The Ice Cradle (15 page)

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Jamey,” she whispered.

WEDNESDAY

C
ALEB WAS ALREADY
in the office when I arrived at nine. I had little to show for the previous days’ efforts, but he seemed unperturbed by my lack of visible progress and excited about the leather and paper samples that would be arriving, I hoped, tomorrow.

“You know, I really liked that idea,” he said.

“Which idea?”

“The audio component. Having the letters and diary entries read by the descendants of the people who actually wrote them. Or by actors.”

“I can’t take credit for that,” I said. “I’ve been to a couple of museums where they’ve done that. It’s spooky: you’re looking at all these sepia-toned pictures and hearing those people’s words. It’s almost like listening to voices from beyond the grave.”

“It would be great if we had a special room we could dedicate to it. I’m going to have to think about that.”

“Do you have the space here?” I asked.

Caleb shook his head. “Well, not downstairs. There are rooms up on the second floor, but they need a lot of work.”

“Maybe in the future,” I suggested.

“Maybe.”

I spent the morning doing what I had planned to do the previous evening: laying out all the documents and sorting papers and mementos into pertinent piles. Two hours of thinking and rearranging convinced me that the concept of relying on a dramatic story line really would work, and I set my mind to putting together a rough assembly of the most poignant and heart-stopping individual documents I could find.

I had dozens to choose from. The Joy Line Company, in gratitude for the efforts of the islanders to aid the stricken survivors, had turned over to the Historical Society all its correspondence with the
Larchmont
’s passengers before the evening of the fateful voyage.

There was a handwritten note from a Mr. Redmond Mullins of Providence, requesting the private use of the small library on the steamer’s second level between the hours of nine and nine thirty: he intended to propose marriage to a Miss Evelyn Brosman.

There was the carbon copy of a letter from the
Larchmont
’s head chef, Coleman Birmingham, to a Mrs. Dedrick Hoskins of New York, who had booked passage back from Providence for five in her family. Mr. Birmingham had received the request for a birthday cake and asked that Mrs. Hoskins telephone him with further directions. Would little Miss Hoskins like decorative rosettes or candied violets? Lemon or rose-water icing?

There were full-length statements taken from the few survivors. I intended to break these up into short paragraphs and drop the fragments into the story line, in effect juxtaposing a human voice with hard copies of the wireless dispatches, weather reports, and after-the-fact newspaper fragments detailing the
events of that evening as they unfolded. My only problem was, I had nearly five hundred documents I really wanted to use.

I popped into the adjoining room, where Caleb was working at his desk. “We might need to do two volumes,” I announced.

He looked up. “Is that a problem?” he asked.

“Not for me.”

He smiled. “Go for it.”

“Great,” I said.

“Oh, and gosh! I completely forgot I was supposed to ask you …”

“Ask me what?”

“To the party. At the Rawlingses’. Tomorrow night.”

“What?
No
!”

Caleb nodded. “He called the house last night. He made a special point of it, mentioned several times that he
really
wanted me to invite you.”

“He’s just being polite,” I said.

“Polite? Rawlings? I doubt it.”

“I can’t.”

Caleb gave me a skeptical look. I was sure he was thinking that my social calendar couldn’t be
that
overcrowded, given that I’d been on the island all of three days and knew hardly anyone.

“How often do you get invited to a senator’s house?” he nudged. “Besides, you really should see it.” His tone was suggesting
something
, but I wasn’t sure what.

“The house?”

“Let’s just say it’s one of a kind.” He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. I noticed that he was not
wearing socks with his Top-Siders, a habit I had often observed among guys who seemed to get their clothes at J. Crew or Brooks Brothers.

I sighed. I
was
curious, no question. It would be so much fun to call Dad and my brothers and let drop the little tidbit that I had been invited over for cocktails by the head of the Senate Appropriations Committee. It would really surprise Louise. Then again, I couldn’t call Dad just yet. Jay might not have reached him with the news about the babies, and I didn’t trust myself not to spring the surprise.

And what about Lauren and Mark? Had they been invited? After how welcoming they’d been to me, I couldn’t imagine announcing that I had scored what had to be, on the island, a fairly coveted invitation and bouncing out their front door, leaving them behind. Besides, I had nothing to wear. And I had Henry.

“We’ve got a sitter coming,” Caleb said, after I elected to rely on the latter excuse. “Bring him over. We’ll be home by eight or eight thirty.”

“I’ll think about it,” I replied.

At one thirty, I decided to take a break and get out for a breath of fresh air and some lunch. Caleb had left at about twelve o’clock. Running the Historical Society, as it turned out, was not his full-time job; he was “of counsel” to a law firm in Providence, specializing in wills and trusts. This meant that he made his own schedule, working from a home office, advising mostly people of a certain age on matters of estate planning. A few times a month, he took the ferry over to the mainland to file documents, show up at probate court, treat clients to
lunch or drinks, and generally maintain the steady flow of work that enabled him to telecommute year-round from Block Island.

I locked the door behind me and took a deep breath. The wind was brisk, and the cool temperature—somewhere in the fifties, I guessed—suppressed the aromas of spring. I didn’t want to go back to the Grand View. Lauren would insist on making me a nice lunch, and I wasn’t up for either the socializing or the volume of food. A quick slice of pizza would do.

