The Unwanted

  “Ed, don’t!” Laura protested. “Eric didn’t do anything.”

  But it was too late. Ed’s arm flashed downward and his open palm smashed against Eric’s left cheek, twisting his head around. Eric staggered, stunned by the blow. Then, as his own eyes flooded with tears of pain, he rushed out of the kitchen and up the stairs toward his room.

  “And don’t come back down till you can show some respect!” he heard his father shouting after him.

  Eric lay on his bed, still seething from the blow his father had dealt him nearly three hours before. The stinging on his cheek had diminished, but in his head the rage he felt only grew stronger.

  I’m going to kill him, he thought. Someday he’s going to hit me once too often, and I’m just going to kill him. Staring at the shadows that played over the ceiling of his room, wishing the anger would subside so sleep would come, he found himself beginning to fantasize about how he could do it.

  How he could actually kill his father.

  The boat would be the easiest way. There were all kinds of things he could do to the boat, and nobody would ever know what had really happened. If it sank, no one would even think twice about it. His father took such crummy care of the Big Ed, it was a miracle it hadn’t sunk already.

  Except that deep in his heart, Eric knew he would never do it. He might dream about it, might even figure out exactly how it could be done, but when it came to actually doing it, he knew he wouldn’t.

  Because in the end his father was still his father.

  He tossed restlessly on the bed and punched at the pillow. If only he could understand why his father was always mad at him. It wasn’t as if he didn’t try to please him—he did. But for some reason nothing he said or did was ever good enough.

  His mother always told him it wasn’t his fault, that he should just try to ignore it when his father got drunk and started beating up on him. But how could he when no matter how hard he tried, it always seemed to turn out wrong?

  The rage and frustration grew. Eric tossed and turned, twisting the bed covers. If he didn’t do something, he was going to start ripping the bed apart.

  He got up and went to the window. Outside, beyond the suddenly confining walls of the house, the night was calm and peaceful. The first of the tree frogs were beginning to chirp softly to each other, and in the distance he could just make out the sounds of a low surf washing the beach.

  Maybe he should go out—just go for a walk—until he was calm enough to sleep. He started to pull on a heavy sweater, then stopped, aware that he could not leave the house.

  Often on nights like this when his father was drunk and angry, he came into Eric’s room late, his fury still not expended. If Eric wasn’t there, it would enrage Ed more, and he’d turn on the only other person in the house.

  His mother.

  Better to take the beatings himself than have to watch his mother’s silent suffering as she nursed her bruises in the morning.

  Trapped in his room, he stared out across the driveway to the Winslows’ house, where the window to Jennifer’s room stood open.

  That, too, was sometimes the subject of his fantasies. Some nights he lay awake for hours, wondering what it would be like to live there, where no angry words ever erupted in the night and everyone seemed to love each other.

  Suddenly there was a flicker of movement in the window across the driveway, and a face appeared. But it wasn’t Jennifer’s face.

  It was Cassie’s.

  His eyes met hers, and for a long moment they simply looked at each other. As the moment stretched on, Eric slowly began to feel his anger draining away. It was as if in the look that passed between them, Cassie had somehow understood the feelings he was experiencing, had let him know that she understood.

  At last Cassie smiled slightly and nodded, then disappeared from the window.

  Long after she was gone, Eric stayed at the window, trying to figure out what had happened. After several minutes had passed, he felt something else.

  Somewhere in the night something was watching him.

  His gaze shifted then, to scan the little graveyard that lay behind his yard as well as the Winslows’. At first he could see nothing but the shadows of the trees and the tombstones, but then, slowly emerging from the night, a shape took form. It was indistinct at first, but as he concentrated on it, he suddenly knew what it was.

  Miranda.

  The strange woman who lived alone outside the village. But what was she doing here in the middle of the night, watching his house?

  And then, as the dark figure moved slightly and became clearer, he realized that it wasn’t his house Miranda was watching.

  It was the house next door.

