The Edge of Winter

by Luanne Rice

  “It’s as if he put it on and became someone else,” Neve said. “Artist as superhero. He left whatever real life he was living to become ‘Berkeley.’ Do you know, I called every single person named Berkeley listed in any of the Rhode Island directories, and not one of them claimed him as a relative? Some had never even heard of him, and many told me their families had been here for generations.”

  “Well, darling—that’s the other reason Berkeley has such a cult following. He’s a mystery. So few artists are, these days. Everyone has a press agent….”

  “Not Berkeley.”

  “I hope you’ve accented the mystery—that will get people in the door. I’ve been talking to a producer from public television, and there’s interest in doing a documentary with our show as the focus. You know, a sort of quest: who was Berkeley?”

  “Anonymity as a marketing tool,” she said quietly.

  “It will up the prices of his work,” Dominic said, all humor gone, a trace of worry in his eyes. “And that’s what matters. To be honest, I would kill to know his true identity. If only we could unveil it here, at our show. Imagine!”

  “Yes, you’re right.”

  “The prices would skyrocket.”

  Neve stared at a tiny watercolor of a tern; beautifully framed, it was leaning against the wall, ready to go up for the exhibit. Dominic was right—after this show the value of Berkeley’s work in private collections would increase dramatically. Thinking of money, she knew she had to make her move.

  “Dominic,” she said, “there’s something I need to discuss with you.”

  “What might that be?”

  “I’ve been working here for seven years now, and since last year, after Adele left, I’ve pretty much been doing everything—mounting the shows, preparing the catalogues, selling the work.” She sat up straight, gazing at Dominic, but keeping sight of Mickey—the school photo propped on the corner of her desk, behind the piles of books and paper.

  “Yes, love—you’re a godsend,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I was hoping—”

  His cell phone went off; extracting it from the front pocket of his black jeans, he held up one finger. “Un momento,” he said.

  Neve’s heart was racing. Staring at Mickey’s picture now, she wondered whether she should explain about Richard—Dominic had never liked him, thought he was slick and insincere. But Dominic never wanted to get too involved in his gallery employees’ personal lives. Besides, Neve didn’t want him to feel sorry for her; she wanted a raise because of her work, not because Mickey’s father wasn’t coming through.

  Closing her eyes, listening to Dominic speaking to someone about renting a villa in the South of France next summer, she pushed his voice away. She kept Mickey’s picture in her mind, but there was something else as well: Tim’s voice. She could hear him—all the way back, right at the beginning, there with her at the hospital, caring about Mickey, caring about both of them. She could do this—she knew she could.

  Her eyes flew open—what was this about? Leaning on Tim O’Casey for support while she asked for a raise, when she hadn’t even wanted to have dinner with him? She shook her head, coming back to reality.

  Dominic clicked his phone shut, stepped closer to the desk.

  “Bastards,” he said. “They promised me first refusal on a place in Beaulieu, and now they have given it to a skinny movie star—one of those girls with painfully little talent but an absolutely riveting love life. The priorities of people these days!”

  “I need to ask you—”

  “What I need is to get to the South of France,” he said. “I have a line on a private collection of Cocteau’s mermaid drawings, and I’ll need the summer to make the deal. Frankly, we need the money.”

  “The money?”

  “Yes, love. It takes money to make money. I have to spend so I can earn, acquire so I can sell, comprends-tu? That’s why the success of this show is paramount. It has to finance my mission, so to speak.”

  “Dominic, the thing is—”

  “Anyway, I’m sorry, darling. I must run. We’ll talk more about whatever it is you want to talk about. Soon! Ciao, love!”

  Leaving the thermos and cups for her to wash, Dominic grabbed his cape and was already dialing a new number on his cell phone before he was out the door. Neve watched him cross the narrow, windblown street, climb into his ice blue Jaguar, and drive away.

