‘Cheer up, Jolian,’ she told her reflection. ‘You’ve got no problems ... You could always have one leg. Or two heads ... Or four Siamese cats.’ Or no son. Or no lover, but you can’t miss what you’ve never had, so stop feeling SORRY for yourself. Cheer up.
The late afternoon sky had a lowering, thick look to it, a grey, woolly blanket snagged in the black fingertips of the trees along the river. There was snow in that sky ... The joggers along the footpath bobbed like steam-powered toys today, white puffs trailing back from their wind-reddened cheeks.
Driving across the bridge, she divided her attention between the traffic and an eight-man racing shell. In the distance, it looked like a water-bug, some sort of seagoing centipede, the heads of its crew black vertebrae above the flashing dark legs of the oars. Between her and the shell, a small figure leaned over the bridge railing, Red Sox cap pulled low, red plaid pants bright in this blue-grey landscape. In the rear-view mirror she caught the glint of his glasses. Jem, and there was no way she could stop on the bridge. It was too late even to honk.
She found a place to park on Beacon Street. He would be gone, she told herself as she legged it back up the long curve of the bridge, ignoring the honks and leers from the passing cars. He would be gone; it was too cold. He would have moved on by now. Her eyes caught a patch of red in the distance.
Pushing off from the parapet, Jem turned away from her, trudging across the river in the direction of M.I.T. and Cambridge beyond. ‘Jem!’ she called, but there was no way he would hear her. Head down, hands in pockets, he wandered a few feet, then stopped to stare upriver across the slow-moving traffic. Following his gaze, Jolian saw another shell stroking towards the bridge. She shortened her long-legged, killing stride as Jem turned back to lean over the parapet, and came up on him slowly, fighting for breath. Nothing like the casual approach.
As she moved into hailing range, Jem turned. He was a long moment in recognising her, and then the bill of the baseball cap jerked up. His triangular, flashing grin answered her own laugh and then vanished. She saw his chin drop as he looked down at the book in his hands, then up to her again and, for a moment, she thought he might run. He flicked a glance over his shoulder towards the shore, but then, turning back to face her, he shrugged sheepishly.
Stopping, Jolian brushed the windblown hair back from her eyes and rearranged the shawl around her shoulders, giving him time.
Jem’s rueful grin acknowledged her tact. Jamming—hiding—the spine of the hardcover book in his armpit, he came forward to meet her, his smile shyly apologetic now. ‘Hi, Jolian.’
‘Hi, stranger.’ He needed a hug as much as Fletch did, probably more, but she didn’t quite dare to give it. Reaching out, she gave the bill of his cap a gentle downward tug and he smiled again. ‘You feeling better today?’ But his cheeks looked too flushed, even given the river wind slicing across the bridge.
Jem nodded briskly. ‘Yup, I’m fine.’
Taking hold of the sideframe of his fun-house glasses, Jolian raised her eyebrows, asking his permission. He shrugged and, lifting them gently off his face, she studied his eyes—a paler blue than her own, and much too bright. The backs of her fingers laid against his cheek told her nothing, his skin was too chilled. ‘I think you’ve got a fever, friend,’ she told him as he turned away from her, leaned against the railing to stare down at the river just below.
He shrugged and Fletch’s hard smile crept into place. ‘I’m okay,’ he told the water huskily.
She came to lean beside him, shivered as her forearms touched the iron railing. And him with no jacket, just that stupid M.I.T. sweatshirt again. She returned the glasses; he gripped them blindly as they touched his hand. ‘Jem, do me a favour,’ she urged.
His eyes came back to her and he gave her his own smile this time. ‘If I can.’
‘Show me how far you can throw those stupid glasses and then go home.’
‘Home ...’ Jem mused, as if the word were unfamiliar. He shook his head slowly, his eyes glittering.
With both hands Jolian captured the wisps of hair swirling around her cheeks, holding them back at the nape of her neck. ‘Home to, Ralph and a father who cares about you. Cares a lot more than he can say.’
Jem shook his head slowly again and turned back to the water. ‘Can’t ...’ The wind caught the soft word and whirled it away. ‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’ she demanded, fighting the urge to grab and shake him. ‘I don’t understand, Jem—why not?’
