"Victoria," Liz said gently. "I've done some reading. Reincarnation — you know it's supposed to begin at birth, don't you? Not at thirty?"
Victoria made an effort to bring herself under control, wiping away her tears with the heels of her hands; wiping her nose on the back of her wrist. "Not necessarily," she said with a tremulous lift of her chin. "There's another possibility. You've never heard of the walk-in process?"
"Walk-in?" said Liz, amused by the term. "You mean, as in a hair-styling salon?"
Victoria said softly, "Okay. Never mind."
"No, no, Tori, I want to hear! Really I do. I'm sorry. This stuff is just so new to me. I haven't been probing this — this area of knowledge the way you have. Now tell me: what's a walk-in?"
Mollified, Victoria tried to explain it as well as she could. "Sometimes a problem on earth is so pressing that a soul-mind doesn't have time to be born and develop. The soul-mind takes the drastic step of assuming an adult's body — with that adult's permission, of course — so that it can go about its task more quickly."
The teakettle began hissing away; Liz took it off the burner again and filled two cups. "I see," she said cautiously. "So Victoria St. Onge took over from Judy Maroney with a definite, urgent purpose. Yes. I see."
She brought the mugs over to the table and said, almost casually, "Then where does Judy Maroney go for the duration?"
Victoria shook her head. "I don't know."
"And another thing — wouldn't it seem reasonable for Victoria St. Onge to know the history of the adult form she was assuming? For example, if the person had any allergies or was diabetic or whatever?"
"You're making fun," said Victoria with a look of despair.
"Oh, Tori, I'm not; I'm not. Believe me," said Liz, reaching over and squeezing her friend's wrist. "But I can't help wondering how these things work. Reincarnation was confusing enough, but this walk-in process — it's like using express mail instead of parcel post, but there's nothing in the envelope when it gets there. You see what I'm saying? What is the task at hand?"
"I don't know," Victoria said, the tears beginning to flow all over again. "It's in the letters. We have to keep reading. And we have to find the ones that are missing."
****
Saturday was all-out gorgeous, one of those superb June days that bring the crowds flocking to Newport. Bright, dry, sunny, and warm, with a smoky southwest breeze to keep things comfortable—Newport did June better than anyone else on the East Coast. Providence might be warmer in April, and Bar Harbor might be cooler in August; but June? June belonged to Newport.
"Can we go for a boat ride when we get to the shipyard, Mommy?"
Liz bent down to retie her daughter's shoe and said, "I don't think so, honey. Mommy has to talk with Mr. Eastman about business. It shouldn't take long, but you're going to have to be very, very good and very, very quiet."
She unzipped her daughter's Little Mermaid backpack. "Do you have all your Madeline books? And your colors, just in case there's a table you can use?"
Susy nodded solemnly and said, "Maybe if I'm good, you can take me for a boat ride after."
Again this obsession! Liz smiled noncommittally and said, "Let's go; we don't want to keep Mr. Eastman waiting."
The news that Liz's parents were driving to Massachusetts for a funeral had come as a blow. It was Liz's fault, of course; she took her parents so much for granted that she hadn't even heard her mother's remark that they'd be away Saturday until early afternoon. Too late to find a sitter; they were all at the malls.
Even Victoria wasn't around. After helping Liz coordinate a high-energy bridal shower on Friday for a group of Boston professionals who were renting a house in town for the summer, Victoria had driven off early to Point Judith and caught a ferry for Block Island. (Dr. Ben was possibly a part of the scenario, but Victoria didn't say, and Liz didn't pry.)
It's so much harder when there's only one, thought Liz, giving in to a little self-pity. But she wasn't comfortable feeling sorry for herself, not when there were so many single parents shelling out hard-earned wages for day care and struggling against greater odds than hers.
She scanned her image in the shield-mirror on the hall landing, dissatisfied with the outfit she'd chosen — a button-front canvas skirt and a salmon-pink blouse — despite the fact that it was no better or worse than the other seven or eight she'd tried on that morning.
