Page 17 of Jane Deyre
Grace leads the way. Her gait is slow. Lumbered. I follow her outdoors to the vast yard. The fog having lifted, my eyes pop; my jaw drops. I’m in awe. It’s even more stunning than the front yard.
There must be acres of land, the green lawn seeming to go on endlessly. Intersecting it is a pebbled path bordered on both sides by beds of magnificent roses in jewel-tone colors. I can smell them from where I’m standing.
I follow Grace onto the winding path. Strategically placed stone statuaries and mushroom-shaped lights intermingle with the rosebushes along with clay pots filled with lavender, larkspur, and jasmine. The scent is intoxicating. The many varieties of roses are a feast for the eyes and it appears that no two bushes are the same. Most are thick and thorny. Been here forever. I bet that’s how Thornhill got its name. For sure, the source for the myriad vases of roses scattered around the house.
The path seems to go on for miles. Maybe it just feels that way because of how slowly Grace walks. The heat doesn’t help. The temperature has risen since this morning. It must already be in the nineties. My soaked T-shirt is clinging to my sweat-slicked skin. I can’t complain. How lucky I am not to have to stand on Hollywood Boulevard in that suffocating Smurfette getup!
A chorus of chirping birds and buzzing bees surrounds me, mixing with the crunch of my footsteps on the pebbles. A couple of lizards scamper across the path seeking refuge from the emerging sun. Along the way, we pass lots of trees. I recognize many of them from having learned about trees in a high school art class. Some are fruit trees. A Japanese cherry tree. A plum tree. And an old, moss-covered apple tree with a colossal trunk and thick leafy branches.
Something falls from the apple tree. And attacks us.
It’s not an apple. Or a bird.
I flinch as Grace loses her footing and almost falls backward.
Her silent scream echoes in my ears.
CHAPTER 8
Jane
Grace’s silent scream is replaced by a torrent of giggles.
Picking herself up off the ground... Adele.
I now realize she jumped out of the tree. Almost crash-landing on my vision board. My expression shifts from frightened to angry.
“Adele, you scared the shit out of us.”
I instantly regret my choice of words. But it’s too late. Adjusting her prim dress, she looks up at me.
“Jane, you said a bad word.”
Yeah, I did. Then again, at the tender age of five, my new charge already knows it. How many more does she know and how did she learn them?
“You could have hurt yourself.” I give her a stern look. “Say you’re sorry.”
Adele gives me a pouty look. I’m almost expecting her to flick me off.
Our eyes stay locked in a stare-down. Me against her.
“Do it, Adele.” I narrow my eyes at her. “Or I’m leaving right now and I’m not going to be your nanny.”
To my surprise, tears hover in the little girl’s eyes. Her rosebud lips wobble. And then the words I want to hear, “I’m sorry, Jane.”
I don’t smile. “Now, tell poor frightened-out-of-her-mind Grace the same.”
She looks up at my mute companion with her big repentant velvet-brown eyes. And apologizes. Her voice is small but loud enough to be heard.
Still trembling like a leaf, the stout housekeeper nods with acceptance.
I quirk a half smile. Happy with my small victory. I tell Adele I’m going to settle into my new quarters and that I’ll catch up with her soon. A bright smile replaces her tearful frown.
As she skips away merrily, I make a mental note: Tell her no more tree climbing.
Just what I need... a child falling from a branch and breaking her neck. Spending my first day at my new job in the emergency room. It’ll end up being my last.
A memory darts into my head. When I was twelve years old, I climbed a tree to escape sixteen-year-old John Reed, who was chasing me with his BB gun. Firing it at me. “You can run, but you can’t hide,” I heard him yell. Shaking, I clung to the branch and hoped he wouldn’t find me. Maybe I needed to climb higher. I stood up, and as I placed one foot on an upper limb, my flip-flop fell off. Below, I heard an evil laugh. I could feel his squinty eyes on me. “Ha! I found you, foster girl! You little skank!”Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!He was firing at me. Suddenly, a sharp pain ripped through my shoulder. One of the pellets hit me. The pain was so great I lost my footing and fell off the branch. The next thing I knew I was flat on my back on the ground, a new nauseating pain shooting up my leg from my ankle. Looming above me, the gun still in his hand, John let out another evil laugh. “You stupid girl,” he cackled before running off. Unable to put pressure on my foot, I crawled back to the house. It took me almost an hour. Begrudgingly, his money-grubbing parents took me to the emergency room, the entire ride berating me for my stupidity while I held back tears. I knew if I cried, his bastard father would smack me into silence. Like father, like son. Born from evil. Six weeks on crutches. Six weeks of torture with John Reed hiding them and whacking me with them...