The reality shocked her—the child wouldn’t be a baby now, but a nine-year-old child.
“So much lost time,” Maeve said. “When I think about the years I’ve spent without her. I raised her, you know.”
“I know, Maeve. After her parents died in the ferry accident.”
“In Ireland. Such a poetic place and poetic way to die. That’s what I told myself at the time. But then I’d hold Mara, crying herself to sleep every night, and I realized—there’s no poetic way to die.”
“Nope.”
“That’s right. I’m talking to an old homicide cop, aren’t I?”
“Major Crime Squad,” he said.
“Did I ever tell you that you remind me of a darling old friend of mine, an Irish poet, Johnny Moore?”
“Every time I see you. I still can’t figure out why.”
“Because you write letters to a girl you believe to be dead,” Maeve said. “That’s why. Come on. Come inside, and I’ll pour us some iced tea. Clara might stop by with some of her sugar cookies, if I tell her you’re here.”
“Sugar cookies,” Patrick said, holding out his hand to pull Maeve up. As he did, his eyes fell upon the old bench. Made of wrought iron by the same person who’d done the wishing-well arch, it was weathering only slightly better—it was forged of thicker iron, and Maeve had been more fastidious, painting it every year with Rustoleum. She followed Patrick’s gaze, looking at the bench.
There was room for four people to sit on it. The slatted seat sagged slightly in the middle; the arms and legs were ornate, decorated with Victorian curlicues. But it was the back that was the great work of art. There were four scenes depicted—of a boy and girl sitting beneath the same tree.
“Your four-seasons bench,” he said. “Winter, spring, summer, and fall.”
“Yes,” Maeve said, lifting the yellow boots even as he took hold of the watering can, then linking her arm with his and walking down the narrow stone path that led to her front door. “My father had it made for my mother, by the same ironworker who made the Sea Garden arch. It symbolizes the passage of time.”
The passage of time: since Mara’s disappearance, since Patrick had started looking for her. Young people these days were always amazed by things that lasted. And she certainly included Patrick—who was probably about forty-five—in the category of “young.” This was a throwaway society; Maeve and Clara said it to each other all the time. They were both dismayed by all the plastic wrapping everything came in. Not to mention the way rich young people would buy up lovely, gracious cottages, tear them down, and build the most unspeakable monstrosities. Even here in Hubbard’s Point, the practice was rampant.
“Do you want to hear my theory?” Maeve asked.
“Of course,” he said as she opened the front door and led him inside. The kitchen was cooled by shade and the sea breeze blowing through all the open windows.
“In the future, and not so far in the future, the properties that will be worth the most are cottages like this one. Lovely, small houses, built to nestle into the land. People with money are ruining everything—cutting down all the old trees, knocking down the small houses, and building their stupid showplaces.”
“They think they’re increasing the value of their real estate.”
“Darling, I’ve heard about what’s happened to the boatyard. I’m so sorry. But yes, it’s the exact same phenomenon. After a while, when people tire of their big air-conditioned, fancy-hot-tubbed houses, they’ll all yearn for places like this. That fit the shoreline so beautifully. I think of Mara coming home and not even recognizing the place, with all the ugly houses going up.”
“She’d recognize the place,” he said. “She’d know it anywhere.”
“It was in her heart,” Maeve said, opening the refrigerator, taking out the big pitcher of iced tea. Sprigs of mint from the garden floated on top, and she strained the tea into tall Kentucky Derby glasses. Then she poured a bowl of water for Flora, and the dog slurped thirstily.
“Tell me about her,” Patrick said.
“You know everything there is to know about my granddaughter,” Maeve said. “Probably as much as I do.”
“No one knows as much as you, not when it comes to Mara,” Patrick said. “Come on—tell me something I don’t know about her.”
Maeve frowned. What could, or should, she tell him? Leading him from the gray and yellow kitchen, past the old table with one end built into the wall, with the bright flowers and figures painted on the wood by Maeve herself long before such things were in decorating fashion—around the corner into the living room, with its sweeping views of Long Island Sound, Maeve’s mind was racing with thoughts and memories.
