“What’s going on?” I ask, settling back in my chair. She barely spoke to me last night after we came home. She read some books to Londyn, put her to bed, then went to her room. Andrew, on the other hand, forced me to watch football on ESPN. Apparently, if I’m going to marry Graham, I need a better grasp of the game.
She looks down at her hands. “I just wanted to see you. And talk. I was bitchy yesterday, and not cute, sisterly bitchy but ugly, bitcherly bitchy. I’m sorry I was rude to Graham. You are your own person, after all, but I don’t know him very well, and it makes me nervous.”
“Graham was an unexpected surprise. You reacted.”
“Hmm, yeah.” She chews on her lip.
“So? He sent me lots of flowers. He’s rich. I could do worse.” I shuffle papers around on my desk so she won’t realize my anxiousness.
“Let’s forget about him for a moment.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
Her eyes get a faraway look in them. “I woke up this morning, thinking about the past. Remember when we were little, and you played those hiding games with us—to protect us? I mean, I was a toddler, but I knew you were taking us to safe places.”
My throat tightens. “Yes.” The closet, the attic, under the bed . . .
Her hands clench around the pillow. “I remember the night you ran with us to the neighbor’s shed. I only recall it because Charlotte’s Web was on TV, and I didn’t want to miss it.”
“Your favorite book.”
Her eyes flick up at me. “It’s our favorite, me and you and Andrew.”
“If the Darling family had a crest, it would be a pig and a spider.”
“Even though you’d read the story to us tons of times, I kept thinking that Wilbur was going to die in the show, and you kept telling me he wouldn’t.” Her lip quivers, and tears glisten in her eyes. “Then Dad hit Mom right in front of us. I couldn’t see the TV because of them, and then you did what you always did—you snuck us out of the room and went to the shed next door. It was dark and cold and smelled like gasoline.”
Oh, sweet Jane . . .
My heart breaks.
“Mr. Brenner kept his lawnmowers there,” I say softly.
“You cleared us out a spot, or maybe it was already cleared out, but you made us a bed out of something . . .”
My lashes flutter as I recall the wooden shed that thankfully never had a lock on it. “Drop cloths, I think. He kept paint in there too.”
A wry sound comes from her. “Somehow you’d managed to grab my stuffed pig on the way out, and you gave him to me and said that as long as we had Wilbur, we’d be okay.”
I nod. It started a tradition with us. The pig went where we hid. As long as we had Wilbur with us, he’d take care of us. To this day, we still have him, and if any of us need bolstering, he gets to be in our room.
“You hugged us so tight while you talked about Charlotte and how wise and clever she was and how she saved Wilbur’s life. She was a self-sacrificing, devoted friend to those she loved. She taught Wilbur about life, how to appreciate it. She taught him about friendship. You kept telling us that story for years.” A tear escapes and traces down her cheek. She hurriedly wipes it away. “You are my Charlotte. You’re my friend, my confidante, my mother. Bryony left us. I don’t even think of her, you know. She’s like a ghost in my memories, and I know Gran helped us, but without you, I would have seen terrible things, and you saved us from that.”
She takes a tissue off my desk and dabs at her eyes. “I know other things. That you’ve done your best to take care of us, especially after Gran had her stroke. You came to every PTA meeting, you went to every baseball game of Andrew’s, and you nursed Gran, all while trying to work and have a life of your own. You were there when I started my period, when Andrew got his tonsils out, when we both got lice. You cried with me when I got dumped at the middle school dance. You’ve barely dated, and you never let your heart get too involved. Maybe because of us. Maybe because of our parents. I don’t deserve you, I don’t.”
My breath hitches. “You’re my little Janie. I’d do anything for you.”
“I know you would, and I’m sorry I haven’t been myself since Londyn, but I’m trying my hardest.” A shuddering breath comes from her. “I saw my agent a few days back. She has nothing for me, and I don’t even care about the lack of modeling gigs. I just want . . . I just want to be as good with Londyn as you were for me. I want to be a good mom. I want to make good choices. I’m afraid I’m not good enough.”