Whoopie!

Elizabeth circled the room and picked up the violin. She drew the bow light against its strings, so that she wouldn’t disturb Sally. Sally glanced over and smiled a few times and then focused back on the movie. Elizabeth placed the violin back in its case and yawned. What would they do to pass their time until Sam returned? She ran her fingers across the bindings of the books in Sam’s bookcase pulling one at a time to peruse, and then returning it to the shelf. Louise was right—Sam had unique interests. Her gaze lingered on Tolkien, and she pulled it out.
Tolkien’s words had always delighted her, and she retired to an overstuffed chair in the corner of the room. She didn’t budge until three chapters later, when Sally’s movie ended. She glanced over to see the credits scrolling down the screen and Sally sprawled across Ginger sound asleep. She stretched and leaned her head back against the chair. It pleased her that Louise thought she was an author, but what would she do if Louise showed up again? She groaned. She could tell that Louise was not the type to let things rest, and that she’d expect an update on her book’s progress the next time she saw her. She stood up and put the book on the chair. Where did I see that typewriter? She glanced around the room, and then remembered that she had seen one in a cabinet upstairs when she was looking for a skillet. She went up the stairs and retrieved it along with a stack of typewriter paper wedged in beside it.

The shades on the windows darkened the room just enough for her to know that dusk approached. Sam had requested that they keep all but the one light in the kitchen off upstairs after dark because that’s what he always did when he was away, and too many lights on might look out-of-place in the suppose-to-be empty cabin.

She flipped the single light on, even though it wasn’t quite needed, and sat down at the table with the typewriter. Okay—so what do I write?

She used to be pretty good at writing in those last few years in school before she ran away from home. She hadn’t been back to school since, of course. Malcolm had not permitted it when she had asked, telling her that a girl as pretty as her didn’t need to be smart, too. She shook her head at the memory and berated herself—so stupid, so, so stupid. Why didn’t I see it then? She fed a single sheet into the typewriter and stared at the empty page.

She closed her eyes and breathed in deep—the late summer air bristled with pine and brought her back to the last time she had been at Sebec Lake—just a few days before she had run away rather than face the horror she had caused.