She took her suitcase and a bag of groceries out of the trunk and dumped them at the back door. She didn’t go inside but took the path between the houses to the beach, scuffing through the sand, her head bowed, letting her shoes fill up with the heavy grains and her hair blow wild in the salt air.
She knew exactly when to look up. The perfect moment for that first full view. The blues of the water reaching up to the sky. The white sand stretching to each side in a graceful curve, like a smile.
When she was a kid, she would throw her arms open to the sea, let it take her troubles away. No matter how sad or angry or hurt she’d been, the waves could wash the feeling away. Could make her problems seem not so bad.
Margaux was older and wiser now and knew the waves couldn’t fix what was wrong in her life, but at least they might give her some temporary respite.
There was one family on the beach, clustered beneath a bright umbrella near the empty lifeguard station. Farther along, two figures crawled over the rock jetty looking for crabs.
She sat down on the porch steps, closed her eyes, and lifted her face to the sun. Spots danced on her eyelids, the waves murmured in her ears. She concentrated on breathing and gradually her body began to relax. The knots in her shoulders eased. Her stomach gave up its churning, and she drifted back to a place where each day was a promise, and joy was just waking up to the cries of the gulls.
She lost track of time, maybe she dozed. When she opened her eyes again, the sky had turned from blue to mauve and the sun sat like a fiery fat beach ball on the horizon. The crabbers were gone. The family gathered up towels and their cooler and trudged up the beach toward home.
A solitary gull strutted near the water’s edge, his bill jackhammering the sand in search of food. A wave rolled in; he swooped into the sky and was swallowed by the dusk.
Margaux was alone.
Lights began to come on in the condominium complex two coves away where her mother lived. Was Jude sitting on her balcony watching the sunset? Could she see Margaux? And what would she think if she did?
Would her failure become one of those moments printed indelibly on the memory, linked forever with these steps, this porch. Posing for pictures in her white First Communion dress. Chasing sand crabs that Danny had dumped on Jude’s lap to proudly show off his catch. Louis’s proposal. Dad, Jude, and her sitting together the Sunday after Danny died. And sitting with her mother, years later, when Henry Sullivan followed his son.
From deep inside the house the telephone rang. Resolutely, Margaux stood and climbed the steps to the porch. A rectangle of wood hung from a nail beneath the porch light; its black letters spelled out The Sullivans. She lifted the sign. Paint flakes drifted to the floor; a spider, disturbed from sleep, scuttled beneath the cedar shakes. She extracted the house key and let the sign fall back into place.
The lock was stiff and she had to lean against the door to open it. But when she stepped over the threshold, she stopped, suddenly terrified. What had she been thinking? How could she come back like this—jobless, husbandless, childless. How could she face Jude with her boundless compassion and unfailing optimism.
The phone continued to ring. She groped her way across the dark foyer and picked up the receiver.
“You’re there,” said Jude’s familiar voice.
“I’m here.”
“I saw you from my terrace. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I would have aired the house.”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
“Are you free for dinner?”
“Sure, but let’s eat here.”
“Deke’s? I can pick up food and be there in an hour.”
“Deke’s would be great.” Margaux replaced the receiver and closed her eyes. She didn’t think clam rolls were exactly what she needed to salvage her life. But maybe her mother could help.
Jude slid the glass doors shut and called Deke’s Clam Shack.
“Holy cow,” said Deke O’Halloran. “The only reason you’d be eating fried is if Mags was home.”
“She’s home,” Jude said, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. It wasn’t like Margaux to show up unannounced. It wasn’t like her to show up at all. She hadn’t been back in years.
“Twenty minutes,” Deke said. “I’ll put on a fresh batch.”
Jude hung up. When she’d seen the figure sitting on the front steps of the beach house and recognized her daughter, her heart leapt to her throat. Something it hadn’t done in a long while.
Margaux never told her the real reason she and Louis had stopped coming to the shore, though Jude suspected it had nothing to do with how busy she was. She’d just about given up hope of them coming again, but she kept the house clean anyway—just in case. Jude had been disappointed but not surprised when Margaux called to say she’d filed for divorce. She didn’t say why, only that things weren’t working and that she could handle it.
Jude was proud of Margaux’s strength. She had always known what she wanted, worked hard to get there. But that strength had become brittle in the last few years and Jude was worried. Strength ebbed and flowed, but brittle would break.
Well, whatever it was, they would see it through together. She glanced at the clock. Time to go. And on her way, she’d stop by the church to light a candle to the saints; her daughter had come home.
Margaux sat at the kitchen table, running her bare toes across the old linoleum floor, scratched from years of sandy feet. She was tired, she wanted to be alone, to stay in this cozy old kitchen while its dark maple cabinets and wallpaper of watering cans and ivy created a cocoon of safety around her.
But she knew that was impossible and when she heard the familiar beep-beep of Jude’s Citroën as it pulled into the drive, she dragged herself from the chair and went to meet her.
