Holly's Heart Collection One (35 page)
A light tapping came at the door. “Holly-Heart, it’s me, Mom.”
“I’m okay,” I said, knowing full well that I preferred to stay in here, nursing my pain for the rest of my life.
“You don’t sound okay,” she said.
Mom was persistent—one of the many things I loved about her. She always knew when I needed to be alone, and when I needed her there, even the times I told her to leave me alone.
“Honey?” She was still waiting.
The tears came, so I couldn’t answer. Besides, I didn’t want to spoil her special night.
“Something must be very wrong,” she said. “Are you sick?”
Oh yeah, I was sick, all right. Sick for all the years I’d missed Daddy. Sick that he left in the first place. Sick that he’d remarried. Sick that if Mr. Tate and Mom got together, Daddy would never be able to marry Mom again if he ever had the chance.
I ran the hot and cold water together. Fast. I blew my nose and muttered something about joining her for dessert.
“Are you sure, Holly?” She knew me well.
“Yes,” I managed to say, turning the water off.
I heard her footsteps fade away as she went back downstairs.
I wiped my face and stared at the washcloth. I stared at it. There were no
M
’s for Meredith on these towels like the
M
’s for Myers at Danny’s house. The stuck-up Miller twins probably had monogrammed
M
’s on
their
towels, too.
What if someone gave Mom a wedding gift of towels with
T
for Tate stitched on them? Instantly, I knew I would never, ever use those towels if we got any.
My
last name was Meredith
,
and nothing could change that.
Slowly, I took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door. One by one, I descended the stairs.
Everyone was almost finished eating. I sat down and picked at my meat loaf, feeling Carrie’s eyes on me. My eyes were probably red.
This
minute I wished I were a little girl again, with Daddy sitting across from me at the head of the table.
Mom made small talk until I finally finished eating. Then Mr. Tate brought the white box over, setting it down in the middle of the table. I held my breath, certain there’d be a layer cake with white curlicues dancing around the edges and a miniature bride and groom smiling on the tip-top.
Slowly, he reached inside the box and lifted the plate up. “This,” he said, “is a honeycomb.”
I stared at the tiny cubicles of wax.
Mr. Tate cut a small portion off and gave it to Mom. One after another we were served the waxy stuff, heavy with honey.
Next came a demonstration. Mr. Tate picked up a bite-sized piece and began to chew it. “You work the honey out of the comb and spit out the wax.”
“That’s gross,” said Carrie.
Zach was getting the hang of it, however. “Mmm, it’s good.”
Mom beamed down at Zach, putting her arm around him. “It’s good for you,” she said. Then, looking around the table, “It’s good for
all
of us.”
“Which brings me to some exciting news.” Mr. Tate sat down and directed his gaze to me. “Your mother and I are planning to purchase some land north of here.”
Mom nodded. “We spoke to a real-estate broker during breakfast this morning.”
North of here? I swallowed hard. The
mountains
were north of here.
Mr. Tate continued, “This five-acre plot of land we’re considering is a choice spot for a log home. And the perfect place for a bee farm, among other things.”
Carrie’s eyes widened. “Bees make honey. We’re going to have bees?”
“Yes, we’re going to become beekeepers and gather honey. And,” he paused, breathing deeply, “get in touch with nature.”
I stared at this man. Not only did he want to marry my mother, he wanted to ruin my life!
SEALED WITH A KISS
I managed to speak at last, addressing only Mom. “Why do we have to move?”
“We don’t
have
to, Holly,” she said firmly. “But things are better in the country, uh, in the mountains. The air is cleaner and—”
Mr. Tate interrupted. “There are certain things you don’t know, Holly. Your mother and I will discuss them with you in private.” Here, he glanced at Zachary, who was picking the waxy honeycomb out of his teeth.
Anger boiled in me. Then Mom suggested Carrie and I clear the table.
Gladly. Anything to get away from this man.
Mr. Tate was turning out to be someone great to hate.
“We’ll have family devotions in one hour,” he announced.
I looked at Carrie. “Family devotions?” I whispered.
“Yeah, isn’t it cool? Zach’s gonna be our brother.”
