by John Saul
The crunch of the gravel on the quarter-mile-long driveway gave her no comfort as she approached the house, and as she pulled to a stop in front of the immense Tudor pile her great-grandfather had built, the title of a book she hadn’t read since her days at Miss Porter’s suddenly popped into her mind.
Bleak House.
That was what Cragmont had become. There was a melancholy air about the place that even the bright spring morning and the fresh breeze off Long Island Sound couldn’t wash away. It was as if the house itself somehow knew that for the first time in its history, it was occupied by a single resident.
A single, very unhappy resident.
She brought the car to a stop at the front door, and by the time she stepped out, straightened the skirt of her suit, and tucked the morning paper under her arm, the front door had opened and a figure had appeared on the porch. For a moment Claire felt a flash of optimism, but then realizing it wasn’t her brother on the front porch, her optimism faded.
“How is he today?” she asked, though Neville Cavanaugh’s dour expression had answered her question even before she asked it.
Neville, never long on words, shook his head gravely. “He spends all his time in the library these days, with the curtains drawn. He even sleeps there. I do my best, but . . .” The servant’s voice trailed off and he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
Claire sighed heavily as she looked at her brother’s factotum, who was, as always, impeccably dressed. His long face reflected the sorrow every member of the family felt, but as she always did, Claire wondered if Neville truly felt the pain of Patrick’s loss, or whether he was merely playing the role of the devoted servant. Even after having known the man for most of her life, Claire had never warmed to him. Still, her father had trusted him, and so did Patrick, so now she carefully masked her antipathy. “Thank you, Neville. I don’t know what he’d do without you. How is his leg?”
“Completely healed,” Neville said. “Even the scars are beginning to fade, but he insists we put ointment on them every night. It’s as if he wants to keep them as wounds.”
“Is he eating?”
“Some soup last night.”
Claire took a deep breath. “Well, he’ll eat today. Would you bring us some coffee, please?” She strode to the heavy double library doors and knocked with what she hoped sounded like authority, then tried the handle. The door was locked. “Patrick? Patrick, it’s Claire. Open the door.”
Eventually, she heard noises from the room beyond. The lock clicked and the door opened a crack. The unshaven, pale face of her brother peered out at her.
Claire pushed the door open and walked into the darkened library, shaking her head at what she saw. Nothing—absolutely nothing—had improved since the last time she was here. She went to the windows and opened the heavy velvet draperies to let the bright morning sunlight flood the room. Patrick squinted, but raised no objection to the light. “Neville tells me you’re sleeping in here,” she said, and wrinkled her nose at the sour odor that hung in the room. “It smells like it.”
Patrick merely shrugged, and in the bright light of the morning sun, Claire realized how much he’d changed. A mere shadow of the robust brother who until a few months ago had still, even in his early forties, played the occasional raucous game of rugby with his friends. Now his thinning, sandy hair had gone as dull as his spirits. He appeared not to have shaved for a couple of days, and his linen slacks needed laundering, as did his polo shirt.
“I can’t sleep in our bedroom anymore,” Patrick said. He sat, sagging into one of the leather chairs that flanked an ornate chessboard. “I reach for Renee in the night and—” His voice caught.
Claire steeled herself against the whirlpool of her own grief. Renee had been like a sister to her, and her nieces— She distracted herself by opening the French doors and letting in the cool, fresh spring air. As she did, Neville arrived with a tray. Claire poured her brother a cup of coffee and sweetened it with enough sugar and cream to give him some instant energy.
As he took an almost reluctant sip, Patrick gazed out at the old boathouse that stood at the foot of the lawn that rolled from the house down to the Sound. “I’d be taking the girls sailing on a day like this,” he said, his eyes glistening with tears.
Claire moved around the room, folding the blankets and setting them on the table next to the door and putting the pillow on top of the pile. There would be no more sleeping in the library if she had anything to do with it.
Then she saw that all the family photographs had been turned to the wall. She turned to face her brother. “I don’t believe you’ve done this,” she said.
“I can’t look at them,” he replied, seeming to shrink even deeper into his chair.
Claire strode across the room, dropped into the chair across from her brother, and reached across the chess table to put a hand on his arm. “You can’t pretend they never existed, Patrick. The fire was a terrible thing—a horrible, tragic thing. And everybody feels it—everybody we know loved Renee and the girls. But the rest of us aren’t trying to shut them out. They loved you, and you loved them, but you can’t bring them back. Life goes on.”
Patrick finally met her gaze, and the pain in his expression tore at her heart. “I’ll never get over it.”
“You will,” Claire replied. “You’re not the only person terrible things have happened to.” She laid the morning newspaper on the table.
Patrick hesitated, then picked up the paper, flinching as he saw the picture of the girl on the front page.
“Her name is Lindsay Marshall,” Claire said. “I know her mother. Kara and I worked together on the town square renovation and a dozen other projects. Now her daughter is missing—either a runaway or she’s been abducted. Kara believes the latter.”
Patrick said nothing, but Claire could see his eyes scanning the article. She sipped her coffee, giving Patrick time to finish it. “When I saw this, I went to Kara's. Do you know what she was doing?”
