The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (20 page)

“Do you remember telling me those things?”

“I do,” he said.

“Did you really believe them? Or did you just make them up for me?”

“I think maybe knowing you,” Dan said, pausing as the catboat sailed gently over the waves, or as if he had a lump in his throat, “made me believe them.”

“How?” she asked, cradling her injured hand in her good one.

He didn't reply for a while. It was almost dusk, and the sky met the sea at the wide, pink horizon. Bay scanned the sky for the moon, as if she might see it roving the sky, hitched to a team of whales.

“Building things is very practical,” he said. “You taught me to look for magic.”

“Really?”

“More than anyone before or since.”

She bowed her head over her bandaged hand and thought of the police and FBI agents and rumors and, especially, Annie and Billy and Peggy, hurt and always worried now, waiting for her back at home.

“I wish I had looked for more of it in my own life,” she said.

“The old Bay would have said it's there whether you look for it or not,” he said.

Just then, they bounced over a wave, and slid together on the seat. Bay decided to stay there and not move away.

“Who is that old Bay?” she whispered.

“She's here right now,” he whispered back, taking one hand off the tiller, to slide around her shoulders.

It felt right. They were riding the tide together. Having rounded Ledge Light, Danny shouldered back into the harbor. They had a following sea now, so he let out the sheet, sailing downwind, the great sail catching every bit of sunset light.

It reflected onto their faces. Dan's face had a rosy glow, and Bay could see it reflected on her white bandage and fisherman's sweater. She thought of the moon, icy silver with the sun's light, being pulled by pale gray whales.

The old Bay . . . She swallowed hard, feeling her way toward the idea that she might have herself back. The summer had been so hurtful, and she was only beginning to let herself feel how damaging the years of lies had been, the years of living in the harsh glare of a blazing sun.

When she tilted her head back, from within the crook of Danny's arm, to thank him again for the sail, she saw him gazing down at her.

The look in his eyes took her breath away.

It was full of so many things: old love, new worry, something secret she couldn't put into words. It was like looking into the face of the moon, from a million miles away, and it made her think of what Augusta had said the other day:
“You couldn't bear it, knowing what you now know, to be with someone who feels less than insanely passionate for you.”
Bay trembled now, because she saw passion in Danny's face, and she felt it in her own heart.

And as they drew closer to the dock, just before it was time to drop the sail, he said, “Okay, Galway. I've been waiting years for this. Since I already gave you the crescent moon once, I had to work overtime for this one.”

He pointed, and she looked northeast.

Rising over Groton, behind the industrial buildings and submarines, over the Gold Star Bridge, a huge, shimmering, soft orange disc of a September full moon, ready to light the night.

“Is that too obvious?” Dan whispered into her ear.

Bay gasped, tears in her eyes. “Don't tell me you planned it,” she said.

“All I did was look at the almanac,” he said. “And make sure I got us away from the dock on time.”

“Dan,” she started to say, but caught herself. Her voice broke. She couldn't speak, but what she would have said out loud and was saying to herself was, “Sean never did this for me.”

In all their years together, he had never even seemed to know how much she loved the moon.

Insanely passionate,
Augusta had said, and Bay had thought it was an impossible state of mind. Until right now.

19

D
AN CUT TWO PIECES OF HALF-INCH PLYWOOD, THE
grain of each oriented parallel to the sheer line for beauty and strength. Carefully, he spread epoxy on the surfaces for a sure hold. He beveled the edges along the centerline, so the finished piece would show a crown. This was going to be one special dinghy; he wanted every detail to be perfect.

He had a pencil behind his ear, which he used to make notations on paper or the wood itself. His white face mask had slipped down, and he let it hang around his neck. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt; September had come in on fresh breezes, cool and clear.

Every minute reminded him of sailing with Bay. Conflicting emotions swirled through him, and working helped to push them away. His feelings for Bay were so strong, but he came with a lot of baggage these days—how could he embark on a new relationship after everything with Charlie? And considering the way Sean—her husband—was involved? As the day went on, he worked up a sweat driving himself crazy thinking about it all, stripping down to an old Springsteen T-shirt.

“The Convention Center, Asbury Park, with the Big Man on bagpipes,” came the voice from the door.

“Excuse me?”

“Rehearsing for the
Rising
tour,” the voice said, “Clarence Clemons played bagpipes on ‘Into the Fire.' Did you catch that?”

“No,” Dan said, glancing down at his shirt. “I saw the show at the Garden. There was a rumor, must've drifted up from the Jersey Shore, about Clarence and the bagpipes, but he didn't play them in New York.”

“Too bad. It was haunting,” the visitor said.

“I can imagine. The concert I saw was amazing.”

“Must have been something, to hear that music in New York City.”

“Yes, it was,” Dan said. “Can I help you?”

“I'm Joe Holmes, with the FBI. Got a call from the local police, saying you have information about the Sean McCabe case.”

