And on Monday morning she opened her eyes and asked herself, "What the heck does it matter if I'm rested or not?"
It was as if a spell had been broken. Somehow—blame it on Becky—Helen had got it into her head that she and Nathaniel Byrne had established a relationship of some kind. It may have been based on a mutual concern (Katie) or shared grief (loss of a spouse) or even mutual admiration (she understood preschools; he understood finance).
But lying in her bed in the clear bright light of Monday morning, Helen knew: the one thing the relationship was not based on was mutual attraction. It would be ... unseemly.
She smiled unhappily at the old-fashioned word. Unseemly. The idea seemed almost quaint. In these days of instant attraction and overnight courtships, what was so unseemly about a widowed man being attracted to a widowed woman? And yet there it was: unseemly. Nathaniel Byrne's wife had recently been laid to rest, and nothing but the passage of time could create a decent interval where there was none.
You're a fool, Helen Evett, she told herself. He's implied nothing, said nothing, done nothing even remotely out of line. You're the one who's having the damned unseemly fantasies.
Fool.
She dressed and went to school, disappointed in herself for having let her imagination drift into places where it could not go. And yet, despite all her efforts to focus on the bleak reality of the situation, Helen found her imagination ... drifting, all day long.
Every time Janet passed a call through to her, she imagined. Every time she heard the sound of a high-strung car engine out in the street, she imagined. Every time she heard footsteps in the hall, a male voice, or a woman's surprised laugh, she imagined. For that matter, every time she saw a stupid little Post-it note—and her office had them everywhere—she imagined Nat there again, with her again.
She remembered his intensity at Genevieve's; his warmth on the phone; his wry, quick glances over coffee while Becky babbled. Was there something there besides simple civility? In her heart of hearts Helen had to say: yes.
But what did she know? She was out of touch with that whole scene. When was the last time she actually had someone come on to her? She hardly ever went to parties, and she hadn't been at a bar with friends in a long, long time. As for those fixed-up dinner partners—well, the less said about them, the better.
One thing Helen did know. People were much more blunt than they used to be. The modern, interested male probably said something like, "Hey, babe—how about it?" and if the babe said, "Cool," that'd be it: into the sack they'd go.
If Nat had asked, Helen thought wryly, she'd probably have remembered.
Still, at the end of the day as she walked to her car, the memory of him sitting behind the wheel of his black Porsche was so vivid, so utterly thrilling, that Helen had to shut her eyes and bite her lip and blink back tears.
It was absurd. She was absurd. She resolved to get on with her life.
She managed to do that pretty well until she hit Friday night, which she spent within pouncing distance of the phone. On Saturday she paced. On Sunday she moped.
And then it was Monday again.
****
Three weeks later, Helen was back from her very early Memorial Day visit to Hank's grave and was on her knees in the garden, surrounded by six-packs of newly bought annuals: pink cosmos and white cleome and deep yellow sunflowers (if the picture-tags ran true), and a whole flat of white impatiens to brighten up the shadier parts of the yard.
The morning was sunny and warm, the kind of May day that people write songs about, and the mood of the two women was as mild as the temperature. Two Bufferin had knocked back Aunt Mary's arthritis, and a rare Bloody Mary had done the same for Helen's lingering sadness.
Pretty faience plates with croissant crumbs, empty majolica fruit bowls, and half-filled cups of rich, dark coffee were all that remained of their outdoor Sunday brunch. It was their first of the year, a ritual that dated back to the days when Hank took the kids to the Salem Common to play catch or fly kites, giving aunt and niece some time alone with their Memorial Day plantings.
"Lena," said Aunt Mary, slipping into a pair of soft cotton gloves, "whatever made you buy sunflowers? Where will we put them?"
"These are dwarfs—they say. We'll stick 'em behind the birdbath. How much trouble can they get into there?"
"That might work."
"And the cardinals will be thrilled."
"If the squirrels don't get there first."
"Okay," Helen said, taking a pair of lime green gloves and a trowel from her ancient trug. "Let's start digging."
