by Lisa Unger
Kate went on. “But ultimately, she married Grandpa—who came from a better family and who was a better man. She tried to give Richard Cameron up. But she couldn’t. He waited for her here every summer until he died.”
Birdie released a long slow breath and, for a long moment, didn’t say a word. The rain had started again. “Did my father know?” she asked finally.
“I’m not sure what he knew. Something,” said Kate. “I only know what Caroline wrote in her journals and what Lana wrote in hers.”
“I always thought they loved each other,” said Birdie. She sounded grief-stricken. “Their relationship was always so tender.”
“She loved Grandpa Jack,” said Kate. Caroline hadn’t thought so, but Kate believed differently. “She did. They were great friends. She admired him, considered him her partner in this life, the father of her children. But did she have with him what she had with Richard? I don’t think so. They were different men. She loved them differently.”
Birdie didn’t say anything, her eyes cast down to the table.
Kate went on, “On the other hand, her relationship with Richard was tempestuous, unpredictable. There was violence between them. When it was time to choose, when she had to decide between them, she married Jack.”
Kate thought of what Caroline had written: She chose sanity, security, the kind of gentle and easy love my father offered. It was enough for her in so many ways. But at the same time, her appetite for Richard never died, not until he did. She wilted all year without him, coming alive again only in the summer. It was their stolen time. I wonder if my father knew all along. If it was a bargain he made to have her with him the rest of the year.
“She told you all of this?” asked Birdie. “Caroline confided all of this to you?”
“No,” said Kate. “Not while she lived. It was all in the journals she left to me.”
Birdie leaned away from the table. In the dim light, her face was a blank mask, no emotion registering at all. Kate knew her well enough to understand that her anger was gathering like a storm. The rage would come later, someplace unpredictable, chosen for maximum impact.
“And you didn’t think I’d want to know about this?” Birdie said.
“I’ve been searching for a way to tell you,” said Kate. “I knew it would only hurt you. I felt that you wouldn’t understand—or forgive.”
“And this book you’ve written,” Birdie said. “I suppose now I know what it’s about.”
Kate smiled, though it almost hurt to do so. How could Birdie know that? Was Kate so obvious, so transparent? This was not the conversation she’d wanted to have with her mother about her book. She’d imagined it so differently. But that was just a fantasy, one of many she’d had about her mother. It was a fantasy to imagine her mother as proud, excited, and giving. It had been silly to hope that Birdie could share Kate’s passion for the story that had reignited her will to write. She wanted to tell her mother about the emotional journey she’d taken via Caroline’s journal. And how Lana’s words had been an intimate window into a time before Kate was ever born. But she couldn’t do that. She said instead what she had intended to say to anyone who asked about the inspiration for her novel.
“My book is a work of fiction. It is inspired by actual events from journals left to me by Caroline. But the characters in my novel and its events are fictionalized to the point of being unrecognizable. It’s not about anyone or anything real, not truly.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It’s true,” said Kate.
“Don’t pretend you don’t want to hurt me,” said Birdie. “It’s all you’ve ever wanted. To get even because you think I was a horrible mother.”
The accusation stung, and Kate felt tears spring to her eyes. How was it that her own mother knew her not at all? “You’re wrong, Mom,” she said. “I’ve wanted so many things over the course of my life, but revenge was never one of them. I know you did your best, as we all do with our children.”
Birdie let out an ugly laugh. “Oh, that’s rich,” she said. But she didn’t go on.
Kate wasn’t sure what Birdie found so funny and disdainful. She’d learned long ago not to answer those goading statements that implied she’d done or said something awful, laughable, or insulting. Instead, Kate asked a question she’d been wanting to ask for as long as she could remember. “Why are you so angry, Mom? Why have you always been so angry at everyone? Why do you push everyone away and then act surprised when they finally go?”
The questions seemed to drain the energy from the room, and Birdie’s head sank into her hands. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I really don’t know.”
