The Edge of Winter

by Luanne Rice

  “Hanging Rock,” he said. “Part of the same glacial moraine I mentioned earlier.”

  “This stretch of shore is so sandy,” she said. “The rock really stands out.”

  “That’s true,” he said. “It’s a spectacular landmark. Sometimes it’s called ‘Paradise Rocks.’ ”

  She followed his gaze, which was riveted on the boulder itself. Was this what he had brought her here to see? If so, she was moved and impressed—by its natural beauty, and the sight of sunset light illuminating its surface, turning it fiery red. Glancing at the beach, she heard huge waves and saw clouds of silvery sandpipers skittering along the dark sand flats. She still held his hand, and music played on the truck radio, and she couldn’t remember the last time she felt this way.

  “You know that material Mickey and Shane brought me?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Although they didn’t show me; I know they worked hard on it.”

  “It’s very good,” he said. “They’re great kids. I sold Shane short at first, but he’s really committed. The challenge is to help him figure out the best way—so he doesn’t shoot himself in the foot.”

  “Mickey will help him with that,” Neve said. “She’s so careful and measured.”

  “You’re proud of her,” he said, looking at her straight on.

  “I am,” she said. She loved Mickey so much, and wore her feelings right on her sleeve. She couldn’t have hidden them if she wanted to, but she looked over at Tim, feeling her heart in her throat. “As proud of her as you must have been of Frank.”

  He tried to pull his hand away, but she held on tight, wouldn’t let him.

  “Tim…” she said.

  “I want to talk about him,” he said. “I just can’t. I haven’t been able to.”

  “Tell me one thing about him,” she whispered. “That’s all.”

  Tim sat still, staring out the window. At first she thought he was just trying to make her stop—using the tried-and-true way of silence. But he squeezed her hand slightly, very gently, and nodded toward Hanging Rock. Paradise Rocks…

  “Frank loved it there,” he said. “It’s part of the Norman Bird Sanctuary—that’s where he worked for his summer jobs.”

  “He loved birds,” she said, to help him along.

  “Yes. And he loved that rock. He’d look out to sea; he told me that if he looked hard enough and far enough, he could see where the bottom dropped out at East Ground, where the U-boat was heading that last day. It always came back to his grandfather for Frank; he idolized him.”

  “Your father is a very interesting man,” Neve said.

  Tim nodded—neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and she knew he was focused on Frank. “The great glaciers came down across New England at least four times,” Tim said. “No one knows exactly why. But they made the islands and trenches, and they made Hanging Rock. Frank once sat there all night—he wanted to figure out the answer, because he loved this area so much.”

  Neve stared up at the enormous rock. Darkness was starting to fall, and a few stars appeared in the soft, hazy sky. She thought of a young boy so passionate for this place that he’d stay up there all night.

  “Didn’t Bishop Berkeley used to sit up there?” she asked, thinking of the famous philosopher who had spent so much time here. “Thinking about life and existence?”

  “Yes,” Tim said. “That inspired Frank, too.”

  “Because he was a philosopher?”

  “Because of another Berkeley—the bird artist. He used to come here to paint, and as your research probably told you, he took his name from the bishop.”

  “And of course Frank would be interested in him because he loved birds so much,” Neve said, feeling excited by the connection, thinking of the Berkeley picture she’d seen at Joe’s raptor barn, of the upcoming Berkeley exhibition, of the catalogue she’d just put to bed.

  “And because he was Frank’s great-uncle,” Tim said.

  “What?” Neve asked.

  “Berkeley,” Tim said, turning to look at Neve. “That’s why I wanted to bring you here, to this spot—where he did so many of his paintings. He was my father’s brother Damien. Damien O’Casey…”

  “He stopped painting after the war,” Tim told her later, over coffee. They had had dinner at the Black Pearl—both ordering the famous clam chowder, then sea bass for Neve, swordfish for Tim. Candlelight reflected by the dark, varnished wood, danced in Neve’s blue eyes. The way she’d taken his hand in the truck had been electric—pure shock and power surging through his body—and he couldn’t wait for dinner to be over so he could reciprocate.

