The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point)

by Rice, Luanne

  “Since the beach hasn't given me a budget to pay you for all your help,” Dan had joked, “I'll have to give you the crescent moon. I'll make something out of it for you.”

  “You think you can make anything,” she said. “I dare you to make something from the moon!”

  And he had. He had found a weathered sickle of a driftwood log washed up on the beach after a storm, smooth and silver as moonlight, and he had made it into a swing, for her alone.

  “Is it still there?” he asked, letting her know he was thinking the same thing. Was he remembering her surprise and delight, how he had pushed her on the swing that first time? She could see the spot: a sunny clearing deep in the woods, off the path to Little Beach. The swing's ropes had looked like vines, and no one but Bay knew how to find it.

  “No,” she said, looking into his blue eyes. “The ropes rotted years ago. I took my oldest daughter over when she was little, to show it to her. The seat is still there. I keep expecting it to turn back into the moon, to just disappear into the sky.”

  He stood still, leaning against one of the boats, arms folded across his chest.

  “You have more serious things on your mind,” he said, “than an old swing in the woods.”

  “I do,” she said.

  “I wish I could help you more,” he said. As he spoke he began to walk, through the shed—dust golden in the hot sunlight slanting through the open doors—to a small office toward the back. Bay followed him inside, watched him begin to rummage through a stack of papers on the top of an old desk.

  “That's beautiful,” she said, noticing the carving in the dark wood: fish, shells, sea monsters, and mermaids.

  “It belonged to my wife's grandfather,” Dan said. “And it was carved by my grandfather. Long story . . .”

  “Is that her? Your wife?” Bay asked, spotting a framed photo of Eliza and a lovely woman with light hair and pale skin, both wearing straw hats with long blue ribbons.

  “Yes,” Dan said. “That's my Charlie . . .”

  Bay's heart broke at the way he said it: my Charlie. With so much love and sorrow, leaving absolutely no doubt about the way he had felt about her. Now, staring at the photo, his eyes were narrowed and tight, as if the pain of her loss, of never seeing her again, was hitting him again. Bay wondered how she had died, but knew it wasn't the time to ask. She considered her own horrible mixed feelings about Sean and wished she had nothing but love for him, nothing but regret for the missed chances, for the wonderful times they had shared.

  “You must miss her,” Bay said awkwardly.

  “Yes,” he said, still frowning as he continued looking through invoices on the old carved desk. “We both do.”

  Bay couldn't stop looking at his wife's picture—she had such striking eyes, such an open gaze. Had Dan taken the picture? Bay recognized the background—the carousel at Watch Hill—a favorite spot of all the little girls of southern New England. Annie and Pegeen adored it, as had their mother and Tara before them.

  Her gaze wandered the rest of the room. Big windows overlooked the Thames River. Electric Boat was on the other side, one submarine at the dock. Ferries passed—the high-speed hovercraft heading out as the Cross Sound boat came in from Long Island. Small sailboats tacked, their white sails and hulls gleaming.

  “I know I have his order somewhere,” he said. “He was very specific, if only I can find it . . .”

  “My husband isn't really a wooden boat person. That's why I'm surprised he came to you,” she said, noticing his drafting table, drawings of rowing boats spread over its surface. Now she glanced at his bookshelves, books on Herreshoffs and Concordias beside the collected letters of E. B. White and a stack of old maritime magazines. “Did he say anything about letters?” Bay asked abruptly. “The ones we wrote to each other?”

  “You and I?” Dan asked, glancing up. “No, he didn't. God, those were a long long time ago . . .”

  And I saved them all, Bay thought. Was that crazy? She glanced at the picture of Charlie again and felt embarrassed. What had she been holding on to, all these years? If her own marriage had ever been really happy, wouldn't she have thrown them out? Clearly Dan had found the real love of his life in Charlie . . . Bay's gaze swept across the desk, and settled again on Dan. He was older, more rugged than she had remembered, weathered by life and love. But he was still her first love, and she still felt a thrill just to see him.

  “I'm getting closer,” he said. “Up to June now . . . hang on.”

