Luanne Rice

by Summer's Child

  Yes?” Lily said. The whole lobby went silent. Rose clung to her hand, looking up at the strange man approaching.

  “I’m Marisa,” Marisa said.

  “I said Mara,” the man said. Walking through the crowd, he stared at Lily as if he knew her. Not only that, but his eyes were filled with a mixture of victory and disbelief, as if he had come here to get her, but couldn’t quite believe that his quest was over.

  “Lily—don’t say anything,” Anne said, stepping forward. “Don’t say one word. Liam, will you get Jude?”

  But Liam just pressed closer to Lily; she felt his arm come around her shoulder. She had the vaguest of impressions of her friends not knowing whether to smile about Lily and Liam, or be afraid of what was happening.

  “I have this picture,” the man said, handing it to Lily. “And this news clipping.”

  She stared at them. They were artifacts from such a different time and place, but they made her eyes swim with tears. Not so much for the photo, or the content of the news story, but for seeing the date written in that fine handwriting on the upper right-hand corner.

  “I’m Patrick Murphy,” he said. “I’d say ‘Detective Patrick Murphy,’ but I’m actually retired. Your case was my swan song to a long career. Too bad I didn’t manage to solve it.”

  Lily sensed Liam relax, just slightly. Until the man spoke, she realized that Liam might have taken him for the shark, her husband. Still staring at the handwriting, Lily wasn’t quite ready to speak yet.

  “Touché to your friends here,” Patrick Murphy said dryly. “They all recognized you in the picture—how could they not? You haven’t changed one bit. But they stayed cool, acted as if they’d never seen you. Of course, I only got here this afternoon. I’d have worn them down with my relentless questioning.”

  Someone, probably Marlena, snorted.

  “I know about the Nanouks,” he said.

  “Is there a crime in belonging to a club?” Anne asked.

  “No crime,” he said. “No crime in that at all. The only crime that’s been committed was long ago. And it was by someone who never answered for it.”

  Lily cringed. Was there some statute against running away? She knew there had been a huge investigation—many hours of police work, costing lots of money. Lily wondered what sort of penalties there were for disappearing.

  “She didn’t do anything wrong,” Cindy growled. “I’ll kick your ass for saying so, even if you are a retired policeman. You don’t know what she went through—”

  “Cindy,” Anne said evenly.

  “The only crime was committed by the man who beat you up,” Patrick said. He took a step closer. “Beat up his pregnant wife. That’s right—after you disappeared, we treated your house as a crime scene, and we went over every inch with luminol. You should have seen the blood light up like a lightning storm. Everywhere in the kitchen. He must have hurt you, Mara. He must have.”

  “He did,” Lily said. “But he never hit me.”

  “But the blood—”

  “He sometimes knocked me down when he passed by,” she said. “And he’d tell me it was because I was pregnant and clumsy, and he didn’t have enough room. I hit my head, split it open. He said it was an accident.” She paused, an old life coming back. “And I believed him for the longest time …”

  “But not that night?”

  “No,” she said. “There was something different that night. His rage—” She stopped herself, looking down at Rose. “Excuse me, but I can’t talk to you right now. I have to get my daughter to bed.”

  “She’s beautiful,” the red-haired cop said. For some reason, his eyes were glittering.

  “Of course she is,” Marlena said. “She looks just like Lily.”

  “I was going to say,” Patrick Murphy said, “that she looks just like Maeve.”

  “Granny!” Lily gasped.

  “She misses you, Mara. Whatever reasons you had for leaving, she must believe in them mighty hard. Because I never saw such love, and I know that willingly letting you go had to be the hugest sacrifice any grandmother could ever make.”

  “She had nothing to do with it,” Lily said, trembling, not wanting her grandmother to be in trouble.

  “Be that as it may,” the cop said. “She uses that Nanouk eyeglass case you made for her every day. And she finally got around to putting me onto the aquarium membership. You gave it to her—what was that, so she could visit with the beluga whales and imagine seeing you?”

  “She told you?”

