What Happened to Hannah Page 6

  He looked at her, chuckled, then used one finger under her chin to close her mouth.

  “The girl is one thing, Grady. Maybe. But all this . . . this is . . . too much.”

  “Obviously. But there might be a thing or two she’ll want to keep to help her remember her mom or her grandmother. You might, too, once you’ve had a chance to go through some of it. There’s no way to tell what’s here until you go through it.”

  She didn’t care what was here. She had her own stuff. Nice, fairly new stuff—she didn’t need or want what was here.

  She thought she heard Grady say, “We’ll all pitch in and help.” But that couldn’t be right . . . they’d be pitching until the kids turned fifty.

  Mad laughter bubbled in her chest again, and she couldn’t make herself blink. She heard an odd calmness in her voice when she asked, “Do you have any idea what you’re saying? There’s an attic . . . and a cellar. Do you know how long there have been Bensons living in this house?”

  “A good long while.” He took her by the shoulders and helped her turn away. His hands were big and strong and warm through the thin knit of her cashmere sweater. They were capable hands—her hands felt more like fins. She caught herself leaning back into them for comfort and direction as he coaxed her down the hall, then stepped to one side.

  “Come on,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets but looking straight into her eyes. “It’s time to eat. You’ll feel better after you’ve had some food. Tomorrow after the funeral, we’ll get organized. You’ve got eight, ten, probably a dozen extra hands to help you. It won’t be as bad as you think. We had to do it at our old place when my mother moved into town with us. Of course, it wasn’t quite this . . . well, like this, but we’ll manage. It’s all about getting organized.”

  “You don’t live down the road anymore?”

  “No. I moved into town when I got married. Then Mom moved in with us. It was never more than a hobby farm anyway, and I don’t have the time to work it. So, now there’s a commuter from Charlottesville playing gentleman farmer on the weekends. The rent pays the land taxes and gives my mom an extra income. Why don’t you sit here at the end.” In a softer voice he added, “So we can all keep an eye on you,” like she might run away. Again.

  And so the evening began, with Janice Steadman’s friendly chirping now an incessant buzz in Hannah’s shell-shocked ears and the rest of them making furtive eye contact with each other, sending messages back and forth and around the table. And she wasn’t being paranoid. Anna and Lucy sat on her left, Grady and the two boys across from them, and Janice faced her from the other end. Hannah couldn’t count the times she sensed that the cutting of her meat held them riveted, only to look up and have them discover that their own plates were more fascinating.

  However, the food did help. The more she ate of the ordinary meat-and-potatoes meal the stronger she felt and the clearer her inner voice became. She might have come back to her childhood home but that didn’t mean she had to revert back to the weak, frightened girl she was when she lived there. She was not the sort of woman who allowed things to simply happen to her anymore. She had choices. She was in charge. When she got handed a problem she dealt with it.

  She had two weeks to decide the best thing to do for the girl . . . and to ready the farm for sale. Both tasks were doable. Daunting but doable. Mentally, she rolled up her sleeves and prepared to dig in.

  “Grady says you sell insurance, Hannah,” Mrs. Steadman said from her end of the table, after an all too brief moment of silence. She was clearly determined to keep the conversation flowing. “That must be interesting work.”

  “No, not really,” she said. Seeing that Janice was taken aback, she added, “It’s more challenging than it is interesting. Insurance, the basic idea of it and the way it works, is cut-and-dry. The challenge is to decide if you want to work for one company or for several different companies. I’m an independent broker, so I need to know which companies are easiest to work with, which ones serve the general public the best, which ones an individual client can afford and still get adequate coverage with. Then there are the claims and the rest of the business end of it. It’s not fascinating but it serves a need. And sometimes it’s the difference between right and ruin, as my former partner puts it.”

  “How did you end up selling insurance in the first place?” Grady asked, looking enthralled, but only because he couldn’t connect the dots between the sixteen-year-old girl he’d known and the thirty-six-year-old insurance agency owner he looked at now.

