by Luanne Rice
“I know you do,” John said, squeezing her hand.
“How do you know that?” she asked.
“Because I’ve fallen in love with you,” John said. “And I’m making it my business to know just what it is that makes you happy. Right now, I know we need to get your mother settled. And I’m going to help you do that . . .”
“Oh, John,” Sylvie said.
“And then I’m going to take you kayaking on the most beautiful lake in Maine,” he said. “And I’m going to spell your name with the stars in the sky . . .”
“Live stars,” Sylvie whispered, thinking of Chloe, of her notion of dusty, forgotten stars hidden under the eaves.
“As live as live can be,” he said. “And I’m guessing that this means, unless you want to have dinner in the hospital cafeteria, that we’re going to eat later.”
“That sounds good,” she said.
“As long as you’re across the table,” he said, “it’s always good.”
And they hugged, long and hard. Jane was coming to the hospital in a little while. Perhaps they could meet with Abby Goodheart and tell their mother about their visit to Cherry Vale. No one had the right to decide another’s path in life, but Sylvie hoped she and Jane could ease their mother’s mind, convince her that this was the best thing, at least as a transition.
It was, wasn’t it?
John squeezed her even tighter, giving her the support she needed. She felt really shaky. Life was changing so fast. Sometimes Sylvie wanted to hold on to the old ways, just because they were so familiar. But then John slid his arm around her waist, starting toward the hospital door—being with him felt so different and wonderful, reminding her that change was sometimes a minor miracle.
As they walked across the asphalt parking lot to see about Margaret, Sylvie thought of how wonderful it was to have such a good friend; and she wished with all her heart that Jane could find the same thing.
“I hear Chloe met your sister,” Dylan said.
“Yes,” Jane said. “I brought her by, to see the stand.”
Dylan nodded. “Did she approve?”
Jane was silent. They were standing in his kitchen. She had stopped by, to drop off tomorrow’s pies, and he had offered her a glass of lemonade. It was tart, just the way she liked it, and the glass was covered with cool, summery condensation that felt good to her hand. She thought about his question and knew that her sister had disapproved on about ten different levels, but that in the midst of all that, she had fallen in love with Chloe.
It was twilight, and the blue sky was fading to lavender. The kitchen windows were open; the birds were singing their farewells to daylight. Evening in the countryside was peaceful, beautiful, far from the yellow-taxi bustle of Jane’s last fifteen years in New York.
Gazing across the room at Dylan—tall, bearded, the expression in his green eyes as open as she’d ever seen, she knew that she was falling in love with him. And she knew she couldn’t carry the lie any further. She was supposed to meet up with Sylvie at the hospital, but that would have to wait. She took a deep breath and wondered where to start.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” she said.
“Me, too,” he said.
They stood across the room from each other. Smoke from his cigarette drifted up. He took a sip of lemonade. Then she walked over to him; he put his arms around her waist. They looked into each other’s eyes. Jane saw a strong man. Beyond that she saw depths of vulnerability that gave her the feeling of riding rapids on a river.
He kissed her, and she tasted sharp lemons. The evening was warm, and he wore a T-shirt and she wore a black tank, and their arms were hot as they held each other very close. Jane’s heart sped up, because she wanted to kiss him forever.
Their bodies were right for each other. He was very tall, but when she stood on tiptoes, they were almost level. And he slid his arms under hers and pulled her up, so she was standing tiptoed, barefoot on the toes of his boots, and they stayed like that, kissing in the twilight. He had left a radio playing in another room, and the longer they didn’t talk, the louder the music became, so that they could hear it clearly, and they couldn’t resist starting to dance to it, with her balanced on his boots.
“You’re good,” he said, pausing the kiss long enough to admire the way they moved together.
“I’m not,” she said. “I never dance.”
“You’re doing it now,” he said, his eyes intense and full of humor.
“I seem to be,” she said.
