Kitabı oku: «Hell's Belles», sayfa 3

There was a certain emphasis on the word performing. What a creep. She thought of Shay and wondered if Mac had gotten wind that his ex-wife was back in town. She felt a surge of protectiveness and stood. He wouldn’t learn of Shay’s whereabouts from her, that was for sure. Mattie had been raised to forgive and forget, but she doubted that she would ever forget the sight of Shay’s battered face.

At five foot four, Mattie was petite. Though Mac was average for a man, probably less than six feet tall, she hardly came to the center of his chest, especially in bare feet. But that didn’t keep her from wanting to take a swing at him. Especially today.

“The car’s running fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really need to finish what I started.”

He shrugged. “Just thought I’d ask.”

When he didn’t make a move to leave, Mattie turned to find him staring at her with an odd expression. She suddenly felt vulnerable with her bare feet and legs, her thin tank top.

After a minute, Mattie accepted that he wasn’t leaving without fulfilling some police quota of small talk. She sighed. “Any news on Christina Wilson?” Christina was a local teenager, just eighteen, who had been missing for almost a week now. Mattie was concerned, as were all the locals, and she figured the neutral topic was as comfortable a one as she’d get with Mac.

“Of course not.” He shoved his hands into his pants pockets, made a kind of hissing noise and looked off into the distance as if the question perturbed him. “She’s a runaway. Her daddy just needs to accept the obvious.”

Whether Christina had run away or had been taken by force was a question being asked throughout Haddes. You couldn’t go to the barbershop or the grocery store without someone engaging you in the debate. The way Mattie saw it, either scenario was heartbreaking, especially for Christina’s father, Rand Wilson, who had been Jack Murphy’s closest friend in school and as underfoot in the Murphy household as Mattie. She had a lot of respect for Rand and she wasn’t the only one in town that felt that way. He’d unexpectedly become a father at nineteen and had raised his daughter alone when his young wife took off in search of a less demanding life. Rand had risen to the occasion and Christina had become the center of his world.

Mattie could only imagine what hell Rand was going through, and Mac McKay’s callous dismissal of the girl was just another strike against him in her book. As if she needed another reason to dislike the man.

Mattie narrowed her eyes and picked up the hose, wishing for all the world that it really was an Uzi. She really didn’t want to start a fresh debate with Mac, but she couldn’t resist adding at least one last word. “Maybe,” she said.

Mac threw his arms into the air, hissing again, like a punctured tire. “The girl left a note. How much clearer can you get? She’s a runaway, plain and simple.”

Mattie supposed he had a point. There had been a note left on her bed, a one-liner saying that she was leaving. But Rand thought she’d been forced to write the note, had pointed out the obvious changes to her handwriting, the cryptic wording. And the way Mattie looked at it, Rand knew Christina better than anyone else in the world. If he sensed something was wrong, it just might be.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything to the contrary?” He eyed her with suspicion, his gaze suddenly dark as it raked over her.

“No, of course not,” she answered. As if she’d be calmly washing her car if she had any useful information for the police. What an idiot.

She squeezed the nozzle’s trigger and the hose jumped to life. Mattie sprayed the car, making certain that the overspray drifted in Mac’s direction. When droplets began to cling to his dark uniform, he got the hint. Backing up, he lifted his hand. It was both a wave goodbye and a dismissal, as if he’d given up on the conversation. Good riddance, she thought as he turned and sauntered off in the direction of his shiny new patrol car.

Since the Crown Vic had gotten way more attention than it deserved and Mattie was ready to throw in the towel on the sorry excuse for a day, she emptied the mop bucket and gathered her sponge and wheel brush, then tossed them inside. She was coiling the garden hose over her shoulder when the chirp of an electronic car lock caught her attention. She looked up to see a man crossing the street toward her.

Good grief, no. Not now. Couldn’t a girl wash her police cruiser in peace?

It was Jack Murphy. Six foot three, two hundred pounds of recently banished adolescent fantasy. And he was walking toward her with the same masculine stride he’d had at nineteen.

She wanted to run. Instead, she threw down the hose. Then instantly picked it up again. Mattie felt like a squirrel dashing about in the middle of the road, looking for the perfect place to hide, the best direction to avoid the wheels of the car. In the end, it was always the lack of a decision that got the squirrel. Taken out by a Michelin on the centerline stripe.

