Trail of Secrets Read online

  “Seriously?” I asked. “I heard Evan tell Toby Manning that they moved here from the States.”

  “There you go,” said Cindy. “He told Danny they moved here from out west. He’s lying to somebody.”

  “Maybe he’s from the western States,” I suggested.

  Cindy shook her head. “He said Edmonton. He also told Danny he wouldn’t be trying out for any teams because his family might move again soon.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s weird,” I said. “His parents could have jobs that have them moving around a lot.”

  “Or they’re keeping one step ahead of the law,” Cindy said. “Something is off about him, that’s for sure. Danny said that Evan started acting spacey before lunch the other day and disappeared for a long time. He showed up halfway through geography class.”

  “Did he get into trouble?”

  “Mr. Collins didn’t even notice. He was telling one of his long-winded stories about backpacking through the Andes when he was in university. I wish he’d take some new trips so he’d have something to talk about from this century.”

  We entered the French classroom, and I headed for my customary seat in the back. Cindy’s suspicions were a little odd, even for Springhills, but I wasn’t going to believe anything about Evan and his family until I had proof. I knew from past experience that truth had a way of being repackaged in the town’s hardworking rumour mill.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ambie and I were back in her bedroom sipping on ice-cold glasses of lemonade while polishing off a plate of homemade molasses cookies that Mrs. Guido had been taking out of the oven when we arrived. The warm ginger-and-cinnamon aroma of fresh-baked cookies was a smell I’d come to link with Ambie’s house on Friday afternoons during the school year. Mrs. Guido’s cookies, along with a replay of the school week in Ambie’s bedroom, was a tradition we’d started way back in kindergarten and one we were reluctant to let go of. I sighed happily and reached over to put my empty plate on Ambie’s desk.

  “Your mom’s outdone herself,” I said. “Those have to be the best molasses cookies ever. I think she’s switched brands of molasses.”

  Ambie chewed and swallowed. “She told me to tell you if you come over this Sunday morning, she’ll give you some pointers on how to bake bread, that is, if you’re still interested.”

  I’d been angling for that invitation for some time. Mrs. Guido made the lightest, most delicious breads in Canada, and up until now, she’d guarded her recipes like the state secret they deserved to be. “Are you kidding me?” I asked. “I’d walk across hot coals to learn how to bake bread like your mom. What time?”

  “She starts around seven. If that’s too early . . .”

  “Tell her I’ll be here. Sunday morning at seven.”

  Ambie leaned towards me from where she was sitting next to her computer. I was sitting with my legs across one arm of her reading chair, enjoying the sunshine’s warmth and the breeze coming in from the window just above my head. “Have you given any thought to a career as a chef?” she asked. “Your face lights up every time we start talking about recipes and food. You have a talent. Everyone says so.”

  “Mom wants me to go to university. She’s determined that I shouldn’t work with my hands like Dad.”

  “It’ll be your decision, Jen. Not your mom’s.”

  “I know, but I’ve disappointed Mom a lot lately, and a university education means a lot to her.”

  “You’ve got another year to bring her around.”

  “Yeah. If I even want to go into the cooking field. I’m just not sure what I want to do.” The whole idea of choosing a career scared me. Ambie knew from the time she’d learned to count that she was going to study math, and now it was a matter of picking from the best universities. I envied her that certainty. I’d never felt like I was destined to become anything important. I decided to change the subject. “Hear any more from your dad, Martin Donaldson?” I still thought of Mr. Guido as her dad, even though I knew he was her stepfather. It was hard to think of Martin Donaldson, a man who’d never been around up until now, as her real dad.

  Ambie bit her bottom lip, and a troubled expression flitted across her face. “I’ve sent him a few e-mails, but he hasn’t answered me all week.”

  “That’s too bad, Amb,” I said, but I was thinking that maybe it was for the best. “Did you ever tell your mom that he’s been in touch?”

  Ambie shook her head. “She’d be upset. It looks like he doesn’t want to get to know me after all, so I’ve saved her from worrying.”

