Colin was already at the table when she carried the sliced roast and vegetables into the dining room.
“I’ve got big news,” he said. “I’ve been promoted to lieutenant.”
She set the platter on the table with a thud. “That’s wonderful.”
“They put me in charge of the Park Slope murders.”
“The serial killer?”
“The case will be my life until we nail the fucker. This is probably my last family dinner for months.”
Isabelle feigned a look of disappointment and watched her husband line up a uniform row of string beans on his plate. She was about to call the children to dinner when the doorbell rang, and she turned with a gasp. The same cold premonition swept over her again and she looked at the door without moving.
Colin speared a piece of meat. “You gonna get it or what?”
Isabelle swallowed hard, went to the door, and slid the lock. Standing in the hallway was a short but elegant man in a European suit. His large, dark eyes were set against a tan face. He had a thin mustache and his black hair was combed back neatly. He looked Italian, but his accent was British.
“Isabelle Brookes?” he said.
She nodded hesitantly.
“Daughter of Professor George Brookes?”
For a moment she couldn’t breathe. “Who are you?”
“I’m your father’s lawyer. Nicholas Bonacelli. May I come in?”
She stepped aside.
Colin scrutinized the man walking into his dining room. He asked, “What’s this about?”
Bonacelli spoke only to Isabelle. “I’m sorry to bring such troubling news. Your father died two months ago.”
She was stunned.
“You’re the heir to his estate.”
“Estate?” She was still piecing his words together. “You mean the island?”
“That’s right. The reading of the will is to take place tomorrow. It was your father’s request that you be present.”
“Oh … I don’t know.”
“I’ve made travel arrangements for you and your family.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Colin said with an angry grin. “Tomorrow? There’s no way.”
“It was his last request.”
“Excuse me,” Isabelle said. “I think something is burning.”
She fled to the kitchen and stood motionless by the stove with her body doubled over as though she’d been kicked. Her palm pressed firmly against her lips as she tried to suppress a cry. She attempted to recall George’s face, voice, or expression, but couldn’t focus on a single image. They were all blurry snapshots; a barefoot man in a white jacket twirling a yellow flower, instructing her on species identification, reading her books, and challenging her with riddles. They were faded memories, but exceptionally happy ones, and every moment took place on Sparrow Island, the only place that had ever felt like home.
So why had she never returned? Disappearing from her father’s life had been so difficult at ten years old, but she had had no problem staying away for thirty more. Now it seemed strange and wrong. She cringed, knowing it was fear that kept her from returning, the shame of her father’s legacy and the ugly rumors that surrounded him. She could feel tears forming, but then squared her shoulders. No, she wasn’t going to cry. The past was gone and there would be no reconciliation. Yet, this was a chance to return to the island she loved, put her feelings in order and try to forgive. The pain began to subside.
The thought of leaving her husband was strangely pleasant.
In the dining room, Colin was asking Bonacelli how much the island was worth.
“It’s irrelevant, since it cannot be sold. Sparrow Island was leased to Professor Brookes by the Canadian government. It’s paid up for the next seventy-five years.”
“Then there’s no need to fly out there. I know my rights. She doesn’t have to go to any reading.”
Isabelle marched into the room. “Mr. Bonacelli, I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”
“Splendid.” He opened his briefcase on the table next to the roast.
“Hold on a minute,” Colin said hotly.
“It will just be a couple of weeks,” she told him. “Summer break just started and we have no plans.” She turned to the lawyer. “Is the house still livable?”
“Certainly, but it’s in bad disrepair.”
“It has running water? Electricity?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Transportation?”
“A supply boat comes twice a month. There’s no phone, but a two-way radio works most of the time.” He picked up a large envelope. “There is a private plane leaving for Halifax in the morning. You can bring up to four people. A boat will take you to the island as soon as you land, and we can go over the details of the will.”
“You can do that right now,” Colin said, his face mottled red.
“That was not her father’s wishes. I don’t even have the documents with me.”
“Isabelle!” Colin held up a hand and spoke loudly. “This is much too short … We need time … I’ve got a big case now.”
“That’s exactly why it’s a good time to go. You’re busy hunting down a serial killer. Really, you don’t have to come, Colin.”
“Of course I do. You can’t possibly handle this yourself. Besides, who will take care of the kids?”
“They’re coming with me.”
“No way.” Colin shook his head and pointed his finger at the lawyer. “We have a right to see that will and there’s nothing that says we have to go to any island. I’m in law enforcement and I know property rights pretty damn well.”
“You can take it up with the Canadian consulate,” Bonacelli said, thrusting the envelope toward Isabelle. “Now, I have a taxi waiting and I’m late for an appointment. Here are all the papers instructing you where to go. Reservation numbers, directions, and my personal cell phone number. I’m terribly sorry to meet under such an unfortunate circumstance. I knew your father for some years and he spoke of you with great affection.”
Isabelle found comfort in his words, but couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt. “You didn’t tell me how he died.”
“It was an accident.” No one spoke and he did not elaborate. Then Bonacelli started for the door. “Well, good-bye, Mrs. Maguire … Mr. Maguire.”
