Sanctuary (18 page)

“It’s mighty peaceful and lovely with the willows along the river,” Lela added.

“I know that feeling of tranquility.” Melissa had a faraway look in her eyes. “I had a place something like that, too, when I was a girl. Actually, it was Mrs. Browning’s flower garden, the whole backyard of the house.”

Lela was cautious, didn’t want to pry into Melissa’s past without permission. “Tell me about your best friend, if I may ask.”

“Mrs. Browning …” Melissa began wistfully. “I was seven years old when my father, a widower, announced we were going to move to a small town in Colorado,” she began. “It’s hard to remember much about that time of my life, I was so young, but I do remember the overall feeling I had—one of confusion. Why did Daddy have to take us away from everything we knew and loved?”

Lela sat silently, eager for Mellie to continue.

“It was difficult, relocating so hurriedly. And there was a great sense of urgency.” She sighed, leaning back in the chair, reliving bits and pieces of her little-girl fears. “My father never explained the reason for the sudden change in our location. We flew to Denver the next night, leaving everything we owned behind at our home in Laguna Beach, California, except for a few changes of summer clothes and two of my favorite stuffed animals. My father said we could buy ‘all new things’ at our new home.”

“How strange.”

“Yes, but Daddy and I had each other. In a few short weeks, we settled into our little rental home in Palmer Lake, a place where everyone seemed to know everyone else. A quiet little town with friendly people. Folks there truly cared—teachers taught because they loved kids, not for the paycheck. Postal workers walked their route, stopping to visit along the way. And there was Mrs. Browning, who lived down the block from us—she and her husband became our good friends, our very best friends in the world.”

The first time she’d met the British woman, Melissa and her father were choosing roses for the backyard at Algoma’s Nursery, a small garden center on the outskirts of town. Mrs. Browning was also there, purchasing bedding plants. “Welcome to Palmer Lake,” the middle-aged woman called across a table of pansies and petunias.

“Thanks,” Melissa’s father said. “Nice to be here.”

At the time, Melissa found it interesting that the lady with a strong accent seemed to know they were newcomers. She tugged on her daddy’s arm, whispering, “How’s she know about us?”

He took time to explain that folks in a town this small knew who was a longtime resident and who wasn’t. Melissa, all the while, watched Mrs. Browning’s cart fill up with peachy pink roses. Missing their rose gardens in Laguna Beach, she was intrigued by the nice lady with creamy complexion, nut brown hair, and emerald eyes.

“Can we make more rose gardens, Daddy?” she asked, hiding behind her father.

“That’s why we’re here,” he said, setting about picking out a number of hybrid tea roses, in a variety of colors, striking up a conversation with the cheerful woman, exchanging names and discovering that they were neighbors.

The next day Mrs. Browning and her husband, a sprite of a man, knocked on their door bearing gifts—strawberry shortbread and a box of chocolates. They were invited inside to chat, and from then on, Mellie was allowed to spend time with the charming couple.

Before their move, her father had been hesitant to let Mellie out of his sight. Here, in Palmer Lake, he seemed to trust people almost instantly. Especially Mrs. Browning. And Mellie was glad, because their neighbor was both fun and creative. Mellie fantasized that her deceased mother might’ve had similar qualities, though her father was reluctant to talk of his childhood sweetheart, now passed away.

Daddy always had time for me….

She was especially fond of their after-supper hours. Curling up beside her father, Mellie listened intently as he read aloud, everything from
Heidi
to the classic fairy tales. Sometimes they watched favorite videos, always together.

Emery Keaton was outspokenly opposed to the violence so readily offered up on television. Having only one TV in the house, and a closely monitored one at that, kept Mellie somewhat sheltered during her primary grades.

One Tuesday, the week after school was out for the summer, she asked to go to the zoo. The day was exceptionally bright and warm for early June.

“Which zoo?” Daddy asked.

“I like Cheyenne Mountain Zoo best.” She explained, in her little-girl fashion, that the walkways were steep and “very exciting.” Meandering pathways, interspersed with flowers and foliage unique to Colorado, led them through the aviary, lion house, and outdoor bear exhibit. “Best of all, there’s a great big monkey house.” The tiniest monkeys always made her giggle. She liked the way they’d swing about, then turn and look down, eyes shining and mischievous, as if performing for her alone.

At the drop of a hat, Daddy took her off to the zoo. She never realized at that time just how financially well off they were. The fact remained, on a typical day her father rarely left the house. Occasionally, he did “run a few errands,” but Mellie never knew precisely where his office was or if he even had one. Much of his supposed work took place at home, over the telephone. And after school, when she arrived eager to talk about the day, he was always there, waiting with warm eyes and smile.

