“You could be more encouraging,” Samantha said.
Barbara sighed, turning to look at her friend as she entered the apartment.
“It’s just that I’m so afraid of you being accused of something you didn’t do,” she said. “That detective will eventually have to work through the police, and I’m not sure they’ll believe your reasons for not contacting them.”
“Detectives work independently,” Samantha said. “And in confidence.”
She looked around. They were standing in a short hallway, the Navajo-print wallpaper decorated with dozens of small paintings in terra-cotta frames. Barbara dabbled in acrylics on the side, and had designated one of the apartment’s four rooms as a sort of office/studio. Samantha could almost guess that’s where she’d find Julie, but she asked anyway.
“She’s painting,” Barbara said. “That kid’s got talent. But she keeps painting the same things. Always beach scenes, and always with a yellow house.”
Samantha felt her heart skip a beat. She ignored the sense of uneasiness and headed toward the back room.
Julie was wearing an old flannel shirt. She peeked around the corner of an easel and grinned at the sight of Samantha.
“Hi!” she said.
She put down the paintbrush and ran to give her caretaker a hug.
“How’ve you been doing?” Samantha asked. “Barbara says you were painting.”
She made no move to look at the child’s work.
“It’s been fun,” Julie said. “Barbara’s really nice. We made peanut-butter cookies too.”
Samantha gave her friend a surprised look.
“You made peanut-butter cookies?” she asked. “I thought you hated baking.”
“Well, there weren’t any snacks in the house,” Barbara admitted. “And Fred likes them too.”
“I was worried he might be here already,” Samantha said. “That Julie might be in your way.”
“Not at all!” Barbara insisted. “And he likes kids, really. Besides, he’d have to like Julie. She did most of the baking herself. I’ve never met a kid like you, Julie. You’re amazing. Is there anything you can’t do?”
Julie laughed in a self-deprecating way. She looked down at her toes. Yes, there was something she couldn’t do. She couldn’t remember where she came from. But she didn’t say this.
“Julie, why don’t you clean up the paintbrushes?” Samantha said. “We’ll be leaving in a few minutes. Would you like to go out to dinner?”
“Okay,” Julie said.
The doorbell rang. Barbara excused himself to go down and answer it. As Julie began to clean up, she handed Samantha a large piece of paper.
“This is for you,” she said. “It’s the first one I did, so it’s sort of dry.”
Samantha studied the painting. It was a beach scene, broad and virtually empty. The strangely familiar yellow house with green shutters stood to one side, a triangle of light brightening one half of it as the sun shone down. On the other side of the painting Julie had depicted a concession stand. Samantha remembered the pictures she had drawn at the hospital. In those, the concession stand was also decorated with blue dolphins. This, too, looked familiar. Something about the blue-and-white awning stirred such memories in Samantha that she could almost hear it flapping in the summer breeze. There was a sign leaning against it: “HAYBROOKS.”
“It’s beautiful,” Samantha said, wondering why that name sounded so familiar. “Is it a place you’ve been to?”
“I don’t know,” Julie said.
But maybe I’ve been there myself. I’m sure Tve heard that name before!
Julie pointed. “Do you see the little girl on the beach?”
She pointed to the picture’s only living being. A young girl with long dark hair stood with her back to the viewer. She wore a one-piece shortall of red and white gingham, and held a red metal bucket by its broken handle. There was a picture of a fat white crab painted on the bucket’s side.
Samantha felt a chill rush over her. There was something very, very familiar about that bucket. . . .
“Samantha!”
With a gasp, Samantha turned around at the sound of Barbara’s voice. Barbara gave her an odd look, then said:
“This is Dr. Fred Matlin. Fred, I’d like you to meet my good friend Dr. Samantha Winstead. Fred also graduated from St. Francis.”
Though Fred Matlin stood a good three inches shorter than Barbara, and barely an inch taller than Samantha, the confident way he threw back his shoulders seemed to heighten him considerably. He had a young, soft-featured face, his raggedy-cut hair the color of an old penny. Behind red-rimmed glasses his green eyes sparkled brightly.