This Place: Holmes Crossing Book 3 Read online

  "I can't imagine why not," Miriam said, giving him a smile that held a hint of mischief. "You strike me as a man who can embrace pink and glitter."

  He laughed and the sound and the feeling surprised him as well as the desire to come up with a clever reply. "Sorry. More of a plaid guy, myself."

  "So I noticed." Her eyes ticked down to his shirt then back to his eyes.

  As he held her gaze, he felt it again. That flicker of attraction he experienced the first time he'd seen her. That same flirtation disguised as teasing they had indulged in then.

  He caught himself, surprised and a bit disappointed that he could so easily revert to this in spite of everything that had happened to him in the meantime.

  "We'll have to make sure you get a chance to look at the books, Duncan," his mother said. "Maybe you could read them to Celia."

  Duncan knew what his mother was doing, and he wasn't biting.

  He looked away from Miriam, then, in spite of himself, he glanced over at the table where Celia still sat in isolation. He could hear a low murmur, as if she were talking to herself.

  Or her doll.

  "You said you do other work now?" his mother continued, turning to Miriam, clearly determined to find out more about her. "What else do you do?"

  "I work in a hotel," Miriam said with a light shrug.

  He could tell his mother wasn't satisfied with Miriam's vague answer.

  "I'm sure she keeps herself busy," his father put in, coming to Miriam’s rescue.

  "I try to stay out of trouble," Miriam said, giving him a thankful smile.

  “Glad to hear that,” he said, turning his attention back to his soup.

  Miriam gave him a puzzled look but then turned back to his mom. "By the way, Cora, I love your house. It's cozy. Did you decorate it yourself?"

  Duncan had to smile again at Miriam’s deflection and her perceptiveness. "Mom's house is a work in progress," he said. "If you're not careful, she'll get out her iPad and show you all her Pinterest boards."

  "And what do you know about Pinterest?" his mother challenged him.

  "Only that you talk about it endlessly," he responded.

  "I enjoy it."

  "And endlessly share that enjoyment," his father said bringing a lighter note to the discussion.

  "I actually found something the other day that Francine showed me…" His mother’s voice trailed away as she realized what she had done. She blinked rapidly as her lips pressed together, and he felt his own heart clench.

  Here we go again, he thought, making fists of his hands, struggling to compose himself. He glanced over at Miriam, surprised to catch her looking at him, her own features holding that pressed-in look.

  It will pass, he reminded himself, sucking in a quick breath, suppressing the emotions.

  "Francine never told me she liked Pinterest," Miriam was saying, her lips curving in a soft smile. "What kind of things did she pin?"

  His mother pressed her knuckles to her mouth and gave a light shake of her head, as if dismissing what Miriam had just said. She held the pose a moment, fighting for self-control.

  Then she picked up her spoon and gave Duncan a forced smile. "Do you think I put too much salt in the soup?"

  He recognized what his mother was doing.

  The same thing he always did whenever Kimberly and Tasha's name came up around people other than family members. Deflect, detach and dig down.

  And above all, don't create a scene.

  He caught Miriam's hurt look, and for a moment wanted to explain how things happen in the Tiemstra household. That emotions were embarrassing, that grief was private and that they didn't talk about hard things around other people.

  His father's accident was a problem they would receive grace to deal with. His wife and child's deaths a hardship in which they needed to find meaning. Now, his sister and brother-in-law's deaths would also be tucked neatly under the category of God's will.

  He suddenly felt an urge to sweep his arm over the neatly set table and create exactly the scene his mother was avoiding. He wanted to shout that he missed Francine and Jerrod, that he was furious with God for taking Tasha and for dumping sorrow on their family and again.

  But he knew he wouldn't. Because if he gave in to that one, other feelings would ride on its coattails.

  And those he hadn't found a way to deal with, either.

  A movement behind Miriam caught his attention, and he took a deep breath. Celia stood beside Miriam, holding her doll.

  "Jane wants to know about my birthday party," Celia demanded. "When are we having it?"

  "I'm not sure, yet," Miriam was saying. Duncan could hear the pained note in her voice. "I have to think about it."