Her next thought as he neared was that he looked more like the old Jack than he had last night. It was strangely comforting. He was ruggedly handsome, like a smiling—and overly tanned—model from a Jeep ad. The tan was a little uneven, but what the heck. He wore faded jeans and a black T-shirt that only accented his dark hair. But gone, thankfully, was the spiky, over-gelled hair, replaced with a top-down, windblown look. Deceit like that should be illegal, she thought. It was false advertising in the cruelest sense.

“Hey, there,” she said when he stopped before her. She heard the friendly lilt in her own voice, marveled at it. Talk about bogus.

“I was hoping to run into you today.” Jack paused, a shy-looking grin lifting one corner of his mouth.

“Thanks. It’s good to see you again.” Liar, liar.

Jack put his hands on his hips and stared at her car rather than her, distracted, no doubt, by its sheer ugliness. He finally dragged his gaze to meet hers, picking up where he’d left off. “I know my appearance was a little weird last night. I hope Della filled you in.”

Mattie bit her lip, not certain what to say. All the bizarre comments that popped into her head were far from politically correct. And she wanted desperately to be supportive. So she nodded and smiled. There was little you could do to offend someone when you nodded and smiled.

But now that he was within detail range, she could see that the self-tanner cut a jagged line along his jaw. More subtle today, true. But still there.

“Kimee should come with a warning label,” Jack said.

Mattie realized, with a start, that the expression on his face was one of embarrassment. “You mean Kimee from the salon?”

“She ambushed me when Della had to leave early.”

“Oh.” She tried to process the information, but the conversation was moving faster than her recently damaged brain. “Uh, yeah. Kimee has half the mothers in Haddes stirred up. She’s very, uh, innovative.” Good, she congratulated herself. Nice benign comment.

“Innovative.” He laughed and rubbed at his jaw. “That’s a nice word for it. I can’t get this crap off. I can’t believe it. I’ve been away from Haddes for years and the first day after I move back, I’m walking around my hometown like a beauty queen. How’s that for embarrassing?”

Mattie frowned. That comment was a little self-depreciating. Not to mention that he used the Q word. A niggling doubt crept in, but the questions that floated through her brain were sure to make her look like a hick, or worse, intolerant. Yet she wanted to blurt out, Are you sure you’re gay? ’Cause I never thought so. Mattie bit her lip instead. She was surrounded by steaming piles of faux pas. And no matter what escape route she took, she’d be ankle deep.

So more nodding and smiling ensued.

“Listen, I was hoping maybe we could get together.” Jack’s eyes were concealed by the shades but his gaze flickered downward and, just for a moment, traveled over her body.

Mattie squirmed. She wanted to look down and see if she had a blob of mud from the hose on her tank top. That was probably it. Coming from any other man, she’d think he was checking her out. Flirting, even. Not that she got checked out much lately. But occasionally, when the moon and stars were aligned, it still happened. At least often enough that she still recognized it.

“Maybe we could have dinner. Catch up,” he continued. “And I didn’t get a chance to tell you how great you look. You still look eighteen.” He lowered his voice. “Only better.”

He was staring at her so intently that she couldn’t think of a thing to say. It was like… Her brain felt like it was sloshing around in her head, still a little pickled by tequila and a lot off balance. It was like he was coming on to her. But why would he do that? To what end? She didn’t get it. A glimmer of hope shone in the dark recesses of her brain. Maybe she’d misread the whole situation. It occurred to her that she could out-and-out ask Della, but then the jig would be up. Her feelings for Jack would be written all over her face.

She didn’t get men. Never did. Probably never would. The old Jack was gone, that much was clear. But so what? He was always a great guy. And, no matter what, he was Della’s big brother. Maybe the universe was offering him up to her as a sort of learning tool, a risk-free piece of her incomplete “man puzzle.”

They could be buddies. Mattie fought the sinking feeling that followed that thought. At the very least she could learn from him, understand what it was—or wasn’t—that made men tick. It would be like watching a football game from the safety of the press box rather than getting creamed on the playing field.

