Breathless (Blue Fire Saga #1) Read online

CHAPTER 2. PLUMP AND LUMPY

  It was love at first sight—all right, technically second sight, Leesa admitted to herself, since she had met her aunt once when Aunt Janet and Uncle Roger spent a week in San Diego almost five years before. Not much time, especially in the life of a thirteen-year-old girl who’d been a bit too busy—and a bit too frightened of forming any real attachments—to allow herself to bond with two virtual strangers. But ever since, after seeing how little Mom’s disability check left after the basic necessities were taken care of, Aunt Janet had sent both Leesa and Bradley a hundred dollars every month “just between us, for those little things young people need now and then.” Without their aunt and uncle’s help, she and Bradley would have been wearing clothes from the thrift store, and, too horrible even to contemplate, would probably not even have had cell phones!

  This was the woman her mother could have been, Leesa thought as she studied her aunt out of the corner of her eye while a skycap piled her four worn black suitcases onto his cart. The woman her mother could have been and should have been, if not for that crazy day in the woods so very long ago. Aunt Janet looked like her mom should have looked, sounded like her mom should have sounded, and felt like her mom should have felt.

  Aunt Janet was forty-eight, pretty in a plain kind of way, and slightly plump and lumpy like an aunt ought to be. Though four years older than Leesa’s mom, Aunt Janet somehow looked younger, despite skin more weathered than the pale, almost flawless complexion of her sun-shunning younger sister. It was her sparkling eyes that did it, Leesa decided, and her warm smile, so different from her mom’s anxious frown and glassy stare. She looked like a woman who embraced life rather than avoiding it. Her dark blond hair was cut medium short, styled casually with loose curls framing a round face whose most striking feature was a pair of bright blue eyes almost identical to those Leesa saw reflected in her mirror every day.

  But it was not Aunt Janet’s inviting appearance that drew Leesa so strongly. What pulled her in was her aunt’s obvious care and concern, her thoughtful consideration, so different from what Leesa was used to from her mom. “How was your flight?” “You must be tired.” “Are you hungry? We can stop somewhere for a quick bite if you want.” Leesa could tell Aunt Janet was not just making small talk as they followed the skycap out to the parking lot, but that she genuinely cared. And better yet, she actually listened to Leesa’s replies.

  In truth, the flight had been wonderful. Her first time in a plane—what was not to like? She told Aunt Janet it was a trip, no pun intended. From watching the beaches of San Diego shrink away as the plane rose into the sky—“scary at first”—to skirting the totally amazing Grand Canyon—“wow, that thing is sooo big!”—to crossing the famous Mississippi—“very cool, but I didn’t expect it to be so brown.” She loved it all and joked that there was probably an imprint of her nose indented in the plane’s window. She could have done without the two-hour layover in Chicago, thank you, but no, she was too excited to be tired. And yes, now that Aunt Janet mentioned it, she was a bit hungry—a couple of tiny bags of peanuts and three Diet Pepsis went only so far—but she could wait until they got to Aunt Janet’s to eat. How far was it to Meriden, anyway? Forty-five minutes? Not a problem.

  So far, as Aunt Janet piloted her blue Ford Taurus south down Interstate 91, Connecticut was still nothing like Leesa had pictured. Where were those rolling New England hills she’d read so much about? Where were the thick woodlands, the bucolic farms? Heck, she’d yet to see even one of those stone walls New England was so frigging famous for. Instead, the drab commercial and industrial areas whizzing by on either side of the freeway could have been El Cajon or Chula Vista back home. Things must really have changed since Robert Frost wrote all those poems, she thought, remembering one she’d liked from school about swinging on birches. She giggled as she tried to picture the old poet forlornly searching this cluttered landscape for inspiration. Or any birch trees, for that matter.

  “What’s so funny?” Aunt Janet asked.

  “Oh, nothing really,” Leesa replied, embarrassed she’d giggled out loud. “I was just thinking this doesn’t look much different from some places back home. And trying to imagine Robert Frost writing his poems here.”

  Aunt Janet chuckled. “I suspect the place has changed a mite since his time, dear.” She glanced out the window, taking in the dilapidated buildings and crowded parking lots. “Not the prettiest stretch of road, that’s for sure. I keep forgetting this is your first time here. Wait until we get south of Hartford. It’s much nicer there, I promise.”

