by Luanne Rice
“Yes, well … the insurance check will be a welcome, welcome sight.”
“Your business must be slow this time of year.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Although we’ll get a boost at Valentine’s Day.” The Seduction Table, her catering business. Gabrielle was aiming for the love market, and although it went over big with the summertime yachties, the year-round islanders were too practical and unromantic to buy it.
The telephone rang. Gabrielle saw Anne close her eyes wearily, probably hoping that the call would bring a reprieve from Gabrielle’s ministrations.
“Hello,” Gabrielle said, all business, planning to cut short whoever was calling and get back to Anne.
“Gabrielle, hi. It’s Thomas Devlin. May I speak with your sister, please?”
“Just a second,” Gabrielle said, covering the mouthpiece with her hand and jostling Anne. “It’s for you.”
“Who?” Anne asked, hope shimmering behind the frown in her eyes. She probably thought it was Matt.
“Thomas Devlin. The fireman who went in after you.”
Anne’s frown deepened, and she waved the call away. “Tell him I’m asleep.”
Gabrielle hesitated, wishing Anne would make the simple gesture of thanking the man for saving her life. Wouldn’t that be the healthy, life-affirming, getting-back-to-normal thing to do?
“Please,” Anne said, sensing that Gabrielle was about to push. “I don’t feel like talking. I’ll send him a note later.”
“I’m sorry, Thomas,” Gabrielle said directly into the receiver, turning her back on Anne. “She seems to be asleep. But I’ll tell her you called.”
“How is she doing?” he asked.
“She’s going to be just fine,” Gabrielle said, without a trace of conviction in her voice.
THOMAS Devlin hung up the phone in his workshop and tried to put Anne Davis out of his mind and get back to work. Cuckoo clocks, grandfather clocks, gold watches, Swiss chimes, inner works without faces covered every inch of wall space and every available tabletop. He had inherited his father’s tools and some of his knowledge, but he considered clockmaking a hobby, not a trade.
Every time he entered a burning building, he’d prove it to himself over again: he was a firefighter through and through. The fact amazed him. After the bad fire in Boston so many years ago, the one that had burned off half his face and all of his joy, a betting man would have said that Thomas Devlin was finished as a fireman.
Thomas had believed it himself.
He’d taken refuge on the island, set himself up as a clockmaker, and one day astounded himself by joining the volunteer fire department. Most of the calls they got were routine: grease fires at the Fish House, kids playing with matches behind the school, barbecues run amok. Then there were calls like the one they’d had this week, the house on Salt Whistle Road.
He kept seeing the woman.
His first sight of her, when she was standing in the snow, was vivid in his mind: the fierce beauty in her dark eyes, her clenched fists and the tension in her shoulders, her nightgown molded to her body by the wind.
He remembered how his heart had pounded when he saw her enter the house, even more when he followed her in and realized how hard it would be to find her in the smoke. She had been moving with hurricane force, full of some life-or-death purpose, so it had seemed doubly shocking to find her crumpled on the floor. She had seemed somehow invincible, a woman of superhuman strength. He had lifted her with so little effort: she was light as a feather. Her body had been supple in his arms, and cold, from her standing barefoot in the snow.
Now, working on Emma Harwood’s mantel clock, Thomas Devlin pushed the glasses up his nose. The left earpiece rubbed on his scars, making them itch. The wind howled outside, but all he could hear was the clock. Strange that someone who had chosen to work on clocks half the day couldn’t stand the sound of ticking. It made him feel trapped. Six-foot-four and using doll-sized tools. Hot and uneasy, he pushed back his chair, knocking over a cigar box full of springs.
“Damn it,” he said, watching the minuscule springs roll under the desk, into floor cracks, behind the bookcase. He just stood there scratching his scar. His concentration was useless.
Time for a ride. Anything for some open air, maybe take a drive out to the dunes and watch the waves build. The wind had shifted east, and some good breakers should be rolling in. Stop thinking about the mystery woman who had come to the island. She had upset his balance in a way he couldn’t quite define, and that made him feel nervous and ornery.