“Lieutenant.”
The lawyer gave an odd smile and left.
When the door shut, Colin glowered at Isabelle. “So what was he worth? Your father—did he have any money?” He went back to the living room, jittery and grim.
“Just the island. He lost the family fortune years ago, trying to finance his research.”
“Maybe he had money you didn’t know about. Stocks. Jewelry.”
She squinted. “There was a very expensive diamond, but I’m sure he’d have sold it by now.”
“Well, I’m making some calls tomorrow. I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Don’t bother. I’m going.”
He took a threatening step toward her. “You’re not going. End of discussion.”
“I’m going.”
“Isabelle, I said no!”
CHAPTER 2
MONICA LOUNGED IN A CHAIR by the window, delicately stroking her fingers down her flat tummy and lingering over her silver belly-button ring. She was wearing a pair of skintight black leather pants and a matching halter top. Luke was at his desk, sneaking glances at her slight, well-defined body. Feline-shaped green eyes lined in heavy black makeup. Pink pouty lips.
Cat Woman, he thought. She’s Cat Woman.
To Luke, the only thing more beguiling than her beauty was her attitude.
“What the fuck are you doing, anyway?” she said and flipped off the radio.
“Rebuilding a computer.” He pretended to unscrew something behind the monitor.
Monica took a long drag from her cigarette and blew smoke through the window screen. She flicked the ashes onto the ledge, since the ashtray was a couple inches out of reach
, and took a swig from a bottle of brandy she had stolen from a cabinet in the living room. She chased it down with a Starburst Fruit Chew.
Luke could hardly believe she was in his bedroom, just inches from his bed. He wanted to grab his iPhone and snap a picture for the Robotics Club, but it was buried inside a knapsack. Instead, he strained for something witty to say.
“So, uh … how was your last day of school?” It sounded so lame, his eyes shut tight.
Monica blew out a sarcastic breath. “Your school sucks. The girls are phony twats and the guys are pretentious dicks.”
Luke was surprised she knew the word pretentious, but Monica was a walking bundle of contradictions. She was feminine, in a butch kind of way. She could speak fluent French, yet she didn’t know Brooklyn was part of New York City. Her dyed black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which revealed platinum-blond roots that matched her nearly invisible eyebrows. She had a butterfly tattoo on her left ankle and a severed hand giving the finger on her right.
She pulled up the window screen and flicked the burning cigarette into the street.
Luke cleared his throat. “So … how’s your mom?”
“Don’t talk about my mom.”
“Sorry.”
“She’s such a bitch.”
“Really?”
“You wouldn’t get it.” She heaved a long sigh. “Damn, I miss my friends.”
Luke wondered if Monica had any friends. There were no calls in or out of the apartment since she arrived. She didn’t even own a cell phone, which was astounding since every girl Luke knew spent most of the day texting each other. At school, Monica walked around staring at the floor and never sat with anyone at lunch. Trinity was filled with mostly bright, wealthy students who regarded her as street trash. Even Luke never acknowledged her in the hallways when they passed. Not that he was wildly popular either. Sure, he’d made a couple of friends in the Robotics Club, but they never did anything outside of school.
He looked sideways at Monica, cleaning dirt from her fingernails, and wondered if she was a prostitute like her mother. The thought made him feel sad and excited at the same time. Maybe he should have offered to pay for sex weeks ago, instead of trying to win her over with charm. The proposition seemed dangerous. Someone with her kind of experience might laugh at his shortcomings. On the other hand, a knowledgeable partner could give him some pointers. Sort of like a sex tutor.
“Do tutors make good money?” she said.
Luke froze.
“You tutor math and science, right?” She was standing by the dresser, holding his Tutor of the Year award.
He recovered with a sigh. “Yeah. I guess. Like twenty an hour.”
She choked down a laugh. “That sucks.”
“How much do you make?”
Her lips clamped tight and she set the trophy down hard. “I’m not presently employed, but if I was, it would be more than twenty an hour.” She turned the trophy so it faced the wall. “My mom’s taking me to Paris when she gets out. I’m gonna be a famous artist.”
Luke had seen several of her childlike drawings of fruit bowls and couldn’t imagine the French art world welcoming her talent.
She spun all his other trophies around so they faced the wall, then turned all the knobs on his stereo and leafed through his CD collection. “Beatles … Rolling Stones … Elvis?” She rolled her eyes, and pulled out a CD. “Who the hell is Beth Oven?”
“It’s Beethoven.”
“I knew that, Einstein.”
There wasn’t much left on the dresser to mishandle so she stopped in front of a model skyscraper, an intricate, near-perfect replica of the Freedom Tower. Luke had made it in school and entered in a contest for a chance to win a $25,000 scholarship. She flipped a switch that turned the lights in the windows on and off.
“Hey, don’t touch that!”
“Okay. Jeez.” She backed away, arms raised like a criminal. “Ne te mets pas en rogne.”
He watched her flop onto the cot that was Sean’s bed, bouncing on the squeaky springs.
“How do you like sharing a room with your weird brother?”
“He’s not weird.”
