Twenty Wishes

Ellen nodded.



“I own a bookstore. Have you read any of the Harry Potter books?”



Ellen shook her head. “My grandma said they’re too advanced for me. She said I could read them in fourth grade.”



“Your grandmother’s probably right.”



Ellen crunched down on a carrot stick.



“Who’s your favorite author?” Anne Marie asked, encouraged by the girl’s response.



Ellen swallowed. “I like lots of authors.”



Again, this was progress. Of a sort. And the girl didn’t talk with her mouth full, which meant she’d been taught some manners.



“When I was your age, books were my best friends.” Anne Marie could recall reading in her bedroom with the door closed to drown out the sound of her parents arguing.



That comment didn’t warrant a response. Anne Marie took another bite of her lunch as she mentally sorted through potential topics of conversation. It was hard to remember what she’d liked when she was eight. She didn’t think Ellen would be interested in hearing about her widowed friends or her list of Twenty Wishes.



They continued to eat in silence until an idea struck Anne Marie. “Do you like dogs?”



Ellen nodded vigorously.



“I have a dog.”



For the first time since they’d sat at the table, Ellen looked up. “A boy dog or a girl dog?”



“A boy. His name is Baxter.”



“Baxter.” A hint of a smile flashed in her eyes.



Anne Marie felt a surge of relief. She’d hit pay dirt. Ellen liked dogs. “He’s a Yorkshire terrier. Do you know what kind of dog that is?”



Ellen shook her head.



“Baxter is small but he has the heart of a tiger. He’s not afraid of anything.”



Ellen’s eyes brightened.



“Would you like to meet him one day?”



Ellen nodded again. “What color is he?”



“Mostly he’s black but his face is sort of a tan, and he has funny-looking ears that stick straight up.”



“My ears stick out, too,” Ellen said in a solemn voice.



Anne Marie studied the child. She could see the faint outline of Ellen’s ears beneath her straight hair, which hung just below her chin. “I had ears like that when I was your age,” Anne Marie told her. “Then I grew up and my ears stayed the same size and everything else got bigger.”



Ellen took another bite of her macaroni and cheese.



Anne Marie did, too. She finished the lunch period by telling the girl stories about Baxter. Ellen asked dozens of questions and even giggled once.



The other children gradually left the lunchroom, drifting out to the schoolyard. The muted sound of their play could be heard through the windows. Anne Marie looked out several times; when she asked if Ellen wanted to go outside, the youngster declined.



The bell finally rang, signaling the end of lunch. Ellen stood.



So did Anne Marie.



Ellen carried her dirty tray to the kitchen and showed Anne Marie where to place it.



“I guess you have to go back to class now,” Anne Marie said.



Ellen nodded. Anne Marie walked her to the classroom door and just as she was about to leave, Ellen whispered something she couldn’t quite hear.



“What did you say?” Anne Marie asked.



Ellen glanced up. “Thank you,” she said more loudly.



“You’re welcome, Ellen. I’ll see you next Wednesday.”



Ellen smiled, then quietly entered the room and walked to her desk.



As Anne Marie watched, her chest constricted with a sensation that felt alien to her. It was a good feeling, though—one that came from reaching out to someone else.



Elise was right; Anne Marie did feel better for volunteering. Little Ellen Falk needed a friend.



The ironic thing was that Anne Marie needed one even more.



Chapter 4



After leaving Woodrow Wilson Elementary, Anne Marie ran a few errands in the neighborhood. She bought groceries, went to the post office and picked up some dry cleaning. Her Wednesdays were generally crowded with appointments and chores.



When she brought the groceries up to her apartment, she noticed that the light on her answering machine was flashing. After greeting a sleepy Baxter and putting the perishables in the refrigerator, she grabbed a pen and pad and pushed the message button.



The first one was from the school counselor. “Anne Marie, this is Helen Mayer. I wanted to see how everything went with Ellen. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me at the school.” She then repeated the phone number. “See you next Wednesday.”



The second message began. “Anne Marie—” Melissa Roche’s voice stopped Anne Marie cold.



“Could you call me at your earliest convenience?” Her question was followed by a slight hesitation. “It’s important.”



The recording ended with Melissa reciting her phone number. “This is a new number. If I don’t hear from you by the end of the day, I’ll call the bookstore.”



That sounded almost like a threat.



Anne Marie wondered about Melissa’s request as she finished putting the groceries away. When she was done, she tentatively reached for the phone. If Melissa was seeking her out, it had to be something serious, although she couldn’t imagine what. The call connected and the phone rang twice. Anne Marie was hoping for a reprieve. She didn’t get one.



“Hello,” Melissa answered. Her voice seemed clipped, defensive.



“This is Anne Marie,” she said, trying to keep her own voice as unemotional as possible.



“I know who it is,” Melissa said. “I have Caller ID.”



