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Authors: Luanne Rice

Home Fires (24 page)

BOOK: Home Fires
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“I didn't take it!”

“Then look me straight in the eye and tell me who did. Was it Vanessa? Céline?”

Maggie gave a sullen shrug, and Gabrielle slapped her face. Maggie looked up, her mouth an O. Gabrielle had never, not once in her entire life, slapped her daughter. She felt shocked by what she had done, but she didn't regret it.

“Shall we march right inside?” Gabrielle asked. “So you can point out the culprit to me?”

When Maggie didn't answer, Gabrielle exhaled. “No, I didn't think so. Do you have any idea of how hard I work? Do you know how unlikely it is for an inn like this to really succeed? It takes word of mouth, Maggie, and if guests head home and tell their friends that the chambermaids are thieves, do you think people will want to come? Do you? Answer me!”

“I didn't take it,” Maggie whispered.

“Guess what? I don't care whether you did or not. You wouldn't tell me the truth if your life depended on it. I don't even know what to believe anymore.”

“I would tell you. I swear, Mom. I didn't—”

But Gabrielle was in a blind rage, too far gone to listen. Her fury was a ball of yarn, a tangle made from Maggie and Anne's secrets, Matt sneaking into her guest book, the theft of the Pearses' Grand Marnier, and a serious disappointment in herself. Here she was, more concerned with betrayal than the fact that she suspected her sixteen-year-old of stealing liquor.

“You're grounded,” Gabrielle said as calmly as she could.

Still touching her red cheek, her eyes full of tears, Maggie stared at her mother. You could practically read Maggie's thoughts, in beseeching little bubbles above her head. But she seemed to decide that speaking wasn't worth the trouble. She left the potting shed without once looking back.

         

N
ED
Devlin and Josh Hunter had just spent the afternoon climbing ladders at the fire station. With Marty Cole supervising them, they took turns climbing the super-tall sky ladder on the back of Engine no. 3. At first Ned went slowly, one rung at a time. Lift the left foot, carefully bring the right foot beside it. Left foot again, let the right foot catch up. Both hands gripping the ladder. Don't look down.

Marty and Josh taunted him from below, good-natured teasing that made him realize that they'd been in his position once. The way they were poking fun at his fears, he knew that they had once felt the same ones.

But Ned's third time up the ladder, he caught the hang of it. He whipped up and down, a squirrel in a maple tree. Looking down was no problem, and he started to enjoy the view: you could see all around the island, blue water everywhere, as if you were in a plane coming in for a landing.

Marty wanted to clock them, to see who was faster. Ned was game, but Josh said he'd gotten fouled playing basketball the night before, and he still had a stiff ankle. “Yeah, sure,” Marty said. Anyway, it was just as well: Maggie would be getting off work soon. Ned's father needed the pickup to take Anne out, so Ned had to rely on Josh for a ride.

“I can't believe you're scoring on Maggie Vincent,” Josh said, heading cross-island to Maggie's family inn.

“Not exactly ‘scoring,'” Ned said, scowling. He didn't want people thinking that was how he saw Maggie.

“Listen, buddy,” Josh said. “She may have a lot going for her, but one thing you have to realize: with Maggie you always score.”

“Knock it off,” Ned said. He flipped on the radio, but nothing much besides static was coming in. He turned on the scanner instead.

“Sorry, man,” Josh said, sounding sincere.

“Yeah,” Ned said, still pissed off. He knew he shouldn't care about what Maggie had done before they started going out, but imagining Kurt or anyone else touching her the way he did . . . it nearly drove him out of his mind.

Sometimes, kissing her, caressing her silky skin with his hands, Ned's mind would fill with images as sharp as if he were watching them on a movie screen. Once, picturing Maggie kissing Kurt, he bit his own tongue so hard he drew blood and swore out loud.

Pulling up in front of the inn, Josh let the Taurus idle. Spitting dark exhaust, the car shuddered in the street; both boys leaned forward, looking for a sign that Maggie was done with work.

“There's Vanessa,” Josh said. “Looks like maybe she's waiting for her ride. We could ask her about Maggie.”

“Maybe I should just go in,” Ned said doubtfully. He knew this inn was Mrs. Vincent's pride and joy, and he didn't know how she'd feel about him, all scruffy and ready to go sailing, making a grand entrance. Maybe the back way—but here came Vanessa.

“Hi Josh, hi Ned,” she said.

