Helen's smile was filled with lame reassurance. "When you're older, you'll understand."
"Oh, please," said Becky, rolling her eyes at the tired cop-out. She stood up, spilling the cat out of her lap. "I'm outta here," she said as she headed for the door. "To do some research for a term paper that'll actually make sense."
She slammed the door in annoyance, leaving her mother alone with her theories, and her worries, and her vision of fear.
* * *
Katie Byrne, dancing with excitement over her first play date, hid behind her nanny's skirt as Peaches swung open the front door to welcome their visitors.
A young couple with lots of money and nothing much to do except watch it grow had moved in three doors away. They had a bright and noisy daughter called Amy who was just two months older than Katie and, long before Katie, had been signed up for summer session at The Open Door. But preschool was still two weeks away. In the meantime, Amy's mother suggested that they nudge the friendship along with a couple of play dates.
The idea, Peaches felt, had possibilities.
Little Amy Bonham was not shy. As soon as the door was opened, the brown-eyed moppet came marching in, did an end run around Peaches, and said to Katie, "Do you have toys?"
"Uh-huh," said Katie. She began rattling off a list of her current favorites, from Jumpin' Jimmy to Sally's Log Cabin.
Together the little girls made a beeline for the nursery. Amy's mother, thrilled to leave her only child in the care of a genuine London nanny, stayed two minutes and then took off to go shopping.
Peaches would have the girls for the next three hours. She let them get used to one another, while she waited for her opportunity. At the end of the second hour, when it became apparent that the girls were getting a bit tired, she made her move.
"Katie? Amy? Would you like me to tell you a story? We can use the log cabin and we can also use the gingerbread house to play-act while I tell the story. It's a really good one!"
Amy, a chatterbox, tagged after Peaches as she set the stage—the two houses, with a forest of potted plants between them—on the floor of the nursery.
"My mommy tells me lots of stories," the child said, "and Daddy, too, but Mommy tells me more because Daddy doesn't know so many, and Mommy says he tells them too fast and I like it when it's a long story and then I don't have to go to sleep. But when Mommy tells a story she tells them slow and she makes lots of faces and she makes me laugh and sometimes it's even sad. Do you know a long story?"
"Yes, I do, honey," said Peaches. "Has your mommy or daddy ever told you the story of Hansel and Gretel?"
Conceivably the father had; they liked to scare their young.
"No," said Amy promptly. "What's Han ... Han ..."
"Hansel and Gretel were two dear girls who were friends—just like you and Katie," said Peaches, corrupting the fable to suit her needs.
"Are they three years old? Because I'm going to be four years old," Amy warned.
"Well, they were just exactly your age—your age and Katie's age. And they lived in this very nice log cabin," Peaches said, putting two small dollhouse figures in Sally's Log Cabin.
"Who lives in that house?" asked Katie, pointing to the charming gingerbread cottage whose outside walls were painted all around with blue delphiniums and pink roses clinging to white lattice.
Peaches had already slipped a black-robed old crone, one that she'd been saving for a day like this, into the gingerbread cottage. She smiled and said, "You must wait to hear the story, Katie."
It was obvious from the way Katie nervously hugged her teddy bear that she wasn't sure she wanted to hear it. "Will it have a happy ending?" she asked with a hopeful look.
"Maybe!" said Peaches cheerfully.
And maybe not.
* * *
Helen didn't hear from Nat until Thursday, and when she did, the news was disappointing.
"I've been out of town. Even worse, I'll be gone again for Orientation Day next week," he said on the phone.
Without bothering to explain—and really, what would be the point?—he went on to say, "But I wanted to find out how you're feeling. You looked pretty knocked around last Sunday." His voice was sad and low and frustrated, which wasn't surprising; he must be exhausted.
Helen had been struggling all week long over whether or not to call and apologize for her bizarre behavior. She'd rehearsed fifty different clever speeches, but all she could think of saying now was, "I'm not in the habit of fainting in stranger's bedrooms, you know." She sounded as prim as a virgin librarian.