It was a consolation prize, but she’d take it. Mattie lived in a small town and that meant playing by small-town rules. Most of her friends were married, which meant they had little time left between soccer games and laundry for hanging out with her. And bonding with other women’s husbands was a recipe for disaster. So for those situations where she mingled with couples her own age, she wore her bookstore spinster status like an access badge: Harmless—no threat to marriage. Full clearance to barbecues and bar mitzvahs.

In other words, she was boring.

But Jack could change that. Suddenly the image of him as her hip gay friend was appealing in an off-center sort of way. They could hang out. Maybe he would take her to Atlanta, introduce her to the club scene. She felt a sly grin tug at the corner of her mouth as her mind drifted to the boxes of unworn shoes that lined her closet. They were hers, bought and paid for, but off-limits in some self-imposed way. Yet in the back of her mind hadn’t she’d always thought a day would come when she’d wear at least one pair? Up until now she just hadn’t been able to imagine what day that would be….

“Mattie? You okay?”

She blinked, aware that she’d been drifting on her own thoughts. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She looked up at Jack as if she were seeing him for the first time, the awkwardness suddenly gone. “Yes, I’d love that,” she answered.

“Great.” He seemed a little taken aback by her response, as if he’d expected her to say no.

“So…” Mattie took a deep breath and searched for something supportive to say. She could do this. “So have you and your partner found a house yet?”

“My partner has his condo on the market.” Jack shifted uncomfortably, as though he wanted to say more but then decided against it. “As for me, I still need to look around, check out the local real estate.”

Mattie managed to babble for a solid three minutes, offering advice as though Jack hadn’t lived here for the first twenty years of his life. All the while her brain tried to process their new relationship, stalling while she fought for balance. Her old Jack fantasy was deteriorating somewhere in a ditch. That was okay: a new friendship was budding. She swallowed hard and forced herself to stop talking.

“Thanks.” Jack nodded, an amused expression on his face. “I’ll, uh, try and remember all that.”

Humor the crazy babbling lady. She wanted to die.

“So what about dinner tomorrow night? Pick you up at seven?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Good.” He finally raised his head, looking over her shoulder. “I should go now.” He frowned. “But before I do, I have something to ask you.”

She frowned. “What’s that?”

He grasped her shoulders and gently turned her to face the Crown Vic. “Is this your car?”

“Uh, yes.” She met his eyes. “Why?”

He shook his head in mock distress. “Because I spent fifteen years of detective work developing a theory about vehicles and their drivers.”

“And?”

“And you just blew it.”

Mattie grinned, intrigued. “How’s that?”

Jack traced his thumb over his jawline. “In my opinion, most people are basically uncomfortable in their own skin.”

She felt her eyes go round with surprise. All this time Mattie had thought it was just her.

“That being the case, my theory is that people feel the need to wrap themselves in a shell. And that shell is a vehicle. People therefore choose a vehicle based on who they feel they are inside.”

Mattie looked at the Crown Vic. It was plain, ugly as sin, and its paint was crackling like the makeup of an old woman. Tears welled in her eyes.

But when she looked up at Jack, she found his gaze trailing over her bare legs. She watched in amazement as he paused at her breasts before meeting her eyes. She shivered.

“You, Mattie Harold—” he lowered his head to whisper in her ear “are not a beat-up Crown Vic.” He sighed and little shivers danced across her bare shoulders. “You’re a red Mustang. Convertible.”

CHAPTER 3

Erica felt like an alien as she pushed the buggy through the supercenter. Thousands of products were crammed from floor to ceiling, and her head ached from trying to take it all in. After working in countries where a twist tie or a hair barrette caused fascination, the commercial explosion was overwhelming. The words jumped out at her, screaming “Buy me!” in English and Español, their brand names underscored with “New!”, “Improved!” and, her favorite, “As seen on TV!” Well, guess what, oh wise advertising execs, she hadn’t watched television in about a decade.

So take that demographic and process it.

And the people. God bless America, but she wanted to run screaming from the crowd. There were people from all walks of life, from senior citizens to pierced teenagers, but the majority appeared to be exhausted-looking women with a fistful of coupons and at least five kids in tow. Was it just her, or did every kid in the place have a runny nose, a bad attitude and the tendency to stare at her as she passed by? She’d like to think it was the sight of an adult with her arm in a cast, but Erica suspected there was more. They sensed she’d never been in a supercenter, smelled her fear.

And she was scared. Back-against-the-wall, shaking-in-her-boots, boogeyman scared.