  "Jane says she wants a horse birthday party."

  "I'm sure Miriam can arrange that, Celia," his mother put in. "I can help her plan your party."

  "Jane wants the party," Celia insisted.

  "Of course, honey." His mother looked over at him. "A horse party. Maybe at Uncle Duncan's place?"

  "I don't think I'll have time," he said, sending his mother a warning look. "Things are picking up in the bush. I've got some new equipment I've got to babysit."

  He fought down the pull into his mother's needs and wants. He knew life had to go on, but somehow, planning a kid's birthday party so soon after his sister's death seemed too trivial.

  Then his eyes unconsciously drifted to Miriam. He knew he didn't imagine the disappointment in her expression. And as he held her soft, brown eyes, for just a moment, he wished he could be that guy. The sensitive, caring person who was only too willing to put his own needs aside to help out this hurting little girl.

  It had taken him years to find the tiniest slice of peace after Kimberly and his little girl died. He didn’t think he could let himself fall into that space again.

  Celia tucked her doll under her arm and walked back to her table.

  "She's still doing that?" his mother asked Miriam, lowering her voice.

  "Doing what?" Duncan asked.

  His mom shot a quick look at Celia then leaned closer to Duncan, almost whispering. "Celia won't talk to any of us directly. She only talks through that doll. Jane wants this, Jane wants that. It's rather strange."

  "I think it's her way of coping," Miriam said. "She won't ask me a direct question or make a direct comment. Like your mother said, everything goes through Jane."

  Duncan frowned. "She doesn't talk to me that way."

  "I noticed. It's like she has a unique relationship with you," Miriam said, giving him a direct look, as if she expected more from him. He held her gaze, fighting a mixture of attraction and annoyance.

  "Well, I don't know why. I certainly haven't encouraged it." He bent over and focused on his food.

  The rest of the lunch limped along, and as soon as it was reasonably polite, Duncan said goodbye to his parents and Miriam, wishing he didn't feel like such a heel.

  And as he drove away, he wasn't sure what bothered him more—that Celia hadn't been able to count on him, or that he had disappointed Miriam.

  "I'm glad you came to see me." Mrs. Lansing, the principal of Holmes Crossing Elementary, sat down in her chair at the desk between us, and folded her hands on its surface.

  I glanced around the room with its schedules and diplomas and air of authority, and had to fight down a familiar anxiety. I'd spent far too many hours in the principal's offices of various schools growing up to feel entirely comfortable in this hub of academia. Too often, my time in that place meant yet another change. Another adjustment. Another dose of grief.

  "First off, I want to express my sympathy with the loss of your brother," she continued. "I understand you stayed with him and his mother as a foster child?"

  I dragged my attention back to her. "Yes. For about twelve years." I skipped the 'off and on' part that often accompanied my comment. No need to delve into that mess.

  "This is a difficult time for you, I'm sure. I know my words are too small to encompass your
sorrow, but be assured that we will do everything we can to see that Celia is taken care of."

  "Thanks. That means a lot."

  Mrs. Lansing gave me a sympathetic smile, then leaned back in her chair, the light from the window behind her casting her features in shadow. "So why don't you tell me what you think should happen with Celia?"

  I released a short laugh. "That's why I'm here. I don't know." Another flush of guilt accompanied that confession. Surely, on some level, I should be aware of what she needs? Wasn't that some automatic emotion ingrained in mothers? Didn't it come at the same time the baby was born? "I was hoping you could give me some guidance. I'm sort of making stuff up as I go along. Kind of like building a boat while I'm sitting on it in the water."

  Mrs. Lansing chuckled. "That's fair enough. So what would you say is your first priority with her?"

  Getting her to eat, I almost said.

  Yesterday morning and this morning again, Jane had chosen waffles. And once again, every piece of waffle had ended up on the floor. Just like her lunch and supper had yesterday. Correction, Celia's lunch and supper.

  I still wasn't sure whether to call Celia out on it, or simply hope that at some point soon, Jane—correction, Celia—would get hungry.

