Exposed (7 page)

That was when June decided to find a job to support her family and save for her dreams. She never intended to hand over every paycheck to her father, but he was just so grateful when she did, she didn’t know how to stop.

Her dreams. How naïve to think she could afford dreams any more.

June yanked the gold brocade dress from the closet and threw it atop the pile. All these clothes … all her beautiful clothes. June sagged onto the edge of the pile.

Her bookshelf on the opposite wall also sagged, but with books. All those little windows into different lives. Lives of adventure she’d longed to experience since childhood. A well-thumbed “Robinson Crusoe” stood next to a lineup of dog-eared Nancy Drews. The shelf below held paperbacks of Charles Dickens and Henry James. There was a battered copy of “Gone With the Wind” nestled next to equally loved editions of “The Three Musketeers” and “Treasure Island.” 

When she saved enough money, June had always intended to see the world she’d only ever dreamed about. June looked away from the books and back to reality—the clothes she was hoping to sell. How naïve to dream of seeing the world. It was the dream of a child. Ridiculous and unattainable.

But … a tiny voice at the back of her mind grew insistent. Perhaps it was naïve, but it wasn’t unattainable. Not with her new power. Not with a vault of money at her powerful fingertips.

June jumped up.

“No!” She shouted it to her room, her clothes, and most of all to that horrible voice in her head. She wouldn’t use her power like that, wouldn’t use her power
at all
if she was going to hurt others with it. June had seriously considered going to the mine three days from now, but learning more about her power seemed the last thing she needed. What she needed was to pretend it didn’t exist.

She heaped the clothes in her arms and fumbled with her bedroom door. June’s room was at the back of the Powell home, a ranch house in a development sandwiched between the south end of town and the river. All the homes were new and boasted the most modern of conveniences, like the dishwasher her mother loved to mention at every available opportunity. 

June dumped most of the clothes into two large bags she found in the hall closet, though she still had to drape the dresses over her arm. She dragged the bags down the long, claustrophobic hallway from her bedroom, past the second bathroom—two bathrooms, her mother had trilled to friends when they first moved in—her parent’s bedroom, and into the living room. Two steps led down to the sunken space, where the brown tweed couch and two matching chairs—new, of course, to match the house—faced a wall of wood paneling and a giant fireplace. 

June set the bags in the parquet entryway and took the stairs into the living room for her shoes. The carpet here was mottled pea green and so thick June’s toes sunk deep. 

Two giant cardboard boxes sat in the middle of the living room. June narrowed her eyes at her mother’s latest mail-order purchases and started grumbling to herself. All those clothes pulled from June’s closet suddenly seemed a drop in the bucket.

“June!” Annette popped up from behind one of the boxes. “Come give me a hand!”

June’s hand flew to her jumping heart. “You scared me!”

“Silly goose,” she said, still bent over the boxes. She plopped a smaller box on top of the larger and unearthed three gift boxes. Annette opened the first two, revealing matching Jell-O molds shaped like soaring eagles—how patriotic. She slid a fingernail under the fold of the last box and gingerly lifted something wrapped in tissue paper. The paper rustled until Annette shook free something shockingly pink. June’s eyes went wide and she tried to cover her gasp of horror with a cough. She fell back against the scratchy couch arm and leaned heavily against it.

It was a dress. The most hideous dress she’d ever seen. It wasn’t just pink, it was fuchsia. So bright it made June’s eyes water. The material appeared to be a thick tweed, and a matching belt made the whole dress appear even thicker. But worse were the bows: little ones in place of buttons down the front, two more perched at the shoulders, and a giant, saggy one at the back just above a bustle. June gulped. She almost didn’t want to ask ….

“It’s for you to wear at the garden soiree!” Annette crowed before June could utter a word.

June’s stomach curdled and her mouth went uncomfortably dry. “Mom, I don’t need a new dress. I don’t want a new dress.”

Annette huffed. “Who wouldn’t want a new dress? You could wear it to the Briggs wedding tonight.” And for the first time since June had joined her, Annette looked up at her daughter. She pulled a sour expression. “That color washes you out, dear. You look terribly sallow.”

