A Month at the Shore

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  "Fine," he drawled, making a victory fist in his pocket. "We'll do lunch."

  ****

  He left, taking most of Olivia's wits with him. The encounter with Quinn Leary had left her completely unnerved. Her heart was hammering, her knees were shaking, and inside she was hot, hot, hot—hot enough that she found herself feeling downright grateful for the cold draft that wended its way from the front door and up her gown, fanning those oddly made drawers of hers.

  Oh, wow, this is unreal, she told herself. This is not normal. No man had ever affected her the way Quinn had just then. Flirting was one thing, banter another, but this was new, this was completely new ....

  She began to pace the length of the drawing room, trying to work out the tension she felt. In a reverie of wonder, she tapped her closed fan on the palm of her hand and shook her head as she marched up, then down, the parquet floor, ignoring the visitors who wandered through. The tourists assumed she was playing the role of a character from a Victorian novel, but the tourists were wrong.

  I don't have time for someone like him. I don't even have the inclination for someone like him. He's too proud, too prickly, too—much too—controversial. What would Mother and Dad say? They'd be appalled to have a Leary rubbed in their noses again.

  Seventeen years. Olivia remembered rushing home after the news of Alison's death and finding her mother sitting alone on the sofa and sobbing. Teresa Bennett, being a Bennett, had quickly wiped her eyes as soon as she saw her daughter. But Olivia, who wanted so badly to hold and be held, had blurted out, "She didn't deserve to die; she never hurt anyone," and burst into tears for her cousin, and then she and her mother had hugged and cried some more, but in secret—because wailing was not allowed in the Bennett household.

  The sad thing was, by the time of Alison's murder, Owen Bennett had had little contact with Alison's father Rupert. Olivia didn't know why the brothers had drifted so far apart, and she'd never dared to ask. Olivia's father had bought out her Uncle Rupert's interest in the mill, that much she knew. But she'd always had the feeling that there was more to the split than a difference in business philosophies.

  In any case, the attendance of Owen and his family at Alison's funeral did nothing to breech the growing rift between brothers. After the murder, the rift became as wide as a canyon and stayed that way.

  Olivia pushed away all of the memories; all of them were bad. No, Quinn was out of the question. He was too bound up with the worst period of her family's life for Olivia ever to be able to take him seriously. True, there was that box of stuff she'd been keeping all these years. But after she returned it to Quinn, that would be it. The town could deal with him any way it liked; it had nothing to do with her.

  "Are these parquet squares the kind you buy at Home Depot?"

  Olivia turned to the young couple who were linked arm in arm and studying the drawing room floor. "No," she said with a gracious smile, "they're Burma teak, and their value is priceless."

  ****

  Quinn drove home in a state of near bliss. He'd gone on the Candlelight Tour for no other reason than to keep a high profile, and he'd come away with a date with the Princess.

  Socially speaking, of course, he was a frog. He knew it, and it made the promise of taking her out all the more gratifying. Dating Olivia was something he never would have dared try back in high school, which was undoubtedly the reason he had enjoyed trouncing her in the classroom every chance he got. He had enjoyed it even more than trouncing her brother on the field.

  But it was all such kid stuff. What a jerk he used to be. He laughed softly to himself as he drove his repaired rental past St. Swithin's Church, past the bank, past Town Hill with its lit-up tree. Had he grown up? He hoped so. He hoped that his reason for wanting to be seen in Keepsake with Olivia on his arm was not because she was a royal and he was a commoner, but because she was smart and funny and, okay, knock-down gorgeous.

  But he really wasn't sure.

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  Antoinette Stockenberg

  "Full of charm and wit, Stockenberg's latest is truly enthralling."

  --Publishers Weekly

  In 1692, Salem, Massachusetts was the setting for the infamous persecution of innocents accused of witchcraft. Three centuries later, little has changed. Helen Evett, widowed mother of two and owner of a prestigious preschool in town, finds her family, her fortunes, and her life's work threatened —all because she feels driven to protect the sweet three-year-old daughter of a man who knows everything about finance but not so much about fathering.

