A Wicked Snow

Wallace kept facing forward, as if something very interesting was taking place among the flowers of her garden. Her expression was frozen. “Like I’ve said, I have no children, no family. My husband is dead. That’s the only part of me that mattered.”

“Look,” Hannah said, “I need you to face me. I need to look into your eyes. What about Erik and Danny?”

Wallace turned toward Hannah, but her eyes were ice. “I don’t know anyone by those names. And I’d really like you to go now.”

By then, Hannah Griffin had wound herself up like a mechanical toy. There was no stopping her. It didn’t matter what Wallace said.

“What about Aunt Leanna?” she asked. Leanna’s name stuck in Hannah’s throat, so tight with emotion. The woman who had been her savior, who had raised her after the murders in Rock Point, had been her mother all along. “What about her baby… about me?”

Wallace remained ice. “Honestly, you’re completely unhinged, and I don’t know anything about anyone you’re talking about.”

“Your sister… she gave me to you to raise as your daughter. You, a mother. What a sick joke that turned out to be.”

This genteel, cookie-baking, Methodist do-gooder was unruffled. Hannah wanted to grab her right then and there, but somehow she held back. Wallace just sat, cool and dignified.

“That’s disgusting,” she said. She spat out her words, contempt in every bite. “What kind of a woman would give her baby to her sister? That sounds like trash to me.”

You’re trash, Hannah thought. You’re evil. Instead, she defended her aunt.

“She was the nicest woman in the world. I loved her more than anything. More than I ever loved you, Claire Logan.”

It felt good to say those words, as if Leanna was there, all lemony and sweet. It felt good to say Claire’s name.

There was a flicker of interest on Wallace’s face when Hannah’s words indicated a past tense. Leanna, it was clear, was no longer living, and Wallace seemed a little interested. But as quickly as it came, the curiosity evaporated.

Finally she spoke. Her words were dismissive. “I don’t know anything that will be helpful to you.”

“I think you do,” Hannah said. “Are you Claire Logan?”

Wallace wore a mask of willful, maybe even practiced, incredulity. She stood and faced her accuser. “I will not stand for this kind of harassment. Leave now or…” she stopped.

“Or you’ll kill me?” Hannah asked, pressing harder. “Throw me in a ditch with quick lime? Tell your friend here that I deserved it? That I didn’t matter? My life wasn’t important? Remember you told me how much you loved a military uniform? And the security that came with one?”

Even though she had sounded defiant and confident, inside Hannah was anything but sure about anything she was saying. Louise Wallace could be Claire Logan or she could be the Brownie Troop leader she remembered from Rock Point. She could be anyone. Her features had been pinched and sanded to oblivion. Nothing about the woman seemed all that familiar, not in the sense that she could be sure she was or wasn’t her mother from so long ago. She even took in a deep breath, knowing the power of the sense of smell to recall a memory.

“You are, aren’t you?” Hannah said more as a statement than a question. “You are my mother.”

Louise Wallace, or whoever she was, would have no more of it.

“I’ve reached my limit. Get out of here. Look for your mother somewhere else. Try Mexico… that’s where I’d go if I was Logan. Someplace warm.”

“I’ve looked for you for my whole life. Since you betrayed my father. Since you betrayed Marcus Wheaton.”

Again, was there a flicker of recognition? Emotion in the cold blue of her eyes?

Wallace stood. “I want you to get off my property.”

Hannah wasn’t ready to go. She wanted answers. She grabbed the old woman’s arm. It felt muscular and strong, not like some old lady who spent her days cross-stitching. This was the arm of a woman who chopped wood. Dug trenches. In that instant, feeling the pulse of the woman who could be Claire Logan, Hannah could feel herself losing control. She wanted to throttle Louise Wallace, just as she’d wanted to lunge at Joanne Garcia back in the hospital room in Santa Louisa. What was with these women? These so-called mothers?

“I hate you! I’ve hated you since the day you left me!”

“Stop! You’re hurting me.”

“You don’t know what hurt is. Hurt is burying your dad. Your two brothers. Waiting for your fucking evil mother to come back and get you and hating yourself because you still loved her. No matter what she’s done. That hurts.”

“I don’t know… what…”

“You do. I know you do.”

“Please. Let me go! Marge! Call the sheriff!”

Wallace struggled to get away, but Hannah yanked hard and felt a pop. God, I’ve done it now. I’ll be arrested for assault. I’ll lose Amber. Ethan will know I’m no better than Claire Logan, mother or not. Headlines would roll across the country. But I don’t care. I don’t care, she thought.

The sprinkler spun and the two women wrestled for a moment in the gazebo, one trying to get away, the other trying to hang on as if she could squeeze the truth out of the other by wringing it out of her. In truth, it was all Hannah could do to keep from strangling her. The sound of a teacup shattering on the gazebo floor, pieces scattering like a mosaic under their feet. The noise, harsh and sudden, was like a gunshot. It brought Hannah out of her rage. What am I doing? What in the world?

“I’m sorry,” she said, crying now, “I hurt you.”

Wallace’s eyes were full of terror by then. “Yes, you did! Look what you did. Those were my best Belleek. I think you broke my shoulder! Let go of me.”

“I saw Marcus Wheaton in prison,” Hannah blurted, not ready for their conversation, their fight, to end. “He told me where to find you. Marcus is the reason I’m here. He’s the reason the FBI is here… why Marcella Hoffman is calling you. You really played him, you know. Twenty years later, he still loves you.”

With a surprisingly powerful swipe, Wallace pulled Hannah’s hand off of her, and she rushed down the path toward the house, never once looking back. “Go bother someone else. Better yet, get some help. I’m not who you think I am; who you apparently want me to be.”

The crunching noise of breaking china under her feet distracted her. For the first time, Hannah looked down at the shattered cup. A portion of a cup had fallen next to her purse. A half moon of winy, red lipstick frowned from the rim. She returned her stare back to Wallace. She refused to let the old lady get the last word.

“I don’t know how you sleep at night,” she called out as she hurried across the gravel driveway to the pink car.

Wallace was at the front door by then. “Nytol and a shot of brandy,” she muttered, glancing back at Hannah, and hurrying inside without bothering to put on slippers. Hannah could see Marge Morrison looking busy wiping down one of the windows. Her friend had been listening to every word.

“I have never forgotten what you made me do. Never!” Hannah screamed and slumped behind the wheel and turned her car around for the Northern Lights, feeling sick to her stomach. Tears rained. What have I done? What kind of daughter doesn’t know her own mother? Then she thought of Amber and wondered what kind of mother would leave her little girl at home while she chased ghosts that she had prayed didn’t exist. She turned on the radio to distract her from her thoughts. When she thought she was lost halfway to the island’s biggest town, she found she didn’t care. She was on an island, for goodness’ sake.