Losing Francesca Read online

  But I'm actually a very weak person and I'm not very good at making decisions, let alone following through on things, so I'm just too tired to put up the pretenses. I shuffle through drawers until I find some soft pajamas, take them into the bathroom, and soak myself in a tub filled with hot water and bubbles. When I'm clean and feeling almost normal again, I slip into the bed covers and even though it's barely seven PM, I listen to the rain fall on the roof and I meet sleep with no tears for the first time since I came back to America.

  When I wake it is still dark. I know where I am immediately, like I've been sleeping here forever and didn't just meet this room a few hours ago. The clock on the desk says two AM and I guess that's what happens when you go to bed at seven.

  I lie there, trying to figure out what's different than when I fell asleep. The rain has stopped and the moon is shining brightly through the sheer pink curtains. My feet are up and crossing the small room and when I pull back the sheers to look out into the night I am surprised to see that this room comes with a terrace. The floor-to-ceiling windows aren't windows at all. They are French doors. I open one and the night breeze comes rushing in. The sweet smell of clean air after a summer rain fills my nose.

  "Shit!" I hear a muffled voice say out past the large tree whose boughs practically hang onto the terrace. "Shit!" the voice says again. It's a deep voice and I can hear him grunting down below.

  I walk over to the tree limb and try to see through the leaves, but it's no use.

  "Dammit!" he swears again.

  This is the back of the house and it faces a small dirt road.

  A phone rings.

  "Yeah." Silence, then, "No, I'm broken down outside the Sullivan house. Come get me, will ya?"

  I strain to see him, but he's totally hidden by the tree. The bough is so big I clamber up and scoot across it, then stand.

  "Renn, don't be an asshole, you're already up, you might as well just stay up so you can leave for the airport on time. Just come pick me up, you can sleep on the plane."

  All I get a glimpse of is some light hair in the moonlight and a white t-shirt. I climb down and scoot out farther.

  "Dude, if you make me walk this bike home I'll kick your ass."

  He's talking about a dirt bike. This must be one of those Mason boys who scared Lindsey's horse.

  "Fine," he says as he ends the call and turns the phone into a flashlight that he points down at the bike. "Fucking asshole."

  I wait to see if he'll start to push his bike, but he goes back to work instead, messing around with whatever it is that boys who ride bikes mess around with when something goes wrong, the phone light clenched between his teeth as he works. He does that for several minutes and I'm ready to go back inside, but not sure if I should risk being seen, when he laughs.

  "Gotcha, you piece of shit!"

  He stands up and steps back a little, bringing him into full view. He's very tall, probably a little older than me, and is wearing light denim jeans now spotted with grease. He sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. "You thought you had me this time, didn't ya, you stupid, worthless, sorry excuse for a bike. I'm gonna sell you next time, you better remember that."

  I laugh a little, I can't help it, and he whirls around—looking over the privacy fence into our yard. "Spying on me now, Lindsey?"

  Oops. He's in plain sight now, which means so am I. All he has to do is look up. I stay very still and try not to rustle the leaves, hoping he'll go away.

  But he doesn't go away. He searches the yard. "Lindsey?" He waits. "I'm hearing things."

  He gets on his bike with a smug smile on his face and he's just about to kick-start it when he glances up and sees me standing in the tree.

  "I'm not crazy," he says. "But you sure are. What the hell are you doing up there, Lindsey?"

  I don't move and I don't answer.

  He squints up at me. "You're not Lindsey." I stare back because he's got quite a face on him. His hair is blond, I can see that now, and he's got a little bit of stubble on his chin. Not enough to make him look dirty, just enough to show he needs a shave. And his eyes are an amazing blue color that I can see even in this dim moonshine.

  We stare at each other for several long seconds, and then he breaks the silence. "Who are you?"

  I bolt back the way I came. Scamper up the branch, then slide over until I'm on the terrace. I can hear him calling me names as I slip through my door and go back to bed.

