by Rice, Luanne
“I only want half of mine,” Annie said, removing from the plastic wrap part of her turkey sandwich, tossing it after Eliza's.
“You're losing a lot of weight,” Eliza said.
“You can tell?”
“Yes. Pounds are melting from your frame. Be careful you don't tip over into the land of anorexia. Once you start, it's hard to break the addiction. Starvation is like a drug. Who needs heroin?”
“I don't do drugs,” Annie said firmly.
“Me, neither . . . except my PRN.”
“Your what?”
“At the hospital. Tranquilizers on demand. They didn't want us getting too upset—outwardly, at least. How we felt inside was another story; they couldn't do anything about that. Being upset inside was why we were there.”
“Why were you at the hospital?” Annie asked as they walked through the dark, twisting path, two girls in a fairy tale, on their way to the sorcerer father's cell . . .
“You want the whole story?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it's not pretty,” Eliza said. “And it's about my mother . . . and your father.”
“MY father?” Annie asked, shocked.
“Yes. So be sure you really want to hear . . .”
“Tell me!”
Eliza put up her hand and motioned Annie forward. They walked in silence for another minute, and then they came out of the darkness—miraculously, like being born—into the sunlight of Little Beach. Usually this was the part of the walk where Annie relaxed, but right now every muscle in her body was tense, as if she knew she was about to meet a monster. And what was that crackle in the woods—like someone following them? She forced herself to shake off the fear; Eliza had just spooked her.
But when they'd walked about halfway down the first beach, toward the “Super Simmy” shark rock, she stopped to listen: someone was walking in the woods, just out of sight. She definitely heard twigs and leaves snapping under someone's feet. “Do you hear that?” she asked Eliza.
“Hmm,” Eliza said, listening.
“Is it the evil people?” Annie whispered.
“Yes!” Eliza said, making her scary face. “They want to hear the story, too. Are you ready to hear?”
“I guess so,” Annie said, watching the woods, but seeing nothing there, knowing that she was playing on the edge of craziness with her friend.
“Your dad was my trustee,” Eliza said.
Annie scrunched up her nose, trying to remember what a trustee was. Museums had them, she knew, because her father had been one for the art museum. She didn't want to seem dumb, but why did Eliza need one?
“See, my grandfather was very rich,” Eliza said, almost apologetically. “His father owned whaling ships, and they used to sail the seas, killing beautiful and gentle whales. He owned a whole fleet . . . and then he invested in a shipping line . . . and then he diversified and invested in power companies.”
“Oh,” Annie said. One of her grandfathers had sold ice, and the other had built stone walls.
“Grandfather Day—Obadiah Day—set up a trust, which means he put tons of money in the bank in a special account that can't be touched.”
“So what good is it?”
“Oh,” Eliza said. “It earns interest. We can spend the interest all we want.”
“You and your dad?”
“Um, actually, just me,” Eliza said. “I say ‘we,' but I mean me. I basically pay for everything.”
“You mean, you buy your own things?”
“No. I pay for everything. Our expenses, my dad's business costs . . . it costs a lot to be a wooden boatbuilder. In fact, my mom used to tease him and say she was bankrolling his hobby.”
“But . . . he charges a lot for the boats he makes,” Annie said. “My mother told me.”
“Sure, because the materials cost so much. He uses really expensive wood. Sometimes it's rare, from Zanzibar or Costa Rica. Do you know how much it costs to get a load of goose teak here from Lamu? A fortune. And his labor is expensive. But because he builds each boat by hand, himself, he doesn't make a lot.”
“But he's the best at what he does. My mom told me that, too.”
“Sure he is,” Eliza said. “I'm just saying my mother told me his job is like a hobby. And she paid for him to do it.”
“Did he mind that?” Annie felt confused. In her house, her dad had been so proud about her mom not working. He liked being “the breadwinner.”
Eliza shrugged. “I don't think he cared. Or cares. He's different from anyone else I know; he loves his work, he loves the sea, he loves me. He loved my mother. Certain things are important to my dad. As long as he has them, he's fine.”
