“Oh. Got any kings?” He frowned and handed her a king. “Do you have a special friend at school yet?”
“Not really.”
She hoped all the time that her wariness of people hadn’t rubbed off on Jimmy. Lord knew, what Barry had done to him—
“You get to ask again, Ma.”
His eyes darted at her, then back at his cards.
“Oh, sorry. Give me all your fours.”
“Go fish.”
She picked a card and watched him study his hand, brows knitted. He was a serious child. And earnest, like his father.
“Do you have any…” He looked up from his cards and squinted at her, pursing his lips. She blinked three times. “…Any threes?”
She rolled her eyes and handed him a three. “How did you know?”
He took the cards and tapped the side of his head with his free hand.
“ESPN.”
“ESP,” she said with a smile. He might be earnest, like Barry, but Jimmy had a sense of fun. Surely the other kids had noticed by now.
Once Jimmy was asleep she resumed painting the living room. When they’d found the house that spring she’d liked the idea of living in a rental—no point to renovating, and the sense of transience suited her. But a week after moving in she decided to touch up the landlord’s paint job in her bedroom. Before she knew it she was repainting the entire room robin’s-egg blue, working slowly and meticulously every evening after putting Jimmy to bed. The tart smell of new paint was reassuring, and in bed at night she’d look up from her book and find herself staring at the clean, decisive edge where white trim met pale blue wall. She painted Jimmy’s room next—mission yellow, it was called—then the spare bedroom in a linen white.
She was painting the trim around the living room windows a semigloss white. She’d never liked painting, especially the detail work. But lately she couldn’t stop, and she was doing a much more fastidious job than the house called for, given the flaky condition of the plaster walls, the shabbiness of the furniture that had come with the house, and the fact that she’d signed a one-year lease. She’d already spent a full week on the living-room windows alone.
Later, after washing up, she had trouble getting to sleep. Waiting tables was exhausting enough, but she always left the diner feeling restless. Painting and keeping Jimmy occupied until bedtime made the evening go quickly, but then she’d turn off the light, lie down in bed, and feel a resurgence of jittery energy. Part of the problem was that almost every channel of thought was off limits. Her past—too much anxiety in that. Her present—the less thought given to Sohegan and the Mecca the better. The future? She’d promised herself to take things one day at a time. Hell, it worked for alcoholics.
That left Jimmy, usually, and sometimes she’d call up an event from his past, play it back in her mind, savoring one detail or another. His first birthday party was a favorite nighttime stop. She’d lavished so much unnecessary planning and cash on that party; afterward, as she scraped dried frosting from the living-room rug, she realized for the thousandth time how over-the-top her love for him really was, how easily it annihilated all competing claims.
But even that wasn’t working tonight. She called up a trip to the Bronx Zoo…the night she’d allowed him to sleep between her and Barry, then willed herself awake every half hour to make sure she wasn’t smothering him.
Nothing worked that night, nothing worked because every time she played out a scene in her mind all she could focus on were eyes: gray blue, wide and narrow, pale yet somehow insistent, and haloed with a trace of shimmering mauve.
Chapter 2
Gwen stood on the third-base line, watching the T-ball game through a camera lens. Jimmy swung the bat hard but connected with the tee, not the ball, which plopped onto the dirt in front of home plate. His eyes narrowed as his lips bunched into a resolute frown. She liked that expression of his, the look of a survivor, and snapped a few pictures. His next swing sent the ball into shallow right field. A series of comical defensive errors enabled him to circle the bases and score. He looked over at her and smiled shyly as he accepted high-fives from his teammates. She thrust a fist in the air in salute.
With Jimmy on the bench, Gwen lost interest in the game. She glanced up at the low mountains in the distance. Sohegan was bordered on the north and south by the Ondaigas, craggy, undistinguished stepchildren to the more majestic Catskill Mountains to the east. The Ondaigas forced the town into a narrow valley of inhabitable land, limiting its expansion, back when the town had been actually growing, to the east and west. Which was why the town always felt crowded, almost claustrophobic, despite its small population. Sohegan offered neither the serenity of the countryside nor the excitement of the city. “They should call this place ‘Neither Here nor There,’” she’d once told Mike Contaldi. He didn’t find that clever at all.