He laughed and said, "You can't possibly think of me as a stranger."
Which was true, because she didn't, nor had she ever. Everything about their relationship had been too intense for that, starting with the cry of anguish she'd heard from him on the day his wife died.
"Anyway, I'm fine," she said softly. "How's Katie?"
"Not so fine," he answered. "She's withdrawn; jumpy. Peaches says she's been like that since Sunday."
"Because of me, you think? Because she saw me—you know—in your arms?"
His voice sounded strained as he said, "You make it sound like I was hauling you off to ravish you."
I wish. The thought came and went like a shooting star.
"I just mean Katie may be having fears that her mother's being ... displaced," Helen explained. That didn't come out right, either.
"Lord, I forgot," he said without taking offense. "You're a psychology major."
"Yes, and we always look for conflicts where there are none," she said lightly. "So ignore me."
"That's a little hard to do," he shot back.
Helen had the sense that they were straying into deep water, so she said, "And I almost forgot. Every year we hold a lovely event on the third Saturday in June to celebrate graduation for the preschoolers, as well as to kick off the summer session for newcomers. We call it our Old-Fashioned Ice Cream Social. It's held outside, weather permitting; otherwise, inside the school. The parents all bring ice cream or fancy toppings—or flowers to decorate the tables, if they're gardeners. The kids love it, and so do the grown-ups. It's a very friendly affair. And brief," she added for his benefit. "It runs from two to four."
"Are we invited?" he asked unnecessarily.
"Of course. The invitation's in the mail."
"Great. What can I bring?"
Bring? Him? Helen had to keep herself from breaking into droll laughter. "Oh, that's all right. Janet has everything under control."
"Okay, I'll call Janet, then."
"No, really, you don't have to do any—"
What was she thinking? He wouldn't be doing anything. He'd have Peaches stop at a Ben and Jerry's and that would be that. "Fine, just call Janet," she said, relenting.
She added, "I'm sorry you won't be able to make Orientation. We always have a nice video showing highlights of the previous year. . . it's very informative."
"You don't have to impress me, Helen," he said in an oddly rueful voice. "I'm already impressed."
"Well—but still," she said, tingling down to her socks. Again she moved the conversation into shallower water. "I'm glad you can make the Social, anyway. You sound flat-out. How big is that Columbus Fund you manage?"
"It's not the Magellan Fund, if that's what you mean," he quipped. "But it's big enough for me to lose sleep over. Two billion."
Two billion dollars of other people's money! The size of the responsibility took her breath away. And yet he didn't seem fazed by it. In fact she had the sense that, like Avis, he was trying harder to be number one.
"But don't you get tired of being on the road so much?" she asked.
He laughed. "The truth? It's not that bad. The airlines, the car rentals, the Hiltons and Marriotts all love road warriors like me. We're a big percentage of their profits. They shower us with platinum cards and give us the best rooms, the best views, the best service. Ask anyone who travels constantly. He may not always be greeted by smiles at home, but he damn well is at
the hotel desk."
My God, she thought. What kind of marriage did he have?
"Katie thinks your office is in an airplane," she said, trying to lay guilt on him.
It didn't work. He laughed again and said, "She's right. Phone, fax, laptop—I have it all in my virtual office high above the clouds."
Helen was surprised to realize how sensitized she'd become to the issue of his traveling. It's as if Linda has passed the baton to me, she decided, a little frightened by the realization. Why do I feel this closeness to her all the time?
"Well, happy trails, then," she said. "We'll see you at the Ice Cream Social—with any luck."
This time he felt the barb. "I said I'd be there, Helen. And I will."
Yeah, yeah, yeah, she thought. We'll see. Aloud she said brightly, "Great! We'll look forward to seeing you!"
She hung up, morose at the thought that she wouldn't see him until then—if then. She was thinking of him more and more, seeing him less and less. It was all so dumb.
"Lena, dear, why so sad?" asked her aunt when Helen returned to the garden to finish her tea.
