Pale Phoenix Page 7

  "Well," declared Miranda, "as it is, we'll eat them in your honor. There's enough for everyone."

  Susannah's mother joined them, and they all sat at the table devouring the rich, fudgy brownies. The adults had cups of tea and the girls had milk, and Miranda felt light and easy and free. It was so nice to be celebrating something, so nice to sit with a family that was not full of tension. How sad, she reflected now, that her own house no longer afforded her peace and serenity. Since Abby had come to stay, everything was different.

  "How are your flute lessons coming along?" Nonny asked her great-granddaughter.

  "I'm as hopeless as ever." Susannah sighed. "Mandy might make the big time someday, but not me—at least not with a flute." Susannah wanted to be a doctor. "But look at this, Nonny." She opened the school newspaper and pointed to her picture. "If I can't make it into medical school, maybe I'll take up carpentry."

  The old woman adjusted her glasses and held the newspaper at arm's length in her good hand. "My goodness, Susie. You look just like a boy in those overalls and that cap! In my day I'd never have been allowed out to a public ceremony dressed like a ragamuffin." But she smiled.

  "Look, here's Mandy," said Susannah, tapping the photo of Mrs. Wainwright surrounded by students. "She's wearing overalls, too."

  Nonny shook the paper and held it up to see. "Ragamuffins, the pair of you. That's what I say." Then suddenly her smile turned into a look of surprise.

  "What is it?" asked Miranda. "Can you see me? I'm right here, in the front."

  "Oh, I see you, dear. It's this other girl I'm looking at. There's an astonishing resemblance to a child I had in one of my classes once—oh, years and years ago." At one time or another Nonny had probably taught most of the residents of Garnet until she retired about thirty years earlier. Her gnarled finger poked at the image of the pale girl with blond hair standing right beside Miranda. "Take her out of that sweater and jeans and put her in a dress, and she'd be a dead-ringer...."

  The girl standing next to Miranda in the photo was Abby. Miranda felt a leap of fear. Nonny shook her head and put down the paper. "I've seen so many kids in my time, it's hard to remember them, but that was one girl I'll always remember."

  "What happened?" asked Susannah. "Was she a troublemaker?"

  "It was a sad case. But sometimes you have to get involved, like it or not."

  Susannah's mother looked up from her brownie, interested. "Was it something at her home? Did you have to intervene?"

  Nonny shook her head. "Not exactly. The problem was, she didn't have a home. And when I found out, I reported her to the authorities, and they took her off to the orphanage." She tapped the paper again. "That was the old Prindle House, you know, in the 1930s. In one of its many incarnations." She sighed. "I thought I was doing the right thing, of course, but apparently the girl hated it there. She ran away and no one ever found her. I often wondered what became of Abby."

  Miranda spoke up excitedly. "That's her name, too! I mean, the girl in the picture is named Abby, too. And she doesn't have a home, either. She ran away from Baltimore when her grandfather died, and now she's living with us."

  Nonny laughed. "I love coincidences like this. Isn't it amazing?"

  Mrs. Johnston frowned. "I wonder if there's any connection. Don't see how there could be, really, but—"

  Miranda interrupted her. "Maybe the girl Nonny knew was Abby's mother! No, she'd be too old. Well, her grandmother, then. And maybe that's why Abby came to Garnet when she left Baltimore—to find out more about the other Abby."

  "How very strange," said Nonny. "Well, will you ask her—this Abby of yours? I'd like to know what she says." She sighed. "Guess I've always felt a little bit guilty about my Abby. She must have been unhappy to have run away like that."

  "Well, I'll ask Abby tonight if she knows anything about it," Miranda promised.

  "Ask your Abby, you mean," laughed Susannah.

  "Ugh, don't call her that!" Miranda stood up to leave. She put on her coat and boots and shouldered her backpack. Her mittens and house key fell out onto the floor, and there was a flurry of arms reaching out to set her straight. Mrs. Johnston handed back the gloves with a grin. Nonny handed back her key.

  "All set now?" asked Mrs. Johnston. "Do you mind walking? Or shall I try to take you?"

  "Oh, no, I don't mind walking. In all this snow, it would probably take longer by car."