They kept dancing, and suddenly Jane knew that it was just a matter of time: they were going to make love. She could feel it in her skin, all the way to her heart, deep, deep inside. He was prolonging it, and the waiting felt delicious. She knew that she was ready to tell him the whole story, and she trusted that everything would work out. The spring air moved across her bare arms, and even though it wasn’t at all chilly, it made Jane shiver.
Just then, they heard a knock at the side door.
“Yoo-hoo!” Chloe called.
“Are you decent?” Mona called.
A look of impatience crossed Dylan’s brow, and he gave Jane a smile.
“Impeccable timing,” she said as they heard the girls running through the house. They burst into the kitchen, stopping at the doorway.
“Don’t you believe in turning on the lights?” Mona asked.
“It’s more romantic this way,” Chloe said, jabbing her with an elbow.
“Hi, girls,” Jane said.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Dylan asked.
“We want to go out for ice cream,” Mona said. “Or fried clams.”
“Those are certainly summertime choices,” Jane said.
“I know,” Chloe said. “But my parents won’t take us. They rented a movie, and they made popcorn, and they’re trying to tell us that popcorn is as good as ice cream and fried clams. Ice cream for me, clams for Mona.”
“Ah, now it’s both,” Dylan said. “Ice cream and fried clams. Not, hopefully, in that order.”
“There’s only one place we want to have them,” Chloe said. “And only one couple we want to drive us.”
“Newport,” Mona nodded solemnly. “We want you to take us to Newport.”
“In fact,” Chloe said, pointing her finger at Dylan. “We’re uncle-napping you. And we’re taking Jane along for the ride. You really have no choice.”
“So let’s go nice and peaceful,” Mona said. “Out to the car . . .”
Jane glanced at Dylan. Whatever had been building between them was still there, and she saw the amused frustration in his eyes. He gazed at Jane, giving her the chance to get them out of it. Jane hesitated. She knew she was supposed to meet Sylvie at the hospital. She could call Sylvie, try to catch her before she left; she could leave a message. Nothing on earth would stop her from going to Newport with Chloe: a family excursion.
“Well?” Dylan asked.
“I say let’s go get some ice cream and fried clams,” she said. Making a quick call home, she got the answering machine and left a message. Sylvie would understand.
The ride to Newport was long and cool. No one wanted air-conditioning, so Dylan drove with the windows open. The girls sat in the truck’s cramped back seat, singing along with the radio. If they noticed that he and Jane were holding hands, low on the seat, they gave no sign.
Driving across Route 138, he began to remember old trips to Newport. He felt the first tug in his heart—as if he’d been caught by a fishhook, Isabel reeling him in. He went willingly. She was in the truck with them, squeezed into the back seat with her cousin and friend. The sensation was so real, he glanced into the back seat.
“My father used to call this road ‘the old washboard route,’ ” Jane said as they bounced over another pothole.
“Because it’s so bumpy,” Chloe said. “Wheee!”
They passed through Narragansett, onto the Jamestown Bridge. The bay’s west passage was dark silver in the last light. The old,
unused bridge arched just south of the new span; Dylan remembered a time, years ago, when a tractor trailer went over the side on an icy Christmas Eve. He had been a young boy at the time, and he recalled feeling grief for the driver’s sons.
Across Conanicut Island, then onto the sweeping, graceful Newport Bridge. The city by the sea sparkled down below: white yachts in the harbor, church spires, the cluster of downtown buildings. From the very top, the loom of whale-shaped Block Island was visible on the horizon. Dylan remembered a case he had worked, just a few years ago, in which the criminal had faked his own suicide by leaving a car parked and running here on the bridge’s summit. His mind was working overtime, filled with memories, but none as strong as the ones of Isabel.
They found a rare parking spot on Thames Street, and walked into Dylan’s favorite hole-in-the-wall clam shack, Commander Paul’s. A block off the water, it was small, cramped, and stuffy. The line of people stretched out the door. Waiting in line, they smelled the food, and their mouths began to water. Crushed together, he slid his arm around Jane’s waist. She was dressed for summer in jeans and a skinny black top, and he looked at her muscular arms and wanted them to hold him later.
“We’re next,” Chloe said. “Have your orders ready.”
