by Luanne Rice
“You know,” he said, “the way they both fought in the war, different wars. And how your father was the commander who sunk U-823. It’s as if Frank and Damien would never let Cole Landry take away your father’s U-boat.”
“But what can they do?”
“They can help,” Shane said.
“They’re dead,” Tim said, his voice not much more than a whisper.
Shane looked at him as if he was a really sad case. Hadn’t he been listening to Mickey when she’d talked about being thrown into the water, when she’d seen the U-boat and the white faces of German sailors? Shane believed his father’s spirit had been there, too, had helped Shane rescue Mickey that night. He believed his father was with him when he surfed, when he caught a perfect emerald wave and rode it home.
“Maybe you’re not paying attention,” Shane said. “They’re here.”
“Frank is here?”
Shane nodded. He could practically see him, standing right there at Tim’s elbow.
Mr. O’Casey turned away. He took a few steps toward the water, as if scanning the surface for a young man swimming. Shane wanted to tell him he was looking in the wrong direction, that Frank was right there beside him, standing on the beach. But Mr. O’Casey was new at this. He was old, and it took old people longer to get certain things. When he turned back, his face was lighter still.
“Thank you,” he said.
“No big deal,” Shane said.
“That opening tonight—you invited?”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “But that thing with Mickey’s father…”
“Like I told you,” Mr. O’Casey said, “she’ll understand.”
“Right—someday.”
“Today’s someday,” Mr. O’Casey said. He picked up the weight belt, slipped out of the tanks. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride so you can get changed. We’ll go to the gallery together.”
Shane nodded. He took the weight belt from Mr. O’Casey, also the fins and mask. He’d help him carry the stuff back up from the beach—it was really too heavy for one person to manage alone.
Besides, Shane knew it was what Mr. O’Casey’s dive partner would want him to do.
24
The Dominic di Tibor Gallery was filled with people drinking champagne, eating smoked salmon canapés, and, especially, gazing with pure awe at the largest collection of Berkeley paintings ever amassed in one place. Neve circulated, answering questions of collectors and potential buyers, but mainly she kept her eye on Mickey.
Mickey sat at Neve’s desk. She looked almost official, staring at the computer screen. Neve knew that she was working on a project—she could have stayed home, done it there, but Neve hadn’t wanted to leave her alone tonight. Mickey was devastated about her father—and almost as much about Shane, for having turned him in.
“What a great show!” Chris said, slipping her arm around Neve. “Dominic is in his glory!”
Neve nodded, glancing over toward the wall of shorebirds. Dominic held court, dressed in black Armani, explaining each painting to the throng of press—some of whom had little interest in art, who had just come for the O’Casey family story.
“Listen to him talk about Damien and Joe as if he knows them personally,” Chris said.
“I know,” Neve said. “Close personal friends.”
“You deserve a raise just for not gagging over that,” Chris said, tightening her grip.
“Excuse me a moment,” Neve said. She walked over to Dominic and stood looking at him long and hard—until he flinched and backed away from the group.
“Great crowd,” he said.
She didn’t reply, just stared at him.
“You seem upset,” he said, sounding nervous.
“More than you can know,” she said quietly. “To you, this is a big event. To other people, it’s a huge betrayal.”
He rolled his eyes, waved his hand. “Those relatives of Berkeley’s?” he asked. “Darling, this is free publicity. The prices of the paintings they have hidden in the attic will skyrocket!”
“Is that all you think about?” she asked.
“The value of artwork? Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. And you should be glad of it—especially because I’m giving you a raise. A substantial raise—plus I’m throwing in benefits. You’re a jewel.”
“I feel sorry for you, Dominic,” she said after a long moment. “The O’Caseys are friends of mine—I care about them so much. I learned about Berkeley in confidence; it was my mistake, telling you. But I never thought you’d call the press.”
“I’m an art dealer, Neve. This is my business. I’m sorry for hurting you, but I’m not sorry for the New York Times being here—along with arts editors from nearly every other major paper and magazine. Do you understand?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t.”
He shrugged, kissed her cheek, and returned to the group.
Walking away, she felt shaken. She’d said what she needed to say—and she’d been about to quit. But how could she leave her job, especially now that he’d just offered her a raise? She was a single mother—and with Richard in the bad shape he was in, she couldn’t afford to stand on her principles.
“What just happened?” Chris asked when Neve walked back over to her.
“He just raised my salary.”
“How inconsiderate—just when you were about to blast him.”
“Well, I did, sort of,” she said. “God, I wanted to quit on the spot, but I can’t. Mickey and I need the money. Who knows when Richard will come around? I can’t count on him….”
“No,” Chris said. “You can’t. You’ve done too much for him, by the way.”
“All I did was call his lawyer,” Neve said. She knew that Jim Swenson had contacted Alyssa, who was posting bail. Neve supposed that Richard would be out by now; he was probably running through the litany of promises and mea culpas that would buy him time and good graces.
She had long stopped hoping that Richard would change, even for Mickey. His love for her was unassailable—Neve knew that he would stop drinking if he could. It’s just that love could motivate a person only so far. Standing among all of Berkeley’s paintings, she felt that she was standing in a temple of hope—surely to the man who had made such transcendent art, anything would be possible.
