Starlight On Willow Lake

7 (#ulink_1297f7e4-567a-576a-aa20-7a68b5f1cf85)

Cara tried her best to act totally chill about sitting in the fanciest living room she’d ever seen. She leaned her elbow on the arm of the cushy leather sofa, crossed her legs at the ankles and stared out the French doors at an amazing view of Willow Lake. Every few seconds she surreptitiously checked out some detail of the room—a tall grandfather clock that softly ticked into the silence, a rustic chandelier perfectly centered over the middle of the room, an oil painting that looked exactly like a Renoir. It probably was a Renoir.

On the opposite end of the sofa, Ruby sat twirling her feet in small circles, her brown eyes like saucers and her fingers twisting into the fur of her Gruffalo. New situations always intimidated the hell out of Ruby.

The woman named Regina was acting all flustered as they waited for Cara’s mom and the Bellamy guy to get cleaned up and join them. After a few minutes of awkward silence, Regina jumped up, smoothing her hands down the front of her expensive-looking beige slacks, and said, “I’m going to get some refreshments from the kitchen. Alice, what sounds good to you?”

“A sloe gin fizz, but it’s too early in the day for that.” Old Mrs. Bellamy didn’t crack a smile.

“How about you, Cara? Lemonade? Iced tea?”

“I’m fine,” said Cara. “Thanks.”

“Ruby?” Regina’s voice went up an octave, the way some people’s did when they talked to little kids. Everybody assumed Ruby was younger than she looked, because she was so puny. “I bet I can talk Wayan—he’s the chef—into bringing you a plate of his special frosted sugar cookies.”

“No, thank you.” Ruby’s eyes widened in terror. She was so damned bashful all the time.

“Well, then.” Regina grinned with phony brightness. “I’ll go ask for a tray of lemonade and snacks. In case you change your mind.” She practically ran out of the room, as uncomfortable as Cara felt inside.

Cara wasn’t sure who Regina was or how she fit into the Bellamy household. She seemed way too stylish to be a housekeeper or whatever. She looked totally polished, with shiny, straight hair, expertly applied makeup and nails, and an outfit a TV news anchor might wear. She was attractive, but Cara couldn’t be sure if that was due to the hair and makeup, or if she really was attractive.

Cara’s mom was pretty, but it was a tired kind of pretty that just happened naturally, because she was slender and had light brown hair, kind eyes and a nice smile. Cara sometimes wished her mom would find time to get a makeover or whatever, but of course there was never time. Or money.

Throughout high school, Cara had given herself several makeovers. One of the few—very few—perks of having to move all the time was that she got to reinvent herself, and no one thought it was odd. Yet despite all her experiments with different looks, nothing seemed to work. She had tried going boho, with layers of organic cotton and weird footwear, but that kind of made her look like a homeless person. Which technically she had been off and on ever since Dad had died. Last year she tried to go preppy with stuff from thrift shops, but it had made her look like a total poseur. Knee socks had gone away for a reason. Her current look was her version of steampunk. It wasn’t working, either, but at the moment she couldn’t decide what to pursue next. Besides, she didn’t have the dough.

She sneaked a glance at Mrs. Bellamy, but the old lady caught her.

“So this accident,” said Mrs. Bellamy. “You simply happened to come upon it.”

“Yep.” Cara nodded. “Just like that.”

“And it was at the end of the driveway.”

“Across the road from the driveway. Motorcycle versus ditch.”

“It was Cara who saw him first,” Ruby ventured in a tiny voice.

“I spotted him out the window,” said Cara. “A puff of smoke and the sun glinting off a piece of metal. He must have just crashed.”

“I see.”

At least Mrs. Bellamy didn’t say something patronizing like it was a good thing Cara had come running for help and all that crap. It was kind of a no-brainer. It would’ve been simpler if Mom had let her drive the van, but Cara didn’t know how to drive. Mom had shown her the basics, but the stick shift was way too challenging. It was embarrassing. All the kids in her school drove or were currently in driver’s ed. Cara just went to study hall during that block and wished with all her heart she could join the class. Most days the only other kid in study hall was Milo Waxman, an oddball who thought the whole world should ride bicycles or dogsleds or something that didn’t pollute the environment. Cara secretly found him interesting, but it would be social suicide to hang out with him.

