B000FC1MHI EBOK (12 page)

Moments later, though, in a purely perfunctory way, George repeated what Julia was sure Janet had said. “You have to move on now.”

She straightened her spine and smiled. “I am.”

“Come home. We’ll talk more once you’re back in New York.”

“Fine.”

“When
will
that be?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Don’t you think it’d be better if you got back into your usual routine? You don’t sound like yourself at all.”

Julia didn’t doubt it. She didn’t usually challenge her parents. She didn’t usually challenge her husband. She was, after all, obedient. “That might be good.”

“I’m worried, Julia,” George said.

She softened immediately. Her father wasn’t the problem. In many regards, he was a victim himself. What Julia said to him was aimed at Janet. “I’m not asking you to worry. I’d just like you to try to understand what I’ve been through and what I might be feeling.”

“Yes. I’ll try,” he said, but in an inattentive way that indicated he was done with talk.

Julia ached. No, George wasn’t the root of the problem. Nor, though, should he act like a robot. He was a man, with the ability to think and feel. And he was her father. No matter how cowed he was by his wife, he could have emailed Julia again or called her from work, and Janet would never have known.

“Zoe’s just come in,” she said. “I have to go now, Dad. Ask Mom to call. Please.” She disconnected the phone, held the cell to her middle, and raised stricken eyes to Zoe and Molly.

“What’s
wrong
with Gram?” Molly asked. “Why won’t she talk with you?”

Julia squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Opening her eyes again, she drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. Her stomach remained clenched. On top of that, she felt suddenly, acutely restless.

“I need a breather,” she said and made for the kitchen door.

“Where are you going?” Molly asked worriedly.

“The barn. There’s work to do there.”

She was halfway out the door before Molly managed a startled, “Excuse me?”

Gretchen was waiting for her. At least, that was what she chose to believe, because the instant she entered the barn and approached the cages, of all the rabbits who began their little scrabbles and butts and tugs, only Gretchen moved to the very point in the cage where the door could easily open. Reaching in with confidence, Julia put one hand over the rabbit’s ears and another under her belly and gently lifted her out. Cradling her, she went to the chair.

The rabbit settled comfortably on her lap, which was another sign of recognition, Julia decided. Gently, she stroked the fringed ears, forward to back, forward to back.

Like everything about Zoe, the barn was a mix of old and new. The walls were made of wood that had, in its heyday, sheltered cows. There were no cows now, though the sound of them echoed in the
ooooo
of the breeze through open skylights. Those skylights were new. Zoe had installed them when she bought the rabbits, because rabbits like light. Any danger that might have been posed by the sun heating things up was offset by the oaks outside, whose leaves sheltered the roof. Diffused light and fresh air came in; heat stayed out.

The air was comfortable now, cool but not cold. The breeze carried the smell of new hay, waiting in bales. The sun was lower in the sky and the light was easing. The result was a pleasant shade. Ned was nearby, his presence betrayed only by stunning amber eyes. Statue-still, he stood watch now over Julia as well as the rabbits. Above the gentle sounds of movement in the cages came the sound of the sea. It was distant but distinct, the ebb and flow of water on rocks.

Gradually, Julia’s pulse slowed and her breathing leveled. The restlessness that had hit her so abruptly in the kitchen eased. The knot in her stomach began to loosen.

“Hello, pretty little one,” she crooned to Gretchen. “How are you today?”

The rabbit didn’t respond, didn’t even look up, but Julia knew not to expect that. If she leaned over and smoothed back the brow fur—as she did now—Gretchen might shift her eyes and make contact—which she did now. Under Zoe’s tutelage, Julia had learned to accept these small gestures for the shows of affection that they were.

She had also learned how to refill water bottles and measure out pellets, how to empty the trays under the cages and fill the hay trays with fresh hay. Zoe had taught her these things once they had learned that Todd wouldn’t be coming back, and Julia was glad to fill in. She had changed diapers when Molly was a child. Emptying cage trays was much the same thing—easier, actually, since there was neither wiping of bottoms nor odor involved. Hay, pellets, and water were a cinch.

