“Well, Mr. Spier was just torn apart,” said Kristy’s mom. “He walked around looking lost. And when Mary Anne would cry, he looked confused. It was as if he had no idea how to deal with his baby girl.”
“Is that why he sent her away?” asked Kristy.
Her mom looked at her, surprised. “Why, yes, I suppose it was,” she said. “You know, I’d forgotten about that. It was so long ago. But Mary Anne did go off to live with her grandparents — in Idaho, I think it was.”
“Iowa,” said Kristy.
“Somewhere far away,” her mother agreed. “But when she was gone, Richard looked lonelier and sadder than ever. I think he missed her very much.”
“So she came back?” asked Kristy.
“As soon as he felt ready, he sent for her,” said her mom. “And now that I think of it, I wonder how I ever could have forgotten that time. I remember it as if it were yesterday. One day, soon after she’d come back, I saw Richard pushing Mary Anne in her stroller. ‘Look at my little girl,’ he said to me. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ Then I saw him smile for the first time in almost two years, and it nearly made me cry.” Kristy told me later that her mother seemed close to crying that afternoon in the kitchen, just thinking about that time.
“So he always wanted her?” asked Kristy.
“Why, of course he did,” said her mom. “She was his little girl.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me this before?” asked Kristy. “Why didn’t you tell Mary Anne?”
“I guess I’d just forgotten about it,” said her mom. “It was such a sad time for that family. I wasn’t trying to hide anything from you. Anyway, everything turned out just fine. Richard has been a wonderful father, and Mary Anne has turned out to be a happy, well-adjusted girl.”
“Not so happy lately,” said Kristy. She told her mother what I’d discovered, and about my fears that my father would give me up again.
“Oh, poor Mary Anne,” said Kristy’s mom. “I hope she’s talked to her father by now, so she knows she has nothing to worry about.”
That night, Kristy called to tell me about her talk with her mom. And I told her about the talk I’d had with my dad.
“So I guess I got worried about nothing,” I said.
“It sounds like it,” said Kristy. “My mother was just a neighbor, but even she knew how much your dad loved you.”
“I’m going to talk to your mom some day soon,” I said. “I want to hear all about my mother. I want her to tell me everything she can remember. And you know what? I’m going to bring her an applesauce cake. I think my mother’s recipe is still around.”
“Whoa! Watch it!” Logan stepped forward quickly to catch Old Hickory, who was about to fall on his face.
Well, not the real Old Hickory. It was the cardboard figure we’d made, and we were busy setting up our booth. It was Heritage Day, and the grounds of the elementary school were already full of people.
I helped Claudia set up George and Martha Washington, then stood back to take a look. “They look terrific!” I said. “Here, Kristy, take the camera. I want to see how I look with these two.” I stood between the cut-out figures, put my fingers over George’s head to give him rabbit ears, and made a silly face. Kristy giggled and snapped my picture with the instant camera. I let go of Martha’s arm and stood next to Kristy. We watched as the picture developed, and started giggling as soon as we saw it.
“Awesome!” said Kristy. “It really looks like you’re hanging out with George and Martha.” The rest of the BSC gathered around to look.
“That’s great!” said Jessi. “Let’s stick it up on our booth so people can see how good they’ll look.”
“No!” I said, suddenly shy. “I don’t want my picture displayed for everyone to see. Take another one. Dawn, you do it.” I stuck the picture in my back pocket. Later I’d put it up on my bulletin board.
Dawn stood next to Old Hickory and put her arms around him. She gazed at him lovingly. “You’re a hunk, Old Hick,” she said, giggling. Stacey snapped the picture.
“That’s great!” she exclaimed as soon as she saw how it had come out. “Look, you guys. Here’s Dawn with her new boyfriend.” We passed the picture around.
“Stacey, this was a good idea,” said Kristy. I knew it took a lot for her to admit that, since Kristy is usually our “idea” person. But she was right. I could tell that our booth was going to be a hit.
We posted Dawn’s picture on our booth, next to the sign Claudia had made. The sign said “POSE WITH STONNEYBROOK’S SELEBRITYS.” As usual, Claud’s spelling was a little off, but the sign was beautiful.
