The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (15 page)

The key had fit box 463.

And inside that box were three things:

An antique silver cup, engraved and stamped with the silversmith's mark.

A sheaf of three letters, dated over twenty years ago, from Daniel Connolly to Bay.

A scrap of yellow paper, torn from the yellow pages of a phone book, with two letters and seven digits written in almost calligraphic handwriting: CD9275482.

Joe knew the sign of a numbered account the way he knew his own name. Sean McCabe had a secret bank account—offshore somewhere. The Bahamas, the Caymans, Costa Rica, Zurich, Geneva . . .

Was it possible that Bay knew anything about it?

Joe would bet anything she didn't. When he'd asked her, flat-out, what she knew about Sean's financial life, she had looked him right in the eye and given him straight answers. Joe had believed her. He knew that practiced liars could fool anyone, even him, but somehow he didn't think Bay was like that. Those freckles, the way she constantly looked out the window at the agents' car parked in front, her stern eyes, hating Joe for dragging her kids through the mud: marks of an innocent woman.

Joe wasn't sure how, but he knew he was going to solve this case and give her some answers. He knew that Tara O'Toole would expect nothing less. So would his dad, for that matter. Joe wanted Bay and her kids to get through this without losing anything more. They had already lost their family pride and dignity; they had lost their husband and father. Joe had seen their savings account, and he knew their mortgage, and that they were probably going to lose their house.

Sean had thought to hide his own winnings amid a spare tire and tire iron, but he hadn't managed to take care of his own family—to provide the security of knowing they'd have a roof over their heads.

Joe might not have a wife or kids of his own, but one thing he knew for sure: If he did, he'd do it right. He'd learn from the idiots he had investigated over the years—the family men who had put their families last—and do the opposite in every way.

But he was forty-seven. Unlike Ralph Benjamin, attorney-at-law, and Frank Allingham, bank executive, he had all his hair. He was in FBI fighting trim. But he was a little too old to be starting out as a husband and father. And with that, he wondered whether Tara had ever been married. He wondered what it would feel like to go home to her, be met at the door with those fierce blue eyes and that sexy smile.

Stick to crime solving, Holmes, he told himself. Catch the bad guys. That's what you do, so keep doing it.

But right now it was time to knock off for the day, so he'd lock the silver cup and photocopied letters and scrap of yellow paper in the bureau's satellite office safe, stop thinking about the great husband he might have made someone, and head next door to see what Andy had in the way of old Dylan.

THE EVENING WAS STILL AND COOL, BUT THE DAY
'
S
extreme
heat continued to rise from the dry earth, blue stones, and rosebushes. Everyone had eaten—grilled chicken and sliced tomatoes from Tara's garden. Billy and Pegeen were at the beach movie; Annie was in the TV room with the sound turned low but the blue light reflecting off the walls.

“Come on, Annie,” Bay said quietly. “Come on outside with me and Tara. We're going to watch for shooting stars.”

“I don't want to,” Annie said, looking up. “Do I have to?”

Bay smiled. “No. But we'd like you to.”

“I know. I'm okay, Mom. Eliza said she might call. I want to wait by the phone.”

“We'll hear it outside.”

“I know, but—”

“Don't worry,” Bay said, smiling and kissing her. “I get it.”

She remembered back to when she and Tara had been twelve. They had been the most important things in each other's world. Now, heading into the kitchen, Bay found that Tara had finished the dishes, had gone outside to wait. Bay could see her, sitting on a chaise longue, barefoot, gazing at the milky sky, filled with haze and stars. And she went out to join her.

“
HEAR THAT?
”
TARA ASKED, SETTING THE SCENE, THE
instant Bay walked outside from talking to Annie.

“Crickets?” Bay asked, because her yard abutted the marsh where spiky green grass grew thick and tall, and it was a haven for crickets.

“No, a whippoorwill. Listen.”

They both waited, silent, until the night bird called again—distant, across the water. Bay raised her eyebrows in acknowledgment.

“It's a good omen,” Tara said.

“Do you think so?”

“I know so.”

“Hmm,” Bay said. She fell silent again, and Tara wondered whether she was thinking about her meeting with Danny Connolly.

