The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (2 page)

Bay had felt the adrenaline, the fear, a funny feeling in her stomach. But she couldn't let Annie know, so she had just hugged her tighter. “Don't worry, Annie. I'm sure there's some explanation.”

“Mommy, I don't want to tell you. Because you'll be mad at him . . . but I have to tell you. They were saying romantic things . . . Daddy wanted to kiss her again and
again . . .”

“Oh, Annie,” Bay had said, holding back her own anguish and rage at Sean—for betraying her, for leaving her no way to defend him to their daughter.

Annie had been heartbroken by what she'd overheard, but the other kids—younger, but with thicker skin—had been outraged when their sister told them. “Daddy, why do you talk to another woman in the night?” Pegeen had asked with steely eyes and an angry voice. “If you can't sleep, why don't you drink milk? Or read a book?”

Billy had been more direct: “Don't do it anymore, Dad. We need you more than she does.”

Seeing the effect on her kids had awakened the warrior in Bay, and she had started to think that staying with Sean for the sake of the family might be worse for everyone. She thought of all the times—going back long before Lindsey—when she had stayed silent to keep the peace, keeping her doubts and fears to herself. They all came boiling back after that phone call.

“You've been so dishonest for so long—I don't know when it started,” she said, her voice breaking. “I don't even know you.”

Sean had been shocked to think of Annie hearing him.

“What did she hear?” he had asked.

“Enough.”

“Did you tell her—?”

“I told her you were probably talking about business. She didn't believe me. She said you were whispering.”

“Oh, shit.”

Bay had felt the kick in her stomach—he wasn't denying the accusation. He was just trying to do damage control. She'd cried softly, feeling their daughter's grief at losing the innocent belief that her parents still loved each other.

Sean had taken her hand, pressed it to his bowed forehead for a long moment, before raising his gaze to meet hers. “Bay, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I hurt you and the kids. It's over, and it will never happen again. I swear to you. Everything is going to change,” he'd said, his voice shaking.

“You've said that before,” she had said, but something about his tone caught her attention and made her stare at him.

“This is different,” he'd said.

“In what way?”

He paused, took a deep breath. “I've made a lot of mistakes. Big ones. Sometimes I look in the mirror, and I don't even know the guy looking back at me.”

“I've thought that, too,” she'd said, flooding with tears and bitter hurt. “I wonder what's happened to my husband.”

“I swear, everything's going to change. You'll see—”

Bay tried not to be suspicious right now, but all Sean's lies had changed her. She wasn't very trusting these days, and her mind went instantly to the worst. Where could he be? Sometimes he turned off his phone, stuck it in his pocket, and headed out on his boat.

But not on nights when he'd promised to take the kids miniature golfing.

And never, not even during the heat of his affairs, had he ever left one of the children waiting to be picked up.

Bay walked out to the garden. Usually this calmed her, to see the verbena and bee balm wafting in the sea breeze, to hear bees humming in the roses and honeysuckle. Although her breath was steady, her chest felt constricted, as if a weight had settled there. She looked at the driveway, magically willing Sean's Jeep to materialize. The sky was still bright blue; tomorrow would be the longest day of the year: the anniversary of the day he proposed to her.

As a kid, Sean had been irrepressible. He would be the one, among their friends, to try to swim across the Sound to Long Island, to catch blue crabs with his bare hands, to dive into the water from the railroad bridge, to shoot baskets till he made fifty in a row. With bright yellow hair and brighter green eyes, he crackled with electricity.

He had always worked, somehow making more money than the other kids. He'd bought himself a Boston Whaler with money from his busboy job—he always knew who to butter up, and just by filling one elderly rich woman's water glass ten times in one evening, he scored a seventy-five-dollar tip. A well-known, well-heeled drunk slipped him hundred-dollar bills from time to time, saying, “Use it for college.”

He would, but first he would buy the boat. Then he would charge renters money for what he called “See Black Hall From the Water” tours. Twenty dollars per person. He had confided in Bay that lonely women whose husbands worked during the week would hire him. He said that nothing ever happened, but he knew that if he wanted more money, it was somehow
there
: offered in an unspoken way.