The booth next to ours was run by some third-graders; they were selling maps of “Olde Stoneybrook.” On the other side was a booth set up by some teachers. They were selling refreshments: an old-fashioned drink called “switchel,” which was made with lemonade and ginger ale, and chocolate-chip cookies, which were delicious, even if they weren’t historically accurate.
As soon as we’d set up our booth, customers started to arrive. We had decided to take turns running the booth, and Dawn, Kristy, and I were on the first shift. Dawn was taking the pictures, I was helping people pose, and Kristy was collecting the money. We were pretty busy. Old Hickory turned out to be the most popular cut-out: Everybody seemed to want their picture taken with him.
After a while, Jessi, Mal, and Claud relieved us. Kristy went off to find David Michael, Karen, and Andrew. Dawn and I started to walk around the fair, looking at the booths.
“Extra! Extra! Read all about it!” yelled Jordan Pike. He was walking toward us, holding up a copy of the Olde Stoneybrook News that his class had published. He was dressed like a newsboy from long ago, in knickers, a vest, and a cap. But instead of old-fashioned shoes, he was wearing his green sneakers with neon-orange laces. “Extra!” he shouted again. “Doc Swanson buys town’s first horseless carriage! Neighbors say it’ll never take the place of the horse!”
We stopped him and bought a copy of the paper. “This is great,” said Dawn. “The kids really worked hard on it. Look at this picture they found of the town after that big blizzard!” She showed me the paper.
Next we stopped at a little stage that had been set up near the baseball diamond. Claire Pike’s class was singing the songs they’d learned. They sounded a little out of tune, and a little unsure of the words, but I could tell they were having fun. I caught Claire’s eye and gave her a wink. She was dressed in a pilgrim outfit like all the others (no feather boa this time), and she looked great.
After the kindergartners finished, the second-graders performed their skit. Margo said her lines perfectly; the only problem was that she giggled every time she looked at the boy who was playing her husband. The audience didn’t seem to mind, though. They gave the actors a big hand when the skit was over.
Next was Vanessa’s class, reciting her epic poem. Dawn and I stayed for about eight verses, and then we gave each other a look. The poem was great, but it was time to move on.
Next to the stage was a big display of the family trees that various kids had made. I saw Charlotte standing in front of her project. Both of her parents were with her, and Charlotte was beaming as she showed off her work to the people clustered around. “Hi, Charlotte,” I said. “Wow, you did a great job.” She had, too. She’d made a montage of the pictures she’d found, and next to it was a beautifully drawn tree, with names on every branch. She’d also written a description of why and how her great-grandmother had originally come to Stoneybrook. It was because the town needed a hat maker, and that’s what she was!
Dawn and I walked around the rest of the fair. We saw the mural that Myriah Perkins’s class had made, and the project on the town’s founders that Shea Rodowsky had helped with. We stopped to listen to the tapes that Corrie Addison had made at Stoneybrook Manor. And we ate and ate: cookies and hot dogs and popcorn. Then we went back to our booth.
“How’s business?” I asked. By that time the third shift had taken over: Stacey, Logan, a
nd Shannon were watching the booth.
“It’s slowed down a little,” said Logan. “I think nearly every person here has already had his picture taken!”
“You should have seen how Mr. Pike looked with Sophie,” said Stacey. “They made quite a couple.”
“We took in a lot of money,” said Shannon, who was busy counting it. “The Historical Society will be happy to have this!” She held up a wad of bills.
At the end of the day, I helped take down the cut-outs. Dawn and I had agreed to store them in our barn, just in case they’d ever come in handy again. My dad came by to drive us — and the figures — home. Dawn and I told him about the fair as he drove.
“It was really fun,” said Dawn. “I feel like I know a lot more about Stoneybrook now, and it wasn’t boring to learn all that history. I’m going to spend some time in the library next week. Maybe I can finally find out more about Jared Mullray.”
“Jared Mullray?” asked my dad.
“You know, the crazy guy whose ghost haunts our house.”
My father nodded. “Oh, right,” he said. “That Jared Mullray.” He pulled into the driveway and helped Dawn and me carry the cut-outs into the barn. As we emerged, dusting off our hands, he turned to Dawn. “Would you mind leaving Mary Anne and me alone for a little while?” he asked her. “There’s something I need to talk to her about.”
Dawn nodded. “Sure,” she said. She squeezed my hand. “I’ll be in my room, reading.”
