It was strange, Jack thought, to realize that, despite all the drama and disruption, it was still Christmas Eve. It appeared that this tall, silver-haired man had invited Tory to Midnight Mass, and she wanted to go with him. When they asked Jack, it seemed right for him to go, too.
It was the first time he’d been in church since Tory’s memorial, and he couldn’t have imagined anything less similar. Hank knelt in the pew next to Tory as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Jack, feeling awkward and out of place, sat beside them. He gazed at his mother, her shocking red hair brilliant in the flickering candlelight, and listened to the familiar hymns and carols waft around them.
Despite himself, he felt soothed by the scents of incense and candle wax, the familiarity of white choir robes and scarlet vestments, the recitations of the old, old texts. Hank and his mother went to Communion, and though he didn’t, he found himself with his head bowed, soaking in the peaceful atmosphere of the crowded church, beginning to believe the crisis had actually passed.
It had been a weird day from start to finish. He had listened to Tory talking on the phone to some people she had been working for, explaining. When she hung up, she told him word of the attack had already spread through Cannon Beach. Hank had piled Johnson into his car to take him to the clinic for a bath, and Jack sat across from Tory at the disreputable-looking kitchen table, drinking tea and trying to make sense of all that had happened.
Jack could hardly take in that his mother had been living here, in this shabby little place, for so long. “Those people, Mom.” He pointed to the framed photographs that rested on the narrow mantel. “Who are they?”
She gave him an apologetic smile. The red hair, hanging in a ragged fringe over her forehead, made her look like a girl, slightly rakish, a bit punk. If she hadn’t been his mother, he thought ruefully, he might have actually liked it. She said, “I don’t know who they are, sweetheart. I bought them in an antiques store.”
“And this house—it’s nothing like you.”
“That was the idea, actually.”
“I only found you because of the music.” At her raised eyebrows, he pointed to the little CD player resting prominently on the counter. “You were playing music. Butterfly.”
“Oh, my god. You’re right.” She rested her chin on her hands, gazing at him. “Jack, I can’t believe you’re here—that you came all this way alone.”
“You mean, the way you did?”
She laughed, but then she shook a finger at him. “You have to go back to school! I never thought you’d drop out.”
“Well, don’t worry. I haven’t dropped out. I’m on leave.”
“I thought Kate and Chet would keep an eye on you.”
“They did. Or they tried.” He pulled his teacup closer. “You won’t believe this, but I had a hunch, Mom. Almost right after they told me you were—” His voice caught in his throat, and he had to clear it. “They told me you were dead. That they thought you had drowned. But something—I just knew you weren’t.”
“Oh, dear. Not the fey!”
He grinned over the edge of his teacup. “I hope not! I still don’t believe in it. Or, I guess I don’t want to believe in it. But it brought me here.”
She smiled, but she glanced past him at the mound of broken green glass on the coffee table in the cramped living room. “Well. I guess we just have to be grateful.”
They called the Binghams, and each of them spoke, reassuring Kate and Chet they were safe, that details would be forthcoming, and wishing them a merry Christmas. When that was done, Jack spoke the question that was uppermost in his mind. “Mom—this dog—and Hank? I don’t know what to make of any of it. You’ve never done anything like this before.”
“It all just sort of—happened,” she said lamely. “Things have been messy.”
“Hank seems like a good guy. And the dog rocks!” He added, “I gather you’re keeping him.”
She chuckled. “The dog? Or Hank?”
He grinned at her, liking the flush of pink on her thin cheeks. “I’m good with both of them, Mom.”
“Well, the dog is staying, at least. Hank is just a friend.”
Jack let that pass without comment.
While Jack went back to take a bath, Tory turned to the kitchen. There wasn’t much there beyond a carton of cream and a package of frozen fish. She was just despairing over the lack of food in the house when Hank returned with a silky-clean Johnson and a bag of sandwiches and fruit from his own kitchen.
Tory went back to the bedroom to let Jack know food had arrived, and found him sound asleep on her bed. Gently, she closed the door, and stood for a moment with her palm against it, treasuring the sensation of having him under her own roof, however temporarily.
When she turned, she saw Hank watching her with an expression that was hard to read. She went back to meet him, looking up into his dark eyes with a smile. “He’s so grown-up,” she whispered. “I hardly know him.”
“He’s terrific,” Hank said. He put an arm around her shoulders, and led her back to the kitchen. “A wonderful young man who came looking for his lost mother.”
“I feel like we’re starting over,” she said. “I can’t say that where he can hear me, though. He hates it when I talk like a therapist.”
“You’ll just have to talk like a mother, then.”
“Yes.” Tory accepted a sandwich, and laid it on one of the napkins Hank had brought. “He likes you, Hank.”
“I have to be a surprise to him.”
“No more than the dog!” she said, laughing. “I’m supposed to hate dogs.”
“I think you’ve surprised your son in many ways.”
“Yes. I guess I have. I hope that’s a good thing.”
