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  Aasta held out a tray with three tall glasses. I lifted a glass of lemonade, topped by a mint leaf, and brought it to my lips.

  “Not that we didn’t have a lovely gathering on Summit,” Mrs. Worthington said, “though the talk along the avenue is all about why Scott Fitzgerald moved away—no one can figure it out. I mean, his first big success as a novelist, telling everyone he could a little over a year ago, and now, well, everyone feels somewhat betrayed.” She shrugged her petite shoulders. “But, oh well. There’s still nothing quite like being up here on a summer day. Oh, Aasta, thank you!”

  “With all your complaining, dear,” Mr. Worthington said, pacing across the wooden floor, “you’d think the train ride north was eighty days long. I started to think you really didn’t want to return at all.”

  “It was dizzyingly hot, and you know I don’t handle the heat well these days.” She fanned herself. “I love it here, I do, but it does take some agility to straddle both worlds. With the likes of those men who greeted you at the depot, this isn’t exactly the hub of high society, is it, darling?”

  But Mr. Worthington was already in another world, staring off across the water toward the lift bridge, likely contemplating pending legislation or some upcoming committee meeting. He never had been one to talk very much.

  “And, Sadie Rose, what did you do to keep busy while we were gone?” Mrs. Worthington asked, picking up a Ladies Home Journal and opening the pages.

  Slate board in my lap, I wrote with chalk. “I painted flower­pots, read, helped Aasta, and practiced the piano.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. Do show me the pots when you get a moment, will you?”

  I nodded, then picked up the novel at my side, My Ántonia, the most recent of Willa Cather’s novels. Normally I would have finished it in two days. I opened the book and pretended to be immediately lost in its pages. But my mind wasn’t connecting with the words. Instead, it danced around unanswered questions. Questions about life before the Worthingtons. Questions about my real mother, real father. Questions about where my life was going next. My visit to Mr. Foxridge had caused the tides within me to shift. And it was not a gentle force, but an unsettling current that churned from my toes to the very strands of hair on my head.

  I had intended to speak to the Worthingtons, but the moment had been lost. Mrs. Worthington was paging through an article about table decorations. Mr. Worthington lit a cigarette, then exhaled a stream of smoke from his nostrils.

  I’d never smoked, but I would bet anything that Trinity did. Or had at least tried it. That’s who I realized I would love to talk to. I sat uncomfortably aware of my snug-waisted dress, matching stockings, and lace-up shoes and longed to stroll barefoot instead, to wear a shorter dress like Trinity’s, and to cut my long hair into a chin-length bob.

  Tucked between my thigh and the edge of the wicker settee, the slate board’s wooden frame pressed against me. I would never have to use it again, just like Dickens’s Tiny Tim tossing off his crutches at the end of A Christmas Carol.

  But I wasn’t ready.

  Not yet.

  I needed my crutch, just a little longer, even if it was now a lie.

  I picked up the board and wrote, “I want to go to the circus with my new friend, Trinity.”

  At the sound of chalk on slate, Mr. Worthington turned, expectantly. I lifted the board so he could read it, and then toward Mrs. Worthington. They glanced at each other.

  “Only Trinity around here,” Mr. Worthington said, “is Major Baird’s daughter. Now I realize that we cross paths with the Bairds, but I don’t want you thinking that you will actually be friends with their daughter.”

  I tilted my head. What was he saying?

  “He doesn’t mean it like that,” Mrs. Worthington chimed in. “He means, Trinity Baird is from the East Coast, and her family summers here. She’s quite educated. Smith College . . . studies art in Paris. Not that you’re not bright enough, Sadie Rose, but she comes from an entirely different world, dear. If you were our own daugh—” She exhaled and sat up taller, her bosom rising and then falling. “Well, from what I’ve heard, she has some high-minded ideas about the roles of women. More than a bit of trouble, I’m guessing. Besides, Sadie Rose. The circus?” She laughed halfheartedly. “That’s the last thing I’d ever expect you’d want to see again. I mean, last time, well—”

  Mr. Worthington finished her thought. “You wet your dress, you were so afraid of the clowns.”