Kate didn’t have time to be surprised by Birdie’s answer. There was a loud knock on the door. Birdie looked up at Kate, startled. It took a second for Kate to register that there was somebody standing on the porch. Two people. She could see them through the glass.
“Who is that?” asked Birdie. Her voice was thin and shaky. Kate got up, but Birdie reached across the table and put a hand on her arm. “Don’t,” she said.
“We need help.” It was the voice of a young woman, her tone desperate and afraid. “We’ve crashed our boat. We’re stranded.”
Kate reached for the flare gun, but Birdie stopped her. “There’s a gun in the cabinet.”
“Who’s with you?” Kate called as she reached for the weapon. She was surprised by its weight as she brought it down. A quick glance at the chamber told her it was fully loaded.
“My fiancé,” the voice from outside replied. “Please. We’re in trouble. Our boat—it’s sinking.”
Kate looked at her mother, who was standing, staring hard at the door. Birdie reached out for the gun, and Kate handed it to her.
“Should I go to the door?” she asked. Birdie looked her straight in the eye; Kate could see the uncertainty, the hesitation.
“What choice do we have?” said Birdie finally. “They’re on the island.”
Kate knew what she meant. If it was trouble, it was already here; the perimeter had been breached, and they had no choice but to face it head-on. Kate walked over to the door and opened it.
Two young people in their mid-twenties stood wet and shivering on the porch. The girl looked sad and frightened. The young man was nervous, fidgety, with the eyes of a con man. Kate would look back and think she knew in that moment that nothing good could follow.
chapter twenty-four
Sean had a feeling he should leave after the open house. It was something in his gut that told him he should go straight over to his mom’s, pick up Brendan, and get right on the road. But Kate had made him promise, if he was tired, to wait until Monday morning. And for a number of reasons, he was tired, bone-tired.
He hadn’t slept at all the night before, going over details in his mind for the open house—what to serve, what needed staging, what needed tidying or rearranging. He’d run around like a crazy person all day, getting everything ready, putting up signs, sending e-mails to his favorite clients, making calls to people who’d reached out to him in the past. It’s one of my favorite houses ever, he’d said about a million times. And it was true.
By the time four o’clock rolled around, everything was perfect. He was hopped up on Red Bull. His partner, Jane, was there, ready and raring to go. It was the first house of the year that wasn’t being sold out of sheer desperation. In his heart, he felt it heralded a recovery for the market. He couldn’t have said why; there were still plenty of foreclosures. It just felt like a new beginning.
But then it was four o’clock, and then it was five. One couple walked through quickly. He could tell by the woman’s shoes and bag that it was a curiosity sweep. They didn’t have the money to even dream about a house like this. As he stood at the bay window, a few cars cruised by, obviously attracted by the open-house signs. They slowed down, but no one stopped to come in.
Closer to six o’clock, Sean was sitting on the couch, looking out the picture window to the beautifully la
ndscaped pool and hot tub. He didn’t bother to wait by the door.
“If you don’t need me,” said Jane at six-thirty, “I think I’ll go.”
Jane was younger than Sean by about ten years. She was usually bubbly, unflappable. But tonight she looked tired, too. She hadn’t yet ridden the highs and the lows of the market; she’d come in on the boom. The last year had been really hard. Sean was disappointed that the open house had been a flop. But Jane looked devastated.
“It’s just the first showing,” said Sean. He put on his pep-talk smile, but it felt as fake as it was. “Don’t be discouraged.”
“I’m not,” she said. She gave him a quick wave, forced her expression to brighten. “Oh, no. I’m fine.”
She was sweet, a nice girl with a husband and small kids. She was great with clients, but this was just her sideline. She was all about staying home and being a mom at the moment, which was nice. So few people seemed inclined to do that anymore.
“You’ll see,” she said. She gathered up her bag, her reusable coffee mug. “Next week it’ll be a mob scene.”
“Definitely,” he said.
