Interrupted by Zondervan Page A

too?
    Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell!
    They’d banish us, you know
.
    — Emily Dickinson
    I opened the back door and crept through the kitchen. A light was on in the library. Not good.
    I put one foot on the staircase, and was met with a loud creak. I cringed.
Please, no, please …
    “Allie?”
    I sighed and trudged into the library, where Beatrice was sitting in her reading chair, a book discarded in her lap. She took off her glasses and looked up at me.
    “Alcyone Lovell,” she said, crossing her arms. “Would you please read me the time on that clock?”
    I glanced at it. “Two thirty.”
    “AM?”
    I refused to answer, looking down at my bare toes on the Oriental rug.
    Beatrice heaved a heavy breath. “Allie, where have you been?”
    I glanced up. There was genuine concern on her face, stinging my conscience. “You wouldn’t care,” I muttered, kicking the floor.
    That caught her attention. “What do you mean? Allie, I’ve been sitting here for over an hour …”
    “Of course you’ve been sitting here.” I crossed my arms. “You’re always sitting there … So patient. So perfect. Just waiting for me and my stupid mistakes to mess up your life again.”
    Beatrice’s face flushed. “Now listen here, Alcyone,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “This is
my
house and in it we abide by
my
rules. And I will not have you —”
    “Your house?” My voice broke and I slid into the armchair across from her. “Of course it’s
your house
. It’s always been
your house
. This has never been
my house
.” A tear slipped down my cheek. I brushed at it and looked down.
    All the anger and frustrations of the past four years still felt bottled up inside me. It seemed like I was always hurting — always lashing out. But the issues never really felt settled.
    “Alcyone.” Beatrice sounded pained. I knew she was probably tired and didn’t feel like having this conversation again right now, but she pressed on. “Allie, I’ve always wanted this to be our house. I’ve always wanted us to be a family.” She reached out and placed her slightly wrinkled hand over mine, squeezing it.
    I knew she meant it. She meant every word of it. She was the perfect mother and I was the ungrateful adopted child. It was only by her charity that I had a roof over my head, much less a place I was supposed to call “home.”
    My eyes stung. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I’m just … I’m just sorry.” I ducked my head and walked out of the room.
A family. Sure
.
    “Allie?” Beatrice called.
    “Good night.”
    I ran up the stairs and shut the door of my room, collapsing on the bed.
A fine family this is
.
    I heard footsteps in the hallway and someone knocking on the door. “Allie?” Beatrice, of course. “Allie, can we just get this out? Just talk about it?”
    I answered her with silence.
    “Allie?”
    I muffled my sobs into my pillow and waited until I heard the footsteps retreating. Then I rolled around and fell asleep.
    Charlie looped her arm and mine and giggled like a true Southern belle. “So,” she drawled, looking around at the rationed items on the grocery shelf.
Tuna fish? No. Green beans? No
. “If you don’t want Russell Wilkinson, honey, can I please have him?”
    I widened my eyes and looked around. We were in a
grocery store
. People were probably
listening
, for heaven’s sake. “Charlie,” I hissed, “you make him sound as if he were an item on our list!”
    Charlie pursed her scarlet lips. “Allie, sweetie, I’m serious.”
    She probably was. I took a deep breath and picked up a loaf of bread. “Charlie,” I said, making sure to keep my voice low, “what would you possibly want with Russell? I thought you were waiting for some tall, dark, European stranger or something.”
    Charlie rolled her eyes. “The Europeans turned out to be jerks. Look what they got us into.” She smiled and squeezed my arm. “No, honey, rich is the way to go.” She wiggled her pencil-thin