  Miranda hugged them all good-bye, then trudged out to the street. The late afternoon sun was low, and the bitter wind blew right through her. She hurried along the newly plowed sidewalk as fast as she could. Here she had hoped an afternoon at Susannah's house would be a respite from thoughts of Abby. Was there no escape? Miranda groaned to herself as she started up the hill to her house. She seemed doomed to be haunted by Abby, one way or another.

  Chapter Seven

  MIRANDA CARRIED the salad to the table and sat down across from Abby. "Well," she began brightly, "Nonny's out of the hospital already."

  "That's good," said her father. "I hope the Johnstons will be able to convince her to leave the snow shoveling to them from now on."

  "I doubt it. She's a pretty amazing old lady." Miranda paused, waiting for Abby to ask who Nonny was. But the other girl helped herself to the salad without comment.

  "We showed her the school newspaper article about the Prindle House project, and she said in her day girls didn't go around wearing overalls."

  Miranda's mother smiled. "'Her day.' That's such a funny expression. Sounds like the only real time of your life is when you're young. And, of course, that isn't true. It's as much old Mrs. Johnston's day now as it ever was."

  "Well, she doesn't think so," replied Miranda. "Or maybe she was just talking about how girls look now, and how they looked when she was our age. I don't know. But she thought one girl in the paper looked pretty interesting."

  She paused and looked pointedly at Abby, who did not respond. After a moment Helen smiled obligingly and asked: "And which girl was that?"

  "Abby."

  Now Abby raised her head, eyes alert. "What do you mean?"

  "I'll show you the picture," Miranda said with satisfaction and reached for her backpack on the counter. She pulled out the newspaper. "See? There you are, right next to me. Nonny saw you and said you looked exactly like a girl she taught years and years ago. Well, exactly like you, except for the clothes. It was in the 1930s, I think Nonny said. The other girl's name was Abby, too."

  Although Abby's face remained blank, Helen and Philip looked interested, so Miranda continued. She told them the story of how Nonny had alerted the authorities that the other Abby was homeless, how the girl had been sent to live in the Prindle House orphanage, and how she had run away. "No one ever saw her again. So we wondered whether you knew anything about her."

  "That's fascinating," said Philip. "But it's probably a coincidence."

  "Or is there something to it?" asked Helen. "Abby, is that why you came to Garnet—were you tracing your roots?"

  Abby shook her head.

  "She might have been your grandmother, Abby," Miranda said.

  "She wasn't."

  "Or some other family connection."

  "My grandparents were from Baltimore. I never heard any story about one of them being in a children's home." Her voice was louder than usual.

  "Well, I'll take you over to meet Nonny sometime," said Miranda. "Even if there's no connection, she'll get a kick out of seeing you since you look so much like the girl she knew all those years ago."

  "I don't want to meet her," said Abby.

  "Oh, why not try to make somebody happy for once?"

  Abby's frown was as sharp as her voice. "It's nothing to do with me."

  At a reproving glance from her mother, Miranda bit back a sharp retort. She carefully rolled up a forkful of spaghetti. She chatted with her parents, ignoring Abby across the table as completely as if she weren't there at all.

  After dinner the four of them gathered in the big l
iving room. Miranda lay sprawled in front of the fireplace, a bowl of popcorn within easy reach. Abby curled up in an armchair, one shoulder turned away from the fire, away from Miranda. Both girls were reading As You Like It for their English classes. Helen and Philip stretched out in their customary places on either end of the long couch, feet touching. They all read in silence until a pine bough exploded with a dramatic pop and burst of sizzling blue flame, and Abby yelped.

  "Oooh!" It was a small cry, but full of real fear. She clapped one hand over her mouth.

  "Abby? What is it?" Helen put her book on the coffee table and stood up.

  But Abby shook her head, fear still bright in her eyes. "Nothing, nothing really. I just don't like fire very much. After what happened to my parents...."

  "How about if I make us some cocoa?" asked Philip, offering his usual remedy for just about anything. "It's the perfect thing for a cold, snowy night. And," he added gravely, "no fat and no sugar."

  "Let's just hope they left the chocolate in," said Miranda as her father left the room.

