Back Bay (46 page)

The next word was illegible. She knew what she wanted to say, but suddenly, she couldn’t hold the pen. Her face went numb. Her right eye closed. The pain at the side of her head was excruciating but lasted only a second.

Artemus Pratt found his aunt seated at her desk, her head bowed on her chest, her left eye open. This time, the stroke had been merciful.

Abigail Pratt Bentley distributed her wealth evenly to her nephews, nieces, and their children. Everyone was satisfied when Henry Pratt, now the family attorney and the executor of Abigail’s will, prepared to read the final codicil. Henry cleared his throat and looked around. He had learned already that a large, well-appointed office inspired confidence in potential clients and was indispensable for the reading of a will. In front of his desk, in straight-backed chairs brought from the outer office, sat Henry’s wife, his mother, his brothers, his sisters, who had traveled to Boston for the reading of the will, and four spouses.

Artemus Pratt sat to Henry’s right, in front of a window, motionless as a lizard in the sunlight.

“ ‘There are ten envelopes contained in a safety-deposit box, and the name of a family member is written on each one. Envelopes shall go to each of the six couples I assume are assembled
here today, the remainder to the four firstborn children of the next generation.’ ”

As Henry read, Artemus studied the faces of his children. His brothers and their children, except for a single mulatto bastard, were dead. The line of Pratt descent now traced directly through Artemus, and he was pleased that none of his children seemed especially interested in Abigail’s envelopes. He knew that most of them would entrust the money that Abigail was leaving them and pay no attention to legends. He had raised them well.

Henry paused for a sip of water, then continued. “ ‘Those envelopes are your means of communicating with me. They are the glue that will hold you together. They are your second chance for greatness. You may not open the envelopes for ten years, and you may never divulge the contents, unless three or more of you agree that the Pratts face a financial or personal crisis that cannot be overcome without a new inflow of funds. If you agree, you must then go to the eldest son of the eldest son and ask him for his permission and opinion. Bide by his decision, for it is my own. Remember that I am with you always in your pursuit of greatness. Signed, Abigail Pratt Bentley, October 9, 1874.’ ”

Henry put the paper down and folded his hands on his desk. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get her to be more specific about all this. But she said that these were the instructions her father gave her, and she was giving them to the future.”

“Toward the end,” cracked Artemus Jr., “I think Auntie’s pigskin needed a bit of air.”

“Don’t be disrespectful,” snapped his mother.

“Father, what do you think of all this?” asked Henry.

“We should do our best to abide by the codicil. It was her wish. The best way to abide by it is to forget about it. Our aunt was an eccentric old woman living in a world of dreams.” Artemus stood. “Face reality, and you’ll never need to concern yourself with her fantasies.”

G
in and tonics. Cold cucumber soup. Spinach salad, saffron rice, bluefish steak marinated in white wine and herbs and grilled over charcoal. California Chablis. Cheese and fruit. Halfway through the preparation of the salad, Evangeline realized that she hadn’t taken such care with a meal in months.

She had tried to find her grandmother that afternoon and failed. Now, she wasn’t sure how to proceed. Accepting her uncle’s explanation of the tea-set business seemed the safe, logical choice, but she did not know what to expect from Fallon. She had been surprised by his reticence after their meeting with the Pratts. If he had decided to go back to work, she wanted to find out quickly if there was going to be anything else between them. She hoped that a relaxed dinner would provide some answers.

Fallon arrived around six-thirty, and they went up to the roof, where Evangeline had built a small patio. It was still hot in Boston; the downtown office buildings, the Back Bay brick, and the green hills of Brookline shimmered through the evening haze. They sipped their gin and tonics and listened to the bluefish sizzling on the grill, and Evangeline asked Peter what he thought of her uncle’s story.

He said he’d been thinking all day. He hadn’t made up his mind, and he didn’t want to think anymore until after dinner. She understood. For the last few years, she had been approaching her own life the same way.

While they ate, Fallon talked about bluefish. He recounted his first deep-sea fishing expedition, when he had hooked into a twenty-pounder that bit through his steel leader. He talked about their voracious eating habits, their migrating pattern, and their incredible strength when hooked.