He threw on his parka and grabbed the truck keys. Just as he stepped outside, damned if Peggy Lawson wasn’t pulling down the driveway. She climbed out of her red Neon holding Mac’s gold watch at him like a hypnotist on the stage in a New Bedford dive.
“Loses ten minutes every other day,” Peggy said, her voice raspy from cigarettes.
“I’ll give it a look,” Thomas said.
“Sure you have time? I hear you’re pretty busy being a hero these days.”
“Oh, the Salt Whistle fire?” he asked casually, recalling that Hugh Lawson, Peggy and Mac’s nephew, had been at the scene.
“I hear you saved the lady of the house,” Peggy said in a way that made it clear she had a story to tell.
“Anne Davis. Do you know her?”
“Of course. She’s an island girl, born and bred, just like me. Though she certainly tried to put it behind her. Know what I mean?”
Thomas Devlin knew that nothing but sorrow could come from listening to rumors, so he started to edge toward his truck. But Peggy’s car was blocking him.
“I went to school with her sister, Gabrielle. You know Gaby Vincent, don’t you? Steve’s wife?”
“Sure,” Thomas said, amazed all over again. He couldn’t quite picture it, the woman he had rescued being related to Gabrielle. Gabrielle had big bones, big red hair, a big Ford van, and a laugh he swore echoed from here to Nantucket. Nothing seemed to faze her. Anne was small. Entering the house, she had moved like a linebacker. But later, when Thomas had laid her down and she opened her eyes, Thomas could see that something inside had broken. That whatever had hurt her was worse than the fire.
“She was a wild one, Anne was. And trouble has certainly followed her. Money can’t always buy happiness.”
“No, well …”
“She married it, and a lot of good it did her.”
“She’s married?”
“Separated. Divorced, something like that. He walked out.”
Thomas didn’t want to hear any more. The wind stung his ears, and he could practically see the waves, mountains of green water trailing foamy crests behind. He would park by the clay cliffs and walk to the lighthouse. Clear his head. Tonight he’d eat leftover beef stew and write a letter to his son, Ned, away at boarding school. Have a quiet night and try to shake this case of nerves.
“I’ll see what I can do about Mac’s watch,” Thomas said. “Thanks for bringing it by.”
“Well, who else would I take it to? And I did want to tell you we think you’re quite a hero. Anne Davis is lucky to be alive. She has you to thank. She might have gone the way of her child.”
The hair on the back of Thomas Devlin’s neck stood on end, and it wasn’t the wind.
“Her child?”
“Oh, you haven’t heard? It happened last summer. A darling little girl. She used to play with Hugh’s daughter, Sadie.”
Thomas Devlin had the impulse to walk away, to deprive Peggy of the satisfaction she was getting from this. But he had to know.
“What happened?” he asked, his pulse drowning out the sound of the wind.
“The little girl died. Fell four stories. Anne was right there, poor thing. Although the police were very suspicious. For a while we thought there’d be charges.”
Somehow he had known. She had said there was no child, but he hadn’t believed her. He thought back to the fire, to the way she had run back to the burning house. Everyone at the scene had been
disgusted, that the woman would risk her own life and everyone else’s for what had appeared to be a diaper bag.
Everyone but Thomas Devlin. He had seen the clothes and toys of a little girl, had recognized the look of loss in the woman’s eyes. He had recognized himself. Anne Davis had witnessed the death of someone she loved.
His scars were throbbing, as they often did when the weather changed. Snow was coming. He could feel it in the air. He made a little more small talk with Peggy, gave her some excuse about having to be somewhere. By the time he got into his truck, the pain was shooting up and down the left side of his face. He scowled, knowing his only salvation was to empty his mind. Images of fire were flashing behind his eyes, and he fought to put them down. Passing a girl who might have been Maggie Vincent, Anne’s niece, he was blind to the landscape. He thought only of driving toward the east wind.
MAGGIE Vincent had dropped off her schoolbooks, changed into tighter jeans, and headed out to meet Kurt, Eugene, and Vanessa, all without running into her evil mother. Or Anne. She knew Anne was in the kitchen with her mother.