The women worked contentedly for several hours, filling in the gaps left by faded spring bulbs and fickle perennials. The work was easy and satisfying. Scoop out two spoons of dirt, pop in a tiny root ball, and there it was: a young, eager annual just bursting to take off.
They're like kids, Helen mused as she patted warm, crumbly earth around the stems. Reckless, energetic, desperate for attention.
"Lena, dear, is Russell all right?"
Helen looked up across the kidney-shaped bed at her aunt who knelt opposite her, on a pad set in a sturdy metal frame to help her get up and down.
Helen laid the six-pack of cosmos on the grass and leaned back on her haunches. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, yesterday when I was in the back hall fiddling for my keys, I heard someone arguing with him. Very loud, he was."
"Scotty? Was it Scott?" Only two or three others had permission to be there when she wasn't home.
Her aunt brushed a gray-white strand of hair back over her forehead, leaving a streak of moist earth on her face, and shook her head. "No. I didn't recognize this voice. Didn't care for it, either. The boy's language was terrible. I know they swear and such when they're not around us, but—"
"Did you go in to see who it was?"
"I knocked. They clammed right up. I thought, they're embarrassed to be heard. It seemed enough. I went on my way."
Disturbed by the news, Helen frowned and said, "I'll ask him about it."
"No, no, don't," her aunt said, scandalized. "He'll think I told on him."
"You did tell on him," Helen said with a grim smile. "But that's all right. He has to understand that if he's broken the rules, he can expect—"
"Mom, Mom!" came Becky's excited cry behind them. "Guess who I just saw!"
She came running up to them, then dragged over a small metal bistro chair and sat down in it with an eager expression on her face. She leaned forward. "Guess!"
The girl was dressed in her version of spring: crushed pale linen hat with the front brim pinned back; black sleeveless jumpsuit. She'd been too long in the sun without sunblock, Helen noted; her nose was burned, and the tops of her shoulders. She looked whimsical, charming, vibrant, and—like the annuals—ready to explode.
"I haven't got a clue," Helen said, smiling, as she returned to her cosmos. Pink or white? There was no tag.
"Nathaniel Byrne."
That got Helen's attention. Down went the little six-pack again. Helen looked up with what she hoped was a bland expression. "Really? How did you manage that?"
"I was walking on the Common with Michael—he didn't want to ask Chelsea to homecoming, by the way; she forced him to—and there he was: flying a kite. This big, huge, enormous kite with Snow White on it. And a tail that must have weighed twenty pounds. There wasn't any wind; the kite just kind of sat there. Once in a while it went up a few feet, then dropped back to the ground. It was hysterical."
"He saw you snickering at him?"
"No, he was too busy."
"He was flying a Snow White kite on Salem Common by himself?"
"Of course not. He had an adorable little girl with him. I guess it was his daughter?"
"Brown curly hair? Fat bowed legs?" Becky nodded and Helen said, "That was Katie, without a doubt." The image of them together with the kite tugged at Helen's heart. She would have loved to have been there.
"And someone else," Becky added.
"Yeah," said Becky, her face a mirror of her mother's disappointment. "She sure wasn't dressed for a day in the park."
"That was the nanny," Helen said dryly.
"No way! She was giving him these adoring looks... no way," Becky repeated, unconvinced. "The woman I saw had a thing for him, Mom. Really."
"Nannies can have things for their employers," Helen said, remembering the way Peaches had looked once or twice at Nat when they were at The Open Door. "Haven't you ever watched Upstairs, Downstairs?"
"She didn't look very downstairs to me. How can she dress like that on a nanny's wages?"
"How do you manage on a baby-sitter's wages?"
"That's different. I shop for bargains. I guarantee she's never been in an outlet store."
"Obviously Peaches is good at what she does. She must get paid well," Helen said, trying hard to be less catty.
"She has a nice laugh," Becky added glumly. "She laughs a lot. Then again, it was funny, the way he tried and tried."
"I wonder if he got it up."