The boy shivered, hugging himself, and leaned further over the bridge railing. ‘Because I went to New York.’ He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. ‘And I thought I had it bad before that...’ His lips were trembling now, and not with the cold. ‘God, I wish I’d never gone to New York!’
‘But—’
Below them the empty air seemed to explode. Slashing out from under the bridge, the bow of the racing shell burst into view, revealing one straining face after another. Snarling grunts, steam hissing through white clenched teeth, eight big men leaned back against the oars as the shell shot forward and away—a fabulous, surging insect-machine, its voice the jubilant cries of the cox in the stern as he chanted the stroke in a rhythmic, pleading, brutal demand.
Mouths open, they watched it go, then turned to each other, laughing their delight.
‘Some day ... ’ Jem murmured. The words had the fierce dreaminess of a vow. He turned again to stare after the boat, his eyes fever-bright. ‘Some day ...’
It would be too brutal to remind him that rowing was a college sport, and that runaways seldom went to college. Perhaps the thought occurred to him as well; she watched the joy fade from his face.
‘Jem—’
‘Don’t,’ he said gruffly, turning back to face her. ‘Please don’t.’ He smiled pleadingly. ‘Let’s talk about something else, like ... like how great you look in a dress.’ His flush deepened, climbed up to the ears.
Jolian laughed softly. ‘Jem, any guy who can change the subject with such class will go far! And why is it men always prefer dresses?’
‘Legs,’ he twinkled, looking even younger than fourteen with that mischievous grin.
She shook her head mockingly. ‘You’re your father’s son, Jeremy McKay.’
His smile vanished. He shivered again, hugging himself, got a better grip on the book he had been concealing all this time, his eyes studying her frankly. ‘You like him, don’t you, Jolian?’
It was her turn to hide. She turned back to the railing. The two shells had found each other, were working upstream again along the far bank, side by side, distance turning the gut-wrenching duel to an effortless ballet. ‘Yes,’ she managed finally. ‘Yes, I do.’ She shrugged and turned back to him, met his troubled gaze. ‘But I guess most women do.’
‘Yes,’ he murmured, his eyes scanning her face as if he’d never seen her before. ‘I wish...’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Just don’t let him ... get to you ... hurt you.’
A little late for that advice, friend. Her teasing smile was probably not too convincing, but it would have to do. ‘Hey, I’m a big girl, Jem!’ Her eyes flocked to a burly figure loping up the sidewalk towards them and back to Jem’s frown.
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Shadow!’ Jem reeled as the taller boy caught his arm and spun him around. ‘I’ve been hunting all over for you, man! You’ve gotta help me!’
‘Hey, Grover, gimme a break!’ Jem shrugged his arm, jerking backward, but failed to break that fervent grip. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’ He jerked his chin her way, scowling at the boy—young man, really—who topped him by nearly a foot.
Grover’s eyes shifted to her. Jolian watched them blink, widen and swing slowly back to Jem. ‘I’ve gotta party tonight. You’ve gotta help me.’
Grover’s eyes flicked back to her face, as if to confirm she was still there. She was. Mystified, he turned back to Jem again. ‘Is this for real?’ he blurted, flipping a thumb in her direction.
‘Are you
for real?’ Jem bristled. This time he broke the hold on his shoulder. ‘Look, can we talk later?’
‘But I’ve got a party tonight,’ Grover moaned. His eyes switched to Jolian and his face changed to an ingratiating leer. ‘Want to go to a party, by the way?’ He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Jolian laughed and shook her head. ‘I have a date, thank you.’
His mournful nod said he’d only expected as much, and Grover turned back to Jem. ‘Look, Shadow, you’ve gotta help me, I need three—’
‘Wait a minute,’ Jem cut in. An octave deeper and it would have been his father speaking. ‘Jolian, will you excuse us, please?’ He waited for her nod and then dragged his companion down the bridge out of earshot.
Fascinated, she watched the debate, Jem’s gesture of outrage as Grover tried to give him a bill—she couldn’t see what—the older boy’s reluctant surrender of a second bill, and the final agreement. Drugs, it had to be drugs. Grover would be a freshman in college, possibly a sophomore. Drugs and parties—Jem what have you got yourself into? Fletch would throw a fit. She watched Jem force the book, whatever it was, on Grover, and send him on his way by sheer force of personality, a terrier routing a reluctant Great Dane.