  Setting her magazine down sharply, Mrs. Worthington huffed. “Why embarrass her with such details?”

  I frowned. I hadn’t remembered until they brought it up. Why did only scraps and pieces of memory appear, never the whole fabric stretched out for me to study? I felt embarrassed and out of step with everything and everyone.

  “We took you home early,” he continued. “But that was a long time ago. You can go if you want to. But Sadie Rose, I suggest you let go of the idea of a true friendship with Trinity Baird. I suppose that girl was strolling past our house while we were gone. Is that it?”

  The perfect alibi.

  I wasn’t about to tell them about my heading off to Red Stone Island to work with Aasta. I wasn’t about to tell them about my other adventures to Falcon Island and to Mr. Foxridge’s studio in International Falls.

  With a broad smile, I nodded. Then I added quickly on the slate: “Yes. She was strolling by. She seems swell.”

  Chapter 11

  The next evening, close to our dinner hour, Mr. Worthington groaned from the living room. “Good Lord! Not him.”

  I was in the kitchen near Aasta, knitting on a stool while she peeled potatoes to fry up later with breaded walleye. I glanced for the umpteenth time out the window, certain Victor would come since it was Friday—the day I’d told him that Mr. Worthington would return. The sun arced toward the northwest, and Victor was already down at our dock, tying up his canoe. As a train clanged and sang, crossing the bridge into the States, Victor rolled down his pant legs, tucked in his shirt, and ran a hand through his blond hair. Then, shoulders back and talking to himself—he walked up the slope toward the cottage.

  I slipped from my stool, disappeared from the kitchen, passed through the dining room and living room, and stepped out onto the front porch. Mrs. Worthington was sipping lemonade and writing another of her lists. Mr. Worthington had one hand on his vest, the other around what I assumed was his favorite beverage, ice and whiskey. He never openly admitted to drinking alcohol, but we all knew better.

  “The last thing I need is to hear from this fellow,” he said, gulping back his drink and setting the empty tumbler on the end table. “A canoe trip to Hudson Bay and this guy thinks he knows everything. Now he’s acting like he understands politics. I might even be sympathetic with his cause, but it’s a fool who thinks he can cross Ennis.”

  As if I hadn’t heard any of this, I slipped to my chair and opened up my novel again. I reminded myself that I never wanted Victor to see me again. But that seemed like ages ago. As he approached, I wanted to say out loud, “Oh, I know him already.” I shifted in my chair, brought the book closer to my face, and pretended disinterest. I was certain Mr. Worthington wouldn’t invite Victor inside our home; that would be like offering shelter to Ennis’s enemy. And he’d never do that.

  Opening the screen door, Mr. Worthington stepped out onto the landing, as I had predicted. “I was expecting I’d hear from you, young man,” he said, “since you were the first topic on the lips of villagers here when I stepped off the train. Some of them are getting mighty nervous about your getting in the way of progress.”

  “Senator,” Victor began, from the bottom step, “I’d like a minute of your time.”

  “Step in, step in,” Mr. Worthington said, holding the door open. “Frankly, I’d rather not draw attention to your being here.”

  Inside? If the Worthing
tons found out I’d been out canoeing with him and visited his island, they’d treat me the way bounty hunters dealt with wolves. Heat traveled to my face, reminding me that I hadn’t left Victor on good terms. I’d stormed away in my confusion. I’m sure he had no keen interest in seeing me again.

  I squirmed and finally jumped up from my chair, ready to disappear from the porch, but Mrs. Worthington stayed me with a hand signal. With reluctance, I sat back down.

  “Young man,” Mr. Worthington said, standing a half-foot taller than Victor, “this is Mrs. Washington, my wife, and our foster daughter, Sadie Rose.”

  “We met the other day,” Victor said with a smile. “I hoped to catch you at home, Senator, but instead I ended up meeting Sadie Rose. We went for a short canoe ride.”

  My face burned. Why was he doing this? Didn’t he understand that I’d taken great risks to go out in the canoe with him? The Worthingtons would be furious. I tried to silence him with a glare.

