Second Child (27 page)

“This is great!” Teri sighed as the boat began to pick up speed. “Don’t you love it?”

Melissa, sitting rigidly in the cockpit, hanging on to the gunwale so hard her fingers ached, forced herself to look away from the beach a couple of hundred yards away and face her half sister. Teri was stretched out on the opposite side of the boat, her hair blowing in the breeze, her face tipped up to catch the sun.

“Relax,” Teri told her. “Just stretch out and enjoy it.”

The boat cruised smoothly northward, the only noise the gentle swishing of the water as the hull cut through the cove. Ellen Stevens and Cyndi Miller came up from the cabin, moved forward, and stretched out on the foredeck, while Brett came back to the cockpit to drop down next to Teri. “What do you think?” he asked. “Like it?”

“I love it,” Teri replied, shifting her legs to make room for him. “Where are we going?”

Brett shrugged. “I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”

Teri glanced out to the open sea. “Can we go out there?”

“Sure,” Brett replied. “Hey, Kent. Can I take the helm?”

Kent slid out from behind the wheel at the stern, and Brett took over. “Ready about,” he called out, and Jeff quickly released the jib sheet on the port side and handed it to Melissa.

“Do you know what to do?” Jeff asked, and Melissa shook her head. Jeff rolled his eyes impatiently. “Just hang on to it, and let go when Brett calls out ‘coming about,’ okay?” Without waiting for an answer, he crossed to the starboard side and took the other sheet.

“Coming about,” Brett called out, spinning the wheel. Melissa dropped her line and the jib flapped in the wind. A second later Jeff hauled in on the sheet, and then, as the main swung over, the jib filled again and the boat heeled over the other way, its bow pointing out to the open sea.

Five minutes later they passed through the opening to
the cove, and almost immediately the swell increased and the bow of the boat began rising and falling. A moment later, steadying themselves with the boat’s lifelines, Ellen and Cyndi came back from the bow and settled into the cockpit.

Melissa felt the first faint beginnings of queasiness stir in her stomach, and reached for her can of Coke. She drank deeply, but the sweet liquid didn’t seem to help.

No, she told herself. I’m not going to get
SICK
. I’m going to be all right.

Brett adjusted the tack and trimmed the main sail, and the boat gained a little speed. The wind picked up, and more whitecaps appeared. They were in a heavy swell now, and Melissa glanced nervously at Teri. But her half sister, sitting up on the gunwale, seemed oblivious to the pitching of the boat.

The queasiness in Melissa’s stomach got worse, and finally she turned to Brett. “M-Maybe we better go back,” she said. “I don’t think I feel very good.”

“Go below,” Brett told her. “Just lie down for a few minutes. You’ll be fine.”

Melissa hesitated. The last time she’d gotten sick, when she and her father had been out on the fishing boat, the captain had told her to stay up on deck. “It’s a lot better,” he’d said. “The dizziness isn’t so bad if you can see where you’re going.” She hesitated, and then Brett spoke again: “Will you go down below? If you’re going to start throwing up, at least there’s a head down there.”

Melissa stood up, almost lost her balance as the boat pitched once more, and grabbed at one of the bars next to the hatch. She made her way down the steps into the cabin and sank down on the sofa, the queasiness in her stomach growing into a sharp pain.

Two minutes later she knew she was going to be sick. She got up, lurched toward the head in the bow, but lost her balance as the boat rolled to port.

Staggering, she dropped down to her knees, and then the seasickness hit her with full force.

The vomit rose in her throat. She tried to fight against it, but it was too late. As she began gagging and choking, her mouth opened and a stream of bilious liquid spewed out onto the floor.

“Oh, Jesus,” she heard someone groan a few feet away. She looked up, vomit dribbling off her chin, to see Jeff Barnstable staring at her with an expression of total disgust. Her heart sank. Of all the people who had to see her this way, why did it have to be Jeff? He’d never take her to the costume party now—never! He’d probably never even want to
see
her again! And then, from behind Jeff, she heard Kent Fielding’s angry voice.

“What the hell did you have to do it down there for?” he demanded, then turned away. “Let’s go back,” she heard him telling Brett. “The little creep’s puking her brains out, and she didn’t even go into the head.”