There were frequent visits to the Brownings’ home, as well. Mellie especially liked to wander about in the vast gardens beyond the house, thinking surely the place was much like, even patterned after, the “real” secret garden in the world of Mary Lennox and Misselthwaite Manor.

“Do you know the book?” she asked Mrs. Browning one day while the two of them weeded the small-blossomed roses Mrs. Browning called her “Joseph’s Coat” masterpieces. Tricolored, they were low growing, similar to a small bush, their red, orange, and pink petals forming as sprays or clusters.

“Why, of course I do.” Mrs. Browning, it turned out, had made a trip with her sister to see the rose garden in Maytham Hall, Kent, England—the source for the fictitious one, where the author lived during the late 1800s. Just as the garden in the story had a hidden entrance with a low arch and a wooden door, the real-life garden did as well. “I adored the book
The Secret Garden
, and I don’t know of anyone who should say differently.”

Books, flowers, and outdoors in general became the attachment by which the twosome explored the world and their relationship. By the beginning of third grade, Mellie liked to think of her neighbor as a relative of some kind. An aunt, perhaps. But when she’d gotten up her nerve to inform Mrs. Browning of her hope, the woman gently chided her, saying they were “the best of friends, yes,” but Mellie shouldn’t think of her as more than that.

Saddened for a day, Mellie sought out her father for advice on the matter. “She’s as close as any relative might be,” she insisted, thinking of Nana Clark, whom she hadn’t seen in the longest time. “So why won’t Mrs. Browning let me call her ‘auntie’?”

Daddy was kind, understanding. “The truth is Mrs. Browning is your friend.” He paused, looking over his glasses as he lowered his newspaper. “Isn’t she?”

Mellie agreed. “My
best
friend.”

“Well, then, I’d say you have more than a pretend relative in our neighbor.”

“What do you mean?”

“To say that someone is your friend is a wonderful thing.” Her father went on to explain that not just
anyone
might have such a title bestowed on them. He said that relatives were usually not chosen, only inherited, “except, of course, in the case of adoptions.” But the truth of the matter was that her father believed in the beauty of true friendship. “If you find one or two close friends in a lifetime, that is all a person needs.”

Promptly, she shared her father’s opinion with Mrs. Browning, who said she couldn’t agree more, and that was that. Mellie and Mrs. Browning
were
friends—a higher calling than any common aunt or cousin. They were gardeners and bookworms, too, and what was wrong with that?

Her father also liked to help their neighbors by working in Mrs. Browning’s gardens, due to the fact that Mr. Browning’s back sometimes gave him considerable trouble. The most and best he could do was dig with a shovel—bending over and weeding were definitely out of the question.

Mellie often volunteered her father’s services, helping Mrs. Browning, who wasn’t getting any younger. Her father liked to make up rhymes about flowers, especially roses, as he worked. This became somewhat of a game for the three of them. He began by chanting the first line of the rhyme, and Mellie would say the next, and so on.

Sometimes her father would see who could name the author of a particular quotation, including Mrs. Browning in the contest. “Who knows this one?” Daddy might say, eyes gleaming. “‘There is no duty we so much underrate as the duty of being happy.’ ”

Mellie didn’t have to think for long. The saying was one of Daddy’s favorites. “Robert Louis Stevenson,” she announced, glad to know.

“Never forget it, Mellie,” Daddy said, nodding his head and looking at her with all the love in his eyes.

And they
were
happy those first few years. Happy—if it meant a young girl could run down the street and spend time learning the names of flowers with a fifty-year-old British woman and her ailing husband. Happy—if it meant going to the library in nearby Colorado Springs, hoarding fiction books by the dozens, reading aloud to either Daddy or Mrs. Browning whenever skies were gray or clouds surrendered rain. Truly, happiness was growing up under the cautious eye of an attentive parent, someone interested in every minute detail of her life. But their cozy paradise was soon to be shattered.

  
Chapter Twenty-Two
  

THE DAY WAS NOT unlike any other school day. Daddy made a hot breakfast and drove her to the Montessori School only a few blocks away. He always took her and dropped her off, no matter the weather.

With a wave and a smile he called after her, “I’ll miss you, Mellie.”

“See you this afternoon,” she called back.

“Be careful.” At every parting, he offered her a warning. The words rang in her thoughts. They had become his trademark. She must never forget….

She didn’t think much of it when two police officers arrived during afternoon recess. When they came in search of
her
, being escorted by the principal, she began to feel frightened. Never before had she encountered such serious-looking folk.