Grabbing Bay's arm, she gave a tug and hauled her out of the chaise longue. “Come on,” she said. “We have to get you back in training!”

“Training?”

Without replying, Tara walked around the side of Bay's house. The hose was coiled, like a dry green snake, behind a wilting rose of Sharon bush. Turning the spigot—a brass sea horse Tara had bought her for Christmas several years ago—she handed the nozzle to Bay.

“Water,” she commanded.

“Oh, it's too late,” Bay said. “It's too late for this summer. I'll be lucky if anything comes back next year.”

“We'll have none of that, my fine lassie,” Tara said. “Water your garden. That's an order. I should have gotten on your case weeks ago, but there's no time like the present. Of course, I'll still have the best garden in eastern Connecticut, but I hate to win it in a walk.”

With that, Bay grabbed the hose. It hissed as the silver stream of water hit the old roses, beach roses, lavender, delphinium, larkspur, snapdragons, cosmos, alyssum, sweet peas, black-eyed Susies, salvia, beach heather, and wild mint.

“I can't believe I let this happen,” Bay said.

“You're doing it now.”

“I wonder how long it will be my garden,” Bay said. “I wonder whether we'll even own it next year.”

“That's what I want to talk to you about,” Tara said. “I found a job for you.”

“You're kidding!” Bay said, nearly spraying Tara with the hose.

“I'm not . . . and it's so perfect, you're going to be incensed you didn't think of it yourself. You're—going—to—be,” she said, pacing the words for maximum effect, “a—GARDENER!”

Bay didn't speak right away. But when she did, the words were wreathed in a grin. “That's too perfect,” she said.

“Isn't it? It hit me like a ton of bricks: No one does it better, except maybe me. You've got the green thumb, you've got the shabby straw hat, you're maniacal about sunscreen, but what's more, you've got your granny's talent for the soil.”

Bay's smile was fragile, shimmering. “Remember? She always said that flowers were incidental; if we loved the earth, we couldn't help but bring forth beautiful things.”

“She loved me for my name,” Tara said, lifting her eyes and looking up across the beach toward the Point. “Irish for ‘rocky hill.' Just like that ledge up there, and she said, ‘If you can grow flowers here, you can grow them anywhere.' She said that you and I were sea and earth . . .”

“Bay and Tara,” Bay said.

“I want you to do something you love,” Tara said, aching. When Bay hurt, so did Tara.

“My kids lost their father this summer,” Bay said, looking around the yard. “And I lost my husband. Gardening just seemed so trivial.”

“I don't see it that way,” Tara said quietly. “I think life is supposed to be beautiful. We're supposed to try to make it that way . . . Sad, terrible things happen, but it's up to us to plant flowers. To bring forth the beauty.”

Bay trained the hose on the grass. It was so dry and brown, each blade was a hard, brittle stick. Tara's bare feet longed for a walk in the cool, soft sand. Instead, she stepped right into the stream of water.

“About your career,” Tara said. “I even have your first client lined up.”

“Who?”

“Augusta Renwick.”

“You're kidding.”

“She's lovely, Bay.”

“My husband stole money from her!”

“She doesn't hold that against
you
.”

“You talked about it? I knew she'd bring it up to you. What did she say?”

“Well, she's Augusta. She's exactly how I want to be when I get to be her age—tough, regal, and entirely self-supporting. I mean, I know she inherited millions from Hugh, but still—they're
her
millions now.”

“And? What did she say?”

“Well. She's pissed. Very, very pissed. At
Sean
. But she needs you to work in her garden.”

“Great—a mercy job. No way, Tara. You couldn't think I'd be able to work for Mrs. Renwick after what Sean did—to have to look her in the eye . . .”

“Darling, hate to break it to you, but there'll be no looking her in the eye. There'll be kneeling in the dirt, toiling in the hay, wrestling with the thorns of a thousand
roses . . . You won't even see her.”

“Come on,” Bay said. “She's the kind of woman who would oversee every single thing that happens on her property. She'd probably tell me how to prune her roses.”

“Not a chance. This woman sets foot outside only to admire the sunsets her husband once painted, and only to play with her grandchildren when they come over. She has geraniums even browner than yours. I'm serious.”

“You asked her about hiring me?”