The nausea subsiding slightly, Melissa struggled to her feet and looked for something with which to clean up the mess on the floor. She found a roll of paper towels on the galley counter and pulled off a handful, then got down on her hands and knees once more. But the smell of her own vomit filled her nostrils, overwhelming her, and suddenly she was retching again.

This time the mess spilled down her shirt and onto the white pants she’d put on especially for the sail.

Sobbing with humiliation, she forced herself to keep working at the mess on the floor, doing her best to sop it up with the paper towels.

Half an hour later they were back at the dock.

Melissa stayed below as long as she dared, but at last she could wait no longer. Her legs weak, she made her way up the companionway and emerged from the hatch.

They were all standing on the dock, staring at her.

There was a long silence, finally broken by Kent Fielding. “Why the hell did you come at all?” he asked. “If you were going to get sick, why didn’t you just stay home? No one even wanted to ask you in the first place.”

Melissa’s eyes flooded with tears, but anger suddenly flared up inside her. She hadn’t wanted to come—she’d even tried to get out of it. And did they really think she’d gotten sick on purpose? She climbed off the boat and started up the dock, but then whirled around.

“I hate you,” she screamed at the six kids who were watching her. “I hate all of you, and I hope you all die!”

Then, her tears overwhelming her, she ran up the dock and began stumbling along the beach toward home. For a
moment, just a moment, she wanted to turn back, to tell Jeff, at least, that she hadn’t really meant what she’d just said. But she couldn’t, for her humiliation was still scorching inside her.

If she had turned back, she might have seen the smile on Teri’s face.

The smile that would have told her she’d done exactly what Teri had hoped she would.

Phyllis Holloway glanced at the clock on her husband’s desk. It was a little after three, and she had a committee meeting at the club at half past, which meant she just had time to brush her hair and touch up her makeup. She glanced down at Cora’s account book, her lips tightening as she regarded the housekeeper’s nearly illegible scrawl. The least the old woman could do was make her entries in the book clear enough so a person could read them. It was bad enough that she had to spend half the day going over them once a week—the fact that she had to translate each and every entry from Cora’s scribble into English made the job nearly intolerable.

And, of course, she got no help from anyone else. She couldn’t even count how many times she’d talked to Charles about Cora’s sloppy records, but his response was always the same: “Why bother with it at all? Cora’s been doing the shopping for the family since before I was born. Father always said he trusted her more than he did his own lawyer.”

“Did he?” Phyllis had replied archly the first time she’d talked to him about auditing Cora’s expenses. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve always been amazed at the people who let their help steal them blind. When I was working at—” She had cut herself off abruptly, for even with Charles she did her best never to discuss her life before she’d married him. “It’s the principle of the thing,” she’d insisted. “If the staff knows you’re not watching them, they’ll take advantage. Not that they don’t anyway—I hate to think how much of our food disappears into Cora’s house every week.”

Charles had merely shrugged. “Who cares? Even if she stole everything they eat—which she doesn’t—it wouldn’t be enough to get upset about. But if it makes you feel better, go ahead and ask her to keep an account book. Just don’t ask me to go over it—I’d feel like I was asking my own mother to account for her expenses.”

Phyllis had seen the resentment in the housekeeper’s eyes when she’d first given her the ledger more than a decade ago and explained what it was for, but the woman had known better than to complain about it. Instead she dutifully filled it in every day, presenting it to Phyllis every Wednesday morning for the weekly audit.

And then Phyllis had to spend most of the day going over it, matching receipts against the scribbles in the book, even spot-checking to be sure that what Cora had bought was actually in the house. She’d rarely found any discrepancies—and those she had discovered had been minor—but in her own mind she was certain that only her Wednesday labors were keeping Cora honest.

Sighing, she closed the ledger and glanced out the window. Far across the lawn, past the tennis court, Tag was emerging from the woods. Phyllis frowned and her eyes swept the hedge on the north edge of the lawn, which she had specifically told Cora to have Tag trim that very morning. Even from here she could see the uneven growth along the top of the row of hawthorn that separated the property from the estate next door.

Irritated, she picked up the phone and pressed the button that would allow her to page the entire house. “Cora, come to Mr. Holloway’s study, right away.”

She dropped the phone back on its cradle, her fingers
drumming impatiently on the desk until Cora bustled in half a minute later.

