Читать книгу Little Girl Lost - Shirlee McCoy - Страница 15

Portia had always found comfort in painting, in the challenge of blending colors, of smoothing paint onto canvas, of trying her best to recreate the beauty of God’s creation. Being back in Stoneley only added to that feeling. Even as the wind slashed through her coat and gloves, she found a quiet peace out on the cliffs. High above, a hawk screamed. Far below, waves crashed against rock. Life, even in the frigid winter months, continued in the thick growth of evergreens, the spindly yellow grass and the glossy black birds zipping from tree to tree.

Portia dabbed more paint onto the canvas, feeling better than she had in months. This was what she’d missed. The quiet throbbing pulse of nature. New York City had its own pulse—an exotic beat that had appealed to her for a while. In the end, it hadn’t found its way into her soul the way Stoneley had.

“I knew I’d find you out here.” Rissa’s voice sounded above the crashing waves, and Portia turned to watch her sister hurry across the clearing.

“I was wondering when you’d show up. Thought you were going to hide out and work today.”

“Delia, Juliet and I decided to go into town. The house was too…”

“Quiet?”

“Claustrophobic was more the word I was thinking.” Rissa studied her. “You look happy.”

“I’ve always loved painting here.”

“You’ve always loved here, period.” She stared out toward the horizon, her eyes covered by dark sunglasses. “I know you don’t want to come back to New York.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.” Rissa smiled, the expression so sad, Portia’s own content mood disappeared.

“The truth is, I don’t know what I want anymore.” She rinsed her paintbrush. “I’m not like you. I don’t have one dream, one goal, one passion. I wish I did. Then maybe my choices would be clearer.”

“If it weren’t for Father, would you come back to Stoneley?”

Would she? It was a question she’d been asking herself over and over again since Tad went back to his ex. “Maybe.”

“‘Maybe’ is not an answer. ‘Maybe’ is just you sitting on the fence, letting life pass you by because you’re too afraid of standing up for what you want.”

“Rissa—”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re the kind of person who never wants to disappoint the people you love. I understand that. I just hope you don’t regret it one day.” Rissa shrugged. “Anyway, Sonya asked me to track you down. Mr. Dugal called to remind you that you’re to be at the parade a half hour early. That gives you less than an hour to get there.”

“It’s that late already?” Portia grabbed her supplies, hoping Rissa couldn’t see how deeply her words had cut. It was true that she didn’t want to disappoint those she loved, but was that so wrong?

Only if in refusing to disappoint them you ignore God’s leading.

The thought weaseled its way into her mind and she pushed it away. Of course she wanted to go wherever God led. She just needed to figure out where that was.

Later. When she didn’t have so much going on, so many things to deal with, she’d sit down and look at her options. For now, she’d just take things a day at a time and pray that God would keep her from making too many mistakes.

An hour later, she realized that He’d allowed her to make at least one. The Winter Fest Princess costume had seemed harmless enough when she’d picked it up earlier in the day. Now that she was wearing it, she was sure it had its origins as a medieval torture device. The corset top pinched in at the waist and the brocade skirt weighed almost as much as Portia herself. The tiara dug into her scalp and made her uncontrollable curls stick out in a hundred different directions. Beautiful she was not, but a promise was a promise, and she somehow managed to stuff herself and ten layers of petticoats into the Bug.

As she’d expected, the parade route was cordoned off, parking close to the beginning of the route was impossible. Fifteen minutes after she’d arrived in town, she parallel-parked between two pickups on a street fifteen blocks from where she needed to be. She was already five minutes late. Mr. Dugal wouldn’t be pleased.

The heavy, fur-lined cape slowed her pace, but she managed a semi-jog, her high-heeled boots slipping and sliding over icy patches.

“You look like Cinderella running from the ball.” Mick’s voice was a deep, warm and all too familiar surprise. “Only, no glass slippers.”

“Glass? Please. I’m having enough trouble in these.” As if to prove the point, her foot slipped and she slid sideways.

“Maybe if you slowed down…” He grabbed her elbow, the amusement in his gaze obvious.

“I can’t slow down. The parade is going to start in fifteen minutes and I’ve got to be in it.”

“Ah, the Winter Fest Princess. I’d almost forgotten that tradition.”

“Forgotten?”

“I grew up here. Went to school with your sister, Miranda.”

“Really? I’m surprised I don’t remember you.”

“You were probably still in pigtails when I left town.” His gloved fingers cupped her arm, his shoulder brushing against Portia’s as they walked, and she was absolutely certain that if she’d ever met him, she would have remembered him.

