Page 168 of It Happened on the Lake

“Nothing.” Harper had been frozen on the bed, propped against the headboard. “Hush!” she yelled at Bandit. The dog leaped from the bed and scarfed up a wafer that had landed near the nightstand.

“Nothing?” Marcia repeated, her face flushed.

Harper scrambled from her bed.

“Yeah,” Beth interjected as Harper tried to pick up the cookies and ignore the fact that a glob of melting marshmallow goo was dripping from Marcia’s teased hair and onto the shoulder of her angora sweater. “We were, um, just listening to music.”

“With the record player facing the door?” Her eyes narrowed even as Beth found some tissues and began dabbing at the rug.

Marcia felt the sticky marshmallow on her face, touched it with a tentative finger, then appeared about to explode. Her lips pursed as she tried to wipe away the goo, only making it pull into strands. “You don’t have to lie to me. The music wasn’t for you two now, was it? It was for us. Your dad and me.” She was eyeing Harper now, while Harper frantically tried to pick up the cookies before Bandit could gobble them all. “It was so that we couldn’t hear what you were talking about or know what you were doing.”

There was no need to argue. Harper had tried that before. It would only infuriate her stepmother more.

Marcia drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes as Harper scrabbled up the last soggy Oreo and Beth said, “I think we’ll need a towel.”

“Got one.” Harper scrounged in her laundry hamper and withdrew a damp hand towel that she tossed to Beth, who began working feverishly on the rug where chocolate had oozed.

“Let me have that!” Marcia snagged the towel to dab at her sweater and hair. “Oooh. This is probably stained!” She gave up and angrily tossed the towel back to Beth. “I was just trying to be nice. You know? Bringing you some kind of snack.” She rotated her palm toward the tray where Harper was piling the cups, saucers, and remaining cookies. “And this is the thanks I get?”

Harper bristled but held her tongue as her stepmother gained control of herself again.

“Next time,” Marcia warned, “since the loud music was all for my benefit, you might consider playing something decent. Something I like—I don’t know. Elvis, maybe? Or . . . or . . . Bobby Darin? Even Connie Francis, for God’s sake. Not this British invasion or Motown crap!” She paused for effect and rolled her eyes before sinking onto a corner of Harper’s bed. “Really?” She took in several deep breaths while Beth watched wide-eyed and Harper chased an errant Oreo that had slid beneath the bookshelf. Slightly calmer, Marcia said, “Look, Harper, I know you’ve been through a lot. Lord have mercy, I understand, but you have to see that you’re not the only one affected here. We’re all grieving for your grandmother and . . . and what happened to her and with Chase missing . . .” She paused and looked out the window. “. . . it’s all too much. For all of us.”

“What’s going on up there?” Bruce Reed’s deep voice traveled up the stairs.

Oh no. Harper died a million deaths. She didn’t need Dad, too. But another round of questions and accusations couldn’t be avoided because she heard his heavy footsteps as he climbed quickly up the stairs.

Great. Just fabulous, she thought sarcastically as she brushed off the dust bunnies and tossed the last cookie back onto the tray.

“Marcia? What’s happening?” He stepped into the room and took one look around, his gaze landing on the record player, scooted to the middle of the floor, and the rest of the mess, including his usually neat-as-a-pin wife with gunk spilled all over her and Bandit, sniffing in a corner. “Harper?” he asked, finally looking at her as she stood. “I don’t understand—”

“Neither do I,” Marcia cut in, “but I thinkyour daughterwants her privacy.”

“For what?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

Marcia gazed at her husband as if he were as dumb as a stone. “Who knows? Girl talk,” she said, surprising Harper that she didn’t tell him.

Marcia quickly shooed him out the door and closed it firmly behind her.

“She doesn’t seem so bad,” Beth whispered, eyeing the soggy Oreos on the tray.

Harper mouthed, “Step-monster.”

That was the trouble with Marcia. She ran hot and cold. Cool and nice—even sweet—at times, and at others? A full-blown bitch who would explode for seemingly no reason.

She’d heard the fights between her dad and his wife.

When they thought she was asleep or far enough away not to overhear the harsh words and accusations. Marcia didn’t trust Dad, and at times, it seemed the reverse were true. Accusations of “carousing” or infidelity when he’d come home late. Questions about phone calls and where the other one had been, though outwardly they appeared ever the loving couple.

But now, since Gram’s death, the cracks were showing.

Marcia wanted to move into the main house.

Dad was against it, at least for now.

And then there was Harper’s pregnancy.

She had to tell them.

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