  "I don't know if you noticed, but she took her doll, Jane, with her to school today," I said, instead. "It seems that all her communication goes through the doll. If I ask Celia something, she first asks Jane, and then she tells me what she wants. Kind of disturbing to me, but for now I'm playing along."

  "That's wise."

  I was surprised how good her words of affirmation made me feel—that I was doing something right, somewhere.

  "But how long should I let her keep this up?"

  Mrs. Lansing rocked in her chair a moment, frowning. "I'm not sure. But I think a counselor would suggest you continue for a while yet. Celia had to make a number of adjustments even before her parents' death. Moving to a new community where she didn't know anyone, and starting kindergarten. It's been barely a week since her parents died. I'm sure it will take her some time to deal with her own sorrow."

  I nodded then, and to my dismay, my face tightened and my eyes welled up. I tried to blink the tears back, but one escaped and slipped down my cheek.

  "Oh, my dear, this must be so difficult for you as well." Mrs. Lansing pushed up from her chair and came around the desk. On her way she tugged a couple of tissues out of a box and handed one to me, taking my other hand in hers as she sat down.

  She had done this before, I thought, as I swiped at the tears.

  "You have a lot to deal with," she said, her voice quiet, assuring. "I think you're doing an amazing job."

  I sniffed then gave her a watery smile. "How do you know? You just met me."

  "It's what I'm supposed to tell you. To make you feel good about yourself," she said with a wry smile.

  I laughed at her blunt honesty.

  She patted me on the shoulder. "But I'm partly serious. The fact that you are willing to play along with the doll issue and that you let her take the doll to school shows a quiet wisdom."

  "Or a quiet desperation," I said. "I feel like I'm swimming on my own on this."

  "You aren't," Mrs. Lansing said. "We're here to help you in any way we can."

  "Thank you. I appreciate that." And I did. I needed every scrap of support I could get.

  "So, first off, we need to talk about our approach concerning Celia and her doll," Mrs. Lansing continued, her sudden, matter-of-fact tone making me feel more grounded. "My feeling is to let it play out. I'll set up an appointment with a counselor. I’m afraid it might not happen until the New Year, but until then, just play along. I suspect her play with Jane might be a way of giving herself a buffer between life and herself."

  "The situation is ironic," I said with a shake of my head. "I used to hate playing dolls. I always preferred playing boy games with Jerrod. But now I'm forced to talk to a doll."

  Mrs. Lansing gave me another curious smile. As if she was trying to figure me out, as well. "Did you and your brother get along when you were younger?"

  Her question surprised me, but at the same time I felt a sense of relief at her interest. Yesterday, at Duncan's parents' place, I got the idea that they didn't want to talk about Francine or Jerrod. I was thirsting for every bit of connection I could make to my brother. I wanted to know everything I could, even if it made me sad.

  "For the most part," I said. "Every time I came back there was an adjustment period which, thankfully, my foster mom understood. My biological mother always—" I stopped there, not sure why I had even said as much as that. Though I wanted to talk about Jerrod, I drew the line at my biological mother. Too close to home, maybe. "Anyhow, I've got this to deal with and I want to do the best I can for Celia."

  "She's lucky to have you," Mrs. Lansing said.

  I didn't know about that, but I just returned her smile, then glanced down at my watch.

  "I've promised Mrs. Tiemstra I would meet her at the café in town," I said, "So I'm sorry, I need to go. I'll come back as soon as I'm done."

  "If you wish, but there's no need. We can notify you if there are any problems."

  "I'm not sure I like to leave her alone."

  "She's not alone. She's got her teacher and her classmates. She's been in this class since September, so at least that part of her life is ordinary," Mrs. Lansing said.

  As opposed to me, who erratically popped into her life the last few years. The thought choked me a moment, but I brushed it aside.

  "Okay. I'll be here before dismissal, unless I hear from you," I said, as I slung my purse over my arm and rose from the chair.

  "You can stop by her classroom and discreetly look in before you go, if you'd like," Mrs. Lansing said.

  "That would be nice."