“You left a message for me,” Anne Marie reminded her. The enmity between them remained, despite the fact that Robert was gone.



“I need to talk to you,” Melissa told her.



“I’m free now.” Anne Marie would rather get this over with.



“I mean, I need to talk to you face-to-face.”



That was exactly what Anne Marie had hoped to avoid. Naturally, she was suspicious of Melissa’s sudden need for a meeting. “Why?”



“Anne Marie, please, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.”



She exhaled slowly. “All right. When?”



“What about tomorrow night? We could meet for dinner….”



“I close the store on Thursday nights. It would have to be after eight.”



“What about Friday night then?” Melissa suggested.



“Okay.” Anne Marie knew her reluctance must be evident. She could think of a dozen ways she’d rather spend Friday evening than sitting across a table from her stepdaughter.



Melissa chose a restaurant and they set the time. The conversation ended shortly thereafter, and when she put the phone back, Anne Marie felt queasy. Everything about their short conversation had unnerved her. She hated going into this meeting with Melissa so unprepared, but then it occurred to her that perhaps Brandon knew what was going on. She hadn’t spoken to her stepson in a few weeks, and this was a good excuse to catch up with him. She hoped he could clear up the mystery; if he had any idea why Melissa had contacted her after all these months, he’d certainly tell her.



Anne Marie opened a drawer in the kitchen and removed the telephone directory, then flipped through the pages until she found her stepson’s work number.



Brandon answered immediately, obviously pleased to hear from her.



“Anne Marie! How are you doing?” he asked. Although Robert had been especially close to Melissa, the relationship between father and son was often strained.



“I’m fine. How about you?”



“Good. Good. What can I do for you?”



Brandon was a claims adjuster for an insurance company and she was well aware that he didn’t have time to waste on idle chitchat.



“I heard from Melissa this afternoon.”



“Melissa called you?” That was strange enough to instantly get his attention. “What did she want?” he asked curiously.



“To talk to me, or so she says. We’re meeting for dinner. Can you tell me what that’s about?”



“Melissa called you?” Brandon repeated. He seemed completely at a loss. “I couldn’t begin to tell you what she wants.”



Anne Marie sighed. “I can’t figure it out, either. She insists we talk face-to-face.”



“Would you like me to give her a call?” he asked.



“No, that’s okay. I’ll find out soon enough.” Whatever it was didn’t appear to involve Brandon.



“Let me know what’s up, will you?”



“You haven’t heard from her?” Brandon and Melissa had always been fairly close, even though he openly disapproved of his sister’s attitude toward Anne Marie.



“Not in a couple of weeks, which isn’t like her. After Dad died, I heard from her practically every day. Lately, though, she’s been keeping to herself.”



“You haven’t called her?”



“I’ve left her a couple of messages. Apparently she’s been spending all her time with that guy she’s seeing. If I’m reading the situation right, it sounds like she and Michael are serious.”



“Is that good news or bad?” Anne Marie asked.



“I think it’s good. I like Michael and as far as I can tell, he really cares about Melissa.”



“So you’ve met him?”



“Yeah, a couple of times. He came to Dad’s funeral.”



Anne Marie had been too grief-stricken to remember who’d been there; not only that, Michael would’ve been a stranger to her, one among many.



Was Melissa planning to confide in her about this young man? Hard to believe, but Anne Marie’s curiosity was even more pronounced now.



She replaced the phone, staring out the kitchen window onto the alley behind Blossom Street. She’d just have to wait until Friday to learn the reason for Melissa’s phone call.



On Friday, Anne Marie got to the restaurant shortly before the predetermined time of seven. Based on past experience, she expected Melissa to be late; that was usually the case, especially if the event happened to include Anne Marie—like dinner at her and Robert’s house or a holiday get-together. It was yet another way she displayed her complete lack of regard for her stepmother. But when Anne Marie arrived Melissa was already there, pacing outside the restaurant. Anne Marie was shocked, to say the least.



Melissa had suggested a well-known seafood place on the waterfront close to Pike Place Market. Walking fast, it was about twenty minutes from the bookstore, and Anne Marie had worn an extra sweater against the cold wind coming off Elliot Bay.



Her stepdaughter abruptly stopped her pacing the moment she saw her. Because of their long, unfortunate history, Anne Marie didn’t—couldn’t—lower her guard. She’d been sucker punched too many times by some slyly cruel comment or unmistakable slight.



“Hello, Melissa,” she said, maintaining a cool facade. “You’re looking well.” Her stepdaughter was an attractive woman, tall and willowy in stature. Her hair was dark and fell in soft natural curls about her face. She was wearing black jeans and an expensive three-quarter-length khaki raincoat. Even as a girl, she’d been almost obsessed with fashion and appearances, an obsession her father had indulged.