Stunned at her response, I opened the dishwasher. Carrie, my own flesh and blood, was in favor of this nightmare.
I waited till Mr. Tate left the room. A sad lump stuck in my throat as Zach put his arm around
my
mother. Together, they headed downstairs to the family room.
I grabbed Carrie’s arm. “Listen to me. This is serious.”
“Ouch, you’re hurting me,” she wailed.
“I am not,” I said, letting go.
“Holly, what’s wrong with you?”
“I’m worried. Mom’s going to marry Mr. Tate and move us out of town. We’ll leave this house—Daddy’s house—and live in some drafty log cabin where we won’t even have our own bedrooms and we’ll have to gather honey and berries for food like the pilgrims.”
Carrie stared at me. “I’m telling. You’re wrong…that’s not what we’re gonna do.” And she raced downstairs, whining the whole time.
Betrayed. That’s how I felt. I couldn’t even share my greatest fears with my sister. She was off blabbing it to Mom and Mr. Tate this minute.
So what. Let her tell. And when I got in trouble for expressing my opinion, I’d announce that I was staying in Dressel Hills. Maybe Danny’s rich parents would adopt me. Or there was always Andie. I rinsed and stacked the dishes, drawing the water for the pots and pans.
Just then Carrie came stomping up the steps. “They want to talk to you after the kitchen’s clean, but before devotions.” She seemed to enjoy ordering me around.
“You have an attitude problem, Carrie,” I retorted. “Go play with Stephie.”
“I can’t. She’s going back to the Millers’ house tonight.”
“Well, then, go do something else, unless you want to scrub these pans.” I knew
that
would make her disappear. And I was right. She skipped out of the room.
Watching the minute hand on the clock above the fridge, I became more and more furious. Mom was supposed to be on
my
side. But it was obvious she was attached to Zachary. Sure, he was a motherless cancer patient, but now that he was in remission, couldn’t she pay attention to her
own
kids for a change?
I tried to force the Tate-hate away by concentrating on the good things in my life, like Andie’s surviving the icy Arkansas River, and how loyal she’d been, standing out in the rain for me. And school starting soon, with volleyball tryouts just around the corner.
And there was my literary pen pal, Lucas Wadsworth Leigh. What a cool name. He even sounded like an author, a best-selling one at that. I could hardly wait to write back to him. I had planned to tonight after supper, but that was before Mr. Tate ordered family devotions.
“Holly,” Mom said, now in the kitchen.
Startled, I jumped. “Hew long have you been standing there?”
“Not long.”
I rinsed off the meat loaf pan, wondering how long I’d scrubbed the same spot. “You wanted to talk to me?”
“
We
do,” she said. “When you’re finished.”
“Mom?” I hesitated. “I don’t want to live in the mountains. Can’t we stay here?” I dried my hands.
“Mike and I have already made an offer on the property. It’s truly beautiful up there, you’ll see.”
“I don’t want to see. It’s too far away. Besides, how will I get to school?”
“Those are things we’ll discuss. Perhaps we can get a permit for you to continue at your school. It won’t happen immediately. We’ll have to build the house first, and winter’s coming on soon.”
Three cheers for winter. For
anything
that would slow down this ridiculous process.
“Let’s talk downstairs,” she said, putting her arm around me.
Mr. Tate was fooling with the sound system installed in our entertainment center. He pushed the Play button on the CD player. Holy Voltage interrupted the stillness. He jerked his bald head back, glaring at me. “What in the world is
that
?”
It was time to defend myself. “That’s Christian rap. It’s totally cool.”
Mr. Tate frowned. “Cool? Let’s have something soothing instead.” He fumbled around with the system, obviously confused.
I waited, prolonging his frustration. The heavy rap beat made me want to dance across the room and turn up the volume so he could
really
get the message. It
was
a Christian group, after all.
A pleading look crossed his face. “Please turn it off, Holly.”
In a flash, I pressed the correct button, wondering if this was how things would be when Mr. Tate was forever calling the shots.
He sat on the chair across from me. “There are some things you need to know about Zachary’s remission, Holly,” he began. “It is difficult for the doctors to project into the future. Of course, we’re hoping for the best. But the best might only be a few years.”