  The dots were numbered and easy to follow, taken as a whole. However, she didn’t think it the time or the place . . . or the best company in which to recount the first few steps she’d taken.

  She smiled at him, hoping he’d understand. “Actually, I didn’t get to sell insurance in the first place. Not at first. My . . . well, my ex-partner, my partner before that, my friend before that, his name is Joe Levitz and he hired me when I was seventeen to work part-time handling claims at his agency. Filing, at first—that was a short time before everything went to computers. After that I processed simple claims—fender benders, dented garage doors, things like that. I took training classes and a few courses from the community college—accounting, economics, business law—and eventually got licensed to sell insurance when I was twenty-three. I built my own client base . . . which was hard at first, but I got better at it. Then Joe—whose sons became a lawyer and a museum curator—made me his partner. He showed me how to run things, then a few years later, agreed to let me buy him out, gradually, when he retired.”

  She started to say something else, then looked down at her food for a moment. “It doesn’t feel right to tell you everything Joe did for me in one paragraph. There’s so much more. Volumes more.” Her eyes met Grady’s, perceptive and inquiring. She wanted to tell him all about Joe, about all he’d done for her—an amazing story really. But as she glanced around at the others, mostly children, she backed down. “But that’s pretty much the gist of it.”

  Once or twice since the meal started, she caught Anna staring at her with unveiled curiosity—and once or twice Anna caught her doing the same. Their strained smiles screamed of the tension between them, and now that the opportunity presented itself, Hannah made her move.

  “I understand you’re a runner, Anna.” She took a bite to make the question seem casual, then put the fork on the plate and gave the girl her full attention.

  Unfortunately, Anna had a mouth full of carrots. She nodded as she hurried to finish chewing. By the time she was ready to speak, however, Lucy had lost patience and blurted out, “Anna’s going to break the school record this year. It’s thirty-seven years old. Do you know how long it’s been since we had anyone as fast as Anna in this county?”

  Hannah took a guess. “Thirty-seven years?”

  “That’s right. She might finally get a little competition at regionals, but there won’t be anything there she can’t handle, and then she’ll go to state. And she’s only a sophomore, you know.”

  “I know. That’s wonderful.” She smiled at Anna who looked like she wanted to crawl under the table and hide from the spotlight. Hannah prepared to ask how long she’d been running and what she liked about it, but Lucy wasn’t finished.

  “For the next two years she’s going to have college scouts watching every move she makes. She’ll be able to pick and chose a scholarship from at least fifty different schools. She’s that good.”

  “I had no idea.” Peripherally, she caught Anna frowning and shaking her head at Lucy. But when she looked directly at her, Anna shrugged like it was no big deal. “That’s wonderful, and very impressive. What an accomplishment. You must—”

  “Yeah, well, she’s worked hard for it,” Lucy broke in, seeming to be angry. “She’s been training since the seventh grade. She runs all year long and . . . Ow!” She glared across the table at her brother who had kicked her under the table. Cal slanted Hannah a wary look, extended it to his father, then gave his s
ister an insistent stare.

  “I don’t care.” She all but shouted at him. “Hannah needs to know. If we don’t tell her now, there’s no telling what she’ll do. She could ruin everything.”

  “Luce,” whispered Biscuit, to get her attention and shake his head—at the same time her father said, “That’s enough, Lucy. Stay out of it.”

  “Oh! Sure. Of course, I have to stay out of it.” Now she shouted, clearly angry. “Anna’s only my best friend so it doesn’t actually involve me-e. I don’t get to say anything about anything. The only one who gets any say in this at all is her.” Hannah’s brows froze mid-forehead when the teen frosted her with a cold green stare. “And she doesn’t know anything about it. It’s not fair that some stranger gets to walk in here and decide everything. Especially since . . .”

  “That’s enough.” Grady’s loud, stern voice brought instant silence. Even Hannah blinked and swallowed. With a halting glance around the table she found that no one, except Lucy, could look her in the eye for more than a millisecond. “Quietly finish your meal, or leave the table.”

