Luanne Rice

by Summer's Child

  “The poor woman,” Anne murmured. Then she gave Patrick directions to Marlena’s, pointed him on the way, and ran back into the inn. Camille tried to call her over as she rushed by, but Anne didn’t even stop or say a word. She just tore into the lobby.

  Jessica and Marisa had piled the pine pillows behind the front desk. Anne’s pulse was speeding as she picked up the phone, looking left and right for Marisa. Where had she gone? Anne had to find her. But first, she dialed Marlena’s number and prayed she would be home.

  “Hello?” Marlena said.

  “Thank God you’re there!” Anne said. “I’ve just sent a guest over, to stay at your house.”

  “A guest? What are you talking about? I don’t take guests!”

  “You do now. It’s a Nanouk imperative—it’s for the sisterhood. Listen, Mar, you have to give him a room, and then force him to stay for lunch. I don’t care what you give him, but don’t let him come back to the inn until I tell you it’s okay.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A retired cop. Working on an old case—a missing-persons case, Marlena. He’s going to show you a picture, and just try not to drop your teeth when you look at it. Just tell him she looks vaguely familiar—keep him interested enough talking to you, so he doesn’t come back here till I’ve had the chance to talk to our girl. Marisa, where are you? She was just here, two seconds ago—”

  “How should I keep him occupied? Should I bed him?”

  “If you have to.”

  “Mata Hari used to do that for the cause,” Marlena said. And then she gasped, and through the phone wire came the sound of a car door slamming. “He’s here,” she said. “And he’s a redhead. Very cute—although I was only joking about bedding him. I think.”

  “Just give him something good for lunch,” Anne said, trying to get her breath. “Remember now—for the Nanouks.”

  “For the Nanouks,” Marlena said, and hung up.

  Chapter 23

  When the time came for Rose to be discharged from the hospital, all the nurses lined up, wearing the gold-and-silver-painted hemlock pinecone earrings Jessica had made for them, her second batch, after Melbourne. They all wished Rose a good summer, telling her they would miss her, but not to hurry back too soon.

  Rose thanked them all for everything, and so did Liam and Lily, and they climbed into the taxi for the airport. Rose kept wanting to reach up with her left hand—trying to keep her heart safe—but Dr. Neill kept gently touching her hand to remind her not to. She thought of his arm, knew that if he had gotten used to something so foreign to his body, she could get used to new habits too.

  On the way to the airport, she couldn’t help noticing that her mother and Dr. Neill kept looking at each other. Rose had seen Anne and Jude doing that before. It made her happy, but at the same time, scared. What if Dr. Neill was just being nice because Rose had been so sick? What if now that she was getting well, he went back to hiding out in his boat and office and house on the hill, far from everyone, including Rose?

  And what if Rose’s mother got busy at her shop again, frowning at everyone except Rose and the Nanouk Girls of the Frozen North? Sometimes Rose wanted to remind her mother that the club was supposed to be for escaping the Frozen North—not for building up icebergs, snow walls, and igloos as a fortress all around them.

  So this new way of looking at each other—Rose’s mother and Dr. Neill—was making her very nervous. Suddenly, she remembered something.

  “Is Nanny going home too?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dr. Neill said. “It will be really interesting to observe, after you head back to Cape Hawk.”

  “Have you checked her on the computer today?” Rose asked.

  “No, not yet,” he said. “We can do that now… .”

  As he was opening his computer case, trying not to jostle Rose, Rose held her breath. She didn’t know why, but she felt scared and worried. What if Dr. Neill couldn’t locate Nanny on the screen? What if she didn’t return home? Rose thought of all the dangers in Boston Harbor—all those ships with their big propellers.

  “Hmm,” Dr. Neill said after a minute.

  “What’s wrong?” Rose asked, feeling cold inside.

  “I don’t see her,” he said.

  “Liam?” her mother asked.

  He was silent a few more seconds, tapping keys. Rose gazed at the screen, and she saw all the purple lights. Suddenly she felt terrified, as if she knew for sure that Nanny had been eaten by a shark.