“Yes’m?” the housekeeper asked, gazing uneasily at her employer. She was certain the accounts had balanced perfectly this week—she’d stayed up until midnight last night going over them herself.

“What is Tag doing?” Phyllis demanded, her eyes going once more to the window where the boy was still visible, moving slowly along the perimeter of the tennis court.

Cora’s fingers twisted nervously at the hem of her apron. “He’s looking for Blackie, ma’am,” she admitted.

Phyllis swung around to fix her eyes coldly on the servant. “And what about the hedge?” she asked. “Are we expected to simply let the property go wild while Tag chases after a runaway dog?”

Cora’s jaw tightened and she looked up, meeting Phyllis’s eyes squarely. “He doesn’t think the dog ran away, ma’am. He thinks something’s happened to it.”

“Happened to it?” Phyllis echoed. “And just what is it he thinks might have happened?”

Cora hesitated. “I—I don’t like to say, ma’am.”

“You don’t like to say?” Phyllis echoed, her voice shrill. “Well, I think you’d better decide you
do
‘like to say.’ ” Her lips curled into a mocking smile. “What does he think happened? Has he decided he believes Melissa’s story of a ghost in the attic?”

“No, ma’am,” Cora muttered. “He thinks—well, he thinks Teri might have done something to the dog.”

Phyllis’s jaw dropped. “Teri? What on earth—”

“He saw Teri kick the dog one night. She was coming home and—”

Phyllis’s expression hardened. “That’s enough, Cora. I don’t know what could have made Tag suggest such a thing. Teri MacIver is one of the nicest young ladies I’ve ever met, and I won’t stand for Tag suggesting that she—”

Her words were interrupted by the slam of the front door and the pounding of feet running across the foyer. Stepping out of the study with Cora following her, she saw Melissa starting up the stairs. “Melissa!” she snapped, her voice sharp. Her daughter froze on the stairs but didn’t turn around. “How many times have I told you not to …” Her words trailed off as she saw a dark stain on Melissa’s
white pants. “Melissa, turn around.” Melissa didn’t move for a moment, but then took another tentative step up the staircase. “Did you hear me?” Phyllis demanded. “I asked you to turn around, and I expect you to obey me!”

Melissa, doing her best to stifle a sob, turned around to face her mother. Phyllis stared at the smears of vomit that covered Melissa’s blouse and pants. “What in the world—” she began, but Melissa burst into tears.

“I got seasick,” she wailed. “I didn’t want to go at all, but everyone wanted me to, so I went. And I threw up all over the Fieldings’ boat, and …” The humiliation of what had happened flooding over her once again, Melissa fled up the stairs.

“The poor child,” Cora murmured, starting after Melissa. “I’d better go up with her.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Phyllis snapped, stopping Cora in her tracks. “I’m quite capable of taking care of my daughter myself. The last thing she needs right now is coddling from you.” She was about to go on, but the front door opened again and Teri came in.

“Did Melissa come through here?” she began. “I’ve been trying to catch up with her, but—”

“She’s upstairs,” Phyllis told her. Then, as Teri started toward the stairs, Phyllis spoke again. “Teri, darling, Cora has something to tell you.”

Teri paused at the bottom of the stairs and turned to the housekeeper, whose already ruddy complexion had turned beet red. “Please, ma’am,” she said, her fingers once again working at the hem of her apron. “I didn’t mean for you to—”

Phyllis silenced her with a look. “Cora tells me that Tag thinks you might have done something to his dog.”

Teri’s eyes flashed toward Cora for the tiniest fraction of a second, but then she recovered herself. “He thinks what?” she asked, as if unable to believe she could have heard her stepmother’s words correctly. Phyllis, her expression a hard mask of anger, turned to Cora.

“Tell her,” she commanded. “Tell her what you told me.”

Cora took a deep breath and faced Teri. And suddenly she remembered the day a couple of weeks ago, right after Teri had arrived at Maplecrest, when she’d found her in
Melissa’s room, claiming she was hunting for socks. There’d been a look about her then—nothing Cora had been quite able to put her finger on, just a sort of furtiveness—that was reflected in her expression now. “He thinks you might have done something to Blackie,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “He says he saw you kick the dog one night.”