  “There was so much speculation,” Neve said. “Some believed he was the right age to have fought in the war; some researchers thought he was killed.”

  “No, he survived,” Tim said. “But he came back very changed. From the time Damien returned to the States from England, he never picked up his paintbrush again. Another thing my father doesn’t talk about much.”

  “He was such a great talent,” Neve said. “People in my field, who know about art and artists, think his bird paintings rival Audubon’s.”

  “Ask my father, and he’ll tell you they’re ten times better,” Tim said, watching the way her eyes shone, her lips turned up. He wanted to reach across the table, touch her face. She smiled so easily; that had struck him about her right away. She was ready for happiness.

  “I think I’d agree with your father,” Neve said.

  “That would make him happy,” Tim said. “He likes you.”

  “You’ve been talking to him?”

  Tim nodded, tensing up. Talking was one thing; he wasn’t sure he was ready to get into his current relationship with Joe O’Casey. “He told me you’ve been out to the raptor barn a few times.”

  “I brought him some acrylic,” Neve said. “To help repair the snowy owl’s broken beak. And, I have to admit, to look at that Berkeley he has hanging over his workbench. He never said a word….”

  “About it being Damien? No, he wouldn’t,” Tim said. “He’s made it his mission to protect his brother’s privacy. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have even told you.”

  “I won’t say a word,” Neve promised. “But why keep it such a secret? Berkeley is beloved—everyone loves his work. And he’s been such a mystery for so long. The state of Rhode Island has always claimed him as their own, but we’ve never really been sure. He hid his identity, so no one knew whether he was born here, or just moved here to paint—or even settled here. So many questions…”

  Tim nodded. He looked across the table, saw her wanting to ask. He could tell her, too—at least to the extent that he knew the answers. But as angry as he was at his father, and as much as he blamed him for certain things, he also respected his desire to control the information about his brother.

  “Please?” Neve asked. “At least tell me—why did he wear that cape?”

  “Before the war, he went to Paris. He was a prodigy—no one could hold him back, even though his mother worried he was too young to go. He loved it there, honed his art. He met a woman who became his model. She used to pose in his studio, and he gave her the cape to keep her warm. Then, one day, she was gone. Just disappeared. But she left the cape behind.”

  “How terrible for him,” Neve said. “Did he ever find her again?”

  Tim shrugged.

  “Did he get married? Did he have a family?”

  “I’d tell you more,” he said to Neve, knowing that this part of the story was too painful for tonight. “But the rest is my father’s to tell. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” she said slowly.

  “My father loved his brother a lot,” Tim said. “Sometimes I think he loved him more than anyone.”

  “Not you,” Neve said, shaking her head. “You should hear how he talks about you.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Tim said. “I disappointed him. He loved Frank as much as Damien—that I’d believe.”

  “And you too,” Neve s
aid stubbornly. Then, when he didn’t relent, she smiled. “Our first argument!” she said, and he smiled even wider because that meant she was thinking there could be others—that there was something in the future for them. He had no idea what he was thinking about that, but it sent a long shiver all through his body.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “I won’t even press you about Berkeley—even though I’m dying for you to tell me more.”

  “Maybe someday, okay?” he asked, and she nodded.

  He smelled her faint perfume, even across the table, and it was driving him a little crazy. Getting the waitress’s attention, he asked for the check. He knew she was ready to leave, too—he could tell by the way she gave him a secret smile as he signed, pushed back his chair. He pulled the table forward so she could slide out, slipped his arm around her waist as they walked to the door.

  Her black cashmere sweater felt so soft; underneath, the curve of her body felt taut. When they stepped outside, the air had a chilly bite—but already, in just a few days, he felt it warming up. Overhead, stars were visible, even through the lights of Bannister’s Wharf.