"Mother!"
"The kite."
"Of course the kite," said Becky, reddening under her sunburn. "Yeah, he did, eventually. Someone went over and told him to shorten the tail."
Helen could feel a fine flush of color in her own cheeks. In the meantime poor Aunt Mary was utterly lost amid the double-talk.
"Who're we talking about?" she asked over her spectacles. She leaned into the side handles of her kneeler and pulled herself up with an effort. "Whoever he is, you both seem fixated on him."
"No, we're not," said Helen.
"Yes, we are," argued her daughter. "Except Mom won't admit it. Well, I'll admit it: I wouldn't mind having him hang around here."
"Don't hold your breath."
Becky sighed and pulled off her hat. "Too bad about the nanny," she said. With droopy shoulders, she hauled herself out of the bistro chair and went inside, forlornly smacking her hat on her thigh as she walked.
Whatever Becky had witnessed, it was enough to convince her that Nat and Peaches were either an item or on the way to becoming one. The thought wrapped itself around Helen's heart like rusty chain.
What's this? she thought, amazed. Jealousy? If so, it was a brand-new emotion. She'd never been jealous in her life; with Hank there'd been no need. And yet the thought of Nat and Peaches laughing over how to fly a kite for Katie ripped at Helen's soul. She felt her heart pound, her cheeks burn, her body flood with adrenaline.
I can't believe this, she thought. This is really scary.
Aunt Mary had pulled off her gloves and, with a grimace, was arching her back.
Helen had to pull herself together. "It's getting chilly out here," she said to her aunt. "Why don't you go in? I'll finish up."
"I think I will, dear. Thank you. What's left? Only the one six-pack?"
"That's it, and then we're done."
"Well, it was a good day's work. In a month this will be a magical place." Smiling, Aunt Mary took one last, lingering look around, and then she left.
Helen took her trowel and made six sloppy holes, then threw in the last of the cosmos. Pink, white?
Suddenly she didn't care.
****
The heart-wrenching feeling that Helen called jealousy stayed with her throughout the week. She couldn't shake it. It dogged her, just like the headache that had ruined her days and haunted her nights. She walked around in a tangle of anger and melancholy.
Russ was the first to feel the heat. She blistered him for having someone over without clearing it with her, and then abruptly changed course when she learned that the new friend's name was Dale. A Dale couldn't possibly own a weapon or smoke marijuana. As for Dale's language, Aunt Mary had probably overreacted.
For now she was giving her son—and Dale—the benefit of the doubt. Her angry scolding ended up in a melancholy apology. Russ obliged her with a half-angry, half-melancholy apology of his own.
The jealousy continued. After a week of sleepless nights, Helen did what she never thought she'd have the nerve to do: picked up the phone and called Nathaniel Byrne herself.
She had an excuse, sort of. After an exchange of greetings—his warmer than hers—she said, "Orientation Day is next week, Nat, but we haven't had a response from you.
Will you be able to come? I think you'd enjoy meeting the other parents. Look at it as the first meeting of a twelve-step program in parenting," she added lightly.
It was said in the most professionally pleasant voice she could muster. She was determined not to sound clingy. And besides, what she said was true. He hadn't RSVP'd to The Open Door invitation.
He had no idea what she was talking about. "It must've got lost in the mail," he said. "Honest. I never saw it. Of course I'll be there."
"In that case," she said, hard-pressed to keep the joy out of her voice, "I'm glad I called." She gave him the day and the time and was about to ring off, reluctantly, when he said, "Helen—wait."
Two words, both music to her ears. "Yes?"
"I've wanted to call you but I wouldn't let myself."
Her heart started a free-float. She was responding to his tone more than his words. She smiled and said softly, "You're not under any obligation—"
"I decided I couldn't go running to you for advice about every little thing," he explained, "like some kid in his first chemistry class who's afraid he's going to blow himself up. So I'm toughing it out with Katie. I've made some progress; it does seem to feel a little more natural, although— hell, who'm I kidding? I have a notebook filled with questions for you."
