Holly's Heart Collection Three (14 page)
“Upstairs,” she called back. “Mail’s in the kitchen.”
Grinning, I flung my jacket over a living room chair. Mom was mighty perceptive these days. Fact was, I’d been inquiring about the mail every day this week.
I made a beeline through the dining room to the corner of the kitchen, spying the letters on the desk. My fingers flicked through the stack. Bills, junk mail, letters . . .
Miss Holly Meredith
caught my eye. I studied the familiar handwriting. Clear, even strokes. California—the return address.
Perfect. The letter I was waiting for! I held the cream-colored, textured envelope close to my heart. What had Sean Hamilton written
this
time?
Slowly, I turned the envelope over, starting to open it. Then I noticed something strange. Scotch tape—two jagged pieces— stuck to the back of the envelope. Hmm. I’d been getting letters from Sean nearly every week—emails, too—since school started, and he
never
used tape to seal the envelope.
“Mom!”
“Don’t yell, I’m right here,” she said, coming into the kitchen.
“Where’s Carrie?” I demanded.
Her blue eyes squinted almost shut. “Holly, please don’t start something with your sister.”
I showed her the envelope. “There’s only one person in the house who’d do this.”
Mom sat on a stool and leaned her elbows heavily on the island bar. “Be careful about accusing someone, Holly-Heart.” She sighed. “Carrie might not have anything to do with it.”
“And she might have
everything
to do with it!” I stormed out of the kitchen and down the steps to the family room, clutching the envelope. Carrie-the-Snoop, just turned ten, sat on the floor watching TV. Stephie, our eight-year-old stepsister and cousin (because Uncle Jack married Mom after his first wife—my dad’s sister—died) lounged on the sectional. Both sets of eyes were totally focused on the tube.
“Okay, you two, listen up,” I said. Neither of them paid attention, so I stood in front of Carrie, waving the envelope in her face.
“Hey, you’re blocking my view,” she hollered.
“I’ll move when you explain this.” I pointed to the tape on the back of the envelope.
Her mouth curled into a surly smile. “Yeah, so? I read your letter. Who cares?”
“Mom!” I dashed upstairs to the kitchen, hoping she was still there. She wasn’t. Goofey, my cat, glanced up at me from his sunny square on the floor. A brown patch of fur colored the gray around one eye. I leaned down and stroked his motley fur.
“My sister’s a total nightmare,” I complained.
Goofey agreed and gave a comforting
me-e-o-ow.
I stood up and headed for the doorway leading to the lower level. “Okay for you, Carrie. You’ll be sorry, I promise.”
“See if I care. You’re wasting time. Go read your love letter from Sean.”
Love
letter? I gulped. She must’ve read through the whole letter. Sean never started his letters out mushy, but sometimes at the end . . .
I fumed. How could she do this? Just when I hoped things were improving between Carrie and me. I mean, she was a preteen now. Man, if this was how life with Carrie was going to be at ten, I hated to think about her full-blown teen years!
I turned and ran two floors up to the master bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was cracked slightly. “Mom?” I whispered, trying to control my rage. At one point, both she and Uncle Jack had promised stiffer laws for snoopers. Stuff like no TV for a full week. And double kitchen duty. Threats of that sort of discipline being dished out did seem to help some. But not much.
I peeked around the door to see Mom sacked out on the bed. Her face looked pale and her eyes were a bit puffy. Was she sick?
Without disturbing her, I left the room, closing the door silently behind me. Goofey was right under my feet; I nearly tripped over him. Picking him up, I pressed my face into the back of his neck and tiptoed to my room. There, I settled down on my window seat, still holding Goofey close. He didn’t protest, but when I began to open Sean’s letter, Goofey slinked off my lap and sat opposite me on the padded seat, eyes glaring.
“Don’t be silly,” I laughed. “It’s not really a love letter.” I opened the envelope and began to read.