Patrick looked up from the paper. “She must be terrified,” he said softly.
Claire nodded. “She is. But she’s not just sitting there, Patrick. She’s calling people. She’s organizing a search. She’s printing up flyers and calling the paper, and doing everything she can to find her daughter. She’s not just sitting around feeling sorry for herself.”
“The girl looks like Jenna, doesn’t she?” he said, and Claire saw the tears well up again in his eyes.
Claire nodded. “And her loss is just as tragic.”
Patrick dropped the newspaper to the floor. “It’s hardly the same,” he said with a harshness bordering on anger. “She’s just missing. Your friend’s whole family didn’t—” He fell silent, unable to complete the thought.
“That’s true,” Claire agreed, then leaned forward, her eyes fixing on him. “But at least you know where your family is—know what happened to them. Kara doesn’t have the slightest idea where her daughter is, doesn’t know whether she’s even alive. But she’s not just sitting around feeling sorry for herself!”
Patrick recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “I just want to be left alone.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Claire said. “As of today, you won’t be left alone anymore. If Kara Marshall can deal with her reality—without even knowing yet what it is—you can start dealing with yours.” He seemed to cower from her words, but Claire continued. “Would Renee want to see you living like this?” she asked. Before he could answer, she went on. “Of course she wouldn’t.” She stood up. “You need to get out of here,” she said, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet. “You need fresh air, and you need to eat. So we’re going out for lunch.”
Patrick seemed on the verge of panic. “I—I can’t—” he began, but Claire cut him off.
“Of course you can.” She pointed to the shoes he’d dropped on the floor at the end of the sofa. “Put them on.”
Before Patrick could object, Claire went to the library door and
called for Neville to bring one of Patrick’s jackets.
A few minutes later Patrick reluctantly passed through Cragmont’s huge oaken door for the first time since his wife and children had been interred back in December and he’d returned to the house after seeing their coffins disappear forever into the family crypt.
“Where would you like to go?” Claire asked.
“I’m not hungry,” Patrick whispered.
“Then we’ll go to Julia's,” Claire decided, ignoring his tone. “If you’re not hungry, you might as well not eat good food as bad.” She put the car in gear, rolled down Patrick’s window so he could feel the wind in his hair, and drove down the long drive, passing through the gate and turning toward town.
Neville Cavanaugh surveyed the veal cutlets in the butcher’s case, decided they looked decent, and turned his attention to the bacon.
Too fatty.
And the roasts seemed a little grizzled.
So it would be veal tonight, and waffles for breakfast in the morning.
He fingered his paper number, glanced up and saw on the digital counter that he was now fourth in line. He waited impatiently by the rack of bottled sauces and marinades, and when a voice spoke to him from behind, he didn’t even have to turn around to know it was Martha McGinn, who had cooked for the Ashcrofts at Beech House even longer than he’d worked for the Shieldses at Cragmont. And he disliked Martha almost as much as he despised the cuteness of the name of the estate at which she worked.
“So good to see you,” Martha gushed, taking his hand in her plump fingers and holding it despite his best efforts to extract it from her grip. “How is poor Mr. Shields?”
“As well as can be expected,” Neville said, masking his dislike of the woman and finally freeing his hand from hers. Then, knowing that whatever he said—or didn’t say—would spread along the north shore even faster than the food poisoning after Martha McGinn’s unfortunate experience with the salmon mousse two summers ago, he added, “Actually, I believe he’s doing better.”
“Such a tragedy,” Martha McGinn said, shaking her head with enough emphasis that some powder shook loose from the broad expanse of her bloated face.
Neville hated to think that this woman considered him her peer. “Yes,” he said, starting to turn away.
Martha McGinn’s fingers closed on his arm, immobilizing him. “He’s fortunate to have you to see him through this, Neville.”
“I believe I’m the more fortunate,” Neville replied. “Having loved Mrs. Shields and the children in my own way, it’s a privilege to be able to look after Mr. Patrick now.”
“Yes, of course,” Martha said uncertainly.
“Number forty-seven!” the butcher called out.
Neville held up his number. “You’ll excuse me?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned away and moved to the counter, and moments later stepped into the bright spring sunshine, white paper bag in hand. He checked his mental list and headed toward the drugstore in the middle of the next block. But halfway down a door opened and Patrick Shields and his sister emerged from Julia’s Dining Room, a restaurant that Neville found even more repulsively cute than the name of the Ashcrofts’ beach house.
“Neville!” Claire said. Then her eyes fell on the white bag from the butcher shop. “Oh, dear, I hope you haven’t bought something wonderful for dinner.”
Neville’s brows lifted uncertainly. “As a matter of fact, I have,” he said. “The veal cutlets look excellent today.”
“Well, I’m afraid they’ll have to hold,” Claire said, not so much as a hint of apology in her voice. “My brother has agreed to dine with me tonight.”
“Better even than the veal,” Neville said, betraying no hint of annoyance. “And it’s good to see you enjoying the day,” he added, turning to Patrick. For the first time in months, he saw a hint of a smile play around his employer’s lips.