  “Take your time,” she said, exhausted by the storm of emotions. She arched her back, walked over to the window to look out at the river, tripping over a tool belt lying on the floor.

  Reaching out to steady herself, she stumbled into the bookshelf and cried out with surprise.

  “What is this doing here?” she asked, reaching forward with a trembling hand for the object on the top shelf.

  Dan's eyes widened, and he flushed slightly.

  “It's my daughter's,” Bay explained, her eyes filling with tears as she lifted down the small green dory. “Annie made it for her father.”

  “She did a great job,” Dan said. “The details are excellent—the joinery, and the fairing . . .”

  “He promised her he would keep it with him always.”

  “I think he meant to,” Dan said, finding the invoice. “This is the order form for a twelve-foot rowing dory. He just left her boat for me, so I'd know what to build.”

  “But why would he want a dory?” Bay asked, looking into Dan's clear blue eyes. “Sean's taste in boats is so different . . .”

  “He wanted it for your daughter.”

  “Annie?” she asked, her heart thudding.

  Dan nodded. “Yes. It was going to be for her. I haven't started it. I'd put the whole thing aside, after I read about Sean in the paper. But he was adamant about it—he said he wanted it for Annie. And that he wanted me to build it myself—not to give it to my assistants to help with. He showed me the model on that first visit—and finally dropped it off for me to work with, just a couple of weeks ago. Should I go ahead and keep working?”

  “You'd better hold off for a while,” Bay said, thinking of the money, feeling confused about it all.

  Just then, the truck horn sounded from out in the yard. “DAAAAADDDD!” came Eliza's voice. Dan gave Bay a look of apology, and she managed to say something about kids being kids. She shook his hand across the ornate desk, and without asking or explaining, tucked Annie's boat under her arm and walked out to the parking lot at Dan's side.

  She climbed into her car, set Annie's boat on the seat beside her. Inserting the key in the ignition, she started up the Volvo and rolled down the windows. Salt air blew through the car with boatyard smells of epoxy, varnish, and fish. She couldn't wait to get back home, to the beach.

  But as Dan and Eliza pulled out, in a big green truck with “ ELIZA DAY BOAT BUILDERS ” painted in small gold letters on the doors, Bay again reached for Annie's boat.

  It felt so fine, so light. Bay remembered how she and Annie had bought the balsa wood together, how Annie had soaked it to get it to bend . . . how they had had to hold the boards together with tiny clamps and elastic bands, to wait for the glue to dry.

  Holding it together . . .

  Sean's secret-keeping was as powerful as ever. Bay sensed that somehow Annie's boat and Sean's visit to Dan—and his dropping off Annie's model—could shed light on his disappearance: on why he had pulled one of Bay's old letters to Danny Connolly from the hope chest, on all the mysteries of his last weeks at home.

  She remembered how hard her daughter had worked, to make her father a wonderful present he'd never forget. Annie cried herself to sleep every night, thinking of Sean alone somewhere, hiding from his family and the bank and the law, with nothing but her little green boat to keep him company.

  “Sean, how could you?” Bay said out loud, as she held the boat in her hands and imagined what Annie would say when she saw it, when she understood that her father hadn't
taken it with him after all.

  7

  PRETTY UGLY,” BILLY SAID, STANDING BESIDE ANNIE. IT was like summer going backward instead of forward, from the full-bloom beauty of late June into a brown, dry, wilting farewell to the flowers, almost as if they had never really even been alive at all. “We used to have the best yard, now we have the worst yard.”

  “It's not Mommy's fault,” Peggy said. “She's busy looking for Daddy.”

  “I never said it was Mom's fault,” Billy said patiently. “Will you please consider opening your ears?”

  “They are open!” Peg said. “What's wrong with you? You're supposed to be taking care of me today, and I was supposed to go to Little League practice, but Mommy's not home yet, and you won't pitch to me, and I hate you!”

  “When you say ‘hate' you really mean ‘love,' so you love me,” Billy said.

  “You wish,” Peg said.