Bay had hated that story, and she had done her best to instantly repress her true feelings: It wasn't his fault, it was the women's. He was too young for them. Sean was irresistible—cute, funny, flattering, and ready for anything. He was a stick of dynamite with blond hair.

She was attracted to his energy and fire; all the girls were. Everyone at Hubbard's Point wanted to go out with him; town girls from Black Hall drove through the beach to see the house where he and his family spent the summers—a gray cottage just around the bend from the railroad tracks. Pretty, blond, tan, bikini-wearing, outgoing girls—the most popular girls, the cheerleaders, the class beauties.

But he loved Bay.

Even now, she couldn't quite believe how he had fixated on her. He would always put his towel near hers on the beach. When he went hand-over-hand down the rafters of the pavilion over the boardwalk, he always made sure she was watching. He would cannonball off the raft right in front of her, his body shooting through the water like a missile, coming up beside her and brushing her with his arms and legs as he swam past, making her heart thump and her skin tingle. She would always feel thrilled by his attention—and a little confused.

They seemed so opposite.

She was quiet and shy. When her high-school class voted her the queen of her junior prom, she had known it had to be a joke—she barely had the nerve to dance with her date, a boy as shy as she was, who said about ten words to her all night and never quite got the courage to kiss her good night. She was studious, in love with nature.

But they were beach kids; like so many other couples who had met at Hubbard's Point, they went to beach movies, kissed under the Milky Way, carved their initials into the tables at Foley's. Their history and the beach connection were too compelling to ignore. They were total opposites, yet bound by the sand and salt and pines of their beloved Point.

They were lifelong friends; they would grow old together, along with Tara, one big happy family, third-generation residents of Hubbard's Point.

Right after they had graduated from college, the longest day of the year: Sean had picked her up in his boat, seated her beside him at the wheel, opened the throttle wide as they sped out into the Sound. The light was bright and seemingly eternal. The minutes ticked on and on, the sun still high in the sky. They had made love in the bottom of the boat, waiting for darkness to fall. Far out in the Sound, almost into the ocean, the waves were huge. Bay had been frightened, but the danger had just excited Sean more.

“Don't look so scared,” he had said, smoothing the hair back from her face.

“It feels as if we're going to capsize.”

“What if we did? I'd swim home with you on my back.”

Bay had shivered, loving that thought, but unable to chase the growing terror inside as the waves built and the wind picked up.

“Let's go home, Sean,” she had said.

“Not till dark,” he'd said. “And maybe not even then. Home is always there. Let's go somewhere we've never been—let's take the boat out to the Gulf Stream and turn off the engine and just drift wherever it takes us . . .”

She knew he was watching her for her reaction: He had such lively, devilish eyes. He loved to tease, but that night she felt he was almost serious, that he was testing her.

“Okay,” she said, bravely. “Let's do it.”

“That's what I like about you, Bay,” he said. “We're going to go places together. Wild, amazing places. We're going to fly to the sun.”

“How about the moon, Sean? Will you take me there, instead?” she asked. Someone else had promised her the moon once.

“Anyone can go to the moon,” Sean had scoffed. “For me, it's the sun. The moon only reflects the sun's fire, has no heat of its own. I want fire in life, Bay. It's too bad one of us wasn't born rich, so we could do it right. Why couldn't you have a trust fund?”

He was joking, but he joked about that a lot.

“Because my ancestors were too busy not starving in the potato famine to get into the stock market,” she said. “And so were yours.”

His eyes had glinted with flashpoint anger, not wanting her reminding him of that. He opened his mouth, as if to admonish her, but changed his mind.

He had been lying on top of her, but he'd pushed up on his arms, to look around. The boat was pitching roughly, and the wind blew back his hair. Looking up, Bay had thought he looked like a wild sea sprite, and in that instant she'd known how different they really were. The realization had hit her hard, but she tore it down and buried it deep.

Sean had always wanted to be rich, and to go far away. Bay had always been happy with what she had, and she loved home more than anything.