She headed toward the door, then turned back to him. She had a wild head of copper curls, a face of freckles. Everyone loved her, both women and men. It was a good trait in a salesperson, to be able to connect with everyone. If you were too sexy or good-looking, same-sex clients hated you and opposite-sex clients hit on you. She was right in the middle, attractive enough but solid and real, reliable. She had a mom-next-door energy.
“You okay?” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m great. The house looks good, the price is right. We’ll get some action next week.” He got up to see her out.
“Have a good trip,” she said. “Try to disconnect. I’ll call right away if there are any bites.”
And then she was gone. He watched her climb into her late-model BMW and drive off. Her husband made money, something to do with finance. She didn’t have to worry. He was glad about that, at least.
When he couldn’t see her car anymore, he let himself deflate. He was too experienced to be this disappointed by a bad open house. But he was. He cleaned up the deli platter, the cooler of water, and carried them to his car. He called the clients and told them that things had been a bit slow, no bites today, but the ads would all start running on Monday, and he was sure the week ahead promised good things. He wasn’t sure of that at all.
After the call was finished, that was when the fatigue set in. He’d let the girls go on alone to the island for nothing. He hadn’t felt good about it, but it might have been worth it for a killer first showing. Since things had gone badly, he felt like he’d wasted his time and let Kate down. He tried to call, but it went straight to voice mail, which meant that either her battery was dead or service was out. Kate would not be out of touch when she was separated from him and one of their kids. A tickling sense of unease started inside him.
But when he’d picked up Brendan, the kid looked like death warmed over. His ankle was more swollen and he was in more pain than when Sean had dropped him off.
“What’s up, buddy?” he’d said. “Did you take it easy today?”
“Yeah,” Brendan said. “It just hurts.”
Sean had known as they pulled out of his mother’s driveway that they should just get on the road. Brendan could rest in the car and take it easy on the island. But on two past occasions, Sean had fallen asleep at the wheel. Once, he drove onto the shoulder and came to a harmless stop. The next time, he’d nearly drifted into oncoming traffic, pulling out just in time. Kate and Chelsea had been in the car. He could still feel that rocket of adrenaline, the weak relief after disaster was avoided. He knew he couldn’t take a chance. And Brendan easily agreed to wait until morning, which meant his ankle really hurt. If Kate had stayed, they’d be canceling the trip. But she was already up there.
At home, Sean gave Brendan some Tylenol and parked him in front of the television. He ordered Chinese food and tried to call Kate, then Chelsea, then the house. The calls to the girls went straight to voice mail. He got a perpetual busy signal at the house. It was normal for communications to be haywire on the island. It was like the place wanted to isolate you, to keep you for itself.
“Can we call Mom?” asked Brendan during dinner. They tried again. Still nothing. “I want to talk to Mom,” he said miserably.
Sean put a blanket over him, a fresh ice pack on his ankle, and sat beside his son. “I know, pal,” he said. “We’ll get her in a bit.”
The kids were attached to Kate in a way they couldn’t be to Sean. It was a mom thing. He didn’t take it personally—he had his own special bond with each of the children. But when comfort was needed, Mom was the only one who would do. Hell, even Sean wanted to talk to Kate and metabolize his feelings about the shitty open house. He wanted to hear her say, “Hang in there, babe. It’s a great house, and you’re the man to sell it.” Maybe it wasn’t fair that they all leaned so heavily on her, but that’s the way it was.
While watching The Lord of the Rings for the hundredth time, they both fell asleep on the couch. When Sean opened his eyes again, it was midnight. He managed to get Brendan up to his room and into bed. After that, he found an e-mail from Kate, telling him that service was intermittent and he shouldn’t be worried that he couldn’t reach them and she hadn’t called.
But Sean, she wrote. Leave first thing, if you’re not on your way already. This place … I don’t want to be here without you. Mom’s not feeling well and things are weird. I’m worried about Brendan. How’s his ankle? Why didn’t we just wait and come with you?
