Everybody's Daughter by Marsha Qualey Page B

shrugged.
    “But I guess you can’t explain faith to people who don’t have it.”
    “She knew that!” Jenny practically shouted. “She said to us, ‘You people really believed in something,’ and she realized she didn’t even know what.”
    “Oh, Moonbeam of the shifty eyes,” said Daniel, “why couldn’t you make her see?”
    Beamer felt flushed, felt chilled, felt frozen, felt like taking a swing at someone. “Not me,” she said, speaking slowly and tersely. “I couldn’t. Because I don’t believe either. Not any of it. That’s the problem. I never asked to have any of you in my life, and I’d just as soon do without you now. Whatever it is you pathetic old hippies had and whatever it is you think you’ve got now, I don’t believe in it.” Beamer slammed her cocoa mug down on the counter. The dark liquid splashed onto the stack of unsold newspapers. She walked away, then turned around. “And I hate my damn name!”
    She bolted into the back room, where she quickly put on her ski clothes. She was outside strapping on her skis before any of the Woodies had taken a deep breath. She sprinted away, sixteen years of anger and frustration blinding her, so that as she skied along the path toward the woods she was guided by instinct alone.

Chapter 7
    Beamer halted at the north shore clearing. She turned to look homeward and saw several cars leaving the store’s parking lot. The Woodies were gone, at least for the day.
    “Good riddance!” she shouted. Though the friends would undoubtedly discuss the morning’s outburst among themselves, Beamer knew that none of them would ever directly mention it to her. Now that her unhappiness was open, it would fester like an untreated wound.
    Beamer resumed skiing, following her customary route into the woods. When she broke into the open at Wilton Lake, she stopped. Smoke was rising from the chimney of the Dunn cabin, and she could see a small car parked under the carport. In the rush and confusion of the past week she had forgotten to mention to anyone that someone was using the cabin. “Avoid strangers,” she whispered; then, gambling that the inhabitants weren’t hit men or Brink’s thieves, she skied toward the cabin. As she approached she saw a young man stacking firewood, ordering the tumbled pile of split logs into a useful pyramid next to the front door. It looks like he’s actually living here, she thought. I wonder who he is. Skiing closer, Beamer allowed herself to be noticed. The stranger smiled, removed a glove, and offered a bandaged hand, keeping it outstretched and bare while he waited for Beamer. They shook hands.
    “Hello,” said Beamer.
    “Hi. Good day for skiing.”
    Beamer nodded. “I was circling the lake when I noticed life in this cabin. Are you living here?”
    “I am. I’m Martin Singer.”
    “Merry Flynn. We’re sort of neighbors. My family has the bait shop on the highway.”
    “I know. I saw you there this morning; I was buying a paper. Quite a crowd for a Sunday morning.”
    “Mostly friends. I didn’t see you there.”
    “I saw you. You were playing cards with your sister.”
    “She’s a family friend, not my sister. When did you move in?”
    “Ten days ago.”
    “Is the cabin yours?”
    “My father’s. He inherited it from an uncle. Maybe you knew him?”
    “Not really.”
    “Crazy, that’s the family’s story.” Martin clapped his hands and blew across his fingers. “This is silly—why don’t you come inside? I’m hungry, and I’d love some company.”
    Beamer considered the offer. Visiting a strange male in a lonely cabin deep in the woods was probably not smart. This is my day not to be smart, she thought. Besides, he seems harmless.
    A cat bolted out the door as they entered. Beamer moved to catch it. “It’s okay if she goes,” said Martin. “She comes back.” He pulled the door closed behind them and grinned. “My women usually do.” He took off his jacket and tossed it on a chair. “Make