A Month at the Shore (57 page)

"
I don
'
t! Candy said you fill up overnight!
"

Helen laughed reassuringly and said,
"
Mrs. Greene was exaggerating. Really. Why don
'
t we agree on a day next week—
"

"Please ...
next week won
'
t be any better,
"
the woman said, suddenly weary.
"
I
've been so ... I have to nail this down ...
this one thing, at least. I can
'
t go on like this
... drifting
...
please, won
'
t you come? We live on
Chestnut Street
, not all that far from your school. It wouldn
'
t take long
...
really
...
I don
'
t see why you can
'
t
...
.
"
she argued, practically in tears.

If Linda Byrne was trying to make a good impression, she wasn
'
t succeeding. She had a top-drawer address, but she sounded like the kind of spoiled, idle woman who
routinely
takes to her bed when things don
'
t go her way.

On the other hand, something in her tone sent a shiver of sympathy through Helen. Whatever the reason for her headache, it was obvious that Linda Byrne was in real agony. No one could fake that kind of pain in her voice, not even a prima donna.

"
All right. I can make time tomorrow evening. Shall I come by before dinner? Say, five o
'
clock?
"

"
Oh, yes, thank you,
"
Mrs. Byrne said, her voice becoming suddenly faint.
"
Peaches will be so pleased.
"

She gave the number of her house and hung up, leaving Helen somewhat bemused over the whole thing.

Peaches.
In Helen
'
s mind the name conjured up everything from a bunny rabbit to a st
ri
ptease. She
'
d never taught a toddler by that name, not once in the fifteen years she
'
d been in day care. From the cozy groups of six she
'
d cared for in her home to the larger classes who
'
d passed through the preschool she later founded, Helen had never come across a single, solitary Peaches.

In any case, Helen
'
s plan was to present herself to little Peaches and—with any luck—to talk Linda Byrne into visiting the preschool before she signed up her child.

Helen was immensely proud of The Open Door, proud of the way she
'
d risked a modest inheritance on an old building in need of rehab and, with tax credits and a lot of sweat equity—hers and Hank
'
s—turned it into a stimulating center for creative kids. She didn
'
t need to chase down
Linda Byrne
'
s business; the class would be full by May first, tops.

She didn
'
t
need
Linda Byrne
'
s business. But oddly enough, she seemed to want it.

****

Helen was debating whether to throw one last log on the fire or call in the militia when she heard the front door being slammed.

"
Russell Evett, get in here!
"
she yelled.
"
Now.
"

After what Helen knew was a deliberate delay, she heard Russ shuffle into the sitting room. She herself was smacking the last of the fire into helpless embers with the poker, trying to get her relief and anger under control. When she was done, she turned to confront her son.

The boy-man who faced her looked like any other fourteen-year-old: baggy clothes, scary haircut, a zit or two on his chin to be followed someday soon by stubble. He was tall, as tall as she was, and growing weed-fast. He
'
d got an ear double-pierced recently without her permission. She knew he always took out the earrings or safety pins or whatever they were before he walked through the door, and tonight was no exception.

She searched for signs of remorse or hints of fear in his face; it had been so long since she
'
d seen either. He
'
d inherited Hank
'
s green eyes and her black hair, a pleasing combination. But somehow, neither Hank
'
s self-discipline nor her hypersensitivity had got passed on.
I
f Russ had either, he wouldn
'
t be standing on the carpet in front of her right now.

"
The mall
'
s been closed for an hour and a half,
"
she said quietly.
"
Where have you been?
"

Russell shrugged and looked away.
"
Hangin
'
.
"

"
Well, I don
'
t want you ‘hangin
'
,
'
young man. When we agree on a plan, I expect you to follow your end of it.
"

He shrugged.
"
Mrs. Fitch couldn
'
t come.
"

"
Your sister was there.
"

"
That wasn
'
t the plan either, Ma.
"

"
Well, she was the obvious alternative.
"

"
Becky said it was okay,
"
he threw out sullenly.

"
Becky is not your mother. You know the rule: no cars. You had plenty of time to reconsider.
"

"
How was I even supposed to find her?
"

"
Filene
'
s Basement is some big secret? Listen to me: I don
'
t want you driving around with kids older than you. Not without my permission, and don
'
t hold your breath for
that.
Do you understand?
"

His answer was a defiant look of boredom.