“You said,” Annie said, swallowing, “that my dad was your trustee.”
“Yes. He supervised the trust. Along with my mom.”
“That's how they knew each other?”
Eliza nodded, picking up some small shells, letting them jingle in her palm. The girls continued to walk, between the huge rock and the overgrowth of poison ivy—a sorcerer's way of blocking people from passing by, but Annie showed Eliza how to go sideways, back to the rock, to avoid touching the glossy green leaves—to the second beach.
Once again, Annie thought she heard someone in the woods, just out of sight, following them along the beach. When she stopped, the rustling of leaves stopped. Could it be a deer? She shivered, leading Eliza onto the second beach.
This beach was all rocks: big granite boulders in the water, smaller egg-sized stones above the tide lines. The girls moved slowly—Annie with bare feet, Eliza because she didn't want to twist her ankle. Annie cast a glance out at the small archipelago of rocks jutting into the Sound; that was where she often saw Quinn Mayhew, scattering white flowers in the waves, gifts for the local mermaids.
“He helped her make investment decisions,” Eliza said. “He was a good banker, she said.”
“Did you ever meet him?” Annie asked.
“Yes. When she would take me to the bank with her.”
“What did he say? What was he like?” Annie asked, her voice breaking, hungry for new details about the father she would never see again, forgetting to fear the invisible watcher in the woods, the evil people, the monster she sensed lurking behind Eliza's story.
“He was very friendly,” Eliza said gently. “He treated me as if I was very important. He called me ‘Miss Connolly.' ”
“That was Dad,” Annie breathed. “He was so nice to everyone.”
“He made me trust him back then,” Eliza said. “I met your dad and thought, ‘No wonder they call him a ‘trust officer.' Because I trust him . . .' ”
“Why didn't you tell me this before?” Annie asked, starting to cry. “You must have known I'd want to hear. Why didn't you tell me?”
“Oh, Annie,” Eliza said, her face so sad and her chin wobbling so hard it looked as if it might break off. “I don't want to tell you the rest, even now . . .”
“You have to, Eliza. What about my father?”
“He kissed my mother,” Eliza whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I've never told a soul, not even my father. But I saw them one time. They thought I was asleep in the back seat . . . and they kissed.”
“No,” Annie said, closing her eyes tight.
“He handed her some papers, she signed them, and they kissed. I hate them both for it . . . I never trusted him again. Or her. I'm so sorry to tell you.”
“You had to,” Annie said, holding in the sobs. It wasn't even that she was shocked by the news; she knew all about Lindsey, after all. She had already heard her mother crying herself to sleep. These tears were different, and even more awful.
It was knowing that Eliza had seen.
Annie's shame was very deep, but it had always been her own. Her very own, very private shame: guarded under lock by her own body, in her own mind. Knowing that her best friend had been a witness to her father's infidelity crushed her heart and made it hurt so much she wasn't sure it could go on beating
.
But then Eliza hugged her, pulling her close in a tight embrace, and Annie knew they were together in this—sisters like Annie and Pegeen, only more so. Sisters who both had their own imaginary evil people to contend with.
Sisters with a secret.
22
WHILE THE GIRLS SPENT SATURDAY TOGETHER, BAY was busy with a transportation marathon, taking Billy to soccer in Hawthorne and Pegeen to art classes in Black Hall, and making another trip to Kelly's to buy more bulbs to plant at Firefly Hill and in her own yard. Then, retrieving her two youngest, reliving Billy's great goal-scoring moment and admiring the pastel Peggy had done, and stopping at the grocery store to buy dinner, before heading home.
Annie and Eliza were back from their walk to Little Beach, and Bay was thrilled to hear Eliza's enthusiasm, adoring the discovery of the Secret Garden aspect of the beach—the hidden, out-of-time feeling it gave everyone who went there.
When Dan arrived, Bay served lemonade for the kids, Mount Gay and tonic for the adults. They sat in the backyard, waiting for the grill to heat up, with Eliza going on and on about Little Beach.
