“You remember Bert?”
Did I remember Bert? “Uh, yeah,” I said.
“Bert has a sister, Aitana. She has her own catering company; she does a lot of the weddings and parties on the island. She had a last-minute request from the Rawlingses.”
“Senator Rawlings? For the cocktail party?”
“How’d you know?”
“He came looking for Caleb this morning. He wanted to invite him.”
“The senator?”
“Yeah, but I had no idea who he was.”
Lauren laughed. “Did he give you the once-over?”
“He did.”
“He’s famous for it. Anyway, Aitana wasn’t actually up and running yet; it’s too early in the season. So she really had to scramble. She took the ferry over to the mainland yesterday and did all the shopping and came back last night. She has a commercial kitchen over on the other side of the island, and she was there until the middle of the night, trying to get a lot of the preliminary cooking done. On her way home, this couple in a station wagon practically ran her off the road.”
“When was this?”
“About three this morning. She was driving back to her house.”
“Were they drunk?”
“She didn’t think so. But they were driving really fast. They forced her over onto the shoulder, passed her, and sped off.”
“Did she get a license plate number?”
“She tried, but it was too dark. She thinks it began with L or E, but that was all she could see.”
“How far from here did this happen?”
“Just down past the National, three, four blocks.”
“How’d you hear about it?”
“Bert came by a little while ago. Aitana’s over at the police station in New Shoreham now.”
“Did she see what kind of a car it was?”
“It looked like an old Legacy, light green or maybe gray.”
“The island’s not that big,” I said. “They ought to be able to find it.”
“Yeah, but even if they do, it could have nothing to do with the fire.” Lauren paused and then said, “You should really get some sleep. Want me or Mark to pick up Henry?”
“No, I’ll be fine. I’ll set the alarm on my cell phone.”
“You sure? It’s really no problem.”
I shook my head. “Thanks, though.”
“Thank you. I still can’t believe you managed to get all that stuff out of the barn.”
“Just in time to sell it!” I joked.
“In his dreams,” said Lauren.
My cell phone rang at about four thirty. I was sleeping so heavily I felt practically drugged, but I hauled myself up to a sitting position and peered at the caller ID. It wasn’t my alarm. It was my brother. I struggled to catch the call before it went to voice mail.
“Jay!” I said. “How are you? Where are you?”
“I’m at work.” My brother likes to refer to himself, only slightly tongue in cheek, as a “civil servant.” He works for the city of Chicago in a program called Green Alleys, the purpose of which I don’t fully understand; it has something to do with making sidewalk and road construction more environmentally friendly. I tease him by calling it “Green Acres” and “Guys with Trucks” and regularly give him grief about finding a profession that pays him to muck around with steam shovels and excavators, his childhood obsessions.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“We’re on Block Island.”
“That must be nice.” As payback, he always ribs me about my not having a normal nine-to-five job.
“I’m working,” I said.
“No!”
“Yes.”
“Hold on, I feel faint. And speaking of feeling faint, are you sitting down?”
I would have handed my brother lots of ammunition if I told him I was actually in bed, so I just said, “Yeeesssss.”
“We’re having a baby!” he announced. “In fact, we’re having two!”
“Oh my God! Jay! Tell me!”
Jay laughed. “I just told you!”
“You’re having twins?”
“Well, I’m not. Louise is.”
Louise and Jay have been married for almost four years, but since I’d already moved east by the time they met, I don’t really know her that well. We only see each other once or twice a year, on holidays. She’s a corporate litigator on the partner track at her law firm, and I’ve always suspected that she thinks I’m kind of a slacker, if not a bona fide black sheep. She, on the other hand, works such long hours that I was surprised she even agreed to get a dog, which they did last year.
“This is wonderful!” I said as tears began to prickle the backs of my eyes. “I’m so happy for you!”
“Thanks. We’re—well, we’re a little shocked, to tell you the truth. And it wasn’t even IVF! It was just—”
“Luck,” I said.
“I hope so,” Jay answered.
“How far along is she?”
“Fourteen weeks. We didn’t want to tell anybody until, well, you know.”
“How’s she feeling?”
“Like crap.”
“Well, that’s a good sign. Or so they say.”
“No, it is, it is. It’s all going great. It’s two little boys.” Jay’s voice caught on the final words, and I had a surprising reminder of the softheartedness that lies beneath his all-guy demeanor. Jay’s so much like my dad: all bluff and bluster but soft as a July peach.
I thought about my mother, and how unfair it was that she had to miss this, too. I didn’t go through life longing for her at every turn, or if I did, I wasn’t very aware of it. I hadn’t really known her, so her absence at all the milestones of childhood and adolescence was felt more keenly by others than by me.
All that changed when Henry was born. In fact, it changed the minute I knew I was pregnant. I missed everything about her and everything I imagined about her. I envisioned her listening to my troubles through all those long months and finding me clothes that were comfortable and pretty, helping me get a nice nursery together and coming to stay when Henry arrived. I never contemplated the possibility that had she lived to see that day, she might have been disappointed in me, or angry, or distant and distracted. I just didn’t want to go there, so I didn’t, claiming instead the sad privilege of children who lose a parent early. I was free to imagine her any way I wanted, so the mother I created was perfect.