  "Look at that snow." Helen pointed to the window. "I've never seen weather like this."

  "I'm sick of it," grumbled Miranda. "It's lasting forever."

  "Don't get too sick of it. This is only February," Helen reminded her. "We'll have snow until April, at least. You'll really be suffering a long time if you come down with spring fever now."

  "This isn't really so bad," Abby spoke up. "I've seen worse. Real blizzards, and people stuck in the mountains, and well—much worse than this."

  "Where?" grumbled Miranda, "The mountains of Baltimore?"

  Abby didn't answer, and Miranda flopped onto her stomach and buried her face in the carpet. "Ugh. February is totally dreary. Nothing to do, nothing to look forward to—"

  Helen laughed. "Poor thing. Don't forget the dance."

  "Oh, right—the Valentine's Dance." She felt slightly more cheerful.

  A call came from the kitchen for Helen to come locate the hot chocolate mix. "I can only find the old mix," Philip complained loudly. "The poison. Where's the stuff I bought?"

  Helen rolled her eyes at the girls and went to help him.

  When they were alone, Abby snorted. "So you'll be going to the dance with the other silly children, jumping around, stomping on everybody's toes. Nobody knows how to dance anymore."

  Miranda tried to snort just as unpleasantly. "Speak for yourself. I can dance."

  Abby raised one corner of her mouth in the smirky grin Miranda hated. "I doubt that, Miranda Browne. You have no idea what dancing is. Real dancing. The minuet—or the waltz—"

  "Give me a break," Miranda snapped. "At least the dance is for a good cause." Who was Abby to act so superior? A runaway from the streets of Baltimore! Was that where she learned to waltz?

  Miranda turned back to her book resolutely. When her parents came back with hot chocolate, she sipped her drink and continued reading, uninterrupted except by the crackling of the new wood Philip put onto the fire and by the murmurs of conversation he and Helen exchanged from their ends of the couch. When she finished the play, Miranda sat up and stretched. Time to head up to bed. But just then Helen closed her book, too.

  "I think we should talk about it tonight, Phil."

  "Right. Time to see what the girls think."

  Abby, who had been dozing in the big armchair, her book face down on her lap, raised her head. Miranda tensed, bracing herself for whatever was to come. She could tell by the pleading look her mother gave her that she wasn't going to like it.

  Helen rubbed her hands through her feathery dark hair, and glanced at her husband for support. Philip leaned forward on the couch and cleared his throat. Still no one spoke. For a second Miranda imagined them all held in a giant's palm, waiting for the fist to clench.

  "We've had a few weeks together now," Helen began, smiling at Abby, "and we feel good about having you with us. I know you and Mandy have some problems to work out, but I'm sure you'll manage. Phil and I have been wondering what your plans are now. Where you want to go next—what you hope to do. Because—"

  Philip spoke up as she hesitated. "Because we've spoken to a social worker, and she said since there's been no progress tracing any family members, you could stay with us through March."

  "Whether you stay with us or not depends on a lot of things," said Helen. "A lot of them are legal details to work out, but most important for us is whether you and Mandy feel comfortable with our arrangement. We would want you to look on this as your home and on us as your family while you're here."

  Miranda saw the grateful tears spring to Abby's eyes. But before Abby could speak, Miranda opened her mouth and surprised even herself with the vehemence of her anger. "No way!"

  Then, seeing the hurt on Abby's face and the surprise on her parents' faces, she tried to temper her words. "It's—it's just hard. I mean, I know you should live here rather than go back out on the streets. I wouldn't want to send you to an orphanage, or anything, like that girl Nonny knew all those years ago...." She didn't look at any of them, but stared at the fire, lips pressed tightly together. She must not let them see her fear.

  "Mandy, honey." Philip was at her side, kneeling on the floor. "We're talking about one more month. Just through March, that's all we're saying. We'd just be Abby's foster family while the authorities keep trying to locate her relatives. Another few weeks won't seem very long at all. It won't be so hard."

  Miranda clenched her teeth. What did he know about it, anyway? "It's harder than you think."

  "Evidently." Helen spoke drily. She began gathering the mugs onto the tray.