“It's kind of like Brigadoon, Dad,” she said. “Like you wonder if it really exists, or if it's just a figment of your imagination . . . and even more, it's like a totally enchanted place with elves and fairies and wicked spying trolls and magic.”
“Spying trolls,” Dan said, laughing. “I missed them, but I know Little Beach well, from the summer I worked here at Hubbard's Point. That's where I hung the swing for your mother, Annie.”
“She showed me when I was little, I think.”
Bay glanced over; as talkative as Eliza was, Annie had been unusually quiet since returning from the walk. She had been avoiding junk food, but right now she was attacking the nachos with almost desperate abandon. Asking for her help in the kitchen, Bay closed the door behind them.
“Is everything okay, honey?”
Annie nodded.
“Really? Because it doesn't seem—”
“Daddy tried to help families keep their houses, right?”
“Yes,” Bay said. Of all the things she'd have expected Annie to say, that wasn't one of them.
“And he didn't want to see businesses go bankrupt, right?”
“Right, sweetheart. Why are you asking me this?”
“And that made him good, right, Mom? He wasn't all bad, right?”
“Oh, Annie—no. He wasn't. Not at all. Did Eliza say something bad about him? Is that why you're upset?”
“No, Mom . . . I was just wondering . . . Did Dad have lots of affairs?”
Bay's stomach lurched. She hated that her daughter knew about Sean's behavior, that it was still haunting her even after his death. And why was she thinking about it tonight? Did it have anything to do with Bay inviting Dan for dinner? Seeing her mother having dinner with another man?
“I don't know,” Bay said. “The important thing for you to know is that he always loved you. You, Billy, and Peggy. Nothing could have changed the way he felt about you.”
Annie nodded miserably, as if she didn't quite believe that but had made a silent pact to pretend she did.
“Are you okay, Annie?” Bay persisted. “Would you rather the Connollys not have dinner with us?”
But Annie just shook her head and backed away. “No, Mom. No. I'm SO glad they're here. I was just . . . thinking. For no reason—it's just been in my head. After dinner, Eliza and I are going back to Little Beach, okay?”
“It'll be dark, honey.”
“I know. We'll take flashlights.”
Bay nodded and smiled, relieved. Day, night, it didn't matter, the kids of Hubbard's Point found their way up that steep path and through the woods to the hidden beach whenever they could. She liked thinking of the the two girls reveling in the magic of the place, something that had thrilled Bay and Tara at their age.
When the chicken was finished on the grill, Bay and Billy assembled fajitas for everyone. October's chill was in the air, and they moved inside, to eat at the dining room table. Annie and Eliza lit every candle in the room. Bay had laid the fire earlier, and she let Billy strike the match.
But Annie and her questions lingered on Bay's mind. She told herself that this was normal, that as long as the investigation was open, the kids would be hearing all sorts of things about their father. Annie's clear pleasure in Eliza's company was reassuring. And although at one point she caught Billy staring at Eliza's wrist, where a thin bracelet of scar twisted around and around, the other kids were warming up to her, too.
Dinner was fun. Everyone wanted to hear the story of how Dan had built the boardwalk and Bay had helped.
“You know how Michelangelo has the Sistine Chapel? Well, I have the boardwalk,” Dan said. “That's my masterpiece.”
“It's pretty cool it's lasted all this time,” Pegeen said.
“Yeah, we get some wicked storms,” Billy said. “They could have washed it away.”
“I'm not saying it's the greatest boardwalk in the world,” Dan said. “But it's right up there. Atlantic City, Coney Island, Hubbard's Point. I think I saw it on the cover of Boardwalk Magazine one time. Of course, it probably wouldn't have made the cover if your mom hadn't helped me.”
“How did she help?” Billy asked. He chuckled. “Dad used to tell her she had two left hands.”
“True,” Bay said. “He used to say that.”
“'Cause you kind of do, Mom. Leave the hammering to me.”
“Oooh, sexist boy!” Eliza said.