Erica took a deep breath. She’d assessed the store’s layout as she’d once assessed the danger of a guerilla-controlled village, finding the pattern, forming a safe plan of approach. If her instincts were right, she was getting close. She bypassed a little old lady who was reading the fine print on a roll of paper towels, then dodged a toddler who had stalled mid-aisle, her finger shoved up her nose. Jeez, where were all the cute kids when you needed one?

Her stomach did a little flip-flop when she spotted the feminine products at the end of an aisle. It was a bit of a contrast in needs, but she’d bet her combat boots that the pregnancy tests were stocked next to the maxi pads. She wheeled her buggy down the aisle, which was, not surprisingly, less crowded. Sure enough, boxes of douche were cozied up next to the personal lubricant, which shouldered the tampons and maxi pads. And, lo and behold, the pregnancy tests were hanging with the condoms. Well, someone clearly had a sense of humor.

She gripped the buggy handle even more tightly and fought the urge to make a U-turn. This wasn’t Greene’s Pharmacy back in Haddes. Here, no one knew who she was and couldn’t care less that she was a single woman about to buy a pregnancy test. Even better, they didn’t care that she was an almost-forty-year-old, single woman about to buy a pregnancy test.

Oh God. She was an almost-forty-year-old, single woman about to buy a pregnancy test. The air rushed from her lungs in sheer panic.

She’d driven ten miles out of the way to shop at the supercenter rather than Greene’s. It wasn’t as if the town of Haddes had formed a welcome committee to celebrate her return, but in Greene’s she would be certain to run into a familiar face or two. The supercenter was much safer. The plan was to anonymously buy the pregnancy test under the cover of the hordes of other discount shoppers, then hightail it back home and take the test. A wave of light-headedness washed over her at the thought of actually peeing on the stick. How had she gone from taking photos out the open door of a helicopter in the mountains of Afghanistan to pushing a shopping cart in a rural Georgia supercenter? And why did that scare her more?

In truth, the test shouldn’t scare her. She already knew the answer to the question. One thoroughly missed period and weeks of nausea were probably as confirming as the little plus sign on a plastic stick. But she had to know for certain. It was the responsible thing to do.

Of course, responsible should have come up six weeks ago. Condoms didn’t hold up well in hundred-degree heat. And she’d been in the desert. Do the science, Erica.

One thing she didn’t “do” was regret. She was a pro at living in the present, and had two happy decades to prove it. Looking back served no purpose. Even if, in this case, it meant forgetting John Phillips. Erica’s hand unwittingly went to her abdomen. John had been her friend and a fellow journalist for years before the two of them had given in to loneliness and desire, and become lovers. And now her friend was gone, lost in the seconds it took for the land mine to detonate. There was no bringing him back, and no amount of dwelling on the past would change either of their fates. Her arm suddenly throbbed as if reacting to the painful memory of the explosion.

“Excuse me, dear.”

Erica whirled to face the elderly woman who had been so absorbed in reading the paper towel package. Her face must have flashed ten shades of red, because the woman’s expression registered instant sympathy.

She pressed her soft hand against Erica’s arm and patted her in a grandmotherly gesture. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh, not at all.” Erica smiled, though uncharacteristic tears suddenly stung the backs of her eyes. The woman looked nothing like her own late grandmother, but there was something familiar about the comforting pat. It was a grandmother’s touch. “I was just a million miles away.” Literally.

“I hate to bother you,” the woman continued as she fished the paper towels from her buggy. “But I left my reading glasses at home and can’t make out the name of the manufacturing company.” She waved her hand. “Such tiny print. Could you possibly read it for me?”

“Of course.” Erica took the paper towels and turned the package to locate the print at the bottom. Jeez, no wonder, she thought. The print was tiny. She held it further away, as she struggled to focus, thinking how often she’d had to do that lately. “It says here—” she squinted “—Delcorda Paper.”

“Oh dear,” the woman exclaimed, a frown gathering the wrinkles on her face. “I was afraid of that.”

“Oh?”

“My, yes.” She took the paper towels and jammed them on a shelf next to a box of thong maxi pads.

Erica was temporarily distracted. There was such a thing as thong maxi pads? Wow. She’d been out of the States for too long.

