Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

could only guess how Judith had learned about Barbara and the baby. Perhaps Barbara was unable to stay away from the man she still loved, perhaps she called him—or wrote to him.
    Through all the following years, Judith had kept this single sheet of note paper, the message it bore disguised and made unintelligible to anyone who didn’t know the story behind it. 
    I want you to know that I have no regrets. I could lie and say I’m sorry it happened because it turned my life upside down, but I’m not sorry. It was wonderful, and it gave me the one beautiful thing I’ve got left.
    Mother’s own note was still paper-clipped to it: Explore the motivations of a woman who is capable of such a thing .
    She might have found the letter in his belongings after his death, but I had a feeling she’d found it before.
    I picked up the story about the accident that killed Michael and his daughter Michelle. Witnesses said the Goddard car was moving erratically and might have been speeding before it crossed into the oncoming traffic lane.
    An argument in the car? Judith unable to contain her fury at his betrayal? Michael unable to keep control of the car as he tried to defend himself, explain himself?
    What had those last moments been like for the little girl, Michelle? Had she heard her parents screaming at each other, her mother raking the air with bitter accusations?
    I held the paper under the bedside lamp and studied the child’s smiling face, so like my sister’s, and considered our entangled lives. This girl and my sister shared a father, a young man who’d been too attractive and charming for anyone’s good. The girl and I shared a sister. But the lost child had no blood kinship with me.
    What followed the accident? Judith knew Barbara had a living child fathered by Michael. That knowledge ignited a smoldering desire for revenge.
    For the first time I willingly remembered the night Mother died. I closed my eyes, saw her tormented face, heard the ragged voice, the words tumbling out, words that made sense to me now. That woman had no right to her! She had no right to have her child when mine was dead.
    After recovering from her injuries, Judith had driven to St. Cloud, found the Dawsons without revealing herself. Perhaps she watched us many times, always focusing on my sister. How it must have wounded her to see a little girl so much like her own, with the same glowing blond hair, the blue eyes of Michael Goddard. Alive. All her years stretching out ahead. For an instant all I felt was pity for Judith Goddard in her grief.
    I remembered that last day on the playground. Thunder rumbled across the sky. Mothers hustled their children away. A woman with a long dark ponytail who had a little boy by the hand said she was sure our mom would be back in a minute.
    And I, being strong and brave for my little sister, said yes, we’d be all right, Mommy would be here to get us.
    Then we were alone and the storm broke, sudden and ferocious. My sister clung to me and screamed. Mommy! Where’s Mommy? I put my arms around her and tried to comfort her, while we stood in the deserted playground with the rain streaming over us and the trees thrashing above.
    A woman with an umbrella appeared out of nowhere. “Your mother sent me, come on, get out of the rain!”
    To my child’s mind, the word mother was all that mattered. I didn’t know who this woman was, but our mother had sent her, and she sheltered us with her big umbrella, protected us from the terrifying storm.
    The inside of her car smelled of new leather.
    When had I started to feel afraid? The woman told us she’d promised to take care of us for a while because our mother had something important to do. She stopped somewhere and bought chocolate milkshakes for us, and we drank silently, greedily. Our parents never let us have anything sugary.
    Sitting in the motel outside St. Cloud, I could taste the rich sweetness of my milkshake and feel the cold liquid spilling from the straw onto my tongue. I didn’t know how much time had passed before I’d awakened in a house where stacks of big brown boxes lined the walls.
    I remembered my own confusion and alarm and my sister’s happy acceptance of the stranger’s attention. I couldn’t recall the trip east, the first weeks or months in our new home. Vivid, coherent memories didn’t begin until well after that, in the second or third year of school. I was Rachel Goddard then. My sister’s name was Michelle. Judith Goddard