There had been no sign of Ellice. The police called twice to report on their searches of the beach and the surrounding neighborhood. There was a trail to follow, Ellice’s boot prints, marks of Johnson’s paws in pursuit, but they ended at the waterline. The fog dispersed to reveal a pale blue sky above the gray ocean, and the tide came in early in the afternoon to wash away any remaining evidence.
Now, as Tory and Hank and Jack filed out of Midnight Mass with the throng of other people, she found herself pausing at the top of the steps of St. Peter’s. She thought, or she imagined, that she saw a tall figure among the crowd, someone with a brush of sandy hair. She stood on her tiptoes to see better, but whoever she thought she had glimpsed either wasn’t there, or had disappeared into the darkness. She settled back onto her heels, frowning.
“What is it?” Hank asked.
“Nothing,” she told him. “Really—nothing.”
She told herself, as the three of them walked down the steps together, that she could not spend the rest of her life watching for Ellice Gordon. A gentle sensation in her chest, not the flashing pain of her premonitions, but a feeling of warmth and comfort, assured her she wouldn’t need to.
Iris’s open house was a jolly occasion, the Christmas tree blazing with lights, a huge bowl of cranberry punch on the table, and platters of cheese and crackers and Christmas cookies in every shape and color. Tory wore her green dress again, with the black pumps. Jack and Hank both complimented her before she pulled on her battered black down jacket. Iris met them at her door with a raised eyebrow and a terse, cheerful, “Glad you’re in one piece, Paulette!” That brought a surprised glance from Jack, and Hank and Tory both laughed.
Zoe was there a moment later, aglitter with gold bracelets and the longest earrings Tory had ever seen. She embraced Tory, effusing over the drama of the story, then pulled back to look Jack up and down. “Sweet,” she said, flashing her scarlet smile. “A fresh face in town.” Tory made introductions, and Jack was gone a moment later, towed off by a gleeful Zoe.
Tory said, “Iris, I have a lot to tell you, but I don’t think this is a great time.”
Iris shook her head. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Or the next day. It doesn’t matter.” She pressed her cheek to Tory’s, and nodde
d to Hank. “Everybody has a story. Didn’t I say that sometime or other?” A moment later she was off to the kitchen.
Hank said, “Punch or wine?”
“Oh, wine, I think,” Tory said. He nodded, and slipped off through the crowd to the sideboard where bottles and glasses were lined up and waiting. Tory waved to several people she recognized, but when Hank came back, they found a quiet corner to stand together and watch the shifting crowd of people. Tory took a sip of wine, and let her head fall back against the wall.
Hank looked down at her. “Tired?”
Tory smiled up at him. “A bit. You must be, too.”
“A lot happened yesterday.”
“I don’t know what I would have done without you, Hank.”
“I’m glad I was there. But Jack did just fine.”
“Yes.” Tory straightened, looking around for her son. She found him laughing with Zoe behind the Christmas tree. The two of them looked young and silly and happy. A surge of joy swept her, an intense feeling that made her heart flutter. She pressed her free hand to her throat in wonder at the sheer perfection of it.
Hank said quietly, “It’s okay to be happy, Tory. You’ve earned it.”
She turned her head, and found his shoulder very close to her cheek, temptingly close. She let her cheek touch the fabric of his shirt, just for an instant. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
They drank wine, and nibbled at Iris’s excellent food. They sang carols when someone went to the piano and started playing. They chatted and laughed with two of Iris’s refugees, who also seemed to be in a holiday mood.
Jack and Zoe found them, and Jack asked if he could take the Escalade. “There’s another party Zoe wants to go to,” he said. “Hank, do you think you could give Mom a ride home?”
“Of course.”
As they watched the two young people go out the front door, Tory suddenly laughed.
“What?” Hank asked.
“I was going to tell Jack to be careful. Jack, who just drove all the way across the country by himself!”
Hank nodded, smiling. “A very grown-up thing to do.”
“Well, he is twenty. He’s a man, I know, but it’s hard to think of him that way.”
“What mother ever sees her children as adults? Twenty, thirty . . . I don’t think it matters.”
“It matters to the children, I suppose. I wouldn’t know, though. No one worried much over me, not after my grandmother died. Maybe that’s why I fussed over Jack so much.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you just love him.”
She sighed. “Let’s go, Hank, shall we? It’s a nice party, but I have a lot of thinking to do in the next few days.”
They found their hostess and said good night. Iris said, “Call me, Paulette.”
Tory assured her she would. As Hank went to retrieve her coat, she said, “Iris, I don’t want you to be shocked when I tell you my story.”
“Not easy to shock me,” Iris said comfortably. “But you can try.”
On an impulse, Tory hugged her, receiving a strong embrace in return before she and Hank went out into the starlit darkness.
At the cottage, Tory let Johnson out into the yard. “I never knew,” she said lightly to Hank, “that he could jump the fence. He could have done it a hundred times before yesterday.”
Hank leaned against the doorjamb, the light from the living room outlining his lanky form. “He didn’t want to, Tory. He’s your dog now. I’ve seen it before with rescue dogs—when they find the right person, they get attached quickly.”
“I feel a bit guilty about it—but I’m really glad you didn’t find his people.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I stopped trying,” he said. “I withdrew the search request.”