“Is Maggie finished with work?” Ned asked.

“Not quite,” Vanessa said, dimpling prettily. She'd been much nicer to Ned now that he was going out with Maggie. When he'd come on-island last April, she wouldn't give him the time of day. None of the kids would. But being with Maggie seemed to open every door.

“Do you know how much longer she'll be?” Josh asked, checking his watch. Ned knew he was thinking of the tide. They had to be on the water within thirty minutes, before the tide started rushing back in. Josh kept his boat, a JY-15, down by Panther Hole, where the flood washed through like Niagara Falls. You couldn't get anywhere on an incoming tide: it was like sailing on a treadmill.

“You giving her the night off?” Vanessa asked Ned sweetly.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, we just want to steal her away for a few hours. You can join us later. But we're all mad at Maggie, forgetting all her old friends just because she has you now.”

“That's what she wants?” Ned asked, amazed.

“She'd think it was really big of you,” Vanessa said. “Sometimes you have to let go a little, in order to hold on. And Maggie doesn't like possessiveness.”

Ned knew he had a tendency to hold too tight, and it scared him. He certainly didn't want to scare Maggie away.

At the firemen's picnic the other night, he had overheard some of the guys saying their wives were feeling hurt and pissed off because they'd been left at home. Everyone had an opinion on the subject, and the war stories were flying. About stag parties; excursion to the Playground, a strip club in New Bedford; how all the best women accepted a man's need to have the occasional night out with the boys.

“No guy wants a clingy wife,” Marty Cole had said.

Listening to Marty and the others, Ned had faded into the background. He could relate more to the women, sad for being abandoned even for one night, than he could to the guys. Right now Vanessa was striking a nerve. He wanted to be with Maggie every free moment. He tried to act super nonchalant, as if what Vanessa was saying was no big deal. As if he didn't care a bit about Maggie going out without him.

“So, you say there's something happening later?” Josh asked.

“There's always something happening later,” Vanessa said, but she was still watching Ned for his reaction. He had the feeling she was daring him to make a wrong move. Ned knew that Maggie had misgivings about her old friends, but he also knew she felt guilty for abandoning them. It was a genuine conflict, and Ned didn't make it easier for her. Anytime she brought up Vanessa, Eugene, or especially Kurt, he would feel his muscles stiffen as if he were contemplating a high dive.

“Go sailing,” Vanessa urged. “Have a great time, then come back and meet us. We'll probably head for the cave. You'll find us.”

“Who's that?” Josh asked, gesturing at a cute blond girl observing the car from the front porch.

“Céline Dutremble,” Vanessa said. “She's eminently available. I'll introduce you to her tonight.”

“Summer kid?” Josh asked, practically salivating.

Vanessa nodded. She held a backpack, and from it she slipped a bottle. “Want a hit?” she asked. “Go ahead. It'll keep you warm on the water. And get you in the mood for later.”

“Where's Maggie now?” Ned asked, peering toward the house. Josh uncorked the curvy brown bottle and took a sip. He passed it over to Ned, but Ned shook his head.

“Getting chewed out by Leona Helmsley,” Vanessa said. “Her mother is really taking this hotel idea a little too seriously. But don't worry. I'll tell her you'll hook up with us later. Okay?”

“Sounds cool,” Josh said. He threw Ned a radiant smile. “Whaddya say, buddy? We'll catch the tide, be back in time for the party?”

Still staring at the house, Ned nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

         


H
E
wanted to go sailing,” Vanessa said. “He waited, but there was something about the tide. Don't worry—he's meeting us later.”

“Why didn't you call me?” Maggie asked, glowering at Vanessa. She couldn't believe Ned would just go sailing without her. They'd made plans. Now she was grounded, and she couldn't even tell him.

“Chill out,” Vanessa said, giggling. Maggie could see she was tipsy.

“And thanks for letting me take the blame,” Maggie said. “What are you doing, stealing from the rooms?”

“What about it, Miss High-and-Mighty? You're really letting that dork-ass rule your life. You never minded stealing before, as long as it was for you.”

“Oh, Vanessa,” Maggie said, depression settling in. Now she didn't know what to think. Ned hadn't even waited for her, and here was Vanessa making fun of him.

“You'll see him later. He's coming to the cave.”

“He said so?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm grounded,” Maggie said.