"
That
'
s it!
"
Helen snapped.
"
You
'
re grounded for the weekend.
"

The boredom turned to instant indignation.
"
Grounded! Why?
I
didn
'
t blow a gasket!
"

Helen wasn
'
t sure whose gasket he was talking about, and in any case she didn
'
t want the bickering to drag on any further, so she said,
"
Good night, Russell,
"
in the calmest possible voice and left him to stew in his own teenage hormones.

The last of the sad thoughts that drifted through Helen
'
s head that night was that
"
Ma
"
didn
'
t sound nearly as winsome as
"
Mommy.
"

****

The Byrnes lived on a street that was not only the jewel in the crown of Old Salem, but arguably one of the finest avenues in
America
. Less than half a mile long,
Chestnut Street
was lined with perfectly preserved three-story mansions dating from 1800, many of them built for
Salem
'
s early aristocracy: the merchants and sea captains who reaped mind-boggling wealth from whaling and the China Trade.

The entire avenue, east end to west, was now a National Historic Landmark and a mecca for history and architecture
buffs. They could stroll virtually alone along its brick-lined sidewalks and cobblestoned gutters in the imposing shadows of the mansions, and dream about the clipper ships that braved high seas to bring back unimaginable treasures.

It was a great street—but nobody really cared. Not the bread and butter of
Salem
'
s tourist economy, anyway; those people were far more interested in
Salem
'
s darker, uglier past. The witch trials of 1692, in which nineteen innocent victims were hanged and the twentieth was pressed to death under a crush of rocks—that was the story that busloads came to hear.

Who cared if the
Peabody
Essex
Museum
contained a priceless slant-top desk carved entirely of ivory? It was much more fun to stand with a
cluster of tourists in a pitch-
black room around a luridly lit pentagram and hear the tale of
Salem
'
s shameful, sinful past.

Helen Evett ought to know. Whenever visitors came to see her—depending on their ages—they wanted to go to the
Witch
Museum
or the
Witch
Dungeon
Museum
or the Wax Museum or the Witch House. If they were the pensive type, they sometimes wanted t
o sit and reflect at the witch-
trials memorial.

Rarely did they wish to take a walking tour of
Chestnut Street
.

Helen drove slowly down the one-way street, searching for the Byrne mansion. She hadn
'
t been on
Chestnut Street
in a long while, long enough to be impressed all over again by its magnificence.
Salem
had plenty of historic houses, of course; but there was something about the way
Chestnut Street
'
s mansions stood shoulder to shoulder, united against the outside world, that seemed exceptionally exclusive. Chestnut Street did not permit slaggards. No peeling paint, no sprawling privet here, by golly.

Stuffy little street, Helen decided. Automatically she sat up straighter in the seat of her Volvo.

She had dressed in keeping with the neighborhood,
pin
n
i
ng her hair in a knot at the back of her head and wearing a suit much more tailored than her usual soft, flowing dresses.

The preschoolers had noticed the change the minute they saw her. One of them, whose mother was a lawyer, had looked up at her and said,
"
Do you hafta go to court, Mrs. Evett?
"

Helen didn
'
t, but she felt as nervous as if she were appearing in her own defense. It was an illogical, bewildering response to the telephone plea of the night before.

Just who was this Linda Byrne, anyway? She sounded too disorganized, somehow, for such a formal neighborhood. And what about Byrne? Had he been surprised to realize that he
'
d married a dysfunctional neurotic?

Now, now,
Helen told herself.
Give the poor lady a break. Headaches can be paralyzing.

The problem was, Helen had never had the luxury of dropping everything to nurse one. Like most other working women, she could only pop a couple of pain relievers and keep on moving.

She pulled up in front of one of the grandest of the grand houses, a brick three-story mansion with an Ionic portico framing a door painted the deepest of greens. Like most of the houses on the street, the Byrne mansion was set back only a few feet from the brick sidewalk and was fronted by an elaborate painted fence; this one curved back to two u
rn
ed pillars on each side of the portico.

From the copper downspouts to the fittings on the deep green working shutters, everything about the house suggested taste, discretion, and affluence—and a severity that Helen found strangely off-putting. This was no charming ramshackle cottage; no rambling, whimsical Victorian like her own. The painted ivory shutters on the inside of the windows facing the street were all closed, as if the place
were put up for the season. Obviously the owners weren
'
t fond of sunshine.

If Helen had seen a rosebush about to leaf out, or a pot of early pansies on the step, then maybe she would
'
ve felt less wary. But except for the ivy tumbling discreetly through the spokes of the fence, and the thick, gnarled branches of an old tree nodding close to the second-floor windows, she saw nothing that seemed relaxed or welcoming. If houses reflected their owners, then Helen wasn
'
t sure she
'
d like these owners.