What does this have to do with anything?
I wondered.
Mom continued, “We want to change our way of living, for Zach’s sake. Perhaps prolong his life with the way we eat and things like that.”
“The stress in the city alone can add to a person’s susceptibility to disease,” Mr. Tate stated.
Oh please,
I thought. Dressel Hills was hardly a city. A ski village of ten thousand people wasn’t stressful in the least.
“We’ll have our own raw honey as well as plant herbs for teas,” Mom said.
This didn’t sound like the mother I knew and loved. The only herbs she cared about were in the tea bags she used to make peppermint tea every day after work. And honey…what was wrong with the stuff in our plastic bear?
“You’re so quiet, Holly,” Mom said.
I was thinking hard. “What about your long drive to work?” I asked.
“That’s something else that must be considered,” she said.
“Are you quitting?” I asked.
Mr. Tate responded with amazing speed. “Your mother has worked to support this family for a number of years. It’s time for her to stay home and care for the family. Zach will continue to need attention as time goes on.”
Funny, he mentioned only Zach.
“When will all this happen?” I asked, scared silly.
“It’s likely that your mother and I will marry before the house is built. Perhaps before the holidays.”
“Which holidays?” There were a string of them coming up.
“Maybe Christmas,” Mom offered. “It will give us plenty of time to plan.”
Mr. Tate leaned forward. The light bounced off his shiny head. At that moment I remembered the joke in Mom’s mystery letter from Japan. Mr. Tate really
didn’t
have any locks.
Here we sat in the family room, on the verge of altering our lives forever, while someone halfway around the world was reminding Mom to laugh like in the old days. And the phone call! How could I have forgotten to tell her?
Faster than lightning, I remembered my plan. Better than the Plan of the Hour,
this
one—the Plan to Save the Meredith Family—might just spare us from becoming Tate bait.
I summoned my courage with a deep breath. “Mom, I forgot to tell you about a long-distance phone call that came today.”
She studied me. “Who called?”
“The man from Japan who sent you the letter.”
Her eyes squinted. She glanced at Mr. Tate, who was suddenly all ears. A strange expression crossed her face. It seemed to relay a secret message for me only. Mom wanted me to drop the subject. Immediately. For some reason, she did not want Mike Tate to know about the letter.
Perfect! How could I resist a chance like this? By ignoring Mom’s facial plea, maybe, just maybe, I’d set things in motion to win my family back. It was a risk worth taking.
I continued, “The caller asked if you’d received his letter.”
“What’s she talking about?” Mr. Tate asked. It was amazing how fast he played into my hands.
“Mom has a secret admirer,” I announced. “He lives in Japan, but he speaks perfect English.”
Mr. Tate chuckled a little. “A secret admirer, eh, Susan?” He got up and sauntered across the room to Mom, squatting down beside her chair. “What about this mystery man in your life?”
This was the first time in months I’d seen them this close. Usually it was
Zach
Mom was hugging.
I sneaked out of the room, confident I’d started something Mom couldn’t finish…not without pulling Mr. Tate right into the middle of things.
Right where I wanted him.
SEALED WITH A KISS
Dear Lucas,
I began writing my letter in the privacy of my bedroom.
I am very much interested in exchanging stories.
I hoped this sounded grown-up enough to convince him to continue writing. Surprisingly, he hadn’t pushed for personal info, including my age. Maybe my writing style had convinced him I was an adult. After all, I could write as well as any college student around.
I’ve enclosed a short story for you to critique, and I hope you’ll do the same in your next letter.
There. Now he would know I was sincerely interested in writing.
For fun, I chose “Love Times Two” as a sample of some of my best fiction. It had been an English assignment last school year. The main character in the story was really me, and the sister was really Andie. In the story we were both in love with the same guy. After she heard me read it, Andie had accused me of describing her “down to her toenails”—among other things. Still, it was a fabulous story.
The
A
+ and the heading—
7th-grade English
—had to go, of course. A college guy wouldn’t be caught dead writing to a thirteen-year-old.
Rewriting the story on Mom’s computer, I found several things to revise. By the time it was done, I was prouder than ever.