“Delcorda Paper Company is a menace to the environment,” the woman explained. “Their lack of reforesting is shameful. Sheer arrogance.”

Erica wanted to laugh with relief. A kindred spirit. She’d been ready to dismiss the elderly woman, had judged her by her age and surroundings. But here, buried among the cat food and weight-loss pills was someone who realized there was a vast world outside their own city limits. And actually gave a damn.

“Oh.” Delcorda… Erica pondered the name. She’d done a piece that exposed irresponsible harvesting. If memory served, that particular paper manufacturer was one of the companies named. She felt a barb of guilt that they continued to get away with it—and that she’d had no idea. She’d wrongly assumed that the coverage had resolved the situation, but that had been at least seven years ago.

“Well,” the woman continued cheerfully, “back to the drawing board.” She pointed her buggy in the opposite direction and smiled warmly over her shoulder, her gaze drifting toward the pregnancy tests before returning to Erica. “Best of luck, sweetheart.”

A second round of tears threatened and Erica swallowed hard. The term of endearment made her feel young and, just for a split second, a sense of excitement had crept in. But she tamped it down without question. Her situation was what it was, and that was anything but exciting.

“Thank you,” she responded, adding a small wave.

Erica pushed her buggy forward with new determination and, after glancing at the myriad boxes that all made similar claims of 99.999-percent accuracy, chose the most expensive pregnancy test. Today she was one of those uninformed consumers that she hated, the ones who blithely assumed cost equaled excellence. She thought of the elderly woman’s determination to do the right thing and shrugged. So what? She knew when she was in over her head.

Erica looked down at the lone box sitting like a screaming conversation piece in the bottom of the buggy, and threw a box of maxi pads in with it. Then she leaned over and adjusted the larger box so that it shielded the pregnancy test from view. The paper-towel woman was as close as she intended to come to a conversation about the pregnancy test. She glanced around for more camouflage and tossed in a box of vitamins.

She didn’t waste any time leaving the Embarrassment Section of the store, and began winding her way back toward the checkout aisles as fast as her buggy’s wobbly wheels would go. But a tangle of teenage girls was buzzing about a display of bathing suits, blocking her way, and Erica was forced to detour down the candy aisle. She instantly slowed, like Dorothy in the field of poppies, smiling at the bags of candy. Only in the States, she thought. She’d missed a lot. There were new varieties she’d never before seen. What on earth were Nerds-On-A-Rope, anyway? But there were plenty of familiar faces, too. Jolly Ranchers, Lik-a-Stiks… Those had been staples at Mattie’s sleepovers when they were teenagers. She threw a triple-pack of Lik-a-Stiks in her cart for old times’ sake and picked up speed again. But just when she was about to make a clean exit, a buxom blonde came from out of nowhere and their carts rammed with knuckle-rattling force.

“Erica?”

“Della?” She felt as if every pore on her body perspired at once. “Jeez…” Her hand went to her chest, which felt like it was on fire. She wanted to look down at the contents of her buggy, make certain that the maxi pads and vitamins were still shielding the pregnancy test, but she didn’t dare call attention to the buggy.

“Wow. I—I never imagined running into you here.” Della looked every bit as flushed as Erica.

In fact, she looked not only flushed, but terrible. Erica forgot her own troubles as she took a closer look. Della’s eyes were swollen and red-rimmed and she seemed at least ten pounds heavier than she had yesterday. She was dressed in a curious combination of a cleavage-baring aqua tank, sweatpants sheared just below the knee and a worn flannel shirt. A little eyeliner was smeared beneath the corner of her left eye and she wore no foundation.

Good God. Something was seriously wrong if Della wasn’t wearing makeup.

Erica resisted the urge to grill her friend for answers. “I, uh, never imagined running into you, either.” She hoped her voice sounded less alarmed than she felt. “You’re a long way from home.”

“Yeah. I just needed some stuff.” Della’s gaze darted to her buggy and Erica’s followed.

Lying in the bottom of Della’s buggy was a family-size bag of Caramellos, a pair of night-vision binoculars, a voice-activated cassette recorder, a camouflage blanket and a jar of ground white pepper. Erica frowned. “I see. Della, is everything okay?”

