Luanne Rice

by Summer's Child

  But Jude wasn’t steering at all. The Tecumseh II was definitely not under command. Drifting slowly, sideways, miles from any land, but alarming nonetheless. Liam clicked on the radio. He made a quick call.

  “Calling Tecumseh II—Jude, you there?”

  The speaker was silent. One hundred yards away, the seventy-four-foot whale boat rode the current. Broadside to Liam, it reflected sunlight back at him. Squinting, he lifted the binoculars to his eyes and saw everyone on deck rushing to the wheelhouse. Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the throttle down and sped across the water.

  Liam’s heart was pounding faster the closer he got. He knew it was something bad, something terrible. From his own history, he knew that the worst cries for help were the silent ones. Rose’s birthday, he thought. It was so sunny for her special day, her whale-watch cruise, and Nanny had come back. Weren’t those signs? Didn’t they count?

  Then he thought of Connor. The warm water, the best swimming they’d had all summer … the amazing number of whales, all swimming so close to the harbor … the fact that Liam and Jude had counted twenty-five shooting stars the night before. How could something go wrong on the day after two boys had seen twenty-five shooting stars? Or on a little girl’s ninth birthday?

  Now he was close, circling the bigger boat in his Zodiac, calling on the radio again. “Pick up, Jude, someone, tell me what’s going on. Tell me, someone. Who’s with Lily and Rose? Is someone with them?” He wasn’t getting an answer, and he wasn’t waiting. He backtracked in a half-circle to the stern, and he looked up and wondered how he was going to climb aboard with one arm and no ladder.

  Lily knew there was no time to blame herself, but that’s the first thing she did: You shouldn’t have waited so long for the surgery, you should have overridden the surgeon’s recommendations, you knew she was having more blue spells, you knew a whale-watch boat trip was risky… .

  Everything seemed to happen so fast.

  Jude yelled her name, and she knew. She had been drinking pink punch with Marisa—festive bubbly punch, ginger ale mixed with raspberry juice, Rose’s favorite birthday drink, dark pink like her favorite rambling roses—when she heard her name.

  The look on Anne’s face: oh my God.

  Jude’s voice—it was the panic in his voice that got them both. Lily dropped the punch. The glass tumbled from her hand, as if her bones had just turned to jelly, couldn’t hold on for anything. But her legs worked. Her front covered with Rose’s birthday punch, she ran through the main salon. The Nanouk Girls lined her way—she had the fleeting impression of mouths open. Spectators on the marathon route, cheering their friend to the finish line. Only this wasn’t cheering.

  Rose was in Jude’s arms, against his chest. He was trying to lay her on the chart table, but she was so blue and delicate, he hesitated, as if he was afraid that the hard Plexiglas surface would bruise her or hurt her, as if he just didn’t know what to do, where to go with her.

  “Is she breathing?” Anne asked, because Lily couldn’t. Lily was already with Rose, nearly crawling into Jude’s arms herself, climbing aboard with her daughter, ear to her small mouth, the blue lips, darker than the rest of her skin. Lily prayed to feel the tiniest breath—just the small moist warmth of one breath. Her very skin was attuned to Rose’s life—the hairs on her cheek were alive, alert for the exhalation.

  “She’s not,” Lily heard herself say, her voice high and raw.

  “What do we do?” Jude said.

  “You’re the captain, you know first aid,” Anne said. “Calm down, Jude.”

  First aid? Lily thought. She nearly fell apart at the words. After all her baby had been through. First aid had been given before the end of her first week of life. And so many times since. Rose had fought and fought …

  “She has a pulse,” Jude said, frowning as he felt Rose’s wrist.

  “Okay, that’s what we need to hear,” Anne said.

  In the background, from the main salon, Lily heard a ruckus. The girls were screaming, and one of them cried, “It’s a pirate!”

  The girls felt Rose’s trauma, Lily knew—it was radiating through the party, and they all picked up on it, and suddenly everyone was sobbing. Lily clung to her daughter, grabbing her out of Jude’s arms. If he didn’t know first aid, well, Lily did, and she’d do it herself. She was already breathing into Rose’s mouth, trying to remember how to count, one, two, one, no … Tasting the salt of her own tears, the sweetness of punch from Rose’s lips, hearing the girls cry, and scream the name Captain Hook.

