The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (10 page)

It felt so fine, so light. Bay remembered how she and Annie had bought the balsa wood together, how Annie had soaked it to get it to bend . . . how they had had to hold the boards together with tiny clamps and elastic bands, to wait for the glue to dry.

Holding it together . . .

Sean's secret-keeping was as powerful as ever. Bay sensed that somehow Annie's boat and Sean's visit to Dan—and his dropping off Annie's model—could shed light on his disappearance: on why he had pulled one of Bay's old letters to Danny Connolly from the hope chest, on all the mysteries of his last weeks at home.

She remembered how hard her daughter had worked, to make her father a wonderful present he'd never forget. Annie cried herself to sleep every night, thinking of Sean alone somewhere, hiding from his family and the bank and the law, with nothing but her little green boat to keep him company.

“Sean, how could you?” Bay said out loud, as she held the boat in her hands and imagined what Annie would say when she saw it, when she understood that her father hadn't taken it with him after all.

7

P
RETTY UGLY,
”
BILLY SAID, STANDING BESIDE ANNIE. IT
was like summer going backward instead of forward, from the full-bloom beauty of late June into a brown, dry, wilting farewell to the flowers, almost as if they had never really even been alive at all. “We used to have the best yard, now we have the worst yard.”

“It's not Mommy's fault,” Peggy said. “She's busy looking for Daddy.”

“I never said it was Mom's fault,” Billy said patiently. “Will you please consider opening your ears?”

“They are open!” Peg said. “What's wrong with you? You're supposed to be taking care of me today, and I was supposed to go to Little League practice, but Mommy's not home yet, and you won't pitch to me, and I hate you!”

“When you say ‘hate' you really mean ‘love,' so you love me,” Billy said.

“You wish,” Peg said.

“Roses are red, violets are blue, dirt is stupid, and Pegeen is, too.”

“Dirt's not stupid. It's smart. That's why roots can't wait to get down in it. That's why earthworms think it's like the best palace in the world. Dirt rules.”

“Well, if dirt rules, then I guess we have the greatest garden at the beach, because all we got is dirt and dead flowers,” Billy said, grabbing the ball out of Peg's hand. “Come on, I'll pitch to you. You can practice sliding face-first into the DIRT. Just so you can't grow up and tell one of those rotten TV reporters you had a neglected childhood. At least you won't be able to blame your brother.”

“Yeah, I'll find a way,” Peg said, scooting ahead, into the backyard where she'd left her glove and the bat.

All of this occurred within thirty seconds, with Annie standing perfectly still in the midst of it, as if she wasn't even there. As if she was some sort of rotund lawn ornament, to go with the brown flowers, watching her brother and sister tear after each other in a form of mad, familial, therapeutic batting practice.

If only Annie liked playing ball; she just knew she'd be a happier person. She was always envious of how Billy and Pegeen seemed to get over things so much faster than she did, whacking the ball and sliding into home plate and generally working all their frustrations out through physical activity: just like what her father used to tell her she should do.

“You'd be happier and healthier, Annie-bear, and all your problems would go away,” he'd say, “if you'd just get some exercise.” By “healthier,” of course, he had meant “thinner,” but the boat of thinness had long since sailed for this summer.

Looking across the marsh, she saw Tara's little white house and bright yard, shining like a garden of jewels. Pale pink foxgloves waved in the breeze, azure morning glories climbed the trellis. Maybe Annie could help bring their yard back . . .

Just as she was crouching down in an attempt to discern the flowers from the weeds, her mother's car pulled into the driveway. Annie looked up and waved. Her mother looked so pretty and thin; she wore khaki shorts and a faded blue shirt, and her arms and legs were tanned and freckled.

“Hi, sweetheart,” her mother said, walking over. She held a paper bag tightly in her arms, as if something precious was inside.

“Hi, Mom. Where were you?”

“I had some errands to run. Will you come inside for a minute?”

Annie nodded, but first she brushed the dry leaves with her hand. “The poor garden,” she said. “I think it needs some help.”

“I know, Annie. It does. I've really let it get away from me these last couple of weeks. I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to be,” Annie said quickly, hugging her mother, then stepping back. “I didn't mean it that way.”

Her mother took a deep breath, trying to smile. The sun was coming through the kitchen window, turning her hair into a tangle of copper.