  “I wasn’t complaining,” Leesa said, not wanting Aunt Janet to think she was some kind of whiny teenager.

  Aunt Janet dropped her hand softly onto Leesa’s. “I didn’t think you were,” she said. “Not for a moment.”

  And darn if Aunt Janet’s promise didn’t come true. Once they passed through Hartford, the view turned quite pretty. There were still plenty of houses and low office buildings, but they sat on rolling hillsides shaded by leafy trees, trees of a darker, richer green than Leesa was used to in San Diego, a color so deep she felt she could almost breathe it in. The farther south they drove, the higher the hills to the east grew, eventually becoming so steep no buildings could find a foothold on their wooded slopes. This was more like what she’d been imagining. Now if only they could get some rain.

  “We’re almost there,” Aunt Janet said as she guided the Ford off the interstate onto a long exit ramp. She turned left at the top of the ramp, crossing back over the freeway. “Most of Meriden is back behind us. But our house is this way, just up the road a bit.”

  “The road” turned out to be a rolling two-lane highway flanked by tall oak and ash trees with an occasional house or store tucked among them. Aunt Janet followed it for about a mile before turning onto a side street marked Dursley Lane.

  “If you keep going straight, it’s less than ten miles to Weston,” Aunt Janet explained. “We’ll never be far away when you want to come by for a home-cooked meal.”

  The mention of food made Leesa’s stomach rumble. She was pretty sure the phrase “home-cooked meal” meant something very different from what she was used to, on those rare occasions when her mother prepared a meal at all, usually with help from the microwave. “I’ll be taking you up on that, Aunt Janet, for sure.”

  They turned into a long driveway in front of a pale yellow Colonial house set way back from the street. The homes on either side were well over a hundred feet distant, more than enough room in San Diego, Leesa thought wryly, to stick another house in between. Four broad maples shaded the front lawn, and a row of pointy spruce trees lined the side of the house, looking almost like a row of giant dark green candles. Small gardens filled with bright red and white impatiens and pansies circled each of the maples, and an even more colorful garden fronted the house. Leesa loved the beauty and serenity of the place. They didn’t have yards like this in San Diego, at least not where she lived.

  “Home, sweet home,” Aunt Janet said.

  “It’s beautiful,” Leesa said. She climbed out of the car and breathed deeply of the spruce-scented air. The smell reminded her of the pine freshener her mom used to spray in their house. This was way better, though.

  “Your Uncle Roger should be home any time now,” Aunt Janet said. “In the meantime, you can meet Max.”

  Leesa looked at her aunt. Who the heck was Max? She didn’t have any cousins, as far as she knew. Why hadn’t anyone told her that her aunt and uncle had a kid?

  She followed her aunt up the brick steps to the front door. As soon as Aunt Janet pushed her key into the lock, Leesa heard a series of loud clicks clattering toward the door. Aunt Janet pushed the door open and was greeted by the joyful face of a panting golden retriever. She slipped in through the doorway and scratched the dog behind its ears while Leesa stepped inside behind her.

  “Meet Max,” Aunt Janet said, holding the dog’s head toward Leesa.

  Leesa petted the top of Max’s hea
d. His fur was soft and smooth.

  “He really likes his chest scratched, like this.” Aunt Janet bent over and demonstrated. Max’s fluffy tail began wagging like crazy. “Go ahead. Give him a couple of minutes of this and he’ll be your friend forever.”

  Leesa dropped to one knee on the hardwood floor and draped her right arm around the top of Max’s neck. With her left hand, she began scratching his furry chest. Max arched his head up and his tail continued wagging furiously. Leesa rubbed his chest even more vigorously. She’d never had a dog growing up—no surprise there, with her mom the way she was—but she had always wanted one. Or at least a cat. But the only pet she’d ever had was a goldfish she won at a school fair when she was eight, and the poor fish had died in less than a week. Her mom wanted to flush it down the toilet, but Bradley intervened and helped Leesa bury it in the backyard.

  She continued rubbing Max’s soft fur, thrilled with the way her trip was starting out. Aunt Janet was great, and now Max. Leesa just knew she was going to like her Uncle Roger as well.