The Lost Girl of Astor Street(3)

Lydia shakes her head at me and then gazes out at Lake Michigan, blue-gray and choppy. “I wonder if the water has warmed at all.”

“I doubt it.”

Previous summers, we spent oodles of time on its shores. Sand gritty between our toes as we ate hot dogs slathered with tangy mustard and spicy onions. Seagulls cawing and boys playing a showy game of ball nearby. Lydia’s never put more than her ankles in the lake, I’m sure. And I suppose that’s a good thing. Even if her parents haven’t banned her from caring for children, they must have banned swimming. Right?

Matthew steers off bustling Lake Shore Drive and onto the relative quiet of Astor Street. My oldest brother lives in the suburbs now, and when he visits he complains about the noise of our neighborhood, how a man can’t even smoke his pipe in the privacy of his yard.

True, our yard is the size of a hatbox and barely has room for the few shrubs within the wrought iron fence. On one side, our stone walls graze the brick home of the Lincoln family, and on the other we have hardly a foot of space between us and the Applegates. No, not much space for a man who wants to smoke his pipe in solitude. But it’s where Mother once lived and loved us, and anytime I imagine myself leaving this fall for college, my eyes sting with tears.

“Thank you, Matthew,” I say as I push open the door.

“Of course, Miss Sail.” After over a year of bringing me home from school, I’ve finally convinced him to stay seated and let me get my own door. But he always looks rather uncomfortable about it.

“Depending on how long I’m at the Barrows’, I might ring you later tonight,” Lydia calls out the window. “Mother and Father have tickets to the ballet, so it’ll just be me, Hannah, and Sarah.”

I wave as I unhook the gate of my front yard. “Talk to you then.”

She flutters her fingers in a farewell wave. With her smile and eyes gleaming bright, Lydia looks so healthy. Another image of Lydia flits through my mind—her head angled awkwardly back, her arms stiff against her chest, her breathing strangely erratic.

Matthew chugs away to carry her around the block to the Barrow residence. I press my eyes closed, as if that can shut out the image of the Other Lydia. She’ll be fine, I tell myself.

The LeVines seem able to convince themselves of this. Why can’t I?

The gate clanks shut behind me, and I mount the stone steps to my front door. I draw my house key from my bag, but the doorknob twists in my hand, and I push open the heavy door with my hip. Inside, it’s silent. I pull off my saddle shoes and drop them by the base of the stairs.

“Where’s Lydia?” My brother Nick’s voice startles me from the living room. He’s in Father’s chair with a notebook open and his mouth drawn in its usual frown.

“I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Well, I am.” His fingers fidget with a tassel on the arm of the chair. “Did Lydia have somewhere else to be?”

I pull off my cloche and bite my lip so I don’t laugh at my besotted brother. We’ve grown up with the LeVines, but it’s as if six months ago he woke up and realized Lydia is a young lady and not just a girl.

“Lydia is showing her charitable side over at the Barrows’ house. She’s taking care of Cole so Mrs. Barrow can put her feet up, I guess.”

“I didn’t need to know where she was, Piper.” Nick’s face grows redder with each word he speaks. “It’s just that Lydia frequently comes in with you, and the two of you make so much noise that I might have needed to go to the library to study.”

“Right. Well, no. Lydia won’t be coming over this afternoon.”

“Okay, good.” Nick makes a show of settling against the back of the armchair. “Then I won’t bother with going to the library.”

“Is Walter home yet?”

“Try the kitchen.”

My feet take off in an unladylike rush. The yeasty scent of bread dough greets me as I push through the dining room door and into the kitchen. Joyce is scrubbing her hands at the sink and glances over her shoulder at me.

“He was here, Piper, but I sent him to the market to pick up my order.” She shuts off the faucet and smiles at me as she dries her hands on her apron. “You’ll have to make do with my company for now.”

“How did he look? Is he injured again?”

“He looks much better than when he came home earlier in the season. He assures me that other than a bruised shin, he’s fine.” Joyce drapes a kitchen towel over two rising mounds of dough. “No broken fingers. No black eyes. Hopefully, that means he’s learned his lesson about interfering when two other players decide to brawl.”

“We can hope so, at least.”

With its peeling wallpaper and functional feel, the kitchen isn’t the prettiest room in the house, but it’s still my favorite. After school, I almost always find our housekeeper, Joyce, in here starting supper. She’ll let me sit and talk to her about whatever is on my mind, unlike the men in the house. Joyce even looks a bit like my mother; she’s rounder, but has similar almond-colored eyes and sandy hair.

“How was school today?”

I pull open the door of the refrigerator. “It was school.”

Joyce sighs. “Never have I seen a girl with a mind as fine as yours dislike school so much. Don’t you know how lucky you are, Piper?”