“I believe the proper saying,” Pegeen said, in unconscious imitation of Tara, “is ‘sexist pig.' ”
Annie and Eliza laughed, and Billy turned red. He was at the age when his sisters' friends had started to intrigue him, and he wanted to look good in their eyes.
“Well, she had a pretty good right hand when I knew her,” Dan said. “And the thing is, I'm trained to find the best hammerers. I had my pick of all the hammerers at the beach, way back then, and honestly, I couldn't have picked a better one than your mother.”
“Are you the same age?” Peggy asked.
“No, she's a kid compared to me,” Dan said. “I was already finished with college the summer I worked here; your mother was fifteen.”
Bay smiled—the kids were really putting Dan through his paces. But he just rolled with it, seeming to enjoy every minute.
“So, you build boats now?” Billy asked.
“Yes.”
“Fast ones?”
“Sailboats and dories, Billy—they go as fast as you can sail or row. Do you like to row?”
Billy shrugged and grinned. “I like Jet Skis,” he said. His father's son, Bay thought.
“I don't build those,” Dan said. “You ought to try rowing sometime.”
“Maybe I will.”
“I like rowing, Mr. Connolly,” Annie said.
“That's what I hear, Annie,” Dan said. “I'll bet you're good at it.”
“Not that good,” Annie said, blushing. “Well, if it's okay, Eliza and I are going back to Little Beach now. I'll be sure to protect her from wicked trolls.”
“I'll count on that,” Danny laughed.
“She's my girl,” Bay said.
Billy and Peggy wanted to go down to shoot baskets under the lights, so Bay gave permission for them all to take off. She and Dan watched all four kids launch themselves out of the room, out of the house, leaving the adults alone with a lot of dirty dishes and a symphony of crickets coming through the windows.
“Would you like some coffee?” Bay asked.
“Let me help you do the dishes first,” he said.
She laughed. “You don't have to.”
“I want to,” he said.
They cleared the table. The kitchen was cozy and bright, and they stood very close together as she rinsed the plates and he placed them in the dishwasher. It felt sweet and surreal, as unexpectedly familiar and gentle as their sail, as if they had never stopped working together, as if they were still wo
rking side by side on the boardwalk.
When they were finished, they went into the living room, where the candles had almost burned down. The fire crackled softly. Bay threw another log on, and they watched it roar to life. She glanced over at Dan. He was so tall and dark, the handsome Irishman she'd fallen in love with at fifteen. But right now she was struck by the sad turns their lives had taken since then.
“What are you thinking, Bay?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I'm not sure you want to know,” she said.
“Go ahead—try me,” he said.
She'd been leaning on the mantel; she brushed the splinters and bark off her hands and sat in the chair beside his. He had taken her usual chair, and she was now in Sean's.
“I was thinking,” she said, “of how hard it is.”
“Which part? Being a single parent?”
“Yes—and all that goes with that. The extra work, trying to be in two places at once, the financial worries . . . but even more, making sure the kids are okay. They're all so sad. They've taken such a blow, so young. I know they're going to be affected by everything that happened and everything that will happen; but how can I control the damage?”
She noticed that Dan was half smiling, but with his head down, as if he was trying to hide it.
“What?” she asked.
“Oh, just the ‘control' thing. I'm trying to remember the last time I thought I could control anything.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I used to think I could. You know? If I just paid attention, took care of business, kept track—”
“I have my own version of that,” Bay said wistfully, thinking of the last two years. “If I was a good person, Sean would love me, our family would be happy, and the world would be good to us.”
“Sounds like the same philosophy,” Dan said.
“Then tell me how to make things better for Annie and the other kids. How do you do it for Eliza?”
“Eliza . . .” he said, the light changing in his eyes.
“What did she mean,” Bay began, “that day I first met her at your boatyard, when she said you blamed her . . .”
“For her mother's death,” Dan said, shaking his head, bowing it slightly. “She says that—I hope she doesn't really believe I feel that way. I've told her over and over that I don't, trying to convince her . . . so she won't have to go back to the hospital.”