Annette set aside the offending dress—June was fairly sure that’s what was sallowing her complexion—and came to a stop in front of June. She placed her hands on her hips and looked June up and down. “Yes, you’re entirely too sallow. What man will ever be interested if your complexion just reminds them of how sick you were?” 

“Mom, there’s nothing wrong—”

“It’s working at that bank,” Annette announced, speaking over her daughter. “Why you’re wasting time at some silly, little job when you could be using your time more productively. Especially now that Clayton is off the market.” 

“That
job
is paying bills, Mother,” June snapped.

Annette froze, if only for a second. June’s heart kicked in her chest, and her breath came in gasps. June
never
snapped like that. She didn’t want to admit to herself how good it felt. To tell the truth even if it caused a bit of pain. She stared at her mother, watched the way her fingers shook a little bit when she smoothed out invisible wrinkles on her paisley printed pants.

“Yes, well …,” Annette said, not meeting June’s eyes. Then she looked up with a thin smile. “Make yourself useful and help me open these. There are gardeners coming over in just an hour for a quote on the back, and I need to finish unpacking.” 

“Mom,” June said sharply. She took a breath. “I thought you and Dad agreed not to hire gardeners. I’d like to try it myself,” she said with a false smile. “It’d be fun!”

Annette held out a pair of kitchen shears for June to take and pointed at the largest box, like she’d completely forgotten what June had said. “I’ve waited forever for these. It took so much longer than normal. I’ve half a mind to call the store in Denver and complain.”

Anger and exasperation and an awful sense of hopelessness invaded June’s body, left her feeling withered and spent. She had to get out. The long tail of patience she usually had for her mother was snipped away to nothing. 

She set the shears down with trembling fingers and walked to the door without a word. “I need to go,” she managed through clenched teeth. “Just … don’t forget that
I
want to create the garden. It’ll help my sallow complexion, don’t you think?”

Her mother was already bent over the boxes. June struggled with the bags and loose dresses as Annette unearthed two enormous bronze peacocks and tottered to the fireplace to hang them above the ceramic Schnauzers. June shouldered through the front door and let it slam behind her.

It was only a handful of blocks into town to the seamstress shop, but June’s fingers were already aching from where she clutched the heavy bags. She was just crossing out of the subdivision and onto one of the side streets when she spied a familiar vehicle.

Ruth Baker sat in the passenger seat of her father’s old car. The window was down, and her childhood friend’s arm hooked over the car door. Ruth’s fingers tapped against the door in some unheard song, and it pulled a smile from June. Her friend loved to sing, though secular music was forbidden in her father’s strict household. June remembered the two of them singing to the radio when Ruth would stay over. Ruth’s delicate, lovely voice was sweet as a dove next to June’s off-kilter warbling.

“Ruth!” June shouted for her friend before she could think better of it. The last she’d seen Ruth, June had tried to get her to attend the Firelight Festival, but Ruth hadn’t shown up. For the better, apparently, since Ruth hadn’t suffered the sickness like the rest of them. 

Ruth’s head swung her way, a smile forming on her pretty face. June’s own mouth spread wide in a grin and for one wonderful moment she forgot her aching shoulders and stinging hands.

But then June watched as Preacher Baker’s face twisted in anger, and he smacked at his daughter’s arm. Ruth ducked her chin to her chest, and the open window rolled up. 

June watched them go, sorrow worrying through her. She missed Ruth. She missed those carefree days when the girls would dream together. June tugged one of the bags higher onto her shoulder and trudged on.

Meg and Lucy walked together up ahead, coming June’s way, and June slowed. She bit at her lips and glanced down an alley. She didn’t want them to see her, see her embarrassment.

But too late.

“June!” Lucy trotted closer and immediately took one of the bags from June. “We were headed to the salon before the wedding tonight. Want to join?”

June moaned a thanks and rubbed her shoulder. “I enjoy doing my own hair,” she said. Though splurging at the salon sounded like heaven.

Meg grabbed the second bag. “Are you selling these?”

June hitched a false smile onto her face. It didn’t come as easy as normal. “Oh! My closet was absolutely overstuffed.” Her voice was too loud, too bright. June swallowed and ducked her head, but she didn’t miss the frown that wriggled between Lucy’s eyebrows.