  Chapter 1

  March.

  Helen Evett dropped a log into the jumpy flames of her cozy hearth, then went over to the sitting room window and closed the heavy drapes of faded rose, muting the sound of sleet that tapped against the panes.

  This March will be different.

  She poured herself a glass of sherry, settled into a deep-cushioned chair in front of the fire, and cracked open the cover of a brand-new biography of Freud that she'd been meaning to read since Christmas.

  It's been four years now. Long enough.

  Five minutes into the book, Helen looked up and began staring at the flames, unable, after all, to shake herself free of the mood. March in Massachusetts was long, cold, and cruel, full of false hope. March was a liar. March couldn't produce a damn thing except April first, the anniversary of her husband's death.

  For four years in a row, Helen Evett had tried to convince herself that spring would be less painful. She had planted hundreds of snowdrops and burned cords of wood, and yet here she was, facing April again with dread. The memories of that fateful day had burned deep and left scars: the somber troop commander standing at her front door, the slow-motion ride to the hospital in a state police car, the shocking sight of Hank's gray, lifeless face.

  She hadn't dared pull the sheet farther back than his face; part of his chest, she knew, had been blown away.

  Helen sighed heavily. Things would get better after April first. But tonight it was still March.

  "Mom! I'm home!"

  In the hall outside the sitting room, Helen heard the satisfying thunk of the heavy oak door falling into place. One child back, one to go.

  "How're the roads?" she called out. Becky had good instincts and a level head, but her driver's license was so new it still smelled of plastic.

  "No problem," the girl said in a voice that Helen knew was being deliberately upbeat. Becky was as aware of March as her mother was, but she had her own system for dealing with it: she shopped.

  "Look what I found at Filene's Basement." The girl strode into the room, still in her black hooded trench coat, and nudged the cat off the hassock with her shopping bag. "Cashmere. And dirt cheap."

  She flipped the hood of her coat off her head, revealing straight gold hair that took its glow from the fire, and beamed at her mother.

  Helen, still marveling at the whiteness and straightness of Becky's teeth despite the fact that her braces had been off for over a year, frowned and said, "Cashmere? Since when can you afford cashmere on a baby-sitter's wages?"

  "Well, it's not all cashmere. Just twenty percent."

  "I hope you put gas in the car."

  "Ten dollars worth," Becky said, wrinkling her nose. "I'll put in another ten when I get paid."

  "Becky, this won't do. You can't go spending money like there's no tomorr—" Instantly Helen regretted having said it. Who knew better than they did that sometimes there was no tomorrow? For Trooper Hank Evert, writing out a routine speeding ticket, there had ended up being no tomorrow.

  Becky was shrugging out of her rain-spattered coat; she let it fall where she stood on the worn Oriental carpet. When she faced her mother again the look in her green eyes was as calmly agreeable as the smile on her face. "You're right, Mom. This is the last thing I'll buy for a while."

  It's March, Helen reminded herself. Let her be.

  Rummaging through a wrap of tissue, Becky pulled
out a smart turtleneck sweater for her mother's perusal.

  Helen smiled ironically. "Oh, good. More black. Just what you need."

  "It's not black. It's blackish charcoal."

  "It's charcoalish black."

  "It'll look terrific on you, too, Mom. With your black hair and gray eyes—"

  "I'd look like a lump of coal. Why all the black, anyway?" Helen added, unable to keep the protest out of her voice. The color of mourning held no allure for her.

  "It's just cool, Mom," said Becky with an edge in her own voice. "For no other reason."

  Helen had to leave it at that. She stood up, automatically retrieving her daughter's crumpled coat from the floor. On her way out to the hall clothes tree, she asked, "Did your brother say when Mrs. Fitch was picking them up?"

  She heard Becky mumble something about Mrs. Fitch's car being at the mechanic's.

  Surprised, Helen said, "So how are Russ and Scotty getting home?"

  She turned around in time to see Becky sprinting for the stairs. Without pausing, the girl said, "Russ told me a friend of Scotty Fitch was gonna meet them at the mall and drive them both home."

