B000FC1MHI EBOK (27 page)

“Why not?”

“I don’t know what I want to do. It’d be a total waste. Unless I could play ball, which I can’t, because I’m not good enough.”

“Who says?” Noah asked, glancing his way.

Ian returned a defiant look. “My coach.”

“What does he know?”

“A lot.”

“Open the glove box and pass me my sunglasses,” Noah said. When Ian complied, he asked, “What colleges are you going to see?”

“I don’t know. Mom planned the trip.”

“Ian. This is
your
future. Find some places you like.”

Ian didn’t reply.

Noah let it go until, on the outskirts of Rockland, they passed a cluster of girls. So he tried, “Did you know those girls who got off the plane in front of you?”

“No.”

“They were pretty.”

“They were townies.”

Meaning, Noah knew, that they went to public school, rather than private school like Ian. “Nothing wrong with that. Your mother and I both went to public school. What’re the girls at your school like?”

Ian snorted. “Cooler than those, that’s for sure.”

“Anyone special?”

“No.”

“Not even the one you took to the junior prom?”

“She’s a friend. And we went with other friends. It was no big deal.”

Noah spotted an attractive girl as they approached the pier. “What do you think of that one?”

“She’s okay,” Ian said.

“If I were your age, I’d have called her a knockout.”

Ian shot him a stare. “You’re not my age.”

“And grateful for it,” Noah said, turning off the engine and returning the stare. “I don’t recall having a chip on my shoulder, but I’m sure I pushed my parents plenty. If there’s one thing they taught by example, it’s patience. Ten minutes until we board the ferry,” he added and faced forward.

Patience was one thing, Noah decided, and progress quite another. Standing at the rail as the ferry made the crossing, he wondered if the first would get him the last. He wanted a relationship with his son. Question-and-answer sessions did not make a relationship.

The good news was that, though the ferry offered places to hide, Ian didn’t stray far. He stood at the rail six feet from Noah, watching the islands as they slowly took color and shape. Of the four in the ferry’s path, Noah might have pointed out Little Sawyer from Big Sawyer from West Rock from Hull. He might have pointed out a passing lobster boat, the
My Andrea,
with Leslie Crane at her helm. He might have shown Ian the string of green-and-gold buoys Leslie was tending, how they were set north to south, how if you wanted to know where the catch would be good, you looked for those green-and-gold buoys, because Leslie was a highliner, consistently one of the most successful of the island’s lobstermen. He might have shown Ian where the
Amelia Celeste
had gone down and taken the life of his grandfather with it.

But Noah didn’t say a thing. He didn’t trust that Ian wouldn’t make a disparaging remark, one that might provoke anger in him. That was something he needed to avoid. Better, he decided, to let things unfold slowly.

But it wasn’t to be. The ferry had no sooner docked at Big Sawyer and Noah driven the truck off when he was waved down by Mike Kling, whose shaved head gleamed in the sun.

“We got trouble, Noah,” he said. “Those buoys you set last week up north of Main Mast rock? They’re gray.”

“Gray?”

“Painted. Once you spot the things, you can see blue and orange underneath, but the problem’s spotting them. They blend right into the chop.”

“Painted?” That was a new one. Lobstermen didn’t carry paint in their boats. Novices might, if they were peeved that their pot warp was tied up in knots. “As in vandalized?”

“You got it.”

“Just mine?”

“Looks it.”

“Haber and Welk?”

“Most likely.”

And so it went, Noah knew. You invade our turf, we knot your lines, you paint our buoys. Cutting warp was the next step. And he was game. Haber and Welk seemed to be picking on him. Why not pick back?

He ran a hand around the back of his neck. Something of a highliner himself, he had been expecting good things from the traps near Main Mast rock. They sat on rocky bottom, the bottom of choice for lobsters during the late-June molt, when, after walking out of their old shells, they were waiting for their new ones to harden and, in the meanwhile, were vulnerable to predators. Rocky bottom offered places to hide that sandy bottom did not.

