by Lea Wait
We talked through the appetizer and our main courses and continued talking while we sipped espresso and shared a piece of chocolate lava cake.
I found myself laughing at his jokes—and looking into his eyes. I hadn’t had a dinner like that in . . . a while.
On the way back to his car, he took my hand. A little sappy, but I liked it. The night was beautiful, and it was getting late. As Patrick had promised, we’d eaten slowly, savoring our food and being together. We were one of the last couples to leave the restaurant.
On the way home Patrick focused on the road and I considered where, if anywhere, this evening might end up.
We returned to Aurora. After all, I’d left my car there.
Patrick saw the flames first.
He slammed on the brakes, almost swerving his car into a tree, and jumped out. “Call 911! I’m going to find Mom!” The roof of the carriage house was burning.
It took me a split second to connect. Then I pulled out my cell and dialed the Haven Harbor Fire Department. They were all volunteers; it would take a few minutes for them to arrive.
The smoke and flames from the roof were increasing.
I got out of the car and watched as one section of the roof collapsed.
Patrick and Skye were inside. Would he get her out? Instinctively, I touched my gold angel pendant. But the angel was meant to keep me safe. Who would help the Wests?
I ran across the street, toward Ob’s house. Ob must have a hose, even if he only had well water.
Before I got to his barn, Ob ran toward me. Skye was with him, dressed only in a long nightgown.
“Skye! Thank goodness. You’re all right!”
“I’m a light sleeper. The smoke woke me. I ran downstairs and out and stupidly left my phone inside. I came over here so Ob could call for help.”
She looked at me as we headed back toward the carriage house. “Where’s Patrick?”
Chapter 42
Tis religion that can give
Sweetest pleasures while we live
Tis religion must supply
Solid comfort when we die.
—Sampler stitched by Mary Muir (1805–1881), age twelve, Alexandria, Virginia, taken from poem attributed to English poet Mary Masters (1694–1771), published in 1733
“Patrick! He went inside the carriage house to find you.”
Skye screamed as she and Ob and I ran faster, back toward the carriage house.
The first firefighters, arriving in pickups and jeeps as well as fire engines, got there when we did. A police car pulled up seconds later.
“There’s a man inside!” I yelled to the first firefighter on the scene. He took one look at me and at Skye, who had stopped screaming and was staring at the burning house. He pulled on his mask and gestured to his partner. They pushed their way through the large door, which had once led to where the horses, carriages, or cars had been housed.
I held my breath, trying not to breathe the smoke, trying not to think about what was happening in the carriage house.
Anna arrived, carrying a bathrobe. She draped it over Skye’s shoulders. “You poor dear. Don’t want no one taking pictures of you looking like that,” she said. Skye didn’t seem to hear her. Her eyes were blank, focused on the house.
Firefighters were pointing their hoses at the roof, which increased the smoke. In the dark the only light was from the moon and the spotlight on one of the fire engines. It was hard to tell whether the water was making a difference.
An ambulance pulled in behind the trucks. The EMTs ran out, checked with the policeman, and then stood. Waiting.
Just as Skye and Ob and Anna and I were.
Another section of the roof crashed in. Had Patrick been under it? What about the two men who’d gone in after him?
Sparks from the fire ignited branches of a tree nearby. It started to smolder.
Finally, through the smoke, we could see figures emerging from the house. The two firefighters were carrying someone.
Skye and I ran toward them, but we were stopped by the policeman. “He needs medical attention. Don’t get in the way.”
Skye sobbed and covered her mouth. I felt in shock. I’d had an almost-romantic evening with a handsome man. How could Patrick be that limp form the EMTs were putting on a stretcher? I put my arm around Skye’s shoulder, but she didn’t seem to feel it. Her body was tight.
“They’ll take him to Haven Harbor Hospital,” I said. “I’ll drive you there.”
Then I realized my car was blocked in by all the emergency vehicles. I ran over to the policeman. “Please, can his mother ride to the hospital in the ambulance? My car’s blocked.”
He hesitated, but then he looked at Skye. “Make it quick, then. In the front, not the back.” Skye nodded and climbed into the front seat of the ambulance. A second or two later, it pulled away, sirens on and lights flashing.
They were gone.
“Was that the actress?” asked the cop.
“Yes. Skye West,” I answered. “The injured man was her son, Patrick.”
I stood watching. The firefighters did their best, but they couldn’t save the carriage house. It burned to the ground.
“Under construction,” I heard someone say. “Maybe flammable materials left inside.”
“Could have been electrical.”
“Nah. Seemed to be centered on the stairway to the second floor. Spread faster than it should.”
“They’ll be calling the arson guys in on this one, for sure.”
When only one truck was left to oversee the carnage and put up barriers so no one would get near the fire site, I was finally able to reach my car. The sun was beginning to come up. It was going to be a beautiful June day.
I drove to the hospital.
Chapter 43
Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see
Thinks what ne’er was, nor is, nor e’er shall be.
—Stitched by Abigail Currier, age nineteen, Newbury, Massachusetts, 1830, taken from Alexander Pope’s (1688–1744) An Essay on Criticism, Part II. (Abigail’s hands were deformed. She pulled every stitch through the linen with her teeth.)