  “Maybe expand the field?” her mother asked, leaning over Rose, as if she cared just as much as Rose did about Nanny—and no one cared as much as Rose did about Nanny.

  “That’s it,” he said, sounding excited at first. “There she is—” He touched her green dot with his finger. “But … she’s going in the wrong direction.”

  “What do you mean?” Rose asked, still unable to make sense of all the blinking lights, the curvy shape of the shoreline.

  “She’s going south,” Liam said. “She’s already far from Boston—see? She’s rounded Cape Cod, and she’s swimming toward Martha’s Vineyard.”

  “But belugas need cold water,” Rose said, remembering from her birthday cruise. “They live in the Arctic, and never go past Cape Hawk in the summer!”

  “It’s very rare,” Liam said.

  “I thought she came to Boston for me,” Rose said, her eyes filling. Suddenly her heart ached—but not her real heart, the one that was just operated on, but the other heart, the one inside, the one no one could ever really see.

  “She did,” Liam said. “I’m so sure of it, Rose, I’d bet anything.”

  “Then why is she going the other way, away from home? Away from us?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, hugging her. “Maybe she’s confused. Sometimes a change in temperature can cause disorientation. We’ll watch her for the rest of the day—I’ll bet she turns herself around.”

  “She has to,” Rose said, hot tears running down her cheeks. “If she gets lost because she came to find me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  “Honey,” her mother said. “Haven’t we convinced you to stop blaming yourself about such big things? Please, Rose—”

  “I think it’s time,” Dr. Neill said, “to tell you that story.”

  “The story,” she said out loud. When her mother looked confused, she said, “The sea hawk and the black cat! You were going to tell me that story,” she said. “Two days ago, when the PT lady walked in.”

  “Yes, you were,” her mother said, remembering.

  “It was after you asked me how such different creatures can be friends. A little girl and a white whale. Or a sea hawk and a black cat.”

  “Tell us,” Rose said.

  “In the world of biology,” he said. “Some animals are compatible, and others are natural enemies. Others might just be neutral—living in close proximity, with basic respect. Which, in the animal world, means that they don’t eat or attack each other.”

  “Easier said than done,” her mother murmured, staring out the window.

  “Well, there was this sea hawk. He was an old guy, with tattered old feathers, and a fishhook caught in his left wing. He had once flown into a school of herring, and one of the fishermen accidentally caught him. The line was so taut and hard, and the tug broke the hawk’s wing.

  “All the young hawks used to laugh at him. They ignored him, didn’t make him a part of their crowd. So he flew away, all by himself, up to the low, dark cliffs—you know, the ones at the top of the fjord, where the trees grow so thick, the light hardly ever shines.

  “He was a pretty good sea hawk, though. He figured out how to fish, even with his broken wing. He let things heal—his bones and tendons, his feathers. And he’d sit on the banks of the fjord, and his timing got so good, he could just grab silver herring and salmon out of the water without even having to spread his wings.

  “None of the other hawks ever went up there. The fjord was terrible and beautiful, but it was
his alone. He had no competition for the fish that swam by. Until one day he noticed a black cat, sitting on the opposite bank.

  “She was so glossy—at first he thought she was a seal. Her fur was black and smooth, and she had green eyes brighter than any star. But they weren’t happy eyes. They were eyes that had seen danger—cruelty and brutality and starvation. She was a skinny cat, but she caught enough fish to feed an army of cats.

  “So one day, the sea hawk watched her. Sea hawks have good eyes, even when they have broken wings. He saw her stalk through the brush, carrying a huge fish. When foxes and badgers tried to take it from her, she would fight them off. No animal was going to get her fish—and the sea hawk discovered why.”

  “Why?” Rose asked. The cab went into the tunnel beneath Boston Harbor.

  “Because she had a kitten. This tiny, skinny black kitten with green eyes just as bright as her mother’s.” Dr. Neill looked across Rose’s head at her mother, and Rose could see him swallow before continuing his story. “The sea hawk wasn’t used to seeing any other animal fish his stretch of the fjord. He had gotten used to his independence, and to being on his own.