  “No.” This time Hannah startled Grady, who looked as if he wasn’t used to having his orders countermanded. She turned to Lucy. “I mean, please don’t decide to leave the table. I think Anna is very lucky to have such a good friend. It might take a little time, but I hope you’ll come to understand that I want what’s best for her, too. And obviously, her running is very important. I can see that. And I’m glad you brought it to my attention right away. I . . . I haven’t had much time to prepare for all this. There’s a lot to do. My friend, Joe Levitz? He offered to scout out a high school this week. You know, just in case. There are dozens of very good schools in Baltimore. I’ll call him tonight and tell him that a great track program is mandatory.”

  She hadn’t gotten the last word out when Lucy’s chair started to scrape across the floor, then fell over backward as she jumped up from the table.

  “Oh my,” Janice said in distress—not that Lucy noticed.

  “You don’t get it,” she said, loud and impassioned. “You don’t understand anything. The records she needs to break are here. The county she wants to represent is this one. The state she deserves to take first place in is Vir-gin-ya, where she’s from. Not Bodymore, Murdaland,” she shouted, using Baltimore’s nickname because of its high-crime rates.

  Stunned by the girl’s reaction to what she believed to be a reasonable and accommodating plan of action, Hannah watched in dumbfounded silence as the girl stormed from the room.

  “Ah, God.” Grady groaned and let loose a long-suffering sigh. He was put out and embarrassed and concerned at the same time. “That was . . . There’s no excuse for her behavior. I’m sorry. This has been . . . hard on her. Hard on everyone.”

  Hannah shook her head and lifted a helpless hand. What happened? One second she’s the welcome benevolent aunt come to help out and the next she’s Cruella De Vil looking for new coat material. How did she end up the bad guy?

  And if Lucy’s taking the move this hard, then it followed that Anna was, too. Looking at her, Hannah watched one corner of the girl’s mouth bend into a regretful smile.

  “I should go talk to her,” she said, quietly—and Hannah realized it was the first time she’d spoken since they met. “May I be excused?”

  There was so much to say, so much to talk about, but she was anxious about her friend, so Hannah nodded and watched her leave the room. Sighing heavily, she leaned back in her chair, her appetite gone. Her gaze caught on Cal’s.

  He waved his fork over his plate and told her, “Lucy’s a drama queen.”

  “And mouthy,” his father added.

  “And afraid she’ll never see Anna again,” said Biscuit, who seemed incredibly sensible despite his hair. Hannah found she liked him. Very much. “She’ll be able to visit, won’t she?”

  “Of course.” They could all visit—if she and Anna decided to adopt each other.

  “Would anyone like more gravy? I did a good job on it this time, I think. Nice and thick and I strained out all the lumps. Biscuit, dear, you haven’t asked for seconds and I know your hollow leg isn’t full yet. Here Cal, pass him . . .”

  The problem was, she and Anna both had to decide that staying together was best for both of them. Hannah had a pyramid of doubts, the very tip of which was the basic desire to take on the responsibility; plus the potential dramatics of living with a teenager. Then, on the off chance they wanted to work something out, could she honestly say she was the best person for the job? Emotionally, she had a long fuse but on occasion her explosions were catastrophic. And while she’d only lost control of herself twice in her life, she couldn’t guarantee there wouldn’t be a third time.

  And Anna . . . God only knew what Anna was thinking.

  Time. There was time to decide. Time to get to know each other better, she reminded herself. Time to look at all the facts and choices. No life-altering plans needed to be made before the dinner dishes were done.

  “We’ll see you at the church tomorrow, then,” Grady said, shrugging into his brown jacket, getting ready to leave once the last dish was stowed away. The boys were already out the door and the girls had been called down from Anna’s room. She could hear their footsteps in the hall above. “Everything’s been taken care of so there’s nothing for you to do but show up.”