Maggie wore a white angora sweater she’d liberated from the Living Doll Shop, Kurt’s leather jacket, six gold hoop earrings (not counting the one she’d recently inserted into her nipple), zero makeup (eat your heart out, Vanessa), and motorcycle boots she’d found at the South End Sally Ann last time she and Vanessa had hitched to Boston. So they were a little too big—like three sizes—but she’d stuffed the toes with Kleenex and everything was cool.
She was walking down Teatime Lane. God, she couldn’t wait to move someplace where every road didn’t have some cutey-pie historical, tourist-pleasing name. Like New York City: Fifth Avenue. Forty-second Street. No bullshit there. Out of nowhere, a kick-ass Chevy Blazer came screaming along, and everyone was in it, Kurt at the wheel.
“Tell me I’m not seeing this!” Maggie said, tonguing his ear as she climbed onto his lap.
Even with his mouth on Maggie’s, Kurt managed to execute an Indy-worthy burnout, his eyes never leaving the road.
“Do I want to know where you got this?” she asked when Kurt stopped kissing her.
“Marcy whatever-her-name-is, the bank chick,” Vanessa said, handing Maggie the pint of Southern Comfort, “left it at the ferry, and we found the spare key in her little magnetic key box.”
“How’d you know there was one?” Maggie asked.
“‘Cause with a chick like that, there’s always a spare key in a little magnetic key box,” Kurt said.
“Little Miss Perfect type,” Vanessa said, squealing at whatever Eugene was doing to her.
“So, where are we going?” Maggie asked. “I guess we can’t use the old house.”
“Yeah, real sweet,” Kurt said. “Your dipshit aunt’s there less than a day, and she burns the place down.”
“Sorry to inconvenience you,” Maggie said, stung. She climbed off his lap and sat as far as possible away from him in the passenger seat.
“She the one who killed her kid?” Eugene asked.
Maggie shrugged. Kurt didn’t realize how badly he could hurt her with his words, the tone of his voice, the way he’d act all displeased and angry with her.
“Maybe she burned the place down on purpose,” Vanessa said, giggling. “Maybe she’s a pyromaniac and a killer.”
“You gotta admit, she’s got one hell of a touch,” Kurt said. Although Maggie was staring out the window, she caught a glimpse of him reflected in the glass. He’d glanced her way. That made her feel a little better. She turned her head toward him slightly. The bottle came around again, and Maggie took a swallow.
“My dad said she acted real strange at the fire,” Eugene said. “She ran back inside, and everyone thought she was going after a kid or a dog or something, but they carry her out and she’s holding a paper bag or something. Guys could have gotten killed, and for what? A paper bag? Probably had her jewelry in it or something.”
“Rich bitch,” Vanessa said.
“The freaky giant, Mr. What’s-his-face Devlin, ended up going in after her,” Kurt said.
“The jolly green scarface,” Vanessa said.
“I mean, who gives a flying fuck if she wants to kill herself?” Eugene asked. He took a long slug, then burped. “Serves her right, after what she did. But those guys are out there risking their lives for a kid killer and her jewelry?”
“Can we please talk about something else?” Maggie asked quietly.
“Hey, your aunt ruined our party spot,” Vanessa said, jabbing the back of Maggie’s shoulder. “The least you can do is give us the gory details. Tell us what she did to her kid.”
“It was an accident,” Maggie said.
“That’s not what the papers said,” Vanessa said. “Or the TV news.”
Sometimes Maggie hated Vanessa so much she couldn’t stand it. Didn’t the idiot ever listen to herself? Like anyone would consider the TV news an authority on anything.
“I distinctly remember hearing that it was way more than an accident,” Vanessa said. “Like murder. What are you defending her for? I thought you hated your family. Just admit she killed your cousin, and get over it.”
Karen. Maggie thought back to last August, when Anne, Matt, and Karen had come out to the island for their usual summer vacation. Everyone knew you couldn’t drag Maggie to a family thing, but it was different when the Davises were around.
Especially Karen. Maggie hadn’t known a little kid could be so smart and funny. Better company than anyone she knew. She had found herself hanging out with them all the time, babysitting for Karen at night when their parents would head into town. Maggie and Karen were like sisters, really. At least, that’s how Maggie felt and it’s what Karen had said.