  “But something about her made him glad she was there. He began to look forward to seeing her fish the water, on the other side. He found himself feeling lonely on the days she didn’t show up. And when her kitten got big enough and began coming to the water to fish, well, it made him very happy.”

  “The kitten fished?”

  “Yes. Because the mother taught her so well.”

  “Is this a story about animals who think they shouldn’t be friends being friends?” Rose asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Like you and Nanny.”

  “It’s not about me and Nanny,” Rose said, looking at Dr. Neill very hard.

  “No?”

  Rose shook her head.

  “I think it is, Rose,” her mother said.

  “No,” she said stubbornly. “The hawk had a broken wing, right?”

  “Right,” Dr. Neill said.

  “Did the kitten have funny, flattened paws?” Rose asked, holding up her hands, wiggling her clubbed fingers.

  “As a matter of fact, she did.”

  Rose nodded. She glanced up at her mother.

  “Black cat,” Rose said, reaching up to touch her mother’s glossy black hair. Then she turned to Dr. Neill and touched his prosthesis. She didn’t even bother to say, “Broken wing.”

  Instead, as the cab pulled up at Logan Airport, Rose just sighed. Dr. Neill had told a nice story, but it wasn’t going to turn Nanny around. Rose felt so glad to be feeling better—that the operation was a success, and she was on her way home to spend the summer. But what did it matter, if Nanny was lost, swimming south? Couldn’t everything work out, just for once?

  Gone were the days of his youth, Patrick thought. All-night police work, when his mind stayed alert, and his body stayed strong, and his vision was sharp and didn’t miss a thing. He remembered twenty-four-hour stakeouts, and long-distance chases, and investigations that meant visiting jurisdictions in twelve states and Canada. But last night’s run—from Silver Bay, up I-95 to the Maine Turnpike, and straight on to Cape Hawk—forget it. He was only forty-six, but he felt like an old man.

  After “checking in” to Marlena Talbot’s “guesthouse”—Patrick was pretty sure that paying guests weren’t a regular thing here—he followed Marlena upstairs to a very nice bedroom, thanked her, and lay down for a quick nap.

  Three hours later, after sleeping through lunch and most of the afternoon, Patrick found himself in Marlena’s dining room. He rubbed his eyes, reached for the glass of Coke she’d poured, sipped and looked around. Driving all night had completely done him in, and now he felt jet-lagged, paying the price.

  “Seriously,” he said. “I can just head down to the inn for dinner.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it!” she said. “It’s part of the charm of my establishment—you get a home-cooked meal. Can the inn provide that? I think not!”

  “Your establishment,” he said, taking a bigger slug of Coke, looking around. Never had he seen a homier place. She had knickknacks everywhere—personal things, like clay paperweights obviously made by children or grandchildren, needlepoint covers on every chair seat, samplers on the wall, and a pile of square pillows that all smelled of pine and said “Bring Rose Home.”

  “Yes,” she said. “My establishment. It’s not easy, working in the shadow of the Cape Hawk Inn. With all their central booking equipment and the whale-watch boats, it’s not easy to compete with them. All I have is my home cooking to attract my share of the tourist dollar.”

  “I’m sure,” he said, checking his watch. Why hadn’t that woman from the inn called about Camille Neill?

  Marlena was in the kitchen, bustling around. Patrick pulled out the newspaper article and Mara’s picture. Marlena gazed at it, stone-faced. She read the story, took in the dark hair, the bright smile, the fact that she’d been pregnant when she went missing. No, she said: she couldn’t recall seeing her here in Cape Hawk.

  “Look,” Patrick said, “I’m sure your cooking is delicious, but I’d better get over to the inn. It’s dinnertime there, and I have to ask some questions. I hope Camille Neill hasn’t left—”

  “Left? She never leaves. She owns the place, and runs it with an iron glove. Please don’t go, Detective Murphy. What will Camille think, if you tell her you were staying at Rose Gables and I didn’t feed you? Speaking of Rose Gables, would you like to know how my house got its name? Did you notice those white roses growing over the trellis as you came in? Well, I planted and trained them. Now, I know that this is a modest, humble little abode…”

  “Marlena,” he said.