  "Rebecca!" Helen said, more angry with her daughter than with her son. "How could you leave him to come back on his own?"

  Becky was taking the stairs two at a time. "We live in Salem, Mom," she ventured over her shoulder. "Not Sarajevo."

  "You know what I mean! He's fourteen," Helen snapped. "All feet! No brains! I don't want him hanging around with kids who drive."

  Turning at the top of the stairs, Becky looked down at her mother and said quietly, "I don't see how you can stop him, Mom."

  "Oh, really?" Helen answered in a crisp, dry voice. "Wait till he gets home, then, and watch."

  "Oh-h ... don't take it out on Russell," Becky pleaded. "It was my fault. I'm the one who let him." In self-defense she added, "When I was fourteen you let me get chauffeured around by girls older than I was."

  "That was different. You were level-headed. I could trust your judgment—up until tonight, anyway," Helen said with a dark look. "And besides, times are—"

  "I know, I know: totally different," Becky said with a roll of her eyes. "Even though it's—what?—a year or two later?"

  "You don't know who's out there, honey," Helen said, ignoring the sarcasm. "There are nutcases ... madmen ... psychos ...."

  "Mom. Stop."

  The expression on the girl's face was wise and tender and weary all at once. She knew, and her mother knew, that the one madman who mattered most had rolled his car in a fiery, fatal end to a spectacular police chase on Route 95. He was out of the picture, out of their lives.

  But that didn't mean there weren't other madmen out there.

  "Hey," Becky said, more cheerfully. "I almost forgot. This is for Russ." She reached into her shopping bag and pulled out a Pearl Jam baseball cap. "It's wool. Ninety-nine cents. Can you believe it?"

  She tossed the cap down to her mother with a last, quick smile and beat a retreat to her bedroom at the end of the wallpapered hall.

  Helen sat the cap on the newel post and sighed. Becky was rolling through the tough teen years so painlessly that she'd almost managed to convince her mother that fathers weren't all that critical. It was Russ who was the reality check: The boy was angry, moody; sloughing off responsibility right and left.

  "Pretty typical," Helen's friends all said.

  But no one else could pin down, to the day, exactly when her son had begun the transformation from nice kid to beast in the jungle. Helen could. On the evening of his father's funeral, Russell Evett had withdrawn into his room, and when he came out three days later he wasn't Russell Evett anymore. It was as plain as that.

  Helen was roused from yet another replay of that time by the piercing ring of the hall phone. The voice that answered hers was fearful and tentative and had the effect of jangling her nerves still more.

  "Mrs. Evett? You don't know me—I'm sorry to call you at home—but I have an important request, more like a favor—no, wait, let me start over. I got your name from a friend who has a little girl in your preschool, Candy Greene. That's the mother's name, not the little girl's. The girl is called Astra? You remember? A little blond girl, very fluent?"

  "She's not in my Tuesday-Thursday class, but may I ask who this is?" said Helen, impatient with the meandering voice at the other end of the line. What if Russ were trying to call?

  The woman sucked in her breath in a broken gasp. "Oh! I'm sorry ... it's this vicious headache." She took a deep breath, obviously trying to organize herself.

  "My name ... is Linda Byrne," she said with new deliberation. "I've heard such good things about your school, and I want my daughter to go there. She's so bright. She gets along well with children and she's pretty good about sharing and taking directions. She doesn't bite." Hurried and edgy despite herself, she added, "Is there anything else you need to know?"

  "Well, yes," said Helen, surprised by the woman's naiveté. "We like to sit down with the parents and the child—"

  "Oh, but my husband couldn't possibly be available for that!" the woman said at once. "He's so busy!"

  "One parent would be fine. I'll tell you what, Mrs. Byrne. Why don't you come visit the school tomorrow at about five o'clock with your little girl, and we—"

  "But I can't. Don't you see? That's why I'm calling. From my bed. That's the favor I'm asking. Couldn't you possibly come here instead?"