“Yes,” Tara said.

“Really? And she didn't object?”

“Au contraire. See, you have to know Augusta. There's nothing she likes better in life than ‘rising above' everything and everyone else. What she said was, ‘When can my new gardener start?' ”

“And you replied?”

“Right away. Tomorrow, if possible. And she was madly enthusiastic . . . to have her new gardener get started,” Tara said.

“Wow,” Bay said. “I can hardly believe it . . . but you know? It feels right. I'm not sure how or why, but it does. Maybe I can help make up to her for what Sean did. The only thing is, the kids will hate not having me here all the time.”

“Don't kid yourself. They'll be overjoyed.”

“What if they start getting in trouble? After everything that's happened . . . that's how it starts. Peggy's only nine—”

“And they'll feel so much better if you can't keep up payments on the house? The other kids'll babysit for her. And you know I'm always available. I can adjust my schedule to help.”

Bay stood still, staring at the silver water arching onto the lawn.

“Okay . . . if you're sure she wants me.”

“Shake on it,” Tara said, and the two friends reached across the now soggy grass to clasp hands.

13

B
AY WISHED SHE COULD HAVE PROTECTED HER KIDS
forever, or at least a few more years: given them the security of thinking they were safe, that they would always be taken care of, that their parents, their home would always be there.

She told them each individually that she had decided to start working; she took Billy for a ride in the car, Annie for a walk on the beach, and Peggy for a stroll to the Point. Each child reacted differently. Annie was excited for her, especially about the gardening, and she promised she would help look after the two younger kids. Billy was worried that if she worked for someone else, their garden would continue to deteriorate. She assured him she'd make sure that didn't happen, especially if he'd consider helping out with the yard work.

“I could do that,” he said. “Can I drive the ride-on mower?”

“When you're twelve,” Bay said. “That's what your father and I decided.”

“You and Dad talked about it?” Billy asked.

“Yes,” Bay said. “He said he knew you'd be a good driver.”

“I thought he'd teach me,” Billy said, staring out the car window. “When I was little, he used to let me sit on his lap and steer. So I always thought he'd teach me.”

“He thought that, too, Billy,” Bay said, swallowing hard at the thought of all those moments the kids would miss with their father; and that he would miss with them. She reached across the seat to grab her son's hand, and to her shock, he grabbed hers first.

Pegeen was uncharacteristically silent on their walk, as darkness came to Hubbard's Point, and the air felt the first chill of summer's end. Bay explained that she would be starting to work next week, that Annie and Billy would be helping Tara fill in by looking after Peggy after school on days when Bay would be working. She waited for a question or two, but Peggy just walked in silence. So Bay found herself talking about Firefly Hill, the Renwick's great house on the promontory overlooking Wickland Ledge Light.

“Mrs. Renwick wants me to get her garden back into shape,” Bay said. “It used to be beautiful, years ago, and her husband did lots of famous paintings of it. Some of them are in museums. I'll take you to the Wadsworth Atheneum in Hartford, to see one he did of his three daughters sitting on a garden bench.”

“Did you see red leaves?” Peggy asked as they passed from the circle of a yellow streetlight into the darkness. “On that tree back there?”

“No, honey,” Bay said, looking down at the top of her head.

“I did,” Peggy said. “I wish we didn't have to start school. Fall's almost here. I want it to stay summer.”

“Maybe we'll go to New York for Christmas vacation,” Bay said, taking Peggy's small hand, excited by the prospect of making her own money and finding their way into the future. “There's a painting at the Metropolitan Museum of Art called ‘Girl in a White Dress.' Would you like to do that, honey? We could see the tree at Rockefeller Center, and go to
The Nutcracker
. . .”

“I just want summer to last,” Peggy said. “I don't like those red leaves.”

Bay was to begin as Augusta Renwick's gardener the next week, but Pegeen got badly stung by a red jellyfish and was so upset that Bay postponed her first day of work. She began to wonder whether that had been Peg's plan.

Kissing Pegeen, she returned to the kitchen. Annie jumped up from the table when she entered.

“Mom, can I use the phone to call Eliza? I want to make plans for Saturday.”

“Eliza,” Billy said. “Is she the one who came to our house after Dad's thing all in black, with scars all over her arms?”