  Five minutes later, standing at the sink, Neve heard the bell over the door sound again. She leaned back, saw Chris Brody entering the gallery.

  “Did I just see Dominic driving out of town?” Chris asked, coming back to kiss Neve.

  “Yes,” she said. “Escaping.”

  “Escaping what?”

  “Me. I was right in the middle of asking him for a raise, and suddenly he had to take a call—his villa rental fell through. He has to spend to earn. Do you know, that place would have cost more for the summer than what I make in two years here?”

  “How much?” Chris asked. “Enquiring minds want to know!”

  Neve just shook her head—more with derision than discretion.

  “How did a boy from Central Falls get so rich?” Chris asked.

  “He married a countess,” Neve said. “And she didn’t have a prenup.”

  “Social-climbing gold digger!” Chris laughed.

  “There are times I wonder—really ask myself—what the hell I’m doing here. It’s like life in a cartoon. Berkeley’s paintings are so ethereal, not of this world, yet so down to earth—and Dominic is such…”

  “An asshole. Let’s get him back here so you can kick his butt and make him pay you a decent wage.”

  “I was ready,” Neve said. “I was completely inspired. You should have heard me…” She trailed off, and Chris noticed the look in her eyes.

  “What inspired you?”

  “Mickey,” Neve said. “But something else, too…” She hesitated, not sure whether to mention it, even to her best friend.

  “The sure knowledge that someone who would pay that much for his summer vacation could afford to pay you another two dollars an hour?”

  “No,” Neve said. “Tim O’Casey.”

  “Ranger man?” Chris asked, clapping her hands. “Thank you, God! My friend is coming out of her coma!”

  “Coma?”

  Chris nodded. “The one Richard put you in. You’ve been in love-seclusion ever since the divorce. And now this stuff with the child support…Why would you ever trust men again? That’s why I’m so glad to hear this about the ranger.”

  “Don’t get carried away,” Neve said, drying the demitasse cups, placing them with the silver thermos on a shelf behind Dominic’s large cherrywood desk, then heading over to her own.

  “Tell me about the inspiration,” Chris said, calming herself down, sitting in the chair beside Neve.

  “He’s very steady,” Neve said, trying to bring back the feelings she’d had while facing Dominic. She’d thought of Tim’s strength and reserve, his conviction, and the way he so quietly championed Mickey. The way his eyes had looked when they’d talked about his son…

  “Steady: the opposite of Richard.”

  Neve nodded. “That’s part of it, probably. I’m reacting to what’s been going on there.”

  But Chris shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don’t believe this is just a reaction. Neve, when you were reacting, you were in shutdown mode. Richard would misbehave—his drinking, Alyssa, his debts, making you grovel for child support—and I’d watch you getting smaller and smaller. You stopped wanting to go out, even with me. The idea of some guy, any guy, inspiring you—yay! Tim’s one special park ranger.”

  “Special?”

  “He has to be, for you to even be talking about him.”

  “He asked me out to dinner,” Neve said.

  “Great! When are you going?”

  “I’m not.” At the look on Chris’s face, Neve amended it. “At least, I’m not right now. I guess I want to
think about it.”

  Chris shook her head. “All you should be thinking about is what you’re going to order. That’s it. You’re going, girl.”

  “I know, but not yet. I—”

  “You’re going,” Chris said stubbornly. “I watched you fall off, fall hard. It’s been a long time, Neve. It’s time. Get back on that horse, Neve.”

  “Horse?”

  “The dating horse. Especially with someone who actually seems slightly wonderful. Jeez! Don’t you know what it’s like out there? It’s a whole world of websites and profiles—uploaded photos of poor hopeful guys, half of them taken at least five years ago, desperate to meet someone who won’t notice or care. It’s blind dates with your friends’ divorced brothers. It’s guys so set in their ways they expect you to spend the night watching Law & Order reruns, never mind that you both know the episodes by heart.”