“When Claire makes up her mind to something, there’s no stopping her,” Patrick said.
“Indeed. Well, I’m off to the drugstore, then the cleaners.”
“Thank you, Neville,” Patrick said. “I don’t know what—”
“My pleasure, sir,” Neville said before Patrick could finish.
“And enjoy your evening off,” Claire said.
As she was passing him, Neville stopped her with a gentle touch on her arm. “You’re a godsend,” he whispered. She flashed him a quick smile and followed Patrick down the walk, and Neville felt his mood lighten considerably. He’d finish his errands and then have the rest of the day and the entire evening to himself, and his employer wouldn’t be home until after dinner, which, knowing Claire, would be very late indeed.
So he could spend the afternoon and evening doing anything he wanted.
Anything at all.
The Range Rover pulled to a stop before Cragmont’s massive front doors.
“Are you sure, Patrick?” Claire asked. “All you have to do is say the word and I’ll just keep going. You can spend the night at my place, get up, have breakfast with me, and I’ll bring you home.”
Patrick smiled at his sister but shook his head. “I’ll be fine,” he assured her, knowing the words were a lie even as he spoke them, but knowing too that Claire would see through the lie. Both of them, after all, had been raised in a culture of social platitudes, where little truth—emotional truth, anyway—was ever spoken. “I might even try sleeping in my own bed tonight.”
“Well, that’s a good sign,” Claire said, leaning across to kiss his cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Neville was waiting in the foyer with a scotch and soda, but for the first time since the fire, Patrick left the drink on the tray. “Shall I draw a bath?” Neville asked, his brow lifting.
Patrick smiled wryly. “Actually, leaving the house seems to have worn me out. I think I’ll just go to bed.” He climbed the staircase to the second floor, and as he started along the corridor to the master suite, steeled himself against everything he was about to see. But when he finally passed through the door into the small sitting room and saw the portrait of Renee that had hung over the fireplace since the day they were married, his resolution nearly failed him. Then he determinedly tore his eyes from the portrait, went through to the bedroom itself, stripped off his clothes, and slid between clean, fresh sheets. The soft bed, after months of sleeping on the library sofa, felt delicious.
But the feeling was short-lived, as all the memories of his wife and children rose out of the darkness, and he felt once again the overwhelming urge to reach out to them, to take them in his arms, to protect them.
But he hadn’t protected them. Instead, he’d failed them, and as long as he lived, that failure—and their faces—would haunt him.
He sat up and switched on a light to clear the darkness and the memories from the room, and as the images of his family faded, the words Claire had spoken over dinner echoed in his mind.
There are groups you could join, Patrick—groups of people who’ve gone through what you’re going through.
But who else had lost everyone they loved on Christmas Eve?
As the pain of his loss threatened to overwhelm him once more, he picked up the remote control and turned on the television.
And was instantly confronted with the face of the girl whose image had dominated this morning’s front page of the newspaper.
Kara Marshall’s daughter.
Lindsay—that was her name.
Patrick clicked off the television, but the image of Lindsay Marshall—who looked so much like Jenna—lingered.
The silence grew almost as massive as the house itself, and Patrick found himself straining to hear the little cry that Jenna used to utter when a bad dream had awakened her in the night.
It was a cry so soft that it rarely woke Renee, but it had always pulled him from sleep instantly.
Except on Christmas Eve . . .
And then he heard it! He heard Jenna!
In an instant Patrick was out of bed, out of the suit
e and rushing down the hall to Jenna’s room. Was it possible? Would he open her bedroom door and see her face puffed with sleep and surrounded by tousled hair?
But when he pushed open the door, the bedroom was dark and cold and its emptiness chilled him even more than the cold itself.
He turned on the light. It was exactly as Jenna had left it when they went to Vermont for the holidays.
Her bed was covered with stuffed animals, her walls with posters.
Her schoolbooks were stacked on her desk as if she might pick them up tomorrow morning.
The sound of her voice had, indeed, been nothing but a dream.
Patrick sank down onto her bed and ran his hand over her quilt.
The pain in his chest felt as if it might actually burst through his ribs, and with a strangled cry, he grabbed an armful of her stuffed animals and hugged them to him.
He curled up on Jenna’s bed then, aching for one more hug from his little girl. Just one more hug.
Just one more good-night kiss.
But it was not to be.
It was never to be again.
At last Patrick released his grip on his daughter’s toys, uncoiled his body from the tight ball into which he’d curled up, and forced himself to stand.
This could not go on. Claire was right—somehow he had to learn to deal with what had happened, to accept that his family was gone and get on with his life.
But how?
Leaving Jenna’s room, he went back to his own suite. As his eyes swept the room—and the door to the bedroom beyond—he knew that he could not sleep here tonight.
As long as the rooms were filled with Renee’s things, the memories would only return to haunt him once again.
He went downstairs to the bathroom off the library and opened the medicine cabinet, picking up the bottle of sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed three months ago. He shook two of the tiny tablets into his hand, washed them down his throat with a glass of water, and made a mental note to ask Neville to begin removing Renee’s things from the master suite tomorrow morning.