She swallowed hard, trying to force down fluttery nerves she had no business feeling. “My pigtail phase lasted a while. I still sport the style sometimes.”

“Not tonight, though.” He used his free hand to touch the curls that framed her face, his eyes dark blue in the evening light. “I have to say, I like the curls.”

“Thanks.” She needed to change the subject fast. The conversation felt way too personal. “I guess your ice fishing trip is over.”

“It had to be. I’m on duty tonight.”

“Too bad.”

“Not really. I haven’t been to a Winter Fest Parade in years. I’d forgotten how many beautiful sights there were to see.” His words, coupled with the appreciative gleam in his eyes, were a quiet caress that stole Portia’s breath.

“Yeah, well, the local businesses really do go all out to make impressive floats.”

Mick laughed and shook his head. “I’m making you uncomfortable. I’ll stop. There is Mr. Dugal’s carriage, so I guess I’ll say goodbye for now.”

“Thanks for escorting me. I hope you didn’t go too far out of your way.”

“Actually, I ended up exactly where I needed to be. There’s something we need to discuss.” He turned to face her, the hardness in his eyes warning that Portia wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “Your grandfather’s actions earlier today.”

He knew. Somehow he’d already found out about the attack against Alannah.

“I can tell from your silence that you know exactly what I’m talking about. How about we meet after the parade?”

“Mick—”

“Mr. Dugal is heading this way and he doesn’t look happy. So, as much as I’d like to get your version of what happened this afternoon, I think it had better wait.”

“But—”

“Portia Blanchard, what is it you’re waiting for? A written invitation? The parade is about to start.” Mr. Dugal’s voice carried over the sounds of music and laughter that filled the night, and Portia winced, knowing she had to hurry or risk the entire town knowing she’d been late. That would almost be as bad for Aunt Winnie’s reputation as coming up a few cookies short in the snacks she’d provided. After all, despite Portia and her sisters’ ages, the town regarded everything they did as a reflection of the woman who had raised them.

“All right, I’ll meet you after the parade.”

“I’ll be at the end of the parade route. Until then, do your best not to worry about it.”

Portia nodded, but couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat. Alannah had actually gone to the police. Could things get any worse?

“Stop frowning. I can’t have a sour-looking Winter Fest Princess riding in the parade.” Mr. Dugal helped her up into the turn-of-the-century carriage, his stooped shoulders set against the winter chill, his frizzy white hair peeking from beneath a black top hat.

Behind the carriage, the high-school marching band practiced, trumpets blaring, drums pounding a jazzy beat. Beyond them floats created by local businesses waited—a wedding cake made of flowers, a snow family perched in front of a gingerbread house. Portia couldn’t see the rest, but knew from past experience they’d all be just as elaborate and beautiful. The comfortable familiarity of it should have eased her tension, but Mick’s words made relaxing difficult and enjoying the carriage ride almost impossible.

People waved and shouted greetings as the carriage lurched forward and the parade began. Portia did her best to smile and wave in true Winter Fest Princess fashion, though her insides were knotted up tight, her pulse racing. Had Alannah pressed charges? Would the police be at the Manor when Portia returned? What would happen to Grandfather? The questions circled in her mind. The trip down Main Street seemed to take an eternity, the two-mile trek feeling more like twenty. Portia wanted to hop out of the slow-moving carriage and run to the end of the parade route. Unfortunately, the entire route was lined with spectators. Many were people she knew. It was bad enough to contend for the position of oldest Winter Fest Princess; she didn’t want to go down in history as the only princess to abandon her post.

Finally, Mr. Dugal pulled on to a side street and parked the carriage. “That’s it, end of the road. You want me to bring you back up?”

“No, my car is actually closer to this end.”

“Then I’ll let you out here. Enjoy the rest of the evening.”

“You, too.” She climbed down from the carriage and watched until it turned a corner and disappeared from sight. The alley was dark, shadowed by buildings to either side. Portia had been here many times as a child, playing with friends who lived in one of the Queen Annes that lined the street.

She started toward the mouth of the alley, hoping Mick would be easy to find in the crowd. The sooner she spoke to him and cleared things up, the better. Though she wasn’t sure talking would do any good if Alannah had pressed charges. Something shuffled in the darkness behind her, a whisper of a sound that shivered along Portia’s spine and had her turning to peer into the blackness.

“Hello?” Nothing moved, and Portia almost convinced herself that the sound had been her imagination. Then it came again. More a rustle than a footfall. Shadows shifted, a strange realignment of blacks and grays that made Portia blink and step back.

“Is someone there?” She backed up again, moving as quickly as she could in the cumbersome dress, afraid to turn her back on whatever stood in the shadows.

