Heartbroken (2 page)

You do this to yourself, Birdie
, her husband admonished regularly.
Why don’t you just try to relax and enjoy? Everyone would be just as happy with hamburgers on the grill, baked potatoes in tinfoil, and a green salad
. Yes—everyone except Birdie.

She was so deep in thought that she didn’t see him until she’d fastened her robe, slipped on her shoes, and turned around to head back to the main house. For a moment the shock of a figure standing at the edge of the trees didn’t register.

Without her glasses on, she couldn’t make him out. Who in the world could that be? Not her husband. The figure was tall but narrow, not powerful like Joe. One of the neighbors? No, it wasn’t possible; she’d have heard the boat approach.

“Who’s there?” she called.

But he stood motionless, possessing an almost ethereal quality. Birdie couldn’t quite bring him into focus. Even though she felt a flutter of apprehension, she moved toward him. She was never one to move away from a threat. Always take it head-on; that was her philosophy.

“Identify yourself,” she said. She didn’t like the sound of her own
voice.
Do you really have to be so goddamn imperious?
Her husband’s other favorite admonishment.
You’re not the queen, for Christ’s sake
.

“You are
trespassing
on private land.”

He didn’t answer. What was she seeing? Was there anything there at all? Was it just a trick of light?

She picked up her pace. As she drew nearer, he seemed to disappear into the trees. She hadn’t realized her vision was so poor. When she got to where he’d stood, there was no one there, no trace of anyone having been there. But someone
had
been there. She wasn’t crazy or senile. She
had
seen someone. Hadn’t she?

She walked over the rocky terrain that comprised the west side of the island and headed down toward the dock. Today, because there had been little rain for the past week, the rocks were fairly dry above the waterline, though somewhat treacherous. Birdie was sure-footed, having tramped over them at every stage in her life. Her feet belonged on those rocks, just as they had when she was a little girl, a teenager, a young woman. She moved quickly, her feet knowing which stone was loose and which was too pointy and which was a good, level place to step. When the rain fell and storms made the water choppy, this side of the island would become impassable—too slick, jagged, and treacherous by foot, waves knocking against the steep island face. There would be no way to traverse the perimeter except to get into the water and swim.

Rounding the bend, she saw the light gray dock against the steel blue of the water. A formation of Canada geese honked overhead, heading south already. The temperatures were growing colder without ever having seemed to warm.

Their old skiff bobbed in the water. Their cuddy boat, too, was fastened securely to the dock cleats, the cabin covered against the weather. But that was all—no other boat was docked there, as it would have to be if someone had come to call. There was no place else along the coastlines of the island where anyone could come ashore without badly damaging his boat.

Directly to the south was Cross Island. Only two years ago someone had built a house there. For most of Birdie’s life, it had been empty. As children, she, her brother, and her sister used to row a small boat across the narrow channel, and explore. Though their mother always called them back, when she caught them, anxious and angry.

“Don’t go there,” she’d say. “It’s not our island.”

They’d come back, sullen and complaining quietly to one another. No one dared argue with Mother when she had that look on her face. She was rarely angry, almost never raised her voice. But there was a look. And when you saw it, you hushed and did as you were told.

Looking at Cross Island now, Birdie could just see the house that had been built there, its brown-shingled roof peeking through the trees, its windows glinting pink in the morning light. She didn’t like it. It felt like an intrusion. Plus, the island itself held bad memories for her. Most often she ignored it, pretended it wasn’t there, as she did with many of the things that pained her.

She glanced back the way she had come, then to the north, where she could see the main house. From the dock, a narrow gravel path led up to the main structure, then wound around it to the guesthouse. Beyond that cabin, the path wound on to the bunkhouse. She saw no one. No shadow followed her, no interloper. Toward the mainland, thunderheads darkened the sky.

The surrounding islands were occupied by private homes. Though the nearby island hotels and inns had shuttles from the mainland, there was no water taxi service. If you wanted to get to the private residences, you had to have your own boat.

