They must have been gone longer than it had seemed, for when they entered the cottage they could smell something good—lunch was cooking.
Sandy bounded into the kitchen and looked hopefully at the kettle on the stove. “What is it?”
“Homemade vegetable soup,” Grandpa said. “I thought you’d be turning up soon. Wash up, and sit down.”
Megan stood in the doorway, staring at the table, which was set with three bowls and three glasses. “Who isn’t eating?” she said, and in her own ears her voice sounded strange, almost frightened, though she wasn’t sure why.
“I’m not. I have to go,” Mrs. Collier said.
Megan turned and saw her mother coming out of the little bedroom they were to have shared, pulling on her sweater. She certainly didn’t look rested; her eyes were puffy and smiling was an effort, though she hugged Megan and tried to seem normal.
“I have to be gone for a few days. You’ll have a good time here. Don’t worry about me.”
The fear inside of Megan deepened, grew stronger. “Where are you going?” There was a tremor in her legs, and her mouth was so dry it was an effort to speak.
“I’ll tell you about it when I get back, all right? No, honest, Dad, I’m not hungry. I don’t want anything to eat.”
Grandpa had ladled out a bowl of soup for Sandy. Now he picked up a plastic bag from the counter. “I made you a sandwich to take with you, anyway. You’ll get hungry sooner or later.”
“Oh. Well, okay. Thank you,” Mrs. Collier said, accepting the bag and taking her arm away from Megan. “Give me a kiss, Sandy, and remember, Grandpa’s the boss.”
Sandy’s freckled face showed concern. “Where are you going, Mom?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know.” She bent to rest a hand on his shoulder and kiss him on the forehead, then kissed Megan as well. “I’ll be in touch.”
“But Mom . . . ,” Megan’s protest sounded squeaky.
“You’ll be perfectly safe here with Grandpa. Have fun,” she said, and then kissed her father, too, and was gone.
Megan watched woodenly through the kitchen window as the car backed and turned in the side yard, then vanished through the trees. Safe? Wasn’t that a peculiar thing for her mother to say, unless for some reason they were in danger?
“Eat up,” Grandpa said, trying to sound cheerful and not quite making it. “Vegetable soup. Got everything in it but the kitchen sink. Keep you going until suppertime. Of course, if you get too bad off in the meantime, there are some oranges and bananas to stave off starvation.”
Megan wanted desperately to ask him to explain what was going on. He certainly knew more than she did. She felt abandoned; it wasn’t fair for her mother to go away with no warning, without explaining, without giving Megan a chance to ask questions. Though resentment churned inside her, she couldn’t quite put her feelings into words.
Besides, Grandpa probably wouldn’t tell her anything anyway, not unless her mother had told him he could.
She took the chair beside Sandy, who was eagerly spooning up chunks of beef and carrots and potatoes and peas. He paused long enough to crumble crackers into the bowl, and then, after he’d eaten everything in front of him, handed up his dish for a refill. “Are there any kids to play with here, Grandpa?” he asked as he accepted seconds.
“Not that I know of. May be some in another couple of weeks, when the tourists start coming up from Minneapolis and Chicago for the summer. There’s a string of cabins at the far end of the lake.” Grandpa helped himself to crackers.
“Are we still going to be here a couple of weeks from now?” Sandy asked. His blue eyes were watchful, wary, and Megan went stiff, waiting for the answer.
“Well, your mom didn’t say for sure, but I’d guess so. Maybe for the whole summer,” Grandpa said quietly.
“The whole summer?” Sandy considered this, then grinned uncertainly. “I was going to be on a softball team at home. But I guess swimming’s okay, too. The water’s kind of cold, though. I waded in it.”
“It’ll warm up pretty good by July, they tell me. Not too warm, I hope. Bad for the fishing when it’s too warm. Want to come along this afternoon, see if we can land ourselves enough bass for supper?”
“Sure,” Sandy agreed with enthusiasm, then glanced at Megan. “You want to come, Megan?”
She shook her head. “No, thanks.” How could he think about just having fun, when something was so obviously and horribly wrong? She realized Grandpa was watching her and added, “I’ll find something to do. Read, maybe. I saw some books in the other room.”
“Old, but some good ones. Left by a couple of generations of vacationers, I guess,” Grandpa said. He sounded relieved that she wasn’t making a fuss about her mother leaving so unexpectedly, and a part of her resented that, too, though she knew it wasn’t his fault. He’d tried to talk his daughter into being honest with them.
It was strange to think of her mother as being dishonest. As if she’d suddenly become another person, not the mother Megan had known all her life.
It didn’t seem to be bothering Sandy all that much. He finished his soup and crackers, drained his glass, and selected a banana for dessert. “We saw smoke from a log cabin up the lake. Who lives there?” he asked.
“Oh, that’s our only neighbor at the moment. Haven’t met him but once, when he was walking on the beach at sunset. Not a fisherman, I guess; I’ve never seen him out on the lake. Name’s Nathan Jamison. Seems like a nice fella; writes books, I understand. Came here for the peace and quiet.”
There was only one thing wrong with peace and quiet, Megan reflected after Sandy and Grandpa had departed with their fishing tackle in the rowboat. It gave you too much time to think.