Mara as a baby, as a three-year-old learning to swim, as a six-year-old constantly reading, as a teenager resisting the boys who fell in love with her as often as the east wind blew, as a successful needlework designer, as a young woman married to Edward Hunter.
“Which story should I tell you?” she asked. “From which part of her life?”
“Tell me the one that will help me find her,” he said.
“Don’t you think that if I could have, I already would have?” she asked, smiling sadly as he admitted—without coming right out and saying it—that he didn’t really believe she was dead. Or didn’t want to …
“I know I ask you this every time. But have you ever gotten anything that might be a sign from her?” he asked, trying a different tack. “A phone call, where the person hung up? Or a postcard without a signature? Or …”
“No.”
“Anything odd, out of the ordinary, that gave you pause?”
“They undercharged me at the Shell station,” she said.
Patrick rolled his eyes. Flora trotted over to lie panting at his feet. “Anything else? Along the lines of mistaken identity?”
“Mistaken identity?”
“Well, where something really unexpected occurred, and you thought there had to be some mistake. As if maybe it was meant for someone else.”
“Well, last fall,” Maeve said, her heart flipping as his words opened a door—an opportunity. She spoke slowly, to not betray emotions. “Late fall, I think. Just before the holidays.”
“What was it?” Patrick asked.
“I got a phone call from the membership department at the Mystic Aquarium. The woman was so lovely and kind. She told me that she had been given my name by someone who thought I might be interested in joining, and wanted to offer me a membership.”
From Patrick’s expression, Maeve knew that this was not the sort of thing he’d been hoping for. But Maeve’s pulse was racing—she felt a thread of electricity running up her spine, as if a ghost or angel had just flown into the room.
“Well, they know you live on the water,” Patrick said. “They probably thought you’d like to go see the fish, or whatever they have there.”
“Maybe,” Maeve said. “I asked the woman who had given her my name, and she said the person wanted to be anonymous.”
“Maybe she was just trying to sell you a membership.”
“No. It was a gift. The person had bought it for me.”
Now she had his attention. He raised his eyebrows, thinking. “A gift?”
“I thought it might have been Clara—she loves museums, and Mystic Seaport, and the aquarium. But it wasn’t her. Then I thought it had to be one of my old students. I was always making them observe nature.”
“Huh. Have you enjoyed the membership?”
“I’ve never gone,” Maeve said. “Why go to an aquarium, when I have all this right out my window?” She gazed out at the blue Sound, waves pushing in from the east. The two granite islands, North and South Brother, lay half a mile offshore; she remembered the time Mara had wanted to swim to them, and Maeve had rowed alongside, to keep her safe.
“Right,” Patrick said. “Why would you?”
Maeve stared at him.
They heard the kitchen door open—the screen door needed oil. She knew that
it was Clara. She lived right next door, and she had probably spotted Patrick in the garden. Maeve could almost smell the sugar cookies.
“It’s me,” Clara called.
“We’re in here,” Maeve called back.
“But hey,” Patrick said. “Humor me, will you? Do you have that woman’s name? The one who called?”
“Somewhere, probably,” Maeve said, sliding over on the sofa to make room for Clara. Flora stood at attention, tongue lolling out, and focused on the plate of cookies. Everyone said hello; Patrick stood to shake Clara’s hand, and Maeve lifted her face to kiss her best friend. Of course she remembered the woman’s name; she knew exactly where she had put the paper where she’d written it down.
“I brought some cookies, as this lovely dog can see,” Clara said. “To go with Maeve’s mint tea.”
“I’m a lucky guy,” Patrick said. “You behave yourself, Flora.”
“It almost feels like a party,” Clara said, slipping Flora a piece of cookie.
“A birthday party,” Maeve said, feeling that electric shiver again as she went to get the name—it was on the membership materials that she had shoved into a middle shelf on her bookcase, right between Islands in the Stream and Yeats’s Collected Poems.