“I’ve been ready since we came off the bridge,” Jane laughed.
“Four clam rolls, four orders of fries, and four Cokes,” Dylan said to the college student at the window.
“How did you know that’s what we’d all want?” Mona asked.
“Because when you come to Commander Paul’s,” Dylan said, handing over the money, “that’s all there is.”
They took the food outside, found spots on the low wall surrounding the entrance, and began to eat. Dylan was conscious of Jane sitting beside him. Her bare arm brushed his; her hip bumped against his side. Chloe gave him her clams—sticking to the buttered rolls and French fries.
“I’m usually a vegetarian,” Jane said, “but I can’t resist Paul’s clams . . .”
“I didn’t know that!” Chloe said, eyes gleaming. “We’re both animal-friendly! Luckily clams are invertebrates and can’t feel anything . . .”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Jane said.
“You should have told me,” Dylan said, gazing at her. “We could have gone somewhere that had salads or something.”
“Paul’s is great,” Jane said, bumping shoulders with him. “My first time here in years . . .”
Dylan bit into his clam roll; he knew from experience that it was fried just right, golden brown and tasting of the briny sea, but tonight his senses were on overload and barely noticed. Tonight was all about Jane.
They crossed America’s Cup Boulevard and headed for the wharves. The stores were open for summer tourist trade, and the girls ran into the jewelry and sunglass shops while Dylan and Jane crossed the cobblestones on Bowen’s Wharf and navigated the throngs of people on Bannister’s.
“Summer in Newport,” Jane said, breathing the salt air.
“Our first together,” Dylan said.
She chuckled. “You’re cute,” she said.
“Cute is a bunny rabbit,” he said. “I’m a retired U.S. Marshal. You think Commander Paul would like to be called ‘cute’?”
“I’ve been eating at his place for ages, but who was Commander Paul, anyway?”
“A naval hero,” Dylan said. “He served in Vietnam aboard the USS W.T. Crawford. He was known for his love of fishing, and he used to tell the guys he’d open a clam shack in Newport, where he’d trained at the war college, after he left the service.”
“What happened to him?”
“He rescued a whole crew whose boat had gone down in the South China Sea, just as the sharks were circling their life raft. The crew was literally beating the monsters back with oars, just as Commander Paul steamed in.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s legend in Newport,” Dylan said. “Ironically, his ship was named after William Crawford, head of the Marshals Service in the twenties. So we marshals feel a deep bond with the Commander. He used to come for dinner . . .” Dylan trailed off.
Jane waited. She blinked slowly.
“At my in-laws’ house,” Dylan said. “Amanda’s father had served during World War Two. Even though his great love was yachting, and his second home was the New York Yacht Club, he pined for the days when Newport was a Navy town.”
“Sounds like an interesting guy,” Jane said.
“For a robber baron,” Dylan said, not wanting to add that he had raised a spoiled, snobby daughter. “Isabel loved her grandparents, but she never bought into the life. Her mother wouldn’t have been caught dead in a clam shack. Isabel was hooked, just like me. While the rest of the family would be eating some ritzy catered picnic at Bailey’s Beach, she and I would sneak out to Paul’s.”
“My kind of girl,” Jane said, nodding.
“She’d have liked you,” Dylan said.
“Well, any girl who has a real appreciation for a clam shack is bound to like apple pies,” Jane said.
“That’s not why,” Dylan said, putting his arms around her. They were standing in the flow of tourists, ogling the yachts docked at Bannister’s Wharf, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t had a cigarette since leaving the orchard, and he didn’t want one. He didn’t want to obscure anything about tonight. Any feelings of addiction had suddenly attached themselves to Jane. He had to have her, his body was aching for her, and he knew he couldn’t let her go.
“Uncle Dylan!” Chloe called, jostling through the throng of people.
“Yes, Uncle Dylan,” Mona echoed. “We need advances!”
“On our salaries,” Chloe explained, grinning as she came upon her uncle just about to start kissing Jane. He tried to wipe the frustration off his face.