By the time I got to the hospital half the media outlets in Maine had trucks outside. I went in the emergency room door and tried to explain who I was to the guard posted there.
“I’m a friend of the West family! I was with them last night. I just left their home. Please let me in to see Patrick. Or at least to wait with Skye.”
I got nowhere. But when I was walking back to my car through the now-dispersing media, I heard Patrick had been airlifted to the burn center at Mass General.
So he was alive. But, I assumed, not in good shape. Skye would have gone with him.
Gram was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for me when I got home about six-thirty. She took one look at my smoke-marked clothes and hair and sniffed. “You were at that fire. Angel. I’ve been up all night listening to reports. They said someone was hurt in the blaze. I thought . . .” Her face crumpled with relief.
“Oh, Gram,” I said, putting my arms around her. “I’m so sorry. I should have called. Really. I’m fine. Just exhausted and dirty. Skye’s son, Patrick, was the one hurt. At the hospital people are saying he was taken to Boston.”
She nodded against my chest. How could I have forgotten to call her? I hadn’t even told her I was having dinner with Patrick. She’d probably waited dinner for me, too. How could I have done that to her? Yes, I was used to living on my own. But I knew very well I was now home, and Gram kept track of me.
She sat back up. “I called Sarah. I thought you might be with her. Now she’s worried, too. You’d better call her.”
I nodded. “I will. I should never have disappeared.” (That word we seldom used at home.) “I should have let you know where I was.”
“Thank goodness you’re all right.” Gram dried her eyes. “We both need to get some sleep. Mustn’t spend all our time blubbering. I should have known you could take care of yourself.”
Now I’d have to call Sarah. It wouldn’t be a secret I’d spent the evening with Patrick. Nothing more, heaven knew. But Sarah wouldn’t be pleased.
And today? Skye had made appointments for us to see Sam Gould and Linda Zaharee. Should I cancel them?
I put my head down on the kitchen table.
Why couldn’t I do anything right? I’d upset Gram, and no doubt Sarah, too. The two people closest to me in Haven Harbor.
Maybe I should give up and go back to Arizona. There I’d had a job, and my own apartment, and no one cared where I was or when or with whom.
Some days I’d been lonely.
I wanted people to care about me. I did. But sometimes that wasn’t easy.
I picked up my phone and dialed Skye West’s number. She didn’t pick up. I hadn’t thought she would. “Skye, this is Angie. When you get a chance, please let me know how Patrick is doing. And how you are. I’m going to go ahead and talk to Sam and Linda today. I’ll keep in touch. And, please, know I’m praying for you and Patrick.”
Praying. I hadn’t done that in a very long time. This seemed the right time to start again.
Chapter 44
Next unto God dear parents I address
My self to you in humble thankfulness
For all your care and charge on me bestowed
The means of learning unto me allow’d
Go on I pray and let me still pursue
The golden art the vulgar never knew.
—Sampler stitched by Sarah Fabens, age fourteen, Salem, Massachusetts, 1807
I called Sarah. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message. Yes, I was all right. I’d been with the Wests. Skye and Patrick were both now in Boston. (I assumed.)
Then I went to bed. I didn’t even stop to shower. I needed the escape, and rest, of a couple of hours of sleep. I set my alarm for nine. As I’d promised Skye, I was going to keep our appointment with Sam Gould at ten-thirty.
His office was in a big brick building outside Gould’s Shipbuilders and Marine Services, on Camden Harbor. The sky was blue, and a flotilla of sailboats was in the harbor, along with two three-master ships, several lobster boats, and dozens of recreational vessels.
Gould’s specialized in building small yachts. Not the Aristotle Onassis– or Bill Gates–sized vessels (if Gates had one), but the size that said, “I’m important even if you’ve never heard of me.” The kind bought or chartered by people who moved in circles far above Haven Harbor.
The slim young man seated outside Gould’s office was dressed in tan slacks and a pale blue golf shirt. Or yachting shirt. I wasn’t sure of the difference. “May I help you?” he asked in an accent that hadn’t originated Down East.
“Skye West and I have an appointment with Sam Gould at ten-thirty. Ms. West is having some personal problems today. I’m Angela Curtis; I’m keeping her appointment for her.”
He arched his eyebrows at me. “I’ll see if Mr. Gould is still interested in meeting with you.” He shook his finger at me as though I were a disobedient child. “You should have called ahead when Ms. West had a change of plans.”
My mind wanted to say something inappropriate, but I held my tongue. Being rude wouldn’t help me keep the appointment.
How was Patrick? I hadn’t heard from Skye. I didn’t want to hear news about him from an entertainment reporter.
Then I realized . . . no wonder Skye hadn’t called. She didn’t have her telephone. She’d left it in the carriage house. That’s why she’d gone to Ob Winslow’s to call the fire department. She hadn’t gotten my message.
Drat!
Would I be able to reach her at Mass General? I suspected not.
I’d have to wait for her to think of contacting me. And I probably wasn’t high on her priority list right now.