  Oh, and that name made Lily start to cry herself. The first tears had been nothing, but now they turned into sobs. Liam was here, of course he was. She felt his good hand on her shoulder. Jude was explaining, talking fast and sharply, describing how Rose was steering the boat and then suddenly how she just collapsed. And Anne was shushing him, saying the details didn’t matter but acting fast did.

  Liam said, “Drive, Jude.”

  “But where?”

  “Get us to Port Blaise.”

  “No!” Lily said. “That’s too far! She won’t make it. Take us to the dock, call the ambulance, we’ll go to the medical center—Dr. Mead knows her, that’s the best thing—”

  “Port Blaise has a heliport, Lily. We can call the rescue helicopter right now.”

  “The Coast Guard,” Anne said. “I’m calling right now.”

  Lily felt the push of the engines, throwing her off-balance as the Tecumseh II picked up speed. She was the “fast cat” in the Neill family fleet, and she was flying now, up on her plane, hydroplaning across the bay.

  “But in the meantime,” Lily tried to say. These people loved her and Rose, she had no doubt of that. But they hadn’t spent nine years raising a child with cardiac defects. They didn’t understand that now was what mattered—not getting to the heliport, flying to the medical center. Rose was still and cold. Lily wept with panic.

  Liam’s arm was prying them apart.

  “No!” Lily shrieked.

  “Come here,” he said roughly. “Anne,” he said, asking for help.

  Now Anne was in on it—all the Nanouk Girls, pulling Lily away from Rose. Lily stretched like elastic—her hands wouldn’t let go, her fingertips stuck to Rose’s skin like the pads of a tree frog, suction cups holding tight with a death grip. She heard Marlena’s voice, and Cindy’s, Doreen’s… .

  “Come on, love,” Marlena said. “She’s in the best hands now—”

  “She is, sweetheart,” Anne said. “Let it happen.”

  And that made Lily look up and see—that Rose was in the best hands… .

  Marisa had stepped forward. The pain in her eyes was gone. Her posture and attitude as a wounded bird, abused woman, had disappeared. She stood tall and confident, one hand resting gently on Rose’s chest, the other sliding down her frail left arm, fingers finding the pulse. She nodded.

  Beside Marisa, Liam fumbled with the first-aid bag, the emergency oxygen tank, using his one good hand to slide the green strap around Rose’s head, the clear plastic mask over her mouth.

  Held up by the Nanouk Girls, Lily almost felt the oxygen flowing directly into her own mouth and nose, into her bloodstream. Her lungs filled—the air was so clear and clean, and it was bringing life back to all the dead parts. Lily felt Marlena rubbing her back, Cindy holding her left hand, Anne clasping her right hand. The other girls were there, fanned out like a team, like Lily and Rose’s team. Mothers and daughters; while Marisa treated Rose, Jessica stood glued to Lily’s right leg. All the Nanouk Girls were here, silently watching. They were witnesses to this birthday, and this lifesaving. Lily shuddered with the terror that comes with a certain kind of joy, too primal to name.

  “She’s been through so much already,” Lily cried.

  “And she’ll just keep going,” Anne said, almost sternly.

  “What if …”

  No one even replied to the question Lily couldn’t bring herself to ask. Instead they all just stood together as the boat
went faster and faster. All these mothers and daughters, best friends in this cold climate, pulling together for Lily and Rose.

  “May the sea cradle you, the angels protect you,” Jessica whispered.

  “What’s that?” Allie asked.

  “My father’s Irish prayer,” Jessica replied.

  Marisa ministered to the patient, gently and with strength. Like a seasoned pediatric cardiac nurse, she turned her onto her side, helping her into the knees-to-chest position. Bending over, whispering in Rose’s ear, counting the beats of her heart as she took her pulse, eyes on her watch.

