Chapter Twenty-Three. Rose #3
“Of course not. But we would hate to upset Mr. Harrow. You know how he gets.” I give her a conspiratorial look that makes light of it, but I go cold, remembering how he lurked in the bushes last night.
Auntie and Eddie were in the library. Waiting up for me.
Was Joe Harrow spying on them? Peeping through the windows while they did—whatever they did, thinking they were alone? It makes my stomach roil.
“I do.” Mrs. O’Neill looks at me, and then she looks at her grandsons playing on the unkempt lawn, calculating what she could buy with the princely sum of ten dollars.
“All right,” she relents. “But you two had better scram. Some of us have work to do. We don’t all have fine silk dresses and fancy convertible cars and trips to Paris, do we? ”
I flush. “Have a good afternoon, ma’am.”
Grace has stalked off down the path; she’s halfway to the car. The midwife grabs my elbow with callused fingers. “You seem like a nice girl. Be careful. Joe Harrow isn’t a man I’d cross for love nor money.”
My heart races. “Thank you, ma’am.”
I climb back into the car, silent. Mrs. O’Neill has a memory like a steel trap.
She remembered how long Dessa Slaughter’s baby lived, and all the other sundry details of that long-ago summer—but not delivering the Harrow twins?
Her warning chilled me. There’s something that Joe Harrow doesn’t want anyone to know.
Is it about the twins’ birth? Or his sister’s death?
Grace is silent, sulking, as we tie our scarves over our hair, as I start the car, as we reverse down the potholed drive. It’s only once we’re making our way back through the sun-dappled tunnel of trees that she speaks.
“You really bungled that,” she spits. “Pussyfooting around and then paying her off. You shouldn’t have driven this stupid car. Or worn that dress! Just look at it!”
I look down at the green paisley, befuddled. “What’s wrong with my dress?”
Her brown eyes flash. “It says ‘I’ve got a rich daddy, and I can pay my way out of trouble!’”
That’s it. I have had enough of her today.
I yank the steering wheel to the right and pull into a long dirt drive.
“What are you doing?” Grace shrieks.
“If we’re going to have it out, I’d rather not drive into a ditch.
” I pull the brake and turn to her, speaking through gritted teeth.
“And for the record, the person I’m paying to get out of trouble is you.
I do have a rich daddy, and you should be glad, because his money has saved your bacon twice in the last two days! ”
“There it is!” Grace gets out of the car and slams the door.
I get out and face her over the gleaming maroon hood. I throw my arms into the air. “There what is?”
“I didn’t ask you to save me! I don’t want your damned money or your pity!”
What is she talking about?
“When did I ever say I pitied you?” I demand. “I find some of your choices suspect, and you don’t know when to keep your mouth shut, but—”
“I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut?
Please! Do you have any idea how insufferable you are?
‘Poor Grace, I should teach her to drive this summer since she’s gonna be stuck in this stupid little nowhere town while I go off to college in New York City to study novels and French and philosophy!
And that’s after my graduation trip to Europe! ’”
I put my hands on my hips, stung. Am I really that obnoxious?
Well, I might not appreciate what I have in the way of money, but Grace doesn’t appreciate what she has in the way of family.
“Right. Poor Grace, whose brother would do anything for her, who defends her even after she breaks his nose! Poor Grace, whose mother sews her dresses and bakes her birthday cakes and loves her to pieces!” Grace is staring at me, slack-jawed.
“Maybe she didn’t give birth to you, maybe you wish she’d stick up for you more—but at least you have a mother! ”
Tears spring into my eyes. I swipe irritably at my cheeks.
Grace sighs. “Oh, for God’s sake. I can’t yell at you when you’re crying.”
She climbs back into the car, her temper spent as quickly as it exploded. “I guess the grass really is greener, huh?” she says.
I get back into the car. “I guess.”
“It’s not entirely your fault that we didn’t get more information,” she admits grudgingly. “Mrs. O’Neill was never gonna tell us. She’s loyal to my dad.”
I relate the midwife’s warning. “We’re onto something, Grace. I don’t know if it’s about your birth mother or the ghost or both. But Birdie O’Neill doesn’t strike me as someone who’d back down without a good reason.”
Grace glances at me as I start the car. “You aren’t chickening out, are you?”
I’m tempted. Joe Harrow scares me. But then I remember Lou telling me how she plays hide-and-seek with the girl in the mirror. “No.”
“Good. I think our next step should be talking to someone who knew my aunt,” Grace says. “Like her best friend, Kath Callaway.”
“All right,” I agree, despite the unease crawling up my spine.
“All right.” Grace leans her golden head back against the leather seat. “Let’s go home, Rosie.”