Dad took my hand and led me to his study. I was dying of curiosity — and was also a little nervous. “What is it, Dad?” I asked, after he’d shut the door behind us.
“Well,” he said slowly. “I think the time has come to give this to you.” He put his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope.
I took it and looked it over. It was yellowed with age, and my name was written on the front.
“It’s a letter,” he said. “A letter for you. It’s from your mother.” His voice sounded a little strange, as if he were trying to hold back tears. “She wrote it just before she died, and asked me to give it to you when you turned sixteen. But I think she’d want me to give it to you now, instead. She had no way of knowing how mature you’d be at thirteen. I hope it will help to answer some of the questions you have about your past.” He sounded formal, like someone making a presentation of a medal or something.
I gulped. “Dad, are you sure?” I asked. I held the letter tightly. “I mean, do you think I’m really ready to read this?” All of a sudden I felt like a little girl again. After all my curiosity, now I wasn’t sure I could handle reading my mother’s words.
“You’re ready, honey,” said my dad. He stood up and gave me a big hug. “You’re ready. Why don’t you take that to your bedroom and read it in private?”
“Okay,” I replied, a little shakily. I left the study and went to my bedroom. I closed the door behind me and sat down on my bed, with Tigger on my lap. I was still clutching the envelope. I turned it over in my hands and looked again at my name, written in script. “My mother wrote that,” I said to Tigger. “This letter is from her to me.” I sat for a few more minutes, just thinking. What I held in my hands was something I’d longed for for so many years. Reading this letter would be like hearing my mother speak to me. I took a few deep breaths, and then, when I felt ready, I carefully tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter. It was written on pale blue paper, and the writing covered three whole pages.
I started to read.
“Dearest Mary Anne,” it began. “How I wish I could see your face as you read this letter. Is it a face I would recognize? I know one thing for sure: It’s a lovely face. The baby who sits by me as I write this is the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen. (Of course, I may be a little prejudiced, since I am her mother.)”
I smiled as I read that. The letter went on. “I know that your father loves you very much, and that he’ll do everything he can to bring you up well. I know, too, that it will be hard for him and that he will need help now and then. That’s why I am happy to know that my mother and father, who dote on you, are ready and willing to do whatever it takes to make sure that you have a happy and secure childhood.”
I thought of the people I’d seen in the old pictures. They had kind, gentle faces. They had loved me, my grandparents — and by taking care of me they had been carrying out a promise they’d made to my mother. I let go of any mean thoughts I’d had about my grandmother.
“Mary Anne,” the letter went on. “I would give anything to be with you today — to be with you through all your days of growing up. I love you so much, and it hurts so badly to know that I have to leave you.”
That’s when I started to cry.
I read the rest of the letter, crying the whole time. My mother told me about herself and her childhood. She told me how she and my father had met and fallen in love. She wrote about her hopes and dreams for me, and the hopes and dreams she’d once had for herself. By the time I finished the letter, I felt exhausted. But I also felt happy. Reading that letter was an experience I will never forget.
I sat alone in my room for a long time, holding the letter. Then I put it away in a special place, and went to find my father. It was time for me to make plans for a trip to Maynard, Iowa.
The author gratefully acknowledges
Ellen Miles
for her help in
preparing this manuscript.
About the Author
ANN MATTHEWS MARTIN was born on August 12, 1955. She grew up in Princeton, New Jersey, with her parents and her younger sister, Jane.
There are currently over 176 million copies of The Baby-sitters Club in print. (If you stacked all of these books up, the pile would be 21,245 miles high.) In addition to The Baby-sitters Club, Ann is the author of two other series, Main Street and Family Tree. Her novels include Belle Teal, A Corner of the Universe (a Newbery Honor book), Here Today, A Dog’s Life, On Christmas Eve, Everything for a Dog, Ten Rules for Living with My Sister, and Ten Good and Bad Things About My Life (So Far). She is also the coauthor, with Laura Godwin, of the Doll People series.
Ann lives in upstate New York with her dog and her cats.
Copyright © 1992 by Ann M. Martin.
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC, THE BABY-SITTERS CLUB, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First edition, August 1992
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
e-ISBN 978-0-545-69062-1
Ann M. Martin, Mary Anne and the Secret in the Attic
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