  Instead of walking to the truck, he steered her out the wharf, beneath the archway over the path between the shingled shop buildings. Every summer, this spot was filled with people—sailors on boats, people staying in the rooms overhead, couples strolling after dinner. Right now, with a cool wind blowing off the harbor, Tim was alone with Neve.

  He’d been so weary. So bone-tired. Breathing had been too much of an effort. Seeing the sun rise, knowing Frank couldn’t see it, had made him want to sleep forever. Seeing all those families at Refuge Beach in the summer, watching them swim and knowing Frank would never swim again, had made every inch of his skin hurt. Thinking of how Frank had died. And that had made him feel so tired.

  Right now he was wide awake. All the stars were out, blazing. He was on fire, from the inside out. His blood was so hot, moving so fast. Neve made him feel more alive than he’d ever felt in his life. He’d never believed he could feel this way, not after the grip of grief and exhaustion. Was this real?

  He could feel his own nervousness pouring off him. His heart was racing; could she feel it? They were walking so close, his arm around her. Was that his heartbeat or hers? When he glanced down, he realized that she was nervous, too. This was new territory for both of them.

  “Want to go back?” he asked.

  He meant back to the truck—it was getting cold, and once they reached the other side of the buildings, they were standing right at the head of the dock, no big boats at this time of year to block the broad sweep of wind blowing off the harbor. But as he asked the question, he knew he meant something else—Want to go back and pretend nothing is happening?

  “I don’t want,” she said, stepping closer to him, looking up into his face, “to go anywhere or be anywhere but here. With you.”

  “Neither do I,” he said.

  He kissed her; bent down, touched his lips to hers. He wasn’t sure he’d even remember how to do it, thought maybe they’d be awkward—like kids, like anyone on a first date. But it was so natural, the way she reached up, touched the side of his face, leaned into his body as if she belonged there.

  Her mouth was so warm, and at first she seemed so hesitant—or maybe it was him holding back; he wasn’t sure, didn’t stop to think. But suddenly there was no hesitation at all, just him and Neve and so much desire. He must have kept it pent up somewhere, because now it was flowing out—all he wanted was her.

  There was nowhere to go, so they leaned up against the salt-weathered shingled building, feeling the dock sway beneath their feet, the rhythm of the waves a whole lot less intense than the beating of his heart, arms around each other, kissing hard, or maybe soft, he was sort of past thinking about it, just feeling as if he wanted it to go on forever.

  Never wanted it to stop.

  Never.

  It did, eventually. He felt her shivering so hard—even with spring in the air, winter had hold of the harbor, had iced the northern bay and rivers so that even here, near the mouth of Narragansett Bay, the relatively warm sweep of the Atlantic couldn’t do much to keep the temperature from dropping at night.

  “Here,” he said, taking his jacket off and sliding it over her shoulders.

  “You’ll be cold,” she said.

  He just shook his head; slid his arms under his own jacket, wrapped her in his arms. Hoped that maybe they could stand there a little longer.

  But he was too polite for that, and he could really feel her shaking. She stood on tiptoes to put her arms around his neck again, start to kiss him…it was with the greatest regret he’d had in a long time that he pulled her hands down, stuck them into the pockets of his jacket, held her in a tight embrace and started walking her toward the parking lot.

  When they got to the cobblestones, they stopped to steady themselves. He kissed her again, and in that moment, caught the look in her eyes.

  It reflected streetlights, starlight, the fire in his own expression. She looked so beautiful and soft, as if in these last cold minutes she’d melted a little; and he felt the same way. Tim thought of those four glaciers Frank had been so amazed by—plowing down from the Arctic. There were times Tim had thought he’d gotten trapped in the ice, that he would never thaw. The snowy owl on Refuge Beach had known—had come to find him, transport him to the land of ice, where he belonged.