  “Your mom might be more understanding than you think.”

  “No, Jen. I’ve made up my mind. I shouldn’t even have told you.”

  Ouch. Ambie and I had always shared our secrets. I looked straight ahead, not wanting to let on how much her words had hurt me. Then I swung my feet onto the floor and stood to leave. “I should get going,” I said.

  Ambie looked up at me. “I’m sorry, Jen. I didn’t mean that like it sounded. Finding my real dad has me more mixed up than I can explain.”

  I smiled at her. “It’s all right, Ambie. I promised Dad I’d help send out his bills after school. He’ll be expecting me.”

  “Okay,” she said as she reached down to turn on her computer. “I’ll tell Mom you’ll be over Sunday morning.”

  My heart lifted a little at the thought of learning to bake bread. “I’ll be here with bells on,” I said.

  “Just so long as their ringing doesn’t wake me up.” Ambie smiled.

  I spent most of Saturday cleaning up the house. Since Dad worked pretty much non-stop in his garage, things could get messy at home. I’d just turned off the vacuum and was pushing the chairs back into place in the living room when the phone rang. My heart jumped a little. Maybe Pete had finally gotten time to call me. I raced into the kitchen and picked up the receiver on the third ring.

  “Hello,” I said, a little out of breath.

  It was almost a shock to hear Pete’s voice in my ear. “Hey Jen, how are you?”

  “Good. I’m good,” I said, meaning it for the first time since he’d gone away. “How’s McGill?”

  “Busy. I’ve got some tough courses this term. Lots of chemistry, physics and math. It’s harder to get into the rhythm of classes and assignments than I thought it would be. How was your first week of classes?”

  “Not bad. The assignments are pouring in. I’m actually ahead on some of them.” That was because I’d been spending so much time alone. “I didn’t tell you that Leslie’s moved to California.”

  I heard Pete’s quick intake of breath. “I’m sorry, Jen. That’s gotta be tough.”

  “I didn’t actually believe it would happen until the day we put her on the plane. She won’t be back until Christmas.” I paused. “Roxie Firestone’s living in Springhills though. Marcie and Bert Stoyko have taken her in as a foster child.” I could hear Pete talk to someone, his voice muffled. “Sorry, Jen. Somebody’s waiting for the phone. I’m using the pay phone in the lobby. I was going to buy a cellphone, but it costs too much for the number of times I’d use it.”

  That meant he hadn’t intended to call me on a regular basis. “How’s your roommate?” I asked, not letting my disappointment show in my voice.

  “His name’s Frederick. Nice guy. Look, I have to go, but I don’t want you to worry if I don’t call much. I hate phones.”

  I could hear voices jumbled in the background. A girl shrieked then started laughing. “I understand,” I said. “I don’t like them much either.”

  “. . . miss you, Jen,” I heard his voice low and soft. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Bye, Pete.” I replaced the receiver gently on the wall.

  I stood for a long time afterwards, looking out the kitchen window at the pine boughs swaying in the wind at the back of our property and feeling like not much was right in my world. Then I shook off the sad feelings and went in search of my running shoes. A long jog before dinner would clear my head and get
me out of the depression that threatened to settle over me like a big grey cloud.

  I followed my old route and met up with the bike path off Pine Glen. By the time I’d made it up the highest hill, I’d worked up a good sweat, and I was breathing in great lungfuls of fresh air. The wind seemed to have shifted direction and was blowing harder. The trees were swaying and moaning above my head, and the path darkened as the sun went behind a cloud. I slowed my pace to a walk to let my body cool down a bit before I turned for home. I was suddenly aware of the silence and how truly alone I was. Normally, mountain bikers or other joggers would be on the path, but today the trail was strangely empty. A crow cawed from high in the tree over my head, making me jump. I leaned back and looked up through the leaves, where I saw dark storm clouds rolling in from the east. It seemed like a good idea to turn for home. An easterly wind usually means a bad storm coming.