  "But our offer still stands, Abby," added Philip, his face unreadable. "If you girls work things out, let us know. We'd like you to stay through March. After that—we'll have to see."

  Then Abby's voice, icy and tight, slapped his words away. "Thank you. I'd like to stay, but how can I?" She whirled on Miranda. "What makes you think it isn't hard for me, too, Miranda Browne? You're no bargain either, let me tell you. I've never met a girl who takes as much for granted as you do. You think you deserve all the good fortune you have? What a laugh! You make me sick!"

  Then she turned to Miranda's parents, who were regarding both girls with closed faces. "I'm very sorry. You've both been perfectly wonderful to me. But you must see that I couldn't stay with—" Her voice broke, and she jumped out of her chair and ran from the room. They heard her footsteps pounding up the stairs. This time they all heard her sobs.

  Helen looked helplessly from Miranda to Philip. Then she left them and ran upstairs after Abby. Miranda's stomach was so knotted, she wondered for a moment whether she would actually be sick. Philip handed her the tray of empty mugs.

  "Let's wash this stuff" was all he said.

  She followed him into the kitchen. " You see how awful things will be if she stays here, don't you, Dad?"

  He didn't answer but turned the water on full force to fill the sink.

  Chapter Eight

  MIRANDA DRESSED CAREFULLY on Saturday evening. She tried on a swirly peasant skirt that had been a birthday gift from her aunt Belle and studied herself in the mirror on the back of her door. She wasn't sure which type of blouse would look best with the multi-colored skirt. She held up two: a light blue silk T-shirt from India and a lacy white cotton blouse her mother had bought her to wear to a cousin's wedding last summer. She draped first one and then the other across her chest and twirled in front of the long mirror. Then, feeling foolish, she tossed them both on the bed.

  What did she think this was—a summer garden party? It was freezing out, and the party was only a dinner at Dan's. He had been rather formal, though, when he asked her on Thursday to reserve Saturday night for him.

  "I'm cooking," he had said, then added, "wear something appropriate."

  "Like a bib, you mean?" she teased. "To catch all the hamburger grease and ketchup?"

  "Don't you have an evening gown or something?"

  "Listen, I'll wash my jeans in yo
ur honor."

  She had decided only minutes ago to attempt a festive look. After all, usually Mrs. Hooton cooked for the family. This was a special effort Dan was making, and she wanted to show she appreciated it. After dinner they'd probably go up to his room to listen to music the way they usually did. Maybe he'll give me another back rub.

  She heard a tinkle of keys, and Abby's piano music flooded the house with ragtime. The bouncy, toe-tapping beat made Miranda's head ache. She turned from the mirror, grabbed her usual baggy green sweater out of the bottom drawer of her dresser, and pulled it on. This would have to do. She threaded silver earrings in her ears, left the dressy blouses crumpled on the bed, and hurried downstairs.

  Her parents were shimmying around the kitchen while they prepared dinner together. They waved from the doorway as Miranda shrugged into her heavy coat and boots. What goofs. She left the house, pulling the heavy front door closed on the rollicking piano music. She trudged across the street, snow crunching underfoot. Her headache receded as Dan opened the door even before she pressed the bell. Light from the house shone out in warm welcome around him.

  He looks different, thought Miranda, studying him. Although he wore his usual jeans, his shirt was one she had never seen before, and he had borrowed one of his father's corduroy jackets. Dan's dark hair was carefully combed, and he smelled faintly of some unidentifiable after-shave. Miranda wondered whether he really did shave and, if so, why he had never told her about it before. It was the sort of news they would have shared—before. Before things started changing between us, she thought. She smiled at him, suddenly regretting the baggy green sweater after all.

  "Right on time," he said, and ushered her into the front hall.

  "You said seven on the dot, and so here I am." She unzipped her coat, looking around for the other Hootons. Usually Buddy was the first to bound into the hall to greet her. But only Dan was there. "Where's Buddy? Where are your parents?"

  "We have the house to ourselves." He actually helped her take off her coat. She looked at him incredulously. Should she offer him the chance to remove her boots as well? But he made no move toward her feet, so she slipped the boots off herself, and started through the dining room to the big, cozy kitchen.