Little Girl Lost. Shirlee McCoy

it.”

      “No, of course you couldn’t.” Portia hoped Alannah didn’t notice the sarcasm in her voice.

      Alannah nodded. “I knew you’d understand. You’re an artist, after all. Your father wasn’t quite as understanding. He told me if I really felt the need to wear it, I’d have to come get it myself.”

      “That’s why you were in Grandfather’s room?”

      “Yes. Ronald assured me it wouldn’t be a problem, but your grandfather saw me pin the brooch on and,” she paused, touching the skin on her neck. “Well, you know what happened next.”

      “Father should have explained that the brooch was his mother’s. Grandfather gave it to her for their anniversary one year.”

      “Maybe he should have told me, but the fact that the piece is special to Howard doesn’t excuse his behavior.”

      “It doesn’t, but Grandfather didn’t mean any harm. I hope you know that.”

      “Your grandfather tried to strangle me. If that’s not trying to harm, I don’t know what is. I’m sure the police would agree.” She stood, straightened her slim-fitting skirt and started toward the door.

      Police. The word, idle threat or not, was enough to bring Portia to her feet. “You’re not planning to call them, are you?”

      “Someone needs to make sure this doesn’t happen again. If that person has to be me, so be it.”

      “Alannah—”

      “I know you mean well, Portia, but I’m too upset to discuss this any longer. Besides, your father is waiting for me and I can’t miss the luncheon.” Alannah strode out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

      “Great. Just great. One more thing to worry about.” Portia sank down into the chair, her headache returning with a vengeance. Lately, it seemed every day brought a new set of troubles. Grandfather’s attack on Alannah was bad enough, but if Alannah went to the police, news about what had happened would spread through town like wildfire.

      Portia leaned back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. Maybe she should call her father, tell him how determined Alannah was to contact the police, but what good would it do? Ronald had probably already tried to talk his girlfriend out of her plan. Maybe the best thing to do was nothing at all. Maybe, as Mick had told her, she should relax and stop worrying.

      As if she could.

      She sighed, her eyes scanning the room. It was her father’s domain. One she’d rarely visited as a child and had seen even less of as an adult. It never seemed to change. The same leather chairs. The same polished wood desk. The same heavy drapes. All seemed exactly as they’d been the last time Portia had ventured into the office, the dark masculinity of it unappealing to her, but apparently exactly what her father preferred. And maybe that was the point. Ronald had never encouraged any of the Blanchard women to feel comfortable in his office.

      She glanced around the room again, seeing it in a new light—not a quiet retreat forged by a man whose home was overrun with young girls, but a hiding place for information he might not have wanted his daughters to find. Was it possible her father kept information about Mother there? If he’d lied about her death, if he’d known all along she was alive, would he have dared keep information about her in his home office? It didn’t seem possible, but Portia had to know for sure. She pulled open the desk drawer, rifled through pencils, pens, paper clips and scraps of paper. The next drawer yielded just as little—current electric bill, water bill, credit card statement, phone bill. She paused, her hand on the last item, and then slowly pulled it from the pile. Most of the numbers listed were familiar, with the exception of three out-of-state area codes. She grabbed a piece of paper from her father’s printer and jotted the numbers down, knowing she was violating his trust, but unable to turn away from the course she’d set. She was just returning the phone bill when the door to the study flew open. Portia jumped, closing the drawer and trying to look less guilty than she felt.

      “What are you doing in here?” The housekeeper stood in the doorway, nearly quivering with indignation. “You know your father doesn’t like his things touched.”

      “I was just getting a piece of paper and a pencil.” That was part of the truth anyway.

      “It looks like you’ve got it, so you’d better come out of there.”

      “I’m coming.” She slid the paper into her pocket and stepped past Sonya. “I think I’ll go up and check on Grandfather.”

      “Howard’s just fallen asleep. It’s probably better to let him rest.”

      Portia stiffened at the commanding tone, but decided not to argue. Sonya had been part of the Blanchard household for more years than Portia had been alive. While she could sometimes be overbearing, she always meant well. “I’ll go up later, then.”

      Sonya nodded, her dark eyes shrewd. “Were you able to talk some sense into Alannah?”

      “I tried.”

      “Hmph. I knew she wouldn’t see reason. A woman like that is only interested in what she can get out of any situation.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “She’s probably hoping your father will give her the brooch. Or take her on another one of those fancy trips they’re always going on.”

      “Sometimes you’re a real cynic, Sonya.”

      “And sometimes you’re naive, but I try not to hold it against you. Now, go. I’ve got plenty to do without having you under my feet.”

      The words were the same ones Portia had been hearing since she was a child, and she smiled as she moved away. The papers rustled in her pocket, stealing the grin from her face.

      Sonya thought her naive, and maybe at one time she had been. But not anymore. Snooping in her father’s office proved she was just as cynical as the housekeeper. Maybe the last few months had affected her more than she’d thought. Or maybe, like her father and Tad, she simply wasn’t the person she’d thought herself to be.

      The thought wasn’t a comfortable one, but she couldn’t let it go as she downed three Tylenol, grabbed her easel and paints and headed out to the cliffs.

      FIVE

      Portia had always found comfort in painting, in the challenge of blending colors, of smoothing paint onto canvas, of trying her best to recreate the beauty of God’s creation. Being back in Stoneley only added to that feeling. Even as the wind slashed through her coat and gloves, she found a quiet peace out on the cliffs. High above, a hawk screamed. Far below, waves crashed against rock. Life, even in the frigid winter months, continued in the thick growth of evergreens, the spindly yellow grass and the glossy black birds zipping from tree to tree.

      Portia dabbed more paint onto the canvas, feeling better than she had in months. This was what she’d missed. The quiet throbbing pulse of nature. New York City had its own pulse—an exotic beat that had appealed to her for a while. In the end, it hadn’t found its way into her soul the way Stoneley had.

      “I knew I’d find you out here.” Rissa’s voice sounded above the crashing waves, and Portia turned to watch her sister hurry across the clearing.

      “I was wondering when you’d show up. Thought you were going to hide out and work today.”

      “Delia, Juliet and I decided to go into town. The house was too…”

      “Quiet?”

      “Claustrophobic was more the word I was thinking.” Rissa studied her. “You look happy.”

      “I’ve always loved painting here.”

      “You’ve always loved here, period.” She stared out toward the horizon, her eyes covered by dark sunglasses. “I know you don’t want to come back to New York.”

      “That’s