As Jem returned to her, she could see the energy he had summoned to deal with Grover seeping out of him even as he walked. He was definitely coming down with something, ought to be out of this wind. She shivered and pulled the shawl closer around her. ‘The shadow?’ she asked as he stopped before her, ‘as in What evil lurks—’
‘in the hearts of men?’ he nodded, grinning.
‘The Shadow Knows!’ They chanted it together, pulling off a sinister cackle at the end of it which would have done the real invisible hero proud.
‘You’ve got a date?’ asked Jem, his laughter fading. ‘With my ... my father?’
She shook her head, stifling the sudden pain that it was not so. ‘With my business partner and a woman we’re interviewing for a job as a sales representative.’
‘I’ve made you late,’ he observed with that consideration that was so rare in a fourteen-year-old.
He shivered again, bracing himself against it but unable to hide the spasm.
‘Yes, and you’re freezing to death. Jem, just tell me one thing?’
His eyes were uneasy and far too bright. ‘Yes?’
‘Things may be going okay for you now, but what will you do for Thanksgiving? For Christmas? What about poor Ralph stuck in a hotel? What about your father, running himself ragged between here and Chicago?’
Jem’s head drooped slowly under the barrage, the bill of his cap shielding his face as he stared down at his toes. She could just see his lips trembling, searching for a smile, a word, some answer to her hammering. God, if she made him cry, would he ever forgive her? He shrugged weakly and did not look up. ‘What—’ He swallowed and tried again ‘What was the question?’ He almost got a twinkle into it.
Jolian laughed and caught his shoulders, gave him an exasperated shake as he looked up at last, his eyes swimming even as he smiled. ‘The question was, will you come to brunch tomorrow at my place, Jem? Please?’ Tomorrow they were going to have a talk—a real talk.
‘Brunch?’
‘You know, the meal you eat after breakfast and before lunch?’ she teased, releasing him gently.
‘Yeah, I know, Dad used to take me out for one on Sundays. I’d always starve by eleven ...’
‘We’ll make this an early brunch, then,’ she said decisively. ‘Nine-thirty all right? Now just say yes and get out of this wind!’
‘Yes.’ He shivered again.
‘Promise?’ She backed up a step. Lord, was she late!
‘Promise,’ he nodded.
‘Okay, see you then, Jem.’ She backed away a few more stops, reluctant to leave him like this. ‘And, Jem?’
The bill of the baseball cap lifted in question.
‘Take two aspirins as soon as you can, and two more at bedtime.’ She waited for his smile, then turned and hurried back across the long, cold curve of the bridge.
‘Jolian, thank you.’ The girl reached across the table to give her a quick, firm handshake. ‘It’s been a pleasure.’
‘It certainly has.’ Jolian smiled up at her. Lord, she was tall! ‘And we’ll let you know as soon as we can.’ Karin nodded and turned to Al, her look of friendly poise softening ever so slightly. If Jolian had not been waiting for it, she would have missed it. ‘Goodnight, Al.’
Al’s red beard jerked slightly, as if he had been some place else, had just landed with a bump at this candlelit table in a tiny Italian restaurant. ‘You’re ... you’re sure you can’t stay, Karin?’
She shook her head slowly, smiling. ‘This party’s been planned for weeks, Al. I’ve got to go—I’m late as it is.’
He watched her out of the door, his yellow eyes unblinking, and Jolian seized the moment to signal their waitress. ‘Could we have one of these, please?’ She tapped the wine list, but her discretion was wasted on Al. He was decidedly elsewhere.
His eyes blinked rapidly, registering the girl’s departure at last, and he turned her way, starting as he met her affectionate grin. ‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked quickly, groping in the side pocket of his rumpled jacket.
‘I think they’ll call in the fire department if you smoke that thing here!’
‘Oh ...’ He stuffed the pipe back in its home, nodding meekly. ‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked again.
‘Well...’ The impulse to tease was irresistible, ‘she has lovely, lovely—’ Jolian paused, watching him nod in agreement before he’d even heard the rest, ‘—hands,’ she finished, laughing at his blink of surprise. ‘And she uses them beautifully when she talks. I could just picture our rings and bracelets waving under the buyers’ noses while she explains why they’ve got to carry the Quicksilver Collection.’