I headed up toward the school, half hoping that the kids would be out at a recess, affording me the opportunity to spy on Henry and assess for myself whether he was having fun and making friends. The schoolyard was deserted, though, and that made sense. They’d probably had outdoor playtime right after lunch and were now back to the serious business of car painting and dance rehearsing.

A pickup truck pulled up behind me just as I was opening the door to Vito’s Sub and Slice.

“Wait!” I heard someone say.

I turned around. It was Bert.

“You really don’t want to do that,” he whispered.

“I don’t?”

He shook his head.

I peeked into the shop. No one seemed to be around, so I wouldn’t be hurting any feelings by retracing my steps. I closed the door quietly.

“But I’m starving,” I said.

“We can fix that,” Bert replied.

“Who’s we?”

“My sister.” He grinned. “I’m bringing her some flounder.”

“Oh, and I’m sure she’d appreciate a surprise guest for lunch.”

Bert laughed. “You don’t know Aitana. I’ll have you back in an hour. I promise.”

I was still hesitating, and I didn’t know why. Well, actually, I did. I had developed an immediate and alarmingly intense crush, and I didn’t entirely trust myself not to reveal this somehow. Also, I didn’t want to ruin the pleasure of a perfectly harmless and enjoyable escape by finding out that in fact, Bert was a dope.

Then again, that might a very good idea. He lived here. I lived in Cambridge. He probably had a girlfriend, and if someone as cute and nice as he was
didn’t
, there had to be a good reason why. I’d do well to nip this thing in the bud.

I walked around to the passenger side and got in. I could just tell that I hadn’t pulled off a fetching and mysterious Juliette Binoche–type half smile; I had produced a goofy and unattractive squint.

“Buckle up,” Bert said.

The interior of the truck was pretty tidy, unlike those of most trucks I’ve been in. Of course, I’m in no position to point a finger in the vehicle cleanliness department. Once every few months, I fill a shopping bag with empty coffee cups and candy wrappers and sheets of paper covered with directions I no longer need, but the inside of my car hasn’t seen a vacuum cleaner or a bottle of Windex in a long time.

“So, what are you doing here, again?” Bert asked by way of a conversation starter.

“Just grabbing a quick lunch.”

“No, I mean on the island!” Bert pulled out onto Ocean Avenue and headed in the direction of the Mohegan Bluffs.

“I’m a bookbinder. Freelance. I’m working on a project for the Historical Society.”

“Oh, right, yeah. What is it? Or can’t you say?”

“There’s nothing secret about it. They had boxes and boxes of stuff related to a disaster at sea back at the turn of the century. The twentieth century, I mean. A steamship was hit by another boat and it sank.”

“The
Larchwood,”
Bert said.

“Larchmont
, but yeah, that’s the one. I’m pulling all the materials together. They got a grant of some kind.”

“From whom?”

I paused. A sexy guy who used
whom
correctly? This could be dangerous.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “It was anonymous.”

“Hmmm,” Bert said, eyebrows knit thoughtfully. “So that’s probably a person, right? It’s usually people who want to stay anonymous.”

“Now that you mention it, yeah, probably.”

“You think it was someone from the island?” he asked.

“I don’t know. It could be anybody, really. I thought maybe it was from a descendant of one of the passengers who died. Anyway, I’m binding some of the materials and getting some others ready to be displayed. The Society is hoping to have some kind of event this summer.”

“What kind of event?”

“Maybe a lecture or two. An exhibit, probably with a reception.”

“I’ve never set foot in there, to tell you the truth.”

“I’m the same way at home. The only time I go to a museum or a monument is when I’ve got company from out of town.”

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“Outside of Boston. Cambridge.”

“I used to live in East Cambridge!”

“You’re kidding! When?”

“When I was in high school. My uncle owns a fish market by the courthouse. I used to work the counter during the summers.”

“And where’d you live the rest of the time? Here?”

“New Bedford. Aitana, my sister, she married a guy from the island,” he went on. “We really got to like it over here. My—wife and I.”

I felt my stomach drop. His
wife?

Bert glanced over. “She passed away three years ago.”

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry. She was—young.”

“Twenty-eight. She had a heart rhythm disorder. Genetic. She was on medication, but …” He trailed off.

“Gosh, I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing
to
say. It happens.” Then, as though to redirect the conversation as quickly as possible, he added, “You’ve got a nice kid.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“What does your husband do?”

“I’m not married.”

Bert seemed to mull this over for a minute. “Divorced?”

“Nope.” I was torn about what and how much to reveal. I tend to view my situation as one variation of normal, but people don’t always agree. Then again, Bert had just revealed some fairly personal information to me.

“Henry’s dad is a police officer in Boston,” I began. “We got together when he was separated from his wife. They were thinking about getting a divorce, but then, fortunately, they were able to work everything out.”

“Fortunately?” Bert asked.

“For them.”

Bert burst out laughing, and surprisingly, so did I.

“Though I did get Henry out of the deal, so I’m not complaining.”

“Not much, anyway,” Bert quipped.

“Not out loud,” I added with a grin.