She didn’t do any of that yet, though. Nor did she give other rabbits a turn at being held, though Zoe insisted upon giving each a little oneon-one every day. Zoe prided herself on maintaining people-friendly Angoras, and Julia understood the importance of this. Many of Zoe’s rabbits would eventually find homes with owners who weren’t as interested in plucking fur as they were in playing with pets. People-friendly Angoras—it made total sense. Angoras would never run and fetch like a dog, or jump up on the bed at night like a cat. But they did know the difference between human warmth and a cage.

Julia wondered if they knew enough to miss Todd. It had been a week since he had last held them. According to Zoe, he had given each rabbit far more than a little one-on-one. Zoe claimed he had spoiled them rotten.

But Julia didn’t know about that either. All she knew was that holding Gretchen was a powerful sedative. She continued to stroke the billowy fur and murmur little words of affection, until her own body was thoroughly relaxed. Only then did she gently return Gretchen to her cage and see to the chores—and they were therapeutic, as well. Even so late in the day, even so late in a
dismal
day filled with funerals and angst, she felt energized.

It wasn’t mindless work at all. There were things to monitor, things having to do with the health of the rabbits, like the contents of those waste trays and the amount of hay that had been eaten. In addition to having people-friendly rabbits, Zoe prided herself on having healthy ones, and though healthy ones took a little extra work, she was willing to do it.

So was Julia. She topped off the hay racks to make sure each was brimming, then deposited the refuse from the cage trays in a wheelbarrow and wheeled it out to Zoe’s chosen spot in the back field. Returning, she sat for a few minutes holding in turn several of the rabbits she hadn’t held that morning—first Maria, then Jasper, then Pretty Boy, Petunia, and Swizzle. She even removed the nest box from Bettina’s cage and took turns holding each of the seven kits—and all the while, she refused to think about Monte, refused to think about her parents, refused to think about that other, distant life. She focused on the babies’ tiny eyes, their scrawny little legs, their silky new fur. The miracle of birth gave her a lift.

She was totally engrossed when something made her glance back at the barn door. Molly stood there, with Zoe at her shoulder.

Startled anew by the sight of her short-haired daughter, back so suddenly from France, Julia’s spirits rose even higher. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Obviously,” said Molly. “We’ve been here awhile.” She sounded amazed. “Look at you. Holding rabbits. Is this the same woman who wouldn’t let me have a cat?”

Still smiling, Julia focused on the kit in her hands. Like each of its siblings, it was pure white. Julia’s favorite rabbits were actually the ones with color—the blacks, the tans, the lilacs and torties. But she understood Zoe’s excitement over this litter. White pluck could be dyed, which gave it added value from an economic point of view.

“You kept me busy,” Julia teased. “A cat would have been one responsibility too many.” She hitched her chin toward the shadows not far from Molly and Zoe. “There’s a cat here.”

Molly looked around and caught her breath. “Oh, pretty cat,” she cooed and approached, crouching as she went. “Come here, kitty,” she coaxed, hand outstretched.

Ned put his tail in the air, walked off several yards, sat, and stared, daring her to try again.

Molly straightened. “Oh, dear.”

“He’s on duty,” Zoe advised. “Catch him when he’s dozing in a puddle of sun, and he’s a sucker for an ear scratch.”

Molly went to Julia, who had replaced one baby and was holding another. She held it out to Molly, who took it readily, but, perhaps needing to save face after being dissed by the cat, remarked, “Your nail polish is chipping.”

“Now, there’s a message,” Julia decided.

“Here’s another,” said Zoe to mother and daughter. “This is ribs night at the Grill. I’m not sure we’re ribs women, but Rick has a mean salad menu. Lobster salad, shrimp salad, scallop salad, Caesar—field greens, Bibb—you name it, all fresh. It’s been a hell of a day. We deserve a treat. What do you say we clean up and go?”

