Beachcombers (23 page)

34

Abbie

A
bbie didn't sleep. She tossed in her bed, tortured with thoughts of Howell making love with Sydney. She rose early in the morning, while the others were still sleeping. She would have liked it, she admitted to herself, if Lily had forgotten to go to the grocery store again. It would have felt so good to yell at someone. She kicked herself for that thought. Still, it would have been something positive to do, to buy groceries. But the shelves were stocked. She settled on putting together a stew in the Crock-Pot and making a carrot cake with buttercream frosting. For the first time ever, she wasn't tempted to lick the icing off the beaters.

She biked over to the Levins, and after making more mistakes on the computer keyboard in ten minutes than she usually made all morning, she got herself in control and concentrated on her job, which made the time go faster.

Finally
, it was time to bike over to the Parker house. She biked around their block a few times, trying to get her breath in control. She didn't know if Sydney would still be there. Probably she'd gone back to New York.

But when Abbie tapped on the door and then slipped into the front hall, there was Howell's wife. Sydney looked whip-thin and brittle in her black suit and crisp black hair.

"Hi, Abbie. Come into the living room with me. I need to talk to you."

Oh, man
, Abbie thought. She swallowed. "Okay." She held her head high as she followed the other woman into the living room.

Sydney shut the door. "I understand you took Harry horseback riding."

Abbie's blood pressure dropped back to normal. "That's true. I have a friend--"

"I don't want you taking him again."

"But he loved it!" Abbie protested. "He
loves
horses!"

"I'm well aware of that. He is my son, after all. But he's only a little boy, and he's a particularly fragile child. Oh, for Christ's sake, don't look so horrified. I don't mean he has a
condition
or anything like that. But he's clumsy. He's not naturally athletic. And he takes everything to heart so terribly. He needs to toughen up, and I mean mentally as well as physically, before he does anything serious like horseback riding."

"We didn't let him go off on his own," Abbie assured her. "My friend Shelley was with him every minute. Harry didn't really ride. He didn't hold the reins. Shelley held the reins and only led him around the ring."

Sydney crossed her arms and tapped her foot. "I appreciate your kindness and your friend's kindness. But I don't want it to happen again. Is that understood?"

Abbie took a deep breath. It was odd, being spoken to this way by someone pretty much her own age. But Sydney was Abbie's employer. "Yes. I understand."

"And you won't take him horseback riding again." She glared at Abbie, waiting for her to parrot back her words.

"No. I won't take Harry horseback riding again."

Sydney sent Abbie off to the beach with Harry. She had already packed a basket for them and dressed her little boy in bathing suit and flip-flops. Abbie had to leave the Parker house without even seeing Howell.

Dutifully, Abbie helped Harry build an intricate sand castle. She walked on the beach, collecting shells with him. She continually slathered him with sunblock. Time seemed to stand still even though Harry was especially animated and brave today. But at last she took the little boy back to his house.

Sydney was gone.

And Howell was there.

Howell reclined on the sofa, his ankle in its cast propped on a pillow. Harry raced in, jumped into his father's arms, and reeled off a list of the adventures he'd had with Abbie that afternoon.

"Abbie." Howell's eyes were warm on her face. "Can you stay for dinner with us tonight? Please? I need to talk to you."

"All right." Abbie turned away to hide the hope that she knew must be glowing from her eyes.

In a kind of trance she prepared dinner and got Harry fed and bathed and ready for bed. Howell read Harry a story and tucked him in, and the little boy fell asleep easily.

Quietly, they left the room and went downstairs. Howell sat on the sofa, but Abbie sat in a chair across from him.

"Abbie," Howell said. "I'm sorry about the way Sydney treated you on Friday."

Abbie couldn't speak. She could only wait. She was like a prisoner waiting for a verdict.

"Abbie, listen to me. I don't want you to imagine that I made love with Sydney this weekend--"

Abbie dug her fingers into her palms, fighting for dignity, but unable to keep quiet. "How could I not? She was so obviously--in the mood--for you."