  I followed her out of the office and down the hall. We stopped at the kindergarten room. The door had a window in it and I peeked in. I could make out Celia sitting at a small table with three other girls.

  It looked like they were all talking to Jane and not Celia. I touched the glass with my fingers, wishing I could rush in and help her. Take away her pain. Help her know that people loved her.

  Baby steps, I reminded myself as I drew back, disturbed at the sight. Baby steps.

  The same kind of baby steps I would need to use when it was time for me to move on.

  "So Celia wants a horse-themed birthday party," Mrs. Tiemstra said, taking a sip of the tea she'd ordered at the cafe. "I was wondering if you've had a chance to think about that."

  "Not that much," I said looking around the café. Local art hung on the cream-colored walls. Red burlap curtains held back by brown gingham strips hung at the windows. The mismatched wooden chairs and tables lent an air of country coziness, which was enhanced by the twang of country music.

  The café wasn't full. A couple of older men sat at one table. One wore a priest's collar. The other was a larger man, with bright-green suspenders snugged over a faded blue chambray shirt. They looked like they were in deep discussion.

  "I know she's developed a passion for horses lately," Mrs. Tiemstra said, pulling my attention back to her. "What do you think of planning around that?"

  "Sorry," I said, taking another sip of my coffee. "I don't know much about birthday party planning."

  "Would you mind if I helped you out?" Cora gave me a tentative smile that puzzled me.

  "I could use all the help I can get."

  "As can we all," she said, with a melancholy smile. She pressed her lips together and pulled in a quick breath. "I'm sorry. It's just been—"

  "It's been barely a week is what it's been," I said, reaching across the table and touching her arm in a show of sympathy.

  "Thank you for your understanding," she said, giving me a careful smile as she brushed a strand of hair back from her face, quickly composing her features again. As before, her hair was perfectly styled, her makeup runway-ready, her brown turtleneck sweater, gold chunky necklace
, and cream blazer giving her a look of elegance and grace.

  As I looked at her, I couldn't help but compare her to my foster mother, with her grey furze of flyaway hair, sweatshirts, and jogging pants.

  "So, how should we do this?" I asked, feeling a moment of disloyalty to Sally. She was a loving woman who had given me a home when my biological mother, a polar opposite of Sally with her tattoos, bright-red lipstick, bedazzled denim jackets, and tight blue jeans, didn't.

  "I could order a cake with a horse theme from Alana at the bakery. Have a horse piñata, and napkins, and paper plates with horses." Then she held my eyes, her own growing suddenly bright. "Duncan has horses, and he could give the girls a ride in a sleigh at his place."

  "Would he want to do that?" I distinctly remembered how he had said he didn't want to be involved with Celia.

  Mrs. Tiemstra waved away my question with one elegantly manicured hand. "I'll tell him he has to help out."

  I wasn't comfortable with this. Though I wanted him involved, I wasn't sure we should force Celia so quickly into his life.

  Why not? The sooner the better? He has family support. It's what you want for Celia.

  I knew this was my ultimate goal, but at the same time I felt a flash of resistance, which I immediately quashed. I couldn't indulge in even the smallest 'maybe'. The longer I stayed here, the harder it would be to leave. Already, each moment I spent with Celia dropped another barb into my heart that would tear when it was time to go.

  "You're his mother. I'm thinking that would give you some leverage," I said. "So I'll let you talk to him."

  "I have a better idea. We'll go to his place tomorrow night and present him with the idea. That way he can't say no in front of both of us."

  The plan seemed like an ambush in my opinion, but at the same time, a small part of me didn't mind the idea of seeing him again.

  Mrs. Tiemstra toyed with her fork, her lips pursed, and I sensed she had something else she wanted to discuss with me. "I spoke with Duncan. About what you told me the other day. His reluctance to take care of Celia."

  I sat up straighter, a chill raking through me.

  "What did he say?"

  "You were right. He told his father and me that he didn't think he could do this." Mrs. Tiemstra tapped the fork on the plate, the tempo increasing. "I feel like I should let you know why. It's because of Tasha."