Heaving one last sigh, she loaded her clipboard, her proposal, and her daughter into the minivan, hoping Jack wouldn't notice that she had a papoose in tow. Professional, it wasn't. And Bachelor Jack, who apparently had zero tolerance for anything short that had the same number of hands and feet as little bratty Caroline, would probably consider Liz more unprofessional than most.
Too bad. This is how I do business. He can like it or lump it, she thought as Susy babbled happily in the seat beside her.
But Liz hoped, more than she ever thought possible, that somehow Jack would be willing to like it.
She had every intention of parking in front of the long, low building that housed the shipyard office, but after they drove through the ten-foot-high chain-link fence, they saw that the yardhands were in the process of launching a big fishing boat. Susy, instantly forgetting all her promises, begged to watch.
Since they were a little early, Liz parked the minivan out of everyone's way and, holding Susy's hand, sidled up to a small group of onlookers for a closer view.
Out of the water, the boat looked like a beached whale hanging in slings. Liz pointed out the neatly painted name on the bow: Miss Betty. She recognized the boat; it was a local lobster boat, and it had been around for as long as she could remember. Over the years it had been bumped from one dock to another as Newport's boatyards and waterfront businesses were torn down one by one and replaced by dense, often ugly condominium projects.
The old docks — nce chock-a-block with working boats and rich with the smell of fish and salty shouts of men offloading their ice-packed cargo — now sat filled with plastic yachts, unused for the most part except on occasional weekends when their owners were able to break away from Wall Street or their medical practices.
And meanwhile, Miss Betty and her kin continued to play their ever more frustrating version of musical chairs. Liz was neither sailor nor fisherman's wife; she considered herself an impartial witness to the waterfront's development. But she knew, just as everyone in the boatyard knew, that unless the trend were reversed, the aging Miss Betty's days in Newport were numbered.
Liz leaned closer to her daughter's ear and, over the noise of the Travelift, said, "We're just in time. Isn't this exciting?"
"Look, Mommy!" said Susy, pointing to the operator of the Travelift high above them. "It's Mr. Eastman!"
Indeed it was. Apparently he'd been inside the boat, checking things over. Now, high above their heads, he took command of the Travelift controls and began easing the giant-wheeled carrier forward, driving it onto two steel-edged channels hardly wider than the wheels themselves. Below the Miss Betty was the water, lapping softly at the bulkhead in the wake of passing boats.
Jack was focused completely on the task at hand; Liz was certain that he hadn't noticed them. She preferred it that way. Like the time she had studied him from her secret peephole inside the puppet theater, she was able to just ... absorb him, somehow, drink in the sight of him, without worrying whether her lipstick was right or her repartee up to his standards.
He was in his element. With his windswept hair and his square-cut chin, in working khakis and a navy polo shirt, he was infinitely more attractive to her than he'd looked in business clothes on the night of the burglary. Oh, she'd heard vaguely about men and their love of Tonka toys, but this man on this Tonka toy — well, they looked right together, that's all.
She felt something lurch and then tighten inside her. Defense mechanisms, probably; without them you could easily be made a fool of by a man like him. Seduced, abandoned, and there you'd be: a fool.
Onc
e was enough.
The Travelift came to a halt, and Jack yelled down to a man who was standing on the other side and ahead of the launching area: "Mike! You all set?"
Mike was apparently the owner, a man of about sixty with grizzled hair, a deeply weathered face, and arms even bigger than Jack's folded across his chest. He nodded silently, as if words cost money.
Jack gave him an upward lift of his chin in response and then, out of the blue, turned to Liz and winked before easing the hydraulic lever forward and lowering the boat slowly toward the water.
The blush that flooded her cheeks was instantaneous. After their last encounter she'd expected anything from burning looks to high-handed contempt — but not a wink. What the heck was a wink? What did it signify?
"Mommy? Why did Mr. Eastman wink at you?" asked Susy, who had eyes like radar scopes and ears like satellite dishes.
"He was just being friendly, honey. That's all." On balance, Liz decided, that's exactly what he was being: friendly. Not amorous, not hostile, just plain old friendly.
It was disappointing. Despite her careful attempt to seem in control of her emotions, Liz realized now that she'd been allowing herself to fantasize about the man. Why else had she run upstairs at the last minute for her cloisonné barrette? Did she really need a barrette to make her presentation?
