Part 6 (1/2)

”I found a folder on my desk this morning-Mich.e.l.le Pendleton's records. Want to take a look?”

”No way,” Corinne replied. ”I try never to look at the records till there's some reason to.”

She thought Tim would drop the subject, but he didn't.

”She's almost too good to be true,” he said. ”Not a single black mark anywhere.”

Corinne wondered what he was getting at.

”Is that so strange? I can think of any number of students here who have spotless records.”

Tim nodded. ”But this is Paradise Point, not Boston. It's almost as though Mich.e.l.le Pendleton has been living her life unaware of her surroundings.” He paused, then: ”Did you know she's adopted?”

Corinne closed her desk drawers. ”Should I have?” What was he getting at?

”Not really. But she is. She knows it, too.”

”Is that unusual?”

”Somewhat. But what is definitely unusual is that apparently she's never had any reaction to it at all. As far as her teachers could tell, she's always accepted it as a simple fact of life.”

”Well, good for her,” Corinne said, her voice showing a trace of the annoyance she was beginning to feel. What on earth was Tim trying to get at? The answer came almost immediately.

”I think you should keep an eye on her,” Tim said. Before Corinne could protest, he forged ahead. ”I'm not saying anything is going to happen. But there's a difference between Paradise Point and Boston-as far as I know, Mich.e.l.le is the only adoptive child you have here.”

”I see,” Corinne said slowly. Suddenly it was all becoming clear to her. ”You mean the other children?”

”Exactly,” Tim said. ”You know how kids can be when one of them is different from the rest. If they made up their minds to, they could make life miserable for Mich.e.l.le.”

”I'd like to think they won't,” Corinne said softly.

She knew what was in Tim's mind. He was thinking of his own daughter, Lisa, eleven years old, but so different from Mich.e.l.le Pendleton that comparison was nearly impossible.

Tim liked to believe that Lisa's problems stemmed from the fact that she was ”different” from her school friends: her mother had died five years earlier. In all charity, Corinne admitted that was partly true. The death of her mother had been hard on Lisa, even harder than it had been on Tim.

At six, she had been too young to understand what had happened. Until the end, she had refused to believe her mother was dying, and when at last the inevitable had happened, it had been almost too much for her.

She had blamed her father, and Tim, distressed, had begun to spoil her. Lisa, from a happy six-year-old, had grown into a sullen eleven-year-old, uncooperative, listless, a loner.

”Do you have to be home this afternoon?” Corinne asked carefully, hoping Tim wouldn't follow the train of thought that had brought her to what seemed an irrelevant question.

Suddenly, as if Corinne's thoughts had summoned her, Lisa came into the cla.s.sroom. She glanced quickly at Corinne. Her face, which should have been pretty, was pinched into an expression of suspicion and hostility. Corinne made herself smile at Lisa, but Lisa's dark eyes, nearly hidden under too long bangs, gave no hint of friendliness. She turned quickly to her father. When she spoke, her words sounded to Corinne more like an ultimatum than a request.

”I'm going home with Alison Adams, and having dinner there. Is it all right?”

Tim frowned, but agreed to Lisa's plans. A small smile of satisfaction on her face, Lisa left the room as quickly as she had come in. When she was gone, Tim looked rueful.

”Well, I guess I have the rest of the day,” he said. He had wanted to share the afternoon with his daughter, but there was no bitterness in his voice, only sadness and defeat. Then, reading Corinne's expression of disapproval, he tried to make the best of it.

”At least she told me what she's up to,” he said crookedly. He shook his head. ”I'm a pretty good psychologist,” he went on, ”but as a father, I ain't so terrific, huh?”

Corinne decided to ignore the question. If it wasn't for Lisa, and Lisa's clear dislike of Corinne, she and Tim probably would have been married two years ago. But Lisa ran Tim and had managed, to her own delight, to become a sore spot between Corinne and Tim. ”I bought some steaks,” she said brightly, linking an arm through Tim's and steering him toward the door. ”Just in case you could come over this evening. Come on, let's get out of here.”

Together, they left the school building. As they emerged into the soft summer afternoon, Corinne breathed deeply of the warm, sweet air, and looked happily around at the spreading oaks and maples, their leaves still a vibrant green.

”I love it here,” she said. ”I really do!”

”I love it here-I really do!” Mich.e.l.le exclaimed, unknowingly echoing the words her teacher had just uttered. Beside her, Sally Carstairs and Jeff Benson exchanged a glance, and rolled their eyes up in disgust.

”It's a tank town,” Jeff complained. ”Nothing ever happens here.”

”Where would you rather live?” Mich.e.l.le challenged him.

”Wood's Hole,” Jeff announced without hesitation.

”Wood's Hole?” Sally repeated. ”What's that?”

”I want to go to school there,” Jeff said placidly. ”At the Inst.i.tute of Oceanography.”

”How boring,” Sally said airily. ”And it probably isn't any different from the Point. I can hardly wait to get out of here.”

”You probably won't,” Jeff teased. ”You'll probably die here, like everybody else.”

”No, I won't,” Sally insisted. ”You just wait. You'll see.”

The three of them were walking along the bluff. As they drew near the Bensons', Mich.e.l.le asked Jeff if he wanted to come home with her.

Jeff glanced at his house and saw his mother standing at the door, watching him. Then he s.h.i.+fted his gaze, pa.s.sing over the old cemetery, and coming to rest on the roof of the Pendleton house, just visible beyond the trees. He remembered everything his mother had ever told him about the cemetery and that house. ”I don't think so,” he decided. ”I promised Mom I'd mow the lawn this afternoon.”

”Oh, come on,” Mich.e.l.le urged him. ”You never come over to my house.”

”I will,” Jeff said. ”But not today. I-I just don't have time.”

A glint of mischief came into Sally's eyes. She nudged Mich.e.l.le with her elbow.

”What's wrong?” she asked, her voice carefully innocent. ”Are you afraid of the cemetery?”

”No, I'm not afraid of the cemetery,” Jeff snapped. By now they were in front of his house, and he was about to start up the driveway. Sally stopped him with her next words, though she directed them to Mich.e.l.le.

”There's supposed to be a ghost in the cemetery. Jeff's probably afraid of it.”

”A ghost? I never heard that,” Mich.e.l.le said.

”It isn't true, anyway,” Jeff told her. ”I've lived here all my life, and if there was a ghost, I would have seen it. And I haven't, so there isn't any ghost.”

”You saying so doesn't make it so,” Sally argued.