B000FC1MHI EBOK (19 page)

With a tired smile, Ellen shook her head. “Not much appetite here.”

“Want to take off for a little while? I can stay.”

Ellen perked up at that. “Would you? There are errands I’d be better doing alone.”

“Go,” Julia said.

For the next two hours, Julia was focused enough on the girls not to worry about Kim, Monte, or Janet, and busy enough not to be restless. She took them for a walk through the meadow, read to them, helped them build sand castles, let them run under the sprinkler to clean up. They were precious children, curious, well behaved, and smart. The younger was more physical than her sister, wanting to hold Julia’s hand, sit on her lap, stand against her leg. The older asked questions.

What’s this flower? Where’s the yellow from? Do you know my mommy? Where do you live? Why’s it called a buttercup? Can I pick one for Kristie?

Each in her way, they were needy. They might not understand what had happened, but they knew something was up.
My daddy made my face in clay, want to see?

Julia’s heart broke for them. When Ellen had returned, and it was time to go, leaving the little one, in particular, was hard. Vanessa clung. “I’ll be back,” Julia assured her, holding her tightly for a minute, before whispering in her ear, “with chocolate chip cookies.”

“I love those,” Vanessa whispered back, but solemnly.

Driving away, Julia thought about love and loss. She hadn’t gone far when the thought of her mother loomed before her. The Walsh girls had lost their parents. Julia couldn’t help but think how lucky she was to have hers, and how tragic it was that she and Janet couldn’t talk.

Pulling to the side of the road under the shade of a gnarled old oak, she put down the windows to let air in while she gave them a call. Her father answered.

“Hi, Dad,” she said tentatively.

“Julia. How’s it going?”

“Pretty well, but I really need to talk to Mom. Is she there?”

“She’s out on the patio.”

“Would you take the cordless to her?”

There was a pause, then a quiet, “She’s relaxing, Julia. Maybe we ought to let her be.”

Julia feared that if she let the moment pass, she might lose her resolve. “Please give her the phone, Dad.”

“Are you all right?”

“Dad.”

“I’m on your side, Julia. I’m pushing her every chance I get, but she’s a stubborn woman.”

“Right now, so am I,” Julia decided, and there must have been enough conviction in her voice to give him pause.

After a murmured “Okay,” he put her on hold—which, of course, meant that Julia couldn’t hear whatever coaxing he had to do to get Janet to take the phone. Enough time passed that Julia began bracing herself for another flat-out refusal.

Then Janet came on with a curt, “Yes, Julia.”

Julia’s heart beat faster. “Can we talk?”

“That depends. Is this an apology?”

Julia swallowed. “If you want it to be. If I’ve offended you, I’m sorry.”

Janet was silent.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t know what you want me to say. You’re upset that I’m here. But it’s not like I’m forcing
you
to come. This is me, not you.
My
need to get away, not yours. I don’t understand why you’re so angry.”

“Zoe betrayed me. End of story.”

“Not end of story, because the two of you are still alive. It’ll only be end of story when one of you dies, and that’s what I’ve seen up here, Mom. I was just with two little girls who’ve lost their parents.
That’s
the end of a story.”

Janet said nothing.

“Mom?”

“Are you trying to reconcile Zoe and me?”

“No. It’s me needing to talk with you, me needing to know that you’re there and you care.”

“We’ll talk when you’re back.”

“I want to tell you about the accident. About what I’m feeling.”

“It’ll hold until you’re home.”

“But I won’t be home right away.”

“So your father said. That’s not wise, Julia.”

“I need this time.”

“Have you told Monte that? What did he say?”

“He’s fine with it.”

“He’s your husband. You ought to be with him. Men behave badly when they feel they’ve been abandoned.”

Exasperated, Julia cried, “Oh, he
already
behaves badly! Mom, I need to talk about who I am and where I’m going, and what you really think of me, because I haven’t done anything like what you’ve done, and sometimes I think I’m less of a person for it, and now, here I am with half a life ahead of me, and I’m feeling like there are things I need to do, only I can’t pin them down—and, yes, I want to talk about Monte, because I don’t, for the life of me, know what to do with my marriage, and you’ve had experience with this.” She hadn’t planned to say the last, would have taken the words back if she could. “Mom?” she said fearfully. There was no answer. “Are you there, Mom?”

Janet had hung up. What Julia didn’t know was whether it had happened before those words, or after.

H
eart heavy, Julia sat in the car with her hands limp in her lap. Her hair was caught up by a gentle breeze as it came in one window and went out the other. She felt the breath of it on her skin, but it went no deeper.

She could have used the soothing inside. Everything there was raw, everything in turmoil, flowers that had grown year after year suddenly tugged from the soil, roots and all.

There were no sounds of the ocean on this road; they were blunted by waves of spruce, pine, and birch. She might have been on any country road in any little town in the heart of America—except that she wasn’t, and, suddenly, the pull to Big Sawyer that she had felt over the years was stronger than ever. It went beyond familiarity. Being here was
right
.

Far down the road, a dark blue truck rounded the curve. It was a late model, bumpers gleaming even as its tires kicked back a cloud of dust. It slowed as it neared. Driver’s window to driver’s window, it stopped.