It was as if they had said everything important to each other the night before on the beach. Now they were talking about fish, and Peter Fallon seemed like a rather ordinary young man. There was nothing wrong with that. Evangeline simply found him more interesting when he was obsessed.

After dinner, he sat back and locked his hands behind his head. He seemed completely at ease. He popped a grape into his mouth and announced, “Bullshit.”

“What?”

“Bullshit. Everything they said today is bullshit. I don’t believe a single word of it.”

She smiled. “When did you decide that?”

“Just now… this afternoon… on my walk over here from the ballpark… I don’t know. But I’ve known since I got out of bed this morning that they weren’t going to get me to back out, no matter what they said. They’re all tied into it somehow. Pratt, Hannaford, Soames, all of them. They were just trying to get us out of the way with that story. Well, bullshit.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that.” She seemed pleased.

“But right now…” He pushed back his chair and stood dramatically. “I don’t give a damn about the tea set, the Pratts, or who-believes-what. You know what I really want to do?”

She shook her head. He had turned unpredictable again.

“I want to go over to that hammock on the other side of the patio, stretch out, and eat grapes. You interested in joining me?”

He grabbed the grapes in one hand and her in the other. She didn’t have a chance to refuse. She didn’t want one. The suddenness worked in their favor. It was exactly what she needed from him.

They lay down together on the hammock, a balancing act they accomplished with ease. Peter dropped the grapes. They wrapped their arms around each other, and he brought his face close to hers. She had showered before dinner and was wearing a trace of Chanel; he had been sitting shirtless in the bleachers all afternoon and smelled of sunburn and sweat. The aromas mingled. Their lips brushed once, twice.

Then, they hesitated. They looked into each other’s eyes and agreed.

She rolled off the hammock, stood, and undressed in front of him. First the blouse, then the sandals, then, in one motion, the tennis shorts and panties. She did not act coy, like a newlywed, or disinterested, like a prostitute. She stood naked in front of him,
a vague half-smile on her face, her hands at her sides, the palms turned toward him, inviting him.

He was glad he had waited. He lay on the hammock and let his eyes caress her breasts, her thighs, her blond hair, her brown hair. He noticed a trickle of perspiration glistening between her breasts. Tentatively, he reached out and took her hand.

She pulled it away and whispered, “You, too.”

He stood close to her but did not touch her. He removed his jersey, then his sneakers, then his shorts and underpants.

She was surprised. Beneath a shirt, he looked slender, but his body was muscular, explosive, almost an extension of his personality. His erection flattered her. She touched it, and they embraced. Afterward, they lay beneath a blanket on the hammock. It was getting dark, and the breeze had blown out the candles on the table.

“What do you plan to do?” she asked softly.

“Find Jack C. Ferguson, if I can. Also, that Rule guy might know something. And I think we should keep looking for your grandmother.”

“You don’t give up easily, do you?”

“When nothing else has excited you in months, you just naturally hold onto any idle daydreams that happen to turn you on.”

She sat up angrily, exposing her breasts and reminding Fallon that they were both naked. “You need more than daydreams and cheap thrills to get through life.”

“I know.” He leaned forward and buried his face in the warmth between her breasts. His mouth found a nipple and his hands slid gently down her back.

“Peter…” She tried to protest.

His mouth covered hers and he pulled her back on top of himself.

They didn’t speak again until several hours later, when, somewhere in his dream, Fallon heard something moving beside him. Then he heard the pop of a pistol. Someone in the penumbra was shooting at him. He opened his eyes in full fright.

There were three graceful, tulip-shaped glasses on the table next to him, and someone was pouring champagne. At first, he thought it was Evangeline, but she was still asleep and trying to
struggle back to consciousness herself. Through the glasses, Fallon saw a barrel chest supporting a head the size of a medicine ball. The body was shrouded in a ragged tweed jacket, shiny pants, and khaki workshirt. The head was framed in uncombed white hair, and a Red Sox baseball cap was perched on the back of the skull.

Evangeline screamed, jumped up, and wrapped herself in the blanket. The hammock flipped over and pitched Fallon stark naked onto the floor. He rolled to his feet and crouched for a fight, but the barrel chest began to heave and the body emitted a long, low growl. Fallon barely recognized it as a laugh. It sounded lonely and unpracticed.