Yet it wasn’t. War had devastated him, and he’d never painted again. Looking around, she noticed several old men and their wives. She was quite sure she’d never seen them at the gallery before. Squeezing Chris’s hand, Neve made her way over to where they stood.
“Hello,” she said. “Are you enjoying the exhibit?”
“We are,” one of the men said. “Beautiful pictures.”
“Yes, Berkeley was extremely gifted,” she said.
The tallest of the old men laughed gently. He shook his head, staring at the canvas of two screech owls on the same branch.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“We never called him Berkeley,” he said. “We called him Damien.”
“You knew him as Damien O’Casey?” she asked.
“Yep,” the man said. “We were crewmates, from our first day—492nd Bomb Group, in World War II.” He introduced himself as George Heyer, along with his wife, Sally, and two other crewmates and their wives.
“My husband and Damien flew together,” said Sally, a trim white-haired woman dressed in a rose-colored suit, her accent pretty and Southern. “George and I were already married, and I used to get letters all about his great friend Damien….”
“You had no idea he was an artist?” Neve asked.
“We knew he could draw up a storm,” Gerry McGovern said. “On days when we didn’t fly, he’d write letters home—to his mother and father, or his brother Joe—and he’d fill the pages with pictures.”
“Birds, as a matter of fact,” George said. “We tried to call him Birdman, but the nickname wouldn’t stick. He was the Silver Shark. And damned if that didn’t become the name of our plane.”
“We were one of the first silver planes, see,” Gerry said.
“Meant as a way to elude German radar,” Simon Clark said. “We flew deep into Germany, and being the Silver Shark gave us that extra toughness we needed. Made us feel like no one could get us, you know? Especially with that shark Damien painted on for nose art.”
“Where is Joe?” George asked.
“Yeah,” Simon said. “We weren’t even sure he was still alive, but once we read the news story, we figured we had to fly out to see Damien’s paintings—and meet his brother.”
“They’re all like family, you see,” Sally said. “They spent so many hours together, during such trying times; they all knew each other’s parents, and brothers, and girlfriends, and wives…”
“So where’s Joe O’Casey?” Gerry asked. “I know he’s the most famous WWII vet around here—sank that U-boat we keep reading about. Even out in San Francisco, where Mary and I live, the story’s made the papers.”
“How could it not, with Cole Landry in the picture? Damn fool,” George said. “Where’s Joe? I came a long way to meet him….”
“I invited him,” Neve said quietly. She didn’t want to share the rest of the O’Casey family story with these people—as much as they loved Damien, some of it was too private, just for Joe, Tim, and Frank.
“I can’t believe he wouldn’t show up for his own brother’s exhibit,” George said, frowning.
“Come now, darling,” Sally said, taking his arm. “You know how difficult you expected it to be—walking into this gallery and seeing all these paintings come alive…done by your dear, dear friend; it has to be a hundred times harder for his own brother.”
“I guess,” George grumbled.
“Well, it’ll just be the most disappointing thing in the world,” Simon said. “To have come all the way from Chicago…”
“From Alabama,” George added.
“The most disappointing thing in the world,” Simon said again as they all stared at the painting of two screech owls on the same branch.
Mickey was sitting at the desk, trying to ignore all the voices buzzing about the exhibit, arranging all the letters she’d received. If only the timing worked out, she could hand them to Senator Sheridan. She cringed, thinking of how her father had made his single phone call to him—what had he said? Mickey knew he’d probably begged his old friend to get him out of jail—and he hadn’t. Her father had still been in custody when her mother had dragged her away. Mickey would have stayed all night, but the desk sergeant had told her she had to leave, that he wasn’t a babysitter.
Babysitter! As if she was a kid. She was working like crazy to save a landmark, to create a memorial. And that cop had treated her like a sniveling little jerk. Just because she was upset about her father being taken into custody! Wouldn’t anyone be?
And who would, who could think it was all Shane’s fault? What had made him do it—drop a dime on Mickey’s dad? If her father had been drinking, that would be one thing. But he wasn’t—he hadn’t had a drink all day. And now he was locked up, at the mercy of the court, just because he’d had a run of bad luck.
“You okay?” Chris asked now, coming to stand with her.
“I’m fine,” Mickey said.
“Would you like a soda? Maybe some cheese and crackers?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“No appetite?”
“Nope.”
“Guess it’s because you’re upset about your dad.”
Mickey nodded. “I should be down there at the station. But the cops wouldn’t let me stay, and Mom made me come here.”
“Your dad’ll be fine,” Chris said.
“I doubt it,” Mickey said. To her great consternation, her chin began to wobble. Tears hadn’t been far away all day—or at least ever since her father had picked her up at school. It had been so wonderful to be with him—just sitting there in the car, riding through town, like any other father and daughter. Yes, he had smelled of gin—but it was old gin. Why couldn’t Shane have left well enough alone?
“You doubt what?”
