The Probable Future (16 page)

Henry Elliot, a pessimist by nature, had insisted there was very little evidence against Will, other than the fact that he’d reported the crime several days before it had occurred. Still, bail was set high, due to the nature of the crime. It was everything Matt had been left by his mother, his entire savings, his nest egg cracked in two for the likes of Will.

“Don’t worry,” Will assured him. “I’m innocent. You’ll get your money back.”

They all went round the corner to a coffee shop once Will had been released, with the stipulation he stay in town in case further questioning was needed. Will insisted a decent cup of coffee would help calm the tremors in his hands, a nightmare affliction for a musician that he hoped would be cured by a double espresso.

“Your landlord isn’t so easily convinced when it comes to payback,” Henry Elliot said.

Henry still seemed distracted. It was his manner and his fate to
worry and fret, and although his character served him well in matters of law, he had no control over his own family. His wife barely spoke to him and his daughter, Cynthia, a good girl at heart, was busy painting her nails black and staying out all hours. But it was Henry’s son, Jimmy, who was the real worry; he reminded Henry of Will, back when they were in high school, always looking for a shortcut, always thinking of himself. In fact, Henry had warned Jimmy about Will Avery, a cautionary tale, a disaster waiting to happen. The guy with everything, who winds up with nothing.
Don’t think the same thing can’t happen to you
, he’d told his Jimmy.
Don’t think you’re above failure
.

“You’ve missed paying rent, so you’ve been kicked out of your apartment.” Henry had the papers in front of him. “And the music school? They phoned my office to ask that you not report back until your legal matters were settled.”

“To hell with them.” Will ordered another dose of caffeine, not that he had any cash on him. But someone was bound to pay the bill, so he got himself a croissant as well.

“This has always been his attitude,” Henry Elliot said to Matt. “He was like this in high school. He would copy my homework and wind up getting a better grade than I did.”

This past fall, Matt had been hired by Henry’s wife, Annette, to put in a Zen garden, something the family thought that terrible old lady, Henry’s grandmother, Sissy, would enjoy. There were a fair amount of bees on the property, always a sign of good luck. Matt himself never worried about stings, since the bees ignored him, always attracted to his brother, who was deathly afraid of bees, due to his allergy. Matt was thankful to have the bees share the landscape with him; he enjoyed the thrum as they went about their business and he worked away.

He had used natural rocks and sand from the marshes for the Elliots’ garden; he’d planted bamboo in stone containers, but the matriarch of the Elliot family had trouble making it down the stone
path because of her walker. When she got there, she scoffed at the notion of planting bamboo.

That’s a weed
, she had announced.
It may be from China, but it’s still a weed
.

Sissy Elliot hated the garden, and now Henry said he was the only one to use it; he went there to escape from the troubles of the world. He’d probably head there that very evening when he got home.

“I think we might want to hire a detective,” Henry told the Avery brothers. “Maybe find out something the police have overlooked. At least see if there’s someone out there with a motive of some sort. It’s in your best interest to clear your name,” he told Will, who appeared bored. “No one’s buying that crap that your daughter told you the victim was going to die.”

“Is that what he told them?” Matt asked. Henry Elliot nodded grimly. “What an idiot.”

“Stop talking about me as if I wasn’t here. I am here, and I’m listening. Stella was the one who told them that, not me. But if you want to get a detective, be my guest. …”

Henry looked at Matt. Will didn’t seem to understood this undertaking would demand money. “Sure, go ahead,” Matt said, thereby agreeing to foot the bill. “Sounds like a good idea.”

“How about a lift?” Will said when it came time to leave. Henry had an appointment, so it was left to Matt. They walked round to his truck. “This is what you drive?” Will laughed and took note of the rust and the dents. “Good old Matt. No BMWs for you.”

He was referring to the way he’d spent his own inheritance from their mother. He stopped working full-time, took Jenny and the baby to Paris, where they’d fought bitterly, and bought that damned car, the BMW, which had flipped over on him when he was driving on the beach at Duxbury after a few too many cocktails with a woman whose name he didn’t remember. Something with a
C
, Charlotte, perhaps, or Caroline, or, God help him, Catherine, the
same as their mother’s name. In the end, Will had sold that lemon of a car for next to nothing and he’d regretted the trip to Paris. Matt, he supposed, had invested his half of their mother’s life savings wisely and was now fairly well off, in spite of his rust heap of a truck. Plus, he’d gotten the house, now worth double what it might have been eleven years ago. At this point, he probably had thousands piled up in the bank, an old miser of a bachelor with no one to spend his money on.

