Susan Wiggs - Lakeside Cottage

Judging by the sleep creases on one side of her face, the kid was cleaning the way Goldilocks had for the Three Bears. In fact, she even looked a bit like Goldilocks with her coils of yellow hair. She was older, though. Pudgier. She’d clearly helped herself to a bellyful of porridge.

But like Goldilocks, the girl appeared to be quite harmless and full of remorse. Kate felt her anger drain away. “What’s your name?”

“California Evans. Callie for short. Am I in trouble?” The girl snuffled and wiped her nose. She had bad skin and carried herself awkwardly.

Studying her, Kate felt a wave of compassion, though she tempered it with caution. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Can we get out now?” Aaron asked.

Kate still felt a bit apprehensive. The cottage didn’t have phone service and her cell didn’t work here. Yet the girl truly seemed remorseful and embarrassed by the whole incident. Kate’s customary impulse to trust took over, and she nodded. “Okay.”

Callie gasped as Aaron and Bandit jumped out. When the dog wagged his tail and sneezed a greeting, she wrapped her arms around her middle and backed away. Her face changed from red to stark white. “I’m scared of dogs,” she said.

“Bandit won’t hurt you, honest,” Aaron said.

“Hold him anyway,” Kate advised, recognizing the terror in the girl’s face. “I’m Kate Livingston and this is my son, Aaron. And Bandit.”

“He’s mostly beagle,” Aaron said. “We call him Bandit because of the black mask on his eyes.” He pointed out the dog’s unusual markings but the girl withdrew even more.

“What are you doing here?” Aaron asked bluntly.

Callie looked a bit queasy. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead and upper lip.

Oh, heavens, thought Kate. Was she sick? An addict? This was not good.

On the other hand, she reflected, the situation was terribly interesting. Kate reminded herself that she was now a freelance journalist. She thought she’d have to go looking for stories. Maybe a story had come to her.

“Let’s go inside,” she suggested. “Bandit can stay out.” He had a bed on the porch, one of those overpriced orthopedic sling beds from a catalog. Spoiled thing. Callie regarded Kate through narrowed eyes, but she went along readily enough. In the kitchen, her eyes widened as she took in the wealth of groceries on the counter.

Kate poured glasses of ice water for everyone and put out a bowl of Rainier cherries, summer’s most fleeting delicacy.

“Have a seat,” she said. “Tell me about yourself, Callie. How long have you worked for Mrs. Newman?”

“A few months.” The girl eyed the cherries with yearning.

Kate pushed them closer to her. She noticed that the old pine table, one of the original pieces in the house, had been scrubbed shades lighter than she remembered, and then waxed until it shone. Similarly, the floor and all the fixtures gleamed and not a single cobweb lingered in the corners of the windows. If this was Callie’s doing, it was impressive, though she needed to increase her understanding of boundaries.

“Um, are you going to tell her?” Callie asked.

“I should,” Kate said.

“Mom.” Aaron’s voice rose in protest. He hated it when people got in trouble, probably because that’s where he found himself so often.

Unjustly fired only a week ago, Kate was quick to sympathize. “I won’t,” she reassured her, “but I’d like an explanation.”

The girl sipped her water. “I, um, I’ve been staying in the houses I cleaned, the ones that are empty,” she confessed. “I never bothered anybody and I always cleaned up after myself, a hundred percent. I didn’t know you’d be coming today, I swear. I had you down for tomorrow.”

“We decided to come up early.” Kate studied the girl’s troubled eyes, the pinched and worried forehead. “Where’s your family, Callie?”

“I don’t have a family,” she said flatly.

“That needs a little more explanation.”

“My mom’s away and I’ve never known my dad.” She shook back her hair, acting as though it didn’t matter to her.

“So are you homeless?” Aaron asked.

Callie plucked a cherry and ate it. “I’m supposed to be in a foster home, but I had to leave the last one. I couldn’t stay there.”

“Why not?” Aaron asked.

Callie’s eyes, as gray and turbulent as the lake during storm season, expressed a truth Kate knew she would not utter in front of Aaron.

“I didn’t really get along with the family,” the girl said.

“You can stay with us,” Aaron said.

Kate nearly choked on a cherry.

Fortunately, Callie anticipated her reaction. “I wouldn’t do that to you and your mom, kid,” she said, pushing back from the table. “Totally time to clip. I’ll go up and get my stuff and then I’ll be out of your hair.” She headed for the stairs.

As Kate watched her go, something about Callie touched a chord in her. The girl moved awkwardly within an oversize gray sweat suit, and she kept her head partially ducked as though anticipating a blow. Yet despite the ugly sweats and dirty bare feet, there was a touch of teenage vanity. Her fingernails and toenails were painted a beautiful shade of pink.

Aaron eyed Kate reproachfully.

“Don’t even say it,” Kate warned, getting up. “I’ll go talk to her.”

“I knew it,” he said, shooting out of his seat and punching the air.

“You can go play with Bandit while I sort this out.”

In the big bedroom, Callie had opened the drapes to let in a flood of afternoon sunlight. A large backpack was propped by the door, and Callie was busy putting the sheets on the bed.

“I used my sleeping bag, honest,” she said. “I didn’t use your linens.” She tucked the fitted sheet around one corner of the mattress.

Kate tucked the opposite corner. “I’m not worried about the linens,” she said. “I’m worried about you. How old are you, Callie?”

“I’ll be, um, eighteen in July,” she said, her gaze shifting nervously. “That’ll be good because I’ll be a legal adult and I can do whatever I want.”

Kate wondered what she wanted but decided to start with a different set of questions. Callie didn’t look as though she was nearly eighteen. There was a subtle softness and roundness in her face and a haunted, lost look in her eyes that made her seem younger. “Talk to me, Callie,” she said. “I’m not going to turn you over to the authorities. Where are you from?”

Callie opened the top sheet with a snap. The motion stirred a golden flurry of dust motes as though the house was waking up. The air was filled with the sunny smell of clean laundry.

“California,” she said.

“That narrows it down,” Kate commented. “Do you mind telling me why you were in foster care?”

“Because my mother belonged to this creepy commune,” she said, giving up the information without resistance. “It was near Big Sur, and it was supposed to be this incredible self-sufficient utopia.” Callie must have noticed Kate’s surprised glance. “They homeschooled us, and some of us actually got a decent education. Brother Timothy—he was the founder—has a Ph.D. in cultural anthropology from Berkeley.” She opened the cedar chest at the end of the bed. “Is this quilt okay?”

Kate nodded and helped unfold the quilt, a sturdy, colorful family heirloom stitched by one of the Livingston women a couple of generations back.

“So, this Brother Timothy?” she prompted, sensing Callie’s dislike.

“He’s not anybody’s brother and I’m sure by now Berkeley’s ashamed to claim him. He’s doing time for child molestation.”

Kate’s skin crawled. “Are you one of his victims?” she asked.

Callie worked with brisk agitation, creating perfect hospital corners. “When I was a kid, I had fun living there. We ran around and swam in the ocean and actually had a couple of good teachers. But once we hit puberty, pow. We didn’t get to be kids anymore. Brother Timothy called us—the younger girls—his angels.”