  Right now, looking into Neve’s eyes, he knew that she had come to take him back.

  “Thank you,” he said, touching her face.

  “For what?” she whispered.

  “I was frozen,” he whispered back.

  “So was I.”

  “You…” he began, but the words wouldn’t come. For once he didn’t want to be silent—he wanted to tell her everything, tell her it all. But his throat was shut tight, and he couldn’t speak.

  She stood up on tiptoes, kissed his lips once more, looked him straight in the eyes.

  “Spring is coming,” she whispered.

  And then she took his hand again, and together they walked across the cobblestones and through the shadows of the Newport waterfront, to his truck.

  17

  The next day, Neve was something just this side of useless. She went through the motions at the gallery: opening up, answering e-mail and phone calls, greeting customers. But she was lost.

  It had been all she could do to pry herself loose when Tim dropped her off last night. They had sat in his truck until the last possible minute, there in her driveway, just being together. A movement behind the curtains let her know that Mickey was standing there, waiting for her, so their last kiss was quick and chaste.

  Neve hung on to the feelings she’d had, standing at the end of Bannister’s Wharf, the wind whipping off the water, Tim’s arms around her. So cold and so warm. He had said he’d been frozen. For Neve, it had been almost worse: ever since the last year or so with Richard, she’d been like that line in the Eagles’ song: “the sky won’t snow and the sun won’t shine.”

  She’d been stuck somewhere between seasons—in a gray, slushy, edge-of-winter neverland of disappointment and dashed hopes. She had grown up thinking that love was everything—and although she’d never quite stopped believing that, she’d found herself trying to redefine “everything.”

  Now, sitting at her desk, she could barely stop smiling. She wanted to maintain the connection with Tim, just keep the feeling of closeness going, so she found herself doing an online search for Berkeley, looking for any evidence that she might have missed in her catalogue research, that he was the alter ego of Damien O’Casey.

  Then she started looking up Damien on his own, finding several mentions of him on World War II websites—one, the 492nd Bomb Group; the Caterpillar Club—airmen who’d been shot down; and the 44th Bomb Group, the one he’d joined after the 492nd had been disbanded. She found an old Providence Journal article about Joe O’Casey and his raptor rehab, with a quote: “When a creature loses its
ability to fly, it affects every one of us. My brother Damien showed me that; he celebrated birds in every one of his paintings, showed us their beauty and pure poetry. Every bird I help, I think of Damien.”

  She stared at that quote for a long time. There was no mention of Damien as Berkeley, but there it was, between the lines, in black and white. The story continued with details about Damien having flown with the 492nd—the bomb group that had sustained heavier losses than any other in the Eighth Air Force, how according to his brother he had once been a promising painter, but how he’d stopped upon returning from war.

  Just around noon, two things happened: the phone rang, and Chris walked through the gallery door. Waving hi and motioning Chris toward the chair beside her, she answered the call.

  “Dominic di Tibor Gallery,” Neve said.

  “Hi, Neve—it’s Tim.”

  “Oh,” she said. Just hearing those four words, she was a little more gone. She tilted her chair slightly away from Chris. “Hi. I had a wonderful time last night.”

  “Me too,” he said. “That’s why I was calling. What are you doing later?”

  “Probably just going home, making dinner for Mickey.” She paused, aware that although Chris was pretending to read some printouts on her desk, she was listening acutely.

  “Was she okay when you got home?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Neve said, although that wasn’t the whole truth.

  “She didn’t mind that I took her mother out?”

  “Well, it’s complicated,” Neve said, thinking of how quiet Mickey had been when she’d walked in, how Neve had heard her talking to Shane late, after she’d said she was going to bed, how she’d heard Mickey asking him if he believed love between humans could last forever—the way it did for swans.

  “I hope she gets used to it,” he said. “Because I want to see you again.”

  “Me too,” she said, glancing over at Chris, seeing her absorbed in the printout of the article about Joe and Damien.