  The cop nodded. “And she gave me that clipping—” He pointed to the one Lily held in her hand, the one about the ferry accident in Ard na Mara. “You know what I think?”

  “What?” Lily asked, wrapping her arms around Rose, holding Liam’s hand, knowing that she had to get out of there—out of the inn, away from the cop, away from all this talk about her grandmother. It was all too much—first Rose’s surgery, then being with Liam, now this …

  “That she needed me to find you. She sent me here, Mara.”

  “She wouldn’t do that,” Lily said. “She didn’t even know where I went.”

  “Maybe not,” he said. “But she knew I’d find you. I think she’s done without you long enough. Something’s changed, and she needs you to come home. Think about it, Mara.”

  “Mommy?” Rose asked, sounding distressed and tired. Jessica stood beside her, as if standing guard. Allie, Cindy’s daughter, was just a few feet away, looking equally fierce.

  “My name is Lily,” she said. “Mara fell off the face of the earth. Do you understand? I want it to stay that way. Right now, I have to get my daughter home.”

  “As long as you know I have some more questions for you.”

  Lily nodded, but didn’t say another word. She just let Liam bundle both her and Rose out of the inn, into his truck, and they left the lights of Cape Hawk behind as they drove into the dark, secret cliffs and pines that Lily had for so long—and still—called home.

  But just to be in the presence of a man who had recently seen her grandmother—that sent such a fierce tremble through Lily’s body, she had to hold tight to Rose, just to keep herself together.

  Marisa leaned on the desk, watching Jessica follow Rose out to the porch, to wave goodbye. As she did, all the Nanouks began buzzing.

  “Did you know?”

  “I knew that she had run away from something.”

  “Did you know what she was running from?”

  “I guessed. She had such a hunted look, the minute she arrived in Cape Hawk.”

  “She stumbled the first time she said her name,” Cindy said. “Alison and I talked about it right away. We figured ‘Lily’ was an alias. But it was so obvious she wanted to keep her identity secret, it was just an unspoken thing.”

  “We wouldn’t have dreamed of questioning her about that,” Doreen agreed.

  “But you didn’t even talk about it among yourselves?” Marisa asked.

  Anne shook her head. “Not really. I didn’t figure it out for a long time. She had her hair cut very short when she first got here—almost like a boy. She wore a pair of tortoiseshell glasses at first. She tried to hide her pregnancy with big shirts. But after a time, her hair grew in, and the glasses went. I guess she started feeling safer.”

  “She eventually began to talk about her abusive marriage,” Cindy said to Marisa. “That’s how she began to heal. Opening up to us. We didn’t care about the details of where she was from. Where she came from didn’t matter. We just cared about helping her realize she didn’t deserve the way he’d treated her.”

  “I knew who she was,” Marlena said quietly. “I have a satellite dish, so I got local news from the States. Her story had such power over me—even before she got here. A husband everyone liked, handsome and popular, a beautiful young wife, five feet tall and pregnant out to there, with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen.”

  “Why?” Marisa asked.

  “Because I had to know—were they the perfect couple? O
r was he her murderer? Had he pulled off the perfect crime?”

  “Those are good questions,” Detective Murphy said, overhearing the conversation and walking over. “Very good questions.”

  “Were you the officer in charge?” Marisa asked.

  “I was,” he said. He had bright red hair with a little white around the temples, a freckled face, and a great grin—it surprised Marisa to see him using it. He didn’t seem mad at all, and she had expected he would—having been fooled for so long.

  “What did you think? Did you think the husband killed her?”

  “I was sure of it,” he said.

  “Why?” Marisa asked. He was looking past everyone in the crowd, directly at her—as if they were all alone in the lobby.

  “Because he’s a bad guy.”

  “But how do you know that? Since you just found out that Mara—Lily—is alive, he obviously didn’t kill her; so, how do you know he’s a bad guy?”

  Patrick Murphy just stared at her, as if trying to read her story in her eyes. If only he could, she thought—he’d think her husband was a bad guy too.

  “Because I saw the blood in their kitchen.”

  “But she said he never hit her.”

