by Rice, Luanne
Once in the study, Augusta gestured for her guests to take seats. They chose—as Augusta's own daughters might—to sit side by side on the sofa. Tara looked a bit apprehensive, as if she feared repercussion for her part in the drama.
“Relax, Tara,” Augusta said. “I've made peace with the situation and your part in it. Which was, honestly, quite kind and well-meaning.”
“Mrs. Renwick—”
“Augusta,” she reminded her. “After all these years you've worked for me, my asking you to call me by my first name should tell you something. I don't often do that . . . but I did it with your husband, Bay.”
“With Sean?”
“Yes.” At the sight of Bay's face, which fell at the mention of her husband's name, Augusta related completely and brimmed with compassion. “Please, don't think that I have brought you here to berate you for your husband's sins. I have quite another purpose in mind.”
Both women gazed at her mutely.
“First of all, I would like you to resume working as my gardener. I toured the property during the days after you did your work—and thank you for coming back to pick up the piles of cuttings, by the way. That couldn't have been easy, with your injured hand.” Bay looked surprised, but Augusta continued. “Therefore, I want you both to continue in my employ. Is that clear, and agreeable?”
“It is,” Bay said. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, Augusta,” Tara said. “I'm very sorry—”
Augusta halted her with a stop-sign hand. “Enough! I loathe apologies that go on for days. It is over, do you hear me? I have daughters about your ages. Although you are all pushing, if not well into, middle age, you will all always be girls to me. I know the lengths my girls would go to, to help their sisters. You did nothing less.”
“We are sisters,” Tara explained. “In spirit.”
“How I longed for sisters, when I was a child,” Augusta said. “I never had any . . . only a series of doomed, fated pets . . . but that is another story. Anyway, back to the reason I've called you here today.”
“To talk about the garden?” Bay asked.
“No, dear,” Augusta said, leaning forward. “To talk about you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. And what we are going through.”
“You mean, what Sean did?”
“Yes. I'd like to share with you a few of my impressions. Perhaps they will help you.”
“Go ahead,” Bay said, but Augusta saw her shut down—subtly but completely. People became concretized as life went on, just for their own protection. They wore invisible snail shells that got harder with every heartbreak.
“Your husband was a charmer. He was handsome and bright and witty, and he was very good with my money, and he had the gift of being able to make me feel beautiful and young. Well, maybe not young. But not so old.”
“That sounds like Sean,” Bay said.
“Believe me, I knew Sean well—because he was exactly like my husband, Hugh Renwick.”
That surprised them—Augusta could see she had Bay's full attention now. What could a small-town banker have in common with a giant of American art?
“Everyone adored Hugh. Men wanted to be him, and women wanted to sleep with him. Sadly—for me—he didn't resist their charms—women's, that is—as much as the girls and I would have liked him to.”
“I'm sorry,” Bay said.
“Thank you. As I am for you. But the main thing they had in common was competition. I understand about Sean having been passed over for Mark Boland. That would have driven Hugh mad.”
“Yes, Sean was furious.”
“Who can blame him? He was a highly valued executive, and then out of the clear blue, the board goes outside and brings in Mark Boland from Anchor Trust. How devastating to the male ego.”
“I knew he was upset by it,” Bay said, sounding tight; Augusta felt the defenses coming back up. “But I still can't imagine him starting to steal, just to get back at the bank—”
“I knew a jewel thief once,” Augusta said. “At Villefranche-sur-Mer. He would come around with the other artists once in a while, and I asked him why he did it. Why he stole.”
“Why did he?” Bay asked, her eyes sad and hollow.
“He told me he loved the game,” Augusta said. “He had women and expensive tastes, and he needed to finance his chaotic life. He was constantly upping the ante and increasing the excitement.”
“Sean loved excitement,” Tara agreed, eyes on Bay.
“Perhaps we'll never know exactly why he turned to stealing; perhaps he wanted to make Mark Boland look bad. Which isn't so hard to do; Boland's a cold fish. But obsequious. I see exactly what he's doing as he butters me up.”
“Are you sure you want me to work for you?” Bay asked, with tremendous dignity. “I'd understand if you didn't. The investigation isn't over yet. The FBI is still in town.”
“Of course they are, darling,” Augusta said. “This is bank business. If Sean had merely come in here and stolen cash and paintings, the case would be closed. But Sean was a banker—and I believe he didn't act alone. I have an instinct for these things.”
“Have they said anything? Do they suspect someone else?”
“They never say anything. But I was on the bank's board for many years, so I have my sources.”
“That FBI agent, Joe Holmes,” Tara said, with a telltale blush, “was questioning me the other day.”
“He is a dish,” Augusta said. “With a very high IQ.”
“You like him?” Bay asked. “I find him very hard to take.”
Tara shrugged and flushed more deeply, but Augusta could see right through her.
“Life is amazing,” Augusta said, gripping the arms of her chair and staring daggers at the two younger women. Did they know how wonderful they were, how short life was, how it would be over in the blink of an eye? “Passion,” she said mournfully.