Just thinking about it, Maggie used the knuckle of her right index finger to wipe away tears.
“All choked up?”
“Shut up, Vanessa,” Maggie said.
“Just tell us. Where does the news get off calling your aunt a murderer if she’s not one?”
“There was an investigation. That’s all. There’s always an investigation when someone dies.”
“Your aunt was the only one there, though. And everyone saw her looking out, even before the kid hit the ground. That’s sick. She must have seen the whole thing.”
“I didn’t know about that part,” Kurt said, looking over at Maggie. “Gross.”
Maggie couldn’t stand thinking of Anne seeing Karen die. She closed her eyes, as if she could block the image from her mind. But that only made it more vivid. Her eyelids flew open, and she looked wildly around at the landscape flying by. Red barn, snowfield, power lines, lighthouse way off in the distance. She watched the light flash red, white, red, white, red, white for a few seconds, until she felt calm again. She reached back for the bottle.
“Not till you tell,” Vanessa said, hugging the nearly empty bottle to her chest.
“She fell out the window,” Maggie said. “That’s all, she just fell. She hit the sidewalk and died. Now give me the bottle.”
ANNE Davis lay under a blanket on the sofa, pretending to sleep. They had given her a sedative at the hospital, but she had fought it, as she had learned to fight sedatives last August, and she felt tired but wired. Gabrielle was putting the finishing touches on a dinner she had made for two people celebrating a fifteenth wedding anniversary. Between canapés and sauce moutarde she kept slipping in from the kitchen, to make sure Anne hadn’t moved. Anne couldn’t wait to be alone in the house. Faking sleep, she thought of her daughter.
Even at four, Karen had liked to read after bedtime. Anne had totally approved. As if they were unaware, Anne and Matt would kiss Karen good night and turn out the light. They would put a CD on the stereo and try to forget that Karen was waiting for the coast to be clear.
How could they forget that their four-year-old, who had nursery school at eight-thirty the next morning, would read until midnight if they let her? Karen would wait until they left her room, then turn on her flashlight. Sh
e would open a book—Desmo the Incredible Kitten or The Little Mermaid (she especially liked stories with lots of animals in them)—and read until someone stopped her.
Karen had an amazing imagination. You could hear her talking out loud, conjuring up characters. While she was reading 101 Dalmations she would pretend to be Lucky, the littlest puppy who hadn’t yet gotten her spots, and she would hide under the covers with her imaginary parents, Pongo and Perdita, from Cruella DeVille. Anne would stand in the hall, listening to her incredible child.
She would always make noise before going in to check on her, to give Karen enough time to fake sleeping. She would shuffle her feet, or clear her throat before opening the door. Then she would tiptoe over to the maple bed. There Karen would be, her lashes resting angelically on her pink cheek, the covers drawn to her chin, her arm convincingly tucked, pillowlike, under her head.
Perhaps unwittingly, Anne imitated her now. She lay on the sofa, her arm crooked under her head, the sound of her wristwatch ticking in her ears as she tried to fool Gabrielle into thinking that she was fine, resting comfortably. She was Lucky playing dead, to escape detection by Cruella. The effort made Anne feel easy, closer to her daughter.
Lying there, Anne’s mind darted to Maggie, then away again. Maggie hadn’t once spoken to her since she had come to the island. Since Karen had died, for that matter. Anne vaguely remembered seeing Maggie at the funeral. Anne had lunged, to kiss her, and suddenly Maggie wasn’t there. Deep down, Anne wondered whether Maggie believed the rumors, but she didn’t wonder too hard. If Maggie did believe them, Anne didn’t really want to know.
The kitchen door opened, closed, then opened and closed again. Anne heard Gabrielle approach, sigh audibly, and shuffle her feet. Anne breathed steadily through her mouth, her elbow tucked under her head. Gabrielle stood still, watching. With her eyes closed, Anne could feel Gabrielle’s gaze; just as surely, she knew that Gabrielle realized that Anne was faking sleep.
The sisters let it be; Gabrielle packed up her van, and she left.