“So what? It's summer, and you have a boyfriend. Break the rules,” Vanessa said, throwing her arms around Maggie. Maggie held on, because Vanessa was her oldest friend and because at that moment she didn't have anyone else. She felt lost and deserted, and a sob was lodged in her throat.

A rattletrap VW beetle stuttered down the street, making both girls look up. Burnished gold, lacy with rust, it was a typical island surfmobile. Maggie stared to see who was driving, and recognized Kurt.

“Come on,” Vanessa urged. “Come with us. You'll see Ned in a couple of hours.”

“No,” Maggie said, watching Kurt. “Not with him.”

“He's just one of us. We were a team, weren't we? God, how would we have gotten through the last few years without each other? Come out with us, for old times, and you can be in Kurt's face with Ned later.”

“I'm grounded,” Maggie said, but even as she spoke she saw her uncle Matt coming in her direction. He raised his finger to catch her eye. Shooting him a defiant glare, Maggie turned back to Vanessa. “Okay,” she said. “Let's go.”

Chapter 21

T
he big question was, who would sit where? Half the backseat, behind the driver, was taken up by a big cooler full of beer. Kurt was driving, Eugene was in the front passenger seat. Maggie wanted to sit in back, on Vanessa's lap or vice versa. But before she could speak, Eugene had leaped out of the car, into the back, pulling Vanessa on top of him. Maggie had no choice but to sit in front. Next to Kurt.

“How's everything?” Kurt asked with a sidelong glance at the exact moment that Eugene slid into the cooler and came up with four fresh Molsons.

“Fine,” Maggie said, her stomach all worried about what Ned was doing and what he was thinking. She accepted the opened beer and took a long drink.

Kurt's progress down Salt Whistle Road was halting. He would accelerate, get the clutch and the brake mixed up, pull the car off the center line with just enough time to miss oncoming cars. To Maggie, it was obvious he had been drinking all day. Her eyes on the road, she reached behind her head for the seat belt. But there was none. This was not a new car. No seat belts, no headrests, only an AM radio.

“Where did you get the car?” she asked.

“Bought it,” Kurt said. Burping, he gave her a sinister sidelong glance.

For how much?
Maggie wanted to ask.
Fifty bucks?

“Hear you have someone new,” Kurt said.

Maggie realized that this was a mistake. She breathed deeply, listening to the suck, suck, sucking sounds coming from the backseat. Kurt was drunk and feeling mean, and Vanessa and Eugene were making out.

“Don't hog it,” Eugene said, and Vanessa giggled. She handed the half-empty bottle of Grand Marnier into the front seat. Kurt drank from it, and Maggie didn't even bother looking at Vanessa.

They were speeding down the Cross-Island Highway. The road twisted and turned, and when Kurt hit the brakes, you'd hear the tires putter, trying to grab. Maggie felt afraid.

“Where've you been, baby?” Kurt asked, reaching for her bare knee. Maggie let him tickle it. She kept her eyes on the road, as if her own vigilance could keep him from driving into a ditch.

“I said, where've you been? Hand me a brew, will you?”

Maggie didn't flinch.

Half turning, one hand on the wheel, Kurt reached into the backseat and jostled the lid off the aluminum cooler. It rattled to the floor, causing Eugene to laugh.

“You want a beer, you just ask,” Eugene said, handing Kurt a bottle and replacing the cooler's cover.

The car bounded down the highway, the pavement still buckled with frost heaves and the constant effects of shifting sand. The salt marshes were on their right, miles of reeds and creeks, tidal flats and shorebirds. Crossing the bridge at Old Whisper Creek, the golden light of early evening collected in the marsh grass. But Maggie was too edgy to notice.

“So, I hear you're fucking the preppie,” Kurt said, raising the glass bottle to his lips.

Maggie was about to say,
Let me out of here,
when Kurt swerved into the oncoming lane. The car ricocheted off a stone wall. Kurt braked, and Maggie was flung full force into the dashboard. The car careened madly, spinning in impossibly perfect circles, like an ice dancer. Screams filled Maggie's ears, and she realized they were her own.

Later they would determine that a mere four seconds passed from the moment of impact. Maggie's head throbbed. Suddenly she realized that Kurt's hands weren't on the wheel. As the car twirled Maggie grabbed frantically for the wheel. Like a wildcat, it fought her grip.

Vanessa and Eugene squealed.

Four seconds.

