"Thank you for saying something," I told Mrs. Koscinski. "This means a lot to Patrick."
She nodded graciously.
Sam knelt down to sign the poster. Seeing Patrick's hand resting on Sam's wide shoulder, his earnest little face close to Sam's attentive one, I felt a lump in my throat.
I shook off the feeling, just in time, for Sam rose and earned the sign over to me.
I guess you couldn't find anything better to do today," he said, reminding me of yesterday's remark.
"Patrick wanted to come very badly," I replied, keeping the focus on my charge. "He really enjoyed the game."
"Yeah, he just gave me the play-by-play. Thanks for making the poster. I noticed it between periods. It's great!"
"I really didn't have anything to do with it," I said. "Patrick painted it all."
Sam smiled a little, then very lightly touched my fingertips with his. Saying nothing more, he moved on.
His brief touch traveled all the way through me. My skin felt warm, my cheeks hot. I gazed down at my hands: Incriminating poster paint was stuck beneath my fingernails.
"Come on, Patrick." I rose from my seat. "Let's get going."
"Nice meeting you, Kate," Sam's mother called after me.
I turned back to her and saw that Sam had inherited her wonderful smile. "Nice meeting you, Mrs. Koscinski."
"Store's closed."
"Maybe you should lock the door, Mr. Joseph," I replied, entering Olivia's Antiques, Patrick trailing behind me. We had left the car in the college parking lot and walked to High Street.
Joseph looked up from a worn-looking ledger. "Right. And then when shoppers insist on coming in, because they are either ignorant or illiterate-" "Or stubborn?" I suggested.
"I have to stop what I'm doing, go to the door, unlock it, and tell them what is already posted on the sign. But I'm glad to see you, Katie. And please leave off the 'Mister' part. Who is this fine young man?"
Patrick looked behind him.
"You, sport," Joseph said.
I made the introductions and explained that we had just come from the game.
"Hockey, that's a nice violent activity. Well, Patrick, do you know what I have for you in the back?" Joseph asked.
"How can I if I've never been there?"
"Cute," Joseph remarked.
"Patrick, your manners," I chided. Whether he was being flip or reacting to a patronizing adult tone, I wasn't sure. Sorry.
"I have a pile of cartons that need to be broken down flat," Joseph continued. "Nowadays, they not only want you to recycle, they want you to fold your boxes like laundry before they haul them away. Do you think you could help me with that?"
Patrick looked up at me. He knew when someone was trying to get rid of him.
"It will give you something to do while Joseph and I talk," I said.
Joseph led the way to the back storeroom. After about thirty seconds, Patrick found it too much fun stomping on the cardboard boxes to care if he was being kept busy.
"So how is it going?" Joseph asked quietly, when he and I had passed through the doorway to the front of the store.
"When it is just Patrick and I, fine. I am to pick him up from school at three o'clock every day and, in the afternoon and evening, I'm going to do my best to keep him away from other members of the household-except his parents, of course."
"I was afraid you would find them a rotten lot."
"Trent is cold and barely acknowledges him. Robyn is mean and, if you ask me, a bit strange in the way she still competes for her father's attention.
Brook teases-pretends he teases-but there is no love behind it, and Patrick isn't fooled. Mrs. Hopewell is the same as ever-I think she flies on a broomstick at night."
Joseph laughed.
"Patrick's parents aren't helping any. Emily clings to him, which drives him away. Adrian loves him and makes it far too clear that Patrick is his favorite, which fuels the others' resentment of him."
I recounted the scene at dinner last night and Adrian's statement about the possibility of Patrick being the next head of the household.
"Good old Adrian," Joseph said. "He knows how to push people's buttons."
"Maybe. Even so, I like him better than the rest."
"Most people do," Joseph replied, sitting down on a piece of store merchandise. The old chair wobbled beneath his weight. "But don't trust him, Katie.
He can turn on you. Do you still have my number? Did they give you a phone?"
"A cellular," I replied, and wrote down my new number. "Joseph, why did my parents leave Mason's Choice?"
"Didn't your father tell you?" he asked.
"No. He would never talk about it." I walked around an assortment of tables and lamps, running my finger under the fringe of one of the shades. "Mrs.
Hopewell said that we were sent packing by Adrian. Adrian said my father left in an artistic huff. I remember leaving late at night in the middle of a terrible storm. My father drove without headlights, as if he didn't want anyone to see us, and I don't recall any other time in which my father got in an artistic snit and sneaked away. When he was angry, he wanted everyone to know. He had a knack for melodrama."
Joseph smiled, as if remembering that aspect of his personality. "Of course, your father was quite young then, and not very sure of himself. He may have been afraid of Adrian."
Or afraid that the ring would be discovered missing, I thought. Maybe it really did make sense.
"You know, Adrian has a history of using people and discarding them," Joseph continued.
I glanced toward the storage room to make certain there were no little ears listening in. "What do you mean?"
"When you can offer Adrian something he desires, he's delighted to make a deal and acts as if he is your best friend. But once he has gotten what he wants, he is inclined to toss people away-he'll run over you if it suits him."
Sam had indicated as much.
"So, Mrs. Hopewell assumed that he was tossing us away, that he sent us packing."
"I'm guessing that. There are some things you should understand about Mrs. Hopewell. She is very loyal to Adrian, and perhaps even more so to Robyn.
She raised Robyn-Trent, too, after Adrian divorced, but it's Robyn that Hopewell sees as her daughter. She'll do anything for her."
"Kate, c'mere," Patrick called from the back room.
"In a minute," I called back, then lowered my voice. "Joseph, do you remember the orange cat that Ashley loved?"
"The feral one?"
"He showed up last night."
"The same cat?" Joseph asked, his head bent forward as if he hadn't heard me correctly.
"One with a bitten-off tail and torn ear. It was the cat's left ear, wasn't it?"
He nodded thoughtfully. "There was something. . unsettling about that cat, the way he responded to Ashley-did what she wanted with just a look from her, without her saying a word."
"There are a lot of unsettling things at Mason's Choice," I replied. "Patrick has Ashley's furniture and Ashley's horses-he knows her secret names for them. He has Ashley's books and Ashley's outdoor play set-or I should say mine-you remember the old metal swings and bars by the workers' cottages.
He prefers them to the new equipment the way Ashley did and-" "Kate?" Patrick stood at the storage room door. "We'd better go home. I'm supposed to play with Ashley this afternoon. She'll get mad if I'm not there."
I turned back to Joseph, whose eyes had just grown larger. "That's the other thing I wanted to tell you about."
When Patrick and I arrived home, he ceremoniously carried his autographed poster to the third-floor playroom, where we hung it on the wall.
"It looks spectacular," I said, then glanced past him. Something was missing. "Patrick, where's Patricia?"