“Why?” he asked. “I just paid you last Friday.”
“I know,” Chloe said, smiling wider. “And we’re not asking you to give us money—just loan us next week’s salary. Because we just found the sweetest, darlingest little things we have to buy.”
“They remind us of Jane,” Mona said.
Jane smiled and blushed. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” Chloe said. Leaning over, she tickled Jane’s locket as if it were a bell. “We found tiny silver lockets just like yours, and we have to buy them.”
“Because we’re your fan club,” Mona confided. “You bake the pies, so we can have summer jobs.”
“Without you, we’d be unemployed,” Chloe said.
“Hey, what about the honeycombs and maple sugar I give you to sell?” Dylan asked. “What about the apples growing on my trees, even as we speak?”
Both Chloe and Mona laughed. “We can’t kid ourselves, Uncle Dylan,” Chloe said. “Jane’s pies have set a new standard for roadside stands. She’s the whole reason people come. Man, the whole state has caught on! So we have to buy lockets just like hers—to commemorate her in our lives.”
“We’re going to put pictures,” Mona began, but broke off laughing.
“Of Jane,” Chloe continued.
“No! Of her pies,” Mona corrected as they both cracked up. “In our lockets.”
“What’s in yours, Jane?” Chloe said. “I want to see.”
Jane was still smiling, but she seemed awfully quiet. She wasn’t joining in the girls’ merriment the way Dylan had seen her do before. She reached up, held her locket in her hand as if protecting it. Her face looked very slightly pale as her smile held but wavered. As Dylan watched, his heart jogged slightly: There’s a man’s picture in there, he thought. Someone she loves in New York.
“A little girl I knew a long time ago,” Jane said.
“Let us see,” Mona asked.
“Oh, the picture is too tiny to see,” Jane said. “And it’s not anchored in very securely. It might blow away in the sea breeze.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” Chloe agreed. “Later?”
“Definitely later,” Jane said, staring straight into Chloe�
�s eyes. Dylan appreciated the way she smoothed things out with his niece. Her parents were actually pleased at the way her summer was going. Sharon had called the other day, asking to meet Jane. She had told him she and Eli appreciated what he and Jane were doing for Chloe—at first they had objected to the stand, but now they were so relieved her summer was going well. There had been no repeats of her protests at SaveRite. And she hadn’t made another run at the adoption office in Family Court.
Aside from all that, Sharon was curious about Jane for another reason. She was the first woman Dylan had really been interested in since his family’s deaths. He had been shut down for a long, long time. Sharon was a good sister-in-law; Dylan thought she had probably sensed the trouble between him and Amanda over the years.
“Oh, fuck,” Mona said, staring into the crowd. “Excuse my language.”
“Oh, double fuck,” Chloe said, shrinking against Jane.
“Is that him?” Jane asked, her eyes glacial, sharp, clear blue.
“Uh-huh,” Chloe said, and her voice caught, and Dylan saw the glint of tears in her eyes.
“Who?” Dylan asked. Following Chloe and Jane’s sight lines, he spotted a young man standing at the Black Pearl hot dog stand. He had long, blond hair, stringy with salt. He wanted people to think it was lightened by the sun, but Dylan had observed enough jerks to know the sun came out of a bottle. He wore shorts and a surf shop T-shirt. On his arm, he saw the tattoo of a dolphin. Dylan made the connection instantly: Chloe’s banner.
“What should I say to him?” Chloe asked Jane.
“You don’t have to say anything to him,” she replied.
“But I have to walk right past him,” Chloe said. “To get off the wharf . . .”
“What did he do?” Dylan asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Chloe mumbled.
“Tell your uncle,” Mona urged. “So he can deck the creep!”
Dylan’s fatherly blood was pumping hard. He didn’t know what the guy had done, but he disliked him on sight. He had dead, lifeless green eyes—scanning the crowd like a predator, the way a shark would look at a school of bait. Dylan could easily picture him on the wrong side of an investigation: drugs, paper, fraud, whatever might get him a little more of whatever he wanted. Sex, drugs, money, women.