  “Roses are red, violets are blue, dirt is stupid, and Pegeen is, too.”

  “Dirt's not stupid. It's smart. That's why roots can't wait to get down in it. That's why earthworms think it's like the best palace in the world. Dirt rules.”

  “Well, if dirt rules, then I guess we have the greatest garden at the beach, because all we got is dirt and dead flowers,” Billy said, grabbing the ball out of Peg's hand. “Come on, I'll pitch to you. You can practice sliding face-first into the DIRT. Just so you can't grow up and tell one of those rotten TV reporters you had a neglected childhood. At least you won't be able to blame your brother.”

  “Yeah, I'll find a way,” Peg said, scooting ahead, into the backyard where she'd left her glove and the bat.

  All of this occurred within thirty seconds, with Annie standing perfectly still in the midst of it, as if she wasn't even there. As if she was some sort of rotund lawn ornament, to go with the brown flowers, watching her brother and sister tear after each other in a form of mad, familial, therapeutic batting practice.

  If only Annie liked playing ball; she just knew she'd be a happier person. She was always envious of how Billy and Pegeen seemed to get over things so much faster than she did, whacking the ball and sliding into home plate and generally working all their frustrations out through physical activity: just like what her father used to tell her she should do.

  “You'd be happier and healthier, Annie-bear, and all your problems would go away,” he'd say, “if you'd just get some exercise.” By “healthier,” of course, he had meant “thinner,” but the boat of thinness had long since sailed for this summer.

  Looking across the marsh, she saw Tara's little white house and bright yard, shining like a garden of jewels. Pale pink foxgloves waved in the breeze, azure morning glories climbed the trellis. Maybe Annie could help bring their yard back . . .

  Just as she was crouching down in an attempt to discern the flowers from the weeds, her mother's car pulled into the driveway. Annie looked up and waved. Her mother looked so pretty and thin; she wore khaki shorts and a faded blue shirt, and her arms and legs were tanned and freckled.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” her mother said, walking over. She held a paper bag tightly in her arms, as if something precious was inside.

  “Hi, Mom. Where were you?”

  “I had some errands to run. Will you come inside for a minute?”

  Annie nodded, but first she brushed the dry leaves with her hand. “The poor garden,” she said. “I think it needs some help.”

  “I know, Annie. It does. I've really let it get away from me these last couple of weeks. I'm sorry.”

  “You don't have to be,” Annie said quickly, hugging her mother, then stepping back. “I didn't mean it that way.”

  Her mother took a deep breath, trying to smile. The sun was coming through the kitchen window, turning her hair into a tangle of copper.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” her mother said, stroking her hair. She stared at Annie with a worried smile, as if she was trying to read Annie's mind.

  “What's wrong, Mom?”

  “Annie . . .” her mother said, still trying to smile, as she put an arm around Annie's shoulders and walked her into the house. Annie's heart began to beat harder. She had been so worried about her father—did her mother have news about him? No, it couldn't be that. Her mother wouldn't be smiling at all. Or else, if it was good news, she'd be jumping up and down for joy.

  “Tell me, Mom. What is it?”

  “Sit down, Annie,” her mother said quietly, putting her hand on Annie's arm. “I want to talk to you about something. Where are the other kids?”

  Yikes, Annie thought. Not good. Never a good thing when one of her parents wanted to single her out, separate her from the herd. Very bad, very bad. She had the deep sibling sense that there was safety in numbers—that any message delivered to the whole family, as hard as it might be to swallow, was one thing. But being talked to solo meant nothing but trouble.

  “They're playing baseball,” Annie said reluctantly, edging toward the door. “Maybe they want me to play . . . I should . . .”

  “Annie,” her mother said, smiling. “We both know . . .”

  Annie shrugged and smiled, knowing her mother was on her wavelength about not liking sports, especially anything involving a ball. Her father, on the other hand, had tried to get her to play every chance she got, telling her stories about his own glory days in school.

  Her mother's face was very serious, her blue eyes focused on Annie's with concern and love. “Sweetheart, there's something I want to tell you, and show you . . .”