“Where to?” Matt said when he pulled into traffic. People liked to honk their horns at you here in Boston, he’d noticed that. In a few more minutes he’d be rid of his brother, at least for the time being, so he might as well keep his temper.

“Marlborough Street.” Will grinned. “When all else fails, there’s always Jenny.”

They drove there in silence. Although he hadn’t been back since that awful New Year’s, Matt remembered the way. Why, he could have found it in his sleep, blindfolded, tied up with rope. He recalled exactly what Jenny had been wearing that night—a black sweater decorated with glitter and pearls, and a red skirt.
Too festive?
she’d asked him right before the party.
Do I look like a Christmas tree?
He thought he’d never seen anyone quite so beautiful.
No. Wear it
, he’d told her, and she had.
Wear it
, he’d said, when all he’d really wanted was to undress her, right there in the living room, with the guests already at the door.

“Want to come up? For old times’ sake?” Will suggested when they pulled alongside the apartment building. “Rest your bones before you head back to the old homestead.”

Matt shook his head. No way was he going inside.

“And by the way,” Will told him, “I never minded that Mother left you the house.”

“She didn’t think you’d want it. So she gave you the larger share of cash.”

“Did she?” Will was surprised by that. “You’re saying I got more?”

“I was the executor. I ought to know. She wanted things to be fair.”

“Fair.” Will was surprised. He really didn’t know the first thing about his mother, the way she thought, how she could have continued to love him despite his selfish ways.

“Let me guess,” Matt said. “Your share’s all gone.”

“You want to think the worst of me, be my guest.”

“Just tell me.”

Matt suddenly felt entitled to something. If not to Jenny, if not to a life, then at least an admission. But he never got it. Will never managed to say,
I got more. I admit it. I was granted the larger portion time and time again
. A bee had found its way into the truck and it banged against the windshield.

“Jesus.” Will panicked. “Get rid of it.”

Will was rightfully frightened of bees, so Matt guided the intruder out the window with a newspaper. It was a gut reaction; protect Will once more, no matter the cost or the consequence.

“Now you’re safe, brother. But one question. And I want you to answer this time.” Matt had fought the urge to set the bee onto his brother’s skin. “What makes you think she’ll take you in?”

“Jenny?”

Will got out of the truck, then leaned back in through the opened window.

“It’s in her nature.”

It was the time of year when the magnolias began to bloom all over the Back Bay, on Commonwealth Avenue, on Beacon Street, here on Marlborough; even the tiniest patch of yard could be home to a huge magnolia tree. The light was altered when they bloomed, pink-tinged, hopeful, brighter somehow.

“I really do appreciate what you’re doing for me,” Will said. So he did understand that lawyers had to be paid, that bail money came not from the stratosphere, but from somebody’s savings, that detectives wanted cash. “Don’t think I’m not grateful.”

Matt looked out at the pink street, a much poorer man than he’d been that morning. There was a lot he could say, but he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t look up at the third-floor window, though he knew that was where their apartment was. He supposed it was in his nature to keep what he felt to himself. If he made good time on the highway, he’d be home in a little more than an hour, and that’s what he intended to do. Some histories were meant to be forgotten, and others were fated not to begin in the first place; they remained where they belonged, in the hazy universe of lost possibilities, in the world of never-had-been.

“I mean it, brother,” Will called as Matt was leaving. “I’ll pay you back.”

Matt laughed as he pulled back out into traffic. “Like hell you will,” he said.

IV.

S
TELLA AND
H
AP
S
TEWART
had decided to test local bodies of water for possible toxicity as their earth science project, which meant they had to track through the woods all over town, in search of ponds and inlets, any body of still water, each and every larva-ridden puddle. They tromped through nettles and poison ivy, wild blackberries and duck grass. They had passed by so many peach trees beginning to flower that they soon grew hungry for peach cobbler, peach jam, and peach pie.

