My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 4

4

"MISTER BAIMBRIDGE?"

The woman at the back door held a black umbrella against her shoulder and struggled to keep her balance as she braced herself against a mighty gust of wind. She looked to be in her early twenties.

"Yes?"

"My name is Ashleigh Matthews. I live in Dr. Hardesty's pool house next door. May I come inside for a minute?"

There was a pained look on her face that reminded me of the loneliness I often felt. The kind of loneliness that gnaws a hole in your chest, steals your youth, and makes you vulnerable.

I parted the door just enough to allow her to get past me without letting in the whole storm. "Sure. Of course. Please come in."

"Thanks," she exhaled dashing by me. As I closed the door, I caught sight of Mrs. Winslow gazing at me from a window. I gave her a two-finger salute and flipped on the kitchen lights.

"I'm sorry to impose on you on a night like this," the woman said folding down her umbrella. She wore a pea-green raincoat over a white cotton shirt and faded jeans soaked from the knees down. Her lips were a bit too large for her face, but, still, she was extremely attractive.

"It's no problem, really. What can I do for you?"

"Well...two things actually." She looked around as if to see if I was alone. "My lights have gone off—"

"Oh? You could have a circuit breaker that's tripped. I'll be glad to go over and take a look if you like. Would you like to sit here until the rain slacks off a bit?"

"Yes. Thank you. That would be great." Her blond shoulder-length hair had six or seven strands of multi-colored beads woven into it hanging off the right side that clinked when she moved.

"And the other thing?"

"Well..." She rotated the umbrella from one hand to the other and wiped the bottom of her chin on the back of her hand. It had been so long since I'd had a guest in the house, I'd forgotten how to treat one.

"Oh, here, let me have that." I reached for the umbrella. "And the raincoat, too."

As I removed her raincoat, I caught the scent of her perfume. It was as out of place in my house as the aroma of a good home-cooked country dinner. She shook droplets out of her hair and the beads jangled. "That's some storm, huh?"

I balanced the umbrella in the sink and hung the raincoat on a cabinet door handle. "Yes, isn't it?" A smile spread wide across her face, but her eyes failed to hide her worry. "Would you like something to drink? Ashleigh, is it?"

"Yes. Ashleigh. A little wine would be nice—if you have any." I opened the fridge and was relieved to discover an unopened bottle of Zinfandel that had been tucked in the back some time ago for just this type of occasion. I reached in for it as her eyes roamed around the room.

The house had been nice in its day. Built in the 1920s as a hunting lodge by a man that owned a railroad. It had high ceilings, wide crown molding, polished oak floors, and glass paneled doors separating the downstairs rooms. But the place had eventually fallen into the hands of heirs who couldn't agree on whether to keep it or sell it. So for decades it remained unoccupied as the neighborhood grew around it. I got use of it from one of Martha's doctors, a great-grandchild of the builder, who just gave me a key figuring it would be better to have someone in it for free than to simply let it continue to deteriorate. I did not pay rent, but I'd made a good many repairs and renovations to it, especially to the kitchen. It not only brought the house back from the dead, it kept my mind and hands occupied when I wasn't working on a play or running Martha around town.