“The ‘thing,' ” Annie said, “was his funeral. So of course she wore black.”

“Yeah, well, what about the scars? We learned about girls like her in health,” Billy said. “She's a cutter.”

Bay's stomach dropped. She looked at Annie, who was blinking slowly, as if she had never heard the word, as if it was a foreign language.

“Annie, is that true?” Bay asked.

“No,” Annie said.

“How would you know?” Billy burst out angrily, close to crying. “You think she's going to just tell you? ‘Oh, and by the way, I like to slice my skin with razor blades'? She does—everyone saw.”

“Even if she does that,” Annie said, skin growing paler, eyes flooding with tears, “I care about her. And she cares about me. So be careful, Billy. She's my friend. And I'm going to her house on Saturday. Right, Mom?”

Bay took a deep breath. The two children had unconsciously gone to stand behind their father's empty seat at the table, where Sean would never sit again.

“That's the plan,” she said, calmly.

“So, can I call her?”

“Yes, honey,” Bay said, knowing that she would call Danny to subtly follow up on Billy's words. But right now, she could see that her own kids were on edge, tense with all the changes: Summer was about to end, school was about to start, she was about to go to work. “But first,” she said, “listen to me.”

“What?” Annie asked.

“Yeah,” Billy asked. “What?”

“I think you're amazing,” Bay said.

Both kids stood still, looking slightly confused, waiting for her to say more. She almost couldn't go on, but she made herself. “I don't know how we're doing this,” she said.

“Doing what?” Annie asked.

“Getting through this summer,” Bay said. “It's been so hard, and you've all been through so much.”

“Losing Daddy,” Annie whispered.

“The worst thing that ever happened,” Billy said.

“Yes,” Bay said. “It is. It's been terrible. And so has the rest of it: the newspapers, and the TV, and all the stories . . .”

“People talking on the beach,” Billy said.

“Being worried about money,” Annie said.

“You having to go to work,” Billy added.

“No,” Annie said. “That part's good—she gets to be a gardener.”

“Will we get to keep our house?” Billy asked.

Annie watched, seeming to hold her breath.

“We'll keep it,” Bay said, “I promise.”

“We can all get jobs,” Billy offered. “To help.”

“I'm so proud of you,” Bay said. “I know your father would be, too.” The kids tried to smile, but the memory still felt too raw. Bay hugged them both, and while Annie went off to call Eliza, Billy ran outside to turn the sprinkler on the garden.

Bay felt almost like a schoolgirl right now, preparing for the first day of school. Her kids were more ready for September than she was. Peggy's jellyfish sting had given her a few days' reprieve—partly because of its severity, but even more because her youngest had been so quiet since hearing the news about Bay's job.

Bay went into Peggy's room. It was swathed in darkness; of the three kids, Peggy was the only one who liked heavy curtains. She seemed to crave sleep as a restorative cocoon, blocking out the moon at night, the rising sun, to grab every last moment of dreamtime before launching herself full-blast into the light of day.

“Peg?” Bay asked softly, sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping her eyes.

“Hi, Mom.”

“I'm glad you're still awake, honey. How's the sting?”

“Better. Not so itchy. What is it?”

“I want to ask you something. Just . . . how do you feel about my going to work?”

“Did you see the geese flying in a V this afternoon?” Peggy asked. “They're starting their fall migration, aren't they? I don't want them to, Mom. I want summer to last this year.”

“Peggy . . .”

“And the leaves are turning. I don't want them to. I want them to stay green . . .”

Bay took a breath, gently pushed the hair back from Peggy's eyes.

“Honey,” she said. “Never mind the leaves for now. Or the geese. Will you tell me what you think about my going to work?”

Pegeen, lying on her back in bed, stared up at her mother. She shrugged. Their eyes met and glinted, and in the darkness, Bay could see the hard glitter of tears. She reached for her youngest daughter's hand. Above her bed was a poster for a Connecticut College production of
Playboy of the Western World
. Bay had studied Synge in college, and she had played Pegeen in her senior play.

“I don't want you to,” Peggy whispered.

“You don't?” Bay asked, her heart sinking.