  Like himself, Miranda was watching the room in which Cassie Winslow now lived.

  Cassie awoke in the blackness of the hours before dawn, her heart thumping, her skin damp with a cold sweat that made her shiver. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then, as she listened to the unfamiliar sound of surf pounding in the distance, the dream began to fade away, and she remembered where she was.

  She was in False Harbor, and this was where she lived now. In the room next to her, her stepsister was asleep, and down the hall her father was in bed with her stepmother.

  Then why did she feel so alone?

  It was the dream, of course.

  It had come to her again in the night. Again she had seen the strange woman who should have been her mother but was not.

  Again, as Cassie watched in horror, the car burst into flames, and Cassie, vaguely aware that she was in a dream, had expected to wake up, as she had each time the nightmare had come to her.

  This time, though she wanted to turn and run, she stood where she was, watching the car burn.

  This time there had been no laughter shrieking from the woman’s lips, no sound of screams, no noise at all. The flames had risen from the car in an eerie silence, and then, just as Cassie was about to turn away, the stranger had suddenly emerged from the car.

  Clad in black, the figure had stood perfectly still, untouched by the flames that raged around her. Slowly, she raised one hand. Her lips moved and a single word drifted over the crowded freeway, came directly to Cassie’s ears over the faceless mass of people streaming by in their cars.

  “Cassandra …”

  The word hung in the air for a moment. Then the woman turned, and as soundlessly as she had emerged, stepped back into the flames.

  Instinctively Cassie had started toward her, wanting to pull her back from the flames, wanting to save her.

  The silence of the dream was shattered then by the blaring of a horn and the screaming of tires skidding on pavement.

  Cassie looked up just in time to see a truck bearing down on her, the enormous grill of its radiator only inches from her face.

  As the truck smashed into her she woke up, her own scream of terror choked in her throat.

  Her heartbeat began to slow, and her shivering stopped. Now the room seemed to close in on her, and she found it hard to breathe. Slipping out of bed, she crossed to the window at the far end of the narrow room and lifted it open. As she was about to go back to bed, a movement in the darkness outside caught her eye.

  She looked down into the cemetery on the other side of the back fence. At first she saw nothing. Then she sensed the movement again, and a dark figure came into view. Clad in black, perfectly silent, a woman stood in the shadows cast by the headstones.

  Time seemed to suspend itself.

  And then the figure raised one hand. Once more Cassie heard a single word drift almost inaudibly above the pounding of the surf from the beach a few blocks away.

  “Cassandra …”

  Cassie remained where she was, her eyes closed as she strained to recapture the sound of her name, but now there was only the pulsing drone of the surf. And when she reopened her eyes a few seconds later and looked once more into the graveyard, she saw nothing.

  The strange figure that had stepped out of t
he shadows was gone.

  She went back to her bed and pulled the covers close around her. For a long time she lay still, wondering if perhaps she’d only imagined it all.

  Perhaps she hadn’t even left the bed, and had only dreamed that she’d seen the woman in the graveyard.

  But the woman in the graveyard had been the woman in her dream. But she didn’t really exist.

  Did she?

  Chapter 4

  “Can’t I go with you?” Jennifer Winslow begged. The little girl was gazing at Cassie with the wistful expression that never failed to soften her father, though her mother usually ignored it. “Please?” With Cassie, the look seemed to work.

  “All I’m going to do is look around the town,” Cassie replied. “Don’t you think it might be kind of boring?”

  Jennifer shook her head vehemently, and pushed her empty breakfast plate aside. “I like to go for walks. And I know all the neatest places too.” She turned to her father. “Can I show Cassie the boat? Please? We won’t touch anything!”

  Keith glanced questioningly at Rosemary, then shrugged. “Why not? In fact, maybe we should all go for a cruise this afternoon. We can run over to Hyannis if the weather holds.”

  “And if you get all the yard work done,” Rosemary added pointedly. “I believe Jennifer was going to help you with that.”