  By the time I’d made it halfway down the trail, drops of rain were rustling the leaves and dampening my hair and face. A crack of thunder rolled like an upset stomach off to the east, and lightning flashed in the distance. I almost passed by the side trail that would take me back into town, but I doubled back, because I knew I shouldn’t be in the woods during a lightning storm. By the time I’d exited the path onto Applegate Road, my clothes were soaked, and I was starting to feel chilly. I still had several blocks left to go and wondered if I should take shelter. The problem was, the only shelter was under trees, and that was the last place I should be.

  I started running along the side of the road, dodging puddles and trying not to slip on the slick asphalt as another wave of thunder rumbled louder than the last. The rain started pelting down harder. In the silence that followed, I heard a car coming up behind me at the same time as a fork of lightning lit up the street. I stopped and stepped as far back from the road as I could to wait for the car pass. Instead, it slowed and drew up alongside me. I’d never seen it before, and a prickle of alarm travelled up from my belly. I scanned the houses set back from the road, estimating which driveway was closest if I had to make a dash for it. My eyes flashed back to the car. It looked new and expensive—a small white convertible of foreign make. I couldn’t see inside the tinted glass window, which was streaked with rain, but I watched transfixed as the passenger door swung open.

  “Need a lift, Jennifer?” Evan Quinn smiled at me from where he leaned across the passenger seat. His face looked friendly and open.

  I realized I’d been holding my breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll get your seat all wet,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself to keep Evan from seeing me shiver.

  “It’ll dry,” he said. “Hop in.”

  I heard a rumble of thunder almost overhead, and I didn’t need another invitation. I quickly slipped into the buttery softness of the leather upholstery. I knew enough about cars to know that this one must have cost a small fortune. The sound system alone was state of the art and worth a gold coin or two. I turned and smiled at Evan. “Thanks for picking me up. I was getting a little cold.”

  Evan reached down and turned up the heat. “Glad I was passing by.”

  “Do you live around here?” I asked, watching the windshield wipers snap back and forth to clear the stream of water, if only for a moment at a time.

  “Not really,” he said. He looked over at me. “Which way?”

  “Turn right onto Hawthorne, then right on Pine Glen and right on Sunnydale. I’m halfway down on the left.”

  “Three rights and a left.” Evan did a shoulder check, and the car accelerated smooth as silk down Applegate.

  “Nice car,” I said, unable to keep the admiration out of my voice. “I’ve never seen one like this before. What make is it?”

  “It’s German. A Lamborghini Spider.”

  I traced my fingers along the leather seat. “How long you owned it?”

  “It isn’t mine,” Evan said after a few seconds. “A friend of my dad’s is in town and lent it to me for the afternoon. I don’t own a car.”

  “Well, it’s great to have, even for an afternoon,” I said. I remembered Evan’s torn sweatshirts and faded jeans. If clothes were anything to go by, his family was just scraping by like Dad and me. “My dad owns Bannon’s Auto Repair. He has a natural ability when it comes to fixing cars. What do your parents do?”

  “Dad travels a lot. His latest wife is living in New York. I’m here with my older sister Karly. We . . . uh . . . grew up with my mother in Vancouver, but she died a few years ago. What were you doing out there anyhow?”

  “Jogging.” I laughed. “It was a lot nicer when I started out.” I paused. “I’m sorry about your mom.”

  “Thanks. Are you on the school team?”

  “I’m thinking of trying out for cross country. Try-outs are Thursday after school. Do you run too?”

  “No. I’m not into sports.”

  “What do you like to do in your spare time?” I asked.

  “Listen to music,” Evan said.

  My first impression had been right when I’d pegged him as the artsy type. All too soon, the car came to a stop in front of my house.

  “Thanks again for the ride,” I said. “I hope the seat dries before your friend gets the car back.”

  Evan smiled. “See you at school.”

  I jumped out of the car and ran for the front door. I unlocked it and stepped inside. When I looked back before closing the door, the Lamborghini had already disappeared down Sunnydale.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I was humming the next morning as I dressed for bread-baking 101 with Mrs. Guido. I don’t know why the idea of getting up at the crack of dawn to spend my morning working in somebody’s kitchen should have made me so happy, but sometimes moods are just like that. You never know when a good one is going to come along to chase away all the sad feelings, but I was glad it had happened today.