T
he Harbor Grill was as unpretentious as the rest of Big Sawyer. Made of cedar shingles that had gone gray in the salt air, it stood two stories high. The main entrance, marked by double doors shaded by an awning, was on the upper story, at the top of a broad staircase that took two turns, with an ample landing at each. The name of the place was on the flap of the awning, though it was hardly needed. There was only one eatery on the island, and of the other buildings perched on the rim of the harbor, none exuded as inviting a scent. If it wasn’t buttered buns being grilled for lobster rolls, it was fried clam bellies, fish chowder, seared sirloin, or—this night—barbecued ribs.

The lower level housed the kitchen and had only what windows were necessary for light and ventilation, but the upper level, devoted to diners, was something else. Large banks of glass offered a three-sided harbor view that was broken only by a pair of screen doors in the middle. Those doors led to an open deck that stood over the water on thick pilings.

In winter, action often centered around the bar. Thanks to a satellite dish on the roof, the television there aired a steady stream of sports events. With the advent of warmer weather, though, the deck was the place to be. A built-in bench ran around its three open sides; like the floor, they were of solid wood and weathered gray. Tables filled the rest of the space, dressed with hunter-green cloths, multicolored plates, and small vases of fresh flowers. A retractable awning, rolled back more than halfway now, offered shade from the daytime sun. At night, a warm glow came from torchlights similar to those that lined the dock.

The torchlights weren’t yet burning when Julia, Molly, and Zoe arrived. Though the sun had lowered, it was still more than an hour shy of setting. Julia couldn’t help but remember that she had arrived on the island at nearly the same hour one week before. There was no fog this night; the air was mild and the harbor calm, but the memory was sharp.

It was stoked by the gray-haired man who sat alone in a corner of the surrounding bench. He had one leg crossed over the other, and an elbow braced on the wood rail. The other hand, knobby at the knuckles, held his drink. He was staring out past the harbor boats, toward the open sea.

Zoe led them to a table, but they had no sooner taken seats when Julia rose again. “Be right back,” she whispered, then made her way to the man in the corner.

He was nursing his whiskey, seeming preoccupied, and for a minute she considered retreating. But she needed to talk with him. Silently, she slipped onto the bench. She left plenty of room between them, but there was no doubt why she was there.

His eyes flew to hers, ice cubes tinkling in his glass with the shake of his hand. Those eyes were gray, like his brows, his hair, and the bench on which he sat. Though his shirt and pants were tan, they might have been gray as well, he seemed such a faded sort.

“I’m Julia Bechtel,” she said gently. “I was on the ferry the other night.”

He nodded.

“I just wanted to say…” What
did
she want to say? She had no idea. “I just wanted to say… well, I’ve seen you at the funerals. It’s a tragedy, the loss of life. But you also lost the
Amelia Celeste.
I’m told she was like a person to you.”

“My wife,” Matthew confirmed in a voice that was rusty with age.

“And she’s gone. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

He nodded again.

She smiled and started to rise, then hesitated. There had to be more to say to a lonely man. She tried to come up with something, but the small talk she was so skilled at back home didn’t fit. He wouldn’t want to discuss the Italian Old Masters exhibit at the Met, the new sushi bar in Soho, or the latest on the mayor of New York City.

So she smiled again, nodded, let out a breath. She looked out at the diners. Two more tables had just been taken. Only one was left.

“Quite a crowd,” she observed.

“Always is,” he said.

“Is it ribs night that brings them in?”

“No. They just come.”

She looked out over the group. Of the tables taken, nearly all had four people; a few even had five, with an extra chair drawn up. By comparison, her own table looked empty with just Zoe and Molly. “I’m eating with my aunt and my daughter, but there’s a spare seat. Would you like to join us?”