Bay opened her eyes, extraordinary blue eyes filled with such love and sorrow that Augusta longed to hug her as she would her own daughters.
Augusta gazed at her. “I think perhaps this is why I reacted so strongly to you that day. I know what you are going through. I know what you have suffered. When I look at the portraits my husband did of me, I am forced to see that they lack passion.”
“Passion?”
Augusta nodded. “His love for the children was such a tremendous force, it's there for all to see in their paintings. Wild, unbridled love! But in the pictures he did of me—gentility, elegance, grace, propriety . . . but no passion.”
“I'm so sorry . . .”
“I'm not,” Augusta said. “Any longer. It caused me anguish . . .” she paused, because the word was so inadequate, “. . . years ago. But I'm over that now.”
“You stayed together,” Bay said, obviously thinking of herself and Sean.
“We did. Our marriage was passionless and estranged. I could have, and perhaps should have, divorced him a hundred times over. But I didn't.”
“I should have, too,” Bay said.
“You're linked by your children,” Augusta said. “Let that be enough. Take all that passion he should have felt for you—that Hugh should have felt for me—and channel it into your life. If you fall in love again, make sure it is with a man who is wildly in love with you. Do you understand me? You couldn't bear it, knowing what you now know, to be with someone who feels less than insanely passionate for you.”
“I'll never fall in love again,” Bay said.
“But IF you do.”
“I won't.”
“But promise me—IF you do.”
“All right, Augusta. If I do,” Bay said, as if mollifying an old woman. Augusta didn't care; she'd done her good deed, exacted her promise. She gazed upon Bay McCabe and knew that something wonderful was out there for her.
“And you'll come back and make my garden as beautiful as Giverny?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Bay smiled.
“And you'll come back and make my house sparkle a
nd dance?” Augusta asked Tara.
“I will.”
“And help me find my missing chalice? I can't imagine where I put it. Florizars just don't taste the same in anything else.”
“I'll find it,” Tara said. “Remember when you misplaced one of the Vuarnet emeralds, and I found it in the toe of your marabou mule?”
“Darling, you have a divine memory. And here it is, on my ear. Thank you. Thank you both. Bay, we'll work out the tedious financial details when you come again. Now, leave me be, so I can resume discussing important matters with the father of my children!”
“Thank you, Augusta,” the two friends said.
“You're so welcome, children,” Augusta said.
And then, rising, she kissed their cheeks twice each, the way she had learned how to do so very long ago, when she and Hugh had lived in Paris, in the Sixth, when they had still been young, when they had gotten drunk with Picasso, when they had fed each other sugar cubes dipped in Armagnac at the cafés of St.-Germain-des-Prés, when they had made love on the quays along the Seine.
When anything less than a life of passion would have seemed a tragedy.
THAT SATURDAY EVENING, BAY WENT SAILING.
Danny called to tell her the air and water were still warm enough, the breeze steady enough, to make it a perfect day to try out the new catboat. Tara had taken all the kids, including Eliza, to the movies and Paradise Ice Cream.
Bay was bundled up in jeans and a fisherman's sweater, her hand thickly bandaged, and she felt like no help at all, sitting in the stern while he made everything ready. Then he raised the sails, they caught the wind, and the boat sailed straight away from his boatyard dock, into New London Harbor.
He sat beside her, hand on the tiller, as the pretty boat made her way down the Thames River to the Sound. Their backs were straight, their arms not quite touching as the boat rounded Ledge Light, the imposing square brick lighthouse that guarded the mouth of the river.
As the wind picked up, he kept the sail trimmed, and they heeled over, exhilarated with speed and freedom. Bay felt the wind in her hair, salt spray in her eyes. She was able to breathe out here, and for the first time in months, she realized she wasn't looking over her shoulder to see who was watching.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For this. For helping me get away.”
“Get away from real life for a little while,” he agreed, and she knew he understood.
She glanced at him sideways, not wanting him to see her watching. He still looked so sensitive, as if he was more a part of nature and the sea than the rat race of modern life. His skin was tan and weathered, with deep lines around his eyes and mouth—squinting into the sun, working outside.
“Do you have a lot of starfish on your dock at the boatyard?” she asked.
“Quite a few. Why?”
She smiled, remembering when he had repaired the beach raft and found all the starfish clinging to the wooden underside; he threw them back into the water, to save them, before continuing the job on dry land.
“You told me that starfish fell from the sky, to make their homes in the sea,” she said.
“I did?”
“Yes. And that narwhals are really unicorns.”
“Wow. I was pretty poetic that summer.”
“And—this was my favorite—that the reason whales breach, heave their huge bodies out of the ocean, with such amazing force and effort, is that they were created to pull the moon . . . like great, primeval draft horses, harnessed to the moon, pulling it from one phase to the next . . .”
“Around and around the earth,” Dan said, his eyes softening as if with moon glow, looking down at Bay as she sat beside him.
“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
DAN 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?