‘She has pretty ears, too,’ Al interposed.
Jolian threw back her head and laughed. ‘And she even has a neck,’ she agreed. ‘She can wear it all, earrings, necklaces—the girl’s versatile!’
‘C’mon, Jolian, cut it out. What do you think?’ Al hunched forward, his thick, clever fingers tapping the tablecloth between them.
The waitress arrived with the Asti Spumante at that moment. ‘I’ll open it,’ Jolian told her, lifting the bottle from its bucket of ice. ‘Well ...’ she peeled back the golden foil, flicking a glance at his anxious face, ‘I think ...’ Her fingers curled round the cork, inching it slowly out of the bottle. It came all at once with a good, clear Pop! ‘I think you’re cured!’ she laughed triumphantly.
The bottle was foaming over. She swung it towards him and he lifted his glass automatically. ‘Congratulations, partner!’ she told him, splashing his glass full. It had been a long two years since Nancy had left him. As she filled her own glass, she offered a short, fierce prayer that this one would be different. But Karin would be; she could tell already. Nancy had never looked at Al like this girl did. Nancy had never looked past the end of her own selfish, elegantly-bobbed little nose.
Al’s mouth was still open. She clinked glasses with him, bringing his eyes back to the present. ‘Drink, friend,’ she reminded him gently. ‘You’ve found your cure.’
His beard bristled as a wide, boyish grin spread slowly. ‘Do you think so?’ he wondered.
‘I think so. Cheers.’ Jolian touched glasses with him again and then drank this time. The wine was so cold it hurt. Tilting her head back, she shut her eyes and let the bubbling pain spread out along her veins, wishing she could smash the empty glass to the floor, stamp it to splinters? That was what Asti tasted like tonight, smashed, frozen glass—shards of crystal. God, she was a jerk to be so envious of Al’s luck! She looked down to find his eyes on her, wide awake now under his bushy eyebrows. She smiled and held her glass out for a refill. ‘So let’s get smashed!’ she said gaily.
He tilted the bottle tantalisingly, just beyond her reach. ‘You’ll leave your car in
the parking garage, take a cab home?’
‘Oh, c’mon, Al!’
‘I’m thinking of the party you left six years ago, Jolian, swearing you were going to drive to the top of Mount Washington.’
She winced. ‘But I never—’
‘Right, but Sandy and Rob and I did, hoping to save your fool neck! You ended up out on the Cape somewhere, watching the sun rise, as I recall.’
‘I was nineteen then, for Pete’s sake!’
‘And you get just as reckless nowadays when you drink too much.’ Al waved the bottle sternly. ‘Cab and Asti or home to bed like a good girl?’
Jolian sighed and held out her glass again. ‘Cab, Grandfather.’
‘Cheers, then.’
‘Cheers.’
They sipped it this time, studying each other. Al’s eyebrows jumped—a bristly shrug. ‘So we’ve settled me. ‘I’m going to live happily ever after, after all—as easy as that.’ He grinned wryly. ‘Now what about you?’ She took another icy sip and licked her lips. ‘What about me?’
‘C’mon, Jolian, I’ve been waiting for two weeks for you to say something. You’ve just about doubled your design output, you’re laughing more than ever, but one note’s gone flat somehow, and you look like you might break if you tripped and fell ... Who’s the rat?’
‘He’s not a rat!’ She smacked her glass down so hard the wine sloshed over.
‘Hush! Hey, cool it, Jolian!’ Al glanced around sheepishly, smothered her drumming fingertips with a big hand. ‘Cool it ... Okay, he’s not a rat, he just makes you feel awful. He’s a swell guy.’
‘Damn it, Al, he’s just been hurt. He’s had rotten luck—a lousy childhood and a lousier marriage, and he’s just so determined not to let himself in for any more bad luck, he can’t recognise good luck when it falls in his lap!’
Al sighed and shook his head slowly. ‘The good luck being you?’
‘The good luck being me,’ she agreed defiantly. ‘I could make him happy, I know I could.’ She squeezed her eyes shut, a picture of Fletch laughing branded across her eyelids.
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