“Oh, sweetheart,” her mother said, stroking her hair. She stared at Annie with a worried smile, as if she was trying to read Annie's mind.

“What's wrong, Mom?”

“Annie . . .” her mother said, still trying to smile, as she put an arm around Annie's shoulders and walked her into the house. Annie's heart began to beat harder. She had been so worried about her father—did her mother have news about him? No, it couldn't be that. Her mother wouldn't be smiling at all. Or else, if it was good news, she'd be jumping up and down for joy.

“Tell me, Mom. What is it?”

“Sit down, Annie,” her mother said quietly, putting her hand on Annie's arm. “I want to talk to you about something. Where are the other kids?”

Yikes,
Annie thought. Not good. Never a good thing when one of her parents wanted to single her out, separate her from the herd. Very bad, very bad. She had the deep sibling sense that there was safety in numbers—that any message delivered to the whole family, as hard as it might be to swallow, was one thing. But being talked to solo meant nothing but trouble.

“They're playing baseball,” Annie said reluctantly, edging toward the door. “Maybe they want me to play . . . I should . . .”

“Annie,” her mother said, smiling. “We both know . . .”

Annie shrugged and smiled, knowing her mother was on her wavelength about not liking sports, especially anything involving a ball. Her father, on the other hand, had tried to get her to play every chance she got, telling her stories about his own glory days in school.

Her mother's face was very serious, her blue eyes focused on Annie's with concern and love. “Sweetheart, there's something I want to tell you, and show you . . .”

“Show me?” Annie asked, her voice reedy and thin.

Her mother nodded, and with that, Annie did sit down, at the breakfast bar. Her blood was going
ba-boom, ba-boom,
like a whole battalion marching into her throat. The bag was sitting on the counter in front of her mother, and Annie suddenly felt very afraid.

“What's in there, Mom?” she asked.

“Annie, darling,” her mother began.

“Show me, Mom,” Annie said, feeling as if her skin would unzip and she'd fly out like a ghost. She grabbed the bag from her mother's hands, and began to tear the paper away. Before she had gotten half of it off, she saw: “My boat!” she cried out.

“Annie, I know you've liked thinking of your dad having it with him . . .”

“I made this for him,” Annie cried, cradling her little green boat in her arms, rocking it back and forth as if it was a baby in need of great comfort and love. “This was for Daddy. He said he'd never go anywhere without it—it was keeping him company! It's all he had!”

“Oh, Annie,” her mother said, rushing around to hold her. “I knew you'd be upset. I wouldn't have even shown it to you, honey. But your father left it behind for a good reason, a very loving reason.”

“No,” Annie sobbed. “He wouldn't have.”

“Annie, he wanted to have a rowboat built—”

“This was his rowboat,” she cried. “The only one that mattered. I made it for him. He would never have left it behind.”

“He showed it to the boatbuilder, and he even went back to check that he was copying it properly,” her mother said.

“He's gone forever,” Annie said, feeling waves of cold sweep through her body. It was as if a cold front—the Alberta Clipper—had rushed down from Canada, to chill her skin and blood, to freeze the marrow in her bones.

“No, Annie. This doesn't mean—”

The telephone rang. Annie vaguely sensed her mother crossing the room to answer it.

“Hello?” her mother said.

Annie held the boat against her body, remembering how she had felt making it. Her mother had helped her—driving her to the hobby shop, picking out the balsa wood. Annie had lovingly soaked each piece, getting it to bend in the graceful lines of the pretty dory in the classic boat magazine. She had put in little seats and oarlocks. She had carved oars. When the glue was dry, she had painted it dark green—the color of pine trees. And she had lettered the name of the boat on the transom, in gold paint:

ANNIE

“So you don't forget who to row home to,” she had told her father when she'd given him the boat.

“I love it, Annie,” he had said, wrapping her in his arms and pulling her close.

“I made it for you,” she'd said. “Every bit. Mom only helped a little.”

“It's the nicest present I've ever gotten.”

“Because you love boats?” she'd asked, her heart swelling.

