It wasn’t a bad house, certainly not by Hayden standards. Small, yes: three tiny bedrooms tucked into the peaked second floor; a single bathroom on each floor; a living room; and a kitchen with an eating space that doubled as a counter. In the six years Claire had lived here, she’d painted the once moss-green walls a creamy French vanilla and replaced the orange shag carpeting with hardwood floors. Her furniture, although mostly secondhand, was all framed in wood that she’d stripped and refinished herself. Her pride and joy was a Hawaiian koa-wood love seat. It didn’t look like much in the living room, with its faded red cushions, but someday, when she lived on Kauai, it would stop people in their tracks.
Meg would see it differently, of course. Meg, who’d graduated high school early and then breezed through seven years of college, who never failed to mention that she had buckets of money, and had the nerve to send her niece Christmas gifts that made the others under the tree look paltry by comparison.
“My waffle’s up.”
“So it is.” Claire took the waffle from the slot, buttered and cut it, then put the plate in front of her daughter. “Here you go.”
Alison immediately stabbed a piece and popped it into her mouth, chewing in that cartoon-character way of hers.
Claire couldn’t help smiling. Her daughter had had that effect on her since birth. She stared down at the miniature version of herself. Same fine blond hair and pale skin, same heart-shaped face. Although there were no pictures of Claire at five, she imagined that she and Alison were almost carbon copies of each other. Alison’s father had left no genetic imprint on his daughter.
It was fitting. The minute he’d heard Claire was pregnant, he’d reached for his running shoes.
“You’re in your jammies, Mommy. We’re gonna be late if you don’t hurry.”
“You’re right about that.” Claire thought about all the things she had to do today: mow the back field; recaulk the showers and bathroom windows; bleach the mildewed wall in cabin three; unplug the toilet in cabin five; and repair the canoe shed. It was early yet, not even 8:00, on the last day of school. Tomorrow, they’d be leaving for a week of rest and fun at Lake Chelan. She hoped she could get everything done in time. She glanced around. “Have you seen my work list, Alison?”
“On the coffee table.”
Claire picked up her list from the table, shaking her head. She had absolutely no memory of leaving it there. Sometimes she wondered how she’d get by without Alison.
“I want ballet lessons, Mommy. Is that okay?”
Claire smiled. It occurred to her—one of those passing thoughts that carried a tiny sting—that she’d once wanted to be a ballerina, too. Meghann had encouraged her to dream that dream, even though there had been no money for lessons.
Well, that wasn’t quite true. There had been money for Mama’s dance lessons, but none for Claire’s.
Once, though, when Claire had been about six or seven, Meghann had arranged for a series of Saturday-morning lessons with a junior high friend of hers. Claire had never forgotten those few perfect mornings.
Her smile faded.
Alison was frowning at her, one cheek bunched up midbite. “Mommy? Ballet?”
“I wanted to be a ballerina once. Did you know that?”
“Nope.”
“Unfortunately, I have feet the size of canoes.”
Ali giggled. “Canoes are huge, Mommy. Your feet are just really big.”
“Thanks.” She laughed, too.
“How come you’re a worker bee if you wanted to be a ballerina?”
“Worker bee is what Grampa calls me. Really I’m an assistant manager.”
It had happened a long time ago, her choosing this life. Like most of her decisions, she’d stumbled across it without paying much attention. First, she’d flunked out of Washington State University—one of the many party casualties of higher education. She hadn’t known then, of course, that Meghann was basically right. College gave a girl choices. Without a degree, or a dream, Claire had found herself back in Hayden. Originally, she’d meant to stay a month or so, then move to Kauai and learn to surf, but then Dad got bronchitis and was down for a month. Claire had stepped in to help him out. By the time her father was back on his feet and ready to resume his job, Claire had realized how much she loved this place. She was, in that and in so many things, her father’s daughter.
Like him, she loved this job; she was outside all day, rain or shine, working on whatever needed to be done. When she finished each chore, she saw tangible proof of her labor. There was something about these gorgeous sixteen acres along the river that filled her soul.
It didn’t surprise her that Meghann didn’t understand. Her sister, who valued education and money above everything, saw this place as a waste of time.
Claire tried not to let that condemnation matter. She knew her job wasn’t much in the great scheme of things, just managing a few campsites and a couple of cabins, but she never felt like a failure, never felt that her life was a disappointment.
Except when she talked to her sister.
CHAPTER
THREE
Twenty-four hours later, Claire was ready to leave on vacation. She took a last pass through the tiny house, looking for anything forgotten or left undone, but everything was as it should be. The windows were locked, the dishwasher was empty, and all the perishables had been taken out of the fridge. She was straightening the shower curtain when she heard footsteps in the living room.
“What in the name of a frog’s butt are you still doing here?”