Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [98]
“You have a dog,” Julianne had said, even as she avoided looking at Mara.
“His name is Spike,” Mara told her, forcing a steady note into her voice. “I bought him after you . . . went away. You always wanted a dog, and I wanted him to be here for you when you came back.”
Julianne had merely nodded, sitting down on a chair to allow Spike onto her lap. He lavished her with dog kisses, bringing the first true smile to her face.
“He likes me,” Julianne said softly.
“He does,” Mara had agreed.
Mara sat quietly and watched as her dog won over her daughter, knowing that she, as Julianne’s mother, would need to take things a little more slowly than Spike did. She wished she could hug her daughter again, wished she could gather her back into her arms as she had at the airport, but after that first connection, Julianne had begun to withdraw. She’d barely spoken in the car on the way home, and once at Mara’s house, she had said nothing until Spike had welcomed her home.
The front door opened cautiously, and Mara’s sister stepped inside.
“Hi,” she said. “May I come in?”
She addressed the question to Julianne, who openly studied her face, then nodded slowly.
“I’m your aunt Anne Marie,” Annie told her as she closed the door behind her.
Julianne nodded slowly. “Ammy.”
“You remember me?” Annie dropped her briefcase and overnight bag near the door and exchanged a fleeting glance with Mara. As a child who had found “Aunt Anne Marie” too much of a mouthful, Julianne had called her Ammy.
The girl nodded again.
“Do you remember this house, Julianne?” Mara asked.
Another nod.
“There were plants there.” She pointed to the wide windowsill behind the sofa. “And a picture of a lighthouse there.” She pointed to a space near the stairwell that now held photographs of Julianne as a baby.
She stared at the photographs for a long moment, then turned to Mara for confirmation.
“Yes,” Mara told her, “that’s you.”
Julianne got off the chair, Spike still in her arms, and stood on the bottom step to more clearly see the photographs.
“Do you want me to take them down?” Mara started to get up.
“No. I can see them.” She touched first one, then the next, then turned to Mara and said, “There’s you and Ammy, but not Daddy.”
“No,” Mara answered, not wanting to look at Annie, afraid to risk finding approval or disapproval in her psychologist’s eyes. “No. There are no pictures of you with your father in this house.”
“You’re really angry with him,” Julianne stated matter-of-factly.
“Yes. I am still angry with him.”
“I’m angry, too.” Julianne turned to her, that anger burning in her eyes. “You must have done something really bad for him to take me away.”
Shocked, Mara sat back as if she’d been shot.
“You must have been a really bad mother.” Julianne aimed at her heart again.
“Julianne, sometimes people do things for their own reasons, reasons that have nothing to do with what someone else might have done or might not have done.” Anne Marie stepped in immediately. “Do you remember when you lived here? Do you remember when you were little?’
Julianne’s face hardened.
“Do you, Julianne?” Annie pressed her.
“Yes. I remember.”
“What is it that you think of when you remember living here?” Annie walked toward the stairs.
“I want to go to my room. Do I still have a room?”
“First door on the left,” Annie told her.
Julianne ran up the steps and, seconds later, slammed the bedroom door.
“That went well.” Mara grimaced.
“Actually, it didn’t go badly at all.” Annie sat down behind her sister on the chair that Julianne had vacated. “Julianne remembers you, she remembers the house—”
“She hates me.” Mara covered her face with her hands. “She blames me for all this. She thinks it was my fault that Jules ran away with her. You heard her—”
“It’s not an unexpected reaction, honey. She’s a very, very confused little girl. You’re just back from the dead, as far as she’s concerned, remember? She’s been with