  Freak. That's what he called me. And he's right, I am a freak. A freak stuck between worlds, looking down on rude boys from a tree limb. His bike starts up with a loud rumble and I listen to the sound fade as he travels down the road.

  I lie there for hours, thinking about him, how his eyes looked in the moonlight, the shape of his face and the curve of his shoulders under his t-shirt. And I make a promise to myself to stay far away from this boy. Far, far away.

  Chapter Three - Francesca

  I wake early the next morning, but not early enough to beat the Sullivan family. They must start chores before the sun comes up, long before that eight o'clock breakfast Aimee talked about, because the whole place is bustling with activity, the chatter of Sullivan kids, and the thunder of galloping hooves when the horses are turned out for morning exercise.

  I go to the closet to find some clothes. There are a bunch of things to choose from. Most are for summer, since it is summer, but there are a few winter sweaters and long pants, too. Like maybe they think I'll still be here when the humid Ohio summer turns into fall and winter.

  I hold down a snort at that. I will be long gone.

  The hanging clothes are all brand new and have tags on them. There is a stack of jeans on a shelf, all of which look used. The whole stack gets thrown on the bed and I start trying them on. Lindsey and I are not the same size, she's shorter than me, so the first three pairs are not only too short, but too tight as well. I get to the last pair, all ripped and faded with a button-fly and a hole in the knee, and they slip on and hang low on my hips the way I like my jeans.

  I button them up and breathe a sigh of relief as I pull a tank top over my bra and go looking for shoes. All the shoes are new and are a variety of sizes that come pretty close to my own. There are sneakers and sandals, barn boots—both tall and short—and one pair of strappy heels. I guess the fancy clothes mean they will want to take me out in public.

  Just the thought makes me a little queasy.

  I opt for a pair of slip-on sneakers and pull them on just as a soft knock sounds on the door. When I open it Sean smiles at me. "Hey," he says. "Have a good night?"

  My head nods as he eyes my clothes. "Oh, those fit you. Great. Those are mine," he says, laughing a little. The silence gets uncomfortable and he sighs out a breath of frustration. "Hungry?"

  I simply nod and follow him downstairs. The place is a madhouse. There are kids here I didn't see last night, all wearing different versions of the same thing—riding clothes. Tall boots, short boots, breeches, chaps and summer tops. They are all girls. Not a single boy in the crowd. Most of them are younger than me, and Aimee chats merrily with several, like they are old friends. Lindsey is eating at the end of the table where Frank was sitting last night, talking to Angela. They notice me and Lindsey takes over.

  "Chessie! Hey, everyone, this is my new foster sister, Chessie. Say hi and be polite!"

  All the extra kids chime out a hello and then promptly go back to whatever they were doing.

  "Francesca?"

  I look over at Angela. She's got a nice face, I can see why the father might like her. She's younger than him, probably by ten years at least. Her hair is a very light blonde and it's pulled back in a tight ponytail. She motions to a seat next to Lindsey and across from her. There's a plate there and as soon as I sit, one of the twin boys appears from behind and loads it up with eggs and bacon, then sets down a carafe of coffee and a large mug.

  Angela notices me staring at the mug. "We like large coffees in America." She shrugs, like this is someth
ing she can't really explain, it just is. I fill the mug, help myself from the cream and sugar from the middle of the table, and then start eating the eggs.

  Angela and Lindsey continue their chatter without me. Occasionally Lindsey adds a "Right, Chessie?" to her side of things, and I smile politely. The crowd starts to thin out and then Angela and Lindsey get up and tell me to come outside if I want when I'm finished.

  And just like that, I'm alone again.

  They don't seem too worried about me. I mean, they don't seem to think I'll run away or anything, or steal from them, or do something stupid like set the house on fire. They are very casual about the whole affair, really. For someone who might be a long-lost daughter.

  I hear footsteps on the hardwood floors making their way towards me and then Mr. Sullivan walks in. He stops short and stares at me for several uncomfortable seconds. "Oh, Francesca. I thought everyone had already gone outside."