Jude bustled through the door, carrying a greasy paper bag and a six-pack of Budweiser. She was trim and fit, a few inches shorter than Margaux with the same auburn red hair. She was sixty-two but she had a new hairstyle that made her look years younger. She put down her parcels and opened her arms. Margaux walked into a hug. Her mother’s cologne mingled with the smell of fresh fried clams, and the aroma was enough to make her cry.
Jude gave her a squeeze. “Let’s eat. Deke’ll kill me if the clams get cold. He put on a fresh batch just for you.”
Margaux pulled away. “You told him I was here?”
“Well, of course.” Jude frowned. “Shouldn’t I—”
“You have a new hairdo. It looks great.”
“Whole town does. Even Dottie, if you can believe that. New girl. From Brooklyn of all places. Bought the old Cut ’n Curl across from the marina. And a sheer genius.” She smiled at her own joke. “By the way, Dottie said she better see you at the diner first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Dottie knows, too?” She’d hoped to hibernate for a while, but now that was impossible. Dottie’s Diner was the local gossip exchange.
Jude opened the bag and placed two foil-wrapped paper cartons on the table. “I was supposed to meet her for girls’ night. Had to call to tell her I wasn’t coming.” She flipped the tab of one can, then stopped and peered at Margaux. “Is there a reason you don’t want people to know you’re here?”
“No.” Margaux sat down at the table.
Jude sat down, too, but she didn’t take her eyes off Margaux. “Is something wrong?”
Margaux shook her head, nodded.
Jude handed her a napkin. “Eat. Then we’ll talk. There’s nothing in this world that can’t be fixed.”
Margaux picked up her clam roll. It was so stuffed with succulent clams that a handful fell out when she bit into the roll.
They ate in silence. When Margaux had scooped up the last clam bit, Jude put down her beer. “Now tell me what’s happened.”
Margaux took a breath but the words stuck in her throat. She
took another breath. “In a nutshell. While I was climbing the ladder of haute couture, becoming famous and building a nest egg so we could start a family, Louis stole everything. Savings, investments, everything, then dropped out of sight. I’ve lost the apartment, my business—”
“What? No. This can’t be.”
“He—” Margaux’s voice cracked; a tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. She sucked in air. “They repossessed everything. Patterns, machines, fabric, even the drafting paper. I only had enough credit left to pay my staff.
“And my designs. They shoved them into cardboard boxes and took them away. What could the bank possibly want with them?”
She felt a hand on her shoulder and she turned into her mother and held on for dear life. “I’ve lost everything. How could Louis do this?”
And how could she have been so stupid not to notice before it was too late?
“Why didn’t you call me? I could have transferred funds, sold the condo.”
“It was over before I knew what was happening. Besides, I couldn’t ask you to bail me out. It wouldn’t have done any good. We’re talking about a couple million.”
Jude pulled away abruptly. “I’ll call a lawyer I know. We’ll stop this.”
“I have a lawyer. She had the court freeze whatever assets were left. There wasn’t much. She has a forensic accountant trying to trace the money, but they may never find it, if he still has it.”
Margaux groped for a napkin. “You hear about this kind of thing all the time and you think, That could never happen to me. I’d never be so stupid. And look.” She held out her hands. “Everything I dreamed of, worked for. Gone. I was on the brink of making it big, and now, zip, nada, nothing.” The thin control she’d been holding on to for the last few weeks broke and she cried, sobbing in big gulps and not caring. “I would have given him half—money, property—more than half. I only wanted one thing and he took that, too.”
Jude pushed a wild strand of hair from Margaux’s cheek. “What?”
“My future.”
“Oh, Margaux. It only seems that way now. You were right to come home.”
Margaux sniffed. “Where else could I go?” She hated herself for sounding so needy, so incapable, but she’d used up every reservoir of strength just getting through the last two months.
“No place else in the world. You’ve got family and friends and a home. You’ll create more designs, make more money, and someday you’ll meet someone to love and have a family with.”
“Mom, I’m thirty-four.”
“Thirty-four is nothing. Women have children into their forties these days.”
“There won’t be anyone else.”
“Of course there will be. It’s early days yet.”
“There wasn’t for you.”
“No.” Jude smiled. “You’re exhausted. Things will look better when you’ve rested. Why don’t you come stay at the condo with me tonight?”
“Thanks, but—” Margaux shook her head.
“Or . . . I could stay here.”
“No. I just need to sleep. You go on home. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll be fine. I promise.”
Jude gathered up their trash. “Okay, but call me if you change your mind. Doesn’t matter what time. I mean it.”
“I will.” Margaux walked her to the car.
Jude kissed her good night. “Dottie’s for waffles. I’ll pick you up at nine.”
“Mom, I can’t.”
“Sure you can. You don’t want to hurt Dottie’s feelings and you need to eat.”
Margaux gave in. It took more than she had to resist. By tomorrow she’d be able to hold herself together. For a while anyway.
Jude beeped as she rounded the curve and Margaux went inside. She was numb with shock, with pain, with sheer exhaustion, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. It seemed like she hadn’t slept in years, and the stairs to her bedroom seemed to stretch forever.
She walked through the parlor and out the front door.