“Has it gotten that bad?” Lucy asked quietly.

Oh God. What must they think of her? June couldn’t look at them. She didn’t want to see pity—or worse, judgment—in their eyes.

It was Meg who spoke up. “Why don’t you just tell her to stop?”

“Because,” Lucy whispered. “She’s still her mother, no matter how much she’s hurting the family.”

June reached out and gripped Lucy’s arm in a silent thank you. 

Meg shook her head. “But how she embarrassed you in the soda fountain the other night. June, I would have died.”

June shrugged. Meg didn’t have a mother like Annette Powell. She didn’t have to worry about money.

“Who died?”

June whipped her head up. Evie Sharpe stood before them, one hand on her hip. Where had she come from? And how much had she heard?

June tried again for a smile and rolled her eyes dramatically. “My closet,” she said with a big sigh. “The whole rod just—” and she made a big snapping motion. “So I figured it was time to get rid of some of these.”

Evie nodded, her eyes raking through the piles of clothes in the bags and the dresses hanging over June’s arm. She grinned and slid a dress from the top—the beautiful gold brocade.

“If you’re just getting rid of all this, can I snag this dress?”

No. A groan threatened at the back of her throat and Meg and Lucy shared a look. June didn’t just love that dress. It’d bring in a fair amount of money.

“Come on, June. Don’t be stingy.” Evie held the dress up to her body. “Look how fabulous I’d look in this!”

June tacked a smile onto her lips. “Of course,” she managed. “It would look great on you.”

Evie hugged the dress close, then snatched two silk blouses from the bag Meg was holding. “You’re
such
a peach, June. I’ll just take these two off your hands too! See you girls!”

And she was off, leaving June to silently count the losses from the clothes. With Meg and Lucy’s help, she made her way to the seamstress to sell her clothes. And she tried her hardest not to let anyone see her cry.

CHAPTER SIX

Ivan

Galina Olegovna Sokolov pushed her husband’s papers aside and plopped boiled potatoes and
okroshka
cold soup onto the table. She slapped at Ivan’s legs where he’d propped them on a dining room chair.

“Go get your brother.”

Ivan roused from the chair and focused on his mother. He’d been thinking of June. He’d been thinking of June all damn day, it seemed. It made him prickle with annoyance. 

Galina slapped at his legs again, and then for good measure shoved his feet off the chair. The soles of his heavy boots hit the wood-plank floor with a dull thud.

“Okay, okay!” Ivan muttered. 

Over in the armchair by the fire, his father looked over the top of his book, one hand flaky with the last of the croissants. “Listen to your Mama, Ivan Abramovich.” 

Galina slid fresh bread onto the table. “No one ever does,” she said with an exaggerated sigh, but she was smiling. Ivan—and the rest of his family—knew full well that Galina ran the household.

Ivan pushed to his feet and tore off a piece of bread before his mother could stop him. It was piping hot and scalded his tongue, but it was delicious. Yeasty and a bit sour, with a crust that crunched between his teeth. He pushed the bread into his cheek with his tongue and pecked his mother on her cheek.

“Love you, Mama.”

She swatted at him. “Dinner will be cold as Siberia by the time you get Kostya.” But she was smiling as Ivan ducked under the low lintel and walked outside.

The Sokolov farm was small, a jumble of buildings and rolling land scattered with groves of aspens, a tiny orchard, and a line of cottonwoods clinging to the banks of a stream. From the family farmhouse, Ivan could just see the pitched roof of his half-finished cabin peeking above a hillock at the edge of the property, where the tilled fields gave way to rugged mountains. A dirt track led behind the farmhouse to a two-story barn, with the greenhouses between the two. 

Ivan followed the track toward the barn. Out in the surrounding fields, the early season wildflowers were giving way to Indian paintbrush and wild roses. Behind the barn, neat rows of tilled earth yielded the vegetables Kostya sold in the market, and along the split-rail fence line grew blackberries, melons, and even some raspberries.

It was all so beautiful, but was it a waste? Was all this bounty doomed to wither and rot because of the small-mindedness and fear of the townspeople? The thought of all that life dying was sharp as a knife in Ivan’s gut.