  So he's avoiding me. That's a strange tactic for a man who went to court and asked a judge to force me to come live in his home for the summer. It ticks me off really, that he can pull this crap and then feel like he can ignore me or avoid me or whatever he thinks he's doing.

  "Io non sono Fiona Sullivan."

  He nods and lets out a half-hearted breathy laugh, then pulls up a chair as far away from me as he can get. "I got that yesterday, thanks. You're not Fiona."

  The screen door from the kitchen smacks and Sean enters. "Francesca?" he calls. I watch him round the corner of the counter and then he spies me over the half wall that separates the two rooms. "Oh, there you are. I was just wondering if—"

  "Francesca and I need to have a chat, Sean. You mind translating since she's not in the mood to speak English to us?"

  "Uh…" He doesn't look too sure about that if you ask me. "OK. Shoot."

  "Do you ride, Francesca?"

  "Sì."

  Obviously Sean doesn't need to translate this.

  "How well do you ride?"

  I shrug and look at Sean.

  "Have you taken lessons?"

  "Sì."

  "Would you like a horse to ride while you're here?"

  "No."

  Sean is definitely not needed for this conversation because Mr. Sullivan gets up and walks out.

  Sean puts his hand on my shoulder. "Hey, don't mind him. He's moody, but he'll get over it. Angela wanted me to ask you if you want to help her catch a horse in the back pasture. She's my horse actually, but I hurt my knee last fall and had to have surgery, so she's been ignored for a while. I'd go, but I'm outta here. Gotta work today. I'll see you tonight, OK?"

  And before I can answer he's back out the door and I'm alone again.

  They are all very strange. They treat me like I'm just another kid in their crazy family and not some long-lost sister who might have been living a secret life on the other side of the world for the past twelve years.

  But they could be a lot worse.

  Sure, Mr. Sullivan is a jerk, but if he's going to avoid me, then I'm OK with that. And Sean is very nice. I don't have any brothers or sisters, so I like his attention.

  I let out a deep breath and make my way outside to find Angela. Whenever I went away to boarding school my father would give me the same advice—find your smooth spot. By that he meant a place that makes life easy. And it doesn't have to be a place, it can be an activity or a person. So I always did that at the many different schools I went to overseas. I changed them a lot because my father is overprotective, and maybe slightly paranoid if I'm being honest. And it always worked. I found a friend, or a quiet place to read, or joined a club or did a sport.

  And I dealt with it. Because I had to. I slipped into whatever life he planned out for me and dealt with it. And I'll do that now. I'm a guest in the Sullivan house, nothing more. I am not Fiona Sullivan, I am Francesca Sabatini and I can deal with this family for a few weeks. And one day, when I'm grown and married and have grown babies of my own, I will tell them about how the American government kidnapped me and tried to make me become someone else.

  And they will laugh and think I'm making it up and call me a crazy woman. And I will laugh back, because it will be true and I will have survived this stupid mix-up along with all the other strange things that come with being my father's daughter.

  "Francesca!" Angela is waving at me from the far side of the largest barn. They have many barns here but this big one looks like it's been part of the property for a long while. All the others are prefabricated and not made of bricks and wood like the big barn.

  "Sono pronta ad aiutare," I say back to her when I get close enough so I don't have to shout.

  "Oh," she says. "This might be difficult if you're not going to speak English."

  I shrug. Whatever. I have no intention of talking to them in English. "Si parla, io ascolto."

  "Right."

  I smile.

  She smiles. And gives in. "OK, have it your way. But you do understand me, correct?"

  "Sì."

  "Good. OK, we'll make do. We have to walk out to the back pasture, which is just through those woods over there, and down the bridle trail. The filly is in a paddock we have down by the lake. Sean's been injured and to be honest, he's not taken very good care of her for a long time now. She's practically wild again, and she's never been all that manageable. So I have two leads"—she jingles the two leather lead shanks in her hand that are attached to a halter—"one for me and one for you. But it might not be enough. If she gives us too much trouble, we might have to leave her down there."

  I nod. Fine with me.

  "But we'll see."