Looking up, Mickey saw old Mr. O’Casey standing there. She almost didn’t recognize him—he was wearing an old Navy uniform, hat and all.
“How’s the owl?” she asked.
“He’s fine, making friends,” he said. “He’s doing well, improving every day. Now answer me—you doubt what?”
“That my dad’ll be fine,” Mickey said, dropping her voice.
Old Mr. O’Casey stared at her thoughtfully. She had the feeling he had many questions he wanted to ask about her father, and the funny thing was, she might not even mind answering them. Just looking into his watery blue eyes, she knew that he knew about mistakes and suffering; she somehow knew that he wouldn’t look down on her father the way Chris, as much as Mickey loved her, did.
“I’m Christine Brody,” Chris said now. “Neve and Mickey’s friend.”
“I’m Joseph O’Casey,” he said.
“Tim’s father,” Chris said, twinkling as if she knew something. Mickey looked up, wondering whether her mother’s best friend hadn’t noticed that Tim hadn’t exactly been around lately.
“Yes,” he said, turning back to Mickey. “What’s the matter with your father?”
Mickey just shook her head. She wasn’t going to go into it here, now. Instead she stared up at old Mr. O’Casey. “Why are you wearing your uniform?” she asked.
“To honor my brother,” he said.
People had started to notice him. Dominic and the reporters had caught sight of the old man in uniform, and so had Mickey’s mother and the white-haired people she was talking to. The room had been buzzing, but suddenly it fell silent. Mickey heard someone whisper, “That’s Joe O’Casey.”
“Joe O’Casey, Damien’s brother?” called one of the white-haired old men.
“That’s right,” Joe said, starting to walk over. “Who are you?”
“I’m George Heyer,” he said. “Damien’s…”
Joe just stood there, unable to speak for a moment. “Damien’s radioman,” Joe said quietly.
“We’re what’s left of Damien’s old crew,” one of the others said.
“From the 492nd,” Joe whispered.
“We loved your brother,” George said. “Loved him a lot.”
Mickey watched as Joe drew himself up. He walked over to the group of men, and with his hand shaking, he drew it up in a salute. The other men stood tall, faced him, and saluted back. She watched as her mother put her hand over her mouth—but she wasn’t looking at old Joe, not at all. She was facing the gallery door, where Shane was walking in, just ahead of Ranger O’Casey.
“Damien’s brother,” George said, reaching out to take Joe’s hand.
“You’re Damien’s brother, too,” Joe said, hugging him. “Don’t think I have any doubt. You all are.”
Neve walked over to Tim. The rest of the room fell away, and she looked straight into his eyes. He’d been just behind his father, and she knew he’d seen the exchange between Joe and Damien’s crewmates. She thought of how he felt about his father and Damien’s war service, how he believed it had led to Frank’s deciding to enlist.
“I’ve never seen him in his uniform,” he said, gazing past Neve. “I didn’t think he still had it.”
“Why do you think he’s wearing it tonight?” Neve asked.
“For Damien,” Tim said, watching his father a few more seconds, then meeting Neve’s eyes. She saw an old spark there, and she felt him taking her in, looking her over. She’d worn a black cocktail dress and high heels; her shoulders and arms were bare; she wore a simple silver chain that dipped down between her breasts. She’d dressed in the almost nonexistent hope that Tim would come, and now he was here.
“You came,” she said. “I’m so glad.”
“When it got right down to it,” he said, “I couldn’t stay away.”
“Let me show you the exhibit,” she said. “Would you like a glass of champagne?”
&n
bsp; He nodded, so Neve called over a waiter circulating with flutes on a silver tray. Neve took one for her and one for Tim. They walked through the gallery, among the throngs of people. Neve wished they could be alone so Tim could have privacy to look at his uncle’s work—not that he wasn’t familiar with it, but just to take in the enormity of such a large group of his paintings all in one place, and to feel the stillness incorporated in every single one.
The room was anything but still. Neve and Tim made their way around the room, pausing in front of every painting, saying hello to people they knew from town. Feeling people’s eyes on them, hearing them whisper, Neve blushed slightly.
“They’re talking about us,” Tim said.
“I think you’re right.”
“It’s our first time out together, not counting Newport.”
“Takes two bridges to get to Newport,” she said, smiling hesitantly. “I guess we escaped detection.”
“Well, we haven’t now,” he said. “The word is out.”
“I wasn’t sure you wanted to see me again; I hoped you’d come tonight, but I honestly didn’t expect you to.”
“I didn’t expect to either,” he said. He glanced over to the front desk, where Shane and Mickey were in fierce discussion. Neve followed his gaze.
“Mickey’s upset with him for calling the cops on her father,” she said.
“He did the right thing,” Tim said.
“I know. Mickey’s father needs every wake-up call he can get. Right now he’s down at the police station, or maybe his girlfriend has already bailed him out. He’s such a good talker, he’s probably figured out a way to stave off this latest onslaught. I almost wish he had been drinking—they’d send him to rehab.”
Joe O’Casey had been standing with Damien’s old crewmates, but at the sight of Tim, he excused himself and made his way over. Neve watched the two O’Casey men staring at each other, not speaking.