The guardrail, a flimsy corrugation, in place forever, came at them. They smashed into it and stopped dead. The sparkling creek beyond. Orange sun streaming through clouds. Maggie's arms flew up, across her face. Glass cracking, bang, her head. The screams: Vanessa, Eugene, Maggie, a gray heron.

Liftoff, into oblivion.

Flying through the rushes, their soft tops sweeping the car like brushes at the drive-through car wash.

Blood in the eyes, a baby at home in her mother's womb.

The pulse, the tidal pull of the moon in its crescent phase and the heart pumping blood through the uterus, the placenta, the embryo. The slap of waves, of your mother's blood.

Sleep.

         

I
N
the end, Anne had settled on smoked bluefish with buttered brown bread and capers, fresh tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil, and Ruby's chocolate-chip cookies. What her picnic lacked in seductive flair, it would make up for in heartwarming spirit. The air felt balmy, and Anne dressed for the sunset in a flowing coral dress, a black cotton sweater tied around her shoulders, and silver hoop earrings.

She packed everything into a paper grocery bag, wishing she had one of the six or so wicker picnic baskets from the big house. She knew that it should feel strange, fixing a beach picnic for Thomas with Matt on the island. But it did not. If anything, she took perverse pleasure in it, and that worried her. But Matt had made his bed with someone else for so long, and he hadn't asked her permission.

Thomas would be here at any minute to pick her up. On a whim, Anne lifted the receiver and dialed the big house.

“Fitzgibbons',” came the voice of a subdued Gabrielle.

“Hi, it's me,” Anne said.

“I am so mad at you,” Gabrielle said, her voice instantly high-pitched. “Have you seen Maggie?”

“No. Why?”

“Because I grounded her, and she's nowhere to be found. Somehow she's got the idea that I'm the one who punishes her, but she can always go running to you.”

“No!” Anne exclaimed. “That's not true!”

“Well, when she shows up on your doorstep later, will you please ask her to call me?”

“If she does, I will,” Anne said, alarmed by the high note in Gabrielle's tone.

“Meanwhile Matt is sitting at the table here, moping, and I just want to kill him,” Gabrielle said, her voice shaking. Anne couldn't remember hearing her so upset.

“I love you,” Anne said. But her sister had already hung up.

Before she left that evening, Anne left a note on her apartment door:

Maggie—

CALL YOUR MOTHER!

A.

Waking slowly, Maggie explored her mouth with her tongue and came upon something hard. The car door had caved in, trapping her right arm, but she worked her left hand free and cupped it under her lower lip. Along with a mouthful of blood, she spat out a tooth.

She heard whimpering in the backseat. Sleep threatened to drag her away, but she forced herself awake to try to determine where they had landed. Still in the car seat, she was on her back, like an astronaut ready for takeoff, looking straight up through a broken windshield at the sky. Bands of purple and gold streaked across clouds. She could hear the sound of gurgling fluid. The blood rushing in her ears.

“Maggie,” came the weak voice.

She blinked, trying to focus. Blood dripped from cuts in her head into her eyes. Squirming, she felt a jagged pain slash down her back, and the world went black.

When she awakened again, the sunset was still there. Still bright, and so close.

“Maggie,” she heard again, above the gurgling.

Very painfully, she half turned her face. There was Vanessa, up to her chin in brown water. Sitting on Eugene's lap, she was trying to hold Eugene's face above the surface. That was the rushing sound, Maggie realized: the car had flown into the creek, and water was seeping in through the car doors.

Kurt was slumped over the wheel, passed out. Brown sludge and red blood coated the windshield inside and out. But out the side window, Maggie could see they had plunged off the road into the shallow marsh. Somehow the car's back end was sinking faster than the front. She heard little squeaks of panic coming from Vanessa, and she tried to think, to keep from passing out.

“The water,” Vanessa said. “We're going to drown.”

Without speaking, saving her strength, Maggie reached her left arm across her body and tried to open the door. It wouldn't budge. Stove-in at a forty-five-degree angle, the door metal speared her right side. Her right elbow was pinned into her body, totally useless. When she took a deep breath, pain stabbed her chest; she must have broken some ribs.

“Kurt,” she said. “Kurt.”

He wouldn't respond. With her left hand, with all the energy she could muster, Maggie tapped his knee, his thigh. Nothing.

“We're going to die!” Vanessa cried, a diluted wail.

“Whassa matter,” Eugene said.

