“And I brought all the leftover rolls for Lola,” she said. “She liked those best.”
Markie said thank you and put her hand on the door handle, ready to close it.
“I wanted to explain—” Mrs. Saint began.
“You don’t have to. I know what it’s like to have something painful—”
The old woman threw her head back as though Markie had said something hilarious, though no laughter came out. “Painful? Och, non. Annoyed, that is all. She comes after all these years? On a holiday! Who does this?”
“Is she still there?” Markie asked. She took a step backward and beckoned her neighbor in.
Mrs. Saint stepped inside, closing the door behind her, and scanned the family room and kitchen before setting her basket down.
“Oh, the dog’s not here,” Markie said. “Patty and the kids took her out for a walk.”
“Oui,” Mrs. Saint said, placing the basket on the floor by her feet, “she is still remaining. I tried to send her home, but her flight is going back tomorrow, and Frédéric tells me it will cost her much to change it. Anyway, she is staying mostly in the kitchen, teaching Ronda to make some things.
“So we do not have to be . . .” She crossed her middle finger over her pointer. “I have been reading in my room, so we have been more like . . .” She separated her fingers into a wide V. “Which is better.” She cleared her throat. “I know I lied about the picture,” she said. “I am sorry for this.”
“It’s fine,” Markie said. “We all have things we don’t feel like talking about. And this has been a tough few days for—”
“It is because she stole a boyfriend of mine, you see,” Mrs. Saint said. “It was many years ago, and perhaps you think me an old fool to still hang on. But he was very special to me. And not to her. And she has never apologized.”
“Why did she slap Frédéric?” Markie asked. “And why did she say she wasn’t sure what to call him?”
Mrs. Saint narrowed her eyes. “I was not aware about these things.” She considered for a moment and then said, “He has confronted her sometimes, about her behavior to me. She does not like this. I think this is why the slap. For the name, I suppose . . . maybe she had an intention of calling him something rude.”
“Did she say why she came?” Markie asked. “Did she finally apologize?”
“We have not spoken of it,” Mrs. Saint said. “But I know she wants my forgiveness. She is not well. And she is not wanting to die with this thing between us.”
“Will you forgive her?”
“Forgiveness is not mine to give,” Mrs. Saint said. “It belongs to God. And as to whether he will, she will have to wait and see.”
“But a lot of people forgive one another.”
“I do not believe in it.”
“The Catholic Church does, though, doesn’t it?”
“I am not the Catholic Church. And I think it is too easy to get forgiveness from a person.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Markie woke in the middle of the night to the wailing of sirens and the flashing of red-and-white lights across the ceiling. She ran to the window that overlooked Mrs. Saint’s property, pulled the curtain aside, and gasped. “Oh my God! No!” Flames leaped from one corner of Mrs. Saint’s house, and torrents of thick, dark smoke billowed out of every window and all along the roof line.
Two fire trucks were parked along the curb, and another was screaming up behind them. A police car trailed closely behind the last truck, and instead of pulling in behind the others, it made a sweeping arc into the street and stopped, blocking the road to all other traffic. An ambulance sat in the driveway, its back doors thrown open. The lights on all five vehicles continued to flash, and the figures racing over the lawn and between the trucks were alternately illuminated in a red glow and then plunged into darkness, blurry shadows against the night sky.
Three thick shapes with oxygen tanks on their backs worked to pull a hose from a coil in the middle of one of the trucks while another, similarly clad, raced to the fire hydrant on the corner, a long wrench in his hand. Two others, wielding flashlights, jogged from the back of the ambulance to the front door, one carrying a bag. Down the street, house lights began to turn on, and Markie saw neighbors stumbling out of front doors and toward the blaze, pajama tops pulled up to cover their noses and mouths.
Markie raced down the stairs as fast as her walking boot would allow, ignoring her protesting left ankle, and without stopping to find a shoe for her right foot or pull a sweater over her thin pajamas, she tore out the side door and across the lawn. Behind her, she heard Angel’s muffled barking in the basement. The entire bungalow must be awake by now, with the noise and lights and commotion next door. She hoped Patty would think to keep Lola from looking out the window.
Outside, she was overwhelmed by every sense. The acrid smell of smoke choked her as she picked her way over the grass, arms extended for balance as she watched the ground carefully to be sure her walking boot didn’t catch on something and send her flying. She didn’t dare use a hand to cover her nose and mouth, for fear she would topple sideways.
The sirens had stopped whining, but the staccato lights continued, washing everything around her in a flash of red, then white, then darkness, over and over. Voices shouted from the front lawn, the driveway, and the road, and multiple radios or walkie-talkies crackled and hissed from different directions. A wall of heat pressed against her skin, and her eyes burned with smoke and with the tears that came as panic set in.
All her life she had heard sirens across town, seen fire trucks and ambulances race past her on the highway and through intersections, watched coverage of blazes on the TV news, but never had she been so close to one. And never had she known the victims. What if they hadn’t gotten out? What if the firemen didn’t know to check downstairs for Frédéric?
She made her way through the gate in the fence and was halfway across Mrs. Saint’s lawn, heading for the front of the house, when a white light arced across her. She looked up to see a police officer stepping out of the shadows, a flashlight in his hand.
“Whoa there,” he said. “Where’d you come from? Were you inside? Are you related to the homeowner?”
“I’m the neighbor,” Markie panted, thrusting a thumb behind her. “Is everyone okay? Did they get them all out? There were three people inside! One in the basement! I need to get to them!”
She tried to move past him, but he put up his hands, motioning for her to stop.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, “but we can’t have anyone on the scene until it’s been secured.” He pointed toward the fence. “I’ll need you to return to your home, please. This is an unsafe environment.”
“But I . . . I’m . . . more than just a neighbor! I’m . . .”