The Miss Betty eased into the water like an old dowager into a hot bath. Yardhands unhooked the slings on one side while the boat bobbed gently in place, her new bottom-paint pristine and barnacle-free. The lobsterman, obviously relieved that the unnatural situation was over for another year, accepted a bow line from one of the men aboard and made it fast to the dock.
Jack climbed down the side rungs of the Travelift and exchanged a word or two with the owner, who shook his hand and tucked a cigar into the pocket of his shirt. Then Jack said something to one of his men, who scrambled monkey-quick up the rungs of the Travelift and began backing it away from the launch area.
It was an oddly touching ritual, done with a minimum of fuss and emotion: no hand-wringing, no screams, no cries of joy when it was over. Liz had been right in the first place — the shipyard was very male, very foreign terrain.
Except to Susy. "Wouldn't it be fun," she whispered in Liz's ear when Liz bent down to hear her wish, "if we could go for a ride on that boat?"
"Susy, it's a work boat," Liz explained. "It's not for rides."
She was giving her daughter only half her attention. The other half was being devoted to Jack Eastman, who was approaching them — then was stopped by a young man in canvas overalls.
"David!" Jack said, obviously surprised to see him. "Jeez, no one told you? The work's been put off for now. Customer got cold feet when he saw the estimate."
"I don't see how I can put in a new transom for less," the young man said with no apologies.
"You can't. It's a big job. I know that. Well, I'll keep working on the guy. In the meantime, if something else comes up, Cynthia'll let you know."
"Sure."
Jack shrugged and added, "You know, David, skilled carpentry like yours — well, it doesn't come cheap. Nor should it. But my customers aren't willing to pay nowadays. I've never seen anything like it."
"I know. They all want fiberglass."
The young carpenter went on his way, and Jack came up to Liz and her daughter with a wink-friendly smile on his lips.
Why do I think of his eyes as sea-blue? Liz suddenly wondered. I've never seen an ocean that blue. Not in New England, anyway.
"I'm sorry to hold you up," he said graciously. "We had a little last-minute welding repair to do on Miss Betty's rudder. And Mike's an old fussbutton — won't let anyone but the boss launch him."
"A lot of bosses wouldn't be bothered," Liz said, matching his gracious tone. She was thinking, How are your hands? Are you all right? There was so much blood.
He saw her glance at the unbandaged red scratches. "I'm fine," he said briefly. "Well, hello there," he said with a friendly smile at Susy.
Liz introduced them, and Susy said with great solemnity, "I liked to see you put the boat into the water. You didn't even make it splash."
"Well, thank you, ma'am," drawled Jack with an utterly irresistible smile. "That's a very nice compliment. How old are you, Susy?" he added, curious.
"Five."
He stared at her with grave suspicion. "Are you sure? You seem much older than that to me. I'd guess you were closer to six, at least."
"Almost," Susy admitted modestly. It was obvious that she didn't like to brag about it.
Liz, caught up in a new round of sensations, smiled at them both. Here was a side of Jack she hadn't seen before. She wondered whether little Caroline had ever been as lucky as Susy, or whether Jack turned the charm of his attention on and off like a spigot.
"I'm sorry for the — complication," she told Jack, inclining her head toward Susy. "If your office has a waiting room ...." She knew it did; she'd seen it earlier.
"Wel-l-l ... sure," he said.
His hesitation said it all; he did not approve of working mommies. No doubt his wife — should he ever condescend to take one — would stay at home where she belonged, keeping an eye on the servants.
Jack said, "We'll drop your daughter off, and then I'll show you the shed we'll use in case it rains." His voice was less personal now; apparently the time for pleasantry had expired.
She nodded and let him lead them through the middle door of a row of doors in a long, low building that also housed a ship's brokerage and a rigging store. The office — really an assembly of half-walled cubicles — was modern and nondescript and, at the moment, empty except for a busy-looking secretary sitting at the front desk before a computer.
"Cynthia," Jack said to her, "Mrs. Coppersmith and I are going to go over the picnic plans. Would you mind keeping an eye on Susy, here, while we do?"