  Dad was still sleeping when I stepped outside into air thick with fog. The sun hadn’t completely risen, but hopefully would burn off the haze in an hour or so. Autumn was just around the corner—I could tell by the tang of cold in the air. I felt warm enough in my favourite red sweatshirt and grey sweat pants as the dampness misted on my eyelashes and face. I stepped back inside the house to find a Blue Jays ball cap that would keep my hair from frizzing. I was starting to get a little fixated on my hair. I wondered what it felt like to have hair that did what you wanted it to do. It might be time to subject myself to a hair stylist. I ranked that right up there with going to the dentist.

  Mrs. Guido already had the yeast mixed with warm water and the flour and other ingredients on the counter when I arrived. “Put on this apron, dear, and let’s get started,” she said, reaching up to slip a baker’s apron over my head and tying it at the back. “Measure out four cups of flour and put them in this bowl and four more cups in the other. We’re going to make herbed bread and whole wheat loaves today.”

  I couldn’t have enjoyed the morning any more than if I’d hand-painted it. Mrs. Guido taught me the secrets of bread-making, showing me the proper measurement of flour, water and yeast to make a dough of perfect consistency. She demonstrated how to knead the dough so that it would rise high and light in the oven and revealed other secrets that she’d learned from her mother and grandmother. I felt as if I was part of a community of women of the kind that I yearned for in those long days spent alone while Dad was at work. I realized that morning, watching Mrs. Guido’s firm, strong hands knead the dough as her freckled arms rose and fell and her kind voice shared age-old secrets, that I’d missed this connection with my own mother. It surprised me because I’d never admitted to myself before that I needed her.

  “There,” Mrs. Guido said at last, straightening from placing the last loaf pan in the oven. “An hour or so, and we’ll have some fresh warm bread and butter.”

  “I can’t wait,” I said happily.

  “Let me pour you a glass of juice, dear,” Mrs. Guido said as she pushed a strand of grey hair off her forehead with the back of her hand.


  We sat at the kitchen table drinking orange juice in tall blue glasses. The smell of baking bread soon filled the room, making me feel warm inside. I lowered my glass and looked over at Mrs. Guido, who’d stopped talking all of a sudden. Her kind brown eyes studied me from behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “Has Ambie said anything to you, dear, about . . . about something bothering her?” Mrs. Guido asked, a worried look crossing her face. She looked down and spun her juice glass in a damp circle on the table.

  I bit my bottom lip. Should I tell Mrs. Guido about her ex-husband contacting Ambie? Ambie said he’d stopped e-mailing her, so it didn’t seem like a potential problem any more. It might be cruel to make Mrs. Guido fret about something that was probably over with, especially when I didn’t know what awful memories Martin Donaldson’s name might stir up.

  “I think Ambie’s got some heavy courses this term and she’s just preoccupied with the work,” I said. I knew that wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t a lie either.

  Mrs. Guido gave a relieved sigh. “Well now, I guess that’s not the end of the world then.” She lifted her eyes and smiled at me. “Ambie’s our pride and joy, you know, and we probably worry about her more than we should.”

  “You wouldn’t be a parent if you didn’t worry. My mom used to be pretty good at it too,” I said just as Mr. Guido strolled into the kitchen, whistling the theme from the Simpsons. He was tall—just over six feet—medium build, with curly black hair and a black beard laced with grey. He kissed Mrs. Guido on the forehead and rubbed a smear of flour from her cheek. Then he beamed at me. “Just in time, I see, for the bread-tasting. You girls having fun?” His black eyes twinkled.

  I nodded. “I’ve learned all your family secrets. I can’t wait to try baking bread at home.”

  “I’m free any time to come sample. Don’t be shy about calling.” His wide smile disappeared as he turned towards Mrs. Guido. “Any sign of Ambie?”