Page 52 of Echoes in the Storm

I started out helping with the fundraiser partially as a way to say thanks to the girls for the great care they gave Taylah, but mostly to prove to myself and the community that even though the headlines dumped the reason for our daughter’s death squarely on me, I wasn’t the cold-blooded monster the write-ups made me out to be. That I could still be useful, helpful, and a welcome face in our town.

Now I’m stuck in a catch twenty-two. If I keep going, people look at me with the pity I spoke to Duke about, thinking,“Poor old, Cammie. Can’t find it in herself to let go.”But at the same time, if I stop, then I get the flipside with people thinking I don’t care anymore.“You know her heart was never really in it, don’t you?”

So here I sit, sponging white paint over a child’s face with a smile while on the inside I’m in turmoil over what I should do next year. What’s worse, I hate letting people down, and I could almost guarantee if I tell Jacinda this is it, disappointed is how she’ll react.

“Hey, Cammie.”

I look up from the skeleton I’m working on to find Archie standing in line with his little girl. “Oh, hey, Archie. How are things going at the workshop?”

“Part’s on its way for your houseguest, so he should be out of town soon enough.”

Totally not what I meant, but okay.“He’ll be pleased to hear that.” Although I can’t deny the rush of panic that sends my heart into a flutter when I think about Duke leaving.

“Think you could do us a wee butterfly, here?” he asks. “I’ve just seen a guy I need to talk to about some mods.”

“Yeah, sure.” I offer him a smile as I darken the under eye of the boy in my chair. “I’ll keep an eye on this little ratbag.” Archie’s girl giggles as I reach out and tickle her belly.

“Thanks, Cammie.”

Thanks, Cammie. Thanks, Cam. Thanks, thanks, thanks.

The word cycles in my head, irritating the hell out of me. It’s never really struck me before, but I hear it so often because, at the end of the day, I do so much for everyone. Not that I mind being thanked. I mean, it’s common courtesy to show your appreciation when a person helps you out. But for the first time, as I paint obtuse triangles to make my skeleton’s cheeks appear sunken, I realise I hardly ever say it myself.

And a girl’s got to ask herself, why is that?

Because how often does anyone return the favour?

“Are you done?”

I snap my focus back to the boy in the chair as he looks up at me sitting there with my brush mid-stroke. “Almost, honey.”

No wonder I’m finding myself so easily taken by Duke—aside from my mother, he’s the first person to try to help me without any expectation of reward, and, well, family doesn’t count really.

I finish up the skeleton and send him on his way, rinsing my brush off as I usher Archie’s girl into the seat. “A butterfly, right?”

She gives me a huge gap-toothed grin. “Yeah. Purple and pink, please.”

“With manners like that? Of course.”

I start into her art, outlining the wings as I catch glimpses of other people here tonight. Most of them I know in one way or another, from school, through my parents, or acquaintances of mine and Jared’s who drifted away after the separation. I know these people, would have gone as far as to call them friends once, but when it comes down to it, I guess you find out who your true pals are in times of crisis.

When I needed them most, who did I have? The girls here dropped by a few times in the first couple of weeks after Taylah’s death, but now that I think about it, how much of that was obligation? I don’t see Jacinda outside of these functions; she doesn’t pop over for a wine, or ask me around to her place. So many friendly faces in this town, but not manyactualfriends.

“Should we add some white spots on the wings?” Perhaps if I convince this child in front of me I’m invested in the lop-sided butterfly, I might convince myself, too.

“You need another antennae.”

I follow the outstretched finger up the thick forearm to the even thicker bicep and the man attached.

“Are you okay?” Not my finest greeting, I’m aware.

“I think so,” Duke answers with a smile. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

I chuckle as he mimics the line I gave him the night we first met.

“Howdidyou get here, though?” It’s dark out; he would have had to walk. Those two things don’t compute.

Duke thumbs over his shoulder to my meddling mother, who’s failing in her attempt to look engrossed in Mrs Aitchison’s conversation and not as though she’s watching us.