  “Not at all grand, not what you would expect of a house called Rose Gables, but it was the first home of my own. The very first place I ever bought on my own. And I did it, after the divorce.”

  “That’s a good story, but—”

  “And I got so much support from all my friends, my darling friends the Nanouks.”

  “The what?” he asked, wondering why that name sounded so familiar.

  Marlena opened and closed the oven door. He heard the air escaping as she opened a bag of chips. The lid of a jar was unscrewed. A moment later, she entered the dining room bearing a tray. On it was an embroidered cloth, a vase holding a single white rose, and a plate covered by a second embroidered cloth.

  Whipping off the cloth, Marlena said, “Voilà!”

  Patrick stared down at his dinner: a grilled cheese sandwich, pickles, and some barbecue potato chips.

  “Wow,” he said. Was she kidding? For the first time, he wondered whether he had wandered into the Nova Scotia version of the Bates Motel. Or maybe she was like the crazy lady in Misery. The sandwich looked good, so he ate it—quickly. Maybe she really was proud of her grilled cheese sandwiches … but he thought the protestations about her food versus the inn’s were a little odd.

  “Very good,” he said. “Thank you. Okay, I’m going to head over to the inn now—”

  “Would you like to listen to the baseball game?” she asked, sounding manic and a little desperate. “Or would you like me to play the recorder? I like it very much—I played it as a child and have been practicing ever since my divorce. Oh—or I could show you my needlework! I know most men don’t care about—”

  Before he could stop her, she had whipped out a bag of sewing, or something. He looked at the mesh, the yarn, the whatever. Marlena’s needlework reminded him of something, but he didn’t know what. Even less, he wasn’t sure why he opened his mouth and said, “What did you say earlier? The Nanouks? What are they?”

  “A tribe of ancient warrior women,” she said, her face ashen. “From right here in Nova Scotia. They dressed in the aurora borealis, seaweed, and mother-of-pearl, and they hunted the cliffs and bays, and they survived every ice age that came their way.”

  “And they’ve helped you recover from your divorce?” he asked, staring at her n
eedlework, suddenly getting a very clear picture as the music played.

  “Yes,” she said defiantly.

  “You’re lying to me, aren’t you, Marlena?”

  “I am not lying. They helped me.”

  “You know Mara Jameson, don’t you?” he asked.

  Marlena Talbot didn’t reply, but her reddening face and the angry tears in her eyes told him all he needed to know. Patrick Murphy grabbed the picture and his car keys, and he stalked out of Rose Gables.

  When he got to his car, he grabbed for his cell phone. There was one person he had to call—to tell her how close he was to tracking down Mara. Someone who had known where she was all along—he was now sure of it. Hearing the word “Nanouk” made it all so clear. He dialed the number he knew by heart, ready to rip into her—but she didn’t pick up, and he got the machine instead.

  “Hello,” said the woman’s voice. “I’m not here right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number, I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

  From the very first time he’d heard it, Patrick had told Maeve she should change her message. She should have a man’s voice on the machine—or at least say “we” instead of “I’m not here right now.” But just try getting Maeve to do anything.

  “Maeve,” he said. “It’s Patrick Murphy. There’s something I have to say to you. I’ll call you later. But—I may have good news soon,” he said. And he hung up, thinking that, of course, Maeve already knew that.

  Chapter 24

  Secret Agent had been checking every day, trying to beat back the tide of trouble caused by White Dawn. The whole message board was filled with threads titled “Secret Agent Stole My Money!” or things like that. Ever since White Dawn’s post about checking the NOAA weather map, the whole SpiritTown message board had realized that Secret Agent’s sister lived many miles south of the storm track and that her house couldn’t possibly have been destroyed—or even badly damaged. And everyone wanted their money back.

  Many thoughts ran through Secret Agent’s mind. How could he have missed checking the path of Hurricane Catherina? He thought of all the people who were homeless, injured, just waiting for aid from the disaster relief fund. Why couldn’t he have gotten better information?