There had been a rash of thefts in the area. Many of the homes stood uninhabited for most of the year. Undesirables from the mainland had grown wise, and they had been taking boats out, breaking in, stealing valuables, vandalizing—even spending a few days partying. Birdie had been angry when she heard the news. It was typical.
They
were always waiting, angry and entitled, to take or destroy the things for which you’d worked so hard. There was always someone with less looking at you with envy and resentment, just waiting for your back to be turned so they could steal from you. Somehow they always seemed to get away with it.

About a week after she’d learned this, Birdie had gone into town and purchased a small handgun. She was often alone on the island. Joe didn’t cherish his time here the way she did, and he went back to their apartment in the city when he tired of the solitude—or was it her company that tired him? After all, it wasn’t his place. Heart Island hadn’t been in
his
family for three generations.
He
hadn’t spent every childhood summer here, as she had. She refused to be afraid in this place. And she pitied anyone who tried to take anything from her. She kept the revolver in its case, in a high kitchen cabinet. When she was alone at night, she moved it to her bedside table.

Birdie picked up her pace as she walked the rest of the perimeter of the three-acre island and ended at its highest point, Lookout Rock, as it had been named by the Heart children—Birdie, her sister, Caroline, and her brother, Gene. From this vantage point, she could see each of the structures, surrounded tightly by large rocks and trees.

The path was really the only way to get around the island now; it led from the bunkhouse to the guest cabin to the main house and then down to the dock, dimly lit by carefully spaced solar-powered ground lights. Once there had been only a single house, the one that was now the guest cabin. Then there was no path from the dock to the house, and everyone made his way up through the trees to the clearing. No one ever walked through the trees anymore, especially in the pitch-dark nights, preferring to keep to the path.

Up high and looking down, Birdie felt that maybe her eyes had been playing tricks on her, hard as it was to believe. But she didn’t see a boat anywhere, run up ashore or tied off on a rock. There was no other way to get here. So logic dictated that she hadn’t seen what
she thought she had. Next time she’d bring her glasses or put in her contacts before the swim.

Her late sister, Caroline, would have claimed that Birdie had seen a ghost. Birdie’s sister and Birdie’s mother, Lana, had both believed that the island was home to otherworldly inhabitants. According to them, there was a man who walked the edge, and a woman who stood at Lookout Rock. And something else she couldn’t remember. It was sheer silliness. Birdie had never seen anything remotely like that. Caroline hinted that it was because Birdie, as a pragmatist, as a cynic, wasn’t worthy of a ghostly appearance. Even though Birdie couldn’t explain what she had just seen, she wouldn’t turn to the supernatural to do so. She was wondering about her vision, her sanity, maybe, but certainly
not
spirits.

Birdie walked the whole island and ended up back where she’d started. The stand of trees was just a blurry line of black. She stared a moment, willing a form to appear from something—a shadow, a swaying branch—so she could explain to herself what had happened. But no, there were just her old friends the pines, the birch trees, the sugar maples, and their eternal whispering.

Finally, she walked back up to the main cabin to start her breakfast. Her mood, which had been fine, had turned dark. She felt rattled in a way she shouldn’t have, as though she’d gotten some terrible news or remembered something she had been trying to forget.

chapter one

T
he Blue Hen was bustling, and Emily had screwed up in at least three different ways since her shift began. She’d given one customer the wrong change. She’d given another the wrong order. And now, as some little kid ran out of the bathroom without looking, cutting her off as she moved down the narrow hallway from the kitchen to the dining area, she felt the tray of ice waters slipping from her hands. She’d stopped short to avoid a collision, but the glasses and the tray had not.

She watched the boy dart down the hallway, but everything else was in torturous slow motion. Four glass tumblers sailed through the air, water pluming, ice cubes suspended. The word “no” pulled and elongated in her mind. And then—the shattering crash. She backed away from the shimmering, slicing mess and stared at it.
Oh, God. Oh, no
. Why did some days start out bad and just get worse?

Angelo from the kitchen rushed out to help. He had a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other like some kind of diner rescue worker. Then Carol, the owner of the Blue Hen, came around the corner. “What happened?” she asked.