  “Show me?” Annie asked, her voice reedy and thin.

  Her mother nodded, and with that, Annie did sit down, at the breakfast bar. Her blood was going ba-boom, ba-boom, like a whole battalion marching into her throat. The bag was sitting on the counter in front of her mother, and Annie suddenly felt very afraid.

  “What's in there, Mom?” she asked.

  “Annie, darling,” her mother began.

  “Show me, Mom,” Annie said, feeling as if her skin would unzip and she'd fly out like a ghost. She grabbed the bag from her mother's hands, and began to tear the paper away. Before she had gotten half of it off, she saw: “My boat!” she cried out.

  “Annie, I know you've liked thinking of your dad having it with him . . .”

  “I made this for him,” Annie cried, cradling her little green boat in her arms, rocking it back and forth as if it was a baby in need of great comfort and love. “This was for Daddy. He said he'd never go anywhere without it—it was keeping him company! It's all he had!”

  “Oh, Annie,” her mother said, rushing around to hold her. “I knew you'd be upset. I wouldn't have even shown it to you, honey. But your father left it behind for a good reason, a very loving reason.”

  “No,” Annie sobbed. “He wouldn't have.”

  “Annie, he wanted to have a rowboat built—”

  “This was his rowboat,” she cried. “The only one that mattered. I made it for him. He would never have left it behind.”

  “He showed it to the boatbuilder, and he even went back to check that he was copying it properly,” her mother said.

  “He's gone forever,” Annie said, feeling waves of cold sweep through her body. It was as if a cold front—the Alberta Clipper—had rushed down from Canada, to chill her skin and blood, to freeze the marrow in her bones.

  “No, Annie. This doesn't mean—”

  The telephone rang. Annie vaguely sensed her mother crossing the room to answer it.

  “Hello?” her mother said.

  Annie held the boat against her body, remembering how she had felt making it. Her mother had helped her—driving her to the hobby shop, picking out the balsa wood. Annie had lovingly soaked each piece, getting it to bend in the graceful lines of the pretty dory in the classic boat magazine. She had put in little seats and oarlocks. She had carved oars. When the glue was dry, she had painted it dark green—the color of pine trees. And she had lettered the name of the boat on the transom, in gold paint:

  ANNIE

&nb
sp; “So you don't forget who to row home to,” she had told her father when she'd given him the boat.

  “I love it, Annie,” he had said, wrapping her in his arms and pulling her close.

  “I made it for you,” she'd said. “Every bit. Mom only helped a little.”

  “It's the nicest present I've ever gotten.”

  “Because you love boats?” she'd asked, her heart swelling.

  “No, because you made it for me,” he'd said, still hugging her with one arm, holding the boat out for both of them to admire with the other. “No one's ever made me anything this wonderful before. I love it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” he'd said, the arm squeezing Annie a little tighter, making her feel happier than she'd ever felt. “I'll tell you how much I love it. I will never let it out of my sight. That's a promise. Wherever I go, this boat goes . . .”

  And he had kept his promise. He had taken the boat to his office for a few months, but then they had done some renovation at the bank and he'd brought it home. It had been on his bureau, but then summer came, and he put it into a bag; Annie assumed he had taken it back to his office, or down to the Aldebaran.

  Annie held the model, thinking of how much her father had loved it. Warmth flooded through her and gave her comfort as her mother turned to look at her and Annie saw the whiteness of her face. The near-blue color of the skin around her lips, as if she was in shock. The way she moved her hand—so slowly, almost fumbling—up to her cheek, trying to touch her own face but seeming almost unable to find it. The roundness of her eyes. Her almond-shaped blue eyes, shocked into a different shape.

  As her mother hung up the phone, Annie curved her body around the boat. If she couldn't protect her father, she could at least shield the boat.

  “Sweetheart,” her mother said, touching Annie's shoulder with a trembling hand.

  “I already know,” Annie whispered, so softly only her boat could hear.

  “I have bad news,” her mother said.

  “I already know,” Annie whispered, more softly than before.