“I see the artist is also an athlete.”
She turned toward the deep-set voice. Nick Lawrence stood a yard or so away, holding a young girl, about a year old, she guessed. Gwen smiled and looked back at the game, but she could tell from his eyes that he knew she remembered him from the Mecca.
“Your son has a good swing. Are you his coach?” He put the baby down.
She shrugged, crossed her arms in front of her, and wished she’d worn a bra under the T-shirt.
“He must be seven or eight?”
“Six.”
“Ah. Young to be in Little League.”
“It’s T-ball,” she said as a batter popped one over the shortstop. The reaction from the crowd was unexpectedly muted. Gwen looked over and saw at least ten pairs of eyes glance away from them and commence the obligatory cheering. The son-in-law and the waitress—much more interesting than T-ball.
“We haven’t introduced ourselves,” he said. “Nick Lawrence.” He extended a hand to her.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, lifting the camera to take a shot of Jimmy on the bench.
“And you are…”
“Oh, no!”
Gwen tore off in front of him, heading for the batting cage. The little girl had managed to pull herself onto the third tier of an empty bleacher. Gwen scooped her up as she toddled toward the edge. Nick Lawrence joined her seconds later.
“Thank you, I…”
She handed over the child, who was howling.
“Poor Tess,” he said as he patted the baby’s back.
“Tess?” She smiled.
“My wife detested the idea of naming her for a tragic heroine.”
“But you prevailed.”
“A rare victory. Is your husband one of the coaches?”
“That wouldn’t be practical. He lives in New York City.”
“I see. So how did you come to live in Sohegan?”
“I came here for the waters.”
He laughed. “But there are no waters in Sohegan,” he said with a perfect German accent.
“I was misinformed.”
She’d given up trying to explain her presence in Sohegan. No one could accept the fact that she’d voluntarily moved there. Even the national chain stores had overlooked the place, and the only strip mall to threaten downtown Sohegan with a bit of competition had closed less than a year after opening. Still, Sohegan retained a homey if homely character, the downtown shops the center of local life. The towering husks of shuttered textile mills might block the sunlight most days, but shadows suited Sohegan, somehow. It had one of everything—pharmacy, diner, shoe store, tavern, even a taxidermist’s studio for the local hunters. And the shopkeepers greeted customers by name, usually offering credit when asked.
“My wife thinks Sohegan is paradise,” he said. “She insisted we move up here after Tess was born.”
“Insisted?”
He considered her a beat. “Her father owns practically the entire town. I assume you figured that out since our first meeting.”
She flushed and glanced away. “Not really.”
“Priscilla even looks better up here,” he s
aid. “In Manhattan she seemed out of place, somehow, always wore Armani, which wasn’t her style, really. Here in Sohegan she doesn’t bother trying to look chic, and ends up looking perpetually radiant.”
Gwen forced a smile at this rather unexpected information and tried to focus on the game. He assumed an intimacy between them, perhaps because both were outsiders in Sohegan. But they had little in common beyond that fact, she felt certain. She stole a look at him; his face was lean and angular, but his lips were full, nearly to the point of poutiness. And those eyes, a pale, elusive gray blue—hard to turn away from, somehow.
“I often wonder if her father didn’t have the entire valley tectonically engineered to flatter her appearance.”
His smile did nothing to soften a suddenly grave expression.
“It’s probably the fresh air,” she said.
He shook his head slightly but replied, “I suppose so.” Then he added, “Anyway, I should be getting Tessie home. Our baby-sitter quit last week. I haven’t been able to practice.”
She saw Jimmy leave the bench and head for home plate.