“Oh, right.” Dan put down his tools and straightened up, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Sean McCabe wanted to commission a boat from me. He showed up here a few weeks before he died, and we talked about designs and materials. He had a model he wanted me to work from, made by his daughter.”

“What kind of boat?”

“Wooden. Classic.”

“Not McCabe's normal style of boat.”

“No, I guess not.”

“What did he want it for?” Holmes asked, and Dan could almost read the mind of a man who would be an FBI agent: What good was a pretty wooden boat in the modern world of speed and efficiency?

“He wanted it for his daughter,” Dan said.

Joe Holmes nodded. Dan's palms were sweating; he started working again, to keep himself occupied. He had notched the dinghy's frames, so while the breast hook's epoxy dried, he began setting the inwales flush with the frame's face and sheer, half turned away from the agent.

“Did he seem like a family man to you?” Joe asked.

“I didn't know him well,” Dan said. “So I don't know.”

“But commissioning a boat for his daughter would tend to tell you something, right?”

“I guess so,” Dan said, concentrating on the boat to avoid getting into that question. The smell of sawdust and epoxy was strong, and Dan could hear his own heart thumping in his ears.

“Mrs. McCabe told me she's an old friend of yours.”

At that, Dan looked up and nodded.
Okay, good,
he thought.
Bay has already talked to him.

“Known each other a long time?” Holmes asked.

“We knew each other a long time ago,” Dan said. “But then we both went our separate ways and didn't speak again till this summer.”

“Before her husband died.”

“No,” he said. “After.”

“And Sean McCabe knew of your friendship? Or was he, perhaps, an old friend, too?”

“I didn't know Sean well,” Dan said. “He grew up at the same beach as Bay, and I remember seeing him around. But that's about it.”

“Then it's quite a coincidence, isn't it, that Sean McCabe would walk in here,” the agent said. “Not knowing you used to know his wife.”

Dan let that pass. “The reason I called the local police,” he said, “is that a woman called here asking about Sean McCabe.”

Joe Holmes raised his eyebrows.

“When?”

“A few weeks ago. Late August.”

“What did she say, exactly?”

“She asked me if Sean had been here; if I'd spoken to him.”

“Did she say what she was looking for?”

“No. It was very brief. I thought she might call back, but she hasn't so far.” His heart was pounding hard, just from being in the middle of an investigation; good thing he hadn't done anything really wrong. “What do
you
think she wanted?”

The agent stood tall, hands clasped behind his back. He was gazing at Dan, as if he wanted to read his mind. “Hard to say,” he said. “The man had a lot going on.”

“McCabe did know that his wife and I used to be friends,” he said. “Bay told me he read some letters we wrote to each other.”

“I know,” Holmes said. “I have them.”

“Bay gave them to you?”

“These are photocopies, and they were in Sean's possession.”

Bay didn't know this, Dan was sure. She'd been worried about holding out on the FBI over something as sweet and innocent as their old letters, when Holmes knew of them the whole time.

“Do you know why Sean McCabe would have photocopied your letters?” Holmes asked.

“I can't imagine,” Dan said, his heart pounding.

Dan thought back to what he'd written Bay so long ago. He hardly remembered, but he knew it had to do with their shared feelings about nature, the beach, the simple things they both loved. So different from Sean. Dan had started wondering whether Sean had mined those letters for ways to get a hook into him. But he wasn't about to volunteer that.

“You had written to his future wife, and she to you,” Holmes said. “Maybe he was jealous.”

“I haven't seen the letters in twenty-five years, but I remember the tone. She was just a kid, and I was just out of college, and there was nothing but friendship between us. I remember writing about the boardwalk, and a swing I made her . . . the moon. Some stuff about her thumb, which she had hurt helping me. Jellyfish, crabs, and seagulls, and all that beach stuff.”

“So, if he wasn't jealous . . .” Holmes said.

“Then I don't know. A long time ago,” Dan said, squinting with anger and impatience as he thought of Sean McCabe, realizing that he had been set up. Sean had known exactly what he was doing. “Look, I have work to do.”

“I know. I'm sorry. Just a few more questions,” Agent Holmes said.

Dan was sweating as he turned back to the dinghy. He had notched the inboard short frames over the seam batten, rounding their ends, and he now began screwing them in, through the planking from outboard and through the inwale from inboard. He was on autopilot, glad to have something to do with his hands.

“Did you have any accounts at Shoreline Bank?”

“Did I? No,” Dan said.
Here it comes.

“So, Sean McCabe didn't handle any of your money?”

“My wife's family had accounts and a trust at Shoreline.”

“A trust?”

“For my daughter, yes.”

“And are you trustee of that trust?”

“Now I am. I took over for my wife. She died just over a year ago.”

“Ah,” Holmes said. “I'm sorry. And who is the other trustee?”

“Mark Boland,” Dan said, telling the truth. “All correspondence comes from his office.”

“Do you know Ralph, or ‘Red,' Benjamin?”

“He's in-house counsel for Shoreline Bank, isn't he?” Dan asked.