All of the water samples were bottled, labeled, and brought over to Cake House. Hap knew his grandfather came here often, but he himself had never been any farther than the driveway. Unlike Jimmy Elliot, he’d never gone swimming in Hourglass Lake; he’d never seen the mist people vowed was a dead horse rising from the weeds, or done battle with one of those ferocious snapping turtles.
Jimmy Elliot had the tip of one finger missing from an encounter with one such turtle, or so people said; the notion had so terrifed his fellow students in earth science class that no one dared walk past the old turtle kept in a tank at the rear of the room.

“Come on,” Stella said when Hap balked at the steps to the porch of Cake House. Stella’s back was aching from the heavy bottles of water stowed in her backpack. “My grandmother doesn’t bite. And we can get some food. I’m starving.”

They were covered by mosquito bites, and brambles had caught in their hair. Frankly, they’d had a perfect afternoon, and Stella had learned her way around town. Due to a teacher conference, they’d had an early release day and had been gathering samples since noon; they’d skipped lunch and Hap had to agree his stomach was rumbling.

As soon as they came into the house, Argus approached and let out a deep woof. “Whoa, boy.” Hap backed up against the wall, hands up, as though he were about to be mugged.

“Argus won’t hurt you. He’s ancient,” Stella assured Hap. “He’s a pussycat.”

“Uh huh.” Hap carefully petted Argus’s head. The wolfhound was as big as a lion, though his eyes, true enough, were cloudy, and his teeth worn to nubs.

Standing in the front hall of Cake House, Stella and Hap kicked off their muddy boots and wet socks. Hap took note of the woodwork and the threadbare carpets that felt like silk under his bare feet.

“I hear your grandmother doesn’t like visitors,” Hap said when Stella suggested they go fix themselves something in the kitchen. Actually, he had heard trespassers often found onions riddled with pins nailed to their doors, a curse on both the present and the future.

“Oh, don’t be silly. Come on.”

Stella went to the kitchen, and Hap had little choice but to follow;
he didn’t take his eyes off Stella’s pale hair, which reminded him of the snowdrops that appeared in the woods so early in spring they were easily mistaken for snow.

Argus padded after them, then situated himself beside the table, where he waited politely for crusts from their peanut butter and peach preserves sandwiches. After lunch, they searched and found the perfect place to store their water samples, in the scullery where potatoes and onions were kept. As they sorted the bottles, their hands touched accidentally. Of course, they acted as though nothing had happened, but afterward Stella wondered if Hap might be something more than a friend. Shouldn’t her hand have burned at his touch? Shouldn’t she feel her heart in her chest when she was with him? Shouldn’t she know for sure?

Last night Stella had sneaked down to the parlor at a little after midnight to call Juliet Aronson. She didn’t realize she was talking nonstop about Hap until Juliet had asked if she thought she might be Hap’s one true love.

“How would I know?” Stella had laughed, embarrassed.

“Ask him who he would want to have with him on a desert island and see what he says.”

“That’s hardly conclusive evidence.”

“Just try it.” Juliet had sounded so wise and so sad, she’d sounded as if she’d done everything there was to do in this world and had been disappointed each and every time.

Now, in the kitchen, Stella wondered what Juliet would make of Hap Stewart. He was feeding Argus a spoon of chunky peanut butter.

“Look at this guy,” Hap said cheerfully. “He loves this stuff. It’s full of protein, so it can’t be bad for him.”

It was when she’d spoken to that nasty Jimmy Elliot in the school cafeteria that her heart had been pounding. That couldn’t be love, could it? That couldn’t be destiny. Not possibly. Not ever. A reaction
like that had to be some sort of illness, heartburn at worst, spring fever at best. For spring was everywhere in this corner of Massachusetts. The alewives were running in brooks, as they always did at this time of year, and the toads had begun to sing, that sorrowful, deep song that speaks of water and starry nights and mud. Out in the garden, Elinor Sparrow’s hands were bleeding as she worked at her early spring cleanup. She was pruning, cutting back old growth, never a pleasant task, particularly when it came to roses with their sneaky thorns, some so tiny they were impossible to avoid, invisible until they pricked through the skin. Still, she’d heard the blood of a gardener always made for an early blooming season. The blood of a murdered woman, on the other hand, killed everything in its path, as it had when Rebecca walked to the lake on the day she was drowned, so that nothing remained but clods of earth and black stones the size of a human heart.