He could still haul the traps; he had notations in his logbook of where each one was. But the buoys would have to be repainted. To do that, they had to be brought in, which meant hauling the traps and bringing those along, which meant either multiple trips or a mighty full boat, given the possible number of traps involved. It also meant the loss of a few days’ fishing.

“Gotta be done,” he said, as much to himself as to Mike. He put the truck in gear, thinking to continue on to the house to get Ian settled in, but then had another thought. Backing up, he pulled into a parking spot. It was early yet; he still had another few hours of daylight. Before he could decide what to do, he had to know the extent of the damage.

A
fter trying to talk with her mother, Julia took a long shower. She spread Lily of the Valley body lotion over every inch of her skin, slipped on her wedding band, and got dressed. Then she had an English muffin and tea. But it was only after a walk in the woods that she finally mellowed out. Back at the house, she brought a book to the bedroom deck and read until her stomach growled. She made a sandwich with the deli meat and rye bread Noah had bought, and returned to the deck. All the while, she refused to think about anything but the novelty of doing her own thing in her own time and being answerable to no one at all.

By midafternoon, sun no longer hit the bedroom deck, so she shifted to an Adirondack chair on the front porch and returned to her book. She was there when the second car of the day came out of the woods and parked. If she had been pleased when Molly came, she was delighted now. This car was a small blue Honda with Kim at the wheel.

Closing her book, Julia came forward in the deep chair. When Kim didn’t get out but simply sat watching her from the car, Julia rose. She went to the edge of the porch. When that didn’t scare Kim off, she approached the car. Walking leisurely, she went to the driver’s side. Kim bowed her head and looked at her lap, but the window was open, like an ear ready to listen.

“How’d you know I was here?” Julia asked and answered herself. “Ah, don’t tell me. My father went to the island store for the
Wall Street Journal,
got into a conversation with Daryl, the owner, and let it slip that I was staying here. Daryl told June, who told Nancy, who told you.”

The corner of Kim’s mouth twitched. In the absence of words, that was progress. Even more so, the fact that she had come at all. From what Julia had heard, Kim had been nowhere in two weeks except her own house and the bluff. Noah’s house certainly offered more privacy than either of those.

“Want to come in?” she asked. “I was about to put on fresh coffee, maybe even have a snack.” She gestured the girl along. When Kim didn’t move, she went into the house, leaving the door open, and set up the coffeemaker. By the time the first hisses and gurgles were coming from the machine, Kim stood at the edge of the room.

She was several inches shorter than Julia’s five-seven, and built as nicely as her mother and grandmother—namely, fuller in the bust than anywhere else. Julia could see how men would be drawn. Her clothes were clean—a blouse, jeans, and a zippered sweater. Appearing freshly washed, her hair looked longer, thicker, and redder than ever.

Julia gestured her into a seat, but the girl didn’t budge. So, opening the refrigerator, she took out what remained of the French bread and Brie from the evening before. In no time, she had the Brie on the bread, on a tray under the broiler. When the top began to bubble, she put half of the snack on each of two small white dishes. Again, she gestured for Kim to sit, and took a seat of her own this time.

Kim approached the table. She lowered herself to the chair’s edge as though she had doubts and was poised to run.

Julia helped herself to a piece of toast, then got up and poured two cups of coffee. She set them on the table and sat down again. It was a full minute before Kim finally put out an unsteady hand and took a piece of toast.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Julia said. “I was worried I’d done this for nothing.”

Brow furrowed, Kim kept her eyes on the food. With her pale skin and straight features complementing her hair, she was a striking young woman. Her eyes were chestnut, a warmer brown than those of her mother and grandmother. Her earlobes were pierced but earringless. Her mouth was wider than Julia had thought it to be, and looked all the larger in such a small face.

She ate in silence. When she had finished two slices of toast, she put her hand in her lap.

Quietly, Julia said, “If the grapevine told you I was here, it must be keeping you up to date on the investigation of the accident.”

Kim swallowed. Julia took that for a yes.

“For what it’s worth, no one has asked either Noah or me about you. Everyone seems to know, though, that you and Artie had a thing.”