  Now she put her ear to Rose’s chest, and when she stood up, she was frowning. She palpated Rose’s side, spending time. Liam held the oxygen mask, adjusting the flow. Jude was talking on the SSB to the Coast Guard, but when he hit the big questions he couldn’t answer, he handed the mike to Marisa, who said, “The patient is nine years old, female … Tetralogy of Fallot … scheduled for reparative surgery, but … yes … pulmonary stenosis … enlarged liver. Kidneys. The surgery was scheduled for Boston, but I don’t think …”

  Lily heard Marisa’s words, but suddenly they were lost to her, a blur. Because Liam had turned—halfway around, to meet Lily’s eyes with a great big smile, nodding, there at Rose, who had opened her eyes, her bright-green, alive, birthday-girl eyes. And Rose was looking around, and because Liam knew there was only one person Rose wanted to see, he stepped aside—still holding the mask—so Rose could look straight at her mother.

  Chapter 9

  Maeve Jameson sat in her garden, on the ancient wrought-iron bench, under the shade of the sea oaks. The smell of roses filled the salt air, and the warmth of summer lifted from the rocky earth. A soft breeze blew, rustling the leaves overhead. Her eyes were closed, and to anyone who might happen to pass by, she looked as if she were resting, at peace. That was far from the truth.

  Down by the rocks, the tide was rising. She heard the waves splashing higher and higher. It was impossible to not think back, see that young girl playing in the water, swimming like a seal with her brown hair so sleek and smooth. She loved to dive, as deep as she could go, and come up with handfuls of shells and seaweed. Maeve had sat on this very bench, watching her dive and swim for hours on end.

  When she heard the car door slam, she felt she could take a breath. She’d been waiting for this visit. It had to happen—it did every year. But this year, it felt different. Maeve’s heart felt heavy, as if another layer of hope had been torn off.

  “Top of the morning, Maeve,” came the voice. She could barely open her eyes to look at him. But when she did, she smiled. Couldn’t help herself. He still looked as young and handsome and eager as the young cop who had stood on her doorstep so many years ago. His dog, a black Lab, ran straight past Maeve, down to the water’s edge.

  “It’s not morning,” she said. “It’s three in the afternoon.”

  “You going to start busting me before I even walk through your garden gates?”

  “Darling, those garden gates were taken down years ago. Come on, enter the hallowed ground.” She watched him walk past the wishing well—with its curved, wrought-iron arch, emblazoned with Sea Garden—the name Mara had given the house when she was just a little girl. Patrick stole a glance at the letters—spidery now, after all these years of salt air wearing away the iron.

  “Hallowed ground,” he said, standing before her.

  “Sea Garden,” she said. “Still waiting for the young maid to return.”

  “Maeve …”

  “Darling—you’re going to tell me to be realistic, aren’t you? I can hear it in your tone. Nine years have passed… .”

  “It does no good to hold out hope when we both know …”

  “Both know what, dear? What do we actually know? That she lived here, that she disappeared, that her baby would be nine years old today—or yesterday, or tomorrow … I don’t know her exact birthday.”

  “We don’t know that she had a birthday,” Patrick said. “It’s most likely she didn’t.”

  “Then why do you come to see me every year? Why do you keep asking questions, as if you still expect to find her?”

  Patrick blushed, his freckled skin turning as red as sunburn. His blue eyes glinted in the sun. Sometimes Maeve thought he regretted telling her about aspects of his investigation, his sleepless nights, the way his marriage had broken up over his obsession with the case. Maeve had tried, as gently as possible, to impress upon him the craziness—there was no other word for it—of trying, even though he was now retired, to solve the case of a missing woman he honestly, deep in his heart, believed to be dead.

  Maeve just didn’t find it credible.

  “What does Angelo have to say about this?” she asked.

  He let out a low whistle, shaking his head till the red hair fell right into his blue eyes. “Low blow, Maeve,” he said.

  “Didn’t you tell me that Angelo was your friend, the one who tries to convince you you’re chasing rainbows, still looking for my granddaughter?”

  “First of all, I’m not looking for her. The case is closed, and besides—I’m retired. Second of all, Angelo is an asshole.”

  “Really? I thought he was your best friend.”

  Patrick nodded. He was standing directly in front of Maeve, and she angled her position so his head would block the sun from shining in her eyes.