"It was an act, Abbie. A show. If I'd objected, we would have fought, and I hate having Harry see us fight. Anyway, all we did was argue, but not too much, because she'd made plans to go out for dinner with some New York politicos who were here for the weekend and she needed me as her willing accessory. Believe me, it's in public, not in private, that she wants me to play the role of the adoring husband."

Abbie searched Howell's face, hoping he was telling the truth, needing him to say more.

He leaned toward her. "Abbie, I'm going to ask Sydney for a divorce."

Her heart leapt. "Oh, Howell."

"But I need time," Howell continued. "There's a lot to figure out. I don't know where I want to live. I don't know that I want to keep the job I have or take one of the offers I've received. Most of all, there's Harry. I need to think about how to do this in the best way for him." Howell frowned. "I don't want Harry ever to think I left Sydney for you. I want him to like you. I want him to love you. I want him, most of all, to feel safe with you."

Abbie said, "I see." She struggled to appear sympathetic and concerned when really, she wanted to jump to her feet and cheer.
Howell wanted to be with her! He was going to divorce Sydney!
She would spend her life with this man and she would give real nurturing love to little Harry. She'd provide the warmth and consistency and maternal affections the little boy needed. She wanted to hug herself and laugh with glee like a child on Christmas morning.

"But we have to go slowly," Howell continued. "It would be a disaster if Sydney suspects how I feel about you before the divorce takes place. Can you trust me with this, Abbie? Can you understand--I don't want Harry to connect our divorce with this island. We need to take our time. The more Harry gets to know you, the better." He smiled suddenly. "And the more I get to know you, the better for me."

He looked at her then with such love in his eyes that Abbie could do only one thing. She went into his arms.

35

Emma

A
s she did every day, five days a week, Emma opened the unlocked front door and stepped into the Bracebridge house. From the living room came the sound of angry voices. She shut the door behind her quietly and stood for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Emma didn't want to be eavesdropping, but she did want Sandra Bracebridge to know she had arrived at work on time.

"It
is
my Elizabeth Rebecca Coffin painting!" Millicent Bracebridge insisted. "
Mine.
My parents gave it to me for my twenty-first birthday. And if I want to give it to the historical association, I can and I will!"

She was speaking of the illustrious oil painting that hung above the fireplace in the living room. It was called
Gathering Seaweed
and featured a horse and cart on the beach with a young man and a pitchfork. It had been painted around 1900, and it glowed as if lit within. Certainly it was the focal point of the room. On the other hand, so many other treasures and antiques were gathered in the room, it was hard to focus on one.

"Millicent." Sandra Bracebridge's voice was honeyed. "Darling, I know what you're doing. You want to give the painting to the NHA so that you'll help Spencer's career along. But he doesn't need you to do that. He's doing perfectly well on his own."

"Of course he is!" Millicent snapped. "I know that. That is
not
why I want to give them the painting now. I want to get it out of this dark old house and exhibited where people can see it. I'm getting old. My vision is going. I can't see it. I shouldn't be selfish."

"Well, then, Millicent," Sandra cooed smoothly, "why not
sell
it to the NHA? Or sell it to someone else. If you don't want to be selfish, then think of your children."

"My son left you a very healthy inheritance," Millicent reminded her daughter-in-law.

"That's true. And I'll always be grateful to him for that. But if you don't want me to have any more money--although may I remind you that in this economy, money isn't worth what it used to be--at least think of your grandson. You should give Spencer the painting to sell. He could use--"

Spencer spoke up. "Mother. If Grandmother gives me the Coffin painting, I would give it to the NHA. That's where it belongs."

"Oh, of course you want to seem high-minded!" Sandra's voice grew shrill.

Hearing Spencer's voice spurred Emma into action. She opened the front door and slammed it shut loudly. "Hello!" she called.

"Oh, for God's sake, that girl's here," Sandra snapped.

Spencer stepped out into the hall. "Hi, Emma. Come on in. We're just having a little family discussion."