  “How romantic,” she said, thinking that Chris sounded like Shane talking about his mother.

  “Honey, Tim doesn’t seem like the reruns type. Maybe he’s one of those nature guys who doesn’t even have a TV. Perfect for you—you can commune with birds instead of Lenny Briscoe. Why don’t you call Tim and ask? Tell him you’ve reconsidered about dinner.”

  Neve sat still, staring at the phone. She could tell him she wanted to hear about Berkeley after all.

  “Come on,” Chris said. “You can do it.”

  Neve gave her a loving look; Chris had always been her greatest cheerleader. They’d known each other for so long.

  “You’re always there for me,” Neve said. “Through so many hard times. Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Chris said. “Now let me be there through some good times, okay? It’s the least you can do….”

  Neve laughed, and picked up the phone.

  Tim had planned to spend the whole day on the beach, repairing and restaking snow fences. They were in such terrible repair from the winter’s storms; the wind had torn up a stretch near the jetty and twisted it into a huge ball of wire and wood slats. It had caught bits of seaweed and driftwood, shells and skate egg cases—New England’s version of a tumbleweed. Or an avant-garde sculpture—maybe Neve could do an exhibition.

  But instead of hitting the beach, he started reading the material Mickey and Shane had brought him. Tim had expected it to be kids’ stuff—grasping at straws, trying to keep the U-boat where it was. Shane had already taken a stand, and Tim knew he wasn’t going to let the surf break go easily. Mickey and her sighting those drowned sailors was personally heart-wrenching for Tim, but he wasn’t sure how far it would get them with the mid-April deadline.

  So, sitting at his desk at eight-thirty, he turned to the folder expecting to spend five, maybe ten minutes checking it out. Three minutes in, the hair on his head stood on end. By nine-fifty, he hadn’t moved. He’d gone through every bit of research they’d done, then gone on the Internet to double-check a few of their sources. They had come up with all fifty-five names of the drowned German sailors, as well as the two Americans. Not only that, they’d tracked down addresses on the Internet. At ten, he made a new pot of coffee, poured himself a big cup, and started to wonder whether any of the addresses could still be accurate.

  By ten-thirty, he was pretty sure they’d have to get one, if not both, U.S. senators involved.

  The whole time, one thought was drumming in his brain, just behind the others, a bass note that wouldn’t go away. He tried to push it down, tell himself there were other ways to check things out—and there were. He could have gone to any history book covering the Navy, Operation Drumbeat, hunter-killer groups, U-823, and the USS James. Any history book covering World War II and Rhode Island—or even less specifically, the eastern seaboard—would contain documentation of the battle that had taken place just off the beach.

  Mickey had already started writing letters. She’d enclosed copies of two. She only had fifty-three more to go. And that didn’t count the two Americans. Real names, real young men, real families: not just abstract sailors lost in a long-ago battle.

  At eleven-thirty, Tim picked up the phone, started to dial, got a ring tone. Hung up.

  At eleven-forty, he picked up the phone again, dialed, actually heard the man answer. Hung up.

  Eleven forty-five, there was no turning back. He dialed, let it ring, forced himself to stay with it.

  “Who the hell keeps calling?” blasted the voice at the other end.

  “Hi, Dad,” he said.

  Silence. Long silence. Then, “Tim?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tim…”

  Now it was Tim’s turn to be silent. He held on to the receiver, staring at his desk until the papers blurred. His mind was swimming with the last time he’d talked to his father, the yelling they’d both done, Frank’s face front and center in his thoughts now as then. This is for Frank, he told himself right now. Where had that thought come from? He shook himself out of it, cleared his throat.

  “Dad, I need to talk to you about something.”

  “The snowy owl,” his father said. “You sent it over with those folks, calling to check up on it, are you?”

  “Actually,” he began, but his father interrupted.

  “You were right to do what you did. He’s seriously injured, as I’m sure you know. Injured wing. Not broken, as I’d first thought, but badly sprained.”