Kim studied her hands.

“If that’s true,” Julia went on more softly, “it’s only a matter of time before someone will wonder which boat you were on.”

Kim’s eyes met hers in alarm.

“They’ll wonder,” Julia added, “but there’s no way they’ll ever know for sure. I can’t swear that you weren’t on the
Amelia Celeste,
and neither can Noah. Did anyone see you with Artie on the day of the accident?”

Kim didn’t reply, simply stared at her with large chestnut eyes.

“Did you shoot him?”

No reply.

“Do you know who did?”

Still no reply.

Julia sat back. “I want to help you, though Lord knows why. Do you know how
wrong
it is to have an affair with a married man? Do you know how hurtful it is for the wife? And for the kids?”

Kim didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t speak. Nor did her eyes leave Julia’s.

“I ought to hate you, but I can’t. There’s a bond, Kim. We shared something that night. It doesn’t matter where you were sitting or why you were there. You survived something horrific, just like I did. Don’t you ask yourself why?”

Kim moved her head in a deliberate nod. At the same time, her hand went into the pocket of her sweater and pulled out something flat. She slid it across the table toward Julia. Her hand lingered in a last minute’s unsureness before giving it a tiny shove and withdrawing.

It was a bankbook. Uneasy, Julia opened it. The account was in Kim’s name, the first deposits dated eight years before. Those deposits were in the kinds of small amounts that represented a teenager’s earnings from baby-sitting and such. Larger amounts, several thousand a pop, had been deposited more recently, most in the last eighteen months. The current balance was twenty-three thousand and change.

Julia tried to find meaning in the amount. “You’ve always worked and always saved.”

Kim nodded slowly.

Baby-sitting was fine. Bartending was fine. The larger amounts, though, made Julia nervous. “Are these big ones from Artie?” she asked and, suddenly, even without a response from Kim, she wanted to push the bankbook away, forget she had seen it, pretend it didn’t exist. It was incriminating. She needed to tell the girl that. “Did you know he was under suspicion for smuggling illegal aliens?”

Kim stared at her, eyes wide with a plea, and Julia did try to slide the bankbook back then. Kim’s hand shot out and stopped the slide.

“If this is hush money,” Julia began, “I don’t want any part of it.” But something about the way Kim was looking at her suggested that it wasn’t hush money at all. She wasn’t giving the money to Julia. Rather, “You want me to hold this for you?”

Kim gave a quick nod.

“So no one else sees?” Another nod. “But that makes me an accessory to whatever you did for this money.”

Kim eyed her steadily, still with an element of pleading, and it got to Julia. Adding everything Noah had told her to everything Zoe had told her to everything her own gut instinct told her, she couldn’t think of Kim as evil.

“Did you love Artie?” she asked, because that made the most sense. “Did he give you this money as a gift?” Some men gave flowers, others jewelry. Julia couldn’t imagine Kim wanting either. Money, on the other hand, Kim might want, indeed. “Were you saving up for something? To buy your own boat? Or a house?”

Kim looked out the window, but not toward her car and the road. Her eyes rose to the tops of the trees and grew distant, then glassy with tears—and suddenly Julia recalled the horror on the girl’s face the last time they had talked, when Julia had dreamed aloud of staying on Big Sawyer forever.

“This is your escape,” she said, understanding. “Do you know where you want to go? What you want to do?”

Eyes still brimming, Kim rose from the chair and headed for the door.

Julia was up in an instant. “Don’t leave, Kim. Tell me these things. If you can’t say them, write them down. I can help.”

But Kim didn’t stop.

Long after the sound of the blue Honda’s motor was lost in the woods, Julia sat at the table staring at the bankbook Kim had left. She probably should have refused to hold it, should have followed Kim right out to the car and tossed it inside. Yes, it was incriminating, though whether it was representative of the payoff a married man made to his mistress, or the payoff a felon made to his accomplice, Julia didn’t know.