And bumped into something solid and unyielding.

A hand landed on her shoulder, holding fast as she jumped and screamed. She tried to turn, felt her feet slip out from under her and screamed again as she was pulled up into hard arms.

She twisted, struggling against her assailant’s hold, her fist aiming for whatever it could connect with, panic giving her strength, a prayer for help shouting through her mind.

Mick grabbed Portia’s fist seconds before it made contact with his face. “Whoa. Two broken noses in a lifetime is two too many.”

“Mick?” She pushed against his arms and he eased her back onto her feet, feeling the quick, frantic beat of her heart and the fine tremors in the muscles beneath his hands. “You scared me half to death.”

“Were you expecting someone else?” He made his voice light, even as he scanned the alley and the shadowy blackness behind the buildings. Something had frightened Portia, and he didn’t think it was his sudden appearance.

“No. I just…” She turned her head, not even trying to free herself from his grip as she surveyed the area behind her.

“You just what?”

“Nothing.” She faced him again, shrugging her narrow shoulders.

“It’s not ‘nothing.’ You’re shaking.”

“I thought I heard something over there in the shadows.” She gestured to the back of the alley and Mick pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shone it in that direction.

There was nothing but brick and pavement, the area to either side the same.

“See? Nothing. Just a dark night and an overactive imagination.” She laughed, the sound hollow.

“Maybe.” Mick released Portia and stepped toward the place she’d indicated. Nine times out of ten a noise in the dark was nothing. It was the one time out of ten that Mick was worried about. “Tell you what, why don’t you go out onto Main Street? I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m just going to check around. It can’t hurt to take a closer look.” He cupped her upper arm and tugged her toward the lights and noise of the Winter Fest Parade. The band had passed and a float meandered by, boasting a three-tiered wedding cake of flowers complete with pint-sized bride and groom who waved cheerfully from their place on the top layer. People milled about on the sidewalk, laughing and chatting with one another. A few feet away, a street vendor sold pretzels to a smiling family. The scene was reminiscent of Norman Rockwell at his finest—small-town life portrayed to perfection. Yet, Mick couldn’t shake the feeling that something tragic had just been averted. “Stay here.”

“But—”

“Stay. Here.” He doubted the added emphasis would keep her from following, but he hoped for it anyway.

The ground in the alley was snow- and dirt-covered cobblestone. Mick searched it for clues that someone besides Portia had been there. He found hoofprints and footprints. More than one set. Mick would be hard-pressed to say which were fresh and which were from earlier in the day, maybe even the week. The ground was frozen, the thin layer of snow and slush over the cobblestone unable to melt even during the warmest time of the day.

The soft slide of boots on the ground and the swish of the heavy skirt Portia wore announced her presence. Mick wasn’t surprised that she’d returned. “I thought we agreed you were going to wait out on Main Street.”

“I thought you might need my help.” The words, coming from a woman almost a foot shorter and probably a hundred pounds lighter, made Mick smile.

“I appreciate your concern, but I told you to stay put.”

“How could I do that and help at the same time?” She stepped close, her arm brushing against his as she peered into the darkness. He caught a whiff of her shampoo and the subtle, flowery scent that was uniquely Portia.

“Did you find anything?”

“Footprints and hoofprints, but nothing conclusive.”

“Then maybe we can get out of here. This place is giving me the creeps.”

“Sounds good to me.” He flashed the light into the shadows once more, the nagging worry in his gut not dissipating despite the fact that he could find no proof that Portia hadn’t been alone. “What do you say to a cup of coffee somewhere warm?”

“Coffee?” That sounded like a bad idea to Portia. A really bad one. Discussing Alannah’s accusations was one thing. Doing it over a cup of coffee was another. “I don’t know. I’m not really dressed for it.”

“You look perfect to me.”

Thank goodness the darkness hid the color staining Portia’s cheeks. “What I mean is that Mr. Dugal won’t be happy if I spill coffee on the dress.”

“Did you bring a change of clothes?”

“In my car.”

“So let’s go get them. You can change at the police station and we can hit the Beanery after that.”

“Mick—”

“I’m not asking for a lifetime commitment, Portia. I’m asking you to have a cup of coffee with me while we discuss what your grandfather did this afternoon. It’s either that or we stand out here and discuss it. I spent most of the day outside. I’m about ready for a little warmth.” He cupped her elbow and led her out of the alley, neatly stopping any argument Portia might have made.

She told herself that it didn’t matter. That it was only a cup of coffee. But it felt like something more, and despite the fact that Mick wasn’t her type, Portia had the alarming feeling that he could do even more damage to her heart than Tad had.