“No, because you made it for me,” he'd said, still hugging her with one arm, holding the boat out for both of them to admire with the other. “No one's ever made me anything this wonderful before. I love it.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he'd said, the arm squeezing Annie a little tighter, making her feel happier than she'd ever felt. “I'll tell you how much I love it. I will never let it out of my sight. That's a promise. Wherever I go, this boat goes . . .”

And he had kept his promise. He had taken the boat to his office for a few months, but then they had done some renovation at the bank and he'd brought it home. It had been on his bureau, but then summer came, and he put it into a bag; Annie assumed he had taken it back to his office, or down to the
Aldebaran
.

Annie held the model, thinking of how much her father had loved it. Warmth flooded through her and gave her comfort as her mother turned to look at her and Annie saw the whiteness of her face. The near-blue color of the skin around her lips, as if she was in shock. The way she moved her hand—so slowly, almost fumbling—up to her cheek, trying to touch her own face but seeming almost unable to find it. The roundness of her eyes. Her almond-shaped blue eyes, shocked into a different shape.

As her mother hung up the phone, Annie curved her body around the boat. If she couldn't protect her father, she could at least shield the boat.

“Sweetheart,” her mother said, touching Annie's shoulder with a trembling hand.

“I already know,” Annie whispered, so softly only her boat could hear.

“I have bad news,” her mother said.

“I already know,” Annie whispered, more softly than before.

8

T
HE FUNERAL TOOK PLACE ON WEDNESDAY MORNING
at the same small white chapel where Sean and Bay had been married, where all the children had been baptized, where Tara and Bay had made their first communion together. Sitting in the second row, Tara looked at the back of her best friend's head and remembered back to first grade, when they had both worn white dresses and veils with silver crowns.

The kids seemed to be holding up. They were so well behaved, dressed in their best summer clothes, much more dignified than Tara had been at her own father's funeral. She had been eleven, Billy's age, and he had died in a car crash. He had been drunk, and he had smashed head-on into a station wagon, killing the woman driving. Tara had dreaded the funeral—how would she get through it?

With Bay, of course. Bay had helped her put on her black dress, held her trembling hand. Now they were here again, to bury Sean.

How was it possible that that tall, athletic, fast-talking, life-loving man could be lying in that gleaming wooden box? Tara stared at it, wishing she could shake him one last time.

The end had come so differently from the way anyone had expected. So . . . the word drifted into Tara's mind: softly. Everyone had thought Sean was a fugitive on the run, fleeing the jurisdiction with his loot. While the truth was, he had died alone just three miles from home, in his car, at the bottom of the Gill River. He had bled from the gash in his head, according to the police. Whatever had happened on his boat had caused him to lose so much blood, he had lost control of his car.

Sitting there, Tara ran her gaze over Bay and the children. They were all so quiet and composed, following along with the songbook, they might be at any Sunday Mass. Billy was the first to cry out loud, to show any outward signs of grief.

Now, as if it were catching, Pegeen began to cry. She tried to hold in the sobs, but they overtook her, and for half a minute she keened without being able to hold the sounds inside. Annie put her arm around her, weeping softly herself.

“But I want Daddy back!” Peg wept.

Tara concentrated all her energy on Bay.
Just get through this,
was the message she sent.
You can do it. You are strong. You're their mother, and they need every bit of you right now.
Tara's eyes bored into the back of her friend's head, sending her all the strength she could muster.

The priest went through the motions of Mass, saying the right things: “Sean McCabe, cherished husband of Bairbre . . .” he stumbled over Bay's name, Gaelic for Barbara, “beloved father of Anne, William, and Pegeen, taken too soon . . . the mysteries of the human spirit . . . unknown reasons of the heart . . .”

“What's he talking about?” Billy asked out loud.

“Dad,” Peg replied.

“But he's not
saying
anything,” Billy sobbed. “I don't even know what he
means
.”

Then it was Annie's turn to go to the lectern and recite her father's favorite poem. Tara held her breath, watching Annie make her way through the pew, past her mother, down the aisle, to the front of the church. She wore a navy blue skirt and pale pink shirt, her add-a-pearl necklace, and the small forget-me-not earrings her father had given her when she'd had her ears pierced. Her posture was hunched, her shoulder blades drawn forward, as if she had invisible wings and could enclose herself from behind. In spite of or because of that, her movements were filled with grace.

Annie cleared her throat. She had memorized the poem, Frost's “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” Without any paper to refer to, she recited the haunting words of the timeless poem.