  Mrs. Worthington stared at me over her reading glasses. “Sadie. What is this? You left the house while we were away?”

  I looked at the floor and nodded, then I snatched up the slate board and wrote. “I was bored! It was harmless.”

  “Well, then you already know Sadie doesn’t speak,” Mr. Worthington added. “You took out a vulnerable young woman without our permission?”

  I braced myself, waiting for Victor to inform Mr. Worthington otherwise, but he merely glanced my way with a flicker of understanding that I took to mean, I’ll help you, and you help me. Deal?

  “You overstepped your bounds, young man. If you were looking for another advocate for your cause, you’ll be wasting your time here. Not to mention that I do not appreciate the impropriety of your taking such liberties with our dear girl. If anyone saw . . .”

  Victor laughed. His shirttail dangled ridiculously behind him. “It was a harmless paddle on a summer day. Nothing more. The reason I came to your home is the same reason that I’m here today.” He shifted his focus back to Mr. Worthington.

  “Senator, I would like you to reconsider supporting the construction of sixteen dams. Already, with only a single dam, the water levels fluctuate to such extent that fish camps, docks, and dwellings get flooded out. Nesting birds that depend on more consistent water levels, such as the loon, are gravely affected. For countless reasons, it is not in the best interests of your constituents. I’d like to talk in more depth and bring some points to your attention, if I may.”

  With a glance toward the water, Mr. Worthington crossed his arms over his suspenders and crisp, striped shirt. “I may share some of your feelings and opinions, Mr. Guttenberg, but I assure you, my hands are tied.” He turned to Victor. “My mind is clear. This is a frontier begging to be developed. Not so long ago, Ranier was nothing more than taverns and brothels.”

  I flinched. Though they’d never discussed such things with me directly, I had picked up enough by listening in on conversations. Ranier had thrived during its height of lumber cutting and log drives. When laborers were given a few days off and a little pocket change, they spent it on having a good time.

  Suddenly, just as I’d done countless times as a child, I wanted to crawl into the small space behind the ornate, silver-plated woodstove in the parlor room—where it was always warm with a soft blanket, a place where I could stay out of sight for hours at a time. I saw Mama’s face: wide eyes, rounded cheeks, a finger to red lips, whispering, “Don’t come out, Sadie Rose, until I come back downstairs. Promise?”

  Mr. Worthington talked on. “When I first came here from Duluth, I hadn’t planned on becoming mayor. I made cleaning up Ranier my highest priority, a respectable place to raise children and start a business. Do you think the people here are interested in slowing down development? Not from what I’m hearing, and believe me, I do listen to the people. You know how vast this wilderness is? How much of it waits to be tamed and settled? It’s not only the lumber to be felled, but hydropower to be harnessed. And that translates into jobs and community and civilized society. You bet I’m behind Ennis’s proposal. It’s coming, sure as the Model T.”

  Victor massaged his jawbone with his thumb and pressed his forefinger to his lips. Compared to Mr. Worthington’s skin, Victor’s had deepened with sunshine and the outdoors. Like a gentleman, his white shirtsleeves were rolled down and buttoned fast to his wrists, but as he lowered his hand, I noticed thick calluses.

  “Senator, have you considered that wilderness is part of what the human soul longs for and needs?”

  Victor began to pace along the screened windows. “Have you considered that once you allow these dams to be built that all the delicacies of this region—the tiny islands and inlets, the family cabins and docks—will be flooded and turned into an industrial tub. And for what end? Money, jobs, and greed?”

  I smiled inwardly. Parts of this speech I’d already heard in the canoe.

  “We have a treasure here—a treasure that will be lost forever if Ennis gets his way. And I’m curious, Senator,” he said, pausing to pivot and direct his gaze toward Mr. Worthington, “how much does E. W. Ennis contribute to your senatorial seat?”

  Mr. Worthington flared up. “That is out of line and of no concern of yours, young man. We’ll just have to agree to disagree. That’s democracy. You’re never going to please everybody.” He opened the door. “Thanks for sharing your concerns.”