Matthew managed a small smile. It was one more line, albeit slanted, in a weathered face. “Thanks, but I’ll just sit here awhile.”

A voice rose at the other side of the deck. It had a tipsy joviality to it, and was followed by raucous laughter.

Matthew muttered something.

“I’m sorry?” Julia said, leaning in.

“The fruit guys,” he repeated. “Loud sons of Bs.
Insensitive
sons of Bs.”

Julia agreed. As charming as the deck was, it didn’t erase the week that had been. She felt it; surely others had to feel it as well. Loud laughter was out of place. “Why do you call them the fruit guys?”

“Their buoys are painted like fruit. Green and purple. Lime and grape. It’s a problem.”

“The colors?”

“The buoys. They’re all over Big Sawyer waters. But they’re not allowed.”

“Can’t the Coast Guard stop them?”

“It’s not federal law, not even state law. It’s Big Sawyer law.” He was looking at her now, apparently seeing her confusion, because he started to talk with an ease she hadn’t expected, given the brevity of his speech to that point. There was color beyond gray now. His voice was low, but it held feeling. “Every island has its own territory where its fishermen work. It’s an unwritten rule. Outsiders don’t sink traps here.”

Julia was intrigued. “How do you know where one territory ends and another begins?”

“You just know,” Matthew said patiently. “Oh, the lines smudge some come winter, when you have to go out past the usual turf to catch anything good in your trap. Lobsters may have pea brains, but they’re not stupid. They don’t want to be near the surface cold in January and February. So they crawl along the bottom of the ocean into deeper waters. ’Course, if you want to trap them, you have to follow them there. That means taking longer to reach your buoys and going through worse weather. There’s not a lot of men willing to do it.”

“Because of the danger?”

“That, and the sun.”

She smiled, puzzled. “The sun?”

“Florida. Arizona. Tortola. There’s a group from up Hull Island goes south for four months every winter to escape the cold. ’Course, there’s some who fish
only
then.”

“Only in winter?”

“January to June.”

“Not at all during summer?”

“Nah.” He took a drink.

Julia said, “I would have thought summer was the height of the season.”

The ice settled back to the bottom of his glass, the glass to his thigh. “It is. There’s many more lobsters hauled in August and September than in January, February, or March. ’Course, that means the price is higher in the winter months. You catch less, but you make more.”

“Do you go down south?”

“Nah. I run the ferry.” He stopped abruptly and looked away.

Julia ached for him. “Have the police come up with anything more?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Will you buy another boat?”

He shrugged.

She smiled sympathetically. “I guess it’s too early to say.”

He nodded, then looked up when a young waitress delivered his meal. She wore a dark green camp shirt, khaki shorts, rolled-down crew socks, and sneakers. She had her hair in a ponytail and a sweet smile on her face. “Here you go, Cap’n Crane. Breaded cod, a twice-baked potato, and green beans almondine.” She set it on the bench with an ease that said this was nothing unusual. He drained the last of his whiskey and handed her the glass, taking in exchange the napkin-wrapped utensils she offered. The napkin was cloth, the same dark green as the servers’ shirts. She was barely gone when, with care— almost gingerliness—he began to unwrap the neat roll.

Julia sensed she was watching a ritual. It was time to leave. “Are you sure you won’t join us?” she asked.

He nodded, concentrating on the emergence of a fork.

She rose. “The extra seat is there, if you change your mind. Thank you for talking with me. What you said about lobstering is all very interesting.”

He raised a hand just enough to signal a wave, but was quickly focused on his meal.

Julia headed back to her table. As she crossed the deck, people were watching.
Singled out,
Noah had said. She wasn’t used to that. It was with relief that she settled into her seat.

“He has to keep certain staples, like burgers and steaks, even meat loaf,” Zoe was telling Molly, “because some of the men here won’t eat anything else.”

“Not lobster?” Molly asked in amusement.

