Amber House by Kelly Moore Page B

a faraway place, but I did not want to answer him. It was safe here in the boy’s room, and there were cold shadows all around, at the edges of my vision. I did not want to leave.
    “Sarah. Wake up, Sarah.”
    Sammy was patting my hand with his small, pudgy one. I sat up into the morning’s cheerful light with my dream still caught in my head. I thought I knew those faces. Had seen them in one of the paintings on the walls.
    Such an odd dream. So sad. So real. Have I been hearing echoes in my sleep? I wondered. But then why did I seem to be in the echo, instead of just watching it?
    Who in the world would know the answer to that? I put the question aside; I had no time to think about it at the moment. I had a big day ahead. Sailing with Richard, the senator’s son.
    “What are you up to, Samwise?” I asked.
    “Up for , Sarah. I am up for breakfast. Come with me.” He tugged at my hand.
    “Okay,” I said, smiling.

     
    It was French toast that morning, fried a golden brown. Another irresistible offering from Rose, who was still helping Mom, and still taking nutritional mercy on Sammy and, as a seeming afterthought, me.
    When we were through with the toast, I parked Sammy in front of a cartoon on the TV in Gramma’s room and took a shower in the bathroom near the kitchen, which was a lot warmer and cozier than the tiled bath upstairs. As I headed to my mother’s room to borrow her hair dryer, I detoured to answer a knock at the front door. I opened it to a middle-aged woman who, thankfully, didn’t look like she was going to care too much about my towel head.
    “Can I help you?” I asked.
    “I’m the calligrapher,” she said, a bit impatiently.
    “Um, what?”
    “I’m the calligrapher.” She looked at a slip of paper in her hand. “Anne Parsons hired me? To do the invitations?” I must still have looked confused, because she added, “I handwrite addresses.”
    “Oh, God, really?” I said, letting her in. I guessed that must have seemed a bit rude, because she frowned at me. But honestly, there were people who did that for a living?
    I showed her to the office and rushed back to Gramma’s bathroom — my hair was drying into a wavy mess. Thirty minutes later, it was blown, straightened, and sporting a slight curl on the ends. I’d done my best with the lump-concealment routine, and then I’d managed a quickie manicure. A spritz with floral-citrus Sunrise, a little eyeliner and lip gloss, and I thought was looking pretty good. For me. With a black-and-blue contusion. Sigh.
    I’d decided on a white tank layered under a wide-striped blue and white shirt, with my favorite jacket, a couple of bracelets, and a beaded necklace. I looked in the mirror. Okay, skip the necklace. Didn’t want him thinking I was trying too hard.
    Except — it just didn’t seem right. The jacket was a little too baggy. Plus, it bunched oddly if I didn’t tug it down all the time. Which I’d probably forget to do.
    God. Back up the stairs to my suitcase. What about long sleeves? Too stuffy. Capris? Maybe if my legs were tan. I clenched my teeth against mounting panic.
    After ten minutes of manic changing, I headed into the kitchen in the outfit I started with — sans earrings and bracelets, plus necklace.
    Rose gave me the once-over. “Got yourself all ready for your date?”
    “What? No.” I could feel myself flush. “It’s not a date, Rose, we’re just going sailing.”
    “Mm-hm.” She handed me a plastic-wrapped package. “I made you some brownies to take along. Can’t go empty-handed — that’s low-class.”
    Ouch. I hadn’t even thought about bringing anything. “Wow, Rose, that’s incredibly thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
    “You keep an eye on that boy. I hope he’s better behaved than his father was at his age.”
    “Don’t worry about me. I’m not a little kid.”
    “No indeed.” She snorted. “You’re almost sixteen. Need some aspirin? That still hurt?”
    “What? Oh.” The bump. The