Peg shook her head. “I like it when you're home. You've
always
been home. I used to feel sorry for the kids whose mothers weren't there after school . . .”

“Peggy, I won't be working all the time. Just doing some gardening for Mrs. Renwick. You know where she lives, right? In that big house on the cliff . . . you know, I told you about her husband, the famous artist, and the paintings he did of their garden . . . I want to make it just as beautiful as—”

“You'll be working for a rich lady,” Peggy said, her throat thick with tears, “and I thought we were . . .”

“You thought we were rich?”

Peggy nodded. “Daddy was a banker . . .”

Bay sat very still, just holding Peggy's hand. She thought of their nice house, their two cars, Sean's big boat, all the kids' bikes and games and toys. What did any of them matter? “We're rich in lots of ways,” Bay said. “The ways that matter.”

“Then why do you have to work?”

“Because riches don't always pay the freight,” Bay said.

“I still wish you didn't have to go to work. I
hate
that you have to.”

“I know. I know you do. But it's doing something I love—gardening. How lucky can I be?”

“It doesn't seem lucky at all,” Peggy said, breaking down. “It seems awful. As awful as anything! Almost as bad as the leaves turning red!”

“Oh, Peggy,” Bay said, holding her. “You love fall. It used to be your favorite season. Why does it upset you so much this year?”

“Because of Daddy,” Peggy sobbed, clutching Bay's neck. “Because I don't want to leave him behind in summer. I want to have him with me all through the year, but I can't. He's never going to see fall leaves again, Mommy—never! I want this summer to last forever!”

Bay held Peggy, rocking her back and forth as they both cried. Bay felt her little girl's hot tears on her own skin, and she thought she would burst with new grief. Every day there was a little less sadness in one place and a little more in another. She thought of the year to come, of all the “nexts” that Sean would miss—and that their children would miss about him.

When Peggy was limp from crying, Bay kissed her and slid her onto the pillow. She sat with her a little longer, until her breathing grew steady and calm. But when Bay went back to the kitchen, she found Annie upset. She reported that she hadn't been able to speak with Eliza—her dad had answered and said that something came up, that they would have to reschedule Saturday. Eliza had to “go out of state.”

“What does that mean, Mom?” Annie asked.

“I'm not sure,” Bay said. “Maybe she went to visit someone or something.”

“She could have called me,” Annie said, her lower lip quivering.

“I'm sure she will when she gets back,” Bay said, giving her a hug.

“If she even remembers,” Annie said into Bay's shoulder.

“Oh, she will, honey. I know she will.”

They stood in the middle of the kitchen, crickets chirping outside, Bay rocking her. She thought of Dan, wondered what had really happened, wondered whether he was as constantly worried about his child as Bay was about all of hers. Maybe she should call, after the kids fell asleep, to make sure Eliza was all right.

Later, at ten o'clock, the house was finally all hers. Out on the back porch, she thought of Danny again. But it seemed too late to phone. She didn't know what might be happening with Eliza, and she didn't want to bother him. Time had changed everything, and she no longer felt free to just show up in his life when he least expected it.

She thought back to the summer she was fifteen, when she had first met Danny Connolly. What a perfect summer that had been. Love had come along, without her even asking for it. It had just been in the air, calling her down to the boardwalk every day. She had never felt so close to anyone; she hadn't wanted to let a minute go by without him.

And she thought of how silly and fleeting it could seem—a young girl's first crush. Against the backdrop of summer and the Point, the boardwalk and the blue sky, she had fallen in love for the first time. But now, twenty-five summers later, Bay was beginning to see that those feelings had been real and lasting, had spoken to something deep and true in herself. And she was seeing, now, that those feelings had colored all her actions since.

She had to admit, and it wasn't easy, that she had held Sean up for comparison all along. All these years, she had kept waiting for him to grow up to be like Danny. She had waited for him to outgrow his wildness, to finish sowing his wild oats.

Last winter, when he had looked her straight in the eye and promised he would change, she had wanted to believe there was a chance. But too much damage had been done; whatever promise he had been trying to make, he had been unable to keep. And even if he had, Bay suspected that her heart had been too broken for too long to ever really open up to Sean again.

“Our kids,” she whispered up at the sky, just in case Sean was listening, “love you way more than you deserve.”