  Jennifer’s eager smile faded. “Do I have to?” she asked plaintively.

  “Why don’t Jennifer and I go for a walk, and then we can both help Dad?” Cassie suggested. Her eyes fixed on Rosemary, and a small smile played around the corners of her mouth. “We won’t be gone very long. I promise.”

  Rosemary hesitated, feeling vaguely uncomfortable, as if she’d just been manipulated. And yet what Cassie had suggested made perfect sense. Still, she felt a certain reluctance as she nodded her assent. She said nothing until the girls had shrugged into their jackets—Cassie nearly lost in one she had borrowed from her father—then sat down opposite her husband. “Do you get the feeling we’ve just been worked around?” she asked, carefully keeping her voice light.

  Keith glanced up from his paper. “Worked around? All they wanted to do was go for a walk. I’m just glad that Jen wanted to go with Cassie, and Cassie didn’t object to her tagging along.”

  “Jennifer knew perfectly well she was supposed to help you this morning,” Rosemary pointed out.

  Keith snapped the newspaper impatiently. “There’ll be plenty of other mornings, and there isn’t that much work to do in the yard. Let them have a good time. Considering what Cassie’s been through—”

  “It’s not that,” Rosemary objected, suddenly wishing she’d never brought the subject up, but determined to have her say. “It’s just that I had a feeling both girls were trying to manipulate me.”

  Now Keith set the paper aside entirely. “Oh, come on, Rosemary. Jennifer’s always trying to work her way around both of us. All Cassie did was suggest a compromise.”

  “Then why did I suddenly feel as though I’d lost control of my own daughter?” Rosemary blurted out. “Why do I feel as if everything has changed?”

  Keith was silent for a moment, then reached out to cover Rosemary’s hand with his own. “Because it has, sweetheart,” he said gently. “I know you weren’t planning on having to deal with a teenager for another few years, but sometimes things don’t work out the way we want them to. Let’s not start getting ourselves worked up over nothing, all right? Cassie’s only been here a few hours. Let’s just get used to it.” He grinned. “Or are you planning on turning into a wicked stepmother on her very first day?”

  “I don’t know what I’m planning.” Rosemary sighed. Slipping her hand out from under Keith’s, she got up and started clearing away the breakfast dishes. “It’s just a feeling I have, that’s all. I would have thought Cassie would want the nicer room, but she didn’t. And I’ve never yet met a teen-aged girl who wanted a younger sister tagging around after her. It just doesn’t seem … well, I guess she just isn’t reacting to things the way I would have thought she would.”

  “But she’s reacting fine,” Keith replied. “And don’t forget that she’s a stranger here. She’s just trying to feel her way along and fit in. But give her a week or so, and I’ll bet you find you have a perfectly normal teenager on your hands. Then we’ll both have something to complain about.”

  Rosemary forced a smile she didn’t feel, and began scraping the leftovers into the disposal. Of course Keith was right. What had just happened was nothing out of the ordinary. She should count herself lucky that Jennifer and Cassie were accepting each other so readily.

  Then why did she feel so uneasy about Cassie?

  It’s just that it’s something new, she reminded herself. And if I’m feeling uneasy, how must Cassie be feeling?

  Terrified, she silently answered herself. She’s lost her mother, and she’s been jerked out of the only home she ever knew.

  She finished the dishes, then went upstairs to straighten up the master bedroom. Jennifer’s door, as usual, stood open to reveal the mess in which the little girl always left her room.

  Cassie’s door was closed.

  Rosemary stared at it for a moment, knowing she should go about her business, remembering how much she herself at Cassie’s age had resented it when her own mother violated her privacy. I won’t do anything, she told herself. I won’t touch anything, and I won’t go in. I’ll just take a look. Guiltily, she put her hand on the doorknob, twisted it, then pushed the door open a crack. Feeling like a spy in her own home, Rosemary peered into the room.