The man tossed Fallon his shorts and smiled. “Put these on before you catch cold. Then, I want both of you kids to sit down and have a drink with me.”

“Who the hell are you,” demanded Evangeline.

“Jack C. Ferguson, and I’m pleased to meet you both up close.” He still spoke his name with pride.

“Up close? What does that mean?” asked Evangeline. The name hadn’t sunk in.

“I’ve been watching you two for quite a while.” He smiled.

“And you liked what you saw, so you decided to join the party?”

He laughed again. The sound got better with practice. “I’ve been watching you for several days, although I must admit I really enjoyed tonight. It reminded me of my salad days.”

“Well, take your limp lettuce and get out of here!”

By now, Fallon was dressed and smiling. “I’ve been chasing you for the last week.”

“You and a lot of folks.” Ferguson picked up two glasses of champagne and offered them to Fallon and Evangeline. “I bought this with five bucks I didn’t have, which means I stole it. Now let’s drink it before it goes flat.”

“What the hell is going on here?” said Evangeline.

“I don’t know,” answered Fallon.

“Well, humor me anyway and drink up.” Ferguson stood proudly and held the glass above his head. He was about six-four, two hundred and twenty pounds. “To our new partnership.”

“To our what?” screamed Evangeline.

“Partnership.” Ferguson clinked his glass against hers, then against Fallon’s. “I’m going to help you kids find a treasure and start a happy life together.” He emptied his glass, belched, and poured another.

Fallon watched him drink. He liked Jack Ferguson already.

Evangeline was not so impressed. “Listen, Santa Claus, you’re six months late.”

“You didn’t finish your drink yet, dearie,” he interrupted. He turned to Fallon. “Nor have you.”

Fallon smiled, toasted, and drank.

Evangeline gulped the champagne and slammed the glass down on the table. “Now how did you get in here?”

“All in due time, my dear, all in due time.” He refilled their glasses and sat down. “Please, both of you, have a seat.”

Fallon pulled up a chair. Evangeline pulled her blanket more tightly around her shoulders and began to pace. “I’d rather stand.”

“Sit down,” growled Ferguson.

She looked at Fallon, who motioned her to the edge of the hammock.

As she sat, she smelled rotten fruit in the air. She wrinkled her nostrils.

Ferguson noticed it. He didn’t miss much. “Sorry, honey. I usually clean up in the men’s room at the Public Library every few weeks. But, what with this heat, that ain’t nearly enough.”

He ran a hand through his hair. In the dark, Evangeline couldn’t tell if anything living came off on his fingers.

Ferguson sipped champagne and began to talk. “My name, again, is Jack C. Ferguson. I’ve been a crack reporter, on and off, for thirty years. I’ve written two nonfiction books, and for several years I wrote a column in a weekly called
Hubcap
.”

Fallon nodded.

“Then, one day, I wrote a scathing article, even for me. I claimed that a certain art dealer named Lawrence Hannaford, his financial backers, led by a guy named William Rule, and his most recent purchase, Paul Revere’s Golden Eagle Tea Set, were frauds. The article got me into just a little bit of trouble. I went underground, I started hitting the bottle, and I was reduced to this.” He looked at his clothes and laughed to himself. He sounded as though he were
clearing his throat before spitting something out. “A threadbare free-lancer trying to stay off the booze and stay alive long enough to find a tea set.”

“What do you want with us?” asked Evangeline.

“You’re going to help me, and I’m going to help you.”

“How did you find us?” asked Fallon.

“I read the death column in the newspaper every day. I’m well marked myself, and every morning when I wake up, I like to make sure I’m still kicking. If I don’t see my name in the papers, I know I made it through another day.”

“This man is crazy,” said Evangeline to Fallon.

“Perhaps, but this is a crazy world. It’s the sane ones who end up in trouble, and you two are very sane.” Ferguson produced two news photos from his wallet, which, as Fallon noticed, contained no money. He gave one photo to Fallon.

It was a picture of Fallon. The captain described him as a witness to the murder of Kenny Gallagher, a bartender in South Boston.