  Patrick shrugged. “I saw the blood,” he said. “It got there somehow. There was a lot of it, as if she had lain there bleeding for some time. He knocked her down, and if he made it seem accidental—so she would think she was crazy—then he’s even worse. I interviewed a lot of people that first year… . Mara Jameson tried to protect her husband, weave a story about a happy marriage. But it wasn’t happy. And he wasn’t a good person.”

  “Is he—still out there?”

  Patrick nodded. “Yes,” he said.

  Just then Anne began lugging things out from inside her office: the basket of pine pillows for Rose, and the easel holding the placard with Lily and Rose’s pictures on it. She and Marlena set everything up by the desk again. Anne had taken everything down when Patrick had started asking questions, because she knew he’d recognize Lily’s picture.

  Marisa saw Patrick glance at the front desk, piled high with CDs, posters, and photographs of the Celtic bands competing in Cape Hawk’s upcoming Ceili Festival. A small smile touched his lips.

  “What?” Marisa asked.

  “Just that,” Patrick said, gesturing at the pile of CDs. “A world with music like that can’t be all bad.”

  “I played the fiddle when I was young,” Marisa said, staring at the picture of one band, but remembering another: four young women wearing white dresses, holding guitars and fiddles, under the banner Fallen Angels. “I put myself through nursing school playing at Irish bars on Friday nights.”

  “Maybe you’ll find the music again,” he said.

  “Mommy,” Jessica said, coming over. “Allie asked if I can sleep over.”

  “It’s fine with me,” Cindy said.

  Shaken by the conversation, Marisa thanked Patrick Murphy, then walked over to Cindy and Allie to discuss details. Jessica would be welcome to borrow a nightgown—and Cindy would have her home tomorrow by noon. Marisa said yes; she was glad Allie had asked Jessica to spend the night—she wanted to be alone. To think, and to investigate something just a little further.

  She kissed her daughter good night, said goodbye to her friends, and shook Patrick Murphy’s hand. He held on for a fraction of a second too long; Marisa looked up into his eyes, blue eyes shadowed with worry, and she saw a question. He was asking her something she couldn’t begin to answer: she could almost hear the words coming out of his mouth, Is everything okay?

  He wasn’t a cop anymore—he was retired. And this wasn’t—had never been—his jurisdiction, anyway. Marisa opened her mouth, wishing she could ask him a question of her own. But it seemed too presumptuous. It wasn’t his problem. And besides, Marisa had never been one to ask for help.

  “Don’t forget that music,” he called after her.

  So she walked out to her car, got in, and drove past the stone gates of the inn’s parking lot. Starlight sparkled on the onyx bay. Through her open windows, she heard the night birds calling. She thought of their golden eyes, watching her as she drove home. They were like sentries, keeping watch, protecting her from harm. The pine woods closed in around the road, branches interlocking overhead.

  Jessica was settling in to Cape Hawk. Marisa thought of all the good that had happened since they’d arrived here. Love for Rose had driven Jessica into such a frenzy, making the pine pillows and pinecone earrings. Marisa felt so proud to have raised a child capable of such industry, and for such a generous reason.

  She turned on her car stereo. When she heard Spirit’s “Aurora”—Jessica’s favorite—playing, she quickly changed the CD. Another good thing ruined. Marisa drove along, reflecting on how many good things in her life had been spoiled by a person she had loved so much. In spite of Patrick’s words about music, right now the notes filled her with pain.

  Since Jessica wasn’t in the car, Marisa felt freer to let the emotions come—they had been living inside, deep in her heart and bones. They had wakened her at night, shaking her like little earthquakes. Now she began to cry, softly at first, and then she wailed. The cliffs rose high, and the trees muffled her sobs, and she just drove along, letting it all out.

  Seeing Lily with Liam and Rose, having her real name and story out in the open—Marisa longed for that. She missed her mother. There were so many things she had given up, running away from Ted. But right now, it all coalesced into one sweet wish: to see her mother.

  She parked behind the house, opened the car door, and just sat there for a minute. The smell of the woods and sea, spicy with pine and wild berries, salt and verbena, was like summer wine—heady, intoxicating. Marisa breathed it in, knowing that she had come here for a reason. Meeting Lily and the Nanouks had made her stronger.

