Luanne Rice - Follow the Stars Home

“Yes,” he said, looking around as if her studio were new to him. He made frequent emergency visits, but they were mainly up at the house.

“You’ve been in here, haven’t you?” she asked.

“You usually have it pretty well barricaded,” he said.

She glanced up, saw him smiling wryly.

“You’re related,” Amy said. “He told me.”

“Distantly,” Dianne said.

“I’m her daughter’s uncle,” Alan explained with kindness in his voice that even Dianne couldn’t miss. He was nice to all kids – no one could mistake the fact that he had a gift for talking to them.

How could someone so different from Tim remind Dianne so much of him? Alan was brainy, Tim was cocky. Alan wore the most faded blue shirts Dianne had ever seen, old blue jeans, and hiking boots. His glasses were slipping down his nose, and Dianne had to fight the urge to push them back up. Tim was the family bad boy, and Alan was the scientist. But they were both tall, lean, with an easy, graceful style of movement. Seeing Alan, Dianne always pulled back, as if from Tim himself.

“Deeee,” Julia said, coming to life. “Deeeee!”

“Oh!” Amy said, shocked, stepping back at the sight of Julia.

Dianne’s stomach flipped. Whenever someone saw Julia for the first time, all Dianne’s mother-lion instincts kicked into gear. If the people seemed upset, unfriendly, or disgusted, Dianne found a way to get them out fast. She might have expected Alan to warn the girl, but it seemed obvious that he hadn’t.

“Is that –” Amy began.

“My daughter,” Dianne said steadily.

“Her name is Julia,” Alan said. “You were asking about her the other day.”

“I saw her chart!” Amy said. Her eyes wide, she took a step toward Julia.

Dianne’s shoulders tightened. She clutched herself with folded arms. The young girl had sounded so scared, and now she had a look of morbid fascination on her face. Anger welled up in Dianne, and she started forward to get between Amy and Julia.

“You showed her Julia’s chart?” Dianne asked, furious.

Alan just shook his head as if it didn’t merit an explanation.

“This is Dianne’s workshop,” Alan said.

“Where you make the playhouses?” Amy asked.

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” Amy said. She cast a low glance at Julia, then looked quickly away. She was curious about the little girl. She wanted to stare, but she was polite enough not to. While Alan visited with Julia, Dianne pointed at the half-finished house, directing Amy’s attention away.

“I’m wallpapering this section,” Dianne said, feeling like a protective bird, leading the girl away from her nest. On the other hand, the child seemed so vulnerable. She had flyaway brown hair, bitten-down fingernails, a deep worry line between her eyebrows.

“Ooh, pretty,” Amy said, touching the white flowers.

“I do one wall at a time,” Dianne said. “Then put them together.”

“Oh,” Amy said, looking back at Julia.

“Once the house is assembled, I add the trim. These wooden curlicues are called gingerbread. I’ll attach that to the eaves, then add this little dovecote, these shutters. Then I’ll paint it.…”

“Does she have one in her room?”

“What?” Dianne asked.

“Julia,” Amy said carefully. Leaning to see around Dianne, she looked across the room. “Does she have her own playhouse?”

“Well, no,” Dianne said slowly. Couldn’t Amy see?

Amy must have picked up on her surprise, because she blushed. “I just thought, her being your daughter and all …”

“That Dianne would build her a house,” Alan said, stepping in to help.

“Julia is …” Dianne searched for the words to explain.

But Amy couldn’t contain herself anymore. She walked straight over to Julia, bent down to look her in the eyes. Her face was full of warmth and friendliness.

“Gaaa,” Julia said.

“Hi, little girl,” Amy said, crouching beside Julia’s chair.

Dianne stepped forward, wanting to get Amy away from her.

“Let them …” Alan whispered, grabbing Dianne’s wrist.

“Pretty little girl. Oh, you pretty little girl,” Amy said.

“Gaaa,” Julia said again. She had seemed happy to see Alan, but she was utterly entranced with Amy. Julia’s hands drifted in their strange ballet, gently tracing the air in front of Amy’s face.

“How old are you?” Amy asked.

Dianne wanted to reply for Julia, but she found that her voice wouldn’t work.

“She’s eleven,” Alan said.

“Almost my age,” Amy said, holding Julia’s left hand. She spoke not to the adults but to Julia herself. “I’m twelve.”

“Deeee,” Julia said. “Deee … Gaaaa …”

“She’s not surprised,” Dianne said quietly to Alan. “Most people see Julia and think she’s so much younger.”

“Amy’s young for her age,” Alan said. “I got it into my head she could baby-sit for Julia. Maybe not by herself, but when you or your mother are around. It would give you a little free time, and I think it would be good for Amy. I mentioned it to your mother.…”

“You don’t have to look after us, Alan –”

“I know that,” he said.

“This is my father’s watch,” Amy said, holding out her wrist for Julia to touch. “It weighs a ton, but I don’t care. I’ve had it eleven years now, and it’s still running strong. It was being fixed at the jeweler’s the day he died. He was a hero, he went down with his ship.…”

Dianne had to turn away. She walked to the window and stared out at the garden. The tall, purple irises swayed in the wind. A wild cat hunted along the edge of the rushes. Dianne felt like howling. Emotion flooded her chest, and she had to hug herself hard to keep it in. Alan came up behind her; Dianne felt his presence before he said a word.

“Do you hear the way she talks to Julia?” Dianne asked, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“I do,” Alan said.

With her back to Alan, Dianne covered her face and wept silently. Her body shook, and she felt his fingers brush her shoulder. His hands were big, and they felt strong and steady. She felt the heat of his fingers through her thin shirt. Across the room, Amy was telling Julia about the puppy at her house, imitating its bark so well, she sounded like a young dog.

“Julia’s never had a friend before,” Dianne whispered.

“I don’t think Amy has either,” Alan whispered back.

Amy began stopping by occasionally after school. By the second week she was coming every other afternoon. Julia liked Amy and seemed soothed by her. So often Julia seemed to be fighting demons in her head. She would wring her hands over and over. When Amy was there, she didn’t struggle as much. She seemed more placid and serene, and she smiled.

By two-thirty each day, Dianne had started glancing out the screen door of her studio, listening for Amy’s footsteps. Amy would run so fast across the marshy land, she sounded like a young filly in the homestretch, bursting through the screen door with a wild grin. She was a little hellion, awkward and messy. Dianne had taken to making lemonade, and she would set out the pitcher on a tray bearing glasses, oatmeal cookies, and square linen napkins.

Their second Tuesday together, they had their snack at the small table beside Julia’s chair. Sunlight streamed through the windows, and the marsh smelled warm and salty. They ate a cookie in silence, then, as was becoming their custom, talked for a few minutes before Dianne returned to work.

“I love these glasses,” Amy said, admiring one. Old juice glasses, they were enameled with tiny baskets overflowing with wildflowers. Each petal was a distinct, nearly microscopic brushstroke of scarlet, cobalt, cadmium yellow, or sap green.