I’d always thought Hollywood people had personal assistants or secretaries, or both. Skye had never mentioned having either, but I suspected that, somewhere, she had people on call who could do her bidding. Today was a day she’d need them.
“Ms. Curtis? Mr. Gould will see you. Briefly.” The simpering young man was back, pointing at the room he’d just left.
If Jasmine Gardener had admired men of a certain type, you couldn’t tell it by looking at Jed Fitch and Sam Gould forty-five years later. Jed was a big man, now given to fat, but (according to Skye) was muscular in his teens. In contrast, Sam Gould was small—not much taller than me. Although his face had the permanent tan of a man who spent many hours outdoors, probably at sea, I wouldn’t have trusted him to have the strength to hoist a sail. He might weigh less than I did.
One thing he and Jed Fitch lacked in common was hair. Sam Gould was not only completely bald, but even his eyebrows were gone. Age? Chemo? I had no idea. But his smile was genuine.
“Ms. Curtis? Welcome. I heard on the news this morning about that horrible fire in Haven Harbor. Tell me, how is Ms. West? I didn’t expect either of you to show up for your appointment this morning.”
“She’s fine. She’s with her son at Mass General,” I said. “I let her know I’d be coming this morning in her place.” Although, of course, she didn’t get the message I had left.
“I’ll be thinking of them both. What a horrible situation. You know, it brought back a lot of memories for me when she called yesterday and told me that she’d bought Aurora. I spent some time there when I was a young man.”
“You knew Jasmine Gardener.”
“Yes, I did.” He looked at me closely. “How did you know that?”
I decided to plunge right in. “Because that’s what Skye wanted to talk to you about today.”
He started to speak, but I interrupted him. “I know, she said she wanted to talk about your building her a boat. And she may indeed want you to do that. I can’t speak about that. But, you see, Skye knew you forty-five years ago.”
He frowned. “I’m sure I would have remembered her.”
“Her name wasn’t Skye West then,” I said, brashly going on ahead. “She was Mary North.”
“Mary!” The name rang a bell. “The Mary who was Jasmine’s friend?”
I nodded. “So you do remember her.”
“Mary North. Skye West. Amazing.” Clearly he remembered Mary. “That certainly explains why she decided to buy Aurora. Mary loved that place. Maybe she loved it more than Jasmine did. Jasmine took it for granted.”
“Mary/Skye is trying to figure out what happened at Aurora that last day, the day Jasmine died. She wanted to ask you what you remembered.”
Sam Gould was quiet. “It’s been a long time. I’ve tried not to think about Jasmine, and what happened that summer. But Mary deserves to know.”
“She said you and Jasmine had dated the previous winter, in New York.”
“Yes. A mutual friend introduced us. I was going to Columbia, and we met at a party and started talking about Maine. Her Maine, of course, was very different from mine. I grew up here in Camden, and was definitely a local, even if I was lucky enough to have a father with a prosperous business. She was a summer visitor. A ‘summer complaint,’ we used to call them.”
I smiled. I hadn’t heard that phrase recently, but I certainly recognized it.
“We started going places together. You could call it dating. We usually were with girls she knew, and some students I knew. Girls in the prep schools were always looking for ‘presentable college men,’ as Jasmine once put it.” He smiled, remembering.
“And you were presentable.”
Sam shrugged. “She must have thought so. Jasmine and I did a lot together that winter. It was a turbulent time, even though it was two years after Columbia students had gone on strike, protesting the Vietnam War and Columbia’s taking over a park the students wanted to keep part of Harlem. That all happened before I was there. I was a sophomore when I met Jasmine. Everyone was against the war
, but I didn’t want to get as involved as some of my friends did. I didn’t protest or march. My father would have had a fit if I’d been arrested, even for a good cause.” He pushed his square glasses back on his nose. “Thinking back, I was kind of a wimp when it came to taking social risks. Jasmine was like me. She just wanted to have fun. If someone was burning a draft card and that meant a party, she was for it. If it meant a demonstration, she’d rather stay home.” He stopped. “We had more in common than I like to admit.”
I decided to be blunt. “When she died, Jasmine was pregnant. Were you her child’s father?”
Sam Gould shifted backward in his chair. “However did you know? . . . Oh. Of course. Mary would have known.”
“And?”
“About a week before she died, Jasmine told me she was pregnant. At first, I didn’t believe her. Then I accused her of sleeping with a Haven Harbor guy she’d been seeing while I was working in Camden. I’ll admit I didn’t take the news well.”
“Jed Fitch?”
“I don’t remember his name. I was angry, and felt betrayed, when she told me about the baby. And I panicked. I told her I’d help to pay for an abortion, so she wouldn’t have to tell her parents.”
“What was her reaction? What did she want to do?”
“I don’t know. She said she could take care of herself— that she didn’t need me. I remember where we were. It was a bright day, and we were down at that little beach in Haven Harbor.”
“Pocket Cove Beach.”
“Right. And she walked off. She said she didn’t even need a ride back to Aurora. She’d get there, and anywhere else she wanted to go, without me. Truthfully, I was relieved.”
“Did you see her at the party Labor Day weekend?”