“Piano,” he said, and she flushed again. “Priscilla refuses to even consider a local baby-sitter, says they’ll gossip about what goes on at the house. Nothing goes on, I keep telling her.”
Another unexpected revelation. He seemed almost desperate to unload all this information, and she couldn’t help but be intrigued—she was pretty desperate herself for intelligent conversation. Still, how was she to respond?
“We’re working with an employment agency in New York,” he said after a short pause.
“Jimmy’s up at bat,” she said “I need to concentrate.”
She headed closer to home plate.
“You never told me your name,” he called after her.
“Gwen Amiel,” she said over her shoulder as she raised the camera. Waiting for the first pitch, Jimmy had that determined expression again, the one that never failed to hearten her.
“Tess and I are very much in your debt, Gwen Amiel.”
She nodded as Jimmy popped the ball over the shortstop and charged toward first base.
Chapter 3
Gwen waved to Jimmy as he climbed into the yellow school bus Monday morning. She thought he waved back, but the windows were nearly opaque in the sharp morning light. The bus turned right and disappeared down Union Avenue, leaving her with a sense of abandonment all the more absurd for being so familiar.
“Mrs. Amiel?”
She turned. The woman approaching from the direction of the house was tall, not quite heavyset, with short hair that looked unusually black against flawless pale skin. Cream blouse, white linen slacks, expensive-looking tan leather flats. Not someone you’d expect to call your name on Glen Road in Sohegan at 7:30 in the morning.
“I thought it must be you.” The voice was throaty, assured, musical. A sleek, low-to-the-ground sports car was parked in front of the house. The woman walked to within shaking distance and extended a hand. The perfectly rounded nails were short and lacquered a subdued, lustrous red.
“Priscilla Lawrence. My husband Nick met you in the park on Saturday.”
The craziest notions raced through Gwen’s mind as she shook the proffered hand. She was going to be accused of having an affair with Nick Lawrence. She would be offered a million-dollar reward for saving their daughter’s life on the bleacher. No, a multimillion dollar reward, payable in equal annual installments of one hundred and fifty thousand—
“Do you have a few minutes? I’d like to chat.”
Chat?
“I need to get ready for work,” Gwen said. “I have to be there by eight.”
“Perhaps I could walk back to your house with you, then.”
Gwen shrugged and they set off.
“Nick told me about your saving Tess from what might have been a terrible fall.”
Gwen shrugged again. “Kids that age are always falling off of something.”
“Really?” A questioning look, then a nod. It struck Gwen that Priscilla Lawrence didn’t have a clue about kids that age.
“My son was one big black-and-blue mark until he turned two,” Gwen said. “You can’t catch them every time they fall.” Here she was talking her way out of a lifetime annuity! “But you try, of course, you have to try.”
“I wanted to chat this morning because…you see, our daughter’s nanny resigned a short while ago and Nick thought you might be interested in taking over.” She took a deep breath and blew it out like cigarette smoke. “Not live-in, of course, and the hours are somewhat flexible since—”
“A nanny?” Gwen almost snorted the word. Priscilla Lawrence took a step back and placed a hand over her chest.
“Of course, what I meant was an au pair.”
“Thank you, but…” She stopped as they’d reached the end of the walk in front of her house. “I have to get ready. I’ll…see you around.”
As she walked toward the house she heard Priscilla Lawrence following her.
“I’d get someone to live in, but I don’t want anyone local, you see. My family…”
Gwen opened the screen door and turned to face her. “I’m really not interested.”
“The agencies in New York haven’t exactly been inundating us with candidates.” Priscilla climbed onto the small brick stoop and angled through the open door. Gwen shook her head at the woman’s gall and followed her inside.
“This is so…” Priscilla’s glance from right to left took in the small living room, the tiny kitchen and dining room—the entire ground floor, visible from the meager hallway. She seemed, for the first time, at a loss for words. “This is so…how in the world did you find this place?”
“From a newspaper ad.”