Two of her favorite books.
Again, electricity zinged up her spine. She almost wondered whether a thunderstorm was on the way.
Chapter 10
The helicopter had so little room inside, Rose had to go without her mother. By the time the boat reached the dock at Port Blaise, and the helicopter landed to pick her up, Rose felt so much better. Not perfect, not even just okay, but no longer fainting and blue. She was awake, and she could hear, and she didn’t like hearing that she had to fly alone to the hospital in Melbourne.
“Mommy,” she said, lifting the oxygen mask so she could talk. “Come with me.”
“There’s no space, honey,” her mother said, crouching right beside the gurney, where Rose lay flat, ready to be loaded onto the waiting helicopter. “But don’t worry—I’ll get in a car right now and drive down to Melbourne. I’ll be there in an hour. Two at the most.”
“Don’t speed,” Rose warned her.
“No,” her mother said, and Rose was so relieved to see her smile.
“We’ll take good care of her,” the helicopter nurse said to her mother. They began to lift Rose, but her mother wouldn’t let go of her hand. Jessica’s mother, who had helped Rose on the boat, stood right there, waving at Rose. Rose’s mother still clutched her hand. Finally, Dr. Neill stepped forward and gently put his good hand on Rose’s mother’s, pulling it away from Rose’s.
“Let her get going,” he said. “The sooner she does, the sooner you can see her in Melbourne.” He was staring straight at Rose as he spoke; she saw the spark in his eyes, and it made her smile, even though she was a little scared of the roaring helicopter blades. Dr. Neill knew what Rose was thinking—she was positive of it.
“Don’t be worried, Rose,” her mother said. “These people will take care of you, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Rose nodded and smiled wide. She held her lips in place, her teeth showing, so her mother would remember the smile. Then she gave her mother the thumbs-up she always gave when she was being wheeled into surgery. Her mother gave it back, with an equally brave grin on her face.
“Bye, Rosie! We love you, Rose!” called Jessica and her mother and all the Nanouk Girls. The oxygen mask was back over Rose’s face, so she couldn’t shout back. Dr. Neill was standing right by her mother, towering over her because he was so tall, and Rose had one fleeting impression of him as a mountain. Sturdy, steady, rock-fast. She liked thinking of him that way, and it brought the smile back to her face.
Things began to happen fast.
The EMTs made sure she was strapped in; the nurse hooked her up to the blood pressure cuff and began listening with her stethoscope. The pilot was talking on the radio. Now an EMT was on another radio, calling to the hospital. Rose had been through it all before. The ground crew slammed the helicopter door, and when she couldn’t see her mother anymore, Rose closed her eyes.
Her mother had looked so worried, and Rose knew it was because she thought Rose was scared. But Rose wasn’t. She had had a wonderful birthday, but now she was tired.
The fear her mother had seen in her eyes had actually been worry for her—her mother. Her mother always did so much. She worked so hard at the shop, and she tried to always make Rose happy and more healthy. As the helicopter began to lift—straight up, making Rose’s heart drop, as if it could stay on the ground forever, with her mother and Dr. Neill and all the people she loved—Rose clenched her fists and thought of her mother.
She knew that as much as her own heart wanted to stay on the ground, her mother’s heart was rising like the helicopter, flying right here with Rose. Rose could feel it, as if she held her mother’s heart in her own hands. She worried about her mother’s worry. When Rose thought about her illness, it wasn’t herself that she felt bad for—it was her mother.
Jessica’s mother had a healthy daughter; why couldn’t Rose’s? Rose thought back a few days, to when she had been teasing Jessica about the evil wizard that lived in the hills. Just thinking of him made the splinter in her heart hurt. It was ice, sharp as a needle.
She thought of the fairy tales her mother had read when she was little. Evil wizards put spells on people. But Rose didn’t think that was what had happened. She thought that she must have done something bad. When she was a baby, or a very little girl. Her mother had never told her, but something to drive her father away forever. It left her with a broken heart, and an evil wizard instead of a father.