  “And the alter-society ladies, friends of your mother’s from her church, have planned a nice little lunch for afterward,” Janice said with a pat on Hannah’s forearm. “They’re hoping you’ll come, but they told me to tell you that they would understand if you weren’t up to it.” She turned in the doorway to leave. “Cal? Are you waiting for your sister or is she coming home with me? You both have school tomorrow afternoon, you know. I hope your homework is done. Biscuit, you wash that gunk out of your hair before I see you next. Church is no place for self-expression.”

  Watching his mother, Grady let out a long, loud breath, like he might at the end of a tiring day. He looked like he could use a hug . . . but she wasn’t the one to give it to him. Not if she planned to slide through the next two weeks without reopening that particular bag-o-bugs. She had her life, he had his; they were different people now and she liked it that way.

  He turned, studied Hannah’s expression, and gave her a resigned smile—made sweet and boyish by the dimples.

  “Sorry about that spinning head at the dinner table. I can promise you it won’t happen again.”

  “Please don’t say anything to her. I can handle honest opinions.”

  “There’s still the little matter of respectful delivery.”

  “Let me try to earn that— What?” she asked when he grinned.

  “You really don’t know much about kids, do you?”

  “I told you that.”

  “Yes, you did.” Looking up, she saw his gaze had dropped to her mouth. Instinctively she pressed her lips together and curled them inward, they were tingling. He inhaled and looked up when he heard the girls on the stairs. “You’ll learn fast enough. Get some rest. I’d tell you that everything will look different tomorrow, but that would be a lie.”

  She laughed—what else could she do?—and glanced up as the girls hit the landing and started down toward them. They exchanged a look and said goodbye. Anna stayed on the bottom step as Lucy crossed the small foyer to exit in front of her father.

  But she stopped in front of Hannah first.

  “Sorry about before,” she said, quick and stiff. She met Hannah’s eyes and while the apology sounded sincere enough, she wasn’t entirely sorry for her outburst—and neither was Hannah.

  “I’m glad you said something, Lucy. I can’t solve a problem until I know what it is, right?”

  Her expression guarded, she lifted one shoulder in a most expressive shrug. “Whatever.”

  Whatever? Such an indeterminate word, yet the way she said it removed most of the ambiguity and left Hannah feeling like a failed diplomat.

  “Good night, lad
ies.” Grady gave both aunt and niece an encouraging nod before he followed Lucy out, pulling the door behind him.

  Hannah followed the door closed, her hand inches from the knob until it latched. She was suddenly alone with the lion. Automatically, she reached up to lock it. The dead bolt was tight and hard to turn.

  “I forgot. You don’t lock your doors here.”

  “Yes, we do. That one, we do. Gran’s always afraid someone will wander in off the road.” She stalled, realized she’d used the wrong tense, and swallowed the emotion that it evoked. “It’s probably stiff because we never use that door. We always left the back one unlocked.”

  “Okay.” That one word seemed to finalize the discussion. She scrambled. “Look, I meant what I said to Lucy, just now and at dinner. I want to be honest with you. I have no idea what I’m doing here. I’m flying blind and feeling my way through this. Like you are, I imagine. The last thing I want to do is make things harder on you. So, please, don’t leave it to me to guess at what you need or what you want. Chances are it might not even cross my mind. I don’t even know what time to have your breakfast ready in the morning. Or what to cook for that matter.”

  Anna looked a little worried, and desperate to take Hannah at her word. “I don’t . . . actually, eat a regular breakfast.”

  “You don’t. Well, see there? Problem solved. And we have something in common. It’s a twofer.” She grinned and watched the first thin layer of ice melt away from Anna’s protective coating—felt a layer of her own thawing as well. “I’m coffee and a piece of toast till noon.”

  “I’m toast and juice before I run and then I’m an apple and a protein shake on the bus. I make the shake.”

  “Great. I’ll make the apple.” She wondered if she should write things like this in a notebook. “Let’s try that again. I’m early to bed, early to rise.”

  “Makes a girl healthy, wealthy, and wise.” Anna grinned, and Hannah heard the rhyme echo in her mother’s voice.

  “You and I were clearly raised by the same woman.”

  “I like to read at night but I’m dead by ten, usually before,”