“Susie, that's enough,” Jean said.
“Well, I don't understand,” Susie persisted.
“It's mostly because I'm native.” Mattie took a bite of cake.
“I'll bet not very many people really care that you're native.”
“Maybe.” Mattie set her half-eaten cake on the table and stood. “I better be going. I've still got a stop to make before I head back.”
“Please write,” Jean said. She crossed to the young woman and pulled her into her arms.
“I will. I promise.” Mattie looked at her friends. “I'm sorry about what happened last time I was here. I just lost my temper. I want you to write, and I'll write back.”
“We understand,” Jean said. “Do you mind if I send Luke your new address? He's been asking after you.”
“No, I don't mind. Luke and I will always be friends.”
Laurel walked Mattie to the car. Mattie opened the door and leaned on it. “Well, I'll see you someday.”
Covering Mattie's hand with hers, Laurel said, “There's nothing wrong with being native. God knew what he was doing when he made you.”
“You don't understand what it's like.”
“That's true, but I wish you didn't feel so bad about yourself.”
Mattie threw back her shoulders. “I'll feel a lot better once I'm out
of here.” She ducked into the car.
“You can't run away from who you are—no matter how far you go.” Resentment filled Mattie, and she wished she hadn't stopped at the
Hasper farm. Why couldn't they leave well enough alone? “Bye, Laurel,” she said and closed the door.
Mattie had one last good-bye to make before leaving town. She drove to the bridge where her brother, Alex, had drowned. She stopped and walked to the riverbank, where she stood staring at the frozen waterway. Like a hot blaze, sorrow burned through her. She missed him—his confidence and the way he enjoyed life. He'd never been ashamed of who he was; he'd always been able to dismiss the contempt of others. Mattie wished she were more like him.
She straightened her shoulders. “Alex, please forgive me for leaving. I can't help it. I'll see you someday.” She turned and headed for the car.
Chapter 8
COLD AIR SEEPED AROUND THE EDGES OF MATTIE'S HOOD AND SCARF AND chilled her neck. Staring at the dark waves of the Pacific, she pulled her parka close and leaned against the ship's railing. I hope the weather doesn't turn bad.
So far the trip south had been uneventful. The weather, although cold, had been quiet, and the sea relatively smooth. A sharp breeze cut across the deck and caught at Mattie's skirt, making her thankful for wool stockings. Retying her scarf, she gazed at gray puffs of clouds hanging just above the choppy sea.
A tendril of mist drifted down from the billows and swelled. It moved across the water toward the ship, enveloping the vessel in a moist vapor that wet the deck and railing, along with Mattie's clothing. Ignoring the dampness, she continued to stare, hoping for a break in the fog. For a brief moment it swirled away, and she thought she spotted a shoreline. A blast from the ship's stacks startled her.
“Oh, how I wish they wouldn't do that,” a voice said from behind Mattie. “I swear I'm never ready for it, and then I'm frightened half out of my wits.”
Surprised that someone was standing so near, Mattie whirled around. A young woman with shoulder-length curls spilling from beneath a fur cap stood against a bulkhead. She wore a magnificent, knee-length fur coat and loose slacks and puffed dramatically on a cigarette.
“I nearly jump out of my skin every time they blow that thing,” the woman said. “What could they possibly be blasting at? Who or what is out there?” She peered into the mists.
Mattie felt her confidence waver. Clearly this woman was part of the “upper crust,” and Mattie wasn't used to talking with such people. She tried to come up with a reply. “I think I saw something off the bow a moment ago. I don't know what it was.” Cringing inwardly, she thought, Of course you didn't know what it was. What a stupid thing to say.
“Really?” The stranger gazed toward the front of the steamer. “Do you think it was another ship?”
“No. It wasn't moving. Maybe it was land.”
“I thought we were a long way from shore.”
“An island perhaps?” An icy blast of wind lifted Mattie's skirt, and despite her wool hose, gooseflesh raised on her legs.
“Oh dear, it's absolutely freezing,” the woman said, glancing at Mattie's stockings. “I should have been sensible and worn wool instead of rayon.” She settled hazel eyes on Mattie and smiled, which emphasized the high cheekbones in her heart-shaped face. Painted red lips framed white teeth. “Meryl Raison, and you are?”
“Mattie Lawson,” Mattie said apprehensively, certain this must be a young socialite who was only momentarily out from under her mother's watchful eye. Mingling with the lower class would certainly not be allowed.
“Mattie. What a darling name. I love it!” Meryl flicked ashes over the railing, then took a long drag on her cigarette. “I've always thought Meryl was so plain—boring, boring, boring. I swear my name has no life to it at all.”
“I like it. I think it's very…uh, romantic.”
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
“Well, thank you.” Meryl pulled her coat closed under her chin. “It's so cold. I was so glad to leave Alaska behind, and I'll be even happier to get off this ship. I'm counting on the weather being warmer in Seattle.”
“They say it rains a lot.”
