Bloodline(18)

I stroke my stomach. Hey, Beautiful Baby. Ready for your first concert?

A gale of laughter catches my attention. A group of people—a woman and children—stand on the edge of the bleachers, probably a family, Mexican by the look of them.

“The Gomezes. Too many kids, if you ask me.”

I swivel. The woman at my side appears to be approximately my age, her brown hair curled into the tight bouffant similar to how Mrs. Lily wears her hair. The yarn-strung name tag at her neck reads “Miss Colivan, 4th grade.”

“That must be common in a farming community,” I say. I thought I’d spotted quite a few large families in the bleachers. “You’re a teacher here?”

The woman nods curtly. “Fourth grade. You’re Joan Schmidt.”

I flinch but allow Deck’s last name to stick. “Yes. Joan . . . Schmidt.”

The teacher raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “I graduated with Deck. He was quite popular. We were all so happy to hear he was moving back. This is his home.”

An irrational needle of jealousy pokes me near the base of my spine. “I’m here as a journalist for the Gazette.” It’s a ten-dollar word for a nickel job, but Miss Colivan has me defensive. “Any comments you’d like to make about the music program?”

She beams at the mass of kids horsing around on the gym floor, all of them dressed in their Sunday best. “Only that the children have worked very hard. The theme is the Beatles. Each grade will sing one of their songs, and then they’ll all come together for ‘Yellow Submarine.’”

“That actually sounds nice,” I say before I can stop myself.

Miss Colivan grimaces. “We have culture here, you know. We’re more of a family than a school. The students spent all week painting the submarine. Our janitor mounted it on wheels. The older children will guide it out at the finale. It will be quite something.”

More of the Lilydale spirit I’ve been hearing about all day. I murmur something vaguely supportive (I hope), my glance pulled by the Gomez family moving toward the bleachers. I spot a child in the group I didn’t notice before. He’s small, prekindergarten if I have to guess, and he’s so gorgeous that he steals my breath away.

“That’s Angel,” Miss Colivan says. “A boy shouldn’t be that pretty. He’ll get snatched right up.”

I suck in my breath, turning to stare at her. “Like Paulie Aandeg?”

Her eyes are sparkling, but I can’t read her expression. “That was decades ago.”

“Deck told me about it,” I say, too smugly. Why do I feel the need to remind her that he’s mine?

“I wasn’t born yet, of course, but I don’t remember hearing that he was a particularly pretty child, not like Angel,” Miss Colivan continues, as if she didn’t hear me. “Paulie was wearing a proper little sailor suit when he was snatched, that much I do remember hearing.”

My hand goes back to my stomach. I can’t help it. “That poor family.”

“Rumor was the mother did it. A drinker. Shoplifter,” she says, with special emphasis on the last word.

The warm thump-thump in my veins freezes. She can’t possibly know about the cloisonné pineapple brooch I left back at the house. “Why would a mother steal her own child?”

Miss Colivan seems to notice my outfit for the first time. I’m wearing a lavender-colored knee-length sheath with pantyhose and black kitten heels. Her eyes narrow. “I love that dress.”

“Thank you,” I say, inwardly relaxing. I make a mental note to ask Dennis Roth about the Paulie Aandeg case. He must have something in the archives. There’s likely no story there, but now I’m curious. “I purchased it at Dayton’s. In Minneapolis.”

She perches her chin on her thumb, the picture of reflection. “You know what would go great with that? One of the new cloisonné brooches that just arrived at Ben Franklin. They’re lovely. You should check them out next time you’re downtown.”

My mouth turns dry as dust. I can’t make a sound to save my soul, and it doesn’t matter, because she’s flashed me a blinding grin and trotted off to the sidelines. The concert is about to begin.

Cruel Miss Colivan, dipping girls’ braids in the glue pot.

She wasn’t in the store when I stole the brooch. Was she? Impossible. Her mentioning it is the wildest of coincidences. I steady my breath and claim a spot on the bleachers, but I feel like I’m balancing on marbles the whole way. Miss Colivan has unsettled me, and if I don’t put her out of my mind, I won’t get what I need for this article.

Through sheer force of will, I manage to concentrate on the concert.

The evening is a mixed bag. The children butcher every song, but they’re beaming with pride and sing with so much heart. My neck is prickling constantly during the show, like I’m being watched, but when I turn to see who’s staring, everyone is focused on the stage and the children. Still, one time I catch Miss Colivan pointing in my direction before leaning toward a fellow teacher to whisper something.

That’s when I realize I’ve felt watched the whole time I’ve been in this town, above and beyond what I’d expect as a newcomer. I shudder. Am I imagining it?

After the program, I gather quotes from parents and pose the children to snap some photos with the camera Dennis has lent me.