right where she wants to be. She just wants to suck you—and your grandfather—into her drama. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay far away from that woman.”
My leg started to jiggle. Whom should I believe? Missy had warned me that Candice didn’t have anything good to say about anybody in Port Silvan. But was there a grain of truth in Candice’s opinion of Melissa? If Missy wanted help, she had to be willing to do something for herself. Otherwise, Candice was right. She was just looking for more participants in her life’s drama.
“I appreciate the advice,” I said. “I’d be wise not to believe everything people told me around here.” Including Candice, I thought to myself. Who knew what hidden agenda she had going? She’d completely avoided the topic of her husband, instead diverting the attention to poor Missy. With a reaction so fierce, Candice’s secrets must be big, black, and ugly. Just like mine once were.
“Come here, Tish. I want to show you something.” Candice stood and headed through an arched hallway that led to the rear of the house. We walked past the kitchen, with its tidy country clutter, to a spacious area that served as a hobby room. A row of windows stretched across the rear, giving view to open pastureland. The white expanse looked uninviting this time of year. But I could imagine the beauty spring would hold. Indoors, along the bright, salmon-colored walls, more black-and-white photos were arranged in artsy order.
Candice opened the top drawer of a map-type storage chest. She lifted out a stack of glossy 8x10 photos and passed them to me.
“Recognize this little girl?” she asked.
I stared at the top picture. The child in the black-and-white close-up looked about six or seven years old. A sweet, innocent smile lit her round face. Wisps of hair blew across her cheeks. The corners of her eyes turned up with an exotic flair.
My lids stung. I flipped to the next picture. The same girl, holding the hand of a young woman as they walked away from the photographer along a path in the woods. I squinted at the woman. Her profile barely peeked through the edges of her hair.
I flipped through the pile. The girl at the beach. The girl and the woman perched on a horse. The girl swinging at a park, the woman pushing her.
A tear trickled down and dropped to my wrist, barely missing the shiny print.
I glanced up at Candice. “It’s me,” I whispered. “And my mom.”
11
Candice watched as I studied each picture.
“I saved those for you,” she said.
“Where did you get these? Who took them?” I cycled through the photos again.
“They’re mine.”
“But how? Were you with us?”
She nodded. “Your grandfather and I were together then. Your mom was like the daughter I never had. And you . . . ,” she looked away, “. . . you were like my own grandchild.”
I searched my data banks once more. “Why can’t I remember having an Aunt Candice?”
She crossed her arms and leaned back against a filing cabinet. “I wasn’t Aunt Candice back then. You had a special name for me.” She grinned and a tear trickled out. “I told you to call me Aunt Candi and you said you’d call me by the name of your favorite candy.”
“Jellybeans.” I looked around in wonder. “Puppa and Jellybean. I do remember.” My childhood rose up out of the ashes of time, just snips and bits and impressions of people and smells and sounds. “You were at the lake house. Me and Mom would visit on dress-up day.” I closed my eyes in concentration. “We’d all eat together, then we’d do something fun.” Playgrounds and laughter, a walk along a pier, scooping up sand at the beach. The images were brief but real.
“Dress-up day. Is that what you called it?” Candice wiped at her cheek. “We always looked forward to weekends with you and Beth. You were such a bright spot in our lives.”
Candice opened a cabinet filled with camera equipment, and pulled a bulky metal box from the lowest shelf. “Look at these.” She opened the lid, revealing a heap of photos.
I knelt and began sifting through them. Some were color, others black and white. A drop of dew on a leaf, a wildflower bent in the wind, a rickety old barn, the burn tower with clouds rolling in across the bay, a pair of tiny sandals and beach towel left forgotten near the shore, a younger Candice perched on a rock and looking out at the waves.
“These are all so amazing. Who took this one?” I asked, passing Candice the photo of herself.
She stared at the picture, quiet for a moment. She cleared her throat. “These photos were all taken by your mother.”
My chest heaved. “My mom took those?” I squeaked. “They’re beautiful. I had no idea. Grandma never said anything.”
“I’m sure it was difficult for her to talk about your mother. There wasn’t a person on the planet that didn’t love Beth Amble.”
“Except my dad. What was his problem, anyway?” I didn’t expect Candice to answer my pity-coated question.
She sighed. “He loved your mother very much. But the Russo family flaws were too much for him. It’s good that he was never in your life. Perhaps you’ll be free of the curse that seems to follow the Russos through time.”
My throat balled up. “Why do you always think the worst of everyone? I don’t care what his flaws are. He’s my dad.” I felt the fortress guarding my heart grow stronger as I defended my father. Gasping breaths choked out of me. It took me a minute to gain control. “Someday I’m going to find him. He’s not cursed. You’ll see.”
Not caring if I seemed childish, I sank to the floor and tucked up my knees. My silky pants turned blacker with each teardrop.
Candice reached around behind me, rubbing her hand across my back in slow, soothing circles.
She spoke in a lulling whisper. “You must never look for him, Tish. Let him stay in a far-off place. Some things are better left alone.”
I knew as she spoke the words that I would go after my father someday. Her speech was the verbal equivalent of the “Don’t ask why” scribbled across my mother’s picture.
I stuffed my anger back into some hidden corner of my heart. When I felt calm, I stood. “I think I’d better get going.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you. Our lives are what they are. No sense trying to force them into something they’re not.” Candice turned toward a worktable scattered with photos. “I have a few prints for you to take home.”
She chose several shots of my mother and me from the assortment. “These are my favorites,” she said, handing them my way.
I took them without looking, my eyes caught up instead with some photos sitting on the top right corner of the table. The nature shots had thick black lines running parallel to the sides, forming a square around each central scene. A chunky black pencil sat next to them. A gooseneck lamp lit them from above.
“Why did you draw on those photos?” I asked, pointing.
“Those are crop lines. I use a grease pencil to mark how much of the photo I want to include in the finished product.” She demonstrated. “If I mess up, I can wipe off the pencil lines and do it over. I’m too old-fashioned to deal with all that digital stuff they’re doing nowadays.”
I looked around at all the paraphernalia in amazement. “You must really like to take pictures.”
“It’s what I do. It’s my profession.”
“Oh.”
“Your mother was studying photography with me when she died,” Candice said.
I took a deep breath. “She wanted to be a photographer? Wow. That’s so cool.”
“She had a good eye for it. She was an artist at heart.” Candice played with the pictures on the desktop until