  The bed was perfectly made, and the few clothes Cassie had brought with her were neatly hung in the closet. On the small dresser, her comb and hairbrush were laid out, and behind them stood a silver picture frame.

  The frame was empty.

  Frowning slightly, Rosemary stepped into the room and approached the dresser. Then, instinctively, her eyes went to the wastebasket that stood on the floor next to the dresser. Scattered on its bottom were the fragments of a picture.

  Ignore it, Rosemary told herself, but knew she couldn’t. Almost against her will she fished the pieces of the photograph out of the wastebasket and carefully fit them back together.

  A chill passed through Rosemary as she realized what she was looking at. Cassie had destroyed her own mother’s portrait.

  Cassie walked slowly beside Jennifer, studying the village with fascination. Everything about it was completely different from what she’d been used to. Everywhere, enormous maple and elm trees were just beginning to come into leaf. Their branches stretched out, meeting and intermingling overhead to form a canopy over the street. Even now, with the last traces of winter still in the air, she could picture them in summer, when their full foliage would create cool green tunnels of shade.

  There were no fences between the yards, and all the houses looked to Cassie as if they were at least a hundred years old. Most of them were two or three stories high, surrounded by neat borders of tulips and daffodils which were already sprouting. Even now, in early spring, the grass was lush and green.

  Then they came to the square, and Cassie looked about her curiously. There was a drugstore and a market, but they, too, looked nothing like the enormous stores surrounded with huge parking lots that she was accustomed to. Here instead were small wooden buildings looking out on the sidewalk, with diagonal parking spaces marked in the streets they faced. She could also see a little bookstore, three clothing stores, and some antique shops. Jennifer was dragging her toward one of them.

  “This is Mom’s store,” the little girl said excitedly when they were in front of a window displaying a Queen Anne dining room set. “Isn’t it neat?”

  To Cassie the shop didn’t look much different from the other antique stores on the block, but she dutifully squinted in through the window, scanning the contents of the store as Jennifer continued, “It’s open every day during the summer, and sometimes Mom lets me help out if I’m real careful not to break things. Tha
t’s in the summer, though. This time of year hardly anybody comes out here.”

  As Jennifer chattered on, Cassie turned away from the shop, and surveyed the rest of the square with disappointment. “Is—is this all there is?” she asked finally, and Jennifer giggled next to her.

  “Except for the stores down on Bay Street,” she explained. “But only the summer people go to them.”

  “But where do you shop?” Cassie asked. “Isn’t there a mall?”

  Jennifer shook her head. “Sometimes we go to Providence, or Boston. We don’t even have McDonald’s in False Harbor.”

  Cassie looked curiously at the little girl. “But … what do all the kids do here?”

  Jennifer shrugged, unconcerned. “There’s lots to do. All summer long we can go to the beach, and in the winter you can go ice skating on the pond out by the school,” she explained. Then, as a figure turned the corner onto the square a block away, she fell silent, and a moment later tugged at Cassie’s hand. “Come on,” she said in a whisper. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

  Startled, Cassie looked down to see Jennifer watching the approaching figure, her small face creased in worry. “What’s wrong, Jen? Who’s that?”

  “It’s Miranda,” Jennifer breathed. “Let’s go somewhere else. Please?”

  Cassie felt the little girl tug at her arm, but she stayed where she was, transfixed by the approaching figure. As the woman drew closer, Cassie began to feel a chill of déjà vu pass over her.

  Silently, the woman drew closer. She was dressed all in black, and her skirt nearly touched the ground. She was pushing a shopping cart, and in the cart were several shopping bags that looked as though they were filled with old clothes. She moved slowly along the sidewalk, pausing every few steps to stare into the shop windows.

  Every now and then her lips moved as if she were speaking, but no sound came out.

  “Come on,” Cassie heard Jennifer urging her. The little girl had started to cry, and was now tugging at her arm hard. Cassie finally gave in and let Jen pull her across the street and into the square.