Not knowing, and feeling a loyalty to Kim that made picking up the phone to call the police seem wrong, she rose from the table, went down to the bedroom, and tucked the bankbook into the mottled leather bag that held her most personal things. On impulse, she took the bag out to the porch and removed those things. They were still vaguely damp from their time in the ocean. She guessed that if the zipper hadn’t been closed, they would have been covered with seaweed.

Actually, if the zipper hadn’t been closed, they would have dispersed. She was grateful they hadn’t. Among the things that she laid out to dry were two envelopes. One held charge receipts and credit card bills that she had so carefully, guiltily gathered. The other held the photographs that were far older, but that were every bit as important to her.

Pulling the photos from their envelope, she was relieved to find that though their color was muted by moisture, the basic images were intact.

Five in all, she spread them in a line. One was of the harbor, one of the pier. A third captured a stack of lobster traps, and a fourth the men building the pile. But the fifth was the one she wanted to see. Far from a close-up—she wouldn’t have
dared
do that, at the age of fifteen—it showed six young men perched on and around the pier piling. They wore work boots and jeans, but were bare-chested. Each of the six had the tattoo around his biceps that marked him as part of the local lobster gang.

Lifting the picture, she held it in her palm and brought it closer, and there she saw him, or thought she did—Noah Prine at seventeen, far less mature in looks and build than he was now, but handsome nonetheless.

She was thinking of the fantasies that had been based on this particular picture over the years, when the phone rang. It was the land line. She debated letting it ring, until she realized that it might be Noah— and that she wanted to talk with him. Running inside, she picked up the phone by the bed.

The voice she heard was less deep than his, and more crisp. “Mrs. Bechtel, it’s Alex Brier from the
Island Gazette
. Zoe said I’d find you there. I have a favor to ask. Those pictures you gave to the Chief? I want them for the paper. Think you could email them here?”

Julia was startled. She wondered if giving them to the newspaper was permissible. But no one had said she shouldn’t. “Uh, sure,” she managed. “When do you need them?”

“As soon as you can send them. Got a pen?”

Opening the drawer of the nightstand by the bed, she found pens, along with half-completed crossword puzzles with Noah’s strong lettering in the squares. She jotted the editor’s email address in the margin of one. As soon as she hung up, she took her camera from its case in the living room, went up to the loft, and sent the pictures along.

Then she called Noah on his cell phone. “Yeah,” he answered, sounding irritated.

“It’s Julia. I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” She knew he was with Ian and wouldn’t have called if she hadn’t felt an urgency.

His voice gentled. “No more so than another. We’re on the
Leila Sue
.” He told her about the vandalism to the buoys. “It looks like forty were painted. Someone was busy last night.”

“The fruit guys?”

“Probably.”

“Did anyone see them?”

“Nope. Hold on.” He must have put the phone in his shirt pocket, because though his voice was more distant, the words were distinct. “Gaff it, Ian. Grab it with the hook. That’s it. Bring it up now, right here over the winch. There. The hydraulic hauler’ll do the rest.” A motor started. He returned to Julia. “Can you hold another minute?”

“Sure.”

To Ian, he said, “We’re only in five fathoms, so it won’t take long. Keep a lookout. You’ll see a bright thing coming at you fast before it breaks the surface. The hauler’ll get it on the rail, but you need to get it in the boat. There. See it? Got it. Okay. Look for the next.” He returned to Julia. “My boy didn’t expect this when he woke up in D.C. this morning. It’s something of a trial by fire.”

“Things are okay with you and him, then?”

“Now.”

“Ah.” Clearly, he couldn’t talk freely. “Forty buoys is how many traps?”

“I do pairs, so that’s eighty, but I’m not hauling all of them.” To Ian, he said, “Start a stack in the stern. There, on the trap skids.” Back to Julia, he said, “I have extra buoys. Paint ’em, and they’re good for exchange. Problem is, it has to be done soon. Traps without colors are fair game.” He called, “Next string, Ian.” Then, to Julia, “Everything okay there?”

“I just had a visit from Kim.”

“Did you?”

“I need to ask your advice, but not on the phone. I know you’ll be busy with Ian—”