“Oh, all the time, but they eat it at home with culls from the catch of the day. Here, they want something different.” She filled Julia in. “I’m talking about Rick Greene. Molly’s surprised at how eclectic the menu is, and I was saying Rick is a savvy guy. When he bought this place, it wasn’t much more than a fisherman’s shack. No one from out side came. Then people began building big houses down on the shaft, and luxury boats arrived, and he knew he had to do something different or he would squander the business. So he spruced up the place, enlarged the kitchen, and printed a menu.”

“Up till then,” Molly informed Julia, seeming enchanted by the thought, “the menu was written by hand on a board each day, and it constantly changed. He would cook up whatever the local catch brought in.”

“He still does,” Zoe said, passing a menu to Julia. “That’s what the specials are about.”

“We got you iced tea, Mom. Did you want wine?”

Julia smiled. “Tea is perfect. I’m sorry for that diversion. I wanted to talk with him. I feel bad that he’s all alone over there. I invited him to join us, but he wouldn’t.”

“Not surprising,” Zoe said gently. “He likes being alone. He isn’t a big talker.”

“But he did talk. When I asked about lobstering, he said a lot.”

“Bingo. Ask him anything, any time, about lobstering, and he’ll tell you all you want to know. Dinner is something else. Most nights of the week, he’s right there in that corner. He drinks his whiskey, eats his breaded cod, and—you watch—he’ll have tapioca pudding for dessert. He likes it warm.”

“Doesn’t he have family? Children? Siblings?”

“He has all of the above. Big Sawyer is packed with Cranes. He’s probably related to half the people on this deck.”

“Then why is he sitting alone?”

“Because he chooses to. And he isn’t one of a kind that way. There are probably half a dozen tables inside with one, maybe two people. There are lots of loners around here. That’s one of the things I’ve always loved about Big Sawyer—or any of these islands, for that matter. No one looks at you funny if you sit alone. There’s no stigma to it. People like space—it’s as simple as that. They’re used to having it. Lobstering is a solitary profession.”

“They don’t actually fish alone, do they?” Molly asked.

“Usually in pairs, but it’s still pretty solitary, when it’s day after day, week after week.”

Julia was perplexed. “I’d have thought that
precisely
for that reason they’d appreciate being with people when they’re back on land.” She glanced around the deck, but didn’t see Noah Prine. She wondered if he was inside.

“Oh, the lobstermen congregate,” Zoe went on. “They talk about the weather and bait and the size of their catch, but it isn’t the kind of chitchat you and I know. People who can survive lobstering—or fishing in general—or living on an island, for that matter, are people who like being alone. Which isn’t to say,” she added, looking up, grin wider, “that there aren’t people here who are social.” She opened an arm to greet a trio who approached, two men and a woman, all midthirties, give or take, wearing sweaters and jeans. “Gouache, giclée, and silk screen,” she said, pointing at each respectively to indicate his or her artistic medium, and the threesome couldn’t have been nicer. They asked Julia about the accident and how she was feeling; they expressed concern for Kimmie Colella; and they talked about the possibility that Artie Jones was murdered. Apparently, it didn’t matter whether one knew the man personally or not. If it turned out that he was murdered, islanders would go after the perpetrator with as much fervor as if he had truly been one of their own.

As discussions went, it was heavy. By the time the artists moved off, Julia was feeling a whiff of the restlessness that had hit her earlier. Sensing her mother’s mood, Molly changed the subject.

“How big is the kitchen here?” she asked Zoe.

“Rick plus three do the cooking, six wait tables, another three out back doing clean-up.”

“Where does he get his meat?”

“It’s delivered fresh from Portland every day.”

“Is the fish local?”

“Not all of it. Our fleet can’t get tuna, or halibut, or shrimp. That’s up from Portland, too.”

Their drinks arrived, iced tea for three. The waitress delivering them was the same perky young woman who had delivered Matthew Crane’s meal. By Julia’s estimate, she was no older than Molly. “Ready to order, ladies?” the girl asked.