What was unfair?
Madison didn’t want Dory to stop but knew the conversation was treading on thin ice. Either Madison would hear something she did not want to hear, or Dory would lose her train of thought and the moment would be over. “Why do you think it was the worst for Tara?”
“Well, she was older. People viewed and treated her as an adult.” She shook her head sadly. “She was still a child. It was so wrong.”
“It was wrong.” Madison had no idea what she’d just agreed with.
“It was the money, you know. Everything was always about the money.” Dory sighed. “But that had been gone for years. No one knew. Even today they still believe we’re rich.” She opened a cupboard and frowned. “Oh, my cows. Are there any Pop-Tarts left? The cinnamon ones are perfect with coffee.”
Madison was lost, and she suspected Dory was too. She automatically opened the adjoining cupboard and handed Dory the Pop-Tarts box. “People like to gossip about the Barton money?” Madison already knew this was true. She’d heard the gossip all her life.
“Among other things, but it was your father they loved to gossip about the most.”
She wanted to scream in frustration at the rambling. Dory struggled with the shiny foil package. Madison took it, ripped it open, and handed her a pastry. “They were wrong about him.”
“Oh, no. The rumors were spot-on.” Dory bit a corner of the frosted Pop-Tart and closed her eyes in satisfaction. “He married your mother because he thought we were rich. Up to the day he died, he thought we were still hiding money from him and was bitter about it.”
Madison’s energy drained out of her limbs in a rush. Her father had been loving and fun, not like this person Dory was describing. Is Dory telling the truth? Some conversations with her were like this. A scattered bunch of memories tied up in knots.
A memory surfaced.
Six-year-old Madison couldn’t pull her gaze from the beautiful doll in the glass case. She, Emily, and their father had stopped at a neighbor’s garage sale. As her dad looked through the tools, she stared at the doll, ignoring the books and videos that Emily was trying to show her.
“These are only a quarter each,” Emily said. “Dad won’t have a problem with that.” She noticed Madison’s fascination. “Ohhh. She’s beautiful.” Emily walked around the table to check the back of the glass case. “Seventy-five dollars!”
Madison knew that was bad.
“That’s a collector’s item,” said the owner as he approached. “Not a toy. But you like it, don’t you?” he asked Madison.
Madison could only nod.
“Well, let’s get your dad over here.” The owner spotted her father. “Hey, Lincoln. Your little girl found something she likes.”
Her father walked over, holding a hammer and saw, his smile wide for his girls. Madison crossed her fingers. He looked at the back of the glass case, and his smile faded. He eyed the owner. “Is that a joke?”
“Nope. She’s actually worth more than that.”
“Sorry, hon,” her father said. “Find a new book, okay?”
Disappointment crushed her.
“Aw, come on, Lincoln. Everybody knows you’ve got Barton money.”
Madison stumbled backward at the instant fury in her father’s eyes as he turned to the owner. Emily saw it and grabbed Madison’s hand, yanking her toward the driveway. She’d left the books and videos. “Let’s wait out here,” Emily said in a cheery voice.
Something was wrong.
Her father came out seconds later, no tools in hand, his smile back. “Nothing today, eh?” He took Madison’s other hand, and the three of them walked to his car.
She must have imagined the anger in his eyes.
Madison stared at the coffee maker.
Had Emily been protecting her from her father’s anger?
“I think there’s enough for a cup.” Dory greedily eyed the pot.
“Only if you like your coffee super strong and bitter.”
“In that case, I’ll wait. But please hurry up.”
Is she talking to me or the pot?
“The rumors were that Dad married Mom for money?” Madison tried to steer her aunt back on track.
“That and those horrible things.”
“What horrible things?” Madison’s voice cracked.
“Those people.” Dory’s voice lowered. “Those awful people.”
“Was Chet Carlson one of those people?” Madison’s hate for her father’s killer burned anew in her gut.
“Of course not.” Dory was adamant.
“Who, then?” She forced the words out. Why would Dory defend Chet Carlson? The man sat in prison for her father’s death.
“They’re gone. Most weren’t from around here to start with.”
“That’s good.” Madison didn’t know what else to say. The conversation had completely confused her as she analyzed every word out of her great-aunt’s mouth from a dozen angles.
“It is.” She squeezed Madison’s upper arm and smiled. “One of these days, Tara will be back.”
“Why do you think Tara hasn’t returned?” Madison wondered if she should wake Dory up early more often. Yes, her conversation was a scattered stream of subjects, but Tara and her father had been mentioned more times this morning than in all of the past year.
Is it her medication? Madison wasn’t sure how many drugs her aunt took. She had put complete trust in the pharmacist to notify her if Dory had been prescribed medications she shouldn’t be taking at the same time. Dory saw dozens of doctors, but fortunately there was only one pharmacy in town. The pharmacist was well acquainted with Dory and her maladies, real and imagined. Madison made sure the pharmacist also had a list of the “natural” medications Dory used.
“Well, you know how Tara can be. More stubborn than you and Emily added together. She broke our hearts when she left.”
Madison was well aware of her sister’s disappearing act. It’d taken her years to convince herself that Tara hadn’t left because Madison was a super snoop who couldn’t stay out of Tara’s room.
“She’ll be back one of these days. When she’s ready.” Dory pointed emphatically at the pot. “I’ll take a cup now.”
Madison poured the coffee and checked the time. She would be late if she didn’t leave now.
Leo can handle the diner if I’m a little late.
This conversation was too extraordinary to walk out on.
“Dory,” she asked carefully, “do you know why Tara left so soon after Dad’s death?”
Her aunt had sat down at the table in the kitchen and was alternating bites of Pop-Tart with sips of coffee. “I don’t, dear,” she said between bites. “Probably too much pressure. It was a hard time for all of us.”
“It doesn’t seem callous to you? I mean . . . she didn’t even call when Mom died.”
“She didn’t call, did she? Tara has to live with that guilt. Your poor mother.”