Lisa Kleypas - Rainshadow Road

As always, I owe endless gratitude to the many people who helped me in this process of getting words from my heart onto the printed page, especially my spectacular agent, Mel Berger, and my editor, Jennifer Enderlin, who deserves every flattering adjective in the dictionary. Huge thanks also to my much-adored friends at St. Martin’s Press, including Matthew Shear, Sally Richardson, Lisa Senz, John Murphy, Nancy Trypuc, Sarah Goldstein, Sara Goodman, John Karle, Olga Grlic, Jessica Preeg, Matt Baldacci, Anne Marie Tallberg, Brian Heller, and the entire sales force.

I couldn’t make it without the friendship and fantastic work of Cindy Blewett at Truly Texan, Sheila Clover and Michael Miller at Circle of Seven Productions, and Kim Castillo of Author’s Best Friend—I am incredibly lucky to have the benefit of so much talent.

Thanks to my lovely author friends Christina Dodd, Teresa Medeiros, Eloisa James, Connie Brockway, and Emily March, who help me spiritually, creatively, professionally, and every other possible “ly.”

I am blessed to be friends with some of the nicest and smartest people on the planet: Cristi Swayze, Rich and Amy Kittinger, Tonia Boze, Sue Carlson, Ellyn Ginsburg, and Lynda Lehner.

Thanks to Ireta and Harrell Ellis for their support, love, and great advice.

And most of all, thanks to my husband, Greg (my constant hero and favorite personal photographer), and our two fabulous children, who make every day of my life joyful.

When Lucy Marinn was seven years old, three things happened: Her little sister Alice got sick, she was assigned her first science fair project, and she found out that magic existed. More specifically, that she had the power to create magic. And for the rest of her life, Lucy would be aware that the distance between ordinary and extraordinary was only a step, a breath, a heartbeat away.

But this was not the kind of knowledge that made one bold and daring. At least not in Lucy’s case. It made her cautious. Secretive. Because the revelation of a magical ability, particularly one that you had no control over, meant you were different. And even a child of seven understood that you didn’t want to find yourself on the wrong side of the dividing line between different and normal. You wanted to belong. The problem was, no matter how well you kept your secret, the very fact of having one was enough to separate you from everyone else.

She was never certain why the magic came when it did, what succession of events had led to its first appearance, but she thought it had all started on the morning when Alice had woken with a stiff neck, a fever, and a bright red rash. As soon as Lucy’s mother saw Alice, she shouted for her father to call the doctor.

Frightened by the turmoil in the house, Lucy sat on a kitchen chair in her nightgown, her heart pounding as she watched her father slam down the telephone receiver with such haste that it bounced off its plastic cradle.

“Find your shoes, Lucy. Hurry.” Her father’s voice, always so calm, had splintered on the last word. His face was skull-white.

“What’s happening?”

“Your mother and I are taking Alice to the hospital.”

“Am I going too?”

“You’re going to spend the day with Mrs. Geiszler.”

At the mention of their neighbor, who always shouted when Lucy rode her bike across her front lawn, she protested, “I don’t want to. She’s scary.”

“Not now, Lucy.” He had given her a look that had caused the words to dry up in Lucy’s throat.

They had gone to the car, and her mother had climbed into the backseat, holding Alice as if she were an infant. The sounds Alice had made were so startling that Lucy put her hands over her ears. She shrank herself into as little space as possible, the humid vinyl seat covers sticking to her legs. After her parents dropped her off at Mrs. Geiszler’s house, they drove away in such a hurry that the tires of the minivan bruised the driveway with black marks.

Mrs. Geiszler’s face was creased like a shutter door as she told Lucy not to touch anything. The house was filled with antiques. The agreeable mustiness of old books and the lemon tang of furniture polish hung in the air. It was as quiet as church, no sounds of television in the background, no music, no voices or telephone ringing.

Sitting very still on the brocade sofa, Lucy stared at a tea set that had been carefully arranged on the coffee table. The tea set was made of a kind of glass Lucy had never seen before. Every cup and saucer glowed with a multicolored luminescence, the glass adorned with thickly painted gold swirls and flowers. Mesmerized by the way the colors seemed to change at different angles, Lucy knelt on the floor, tilting her head from one side to the other.

