Orphan Train

now.”
    “Okay.” Through her tears, Molly watches Vivian replace the receiver on the hook,
     wrap her robe tighter and tie it, pat the silver hair at the nape of her neck. As
     Vivian leaves the bedroom Molly runs back to the front porch. She shakes her head
     to clear it, pulls her bags into a neat heap, wipes her eyes and nose with a corner
     of her T-shirt.
    A moment later Vivian opens the door. She looks with alarm from Molly (who realizes
     that, despite wiping her eyes, she must have mascara smeared all over her face) to
     the bulky duffel bags to the overstuffed backpack. “For goodness’ sake, come in!”
     she says, holding the door wide. “Come in this minute and tell me what happened.”
    D ESPITE M OLLY ’ S PROTESTS , V IVIAN INSISTS ON MAKING TEA . S HE takes down a cabbage-rose teapot and cups—a wedding gift from Mrs. Murphy that’s
     been in a box for decades—along with some recently recovered spoons from Mrs. Nielsen’s
     silver service. They wait in the kitchen for the water to boil, and then Molly pours
     water in the teapot and carries the tea service to the living room on a tray, with
     some cheese and crackers Vivian has found in the pantry.
    Vivian turns on two lamps and settles Molly in a red wingback. Then she goes over
     to the closet and takes out a quilt.
    “The wedding ring!” Molly says.
    Vivian holds the quilt by two corners and shakes it out, then carries it over and
     drapes it across Molly’s lap. It is stained and ripped in places, thinned from use.
     Many of the small rectangles of fabric sewn by hand into interlocking circles have
     dissolved altogether, the ghostly remains of stitches holding snippets of colored
     cloth. “If I can’t bear to give this stuff away, I might as well use it.”
    As Vivian tucks the quilt around her legs, Molly says, “Sorry for barging in like
     this.”
    Vivian flaps her hand. “Don’t be silly. I could use the excitement. Gets my heart
     rate up.”
    “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
    The news about Maisie sits in Molly’s stomach like a stone. She doesn’t want to spring
     it on Vivian just yet—too many surprises at once.
    After Vivian has poured tea in two cups, handed one to Molly, taken one for herself,
     added and stirred in two lumps of sugar, and arranged the cheese and crackers on the
     plate, she settles into the other chair and folds her hands on her lap. “All right,”
     she says. “Now tell me.”
    So Molly talks. She tells Vivian about living in the trailer on Indian Island, the
     car crash that killed her father, her mother’s struggle with drugs. She shows her
     Shelly the turtle. She tells her about the dozen foster homes and the nose ring and
     the argument with Dina and finding out on the Internet that her mother’s in jail.
    The tea grows tepid, then cold, in their cups.
    And then, because she is determined to be completely honest, Molly takes a deep breath
     and says, “There’s something I should’ve told you a long time ago. The community service
     requirement wasn’t for school—it was because I stole a book from the Spruce Harbor
     library.”
    Vivian pulls her burgundy fleece robe tighter around her. “I see.”
    “It was a stupid thing to do.”
    “What book was it?”
    “Jane Eyre . ”
    “Why did you steal it?”
    Molly thinks back to that moment: pulling each copy of the novel off the shelf, turning
     them over in her hands, returning the hardcover and the newer paperback, tucking the
     other one under her shirt. “Well, it’s my favorite book. And there were three copies.
     I thought nobody would miss the crappiest one.” She shrugs. “I just—wanted to own
     it.”
    Vivian taps her bottom lip with her thumb. “Terry knew?”
    Molly shrugs. She doesn’t want to get Terry in trouble. “Jack vouched for me, and
     you know how she feels about Jack.”
    “That I do.”
    The night is still, quiet except for their voices. The drapes are shut against the
     dark. “I’m sorry I came into your house this way. Under false pretenses,” Molly says.
    “Ah, well,” Vivian says. “I suppose we all come under false pretenses one way or another,
     don’t we? It was best not to tell me. I probably wouldn’t have let you in.” Clasping
     her hands together, she says, “If you’re going to steal a book, though, you should
     at least take the nicest one. Otherwise what’s the point?”
    Molly is so nervous she barely smiles.
    But Vivian does. “Stealing Jane Eyre !”