Chapter 5
On Monday morning, Regan was up early, a song on her lips. In a few hours, the first furnishings would be delivered to the house on the hill. With her payment deposited, she would dash to an auction in Pennsylvania scheduled for that afternoon.
It would be well worth closing the shop for the day.
She put the coffee on, popped bread into the toaster. Then turned and nearly jumped out of her slippers.
"Oh, Connor." Laughing, she pressed a hand to her speeding heart. "You scared me."
"I'm sorry." The boy was thin, pale, with big eyes the color of shadows. His mother's eyes, Regan thought as she smiled at him.
"It's okay. I didn't know anyone was up. It's early, even for a school day. Want some breakfast?"
"No, thank you."
She bit back a sigh. No eight-year-old boy should be so apologetically polite. She lifted a brow and took out a box of the cereal she'd learned was his favorite. With a wink, she gave it a shake.
"How about joining me for a bowl?"
He smiled then, so sweetly shy it broke her heart. "I guess if you're having some."
"Why don't you get the milk out, put it on the table?" Because it hurt to see how carefully, how deliberately, he performed the simple chore, she made her voice bright. "I heard on the radio we're in for some more snow. Maybe a big one."
She carried out bowls and spoons, set them down. When she lifted a hand to brush it over his tousled hair, he went very still. Cursing Joe Dolin, she kept the smile on her face. "I bet they close school tomorrow."
"I like school," he said then bit his lip.
"I always did, too." Brisk and determinedly cheerful, she breezed into the kitchen again for her coffee. "I never minded a day off now and again, but I really liked school. What's your favorite subject?"
"English class. I like to write things."
"Really? What kind of things?"
"Stories." He hunched his shoulders, looking down. "Just stupid stuff."
"I bet it's not." She could only hope she wasn't making a mistake, moving into territory best left to the experts. But her heart simply moved her hand. She cupped it under Connor's chin and lifted it gently as she sat beside him. "You should be proud. I know your mother's proud of you. She told me you won a prize in your English class for a story you wrote."
"She did?" He was torn between wanting to smile and wanting to let his head drop again. But Regan had her hand on his face. It felt good there, warm. The tears were in his eyes before he could stop them. "She cries at night."
"I know, baby."
"He was always hitting her. I knew it. I could hear them. But I never did anything to stop it. I never did anything to help her."
"You're not to blame." Letting instinct rule, she lifted him onto her lap, cuddling him close. "You're not to blame, Connor. And there was nothing you could have done. But now you and your mother and your little sister are safe. You're all going to look after each other."
"I hate him."
"Shh..." Jolted by how such fierceness could spurt from someone so small, so young, Regan pressed her lips to his hair and rocked.
In the hallway, Cassie stepped back. Torn in a dozen d
ifferent directions, she swayed there a moment, a hand over her mouth. Then she went back into the little spare bedroom to wake her daughter for school.
Regan arrived at the Barlow place just ahead of the van and movers she'd hired. The cheerful noise of construction blasted her the minute she opened the door. Nothing could have lifted her mood higher.
The hallway was draped with tarps and drop cloths. But the spiderwebs and the mustiness were gone. The dust that lay now was fresh, and somehow clean.
She supposed it was a kind of exorcism. Amused by the thought, she studied the stairway. As a kind of test, she walked toward it, started up.