Mrs. Geiszler stood in the doorway, giving a small laugh that sounded like the crackle of ice cubes when you poured water over them. “That is art glass,” she said. “Made in Czechoslovakia. It’s been in my family for a hundred years.”

“How did they put the rainbows in it?” Lucy asked in a hushed voice.

“They dissolve metal and color into melted glass.”

Lucy was astonished by the revelation. “How do you melt glass?”

But Mrs. Geiszler was tired of talking. “Children ask too many questions,” she said, and went back to the kitchen.

* * *

Soon Lucy had learned the word for what was wrong with her five-year-old sister. Meningitis. It meant that Alice would come back very weak and tired, and Lucy must be a good girl and help take care of her, and not make messes. It also meant that Lucy must not argue with Alice or upset her in any way. “Not now” was the phrase Lucy’s parents told her most often.

The long, quiet summer had been a grim departure from the usual routine of playdates and camps and ramshackle lemonade stands. Alice’s illness had turned her into the center of mass around which the rest of the family moved in anxious orbits, like unstable planets. In the weeks after her return from the hospital, piles of new toys and books accumulated in her room. She was allowed to run around the table at mealtimes, and she was never required to say “please” or “thank you.” Alice was never satisfied with eating the biggest piece of cake or staying up later than other children. There was no such thing as too much for a girl who already had too much.

The Marinns lived in the Ballard neighborhood of Seattle, originally populated by Scandinavians who had worked in salmon fishing and canning industries. Although the proportion of Scandinavians had diminished as Ballard had grown and developed, abundant signs of the neighborhood’s heritage still lingered. Lucy’s mother cooked with recipes that had been passed down from her Scandinavian ancestors … gravlax, cold-cured salmon flavored with salt, sugar, and dill … pork roast rolled with gingered prunes in the center … or krumkake, cardamom cookies rolled into perfect cones on the handles of wooden spoons. Lucy loved to help her mother in the kitchen, especially because Alice wasn’t interested in cooking and never intruded.

As the summer thinned into a brisk autumn, and school started, the situation at home showed no signs of changing. Alice was well again, and yet the family still seemed to operate on the principles of Alice’s illness: Don’t upset her. Let her have whatever she wants. When Lucy complained, however, her mother snapped at her in a way she never had before.

“Shame on you for being jealous. Your sister almost died. She was in terrible pain. You are very, very lucky not to have gone through what she did.”

Guilt radiated through Lucy for days afterward, renewing itself in cycles like a persistent fever. Until her mother had spoken so sharply, Lucy had not been able to identify the nagging feeling that had drawn her insides as tight as violin strings. But it was jealousy. Although she didn’t know how to get rid of the feeling, she knew that she must never say a word about it.

In the meantime, all Lucy could do was wait for things to go back to the way they had been. But they never did. And even though her mother said she loved both her daughters equally but in different ways, Lucy thought the way she loved Alice seemed like more.

Lucy adored her mother, who always came up with interesting rainy-day activities, and never minded if Lucy wanted to play dress-up with the high-heeled shoes in her closet. Her mother’s playful affection, however, seemed folded around some mysterious sadness. Now and then Lucy would enter a room to find her staring vacantly at some fixed spot on the wall, a lost look on her face.

Early some mornings Lucy would tiptoe to her parents’ room and climb into her mother’s side of the bed, and they would snuggle until the chill of Lucy’s bare feet had dissolved beneath the warm covers. It annoyed her father when he realized that Lucy was in bed with them, and he would grumble that she should go back to her own room. “In a little while,” her mother would murmur, her arms wrapped securely around Lucy. “I like to start the day this way.” And Lucy would burrow against her more tightly.

There were repercussions, however, when Lucy failed to please her. If a note was sent home because Lucy had been caught talking in class, or gotten a low grade on a math test, or if she hadn’t practiced her piano lessons sufficiently, her mother would become cold and tight-lipped. Lucy never understood why it felt as if she had to earn something that was given freely to Alice. After the near-fatal illness, Alice was indulged and spoiled. She had terrible manners, interrupting conversations, playing with her food at dinner, grabbing things out of other people’s hands, and all of it was ignored.