hall.
“It was an accident,” Augusta said out loud. Her tone was quiet, almost humble. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her hands trembling, she pulled at her pearls.
“It was,” Caroline said quietly.
“Skye was just a child,” Augusta said to Peter, her eyes wide. “She had no business shooting a gun in the first place. Haven’t I always said that?”
“Yes, Augusta,” he said. “You have.”
“Skye wouldn’t hurt a soul. She never meant to harm that man. A hunting accident, that’s all it was. No one ever suggested otherwise, there were never charges brought.”
“Skye isn’t bad,” Caroline said. “No one is saying that.”
“He called her an alcoholic!” Augusta said.
“She drinks,” Caroline said.
“Dad’s drinking changed,” Clea said, “after it happened.”
“It was a tragedy,” Augusta said, “a horrible thing that happened a long time ago. But there’s no reason Skye should pay for it the rest of her life.” Bewildered, she looked at Caroline. “Is there?”
Caroline shook her head. She was picturing the young man. She had heard the gunshot and Skye’s scream, and she had been the first to find him. It had been fall, a bright blue day with yellow leaves covering the trail. He lay on the ground, the blood pouring from his chest. His eyes were bright and clear. His name was Andrew Lockwood, and he was twenty-five years old.
“Tell me why,” Augusta said, staring straight into Caroline’s eyes.
Caroline remembered taking her jacket off, pressing it into the hole in his chest. She could still feel the heat of his blood, see the question in his eyes. All the time, Skye, her voice as high as a baby bird’s, asking what had she done, what had she done.
“Because she killed him, Mom,” Caroline said quietly. “She didn’t mean to, but she did.”
January 7, 1977
Dear Joe,
I remember one of my letters to you, all about Clea and Skye and the magic of having sisters. Well, this one’s not quite so nice. Did I mention my father? He’s an artist. Okay, he’s a famous artist. He tells us that he wants us to know How the World Works. (Boys have it easy, in case you’re wondering) (according to him, anyway.) (I’m going parentheses-crazy.)
Girls have to be tough. Learn how to take care of ourselves. So he takes us hunting on Redhawk Mountain.
He loves us, you see.
He wants us to learn everything we can, really taste life. We camp out, go fishing and hunting. We go pretty far out in the country, and we have to fend for ourselves. I hate the hunting part. Killing is very hard—I know he’d be upset to know how much I hate hunting even squirrels.
At night, the woods are so dark, and we get scared. Sometimes very scared, especially Skye. I love her so much, Joe. Just writing this letter makes me cry, because if anything happened to Clea or Skye, I don’t know what I’d do. They are the best, sweetest sisters in the world.
Write back soon. I’m starting to think you might be my best friend.
Love,
Caroline
Feb 2, 1977
Dear Caroline,
Hunting, cool! Your dad sounds great. Okay, I’ll be your best friend. On one condition. Tell me the scariest thing that ever happened on the mountain.
Love,
Joe
March 4, 1977
Dear Joe,
The scariest thing. Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s how I feel. My father made Skye shoot a gun. She didn’t want to, Joe. I’m so mad at him. He took something innocent and destroyed it. So I’m scared by how much I hate him right now. Hunting’s not cool, not the way you said. It’s horrible. Do you still want to be my best friend? Probably not. Even I don’t.
Caroline
March 21, 1977
Dear Caroline,
I can tell you’re upset by the way you didn’t sign your letter “love.” It’s a little thing, but we best friends can be pretty sensitive. The gun thing sounds lousy. Poor Skye. I don’t even know her, but since she’s your sister, I figure she’s okay. Your dad should forget about hunting and go back to painting. Or better yet,
“It was an accident,” Augusta said out loud. Her tone was quiet, almost humble. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her hands trembling, she pulled at her pearls.
“It was,” Caroline said quietly.
“Skye was just a child,” Augusta said to Peter, her eyes wide. “She had no business shooting a gun in the first place. Haven’t I always said that?”
“Yes, Augusta,” he said. “You have.”
“Skye wouldn’t hurt a soul. She never meant to harm that man. A hunting accident, that’s all it was. No one ever suggested otherwise, there were never charges brought.”
“Skye isn’t bad,” Caroline said. “No one is saying that.”
“He called her an alcoholic!” Augusta said.
“She drinks,” Caroline said.
“Dad’s drinking changed,” Clea said, “after it happened.”
“It was a tragedy,” Augusta said, “a horrible thing that happened a long time ago. But there’s no reason Skye should pay for it the rest of her life.” Bewildered, she looked at Caroline. “Is there?”
Caroline shook her head. She was picturing the young man. She had heard the gunshot and Skye’s scream, and she had been the first to find him. It had been fall, a bright blue day with yellow leaves covering the trail. He lay on the ground, the blood pouring from his chest. His eyes were bright and clear. His name was Andrew Lockwood, and he was twenty-five years old.
“Tell me why,” Augusta said, staring straight into Caroline’s eyes.
Caroline remembered taking her jacket off, pressing it into the hole in his chest. She could still feel the heat of his blood, see the question in his eyes. All the time, Skye, her voice as high as a baby bird’s, asking what had she done, what had she done.
“Because she killed him, Mom,” Caroline said quietly. “She didn’t mean to, but she did.”
January 7, 1977
Dear Joe,
I remember one of my letters to you, all about Clea and Skye and the magic of having sisters. Well, this one’s not quite so nice. Did I mention my father? He’s an artist. Okay, he’s a famous artist. He tells us that he wants us to know How the World Works. (Boys have it easy, in case you’re wondering) (according to him, anyway.) (I’m going parentheses-crazy.)
Girls have to be tough. Learn how to take care of ourselves. So he takes us hunting on Redhawk Mountain.
He loves us, you see.
He wants us to learn everything we can, really taste life. We camp out, go fishing and hunting. We go pretty far out in the country, and we have to fend for ourselves. I hate the hunting part. Killing is very hard—I know he’d be upset to know how much I hate hunting even squirrels.
At night, the woods are so dark, and we get scared. Sometimes very scared, especially Skye. I love her so much, Joe. Just writing this letter makes me cry, because if anything happened to Clea or Skye, I don’t know what I’d do. They are the best, sweetest sisters in the world.
Write back soon. I’m starting to think you might be my best friend.
Love,
Caroline
Feb 2, 1977
Dear Caroline,
Hunting, cool! Your dad sounds great. Okay, I’ll be your best friend. On one condition. Tell me the scariest thing that ever happened on the mountain.
Love,
Joe
March 4, 1977
Dear Joe,
The scariest thing. Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s how I feel. My father made Skye shoot a gun. She didn’t want to, Joe. I’m so mad at him. He took something innocent and destroyed it. So I’m scared by how much I hate him right now. Hunting’s not cool, not the way you said. It’s horrible. Do you still want to be my best friend? Probably not. Even I don’t.
Caroline
March 21, 1977
Dear Caroline,
I can tell you’re upset by the way you didn’t sign your letter “love.” It’s a little thing, but we best friends can be pretty sensitive. The gun thing sounds lousy. Poor Skye. I don’t even know her, but since she’s your sister, I figure she’s okay. Your dad should forget about hunting and go back to painting. Or better yet,
Similar Books