  We cross the dirt road and I can't help myself, I stare at the spot where I saw that boy last night. I shake it off. Sean said they were trouble and I believe him. The boy definitely looked like trouble and he called me names.

  The bridle path is just a narrow dirt track that is wide enough for two or three horses to walk side by side, and probably several dirt bikes from the looks of the tire tracks in the now drying mud.

  Stop thinking about boys on dirt bikes, Francesca.

  It's a pretty long walk from my point of view, and maybe it just feels that way because I've never been here before, but I figure it takes about ten minutes to get to a split in the path where there are two signs nailed to trees. One, which points to a well-traveled path, says TRAIL. The other points to wilderness and says LAKE.

  We take the lake path, but it's barely a path, we have to walk single file and I'm already wondering how we'll be able to lead an uncooperative horse through this growth when Angela states the same fear out loud. "This might not be the best idea. We should go back and get Frank."

  Frank? Mr. Sullivan? "No, no, no! Possiamo farlo da soli!"

  She eyes me cautiously. "You sure? I don't want you to get hurt."

  I point to myself. "Io starò bene."

  "OK?"

  "Sì." Anything to keep Frank away. I'd like to spend the entire summer avoiding him if possible, and I'm pretty sure he feels the same way.

  We walk for another ten minutes or so and then, little by little, as we make our way towards a clearing up ahead, I get a few sneak peeks of the pasture. It's bright green from all the rain and the meadow grass is lush and deep.

  We walk a little farther, round a few twists and turns, and then I see the water sparkling in the morning sunlight. When the whole scene finally comes into view I'm surprised that it's pretty.

  I mean, it's Lake Erie.

  "It's so pretty here, isn't it?" Angela asks, like she's reading my mind. Or maybe she's just reading my expression, because I'm actually smiling.

  "Molto bene, si."

  The horse is nowhere to be found and I laugh a little as Angela's face contorts into a state of confusion. "Now where the hell did the filly get to?"

  We search for her. We call her name—which is stupid because Angela just calls her 'girl', so I have to call her 'ragazza', and I'm pretty sure she has no idea her name is 'girl' let alone 'ragazza'—so the
whole thing is pointless.

  After about thirty minutes of peeking through undergrowth and walking into the forest at different points in the meadow, we give up and head back. Angela is convinced she's been stolen and she's about to call the police on her cell phone when we hear a snort through the trees.

  The face that greets us is so beautiful I almost moan. The filly is not just another horse, she is stunning. Almost white, but you can tell she was born darker because the gray still shows through as a dapple pattern across her back. She is silver.

  "There you are, you silly girl." Angela starts through the saplings with the halter but the filly bolts, picking her way through the undergrowth like she's some sort of ballerina dancing across a studio.

  Angela lets out a frustrated moan and then turns to me. "I probably need help. I'll talk to Sean and see if he can't come up with a better way to get her home because she doesn't seem to be interested in being caught. We'll have to find a way to persuade her, I guess."

  I follow Angela back through the trees, across the dirt road—staring at the spot where I saw the dirt bike boy—and then we're back in the bustle of the farm.

  I sigh. I prefer the woods, actually.

  Chapter Four - Brody

  I'm still thinking about that girl in the tree last night when my teen brothers wander into my garage. "Get the fuck out."

  I don't yell it, but they step outside anyway, and then just stand there. I can still see their feet.

  "What?" I ask, rolling out from under the Jeep. "I'm busy, so if you're gonna come in here and bug the shit out of me, you better tell me what's on your mind or I'll kick both your asses for being pests."

  They don't budge, just stand there, half looking at me, half looking at each other. Like they got caught doing something and don't want to share.

  "I swear, if you guys are in trouble and I have to call Renn on his business trip, I'll kick your asses twice."

  "Uh…" Case gives it a try first, since he's older. "I was over visiting Lindsey and—"

  Lindsey. I lose track of what he's saying because that girl from the tree is in my head again. Her eyes. They were like the moon. I can't shake her off for some reason.