“Bet you’d love it if I left. You can’t wait, huh?”
He shrugged. “It’s kind of nice having a girl around.”
Monica studied his expression. “You’re lying.”
“No I’m not.”
“You hate that I’m here.”
“I think you’re nice.” He took a breath and went for it. “You’re pretty too. You don’t need all that makeup.”
She squinted through thick black lashes, trying to decide if that was a compliment or an insult. Then she stood up with a grin and strolled back to the Freedom Tower, turning on the colored spotlights that spun on the ceiling. She pinched the pointed needle.
“Come on, really. It’s a group project.”
“Right. The geek squad.”
“Yeah, I didn’t know I’m a geek. Thanks for pointing it out.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
They were both silent for a moment, then her face softened and she looked at him with an appraising nod. She sauntered to his chair, sliding onto the desk with her tight rump covering his mouse pad. She leaned in close, smelling like cherry Starburst. They were close enough to kiss, and she flicked a stray lock of black hair from his brow, staring into his slightly freckled face that was still boyish but with a strong jawline of approaching manhood.
His heart was pounding so loud he worried she might hear it.
“You’re not so bad.” She nodded. “You’re actually kind of cute. I’ve seen you in your gym clothes and you have pretty good muscles in those shoulders … and those thighs,” she said, glancing down for an instant. “Yeah, I could make out with someone like you.”
Luke’s heart clutched and his cheeks streaked red. After two months of insults Monica was talking about making out. She even mentioned his thighs, which he knew were in fact getting muscular. His palms were beginning to sweat and he felt himself moving closer to the fantasies that kept him awake at night. He imagined the amazed faces of the Robotics Club.
She’s your girlfriend?
There would be a long, steady dating period, and then—
Yeah, we finally did it. She couldn’t stand it anymore. Making out all the time, but not going all the way. It was too stressful for both of us, really.
“Of course it’s your personality that’s the problem. Zero confidence.” She slid off the desk, fell onto the bed, and watched him deflate. “Oh, it’s not your fault. That kind of thing is genetic. Although, I can’t even believe Colin is your dad, he’s like your opposite.”
Luke suddenly wanted her out of the room. He started taking apart the computer with the screwdriver, banging the plastic and making a lot of noise, hoping she’d leave.
Monica stretched on the bed like a cat. “Colin’s a good guy.”
“Not always.” He snuck a glance in her direction. She was doing it again, stroking her flat stomach and gazing at the ceiling. Why did he keep trying? She was obviously a tease and there was no hope of winning her over. He had been trying every day and now he was angry. He threw the screwdriver on the desk and stared at the wall. “Don’t you think it’s weird that my dad invited you to stay with us? Just asked some stranger off the street to live with him?”
“Colin isn’t a stranger. I’ve known him for years. When my mom got busted he didn’t dump me on CPS. He’s like a father figure.”
Luke’s face burned hot, and he muttered, “What, are you screwing him or something?”
There was a flutter of movement, and then a slap hit his face like a wet towel.
“Oww,” he said and held his cheek.
Monica stood over him. Her eyes were moist, but there was only rage in her expression. “I told you, he’s like my dad, you idiot! I don’t screw anyone, you piece of shit. I have a boyfriend for your information.”
She fell back on the bed, turning to t
he wall and wiping her eyes.
“Sorry.” Luke tossed a box of tissues.
“Forget it.” She kicked the box with her foot.
They didn’t speak for a long moment, and then calmness came over her body. She sniffed. “You really think I’m pretty?”
Muffled shouts of anger came from the living room and Luke bolted for the door.
* * *
Colin stood over Isabelle with a dark expression and threw out his arms. “Sure, look at you! Can’t walk a few blocks for cigars, but you want to fly off to some island for a month.”
“Two weeks,” she shouted back.
Luke stepped between his parents, with Monica several paces behind. “What’s going on?”
Isabelle wiped her eyes and Colin backed off. The sight of Luke had a neutralizing effect on both of them.
Isabelle sniffed. “My father passed away.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“He lived on an island, remember?”
“No.”
“Well, he left it to me in his will. And I’ve decided we’re going there for a vacation.”
“You decided,” Colin said.
“It will do us all good. You can come too, Monica.”
“Whatever.”
“You coming, Dad?”
“No, I’m not. But, hey—go ahead, all of you. Take the kids, since I won’t be around. I’ll be doing my job, paying the bills. No need to include me in the discussion.”
“It’s only a couple of weeks.”
“That’s not the point! You didn’t ask me. You just told that lawyer what you want to do, without an ounce of respect to me. He thought I was some jerk.” He paced the floor and stopped in front of Isabelle. “Don’t ever talk to me like that!”
“I can think for myself.”
Colin grabbed her shoulders.
Sean had been silently watching from the couch, but now he sprang forward and ran headfirst into his father’s chest.
Colin stumbled over a potted fern. Anger seized him as he recovered his balance and grabbed the boy by a fistful of shirt. “Cut it out, you freak!”
Sean struggled to get loose.
His father backhanded him across the face.
“Stop it!” Isabelle shouted.
Seeders: A Novel Page 2