Cynthia, a vivacious young woman with an attractive figure, shot Susy a brief but friendly smile and said, "Okay. Would you like a pencil and paper, honey?"
Susy reached over her shoulder for her backpack and said politely, "No, thank you. I brought my own."
At the sound of their voices, Cornelius Eastman, who'd apparently been in the cubicle behind Cynthia's desk, came out to greet them all.
Jack said tersely, "I didn't know you were here, Dad."
"Just making a few calls," he said, returning his son's cool look. He noticed Susy and said jovially, "Hey there, sailor! Goin' out on the water today?"
Susy's eyes sparked with sudden hope at the stranger's words. The child, who'd insisted on dressing for sailing in red sneakers, dungarees, and a bright yellow windbreaker — just in case — smiled at Cornelius Eastman in shy confusion.
Jack, of course, was a familiar sight to Susy. She'd seen him in the distance while she ate breakfast, which was when Jack sometimes spent time outside training Snowball to fetch, sit, and lie down. Cornelius, however, was a new face. Susy looked up at her mother for permission to trust him.
Liz made the introductions. "This is Mr. Eastman's father, honey. He lives at East Gate, too."
Cornelius smiled and said, "Only during the summer. In the winter we live in Florida." With a smile for Liz, he added, "Much to Jack's relief."
Jack said impatiently, "We'd better get cracking," and began walking away, expecting Liz to fall behind in his wake.
Liz blew Susy a kiss and mouthed the words, "Be good," and hurried to catch up to Jack, who was holding the door for her.
Outside, he took such long, quick strides that she was forced into a near-jog to keep up with him.
"Any word about the stolen letters?" he asked her in that same impersonal tone.
"Not much," she answered, put off by his whole manner. "I found out from the detectives that Grant Dade is off hiking the White Mountains this weekend. He'd better come back before his hands heal," she said with sudden fierceness.
"You're just not gonna give up on that guy, are you?" Jack said, glancing at her with amazemen
t.
"Not unless you have a better suspect."
"Hell, my father's a better suspect!" There was a bitterness in Jack's tone that he reserved exclusively for Cornelius Eastman.
"Meaning what," Liz demanded to know. She'd pretty much had it with Jack's snide references to the man.
Jack decided to answer her. "Meaning — I say this strictly for example — I ran into him behind the house after you called there. I asked him what he was doing outside at that hour. He gave me an evasive answer, something like, 'Getting my head clear.'
Wide-eyed, she stopped, turned, and confronted him. "You suspect your own father? What kind of man are you?"
The sea-blue eyes froze over; she could've ice-skated across them. "The kind who prefers logic to intuition."
"You know what?" she said impulsively. "I think you're holding Caroline against your — her — father."
Immediately she regretted it.
Chapter 9
"I didn't know you were intimately familiar with the branches of my family tree," he said in a calm, cold voice.
She turned and resumed walking at a nervous clip. "I'm not, but ... Mr. Eastman dotes on her so much ... and you resent her so obviously ... and ... and then, too—"
Liz didn't want to implicate Netta, so she finished with a lame, "I just had a feeling, that's all."
"Really. I thought it was Victoria who was the psychic over there."
It was Liz's turn to look surprised. "How did you know about Victoria?"
His voice was dry as toast. "She told Netta through the fence that she's the reincarnation of a nineteenth-century spiritualist who used to live in your house."
"No," said Liz, correcting him. "She's a walk-in."
He laughed contemptuously and said, "But we digress. The point is, your suspect isn't necessarily any more likely than my suspect. Can't you see that?"
"No, dammit. The comparison is absurd," she said, refusing to argue further.
They'd reached their destination: a huge corrugated-aluminum shed, not unlike an airplane hangar. This was it? She felt as if she'd been handed a lump of coal, with two weeks to turn it into a pear-shaped diamond. Her spirits sank lower and lower as he explained the traditional setup: a couple of folding tables with salads and grilled fish, burgers, whatever, that they could carry inside quickly if it began to rain. If she preferred, she could arrange a New England clambake, he told her, only without the hole in the sand, the heated rocks, or the seaweed. In short, without the New England.
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