She sighed, watching the dog make his circuit of the little yard. She gazed beyond him, out into the darkness of the beach, where the glimmer of the ocean was just visible in the starlight. When she felt Hank’s touch on her arm, she turned, and saw he was holding out a package. It was rectangular and rather heavy, wrapped in white tissue and tied with silver ribbon.
“It’s a present for you,” he said. “And you’re not to say you didn’t get me one, because that doesn’t matter. I only give presents when the right one jumps out at me, and this one did.”
She took the gift, smiling because she had been going to say exactly that. “I didn’t shop. I didn’t expect to celebrate Christmas at all.”
“I know.”
Johnson trotted back toward them, and they went inside and closed the door against the chilly night air. Tory took off the down jacket, saying, “I never want to see this thing again!” Hank chuckled, and she settled onto the easy chair to unwrap his gift.
It was a biography of Giacomo Puccini. The cover showed the composer in middle age, handsome, mustached, his dark eyes gazing out of the portrait, a burning cigarette between his lips.
“Hank, it’s perfect!”
He was sprawled on the too-small sofa, his long legs stuck under the little coffee table. The bits of the Murano glass paperweight still lay there, scooped into a pile. “I knew you’d like it,” he said.
“I’ve never read his biography, isn’t that strange? I think I know all his music. Thanks so much—I’m going to enjoy this very much.”
Hank yawned. “You’re most welcome, and merry Christmas.”
“You should go and get some rest.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I think I’ll wait until Jack comes back.”
“Oh, Hank,” she said with a laugh. “That could be awfully late! Those two looked like they were ready to have fun.”
He turned to face her, his dark eyes narrowing. “Tory,” he said. “No one knows where that woman is. I don’t think you should be alone.”
Tory traced the photograph of Puccini with her finger. “I think I know where she is,” she said. She paused for a moment. “I think she’s dead, Hank. I think she went into the water.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I have a feeling.”
He shook his head doubtfully. “A feeling,” he said.
“It’s what I do,” she said, and grinned at him. “It really is! You’ll have to get used to it.”
He pushed himself to his feet, bent, and kissed her cheek. His lips were warm and smooth against her skin, and she found herself wishing he would do it again. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow,” he said. “You and Jack take the day. Talk things through.”
“That would be a good idea. We have to make some plans.”
Tory stood up to walk him to the door. She took his arm, and he looked down at her with his gentle smile. She felt the strength of his arm under her hand, the warmth of his body so close to her, and she wanted to say something, explain to him how she felt. There were no words, and so, in silence, she lifted her face to his.
This time he kissed her lips, firmly, confidently, and she pressed close to him. She felt as if a barrier between them had been shattered, crumbled to dust, and there was nothing more to hold her back.
He whispered against her hair, “Don’t make plans without me. Please.”
She put her arms around his neck, and kissed him again before she pulled back to look into his eyes. “Don’t worry, Hank,” she murmured. “I couldn’t make plans without you. Not anymore.”
33
Per sognie e per chimere e per castelli
in aria, l’anima ho milionaria.
For dreams and visions and castles in the air,
I have the soul of a millionaire.
—Roldolfo, La Bohème, Act One
Tory dreamed one more time of the girl who had died. The dream didn’t wake her as the others had done, but rather seemed to go on and on through the night, an endless vision of a small stone church and a coffin draped in evergreen branches resting before the altar. She seemed to be watching from some vantage point near the ceiling of the church, seeing the dark coats, the black hats with their drooping brims and bits of veil that tremb
led throughout the funeral Mass. Women sobbed, with handkerchiefs pressed to their faces. Men hung their heads, holding their hats in their hands. It was a gloomy scene, and very still, with none of the drama that had so colored her earlier dreams.
Tory, the watcher, felt nothing as she watched the mourners file past the coffin, touching it with their hands as they passed. She was neither sad nor happy, neither bitter nor glad. She was just—nothing. Neutral. An observer.
She didn’t wake until the chilly December sunshine slanted through her bedroom window, and Johnson stirred and yawned. The only remnant of the dream was the scent of incense that seemed to linger around her, though she knew that couldn’t be.
Tory slipped out from under the covers and pulled on the zippered sweatshirt. She shushed Johnson, hoping Jack, in his sleeping bag on the floor in the living room, wouldn’t wake. Still in her stocking feet, she let the dog out into the yard, and sat on the cold front step to watch him make his usual circuit.
It was odd, she thought, as she watched her breath cloud in the cold air. All the dreams had been strange, but this one was different. It felt—conclusive. Like an ending. Perhaps the end of her crisis had something to do with that.
Or perhaps it didn’t.
She had stayed up too late, reading the book Hank had given her. Propped up on pillows in bed, she had meant to skim through the book first, and go back later to the beginning to savor the details of Puccini’s life, the triumphs and failures, the gossipy anecdotes and documented scandals. When she happened upon the story of Doria Manfredi, however, she slowed her pace. She read every detail, all the way through, then read it a second time, her scalp prickling uneasily at the resonance.
The Glass Butterfly Page 36