  I hated to see the way Mr. Worthington dismissed Victor so easily. Victor had made a good point about wilderness speaking to the human soul. Hadn’t I felt myself opening up just by being out on the water with Victor? And what about his tiny island home, with its lichen-colored rocks and pines rooted into crevices? Would it be erased once the series of dams were fully operational? Usually, Mr. Worthington gave residents whatever time they needed to voice their concerns. He waited for them like a fish on a line until they were all played out, too tired to add one more complaint, and then he cordially said good-bye. It was a talent of his. Here, one of the most educated residents was being dismissed.

  As Victor stepped outside, an anger in me built, and I jumped up from my chair and blurted, “But Mr. Worthington, wait—”

  Mrs. Worthington’s notebook and pen dropped to the floor.

  Mr. Worthington pivoted slowly. His handsome face, with his straight nose, intelligent gray eyes, and sharp jaw—his face, which bore increasing tightness and creases of worry on his broad forehead—slackened completely in shock. What little color his skin held seeped away.

  From the steps and through the open door, Victor flashed me a smile. “I’ll be back to continue our discussion, Senator. Perhaps next time, Sadie, you’d like to join in and share your opinions, too, especially now that you’ve found your voice. I wouldn’t be following my civic duty to let the topic rest.” He stepped outside and nearly bounced down the walkway to his canoe.

  I wished I could disappear somewhere—far from the Worthingtons and their inquisitive stare. It was as if I’d just dropped a beautiful vase to the floor and was found standing amid the shards.

  “Sadie Rose?” Mrs. Worthington whispered. “You—after all this time?”

  I answered with a nod. I wiped my damp palms across the sides of my skirt. “Victor helped me.” I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to lie and suddenly pin the reason on Victor, because it was as much the photographs as any reason.

  “Victor helped you?” Mr. Worthington repeated. Then he stepped closer and towered over me. “What’s that supposed to mean? He’s been tutoring you? Giving you lessons?”

  Picking up the slate board, I wrote, “I can’t explain.”

  “No,” Mr. Worthington said. “If you can speak, then—” He reached over and yanked the board away from my grasp. I wanted to tug back, to refuse to give it up—my protection all these years. My heart beat as fast as hummingbird wings, and I lifted my hand and pressed it below my collar
bone.

  “Is there something more going on between you?”

  “Walt,” Mrs. Worthington soothed.

  But he ranted on. “You run off with whatever man shows up? Can we not leave you here under the guardianship of Aasta and Hans and not worry about you? You are here only out of our generosity, I hope you know. If you decide to start cavorting with the likes of . . . What happened exactly between you two, anyway?”

  “Nothing,” I whispered.

  Then he rubbed his cheeks with the palms of his hands, took a deep breath, and started again, this time in a softer voice. “You can speak? This is, well, something I never . . . You were thought to be dead when they found you.”

  I opened my mouth. This time I willed the words, one by one. “I can talk . . . a little . . . at a time.”

  My voice sounded like another person had stepped into the house. It wasn’t a stranger’s voice, for I’d heard it in my head, but now it was solid and weighty. Like the ax that Hans had let me try out yesterday beside the woodshed. “It’s not lady’s work, y’know. You could lose a knee if you are not so careful.” I’d talked then, too. “Please, Hans.” And he’d smiled, his dimples showing through white stubble. On my first few tries, I’d missed completely, but then, with my knees bent and legs planted wide, I brought the ax back while fixing my eye on the upright piece of birch. When the ax came down, it split the wood into two with a satisfying crack. The pieces fell to the ground and the ax remained solidly wedged into the cutting block. In the same way, I could direct my words like a weighty tool. It was a thing to be used with care and skill.

  Such a thing—a voice.

  “Well,” Mrs. Worthington said, standing up and leaning over me. She hugged me, something so rare that it brought tears to my eyes. “After so many sessions of working with you, Sadie. After so many years of trying to help you sound out words—to speak.” Her eyes grew moist. “Oh, this is something to truly celebrate! Who knows what possibilities this might bring into your life. Perhaps college. Marriage. It’s amazing. And that Victor, to think—” Then she clapped her hands together. “Well, then, this calls for something special!” She hurried off toward the kitchen. “Aasta!”