"Not anymore, we're not." Sandra grabbed up her lightship basket bag. "I'm leaving. I'll talk to you again when you're in a more reasonable mood." She stormed out of the house without speaking to Emma.

Spencer grinned at Emma. "I don't suppose you ever fight with your mother."

She hesitated. This wasn't the time to tell him her mother had died years ago. She decided to let the question slide. "I have two sisters, and it seems we fight constantly. In the nicest possible way, of course," she added, returning his grin.

"I hope you will be as fortunate as I am," Millicent said. "I have children I love and grandchildren I adore."

"That's because we're so adorable," Spencer joked, kissing the top of his grandmother's head. "Okay, I'm going to get back to work."

"Take the painting with you," Millicent ordered.

"Not now. If I do take it, it has to be done with some ceremony. If you do give it to the historical association, there should be an article about it in the papers. Some fuss should be made."

"I hate fuss!" Millicent complained.

"Maybe you don't want fuss, but this painting deserves it. I'm not talking about anything complicated. Just perhaps having the director of the association over for a glass of champagne and a photograph."

"Oh, really, Spencer. Why can't you just take it?"

"Because it's an absolutely magnificent and historically important gift. I'll give you awhile to think it over," Spencer said. "Bye, Grams. Bye, Emma."

Millicent's hands were trembling as she rearranged herself in her wheelchair. "I don't think my daughter-in-law will ever have enough money," she grumbled. "I suppose some people just always want more."

"How about a nice quiet Agatha Christie murder to calm you down?" Emma said.

"Yes, please." Millicent allowed Emma to tuck the blanket around her legs. "That Agatha, she did know what she was doing, didn't she? In her books, family members were always killing one another for money."

Emma settled on the sofa and opened the book. "We've got only about thirty pages left of this one."

"Spencer really likes you," Millicent said.

Surprised, Emma answered, "I really like Spencer."

"Don't pretend you're naive, dear, I know you're not." Millicent leaned her head back against the chair, closed her eyes, and was asleep at once.

Emma began to read, slowly, in a low droning voice, the kind Millicent slept best to. After awhile, she allowed her eyes to travel the room, lighting on all the objects and artifacts Millicent had collected over the years. Sailors' valentines hung on the wall. The lightship baskets were lined up from smallest to largest in the bay window. The lustrous Coffin painting hung above the fireplace--

Wait a minute.

Something was wrong here. Something had registered with Emma's brain, something
tugged.

She scanned the room slowly. Across from her, Millicent rustled in her chair.

Quickly Emma returned to the book. "'Hercule smoothed his mustaches.'" She continued to read aloud, slowly, while scanning the room again. She'd spent so many hours in this room, it was as if each item had imprinted itself on her subconscious, and some detail was wrong here, something nagged at her like a chipped nail on ten otherwise perfect fingers. She tried not to think so hard, to let it come to her, and it did.

Seven lightship baskets still stood in a formal line on the window seat, ranged according to size, from largest to smallest. The outline was the same.

But the color was off. Five of the lightship baskets were lighter in color than the others. Millicent's baskets were all old and valuable, but now five of them were just slightly, but noticeably, lighter ...

"Why have you stopped reading?" Millicent was awake, and cranky.

"Sorry," Emma apologized, faking a little cough. "My throat is dry. If you don't mind, I'll get some iced tea for you and me."

"Very well." Millicent closed her eyes.

Emma hurried into the kitchen and prepared the tea, then carried the tall glasses and the plate of cookies into the living room. Millicent seemed to have fallen back asleep. Emma set the tray on the coffee table and quickly walked to the window at the front of the house, pretending to adjust the draperies.

Yes.
Now that she was so close, it was obvious that five of the lightship baskets had been replaced. They were much lighter, and one of them had a fake ivory decoration that was similar to the real one, but just a little different.

Millicent spoke up. "I thought you were thirsty."

"I just needed to stretch my back." Emma hurried back to hand the older woman her tea. Now Millicent was awake, and eager to hear Emma read. She would have no more opportunity to check out the baskets. But in the back of her mind, she worked on the puzzle: Why were the lightship baskets different?