He wrote back: I was too wrecked to drive tonight. I’m going to get some sleep and be on my way before the sun comes up. Hang in there. I love you and I’m with you.
There was no response. He set his alarm to get four hours of sleep, but he just lay there staring at the ceiling, where a hairline crack was starting near the light fixture. A crack on the ceiling had the habit of sometimes looking like a rabbit. A line from a book he used to read to Chelsea. What was it? Madeline, of course.
He closed his eyes finally and fell asleep with the phone and laptop on the bed beside him. He began to dream fitfully. He was on the island with Kate. They were standing on the dock, looking up toward the house.
“I don’t want to come back here anymore,” she said.
“We don’t have to,” he answered.
Just as he said those words, he saw flames jutting up from the roof of the main house. He smelled smoke, hot and acrid in his nose.
“It’s on fire,” he said. He felt utterly calm.
“I did it,” Kate answered. She looked peaceful in a way she never had there. “I’m burning it to the ground.”
In his pocket, his phone was ringing and ringing. It was a strange, bubbling noise, like an electronic ripple underwater. “Aren’t you going to answer that?” said Kate. But Sean couldn’t find a phone in any of his pockets.
It went on and on until Sean woke up and saw that it was the Skype phone on his computer. The window on his screen said, Chelsea’s laptop calling. He dove for it and clicked on the accept button. He expected to see Kate, but it was Chelsea on the screen. She looked pale and tired; she was looking at something off camera. “Dad?” she said. “Daddy?”
“Hey, kiddo,” he said. He was so glad to see her, felt flooded with relief. “What’s going on over there? I’ve been trying to reach you guys all night.”
“Dad, listen,” she said. She moved in close to the camera, but she was looking at his image on the screen, not into the lens, so it had the effect of her looking down. There was something odd in her tone of voice.
“What is it?” He felt the first jangle of alarm.
“Dad,” she said. “There’s someone on the island. I saw them walking toward the main house. We’re in trouble.”
“What are you talking about, Chelsea?” he said. Was this some kind of joke? It didn’t seem real. “You’re freaking me out.”
/>
“Something woke me up, and I was looking out the window,” she said. “I saw Mom go to the main house. Then a little while later, I saw two other people. I don’t know what to do. The phones aren’t working. But I got Skype to work with that rocket stick you gave me. Should I go after her?”
“No, no,” he said. He felt a blast of adrenaline; pure fear pulsed through his system. “Just stay on the line with me. Tell me what you heard. I’ll call the cops.” He was reaching frantically about for the phone. Where was it? It had fallen to the floor. “Daddy?” she said. “There’s a bad storm, but I don’t think what I heard just now was thunder. What should I do?”
“Listen—”
“Can you hear me?” He saw her pick up the computer and give it a little shake. “I can’t hear you.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“Dad,” said Chelsea, “I’m scared. I think there’s something really wrong.”
In the next second, her image froze. The screen read, Connection lost.
chapter twenty-five
Roger Murphy had always been a deep, heavy sleeper. Once upon a time, he used to lie down beside his wife, Lydia, at ten P.M. and wake up exactly eight hours later in the same position, on his back, arms over his head. But since his wife had died two years ago after a protracted battle with cancer, insomnia was his new roommate. He knew the night in a way he never had. With Lydia, he lived his life in the daylight hours, like everyone else. Without her, he roamed the house in the dead of night, sifting through their drift of photographs, old cards, and love letters, waiting for the first break of dawn. Grief was too shallow, too weak, a word for what he knew after Lydia’s death. He was halved, cored out. He was the walking dead.
He was so relieved for her when she finally passed. Her illness had taken over their lives, turned their home into a hospital, every shelf and surface a resting place for bottles of pills, books on dealing with cancer, holistic remedies, meditation CDs—later, the morphine ampoules he’d learned to inject, the final soldiers in the legion of pain-relief drugs.