Annie never took her eyes off her father. For Tara was sure that, as her goddaughter gazed down, she was seeing not a wood box but Sean himself. Seeing the father she loved so much, in winter, the icy blue air and frozen marsh all around.

Tara reached over the back of the pew, and Bay squeezed her hand. They were sisters, after all. Not bound by blood, but by love. They had adopted each other early in life, a lifelong commitment without any ritual, without any symbols but the breeze blowing off the Sound, the roses growing in their gardens.

Tara's chest felt heavy. Scanning the church, she'd seen a host of friends filling the pews. Hubbard's Point's
Les Dames de la Roche
—Winnie Hubbard, Annabelle McCray, Hecate Frost—were there with Sixtus Larkin; Zeb and Rumer Mayhew with the recently eloped Quinn and Michael Mayhew; Sam and Dana Trevor with Quinn's sister Allie . . . People from the beach, the bank, and town.

Some of Sean's clients had come: May and Martin Cartier, Ben Atkin from Silver Bay Auto, and Augusta Renwick—who was also one of Tara's housecleaning clients. She caught Tara's eye and gave her a dignified nod. Way in the back, seated in the last pew, was a face from the past: Dan Connolly. Tara would have recognized him anywhere. Hubbard's Point had a way of gathering everyone together, even the ones who had left long ago.

And new people, as well. Tara glimpsed Joe Holmes, standing by the back door. Her spine stiffened, wondering why he had come—couldn't he leave Bay and the family alone, let them get through the funeral?

But when Joe caught her eye, he held her gaze in a strange look of recognition, as if he understood her role in Bay's life and was sending her strength to help Bay get through this day. The look was fierce yet kind. Tara realized then that his being here was beyond duty—the kind of thing her grandfather would have done. Attending the funeral of a criminal in his precinct, just to support the family left behind.

Tara nodded back, and with that thought bowed her head. A sob ripped out of her chest as she thought of her grandfather, and as she realized that Sean's family would never see Sean again.

At the end, the priest extended the customary invitation for everyone to gather at the family's home, but very few people actually showed up. Bay stood at the door, greeting friends, trying to soothe the kids who couldn't understand why no one was coming.

“Is it because it's such a nice beach day?” Peggy asked. “They'd rather go swimming than come here?”

“Or is it,” Billy said hotly, “that they're scorning us because of everything at the bank and Dad being in the papers and all?”

Both kids looked up at Bay, wanting her to dispute Billy's statement. She knew he was right, but she'd never tell her kids that. “Daddy's friends love him,” she said. “And so do we. We're here, aren't we?”

“I'm his friend,” Tara said, nodding. “And I love him.”

“But there aren't many people here,” Peggy said doubtfully. “Not as many as at Granny's funeral.”

“Well, Granny was very old,” Bay said steadily, speaking of her mother, who had died at eighty-one. She wished her children could have remembered their great-grandmother, too. “She lived for so long, and everyone knew her . . .”

“Everyone knew Daddy, too,” Peggy said. “He was their banker.”

“Yeah. It SUCKS that he was their banker, and they can only think of the bad things about him,” Billy said. “Because there were good things, too. Lots more good things than bad. Right?”

“Right,” Bay said.

“Right,” Tara agreed.

“Dad is, was, will always BE, a great guy, and everyone should KNOW that.”

“Well, maybe we should have something to eat,” Tara said, pointing toward the table. They had ordered salads and small sandwiches from Foley's. “To keep up our strength.”

“I'm not hungry,” Peg said.

“No, I lost my APPETITE because of idiots who don't know the real Sean McCabe,” Billy said.

“He's got the old Irish fighting spirit,” Bay said to Tara as Billy stormed away. “Even when there's nothing to fight about.”

“When you're Irish,” Tara said, “there's
always
something to fight about.” Bay ached, because she knew Billy was hurting for his father's sake. She thought of Sean, of how competitive he had always been. Tears filled her eyes, to think that her son was right, that people were thinking badly of Sean right now. In so many ways, all Sean had really ever wanted was to be liked.

Mark and Alise Boland walked in, and came straight over.

No matter how composed Bay tried to seem, she struggled to hold back tears as Alise gave her a hug.