They had set out the floral cushions on the Adirondack chairs so that they could enjoy the evening, by far the warmest of the year. The air was lush and still, with a hint of the heat to come. The earliest rose in the garden—a wonderful, scrambling thornless bourbon with the exotic name of Zephirine Drouhin—had opened just that day; its scent, as lurid as its bright pink color, spilled over them, leaving Helen edgy with longing.
"That was Mr. Byrne," she said with an exasperated sigh. "He can't come to Orientation because he'll be traveling. He's always on the road," she added petulantly.
"Where does he go?"
"Wherever the company is whose stock he wants to buy. I don't understand why he can't make his decisions in the office. Why does he have to go out and actually kick the tires?"
She sighed again, more disappointed than ever. "Boy. They used to say that all these modern electronics would make it easier for people to stay home and work. If you ask me, it's just made it easier for them to take their offices everywhere around the world."
"He sounds very conscientious, Lena," said Aunt Mary, tucking her cotton afghan across her spindly ankles. "Why do you hold it against him?"
"Because of Katie, for one thing. He can't just raise her by remote control, you know."
"Well, that's true," said Aunt Mary agreeably. She sipped her tea and then broke off a small piece of her sugary Angel Wing, rationing her pleasure. "You're very taken with him, aren't you, Lena," she said. "Are you falling in love, do you think?"
The simple question hung in the twilight like the moth hovering in the evening primrose. Helen didn't know what to say. Up until then she'd been able to tell herself that the attraction was no more than a physical one. Nat Byrne was knock-down good-looking; who wouldn't be attracted?
But in the sanctuary of her garden, surrounded by sweet scent and soft light, for Helen to admit anything less than the truth seemed profane. Was she falling in love?
"I think I am, Aunt Mary," she whispered. Her voice was an echo of despair. "God help me. I think I am."
"Oh-hh. That's very nice," said her aunt, smiling. "It's been such a long time."
"But I don't know why," Helen added, shaking her head in sorrow. In a way she was relieved to have the confession off her chest. Now, at least, she could come to terms with her feelings for Nat. She could look at them, turn them over, and—with any luck—grind them to dust.
"You know how they always say, 'When it's right you know it'?" she said quietly. "Well, I don't feel that way. Nat Byrne is the opposite of everything I loved and admired in Hank."
One by one, she ticked off her reservations. "He's a man who puts his career before everything. He buys and sells emotions like they're some kind of trading commodity. He considers hotel clerks and parking valets to be his best friends. And God only knows what he must spend on speeding tickets every year. He's nothing like Hank, Aunt Mary; nothing. And yet ..." She pressed her lips together, trying to hold back the tears. She failed.
I'm falling in love with him.
"Maybe that's why, dear. Because he's nothing like Hank."
Helen wiped her eye furtively. "You mean ... I'll never find an exact replica of Hank ... so subconsciously I've decided to look for something else altogether?"
Ignoring the fancy talk, her aunt said simply, "If his heart's in the right place—"
"I have to admit, he means well," Helen said with a sigh. "But so what? The road to hell is paved with good intentions."
"But isn't it possible that someone—"
"Can shape him up and keep him closer to home? I don't know. He's such a workaholic."
"But you work hard, dear."
"That's different! My job has meaning."
"Money has meaning. Most people think so, anyway."
"No, I'm sorry," Helen decided. "It doesn't take my master's in psychology to figure out why he's always away: the man has a fear of commitment."
"Oh." After a moment, her aunt said, "What does that mean, dear—'fear of commitment'? I see it all the time on the covers of magazines when I'm food shopping."
"It means he'd rather be away with his work than at home with his family. It's the number-one phobia that men have," Helen said, working herself into a fine snit. "They're not afraid of heights, speed, guns, fists, or sex; but dangle a commitment in front of their faces, and they run like rabbits."
Aunt Mary made a tisking sound and said, "He did marry the lady who passed away, didn't he? He wasn't living in sin or anything like that?"
"No, no, on paper, he looks fine. It's just that ... he wasn't there for Linda," Helen murmured. "And now he isn't there for Katie."
