of hair out of her face. “But then, we’ve got a lot to do before the baby comes, so I guess I should hope the baby takes his time.”

“You’ve done a lot of work on the house,” Rory notes, bobbing her head toward the construction Dumpster near the garage. “Is it almost done?”

“Actually, no. I don’t think it’s ever going to be done. And now we’re going to rip off the back wall and add on a family room. Which reminds me . . . I have to call the architect. My husband’ll flip if I forget to do it again today.”

“Well, it was nice talking to you. Maybe you and Ozzie can come over to visit someday. It would be nice to have some company, especially a little kid. The place is too quiet.”

“Maybe we will,” Michelle says politely, though she can’t quite imagine dropping by the Connolly house.

Molly, Rory, and Kevin are all pleasant enough, but their mother is a different story. From what Michelle has seen, the woman is just plain weird. She scurries to and from church every morning with her head bent as if against a strong wind, and she never answers Michelle’s greetings or bothers to look up. Aside from those early-morning walks to Holy Father a few blocks away, she hardly sets foot outside of the house.

But sometimes at night, Michelle sees Maura Connolly standing in a second-floor window overlooking the Randalls’ house, just staring vacantly for hours. It’s eerie, though Lou insists Michelle shouldn’t worry about it.

“She’s just a harmless nutcase,” he’s always saying. “Who knows? Maybe you’d be nutty, too, if your kid vanished off the face of the earth.”

Maybe I would,
Michelle thinks now, instinctively tightening her grip on Ozzie’s arm.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” Rory says.

“Sure,” Michelle replies, and starts to turn toward home.

Rory gasps, causing her to spin around again to see her neighbor gaping at her bare legs, pointing.

Michelle looks down to see bright red blood streaked all over her thighs. “No! Oh, no! My baby!”

Startled by her outburst, Ozzie immediately starts crying.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, Ozzie. Don’t panic, Michelle.” Rory holds her steady, rubbing her arm.

Trembling, Michelle reaches down to touch the sticky blood—then nearly sobs in relief.

“It’s paint,” she says, shaken. “It’s only paint. Ozzie must have gotten it on me when I wasn’t looking.”

“Thank God.” Rory releases her arm and shakes her head. “I thought it was blood. I thought something had happened with the baby . . .”

“So did I. I . . . God. I’d better go in and get cleaned up.”

Her heart still pounding, Michelle walks slowly toward home, holding Ozzie’s hand tightly.

Just a false alarm,
she tells herself up in the bathroom as she washes the red paint off her legs with a cool wet washcloth.
Everything is fine
.

But for some reason, she can’t quite shake the distinct feeling that something isn’t right.

“I
met the little boy you baby-sit for when I was outside a little while ago.”

Molly looks up from the peanut butter sandwich she’s making. “Ozzie?”

“Yup. He’s cute,” Rory says, pausing with her paintbrush poised over the can. “And he really likes you.”

“Uh-huh.” Molly dips the knife into the almost-empty jar, spreads another glob on her bread, and then licks the knife. She’s about to scrape some more peanut butter from inside the rim of the jar when Rory stops her.

“Don’t do that, Molly.”

“Why not?”

“It’s gross, that’s why not. You get your spit into the peanut butter.”

Irritated, Molly tilts the jar and says, with exaggerated patience, “It’s almost empty. I’m just going to throw it away, not put it back into the cupboard. So don’t stress about it, okay?”

Rory shrugs and goes back to her painting.

Molly slaps the two pieces of bread together with one hand, still holding the knife with the other. She deliberately licks it again, slowly, and considers closing the jar and putting it back into the cupboard just to irk Rory.

Ooops,
she’ll say.
There’s more in here than I thought. I’ll just save it for later
.