“I wish Mom were here,” I said.
“Me, too,” Jay whispered. He was five when she died.
“What did Daddy say?”
“I haven’t told him yet.”
“You haven’t? What about Joe?”
“Him, either.”
Now my own tears spilled over. “You told me first? Jay!”
“I’m kind of surprised myself,” he said.
On my way out the door to pick up Henry, I offered to make a stop at a pizza place I’d noticed between the inn and the school, unpromisingly named Vito’s Sub and Slice. You can’t judge a pizza joint by its name, though. My all-time favorite had been called, simply, Joe’s.
Lauren looked askance at the pizza idea.
“I could get a couple of extra-larges and a salad or two. Couldn’t you use a break?”
“That place is a dive!”
“Is there another one that’s better?”
“Not at this time of year,” she insisted. “Anyway, the meat’s already marinating.”
I’d had no choice but to relent, and now, sitting at the kitchen table a couple of hours later, I was glad I had. Mark was grilling London broil over wood charcoal, and Lauren had just removed from the oven a pan of tiny red potatoes roasted with cracked pepper and fresh rosemary. A simple green salad with dried cranberries and toasted pine nuts sat in a wooden bowl in the center of the table, and I could only dream of the desserts lined up in the mahogany-paneled pantry.
Vivi made her appearance as soon as we sat down. I’d expected that she would turn up before long,
but my heart sank at the sight of her slight frame materializing in the rocking chair by the woodstove, not five feet from where we were all sitting. I hoped she wasn’t strong enough to get the rocker going, and I wondered what Henry would do. Would he start talking and playing with her right there in the kitchen, with all of us sitting around? Or would he be restrained by some vague awareness that he should wait until the two of them, or the three of us, were alone?
I didn’t dare take a chance.
“You are not to talk to Vivi! Or mention her to anyone,” I whispered sternly while Lauren and Mark were in the backyard, conferring about the doneness of the meat.
“Why not?” he responded.
“Just don’t,” I growled, and in case he was thinking of not taking me seriously, I added, “And I mean it! I’ll explain later.”
He gave me a hurt and bewildered look, and rightly so. He’d done absolutely nothing to elicit what probably felt like a reprimand, and I hated myself for acting like one of those adults who pushes a kid around just because they can.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m not mad at you, but I—just need you to do this.” Lauren was coming back into the kitchen as I leaned over to give him a conciliatory kiss. He pulled away. Things could then have gone either way. Henry can be fractious when he feels like it, which is often, but tonight, as Mark sliced the meat and Lauren tossed the salad, I watched him sink into a morose little funk. I felt terrible. I almost wished he would act up and defy me.
Over the course of the next twenty minutes, Vivi practically hung from the chandelier in her efforts to get Henry to talk to her. She made faces at him and danced around the table like a possessed little demon. She called him stupid and accused him of eating like a pig. She tried to squeeze in next to him on his chair and blew in his ear. Henry shot me look after desperate look, but there was nothing I could really do except try to get us out of there as quickly as possible and into the relative privacy of our room.
He beat me to the punch.
“Can I be excused?” Henry asked halfway through our main course. “Please?”
“Aren’t you hungry?” I inquired, feeling phony and disloyal.
He shook his head but fixed me with a killer gaze.
“You’re probably tired,” I said. “It’s been a long day.” This was another small betrayal. We both know that when he’s overtired, he doesn’t lose his appetite, he eats like a horse.
“He does look a little pale,” Lauren noted.
“More steak for me,” Mark teased, and a flicker of a grin passed quickly over Henry’s features.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll be up in a bit.”
Henry got up and pushed in his chair.
“What do you say?” I prodded.
“Thank you for dinner.”
“I’ll send some cookies up with your mom,” Lauren told him. “In case you get hungry later.”
“Thanks,” he said and skipped out of the room. The ghostly little wraith fled with him.
Chapter Eleven
I DIDN’T INTEND TO leave Henry with Vivi for long, but I was eager to know if there had been any news about the blaze. According to Lauren, two investigators from the state fire marshall’s office in North Kingston had arrived at about one thirty, while I was asleep upstairs. They’d spent most of the afternoon talking to Mark, taking photographs, and collecting wood and soil samples. Though they were reluctant to render an official verdict before the results of the lab tests came back, Mark had no doubt in his mind: it was arson.
They had showed him a suspicious burn pattern where the fieldstone foundation met the wood of the barn. They’d managed to determine that the fire had originated from several places at once, unlike in the usual scenario, they’d explained to him, when a single object or area catches fire and the flames spread outward and upward. They also discovered an empty five-gallon kerosene can in the marshy brush between the barn and the Hansens’ house. They took this back to North Kingston, to test it for fingerprints and to see if they could determine where it had been purchased.
“Who would do this?” I asked. Privately, though, I felt enormously relieved that the evidence was pointing to live human beings.
Mark shook his head and shrugged.
“This seems like such a peaceful place,” I went on.
“They’re not from the island,” Lauren announced. “Whoever did this.”