One of the officers was a lady with blond hair and gentle eyes. “Something’s happened, Melissa,” she said, squatting down. “We’re here to take you home.”

Uneasy, she followed them into the school building, gathered up her things, and headed toward the squad car. Her classmates were wide-eyed as she left, and she felt as if everyone was watching, which made her very nervous. She had not been a child who drew much attention to herself. She preferred to be left alone, always working independently of others, studying at her own fast pace. Today, being ushered out of the school by police unnerved her. She had no idea what was ahead.

Fear gripped her as they drove down the familiar street and neared her house, which was now surrounded by police cars. A long yellow strip encircled the property, but she did not see her father. And the squad car did not stop and let her out. Instead, the policewoman said they were “going to see Mrs. Browning.”

“Where’s my daddy?” she asked, starting to cry. “Why can’t I go home?”

There was no answer, not at that moment. But soon, all too soon, she discovered the truth.

Mrs. Browning met her at the door, gathering her into her arms. “My dear, dear Mellie” was all she said.

A short time later, a lady—a social worker in a navy suit—arrived at Mrs. Browning’s house. She was accompanied by a policeman, also wearing a dark suit. The woman sat with her on the sofa, patting Melissa’s hand, which made the little girl very afraid.

“Where’s my daddy?” she asked.

“There’s been an accident,” the woman said slowly, putting an arm around Mellie’s shoulder. “Your father’s gone to heaven.”

“Daddy’s
dead
?” She was overcome with grief. “How? Why?” she cried.

No words offered her comfort. She had need of answers.

But so did the social worker, it seemed. After the initial revelation that Daddy had indeed died, the woman quizzed her about her father. She was shown several pictures of men while the man in a suit stood in Mrs. Browning’s doorway, observing.

“I’ve never seen any of them,” she stammered through her tears. “And I don’t know where Daddy works or anything about what you’re asking.”

Mrs. Browning sat nearby, a worried expression on her face. At one point she cut in, asking if the little girl couldn’t be allowed to grieve for her father “alone and in private.”

The social worker glanced over at the man. “Are we finished here?” she asked.

He nodded and the woman consented to end the interrogation. Mellie, relieved to see them go, flew into Mrs. Browning’s arms. There she felt safe as her friend spoke in soothing tones for the longest time, stroking her head until Mellie had no more tears left to cry.

In the days following her father’s death, Mellie stayed with the Brownings, after a scribbled will was discovered. A judge agreed to recognize it as the last will and testament, believing the appointment of guardianship to be “in the child’s best interest, due to the preexisting bond.” Grandpa and Nana Clark were not considered an option because of health and other concerns of aging.

Mellie continued her education at the private school, with funds from her father’s life insurance policy. But she kept to herself more than ever. The other girls treated her differently; some of the boys whispered rumors on the playground. One of those rumors she overheard at lunch one day. “Mellie Keaton’s dad was murdered.”

She wanted to shout back at the boy, who had no business spreading such horrid things. But she felt helpless to say a word. The truth was, Daddy was dead, but she didn’t know, not for sure, what had happened to end his life. She stayed awake at night wondering how it could be that her father had died “accidentally.” What sort of accident had killed a grown man in his own home?

The only way to avoid the cruel talk by her classmates was to pretend to be ill on occasion, and for several mornings in a row, she missed school. Mrs. Browning never questioned Mellie’s complaints of headaches or stomachaches. Though her temperature reading was usually normal, Mrs. Browning seemed to understand. So she spent some days being read to, enjoying homemade soups and teas, and in general, being looked after with great compassion.

“I always wondered how the Good Lord would answer my prayers, my yearnings for a child,” Mrs. Browning confided one day when Mellie was suffering a throbbing headache.

“You did?”

“Oh, most certainly, dear.” Mrs. Browning’s smile stretched across her face. “You are the splendid answer to any woman’s heart’s desire.”

Daddy had to die so Mrs. Browning could have a daughter
, she thought innocently.
How strange
.

Later that week Mr. Browning said that he, too, “was very glad to have the honor of helping Mrs. Browning raise our girl.”

So Melissa felt thoroughly loved and wanted, thanking God—if there was one—for allowing her to live with such fine, compassionate folk.

“Hickory, dickory, rose; the bug crawled up the stem,” she chanted.

“The rose looked down and she did frown … hickory, dickory, rose,” Mrs. Browning finished the silly verse.

Mellie burst into laughter, recalling the days when her father used to make up nonsense rhymes as they worked in the garden together.