It hurt Maggie too much to turn fully around. Painfully, she moved her left arm between the two front seats, reaching back to Vanessa. Weeping, gulping air, Vanessa grasped Maggie's hand.

“Whadappened?” Eugene asked, and then Maggie heard him spitting out water. Salt water was flowing steadily into the old Volkswagen through the engine in back, the rust holes, the doors.

“Keep holding my hand,” Vanessa pleaded.

“I will!” Maggie said, even though it hurt unbelievably to hold herself in that position. Every time she moved her spine, silver dots flashed through the blood in her eyes.

Eugene thrashed, spewing like a geyser to keep his throat clear.

Vanessa tugged his chin, stretching it to keep his mouth clear of the rising tide. “Please,” she cried. “Don't go under.”

“Can you move?” Maggie asked, her senses beginning to clear.

“No, I'm pinned between the cooler and the car door. Maggie, I'm hurt,” Vanessa said.

“We'll be fine,” Maggie said resolutely, squeezing Vanessa's hand. Her shoulder muscles were aching with massive lactic acid and hot knives were stabbing her spine, but she would not let go.

Why wouldn't Kurt wake up? Now that Maggie's adrenaline was kicking in, she called his name again and again. She heard Vanessa shouting it. The rescue squad should be on the way. Someone must have seen them go over. Someone had already dialed 911, and Ned was on his way now. They would be here any moment, pulling Maggie and her friends to safety.

Was the sunset quite as bright as it had been? Suddenly the thought that darkness was falling filled Maggie with dread, and she must have moaned.

“What?” Vanessa screamed. “What?”

“It's okay,” Maggie said. “I'm sorry.”

“Eugene, try, try,” Vanessa was pleading. “Hold yourself up! Try! Maggie, help!”

Maggie struggled to free herself from the car. How bad could it be? The windshield, and most of the front, was sticking straight out of the water. The car felt stationary. Yet water was pouring in from behind, and the car felt like it was sliding backward, downward, its nose in the air. Sinking.

“Maggie!” Vanessa said, water clogging her throat. She spit it out.

Maggie noticed the lid of the metal cooler. It had flown into the front seat from behind, come to rest on the dashboard. Wedged between the windshield and the steering wheel, it stayed in place, a sharp-edged piece of aluminum.

Her eyes blinked, her consciousness flickered. There was the evening star, the crescent moon swinging in the western sky. A brilliant sunset blazed. From the backseat, Maggie heard her friend sucking sludge.

“Maggie,” Vanessa gurgled, her voice desperate. She yanked her hand away, and Maggie heard it slapping at the seats, the window. The sound of rushing water filled Maggie's ears. “Maggie . . .”

Maggie tried to turn, to see Vanessa, but her body wouldn't obey. The level of water had risen, and Maggie could no longer hear Vanessa's voice. Blinking the salt and blood away, she saw that darkness was falling.

Something bobbed into her lap. Maggie flinched, terrified. Something horrible from the marsh had swum into the car. She tried to clasp, but could not reach, Vanessa's hand.

“Vanessa?” Maggie asked, shaking. Vanessa wasn't answering.

Overhead, the moon bobbed and weaved, as if the car in which Maggie sat was tilting precariously. The water level was rising. It had been at her ankles, then her knees, and now it was at her waist.

“Vanessa!” Maggie called, but again, no answer.

Maggie's consciousness flickered again. Blackness, then the waning colors of sunset again.

“Vanessa!”

The thing danced in the tide. It thumped Maggie's chest, reminding her that it hadn't gone away. They had plunged into a marsh, a saltwater creek. Could it be a blue crab? A bass? Hardly daring to look, Maggie opened her eyes.

It was round, and heavy. Bloody strands trailed from one end, like the tentacles of a jellyfish, and minnows nibbled at them. With her left hand, Maggie Vincent held the thing steady. She took a deep breath, turning it over.

It was Kurt's head. It stared at her with sightless eyes. Like a wax model, with pale cheeks, blue lips, hair streaming in the current. Small fish darted at his eyeballs, into his ears and nostrils. Veins and arteries dangled from the neck, and blood flowed into the water.

The lid of his metal cooler had decapitated him on impact. Maggie heard her scream rise through the dusk, piercing the island air. She held Kurt's head in her good hand, trying not to think of her two oldest friends drowned in the backseat, and the fact that the tide was rising to claim her.

BOOK: Home Fires
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