  “Yeah, he is,” he said. “But when it comes to solving cases, he doesn’t know shit. Flora! Get away from that goddamned seaweed! You know she’s going to have my car smelling like low tide, don’t you?”

  Maeve beamed. She didn’t know why it tickled her so much, to have Patrick Murphy swear like this. Normally she didn’t go in much for profanity. She supposed she liked it because it seemed to reflect the passion he felt for keeping the dream of Mara alive—in spite of what he was telling her out of one side of his mouth.

  “Dogs love my rocks. Now, back to Angelo.”

  “He doesn’t know squat about my cases.”

  “Well, he’s not in law enforcement, is he? What would he know, when you get right down to it?”

  “Not much,” Patrick said. “What’ve you got there?”

  “These?” she asked, holding up her hot-pink garden gloves. But he was shaking his head, pointing.

  “That,” he said.

  “Oh,” Maeve said. “I was just watering the roses.”

  “That’s one old watering can,” Patrick said. “Yellow. Kind of unusual.”

  “Hmm,” Maeve said, pushing her dark glasses down from the top of her head, where they had been resting. She thought now would be a good time. The last thing she wanted was for this young man to see any eyes filling up with tears. She coughed, for good measure, kicking the yellow boots under the bench. Choosing her moments, Flora abandoned the tidal pools and sea wrack to come over for a pat. She nosed the boots while she was at it.

  “What are those?” he asked, watching his dog lick the rubber boots.

  “Enough,” she said—to Patrick, not Flora.

  “Maeve.”

  “Does the expression ‘keep the home fires burning’ mean nothing to you? What kind of sentimental Irishman are you, anyway?”

  “A realistic one.”

  “Ah, yes. You gritty Irish cops would never understand anything like hoping a long-lost granddaughter and great-grandchild would come home again. You’re too busy chasing after ghosts.”

  “She was wearing those boots and using that watering can the day she disappeared,” he said, and he’d lost every speck of color from his face.

  “She was.”

  “I should never have brought them back to you from the evidence room. Get rid of them, Maeve, for your own sake.”

  “Never.”

  “Maeve, we found flecks of blood on the toe. You want to live with those boots, and what happened to make Mara walk away from them?”

  “Mara pricked her thumb on a thorn,” Maeve said sharply. She couldn’t stand to think about blood and Mara�
�or any hurt, any pain, any of the terrible scenarios imagined by the police at the time. She couldn’t bear it. She set her jaw, letting Patrick know the subject was closed.

  “Any word from what’s-his-face?” Patrick asked.

  “Mr. Wonderful,” Maeve said.

  “Why is it neither of us can stand to say his name?”

  Maeve just gave Patrick her best deadpan gaze. Words couldn’t express the depth of hatred she harbored for Edward Hunter; even thinking his name caused her stomach to tighten and her face to wizen. She let her left hand trail down beneath the seat, her fingers closing around the top of one of the yellow boots. It comforted her, to hold on to something Mara had once worn. Made Mara feel real and alive.

  “He writes or calls on the big occasions. Holidays, her birthday …”

  “What do you say to him?”

  “I act, darling. I thank him and ask about his career, his ‘family.’ ” She had to put the word—such a precious word at that, “family,” in invisible quotation marks when using it in conjunction with Edward and his latest victims—he had had Mara declared dead, so that he could marry one of his brokerage clients. “I’ve learned to keep my enemy close. One never knows what he might reveal. He’s living in …”

  “Boston.”

  Maeve blinked with surprise. “No—he’s been living in Weston, with his new wife.”

  “She left him last spring,” Patrick said, enjoying giving her the news. “They had their house on the market, and as soon as it sold, she took off on him. Didn’t get much of the money, from what I hear. Most of it was in escrow, but she just cut her losses, took her kid, and went away. He’ll end up with all her money—what he hasn’t already taken from her. Women do that with Edward. They give up everything they have to escape him.”

  Maeve had no retort to that. She just let her fingers trail around and around the rim of the boot. Oh, if only Mara would choose today as the day … to return from wherever she was hiding, just walk through the garden gate that Maeve had torn down so many years ago now … just walk in, carrying her baby.