Helen laughed and said, "That's all tight. Fire away."
"Wait, let me just close the door," he said.
She heard him walk across the room, heard the sound of a heavy door slipping into place. His voice dropped to a low, concerned tone. "Katie seems to have changed her mind about The Open Door."
"Because...? Is she having that hard a time with her mother's death?"
"She has her bad days," he admitted. "But it's more than that. She seems to be afraid of the school itself. Afraid of the teachers there. Afraid," he said finally, "of you."
****
Peaches waited until she heard him hang up the phone, and then she eased the extension into its cradle. Sooner or later she had expected Katie to voice her vague fears to her father. Sooner was better, actually. It might keep Katie out of The Open Door and away from Helen Evett.
But now she'd been thrown a curve. She'd just heard him invite the Evett woman to the house so that she and Katie could get to know one another. The direct approach: how very typical of him. It was his greatest strength and his most exasperating weakness.
Well, she'd have to deal with it. There were angles she could play. Helen Evett had been at the house just once before, and when she left, Katie's mother was dead. It was an easy, frightening association, one which Peaches had been pointing out to Katie whenever she could.
How would it be, if she ratcheted up the fear? What if Katie were made to understand that the next time Helen Evett showed up, someone else might disappear?
It could be Peaches. Perhaps Daddy. Maybe even Katie herself.
Chapter 13
On Saturday morning Katie's father was in his office on the first floor of the mansion, running the numbers on a possible stock acquisition. A national HMO was rumored to be eyeing a regional HMO, and he had to decide if there was money to be made for his shareholders in the process. Quite obviously, he did not want to be disturbed.
Quite obviously, Peaches would have Katie to herself until the arrival of Helen Evett.
"I'm expecting Helen at two, but don't mention it to Katie," Nat had remarked. He didn't explain the reason for the secrecy and Peaches, of course, had no need to ask.
She took Katie, sluggish from a big breakfast, upstairs to the nursery to wash her a
nd change her and poison her mind. Time was running out. Although Katie had been sad and vulnerable on Thursday, Thursday had felt too soon. Friday hadn't been any good, either. The child had been cranky and unreceptive all day. It was now or it was never.
"Come, sweetie, time to get dressed," said Peaches in her most caressing voice. "Would you like to wear the pink top, or the yellow one?"
"Pink," said Katie, sitting on the carpeted floor of the dressing room, busy with her feed-and-wet doll.
"And which jumper? The blue one, or the green one?" Katie looked up and pointed emphatically to the apple green gingham frock that Peaches was holding in her left hand.
"Good choice! This will make a pretty outfit," said Peaches to the child. "Would you like to wear a ribbon in your hair today?"
"Uh-huh. Can my dolly have one, too?"
"Oh, for sure," cooed Peaches. "Let's see. What would be a nice ribbon for dolly? I'll look through the basket."
Peaches poked around in a basket of bows that lay on top of one of the painted white chests and pulled out a pink bow for Katie and a red ribbon for her doll.
"You know, it's a good thing I'm here, isn't it, Katie? Because I'm big enough to reach things on this dresser."
"But I'm not," agreed Katie, taking the red ribbon from Peaches. "I'm just liddle." She fussed with the ribbon, twisting it around the doll's blond hair without being able to tie it.
"And I'm big," Peaches repeated, "so I can do things for you, and take care of you." She knelt down next to the child and gently took the ribbon from her. "But sometimes I'm afraid that I won't be here to do things like this; like tying this ribbon in dolly's hair."
"Why?" asked Katie with a surprised—and alarmed— look on her face.
"Well, you remember how we talked about when Mommy went away so suddenly? Do you remember what we said?"
Somewhere in her subconscious, the child obviously remembered that there was a distressing connection to her mother's disappearance. Her fine, dark brows drew down in worry; her round cheeks got a little bit rounder as she pursed her lips in concentration. "When Mommy went away she diddent say good-bye," she murmured, hurt all over again.
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