  Was she strong enough for what she had to do next? She wasn’t sure.

  But she shut the car door behind her, senses alert for anyone who might be hiding in the bushes—no matter how far she went from Boston and Ted, she was still on high vigilance—and walked into her house, alone.

  Once the truth was out, and she realized her friend was in no trouble or danger, Anne managed to find a room for Patrick at the inn. He told her there were no hard feelings, and he told Marlena he’d be sorry to miss whatever she would have made him for breakfast. A Celtic band was playing—the music beautiful and haunting, just the way Patrick liked it.

  “Why don’t you come in and listen for a while?” Anne asked. “You can help me and Jude practice judging the band. We’re getting set for this summer’s Ceili Festival—with a big competition for the best band. How about joining us?”

  Patrick hesitated, but shook his head. He was too keyed up to sit still. Instead, he went to his room, at the far end of the first floor, and threw his bag on the bed. A shower really seemed like the thing to do, so he stood under the spray for a long time—until his nerve endings started returning to normal. He couldn’t get over the fact that he had found Mara—or Lily—he wasn’t sure what to call her now.

  When he got out, he wrapped a towel around his waist and tried Maeve again. Once again, he got the machine. He had to hold himself back from blurting out any number of messages: “Guess what, Maeve—I found your granddaughter. Too bad I was the only one who actually thought she was lost!” Or, “Hi, Maeve—Mara is alive and well. Thanks for keeping it a big secret—at least I got my salary paid while I looked for her.”

  He hung up, threw the phone on the bed. It was hard to feel elated—which he did actually feel—while feeling bitter—which he also actually felt. It was a mixed blessing, to say the least.

  Who could he call? Sandra—he could call her, tell her the crime was now officially solved and, by the way, wasn’t a crime at all. Could he please come home now? He could just hear her laughing at him. A crime that wasn’t even a crime had wrecked their marriage. The great detective had really been on top of his game, all the way.
<
br />   He could call Angelo. Angelo, boat-and dog-sitting for the Probable Cause and Flora, would be sitting up on deck, listening to the Yanks, watching the moon rise over Silver Bay, and enjoying the company of a great, loyal, and loving dog. Angelo might not be the kind of friend to say “I told you so,” but then again, he might. Patrick just didn’t feel he could risk it. He was feeling, in the words of the marriage counselor he’d gone to for a few sessions with Sandra, the sessions during which she’d broken to him her plans to leave him, “fragile.”

  “Fuck fragile,” he said out loud, and started pulling on his pants and shirt. So what if he had blown his marriage and screwed up his career, so what if he was a washed-up retiree who even got fooled—let’s face it, the side trip to Rose Gables was just icing on the cake—by a club of menopausal and premenopausal psychos?

  Patrick Murphy was going to take a walk down to the dock. There would be men and fishing boats there. Probably some of them would have beer. Patrick had been sober for eight years now, but tonight might be a good time to go off the wagon. He could almost feel the liquid relief of alcohol burning down his throat, spreading like hot wire through his body.

  One hand on the doorknob, the phone rang.

  Not his cell—so it couldn’t be Maeve calling back. No, it was the house phone. He picked up, and a woman’s voice spoke.

  “Detective Murphy?”

  “Not officially,” he said wryly. “I’m retired.”

  “Well, then, retired Detective Murphy?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Marisa Taylor. I met you earlier tonight.”

  “Right—the fiddle player. You have a daughter. Is it a joke among all of you—that I saw your nine-year-old and thought she had to be Mara’s?”

  She didn’t reply. Then, “No. It’s not.”

  Patrick didn’t speak for a minute, and in the silence, something clicked in his brain. This wasn’t about him. Mara hadn’t hidden to thwart him. He heard in Marisa’s voice the same fear that he knew had driven Mara to leave home. His stomach tightened.

  “What is it, Marisa?” he asked.

  “There’s something I’d like to show you. I know this isn’t your job, but I’d really like to ask you about it. Would you come over?”