Now You See Her Page 0,24
another bend in the road. “Daddy’s been telling me all about it. He says we’re going to go there as soon as he can get some time off.”
“That’s nice.” Marcy decided not to tell her fourteen-year-old daughter that Peter had been making the same promise ever since they’d met and that any free time he had these days was pretty much spent on the golf course.
“He says it’s got everything: mountain ranges and tall cliffs and wooded river valleys and beaches,” she rattled off, as if reading from a brochure, “and that the cities are modern but the villages are quaint, and that there are huge castles and causeways made out of volcanic rock and monasteries that go all the way back to the sixth century.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“He says we’re going to go there real soon. Maybe even this summer.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, sweetie. I know Daddy means well, but …”
“But what?” Devon’s eyes narrowed, a frown creasing her brow.
“But he’s a very busy man.”
“He’s taking me. We’re going. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
“I never said I didn’t want to come.”
“Why do you always have to ruin everything?” With that, Devon pushed herself off the kitchen chair and flounced from the room.
She’s right, Marcy thought now, feeling the muscles in the backs of her calves cramp with exertion. I do ruin everything.
That was when she saw the house.
Bigger than all the other houses on the street by at least a third, it was further distinguished by its yellow-brick exterior, its winding flower-lined walkway, and two Juliet-style balconies off the floor-to-ceiling windows on the second floor. A pair of slender white columns stood to either side of the black double front doors, lending the house a vague—if misguided—Southern air. An enormous driveway led to a three-car garage, the doors of the garage a dark, highly polished wood. It was as if the architect hadn’t been able to decide between a host of competing styles and so he’d chosen all of them.
So what now? she wondered, continuing up the street, then turning around, walking back, coming at the yellow-brick house from the opposite direction. Should she take the direct approach and simply proceed up the front walk, ring the doorbell, and ask to speak to Shannon?
“Can I tell her who wants to see her?” she heard Mrs. O’Connor ask.
Probably it wouldn’t even be Mrs. O’Connor who answered the door, Marcy decided, replacing the generic young woman of her imagination with an older version. Perhaps the housekeeper, she thought, dressing the woman in a crisp gray uniform and securing her hair in a neat chignon at the back of her head. Or maybe it would be Shannon herself who opened the door. “The quiet one” was how Kelly had described her. Marcy pictured a skinny girl with fair skin and strawberry-blond hair.
In the end she settled on Mrs. O’Connor.
“She doesn’t know me,” Marcy imagined herself explaining to the curious owner of the house. “But I think she might know my daughter. This is her picture. Do you recognize her?”
“Why, yes. I believe that’s Audrey.” The imaginary Mrs. O’Connor glanced from the photograph to the interior of the house. “Shannon, can you come here a minute? There’s someone here who wants to talk to you about Audrey.”
“Do you know where I can find her?” Marcy demanded of the willowy apparition who approached.
“Oh, sure. She lives near the university,” Shannon answered easily. “I can take you to her, if you’d like.”
“I’d like that very much.”
Would it really be that easy? Marcy wondered, pushing herself up the O’Connors’ front walk. Or would the opposite happen? Would whoever opened the front door simply shut it in her face once she told them why she was there? Would they refuse to let her speak to Shannon, or would Shannon simply shake her head, as Liam had done earlier, and say, “No, that isn’t Audrey”?
“Only one way to find out.” Marcy rang the bell, then lifted the brass, leprechaun-shaped knocker and smacked it several times against the black wood, holding her breath and listening for the sound of footsteps approaching on the other side. When none were immediately forthcoming, she rang the bell again. Still nothing. “Damn it.”
No one was home.
Why was it always the one thing you didn’t picture, the one outcome you hadn’t anticipated, that was the one you got? Marcy wondered. So now what? “I wait.” What else could she do?
She looked around for a place to sit down, but there