MYSTERY LETTERS
October 7
Dear Holly,
As always, I enjoyed your letter. Thanks for writing back so quickly. It was interesting to hear that, as the new assistant editor for your school paper, you’ll be writing your own column. My friends and I think
The Summit
is a cool name for a high-school paper in a Colorado mountain town. So . . . when’s your first column scheduled to appear? I definitely want a copy of my Holly’s creative literary work in print.
I stopped reading.
My
Holly? Had I read correctly? I scanned the line again. Yep!
I remembered Carrie’s nasty smile and flippant response to my reprimand.
Oh great. She knows about this, too!
It took more than the usual amount of self-control to keep myself from charging downstairs and wringing her little neck. My reward for staying put—not giving in to temptation—came as the delicious autumn sun warmed my shoulders. I let myself lean back against the window on my multi-pillowed seat, savoring Sean’s words.
His letter turned out to be shorter than usual. I finished reading it in a few minutes, only to reread the first several paragraphs again. Sean seemed sincerely interested in my new editorial position on the school paper. He was the kind of guy most girls would give their eyeteeth for.
If only Carrie would keep her nose out!
Mom rested until Uncle Jack arrived home. I heard his footsteps on the stairs, and he headed straight for their bedroom. It was all I could do to keep from poking my head into the hall and eavesdropping. Mom seemed awfully tired lately. I hoped she wasn’t coming down with a case of the fall flu.
Around here, the change of seasons wreaked havoc on us locals. The first snowfall always brought out-of-town tourists and ski bums, some from overseas. And with the start of the ski season came a variety of international flu bugs. Fortunately, I hadn’t succumbed to any of them yet.
A few minutes passed, and I was aware of Uncle Jack hurriedly leaving the house with Stan, Phil, and Mark, my three brousins—cousins-turned-stepbrothers. Something was up.
In less than thirty minutes, they returned with pizza and soda for everyone. I guess Mom wasn’t well enough to cook supper. She was even too sick to come down and sit at the table with us. Rats! I needed her input tonight when I brought up Carrie’s snooping violation.
Not so patiently I waited until after Uncle Jack’s prayer. Carrie eyeballed me, looking profoundly sheepish. It was time.
“Uncle Jack,” I began. “I thought you should know . . . Carrie opened my mail today.”
My stepdad’s slice of pizza halted midway between his plate and his mouth. His eyes shifted to Carrie, several place settings away. “I thought we had this problem worked out months ago.”
I spoke up. “And that’s not all. She’s acting all hotsy-totsy about it, too.” I felt like a tattling third grader instead of a freshman in high school.
“Have you forgotten the consequences for this kind of behavior?’ he asked, still gazing at Carrie.
Yes!
“I . . . uh . . .” Carrie sputtered.
“You must never open someone else’s mail—snail mail or email,” he continued. “Including your older sister’s.”
Carrie acted cool about the reprimand, but her cocky attitude was squelched quickly when the sentencing came.
“No TV or phone privileges for a week,” Uncle Jack stated. “Starting tonight.”
“No phone?” she wailed.
Uncle Jack resumed eating his pizza. When he’d chewed and swallowed, he took a long drink of soda. “Now”—and here, he leaned forward slightly—“your mother is resting quietly, Carrie, so don’t get any ideas about going to her with your whining.”
I’d never heard Uncle Jack come down so hard on Carrie, or on anyone, for that matter. Something was definitely bothering him. And I was fairly sure it had nothing to do with Carrie’s snooping.
“Is Mom sick?” I ventured.
“She’s going to need a good amount of rest,” he said guardedly.
“Can I go up and see her?” Stephie asked.
Uncle Jack nodded. “Later, when she wakes up.”
Stephie’s eyes filled with tears. “Is
this
mommy gonna die, too?”
Uncle Jack pushed his chair back and went to his youngest daughter. “Mommy’s not that sick,” he reassured her.
Phil, eleven, and Mark, nine, looked concerned as their dad hoisted Stephie up and out of her chair and carried her into the living room. The rest of us tried not to watch. Stephie, after all, was the baby of the family. Possibly Uncle Jack’s favorite, if such a thing could be. She was the image of her deceased mother, my aunt Marla, who had been my all-time favorite relative.