Mark smiled. “Lauren’s got it all figured out. Women’s intuition.”
“No, I don’t,” she protested. “And don’t start in with that. I’m not saying I know who did it, I’m just telling you that I seriously doubt it was anyone who lives here.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, though I had a feeling she could be right.
“Because around here, people come right out and tell you what they think, and that’s that. Like when they were building the new school?” Lauren glanced at Mark. “Remember?”
Mark shook his head.
“The first design for the building was really out there,” Lauren explained. “Personally, I thought it was kind of neat, but I agreed that it probably wasn’t right for the island. It was a famous architect from Switzerland who designed it. I’ve forgotten his name now. God knows how he got the job.”
“I know how he got it,” Mark put in. “He was at RISD at the same time Rawlings was at Brown. They played softball together, and they’ve been friends ever since.”
“Figures,” said Lauren. “Anyway, nobody pulled any punches that night. Don’t you remember that meeting?”
“What meeting?” Mark asked.
“In the school cafeteria! You remember!”
Mark shook his head. “I don’t think I was there.”
Lauren appeared to consider this for a moment. “You’re right, you weren’t. I went with Aitana. Well, anyway, the architect’s model for the school was sitting right there on the table, and the building was all these crazy, slanty angles. If you could have seen the looks on some of the old-timers’ faces: Hiram Whitehall and Stu Cavanaugh, and that guy who sells eggs out in front of his house.”
“Makem,” Mark said. “Gibby Makem.”
“Right. But my point is, there was a respectful debate. It was lively, sure, and there was plenty of smoke and steam about preserving the character of the island, but the issue was resolved in a civilized way, in public. Nobody was sneaking around.”
Sneaking around? I wasn’t sure where this was going, and I didn’t know if I should ask. My mind raced ahead to the question of whether a phalanx of earthbound spirits, fiercely opposed to the planting of windmills in their deep sea graveyard, could possibly have (a) purchased a five-gallon tank of kerosene, (b) transported it to Lauren and Mark’s backyard, (c) doused the barn’s foundation, and (d) lit it.
Fortunately, the answer to all these questions was simple.
No.
“I know you think I’m crazy,” Lauren said to her husband.
“I don’t think you’re crazy, honey. I think you’re—pregnant!” A wide grin broke out on Mark’s face.
“I hate it when you say things like that!” Lauren sprang to her feet and began clearing our dishes. “This has nothing at all to do with whether I’m—”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not!” Lauren insisted.
Mark stood up and grabbed the plates from her hands. Lauren sat back down. “You could very well be right,” he conceded.
“I know I’m operating on a sleep deficit here,” I put in, “but I’m not following.”
“Lauren thinks that someone was trying to intimidate us, get us to back off,” Mark explained.
“Yeah, somebody too cowardly and immature to walk up the front steps, knock on our door, sit down with us, and discuss the matter like a civilized human being. They can’t have a problem with the inn, whoever they are, or if they do, I can’t for the life of me imagine what it would be. This place was an eyesore. It was bringing down everyone else’s property values. All we did was pour c
lose to a million dollars, which we don’t really have, into bringing the old wreck back to life.
“Mark gets along with everybody,” she continued, “and so do I. Heck, the islanders who are most opposed to the wind farm were all here today, trying to help out. Bud Brady, Andy Miller …”
“She’s right,” said Mark.
“I know I’m right,” said Lauren.
I was about to attempt some kind of lame, reassuring response when our conversation was interrupted by an impatient howl.
Lauren wheeled around and flew to her feet.
“Frances!”
Sure enough, there she was, round and regal.
“Oh, my baby,” Lauren said. “Are you okay?” She hurried over to the door, opened it gingerly, and scooped Frances up. “Where have you been? We’ve been so worried!”
Frances didn’t appear to be any the worse for wear. There were so many questions I wanted to ask my hosts, but my thoughts had turned to the scene upstairs, and I suddenly felt a wave of anxiety. Frances’s homecoming offered me a timely opportunity to slip away.
“I’m going to check on Henry,” I said. Lauren nodded distractedly, and Mark hardly seemed to hear me.
“You must be starving!” he cooed. “Poor old thing!”
“Reow!” mewed Frances.
I love to eavesdrop. I know it’s sneaky, but that just makes it more fun.
I tiptoed down the upstairs hall and paused outside our door, which Henry had neglected to close. I’d heard some reassuring hoots on my way up the stairs, so I gathered that once Henry had been released from my glowering interdictions, he and Vivi had settled back into their curious little relationship, in which they alternately ignored and bickered with each other, and occasionally rode a wave of escalating hysterics that culminated in breathlessness.
“And then he lit it!” I heard Vivi shriek.
I caught my breath and tried to remain motionless.
I hadn’t told Henry about the fire. As we’d made our way home from the school, he’d been animated and chatty, full of stories about the progress on Greased Lightnin’, the items he’d eaten for snacks and lunch, and a boy named Brian. As any parent knows, when your child is in a talkative mood, it’s wise to keep your mouth closed; you never know when they’ll be forthcoming again.
The Ice Cradle Page 9