“I dropped it,” said Emily. Obviously. She wasn’t going to bother getting into it about the kid. And how the bathroom door shouldn’t open outward into the hallway. Or how people needed to heed the sign that read:
Please open the door and exit slowly
. Carol looked at the mess and put a plump, beautifully manicured hand to her forehead.
Emily couldn’t help but look at her rings—a big diamond engagement ring and a ruby “family” ring, as Carol had called it. They glittered like stars.

“Let Angelo get it. The order for your four-top is up. You fetch that, and I’ll get more ice water,” Carol said. Her tone was weary but not unkind. Carol was never that. “Try to pull yourself together, Emily. I don’t know what you have on your mind today. But it is definitely
not
your work.”

Emily nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Carol looked at Emily over the rim of her glasses. She had a nice face, round and pink-cheeked, with pretty, darkly lashed blue eyes. Her body was short and soft—a mother’s body. Carol was, in fact, a bit henlike, Emily thought, zaftig and proud, strutting about clucking. Emily wanted to put her head in Carol’s lap and cry her a river.

“So, what is it, hon?” said Carol. “You need to talk?”

“No,” said Emily. She tried for a smile. “I’m fine.”

Angelo was already on his knees, picking up big shards of glass with calloused hands.

“I’m sorry, Angelo,” said Emily.

He looked up at her with his dark puppy-dog eyes, big, devoted, and a little lovesick. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

Angelo had a crush on Emily; she knew that. He gave her a wide grin, as though he liked being down on his knees for her. She felt a hot blush spread across her cheeks, and then she was chasing after Carol, who was talking to her. Carol had a fast, soft, but no-nonsense way of communicating. She didn’t care if you participated, only that you appeared to be listening.

“When you get orders wrong, especially for someone like Barney, who comes here every single day at the same time for the same meal, it makes people feel like we don’t know them, don’t care about them. And if you work at T.G.I. Friday’s or Chili’s, maybe that doesn’t matter
so much. But here, at my restaurant, it matters—because it’s precisely that kind of personal interaction that separates the chains from the independents. Also, when you give people the wrong change, it makes us seem either untrustworthy or incompetent. Do you understand that, Emily?” Emily knew this wasn’t an invitation to chime in. Carol went on.

“Now, dropping things? Well, it happens. But it usually happens when we’re not present. You’re all flustered from a morning of mistakes. So I want you to take a few minutes, after you bring the food to your four-top, and go out back and take a break. I’ll cover your tables. Then come on back in like it’s a brand-new day, okay?”

Emily found herself nodding vigorously, then running the four-top order over to the family by the window. Pancakes for the girl, French toast for the boy, an egg-white scramble with broccoli for the mom, and a chili-cheese omelet with home fries and an extra side of bacon for the dad (boy, did he ever get a look from Mom over the menu when he ordered that). He looked like he could afford to take off a few, but not in an unhealthy, worrisome way. He was just a beefy guy who liked to eat. He probably had high cholesterol; that’s why his wife had that kind of angry-worried look on her face when Emily placed the plate in front of him.

“Wow,” the mom said. “That looks good.” But what she meant was:
Oh, honey, are you really going to eat that?
At least that’s what Emily thought. She was good at that, reading faces, body language. She felt like, a lot of the time, she knew what people were thinking even when they were saying something else altogether. She’d always been that way.

After she ran a bottle of ketchup over to the table, she went out back like Carol had asked her to. She sat on the bench where everyone went for a smoke break, and looked up into the sky. The day was warm and humid, clouds high and white. A light breeze made the leaves of the tall oaks that towered above the parking-lot fence dance
and hiss. She took a deep breath, trying to shake it off, like Carol wanted.

Why do you want to go to that place and run around for that stupid cow?

That’s what Dean had said to her this morning. He hadn’t wanted her to go to work. He’d wanted her to stay with him. He didn’t like Carol. Dean didn’t seem to like anyone Emily liked. She wasn’t sure what that said about him.