“You're so strong,” Alise said, patting her back. “To see you in church, you and your kids . . . Your daughter did such a good job, reciting the poem.”

“We're so sorry he's gone, Bay,” Mark said.

“Thank you,” Bay said.

“We can't believe it,” Alise said. “Any of it . . .”

“I know,” Bay said, her voice breaking. How could she do this, talk about her husband's death with the president of his bank? They were such an attractive couple, Mark tall and athletic, Alise small and chic. She owned a decorating business, and had an impeccable sense of style. Bay and Sean had never spent much time with them. They didn't have kids, so there wasn't the usual socializing at soccer and baseball, but Alise had always seemed friendly and dynamic—Bay often thought she would like to get to know her better.

Now their presence made her feel so ashamed of what Sean had done, while all she wanted, today, was to mourn his loss.

“If there's anything we can do,” Mark said gently.

“Anything,” Alise said, her expression worried, pained, somehow letting Bay know she really meant it.

Bay nodded as they walked away. Tara stood by, watching from across the kitchen. She was making a pot of coffee, but at the sight of Bay dissolving in tears, she hurried over.

“That was nice of them.” Bay shuddered. “Considering what Sean did at the bank.”

“They don't blame you for that,” Tara said. “No one does.”

“Why did he do it?” Bay asked. “I can't understand.”

“It's not the Sean we know,” Tara said, holding her.

Bay closed her eyes, weeping silently into Tara's shoulder. She couldn't believe any of it. Sean would never pitch another ball to the kids, shoot free throws down at the basketball court, never take them on another boat ride. He had been so wildly alive, and now he was gone. It seemed impossible that life could just go on, that the kids would grow up without him knowing them. She couldn't believe she would never see him again. She would never hear his voice . . .

When she pulled back to dry her eyes, she saw Dan and Eliza Connolly entering the room.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, immeasurably touched as they came forward.

“We're so sorry, Bay,” Dan said.

“I know what you're going through,” Eliza said. She was wearing all black: a long-sleeved ballet top, ankle-length black tube skirt, onyx necklace. Bay saw lavender crescents in the pale skin beneath her eyes, and she recognized someone else who couldn't sleep.

“You do,” Bay said, meeting her eyes, drawn to take her hands. They felt cold and so thin; Bay wanted to hold them, warm them up, and Eliza seemed to want that, too.

“It's terrible for your kids,” Eliza said.

“Oh, it is,” Bay said, her voice breaking.

Eliza's gaze slid around the kitchen, as if looking for something, taking everything in: the photos and drawings and reminder lists held to the refrigerator door by magnets, the collection of balls and bats by the side door, the tall green bottle filled with change, the oak table with Bay's mother's blue willow sugar bowl and cobalt blue glass salt and pepper shakers.

“Annie,” Eliza said. “Anne. I saw her name in the paper. In the obituary. And I heard her read the poem. She's my age.”

“Yes, she is,” Bay said, feeling something come together even as Eliza slid her hands away. “Would you like to meet her?”

Eliza nodded. “Yes,” she said.

“I'll take you to her room,” Bay said.

“You don't have to,” Eliza said, glancing around the kitchen—right past her father, who seemed to be watching her intently—at some of the other people standing around, speaking in quiet voices. “I can go myself.”

“It's just upstairs,” Bay said. “The second door on the left.”

ELIZA WALKED THROUGH THE FAMILY
'
S HOUSE.

She had never been here before, but she knew everything she needed to know about the people who lived here. They were the new lost souls.

In one instant, in the blink of their father's eye, their lives had changed forever. She took in the polished wood floors, the bright hooked rugs, the sports trophies on bookshelves, the watercolors on the wall of serene shoreline scenes: lighthouses, beaches, boats, breakwaters.

She wondered whether the family had ever before looked at the pretty pictures and thought of those girls who had been murdered last year and left in the breakwaters, of boats that sank, of beaches washed away by hurricanes.

Her heart hurt, because she knew that those were the things they would think of now . . .

When she got to Annie's door on the left, she stopped and stood very still. The upstairs hallway was cool and dark. Light came from an open door down the hall, but Eliza stood in shadow. Like a detective, ear against the heavy door, she used all her senses and instantly felt Annie's presence inside—she could feel the grief coming through.