“And I see you’re having it painted.”
“Sparing no expense,” Gwen muttered.
“And you furnished it so quickly. Nick tells me you’ve only been in town for a few months.”
“It came this way.” Lumpy sofa, yellowed shades, stained rug, bookshelves crammed with dusty paperbacks, gardening manuals, ancient cookbooks.
Gwen squeezed by Priscilla and into the kitchen, where she began rinsing the breakfast dishes. She wasn’t alone for more than a second or two.
“No housework, of course. We have a couple, the Piacevics, who handle that.” She watched intently as Gwen did the dishes, as if she were witnessing some new medical procedure. “They’re Albanian. Very hard workers.”
“I’m happy with the job I have.” When Priscilla chuckled at this Gwen lifted a wad of suds from the sink and considered flinging it at her.
“We’re offering four hundred dollars a week. Cash. We’ll pay your Social Security, naturally.”
Gwen’s hands froze momentarily under the hot water. Four hundred dollars was one-seventy-five more than she was earning at the diner…on a good week.
“That seems like a lot of money for baby-sitting.”
“You can’t put a price on good child care, can you?”
Her voice lacked all conviction. In fact, the whole spiel felt scripted. Even her outfit seemed like someone else’s idea of what the lady of the manor should wear when visiting one of her tenants.
“Not interested.” Gwen turned off the water and dried her hands as Priscilla Lawrence observed her closely. She felt like a kindergarten teacher giving a demonstration. This is a paper towel, you use it to dry off. Now I’m throwing it into the garbage can!
“Regular hours,” Priscilla said. “Nine to five, give or take. The important thing is that my husband not be disturbed while he’s practicing.”
How could she get through to this woman with porcelain skin and Ferrari nails that she’d rather mine coal than look after someone else’s kid?
“I have to go,” she said.
“You have the most marvelous mouth.” Priscilla moved toward her. Gwen stepped back, bumping against the counter edge. “There’s an alabaster fragment in the Egyptian galleries at the Met—the Metropolitan Museum,
in New York?”
“I know where the Metropolitan is.”
“Yes, well, there’s a fragment of a woman’s face with precisely your lips. They taper off to such fine points…”
Gwen fought the urge to lick her suddenly dry lips. First the woman had invited herself inside—at seven-thirty in the morning, yet. Now she was examining her like, well, like a museum exhibit.
“I really have to go,” she said. She walked out of the kitchen and grabbed her car keys off the small table in the front hall. Priscilla Lawrence stayed put.
“I said, I have to leave.”
“Four hundred is as high as I can go,” Priscilla said when Gwen returned to the kitchen. She had opened a cabinet and was absently examining the set of five-and-dime glassware that had come with the house. “But we can agree on a salary review in six months. Or sooner—say, three months, after the summer.”
“It’s not a question of money.” Gwen closed the cabinet.
“Fine, I’ll speak to my father about getting you onto the Tack and Hardware payroll.”
Gwen could only stare at her.
“For the health benefits,” Priscilla said, her voice wearily patronizing. “You do want health benefits? I thought everyone was worried about medical costs nowadays.”
“So I hear.” The truth was, she lived in terror of Jimmy getting sick. One ear infection could wipe out her meager savings. A broken leg would mean selling the car.
“I’ll need your answer by tomorrow. Nick’s out of his head having to practice with the baby—Tess—always finding her way to him. It’s the music that draws her, I suppose. Do you have a pen and paper? I’ll give you our number.”
Gwen grabbed an order pad from the diner and scribbled the Lawrences’ telephone number.
“I might as well give you directions,” Priscilla said, and Gwen wrote them down too.
“The house is called Penaquoit. It means fertile ground or something like that in some Indian dialect. Oh, and in case there’s no answer when you arrive, the access code is six, two, three,” she said. “June twenty-third, my birthday.” Gwen could only guess what an access code was, and resented the when you arrive bit, but she wrote the code down anyway.
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