The two women lapsed into silence, each with her own thoughts. Aunt Mary, older and with more experience of the glitches and flaws in life, spoke first.
"Piddle," she said flatly. "You're being way too hard on the man."
Helen sighed and said, "Maybe I am. But you know what? It's easier for me this way."
The twilight had deepened, setting the stage for a parade of stars. Already the first and brightest were showing off. It was bedtime for Aunt Mary, come-home time for Russell.
Helen stood up and held out her hands to the elderly woman. "Come on, Aunt Mary," she said with an affectionate smile. "I'll help you climb out of that chair."
"Thank you, dear. First take this ... this whachamacallit. This bottle," she said, handing Helen the afghan. "And then pull me up."
****
When the call came, it knocked Helen out of a sound sleep. As she groped for the phone she opened one eye: two in the morning. Probably a drunk. Angry that the house was being roused at that hour, she mumbled an annoyed "Yes?"
As it turned out, she didn't have to worry that Becky and Russell had been rudely awakened. They weren't home. They were, to be precise, in the juvenile holding cell in Salem's brand-new police station, properly chaperoned by a matron who was standing guard outside the cell block.
Helen was speechless. Her mind, barely functioning at that hour anyway, shut down at the news. It wasn't possible.
"They're in bed," she said stupidly. "Wait."
She slammed the receiver down and staggered down the hail, flipping lights on as she went. All she found were rumpled beds in empty bedrooms and one open, screenless window.
Returning to the phone again, she said indignantly to the lieutenant on hold, "What're they doing there?" Her tone suggested that they'd been grabbed from their beds by a Salem SWAT team.
"As I said, ma'am, they were apprehended in the act of spray painting city property: the statue of Roger Conant, across from the Common. In front of the Witch Museum?" he added, mistaking Helen's stunned silence for geographic confusion.
"Are you kidding me?" she asked. "Not that statue. The most well-known one in Salem? Nobody would be that stupid. It's in the heart of town ... a tourist landmark. They would've been caught!"
&nbs
p; "They were caught," said the lieutenant laconically. "Your two, anyway. Three others got away."
She couldn't get over the choice of targets. "Roger Conant? The founder of Salem? It's ... unpatriotic!"
Her logic, not very impressive so far, improved as her mind cleared. "And Rebecca would never—never!—vandalize something. No, Lieutenant, really. There's been a mistake."
"We checked with the juvenile probation officer," he said without comment, "and neither of your children's been in trouble before, so we're releasing them to you. You can come for them anytime. Juvenile Court convenes on Tuesday; you'll want to be there for their hearing."
Juvenile Court. Hearing. They were words guaranteed to strike agony in a parent's heart. "My children aren't allowed out at this hour," Helen insisted. "You must believe me."
"Be that as it may, they were out, Mrs. Evett," the lieutenant reminded her.
"What will happen on Tuesday?" she asked, humbly now.
"They'll be ordered to pay for the cleanup. Since it's their first offense, the charges will probably be filed for a year." He hesitated, then added, "Ma'am? I know about your husband. I'm sorry about this. We all are."
She thanked him and hung up and burst into tears.
All the lessons, all the love, all the training—useless. They might as well have been raised by wolves. Where had she gone wrong? How had she failed so thoroughly as a parent? And how could she possibly blame Nat Byrne for screwing up his family life when she was doing such a spectacular job of messing up her own?
After the tears of remorse and self-doubt passed, Helen blew her nose, washed her face, and prepared to head out to collect her delinquents. But before she left, she detoured into the basement and hunted down every can of solvent she could find—thinner, turpentine, acetone—and packed them into a box with rags and a scrub brush. She loaded them into the trunk of the Volvo and, feeling like a terrorist on a mission, drove to the station.
The process was slightly less embarrassing than she imagined it would be; maybe it was because she was getting used to being a criminal's mom. After Becky and Russell were released she hurried them out of the station and threw them into the back seat of her car, where she conducted her own interrogation.
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