  “What about his beak?” Tim asked. Now that they were talking about the owl, it seemed easier than anything to do with the war—any war. Birds had always been uncomplicated, a way for him and his father to relate, to talk without the other stuff rising up to choke them.

  “That’s the really tough part. I trimmed the broken part—there was a lot of bleeding, and the beak was split all the way up. Didn’t want to use silver nitrate or Quick Stop—afraid it’d get in his eyes. But that nice lady who brought him in—”

  “Neve Halloran?” he asked.

  “Yes. She works at an art gallery, and she had the idea of using acrylic. Something she had plenty of on hand…Smart thinking—don’t know why I didn’t come up with it myself.”

  “You’ve been talking to her?”

  “Seeing her, too. She brought the acrylic over. She wanted to check on the owl—her daughter’s taking it very personally. And the boy.”

  “Shane.”

  “Yep, Shane. Nice people. Mrs. Halloran really helped me out with that acrylic. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, that’s for sure.”

  Tim kept staring at the papers. This call was a mistake. The dream came back to him: Frank’s name in the sand, the panic Tim felt as he realized the wind would blow, erase Frank’s name, erase Frank.

  “Tim, you there?”

  “Dad, I’ve got to ask you something. Not about the owl.”

  “What, then?”

  “About U-823.”

  “Those bastards want to drag it up, out to Cape Cod, turn it into a goddamn museum,” his father said. The friendly tone of his voice was gone; in its place was the bitterness Tim had always known, and hearing it now somehow set him feeling right—back on the solid footing of knowing he was speaking to his distant, bitter, military-loving father.

  “That’s what they want,” Tim said.

  “They’re going to make money off the dead,” his father said. “That jerk Cole Landry and the rest of them. Haul the U-boat up to the surface, no regard for the memory of the Battle of the Atlantic, what it all really meant. What a knife in the heart, taking it away on the anniversary.”

  “They think that turning it into a museum will make the battle come alive,” Tim said.

  “That’s bullshit,” his father said. “Put a memorial up on the beach, that’s what needs to be done. Right off the end of the jetty. Let people use their imaginations—look out at the calm sea and imagine that day back in ’44 when shots were fired, and charges exploded, and blood shed.”

  “I want to ask you about that,” Tim said. “The bloodshed.”

  “Fifty-five Germans dead. All
hands lost,” his father said. “That’s their grave. Their ship is their burial place.”

  Tim stared at the folder prepared by Mickey and Shane. They had acknowledged that very fact—their paper listed the fifty-five German casualties, ranging from the captain to the lowest-ranking crew member. But these two kids had also taken into account the patriotic state of mind fueling the raising of the U-boat, the anti-enemy fever that captivated so many—often including Tim. And they had asked a question that Tim knew just might be the one that could tip the balance.

  “What about American casualties?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The crewmen who died,” he said. “Off Refuge Beach, when the U-boat fired on you.”

  “You mean my men,” his father said sharply, as if he’d been momentarily stunned before. “Johnny Kinsella and Howard Cabral?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I think of Refuge Beach as their burial place, too. I go down there and throw a wreath in the water every seventeenth of April.”

  “I know you used to.”

  “Never stopped.”

  Tim didn’t respond to that, but it sent a shiver through him, to think his father had been doing that without his knowledge. The emotions were too big to handle, too numerous to count, and he couldn’t even speak.

  “You there?” his father asked.

  “You come down to my beach to do that, and you don’t even tell me?”

  “I didn’t think you’d want to know,” his father said. “You haven’t wanted much to do with me since—”

  “I’m the ranger down here,” Tim said, cutting him off before his father could say since Frank was killed. “You should have told me.”

  “Huh. Well, I’m telling you now, I guess. The seventeenth of April is coming up soon, and I’ll be down there on the beach at first light. With a wreath.”

  “Before the crane lifts it away?” Tim asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad.”