Her thoughts spun. She breathed in the oxygen, staring into the strange nurse’s eyes. When she went through blue spells, she wasn’t always sure what was real and what wasn’t, what was a dream and what was awake.
There was no evil wizard—her mother had chided her for teasing Jessica. But, then, why did Rose feel that there was? Instead of a good father?
She forced herself to breathe, and to think of her mother. She wished that she would get well, so her mother wouldn’t have to worry. They could do normal things together—running and playing, planning for next Christmas without wondering whether she would have to go back into the hospital, might need more surgery. Rose’s condition made everything so up-in-the-air.
Just like flying in a helicopter.
This was real. It wasn’t a dream. She wasn’t being flown on devil wings to the mountain wizard’s demon cave. She wasn’t being kidnapped by anyone. Her father hadn’t sent people to find her. No, no. She made herself stay awake and know where she was. The beat of the helicopter engine felt strong and comforting.
Real, real, she told herself. Going to the hospital to get better. But still, up in the air.
One minute she was at her birthday party, seeing Nanny, laughing with her friends, and the next she was in a helicopter, with a stranger listening to her heart and trying to smile, being flown to the hospital in Melbourne.
Up in the air. Rose was up in the air, but her heart was down on the ground, with her mother. It was all true, and all real.
Lily was numb, moving by rote. Anne and Marlena gathered up Rose’s presents, boxed up the cake—and the candles, not yet lit and blown out—and promised to get them to Lily’s house. Lily had only the vaguest sense of hearing Anne say she’d keep the cake in the inn’s freezer till Rose came home.
She knew she should go home and pack a bag. From experience, she knew that trips to the hospital were usually longer than not, and once there she would need her toothbrush and the book she was reading and a few changes of clothes. But she couldn’t take the time to drive all the way back home. She had to rent a car, right here in Port Blaise, and drive straight to the hospital.
“Would you like me to come with you?” Marisa asked.
“No, but you were wonderful on the boat. Thank you so much,” Lily said.
They held ha
nds, looking into each other’s eyes. Lily saw something more awake than she had previously—as if by helping Rose, Marisa had connected with the deepest part of herself, long ignored in the heat of escape.
“I don’t know much about Melbourne Hospital,” Marisa said, “being so new here. But the chopper staff seemed really competent and attentive.”
“They are, and the hospital’s good. For palliative care, anyway,” Lily said. “Rose has been there often. Marisa—I saw you listening to her belly. What did you hear?”
“Fluid,” Marisa said hesitantly. “And Lily, her liver and kidneys felt enlarged.”
Lily heard the information and stored it instantly in the part of her brain that wouldn’t touch or talk to her heart—not, at least, while she was making the long drive from here to Melbourne. She couldn’t let herself start crying now, or she might drive off the road, and that wouldn’t do. Rose needed her too much.
She and Marisa hugged, and she felt surprised by how tight her new friend held on—as if she didn’t want to let her go.
“What is it?” Lily asked.
“Just—thank you. For getting it.”
“I get it because I’ve been there myself,” Lily said softly. “The world is divided into two kinds of people. Those who have loved men like your husband and mine, and those who haven’t. Ending a relationship is one thing. But recovering from a marriage to a sociopath is another. I’ll see you when we get back, okay? I want to hear more of your story, and tell you mine.”
“Thank you—give our love to Rose.”
“I will,” Lily said.
Lily was gearing up for the drive—she’d have to ask one of the Coast Guard guys for a ride to the mall, a few miles away, where she was 90 percent sure she had seen a car rental place—patting her pockets to make sure she had her house keys for when she got back, and checking her shoulder bag, over and over, just reassuring herself that she had it with her, hadn’t left it on the boat. She knew she was in a familiar sort of shock—the one she entered every time Rose went to the hospital.
Luanne Rice Page 10