On various occasions she had considered calling her guardian by the name of “Mother,” but with her parents deceased, she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Melissa had always thought of Mrs. Browning as a truly dear friend. And, as Daddy had often said, “one or two close friends in a lifetime, that is all a person needs.”

Months turned to years, and her emotional recovery was slow. She made friends with more classmates, groping through life, learning to feel confident again. But her closest ties were to the Brownings and the life they had crafted for her. Hours were spent in the gardens behind the house, hours of deep thought and creativity. She liked to take her sketch pad and pencils and sit near the bed of ivory roses, missing Daddy, sometimes weeping. She threw herself into her drawings, illustrating her father’s beloved roses, perfecting her drafts as she worked on them, erasing, reworking, and modifying during all her free moments.

Melissa also enjoyed the lake near the train tracks in town, where she and her German friend, Howard Breit, her first highschool boyfriend, liked to feed the ducks. He was handsome, with hazel eyes and a gentle spirit. They strolled around the lake together, Mellie doing most of the talking. Compared to other boys his age, Howard was shy. He spoke with a heavy accent, and his clothes, while always clean, were never brand name. Howard was his own person, though reserved. Melissa had befriended him because he was a newcomer to the community and didn’t seem to fit in, especially at school. She knew that feeling all too well. So their friendship blossomed.

“What do you want to do when you grow up?” she asked one springtime day, their second year as friends.

He didn’t know offhand, but he gave her his answer in time. It was while they tossed bread crumbs to one particularly rambunctious duck, he finally said, “I want to work at a job that makes good money.”

“You’re excellent in math, right? You could become a banker,” Melissa offered.

Howard chuckled. “Yeah, I like numbers, especially with dollar signs in front of them.”

“You can help me with my algebra. Okay with you?”

He smiled, his eyes dancing. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Mellie wouldn’t have thought anything was amiss with Howard. He was the nicest boy she’d ever known. He truly cared for her, didn’t he? Even took her home to meet his sister and his parents, went with them to Denver several times to a play or to see the Broncos at Mile-High Stadium, and once, out to eat down at the Village Inn in Monument, a few miles away.

One day, while studying at the library, Howard fixed her with a serious gaze. “You never talk about your father,” he remarked.

She was silent, not prepared for the question.

“How did he die?” Howard persisted.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” she said abruptly. Howard looked hurt, and she felt guilty.

Later, on the walk home, she tried to smooth things over. “I’m sorry … I honestly don’t know how my father died.” Howard looked at her as if eager to pursue the topic. “Are the rumors true?”

She stared at the ground. “What are people saying, exactly?”

“That your dad was hooked up with the mob.”

She was stunned. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

But Howard wouldn’t quit. He continued to pry, until she broke into tears.

When they arrived at the Browning home, she left him on the front lawn, running up the steps and into the house. She couldn’t bear to look back. Why had Howard taken this sudden interest in the most painful part of her life?

Later that week Howard called to apologize. Gladly, she forgave him, even invited him for dinner on the weekend. Mrs. Browning cooked an authentic German meal of onion soup au gratin, beef roladen, potato balls, butter twist rolls, and Black Forest cake for dessert.

During the meal, things seemed normal again, until Howard excused himself to the rest room. When he was gone for more than a few minutes, Melissa began to wonder. She found the bathroom door wide open and no Howard. Down the hall, she pushed open her bedroom door only to discover her friend digging through her desk drawers. “Looking for something?” she demanded.

Howard turned, startled. Caught red-handed.

“I think you’d better leave,” she said angrily.

Without a single word of explanation, Howard fled down the hallway and out the door. While she continued to see him at school, she never spoke to him again. With Howard out of her life, she just assumed the strange occurrences would cease. But she was wrong.

At one point Mr. Browning realized that some of his mail was missing, especially various financial statements. He began to watch the street more closely. One day he discovered Howard Breit poking grimy fingers into the mailbox. Mr. Browning shouted to the boy, but Howard ran off. Frustrated, he called the Breit residence but got only an answering machine.

Immediately he reported the stolen mail to the police. In the end, the boy was threatened with a five-hundred-dollar fine. But the mail was never returned.

The very next month Mellie was shocked when their trash was strewn about the yard, as if someone had been searching through it. “Must be your Howard,” Mr. Browning quipped. But Melissa was not amused.

Eventually Howard dropped out of school, and Melissa never saw him again. But even more troubling things began to happen. On the day of her driver’s test, after sealing her chance of acquiring a driver’s license on her sixteenth birthday, she noticed a man following her from the town of Monument to Palmer Lake.