Della ran her hand over her hair and straightened with a challenging sniff. But rather than seeming imposing, as it had countless other times, the sniff seemed as though it belonged at the end of a long cry. “I’m fine. Everything’s just fine.” Della’s gaze darted to Erica’s buggy and her eyes went round.

Erica’s heart stopped.

“Lik-a-Stiks!” Della exclaimed.

Her heart began beating again.

“Uh-huh. Isn’t that something?” Erica pointed a trembling finger toward the shelf, which was liberally stocked with the candy. “They still make them. Right there,” she directed.

Della whirled in the direction of the candy and Erica nearly collapsed with relief.

“I picked some up out of nostalgia,” Erica continued, all the while maneuvering her buggy to one side, out of sight. She sent up a prayer of thanks that the pregnancy test had, apparently, gone unnoticed.

“Oh,” Della crooned as she squatted down to retrieve four packs. “I think I’ll get some, too.” She straightened with effort, then forced the flannel shirt down over her hips. “The kids always expect a treat.”

Erica didn’t dare point out that each pack was a three-pack. Nor did she ask why Della was shopping like she was going on a covert military assignment while looking like a department store makeup artist on a drinking binge. She couldn’t risk more conversation. She had to get herself and her pregnancy test out of the store and back home—a task that was beginning to loom like a matter of national security.

“I want us to get together again soon,” Erica lied. It wasn’t entirely a lie. She did want to see her old friends. Sort of. If things were different. Say, for instance, if it were 1984 again. And if Mattie hadn’t turned into a drunken lunatic. Oh, and if she wasn’t pregnant.

Della dragged her gaze up to meet Erica’s, looking like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. “Yeah, me, too.” She hesitated, then slumped in a defeated gesture. “You know where to reach me.”

Erica nodded, her concern growing. “Listen, I’m staying out at Mom and Dad’s place if you need me.”

“You are?” Della sounded genuinely surprised. “It’ll be nice to see some life back in your parents’ place. It’s been standing empty for too long.”

“Yeah.” Erica felt a familiar tightening in her chest at the mention of her parents. “You’re right.”

Della began to push her buggy slowly, hinting that she was anxious to make an exit. “So give me a ring at the shop or at home.” Her voice drifted as she waved over her shoulder. “We’ll get together….”

Erica watched her leave, reminding herself that whatever had caused Della to dress like a castaway was actually none of her business. She had her own set of problems.

The bubble-gum popping salesclerk didn’t make eye contact and certainly didn’t acknowledge the pregnancy test. Thank God. Erica felt like a bomb had been defused when she watched it finally drop into the plastic bag. She paid in cash, readied her keys and walked quickly through the parking lot to her waiting Jeep Cherokee. The black leather interior was like a sauna. She sighed and stale heat filled her lungs. Ugh. Georgia in June. She cranked the engine and turned on the air full blast, leaning her face toward the ineffective stream of air.

There was a certain empowerment about driving, Erica realized as she pulled out of the parking lot and onto the county highway that led back to Haddes. It was almost comical how little she’d driven her own vehicle. Though the Jeep was nearly five years old, the mileage registered less than twenty thousand. She was on assignment so much that she rarely used the vehicle or her efficiency condo in New York. Neither possession was really worth the effort, but the IRS refused to believe you were a real person unless you had an address, and her southern roots dictated that she own a set of wheels.

She rolled down the window and welcomed the rushing air. It actually felt good to be driving along a rural highway again. She breathed the scent of freshly cut hayfields and warm asphalt. The scents evoked childhood memories, as did the familiar landscape that whipped past: tall pines carpeted by honeysuckle vines, a winding shallow ditch banked with red clay. A surge of relief at being home welled and Erica almost ran off the road at the unwelcome emotion. “Oh, please,” she muttered, thinking she would rather test her bumper against one of the tree trunks than wax sentimental about Haddes.

The one thing Della had been right about was that her parents’ house had been standing empty for too long, she thought as she pulled into the drive thirty minutes later. She paid a local landscape service to mow the lawn twice a month, but the service obviously didn’t cover removing fallen tree branches. Or doing anything other than mowing a sloppy circle around the house. A collection of chainsaw-worthy branches was piled around the perimeter of the lawn like a primitive attempt at a split-rail fence. Dandelions bloomed in the cracks of the concrete drive, and headless tulips peered out from tall grasses that had invaded the flower beds, looking like forgotten children.