“Hey,” said Noah Prine, straight-faced as ever. “You’ve led me a merry chase.”

Julia felt a tiny lift, a little nudge against the ache in her heart. “Following me, were you?”

His eyes were the darkest of blue and direct. “You look a little down. I’m doing chores. Want to come?”

It was the invitation she needed. Leaving the car without a second thought, she rounded the front of the truck. By the time she reached the other side, he had the door open. She climbed in, closed the door, and looked around. The seats were leather, the steering wheel wood, the stereo system advanced.

She ran a hand over the leather. “Very nice,” she said in admiration and sent him a bright smile. “I’m all set.”

He wagged a finger at the seat belt, which she quickly fastened—but the fact that she had forgotten it got her thinking. “So here’s a question. Would it be possible for us to survive the crash the other night, only to die in a car crash today?”

“Possible? Sure.” He shot her a glance. “Are you feeling immortal?”

“No. But some people who’ve been through what we have do feel that way. They tempt fate. They take every risk possible.”

“They don’t have kids,” he said with some weight.

Julia studied his profile—serious forehead softened by spikes of dark hair, straight nose, firm chin—and it struck her that he wasn’t talking only about her. “I didn’t know you did.”

After shifting gears for the cruise down Dobbs Hill, he put his right hand on the top of the wheel. His left elbow was on the windowsill, fingers just grazing the wheel. The pose was relaxed. Not so his voice. “I have a son. He’s seventeen. He’ll be coming up next week.”

“Where does he live?”

“Washington, D.C. My ex-wife is an educator.”

Julia pictured the island school. It was housed in a small, square building of wood and served Big Sawyer children until they reached high school, when they were ferried to the mainland each day. “Was she originally from here?”

“No. We met at college.”

“Were you an education major, also?”

“Economics. We spent the nine years of our marriage in New York.”

Julia broke into a surprised smile—then yelped a split second later when something brown and wet appeared between the seats. It was a nose, and might have been followed by a freckled white muzzle and a pair of soft brown eyes had Lucas not been startled himself by her yelp and shrunk back. She pressed a hand to her chest and began to laugh.

“I did
not
know he was there.” She turned as much as the seat belt would allow to see the dog, wedged now in a corner of the extended cab. She held out a hand. It was a minute before he sniffed it, another before he decided she was harmless, at which point he curled up and went back to sleep. Julia turned back to Noah. “What did you do in New York?”

“I was an investment banker,” he said with the twitch of a diffident smile.

“You
were
?” She never would have imagined it. Noah was light-years removed in appearance and behavior from the investment bankers she had met through Monte. “That’s very different from lobstering.”

The road curved. He drove it one-handed, with ease. “Not as different as you’d think. There’s the same lone wolf mentality, the same competitiveness. I was working with MBAs who saw me as a lesser breed because I wasn’t one myself.”

Julia knew how that worked. Monte was acutely aware of credentials. When he introduced people, it was so-and-so MBA, or so-and-so Ph.D. or so-and-so CEO or CFO or COO or EVP. He sought out colleagues with advanced degrees as a validation of his own. She—who had no college degree at all—had come to find the habit annoying.

“That actually helped me out,” Noah went on. “If they keep you at arm’s length, you can be more independent. I wasn’t driven by their opinion. I often rowed against the tide, but my instincts were good. I did well.” He slid her a glance. “We’re goin’ for bait. You mind?”

“Of course not. Where do you get it?”

“There’s a bait house far side of the harbor. A supplier keeps it stocked. It’ll likely be herring. Pieces of,” he tacked on.

“Will I need to hold it raw in my lap?” she asked and, when the corner of his mouth quirked in reply, moved on. “Were you always interested in business?”

He raised his fingers from the wheel only enough to acknowledge the driver of a passing truck. “Only as it related to lobstering. I’d probably have stayed here those four years, if it hadn’t been for my parents. They wanted me to go to college. They wanted me to be one step ahead of the lobstermen who didn’t go and couldn’t see the larger picture.”

“Larger picture?”

“Supply and demand. The food chain.”

“Human or animal?”

“Both. I studied marine biology, ecosystems, business. The business courses interested me most. I worked back here the first summer, then worked in the city the next. The money was good. I was able to send back double enough for my father to pay a sternman in place of me.”

“What about after graduation? Hadn’t you planned to return?”

They reached the end of the road. Shifting gear again, Noah turned right. “Yup. Then came Sandi, who had her choice of teaching jobs in New York, and I got an offer myself that was too good to pass up. I told my folks it was a temporary thing. I figured I’d earn a bundle, invest it, and come back here with no money worries at all.” Absently, he acknowledged a pickup, then said in a drier voice, “That’s pretty much what I did.”

“What happened to your marriage?”

His voice remained dry. “Know what kind of hours investment bankers keep?”

“I know they’re bad.”

“I was working nine in the morning to three the next, plus at least one weekend day. When I was home, I didn’t have much taste for anything but sleep.”

Julia could see it. Monte didn’t work quite those hours, but her friend Charlotte’s husband did. Charlotte had bought her boutique precisely to fill the void left by his absence.