Her heart falling, she wondered whether that explained what was happening now, tonight, one night shy of the longest day of this year, so many summers later. Sean was back to his old tricks, flying too close to the sun.

She turned back to the picnic table. Billy and Peg were there, digging into their burgers. But Annie's spot at the table was empty.

ANNIE MCCABE STOOD IN HER PARENTS
'
ROOM, RIGHT IN
the
middle of the blue-and-white rug, and knew that something was wrong. She felt it in her heart, where she always felt everything important. She'd known the minute Peg had called—by the look in her mother's eyes, the let-down crushed expression there so reminiscent of those terrible months last winter.

Walking slowly around the room, Annie's eyes lit on her father's bureau. She glanced at the framed photos there: of Mom, of Billy, Peg, and Annie, of her dad's old dog Lucky. He was a Boston bull, white with brown spots. Her dad had found Lucky in an alley in Hartford when he was twelve—Annie's age. He had adopted the abandoned dog, and his love was still so strong, Annie felt tears in her own eyes whenever her father talked about him.

Seeing Lucky's picture on her dad's bureau somehow made Annie feel better. His cuff links were there, too: gold ovals, with his monogram. He wore them with his tuxedo, when he and Mom had somewhere fancy to go, and sometimes with a special shirt when he had a big closing at the bank, or when one of his big private banking clients came in.

She looked in his closet. What did most girls her age care about their father's clothes? But Annie loved the way she could stand there, close her eyes, and imagine her father grabbing her in a big huge hug.

“My Annie-bear,” he'd growl in her ear, rocking her back and forth the way he had when she was little and her head only came to his waist. Now she was up to his shoulder, and sometimes he ended the hug with a whisper that she should cut down on her snacking.

She stood just inside his closet door, off balance with the memory, conjuring her father from his smell: wool from his suits, sweat from his days at the bank, machine oil from his boat, and bait from fishing. Her stomach hurt, thinking of where he might be.
Don't let him be with Lindsey. Don't let him be with her again. . . .

“Annie, what are you doing?”

At the sound of her mother's voice, Annie opened her eyes. Before she could answer, the phone rang.

Sighing, her mother walked toward the bedside table. In that sigh, Annie thought she detected relief. Who would it be but her father, calling to say he was sorry to be late, sorry he'd missed picking up Peg, but that he'd be home in a jiffy to take them all to Pirate's Cove. Annie wanted to believe it herself, wanted to smile, but she couldn't yet.

Bay, unsettled at the sight of Annie standing half-inside Sean's closet, picked up the receiver, ready to keep her voice calm and not let Annie know how furious she was with Sean.

“Hello?” she said.

“Bay, it's Frank Allingham,” came the deep voice.

“Hi, Frank,” Bay said. Frank was an old friend of Sean's, their histories so interlocking, it was hard to remember where they'd started out: high school, college, business school, the boatyard, the bank.

“Bay, is Sean there?”

“No,” she said, eyes on Annie. Her daughter had been avidly watching Bay's face, but the minute she realized it wasn't Sean on the phone, she turned back to the closet. Now, as if she was searching for something, she was on her knees, going through her father's shoes.

“Do you know where I can get ahold of him?”

“I don't, Frank,” Bay said, detecting uneasiness in his voice. “What's wrong?”

“Do you know . . . did he mention anything to you about where he was going today?”

“Yes—he said he had a loan committee meeting.”

“So he knew . . .”

“What's wrong?” Bay said, hearing Annie gasp, watching her lunge deeper into Sean's closet. She started toward her daughter, began to reach down, to touch Annie's back, to pull her up and out of the closet, when Frank's words stopped her in her tracks.

“Nothing, probably,” Frank said, and she could almost hear him wishing he hadn't called. “But, well, he wasn't there, Bay. We waited for him, and we have some important decisions pending, ten people waiting to hear if they get their mortgages. Mark is fit to be tied.”

Mark Boland was the bank president—and the object of Sean's great resentment. Given his success with the new division, he had hoped to be tapped for the position, but the bank had brought Boland over from Anchor Trust.

“Is Sean okay? It's not like him to bail on a big meeting.”

“No, it's not,” Bay said.