Prologue
The little boy on the television screen was busily
getting into trouble with his next door neighbor, something
he seemed to do during every show, and Margaret Mary Haswick
held a flowered pillow to her face so that her giggles did
not wake her baby sister, Victoria, who had fallen asleep
beside her on the couch.
Ruthie Baxter, their own next door neighbor and sometimes
babysitter, had been having trouble getting baby Stephen to
sleep, which was why three-year-old Victoria had been
allowed to remain downstairs past the magic hour of eight
o’clock, much to Margaret Mary’s disdain.
After all, she was eight whole years old, and even she
had a strict bedtime of eight-thirty. It wasn’t fair that
Victoria got to break the rules, just because stupid Stephen
had colic, or whatever it was called. He sure did cry a
lot, that much Margaret Mary knew. She hadn’t asked for a
brother, and she still wasn’t so sure that her mother was
right, and one day she’d be glad to have a big strong
brother to watch over her and protect her.
But Victoria wasn’t so bad, even if sometimes she got
into Margaret Mary’s bedroom and messed up her dollhouse and
stuff. And she was kind of funny, always following her
around and climbing on her lap and calling her Mar-Mar,
because she couldn’t say Margaret Mary.
Her mother said she should be proud that her little
sister so clearly loved her and looked up to her, and that
she, Margaret Mary, should always set a good example.
Whatever that was. She did kind of like it when her mother
teased her and called her Little Mother, just because she
helped Victoria with her buttons and things.
Thoughts of her mother reminded Margaret Mary that her
parents had told her just before they left for dinner that
they would bring home a special dessert she and Victoria
could share tomorrow. She hoped it would be strawberry
shortcake. Strawberry shortcake was her very favorite
dessert in the whole world.
The television show ended, but still Ruthie hadn’t come
back downstairs, so Margaret Mary got up and turned off the
set, because now the grown-up shows would come on, and she
and Victoria weren’t allowed to watch the grown-up shows.
"Come on, Victoria," she said, giving her sister’s
shoulder a small shake. "Time to go upstairs to bed." Her
sister didn’t respond except for the slight frown that came
and went on her sleep-flushed face, and Margaret Mary
sighed, knowing that her sister could sleep through
thunderstorms and Stephen’s crying, so it would be pointless
to try to wake her with a simple shake on the shoulder.
"Wake up, Victoria! Time for bed! Get up and come
upstairs with me, and I’ll read you a story, okay? You know
you like —"
Margaret Mary looked toward the door, as if she could see
who had just knocked on it this late at night. The door was
locked, because Mommy and Daddy always reminded Ruthie to
lock the door after they left, and to never open it for
anybody, but just to call her mother if anyone did come to
the door, and Mr. and Mrs. Baxter would be right over to see
who had knocked.
But Stephen was still crying, and Margaret Mary didn’t
think Ruthie could have heard the knock. Margaret Mary
twisted her hands together nervously, wondering what to do.
The knocking came again. This time it was louder.
Margaret Mary ran into the kitchen and pulled over a
chair so that she could climb onto it and reach the phone
that hung on the wall, and on her second try, managed to
push all the correct numbers so that she could tell Mr.
Baxter to please come over right away. And maybe call the
police, or something.
Her heart was pounding so hard. It was dark outside, and
it was snowing, and nobody should be knocking on the door.
Eight-thirty at night was too late for visitors, so it had
to be somebody bad, trying to get in. Mommy wouldn’t have
said to lock the door and not let anyone in if it was all
right for someone to knock so late.
She ran back into the living room and gathered the
sleeping Victoria tightly into her arms as she heard voices
outside on the porch.
And then Mrs. Baxter’s voice got very loud and shrill,
and Margaret Mary could hear every word she said: "Oh, no,
officer! Those poor sweet babies! What will happen to them
now?"
#
The woman in the wheelchair, a bright pink cast reaching
from her left foot to her knee, wasn’t a stranger; she
couldn’t be, as they seemed to have the same face, the one
Tory Fuller had seen in her mirror every day for the past
fifty-five years.
Right down to the distinctive salt-and-pepper hair Tory
would have, if she hadn’t begun taking refuge in hair
coloring at least two decades previously.
Realizing she’d been standing still in the foyer of the
fantastic beach house, like some human statue or some such
silliness, Tory thanked the severe-looking woman who had
opened the door for her, and began slowly walking across the
expansive marble floor, moving toward the seated Peggy Longwood.
Margaret Mary Longwood.
A smile bright as a thousand suns lit the older woman’s
face as she held out her hands in welcome. "Victoria," she
said quietly. "It’s you. After all these years …"
Tory nodded, not trusting her voice. Tears were running
down her face now, but she didn’t bother to wipe them away.
She went to her knees beside the wheelchair and took one of
her sister’s hands in both of hers. "Mar-Mar," she managed
at last. "I called you that, didn’t I? I’ve forgotten so
much, but somehow I’ve always remembered that. Mar-Mar."
And then the sisters were embracing, and the long years
they’d been torn apart from each other fell away as if
they’d never happened …