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling oddly responsible, as a New Yorker, for the kind of life that ate people alive.

“Don’t be. My marriage was never that strong. We fell in love with the idea of it, more than with each other. Sandi’s doing fine now. She has a portfolio that gives her lots of extra income. She can spend time with people she’s more compatible with than me and my friends. My only regret is Ian. I’m never quite sure what to say to him.”

“How long will he be here?”

“Three weeks.”

“Does he come every summer?”

“No. This is the first.”

“Could he not come for the funeral?”

“Didn’t
want
to.”

“Oh, dear.”

“My fault,” Noah said. “I should have called him directly and said I wanted him here. I guess I was anticipating a fight. I wasn’t up for it then.”

“Are you now?” Julia asked.

“No.”

“But he’s coming. Whose idea was it?”

“Mine.”

She admired his courage. Seventeen-year-olds wallowed in the fear of the future and anticipation of responsibility and stress. They often fought with their parents for no other reason than to feel better about leaving home. Seventeen had been difficult even with Molly, and she was a breeze to raise. Julia figured that if Noah had trouble communicating with his son under the best of conditions, they would be at the crisis stage now.

Not knowing how to help, she looked out her side window. Having left the uplands behind, they were on a flat road that skirted the far side of the harbor. The vegetation was more sparse here, the tended feel at the heart of the harbor replaced by Atlantic wear and tear. In the absence of shade trees, the road was bleached by the sun and worn by the salty air that blew now through the cab of the truck.

Small businesses stood in twos and threes as they had for decades— an auto body shop and a gas station, a convenience store, a store selling island furniture. Their signs varied from the faded canvas banner to ones carved in wood, but the late afternoon sun didn’t discriminate. Its glow fell on each, rendering this workingman’s turf in a softer hue.

Farther on, rising beyond a marshy stand of beach grass and the occasional abandoned hull, was the boat repair shop. Noah pointed at the large hangar out front. “Used to be only two rows high, now it’s four. Come winter, there are boats all the way up, waiting their turn for repair. Not much there now.”

The road curved as they passed, giving Julia a view of the water side with its rough pilings and piers. “There are plenty out there,” she remarked.

“Damage happens in season. Some of those may be in just for tune-ups.”

“Like a car?”

“Pretty much. You need an oil change every hundred and fifty hours. That’s every other week in summer. Most of us do it ourselves. Some don’t.”

He turned off the main road. The truck bumped along for a mile before coming to a stop in front of a stone shed. “Be right back,” he said and was out of the cab with Lucas on his heels. As the dog dashed into the tall grasses, Noah opened the tailgate, pulled out a fiberglass locker, and hauled it inside. By the time he returned, it looked significantly heavier.

He whistled for Lucas, who came on the run and leapt into the truck without missing a beat. Noah followed, closed the door, backed around, and returned to the road.

“Tell me about Kim,” Julia said quietly. She didn’t want to make an out-and-out accusation. Nor, though, could she forget what she had seen, or more precisely,
not
seen. The police were investigating the accident. Kim Colella could be a major piece of the puzzle.

“Did you see her?” he asked with what she thought was caution.

“This morning, up on the bluff. I wasn’t prepared for her hair.”

“All that red.”

“I don’t remember seeing it on the
Amelia Celeste
. Was she wearing a hat?”

Noah didn’t answer.

“If she wasn’t,” Julia said, “I’d have seen her. I always notice hair. I was thinking maybe she was inside the wheelhouse, but if she was there, she’d have died in the crash.” She paused. “Don’t you think?”

“Maybe not. Stranger things have happened. Did you ask her where she was?”

“I didn’t dare.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Not a word.”

He slid her a glance. “Is that what had you so sad back there?”

Julia didn’t have to struggle to think back. Heavyheartedness was a pot on the back burner, simmering right alongside the issue of bright red hair. “That. And the Walsh girls. Actually, though, mostly my mother.”

He slid her a second glance. “Is she sick?”

“Oh, no. She’s well—well and strong-willed as ever. I had been talking with her right before you drove up. Talking. That’s putting it nicely.”

“You argued.”

Julia felt a whisper of the sea on her face. As they neared the center of town, she could see the harbor filled with boats moored for the night. They rocked gently in water that was surprisingly calm. She took comfort in that.

Pushing her fingers into her hair, she piled it in a twist at the top of her head and held the twist with both hands. “Yes, we argued.”

“Is it chronic?”

“Arguing? No. I rarely give her cause. I’m usually the good daughter.” She released her hair. It slid down. “Not for the last month, though. She doesn’t want me here. She thinks I should be back in New York with my husband.”

“What does your husband say?”

“He says I should stay. But I’m staying for me. I came here for me, and I’m staying for me, and I want my mother’s support.” She looked at him. “Why does her opinion matter so much to me? I’m forty years old. Why do I care?”

Pulling up at the pier, he faced her. “Because you’re a caring person. It’s written all over you.”

“But I can’t always do what my mother wants. Where do you draw the line between the obligation you have to your family and the one you have to yourself?”

He thought for a minute, brow furrowed, dark eyes deep. Then he said a simple, “After the accident, you draw it here.”