She yearned to be normal, whatever normal was. Driving a car and living in one place for more than a few months at a time. But she didn’t like asking her mom for anything, because she knew damn well that Mom would give her and Ruby everything if she could afford it. And she couldn’t afford it.

Cara remembered the day she finally understood that they were poor. And not just ordinary, having-to-clip-coupons poor, but poor like we-don’t-have-a-place-to-live poor. Not long after Dad had died, the three of them had spent several nights “camping” in the van. Mom had acted as if it was a fun adventure, even when the mornings were so cold that the van’s windows were etched with frost. Cara had pretended to be asleep when a park ranger had come along, telling Mom it was time to check and see if the county housing agency had found a place for them yet.

“You’re seventeen, according to the letter your mother sent last night,” said Mrs. Bellamy, interrupting her thoughts.

It wasn’t a question, so Cara simply nodded, happy enough to quit thinking about the past.

“And you’re eight,” the old lady said to Ruby.

The woman wasn’t really old, Cara observed. She just looked that way because she was a sourpuss, and she wore her blond hair in a granny bun.

“Yes,” Ruby replied in a soft, shaky voice.

“What grade are you in?”

“Second grade. My teacher’s name is Ms. Iversen.”

“Your mother said you have special needs. What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ruby trembled as if the old lady were breathing fire. “I...I...”

Mrs. Bellamy blew into a tube on her wheelchair and the thing moved closer to Ruby. “Speak up. I can’t hear you. What did you say?”

“Nothing.” Ruby looked as if she were about to pee her pants.

Just then Regina came back with a fancy tray loaded with frosted cookies and icy glasses of lemonade. “I brought extra, in case you changed your mind,” she chirped. “Once you taste Wayan’s treats, you won’t be able to resist.”

“Well?” demanded Mrs. Bellamy, glaring at Ruby. “I was asking about your needs. Your special needs.”

Ruby’s mouth moved, forming the words, I’m diabetic, but no sound came out. Cara always hated when Ruby acted ashamed, as if the disease were somehow her own failing.

“She’s diabetic,” Cara snapped. “And no, thank you,” she added as Regina set down the tray. “We both totally appreciate the offer, but she can’t have any of Wayan’s damn cookies.”

Ruby’s hands came up to her cheeks, and her eyes got even rounder. At the same time, Mason Bellamy and Mom walked into the room.

“Well,” said Mom, surveying the situation, “I see everyone is getting along just fine.”

Cara shut her stupid mouth, but she didn’t see any reason to apologize to the dragon lady or to Regina. Her outburst might have cost Mom the job, in which case she owed her mother an apology, not anyone else.

Mom walked right over to Mrs. Bellamy and sat down in the wingback chair beside her. “I’m Faith McCallum,” she said. “I’m glad to meet you.”

“Likewise, I suppose,” said old lady Bellamy. Cara could tell already that she had a way of sizing people up with her eyes.

“This is Regina Jeffries,” said the guy named Mason. He had changed out of his bloody clothes and now wore clean jeans and a white shirt, open at the collar, the cuffs turned back. He was super good-looking for a guy in his thirties. Now Cara understood how Regina fit into the picture—she was his girlfriend. It was obvious by the way she stared at him.

Mom stood up briefly and shook hands with Regina. There was an obvious contrast between the two of them. Regina had every hair in place, while Mom looked...well, just kind of ordinary in a dress with pockets and flat shoes, her damp brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. No makeup. Ever.

“That was more drama than we expected this morning,” said Mason. “How about we start over?”

“Lemonade?” asked Regina. “Cookie?”

“I’m fine,” said Mom. She shifted her focus to Mrs. Bellamy. “I’d love to hear about you—what you need, what you want. Your expectations.”

Mrs. Bellamy narrowed her eyes. “You are to be in charge of assisting me, including the supervision of the two other home health aides who cover the evening and early-morning shifts.”