She hesitated at the bottom of the porch steps. The beach was dark, the sand eerily illuminated by the sliver of moon. She took a step and the sand shifted beneath her feet. Another step, another shift. Another . . . and another until the sand turned wet and hard. Another and another until she stood ankle deep in the cold water of the Sound.
She looked into the darkness, opened her arms, and gave in to the pull of the tide, strong, relentless, its siren call singing her home.
Two
Nick waited for the printer to spit out his last report. He was drowning in paperwork, something he hadn’t bargained for when he agreed to take the job of police chief. And the season was just beginning.
But a job was a job and this one paid regularly and had good benefits. He needed both.
He pressed his fingertips to his eyes. The skin was rough. He’d been spending every spare minute doing chores for his mother or moonlighting at Jake McGuire’s woodworking business. By next month, he wouldn’t have time for any of that. His entire force of seven would be working overtime dealing with congested traffic, illegal fireworks, fender benders, sunstroke, stolen purses . . . The list seemed interminable.
When the printer clicked back to Power Save, Nick scooped up the pages and tossed them into the outbox.
He stretched to ease the stiffness in his back, then pushed himself out of his chair. God, he felt more like eighty-eight than thirty-eight. And he still had to do the shopping and drop the groceries off at his mother’s before going home.
Out of habit, he reached into the desk drawer for his copy of A History of the Ostrogoths in Italy. Though if he was learning anything about the Ostrogoths, it was through osmosis. He’d barely opened the book in weeks.
He tucked it under his arm, turned out the lights, and closed his office door. The public area was empty except for Dee Janowitz, the night dispatcher, and his deputy, Finley Green, who was perched on the edge of the switchboard.
Finley stood up, unfolding like an accordion, six feet of sinew and charm. He grinned at Nick. “Dee here tells me you made a stop and search today. And there I am sitting down in the hollow all day, and nobody even rolled through the stop sign.”
Nick grunted. He didn’t want to think about Margaux Sullivan. “A stop, not a search. It was just some tourist, driving over the limit.”
“I heard it was Jude Sullivan’s daughter,” said Dee, giving him the I-was-dispatcher-here-when-you-were-in-diapers look. “Nick, how could you?”
Hell. Somebody must have been driving by and seen him. He’d been too floored to notice. “Just doing my duty, ma’am.” He flicked two fingers at his forehead. “I’ll have my cell if you need me, Finley. See you on Monday.”
He drove to the Cove Market at the edge of town, pulled a basket away from the outside rack, and pushed it through the automatic door. He went straight to the cereal aisle.
He tossed a box of Lucky Charms into the cart, knowing his mother would click her tongue and put them on a top shelf where she hoped they would go unnoticed. Connor loved Lucky Charms and a kid, especially one who had been through what Connor had been through, deserved some sugar in his life. Nick added a box of All-Bran as atonement.
He wielded the cart into the next aisle. Maxwell House, dish detergent, Mop & Glo. He grabbed a bag of potatoes from the produce section and sped toward the checkout stand.
The cashier, a plump thirtyish woman whose name tag read Hi, I’m Cindy, pursed her lips as she scanned the Lucky Charms. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Chief. I hope you’re planning to have these with milk.”
“Shi— I’ll be right back.” He sprinted off. Sprinted back with a gallon of milk. She finished ringing him up; he packed the groceries and wheeled them out.
“Enjoy your breakfast,” she called after him.<
br />
He drove back through town to the Cape Cod where he’d grown up. His mother was standing at the side door, waiting for him.
“Sorry I’m late, Ma. Lots of paperwork.”
She tried to relieve him of the groceries but he fought her off. She was small and fine boned. Lately it seemed she had grown more delicate, and tonight she seemed frail. He swore at himself for not being able to help her more.
“Sit down, Nicky. I’ve got a plate warming in the oven.”
“I’ll just wash up.” He started rolling up his sleeves on his way to the door.
He stopped by the bathroom, then looked in on his nephew. Connor was lying on his side, his Shrek night-light illuminating his face. He sighed in his sleep and for a split second he looked just like Ben. Nick leaned his forehead against the doorframe trying not to think about his brother, or to remember. Then he gently closed the door, leaving it ajar in case Connor became frightened in the night.
When he returned to the kitchen, his mother was standing on tiptoe, pushing the Lucky Charms onto the top shelf of the cabinet. He took it from her and set it between the All-Bran and the oatmeal on the bottom shelf. He heard the oven door open and close, and when he turned around, a plate covered with aluminum foil was sitting on the table.
She lifted the foil away and a finger of steam curled into the air. “I hope it didn’t dry out.”
He sat down. “It looks great. Thanks.” Pot roast swimming in gravy. Chunks of potatoes and slices of carrots and green beans.
She poured him a glass of milk and he smiled at her. He’d been thinking what he really needed was a double shot of Scotch.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down across from him while Nick dug into the roast.
“Karen Ames called today.”
“The school psychologist? What did she want?”
“She’s scheduled an appointment for Connor on Thursday with the therapist she recommended.”
“Ma, we discussed this. We’re not sending him to a special school.”
She nodded. The little wisps of hair that always sneaked out of her bun lifted in the air. Hair, he noticed, that was more white than honey these days.
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