“Yes.”

This was a big, stupid chess game, Dan thought. He just wanted to get it over, get back to work. Things that were totally innocent could be made to look questionable; his encounters with Sean had taught him that.

“How's business?” Holmes asked.

“Fine,” Dan said, looking up.

“There's been a downturn in the economy. People still have money for pretty wooden boats?”

“They seem to,” Dan said.

“How about twelve, thirteen months ago? How were things back then?”

Where's he going with this
? Dan wondered, even as he answered, “Fine. I made it through. And as you can see, I'm still in business.”

“Good. Glad to hear it,” Holmes said. “Well, thanks for your time. Here's my card—call me if you think of anything else.”

“I will,” Dan said, glancing at the agent's card, propped up on the small boat's bow. He extended his hand, then pulled it back and shrugged apologetically—his fingers were stained with flecks of dried epoxy and varnish.

He returned to work, carefully avoiding lifting his head to watch the agent leave. His hands were shaking. There was something about a stranger asking personal questions that made Dan really want to get into one of the boats he built and go out sailing. He was like Bay; he liked his life to be simple and private.

Finally he heard the agent's engine start up, clamshells crunching under tires as the car drove through the parking lot. After a few moments, the boatyard was silent again. Well, not silent—never silent. The sounds of power tools, boat engines, seagulls crying overhead, the train coming into New London, the bells of the crossing gates.

And his own blood, pounding in his ears. Somehow, without doing anything, he had gotten into the middle of a drama he wanted no part of.

JOE HOLMES PULLED OUT OF THE ELIZA DAY BOAT BUILDERS
yard with a strange feeling in his gut. It told him to pull over and look in his rearview mirror. He stopped in front of Chirpy Chicken, on Bank Street. This was really the neighborhood. Two nights ago, cruising the boatyard for inspiration, law-enforcement style, he had been captivated by the action on Bank Street.

To call it “seedy” would not do it justice. Riot lights bathed the scene in a warm orange glow. A couple of drug transactions here, a pair of hookers on the street corner there, a store with alluringly blacked-out windows and the sign “Book and Mag” over the door.

On the other hand, the quarter had a true, undeniably maritime and literary air about it. Joe could easily imagine Eugene O'Neill soaking it all up, the absinthe and morphine, the human suffering and boundless longing of the human heart: the stuff of literature and FBI investigations.

There was the stately and solid granite Custom House, the oldest in the nation; the row of brick buildings and clapboard houses; the cozy brick bookstore/coffeehouse; the vest-pocket restaurants; the saloons—places Joe wouldn't mind raising a few—good drinking establishments called the Roadhouse and the Y-Knot.

The salt air blew off the Atlantic, through the Race—that rough, wild body of water where the Atlantic Ocean met Long Island Sound, up the Thames River. Joe could see Ledge Light, the square brick lighthouse set at the mouth of the river, and he could see Pfizer and its smokestacks and labs and offices across the river, along with Electric Boat, with its nuclear subs.

Trains plied the waterfront, arriving from and departing to Boston and New York, and ferries crossed the Sound, so that there was an almost constant cacophony of whistles and grinding machinery and horns and bells, the sounds of journey-making, a mixed message of joy and urgency and the sorrows of leave-taking.

Joe's investigations had taken him to many small cities over the years, but he'd never been so captivated as he was by New London. There was so much yearning here. These streets were soaked with blood, beer, whale oil, and desire.

The Ancient Burial Place, the Huguenot House; State Street, anchored at the bottom by Union Station, H. H. Richardson's cavernous redbrick landmark, and at the hilltop by the elegant 1784 courthouse, all wood, white clapboard, and black shutters, and immense and too graceful to have been the site of murder trials.

Joe liked New London. He liked the shoreline in general. Any place that had Tara O'Toole living on it was okay with him. The high point of this investigation had been running into Tara at Andy's Records.

He liked Bay McCabe as well. They were best friends, lucky to have each other. Tara was a character: tough cookie/protective friend on the outside; soft, loyal, vulnerable heart on the inside. Joe knew the type. Knew it all too well. He lived in Southerly, when he wasn't chasing down bank fraud in Black Hall, but he found himself envying Dan Connolly, even as he sat in his car watching in his rearview mirror.

The guy had a good life—or appeared to. On the other hand, so had Sean McCabe. They had both, at different times, enjoyed the affections of Bay. Did Dan know she'd been in love with him? Anyone reading the letters could tell.

Joe's investigation had turned up improprieties in the Shoreline trust department as well as the loan operation. The corpus of two trusts had been invaded, resulting in combined losses of over five hundred thousand dollars. While combing bank records, tracking down the theft, however, Joe had come upon another trust, the Eliza Day trust.

Established eighty years ago by Obadiah Day, it had passed first to his wife, Eliza, and then to his daughter—Dan Connolly's wife, Charlotte—and now to his granddaughter, young Eliza. The trust contained nine million dollars.