imperceptibly. “Of apple trees. And they look…furious.”
Cindy seemed to digest this, and to build in her mind a portrait of furious apple trees that combined what she recalled from the movie (and, in truth, it couldn’t have been much since she had had her head buried for most of the scene) with what she could see in the orchard around her. The talonlike claws made of twigs. The long, grabbing reach of the branches. The angry faces that formed in the bark. When you were six, it didn’t take much imagination to become deathly afraid of an apple tree. Marissa sensed that her sister didn’t completely believe that the tree behind her had moved, but Cindy probably had just enough doubt that it was worth running to Daddy—if only to tell on her big sister and get her in trouble. Abruptly, almost like a time bomb, the little kid exploded. “Dad-dy!” she wailed, her voice a two-syllable ululation of desperation and panic, and then she turned and sprinted toward her father as fast as her pudgy legs would carry her. She looked like a terrified munchkin.
Marissa guessed that her father would say something to her about frightening Cindy, but she didn’t think he would be all that stern. After all, torturing a sibling was practically in a big sister’s job description. She wondered if, by any chance, her dad’s girlfriend really did have any pictures of apple trees. Not likely, but you never knew. She made a mental note to ask Laurel what kinds of things she photographed the next time they were together. Maybe Laurel could even take her picture. A headshot. A really professional headshot. She didn’t have one, and it frustrated her every time she went for an audition. And there were a couple of shows coming up at a theater in Burlington that had parts for a little girl, and so she had to be ready.
Laurel, of course, was a girl with a serious secret. Marissa didn’t know quite what it was, but it wasn’t a happy one. She guessed that someday she’d know, especially if Laurel and her dad continued to date—which she hoped they would. Laurel was more like a big sister who never bossed you around than her dad’s current squeeze. They’d gone shopping for clothes a couple of times, just the two of them, and had a blast. And Laurel had a cousin who was into musical theater, too, and so she actually knew the words to some of the songs from the shows Marissa had been in. But Marissa had also spent just enough time around Laurel to get a glimpse of the darkness behind the curtain.
She took a final bite of her apple and then hurled the core toward one of the posts on a nearby split-rail fence (missing it completely), and started walking up the slope to her father and her sister. She realized she was facing an especially gnarled old apple tree, one with twin knots a foot or two above her that looked more than a bit like eyes that were weeping: The eyebrows were arched, there were tears descending the runnels in the bark. Before she knew it, she was running hard to catch up to Cindy and her dad. She decided when she got to them she would have to tag her sister and act as if this sprint had all been a part of a game.
C HAPTER E IGHT
S UNDAY NIGHT, L AUREL detoured into the room that had been her father’s study and sat down at the computer she’d helped her mother pick out when she’d been home for Christmas just about nine months earlier. On the Internet, she had an agreeable time surfing the
Life
magazine Web site—she spent forty-five minutes looking at old covers—but there was no trace of the old photographer who had died in Vermont. Of course, this really meant nothing: The Web site only offered covers and a smattering of classic images. Then she expanded her search by Googling names for over two hours. She found a great many Robert Buchanans, including a nineteenth-century British poet and a twentieth-century American actor. There were Robert Buchanans who were radiologists and real estate agents and professors
Cindy seemed to digest this, and to build in her mind a portrait of furious apple trees that combined what she recalled from the movie (and, in truth, it couldn’t have been much since she had had her head buried for most of the scene) with what she could see in the orchard around her. The talonlike claws made of twigs. The long, grabbing reach of the branches. The angry faces that formed in the bark. When you were six, it didn’t take much imagination to become deathly afraid of an apple tree. Marissa sensed that her sister didn’t completely believe that the tree behind her had moved, but Cindy probably had just enough doubt that it was worth running to Daddy—if only to tell on her big sister and get her in trouble. Abruptly, almost like a time bomb, the little kid exploded. “Dad-dy!” she wailed, her voice a two-syllable ululation of desperation and panic, and then she turned and sprinted toward her father as fast as her pudgy legs would carry her. She looked like a terrified munchkin.
Marissa guessed that her father would say something to her about frightening Cindy, but she didn’t think he would be all that stern. After all, torturing a sibling was practically in a big sister’s job description. She wondered if, by any chance, her dad’s girlfriend really did have any pictures of apple trees. Not likely, but you never knew. She made a mental note to ask Laurel what kinds of things she photographed the next time they were together. Maybe Laurel could even take her picture. A headshot. A really professional headshot. She didn’t have one, and it frustrated her every time she went for an audition. And there were a couple of shows coming up at a theater in Burlington that had parts for a little girl, and so she had to be ready.
Laurel, of course, was a girl with a serious secret. Marissa didn’t know quite what it was, but it wasn’t a happy one. She guessed that someday she’d know, especially if Laurel and her dad continued to date—which she hoped they would. Laurel was more like a big sister who never bossed you around than her dad’s current squeeze. They’d gone shopping for clothes a couple of times, just the two of them, and had a blast. And Laurel had a cousin who was into musical theater, too, and so she actually knew the words to some of the songs from the shows Marissa had been in. But Marissa had also spent just enough time around Laurel to get a glimpse of the darkness behind the curtain.
She took a final bite of her apple and then hurled the core toward one of the posts on a nearby split-rail fence (missing it completely), and started walking up the slope to her father and her sister. She realized she was facing an especially gnarled old apple tree, one with twin knots a foot or two above her that looked more than a bit like eyes that were weeping: The eyebrows were arched, there were tears descending the runnels in the bark. Before she knew it, she was running hard to catch up to Cindy and her dad. She decided when she got to them she would have to tag her sister and act as if this sprint had all been a part of a game.
C HAPTER E IGHT
S UNDAY NIGHT, L AUREL detoured into the room that had been her father’s study and sat down at the computer she’d helped her mother pick out when she’d been home for Christmas just about nine months earlier. On the Internet, she had an agreeable time surfing the
Life
magazine Web site—she spent forty-five minutes looking at old covers—but there was no trace of the old photographer who had died in Vermont. Of course, this really meant nothing: The Web site only offered covers and a smattering of classic images. Then she expanded her search by Googling names for over two hours. She found a great many Robert Buchanans, including a nineteenth-century British poet and a twentieth-century American actor. There were Robert Buchanans who were radiologists and real estate agents and professors
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