  Her voice betrayed rising panic. Helen, wishing to reassure her but mostly in a hurry to get off the phone, said, "There's no urgency, Mrs. Byrne. If you're not feeling well, we can certainly meet on another day. Registration has only just opened for the next term. You have plenty of time—"

  "I don't! Candy said you fill up overnight!"

  Helen laughed reassuringly and said, "Mrs. Greene was exaggerating. Really. Why don't we agree on a day next week—"

  "Please ... next week won't be any better," the woman said, suddenly weary. "I've been so ... I have to nail this down ... this one thing, at least. I can't go on like this ... drifting ... please, won't you come? We live on Chestnut Street, not all that far from your school. It wouldn't take long ... really ... I don't see why you can't ...." she argued, practically in tears.

  If Linda Byrne was trying to make a good impression, she wasn't succeeding. She had a top-drawer address, but she sounded like the kind of spoiled, idle woman who routinely takes to her bed when things don't go her way.

  On the other hand, something in her tone sent a shiver of sympathy through Helen. Whatever the reason for her headache, it was obvious that Linda Byrne was in real agony. No one could fake that kind of pain in her voice, not even a prima donna.

  "All right. I can make time tomorrow evening. Shall I come by before dinner? Say, five o'clock?"

  "Oh, yes, thank you," Mrs. Byrne said, her voice becoming suddenly faint. "Peaches will be so pleased."

  She gave the number of her house and hung up, leaving Helen somewhat bemused over the whole thing.

  Peaches. In Helen's mind the name conjured up everything from a bunny rabbit to a striptease. She'd never taught a toddler by that name, not once in the fifteen years she'd been in day care. From the cozy groups of six she'd cared for in her home to the larger classes who'd passed through the preschool she later founded, Helen had never come across a single, solitary Peaches.

  In any case, Helen's plan was to present herself to little Peaches and—with any luck—to talk Linda Byrne into visiting the preschool before she signed up her child.

  Helen was immensely proud of The Open Door, proud of the way she'd risked a modest inheritance on an old building in need of rehab and, with tax credits and a lot of sweat equity—hers and Hank's—turned it into a stimulating center for creative kids. She didn't need to chase down Linda Byrne's business; the class would be full by May first, tops.

  She didn't need Linda Byrne's business. But oddly enough, she seemed to want it.

  ****

  Helen was de
bating whether to throw one last log on the fire or call in the militia when she heard the front door being slammed.

  "Russell Evett, get in here!" she yelled. "Now."

  After what Helen knew was a deliberate delay, she heard Russ shuffle into the sitting room. She herself was smacking the last of the fire into helpless embers with the poker, trying to get her relief and anger under control. When she was done, she turned to confront her son.

  The boy-man who faced her looked like any other fourteen-year-old: baggy clothes, scary haircut, a zit or two on his chin to be followed someday soon by stubble. He was tall, as tall as she was, and growing weed-fast. He'd got an ear double-pierced recently without her permission. She knew he always took out the earrings or safety pins or whatever they were before he walked through the door, and tonight was no exception.

  She searched for signs of remorse or hints of fear in his face; it had been so long since she'd seen either. He'd inherited Hank's green eyes and her black hair, a pleasing combination. But somehow, neither Hank's self-discipline nor her hypersensitivity had got passed on. If Russ had either, he wouldn't be standing on the carpet in front of her right now.

  "The mall's been closed for an hour and a half," she said quietly. "Where have you been?"

  Russell shrugged and looked away. "Hangin'."

  "Well, I don't want you ‘hangin',' young man. When we agree on a plan, I expect you to follow your end of it."

  He shrugged. "Mrs. Fitch couldn't come."

  "Your sister was there."

  "That wasn't the plan either, Ma."

  "Well, she was the obvious alternative."

  "Becky said it was okay," he threw out sullenly.

  "Becky is not your mother. You know the rule: no cars. You had plenty of time to reconsider."

  "How was I even supposed to find her?"

  "Filene's Basement is some big secret? Listen to me: I don't want you driving around with kids older than you. Not without my permission, and don't hold your breath for that. Do you understand?"