Ordinarily she wouldn’t have minded. She enjoyed daydreaming. She could imagine all kinds of exciting adventures with the horse she would have—a palomino, with a flowing blond mane and tail, that could run like the wind. Sometimes she imagined meeting a faceless boy who would have a horse of his own—a black stallion—who would race with her on a broad, sandy beach, a boy who would think she was pretty. It was silly, but it was kind of fun, too.
Only now she felt neither silly nor like having fun. She felt, in fact, like crying. She and her mother had always been so close. Why had Mom shut her out?
Megan looked through the books on the brown painted shelves in one corner of the living room. Grandpa was right; they were sure old. Zane Grey westerns, and a whole shelf by someone named Grace Livingston Hill, which appeared upon investigation to be old-fashioned romances, and some National Geographics with pictures of naked natives in Africa. The magazines were so old that she didn’t recognize the name of the country where they lived; no doubt the name had been changed years ago.
She didn’t really want to read. She walked onto the porch and stared out over the lake. Grandpa and Sandy were tiny figures in the boat on the water. She felt a moment of envy that they could put aside worry and just enjoy themselves. Why wasn’t she like that?
She went slowly down the steps and onto the beach. If they hadn’t taken the boat, she’d row back out to the island; it seemed a place of refuge, a place where trouble might not be able to follow her.
What about the canoe?
Megan walked over to it and ran a hand along its bright red surface. Though she’d never paddled a canoe, she’d seen it done in the movies often enough. Maybe if her father had lived, he’d have taught her how . . .
No. She remembered now, Mom had said he wasn’t an outdoorsman, so he probably hadn’t gone canoeing. Well, it hadn’t looked hard. Grandpa had said to be careful, because it tipped over easily, but even if it did, she could swim, couldn’t she?
Out on the lake, she could see the spot of bright orange that was Sandy’s life jacket. She supposed she’d better wear one, too, just in case.
Tentatively, Megan lifted the edge of the canoe. It wasn’t all that heavy; it rolled over, right-side-up, revealing the paddles that had been hidden beneath it. It was certainly easier to move into the water than the rowboat had been; easy enough so that it almost got away from her, and she took a couple of quick steps—wetting the bottoms of her pants legs—to catch it. Put the paddles in first, then shove off into the very shallow water, and get in—carefully, carefully!
Did she need both paddles? Unless there were two people in the canoe, she’d only need one, but she recalled what Grandpa had said about losing one. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have them both, just in case.
The canoe seemed fragile and unstable, compared to the rowboat. However, even though she felt awkward and insecure, she liked the way the slender vessel glided over the surface of the lake, as light as one of the little white butterflies that fluttered along the shore.
If she just remembered not to move suddenly, she didn’t think she’d overturn the canoe. At first she moved parallel to the shore, in water where she could see the bottom only a few feet below her, and then she grew braver and turned the bow out toward the island.
Paddling the canoe wasn’t quite as simple as she’d supposed. She wasn’t sure how those people in the movies dipped into the water on only one side and managed to go straight ahead; when she tried it, she went in circles. And it was hard to lift the paddle out of the water, moving it from side to side, in order to go straighter. There must be some trick to this, she decided.
Nevertheless, she was heading toward the island, which was where she wanted to go. And in one way it was easier in the canoe than in the boat; you sat facing in the direction you were traveling.
She had to learn some new maneuvers to work her way around to the far side of the island, to the little cove with the sandy beach. There, it was easy to grasp the prow and haul the canoe up onto the sand, where it would stay until she was ready to leave.
She explored the entire island again, which didn’t take very long because it wasn’t very big, and gradually felt a sense of peace overtake her. It was so quiet. The sun was warm on her bare arms and face, and the slight breeze was cool.
It was only when she stood at the highest point on the pinkish-gray rocks and looked toward the cottage on the mainland that she came back to reality.
The cottage sat looking deserted in the afternoon sunshine. There was nothing moving.
Safe, her mother had said. They would be safe here with Grandpa.
It would never have occurred to Megan that they were not safe if her mother hadn’t said that.
Was that why they’d run away from home late at night and come here? Because they were not safe at home?
But what was the danger?
Far up the beach, two tiny figures stirred. A man—their neighbor in the log cabin—was walking on the beach with a dog. The man threw a stick into the water, and the dog swam out to retrieve it.
She wished she had a dog. Watching the pair, the man throwing the stick, the dog plunging into the lake after it, made her feel lonely. She wished Annie were here. Annie would help her figure out what was going on. Annie would make her laugh.
She didn’t want to watch the man and his dog. Seeing them only made her feel more lonely. Usually she and her brother agreed on things, but Sandy didn’t seem to be taking this matter seriously. Not as seriously as she did. Look at the way he’d gone off fishing with Grandpa.
An inner sense of fairness murmured that since there was nothing Sandy could do about their situation, there was no reason for him not to go fishing. Megan pushed it away. She didn’t want to forgive him for deserting her to worry by herself.
Megan turned, and slipped and slid her way back down to the little cove. There, with the sun gently warming her face, she sat on the soft sand and cried a little.
Wishing Sandy had not gone fishing. Wishing her father had not died so there would be someone else to turn to. Wishing her mother had not gone away and left them here. Wishing that, at the very least, someone would tell her what was wrong.
Why were they safe here, when apparently they had not been at home?
What if her mother were wrong? What if they were not safe at all, from whatever it was that threatened them?