I tried to ignore the hard lump in my throat. And the strange, fluttery feeling in my stomach—a confusing mixture of hunger and worry. We all ate in silence while Stephie sniffled in the living room in Uncle Jack’s arms.
Finally, after we finished pigging out, Stan, the oldest of the Meredith-Patterson clan, suggested we clear the table.
“But it’s not my turn,” Carrie insisted.
“C’mon, Carrie,” I said. “Stop fussing and help.”
“You stay out of it!” she shot back.
Stan grabbed her arm and guided her gingerly out to the kitchen. “Look, little girl, do I have to
make
you wanna help?”
“I’m not little,” she wailed. “And I’m telling.” She made a face. “Uncle Jack!”
Mark cupped his hand over her mouth. “Didn’t you hear what Dad just said about letting Mom rest?”
“He’s
your
dad, not mine!” With that, she pulled away from both Stan and Mark, plowed through the dining room, and nearly knocked a pile of paper plates out of Phil’s hands.
That was my cue to exit the kitchen. I’d had it with Carrie’s lousy attitude. What my flesh-and-blood sister needed was a good heart-to-heart talk. Starting with her ridiculous notion about Uncle Jack’s place in our family.
MYSTERY LETTERS
I didn’t bother to knock—I barged right into Carrie’s room. Determined, I closed the door behind me. “We have to talk.”
“Says who?” she sneered.
I sat down on her bed, praying silently for the right words. “Look, I know you’re mad at me because of the letter.”
“You’re dangy-dong right I am. You didn’t have to go and tell on me.”
“That’s true; I didn’t,” I replied softly. “But you can’t seem to conquer your snooping addiction. What kind of big sister would I be if I didn’t intervene?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and exhaled loudly. “Stop talking so grown-up, Holly. You think you’re such a big shot because you’re in high school. Well, I’ll tell you what kind of sister you really are.”
“Carrie, keep your voice down.”
She screwed up her face. “I wish you’d just go away and leave me alone.”
We sat there, staring at each other. Finally I turned away, facing her bulletin board. A small black-and-white picture of our dad was stuck on the board with a white thumbtack. He’d autographed it for her last Christmas when we’d gone to California for a visit.
Robert Meredith,
the scribbled letters ran across the bottom.
“What are you staring at?” Carrie demanded.
I turned to her. “You’re angry at Daddy, aren’t you?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” she spouted. “He left us, didn’t he? Went off to California without us. Divorced Mom. Left us kids behind.” The tears spilled down her face. “All those years he belonged here.”
I understood her pain. Oh, how I knew . . .
Yet I’d dealt with it—worked things out with myself about the divorce. With God’s help. Daddy’s too. But I knew exactly how Carrie was feeling. The whole Daddy thing had started for me six years ago. The questioning . . . the wondering . . . those wretched feelings of worthlessness . . . the rejection.
And now, as I looked into Carrie’s face, I could see the hideous thing rearing its head in my preadolescent sister. “Carrie,’ I whispered, reaching for her hand. “Let me tell you about Daddy . . . and Mom.”
Carrie listened through a veil of tears and occasional sobs. It surprised me that she was experiencing this stuff now. Lots of young girls experienced the emotional ups and downs of the prepuberty roller coaster. For some, it started at age nine. Shoot, I’d worried myself nearly sick in seventh grade wondering when I’d ever become a “real” woman. And now here I was, helping my little sister cope with what appeared to be full-blown hormonal upheaval.
“It’s not your fault about the divorce,” I explained gently. Mom had told me the same thing years ago. “Our parents weren’t Christians back then. Things were a little crazy, from what Mom says. She wasn’t as submissive as Daddy thought she should be, and Daddy had his heart set on a career instead of his family.”
“How’d you find out all this stuff?” she asked.
“Little bits at a time. Every so often I’d sit Mom down and ask her questions. And after my second visit to California last Christmas, I started to feel more comfortable with Daddy.”
