Beyond Midnight (27 page)

"
Of
you
? I think he came by because of
you
.
"

"
Well, you think wrong. Go to bed, honey. I
'
m beat.

It
was just as she feared: He never looked better.

Peaches Bartholemew, dressed to kill in a suit of rust silk, smiled and waved and then said to Katie,
"
Here comes Daddy, sweetheart!
"

She released Katie
'
s hand as Nathaniel Byrne emerged into the SWISS AIR boarding area, and the child went running into her father
'
s outstretched arms. He scooped her up in a high-flying arc before hugging her to him. She squealed with pleasure as he laughed and called her funny names like Katie-Bobbaroo and Little Swiss Miss.

Someone'
s got her clutches in him,
Peaches decided as she walked up to her employer. He looked happier, younger, altogether more lively than the day he
'
d left
Zurich
three weeks earlier.

She hardly had to ask herself who it might be.

"
You
'
re looking fit,
"
she said as they got close. She managed to position herself so that he couldn
'
t shake her hand. But her cheek was available to be kissed and that
'
s what he did, quite without awkwardness, which made her think, again, that he was feeling much more at ease than before.

Still grinning, he said,
"
You look pretty darn spiffy yourself. That color suits you.
"

As well it should. Peaches had spent a great deal of time and money in the couture shops of
Zurich
, outfitting herself for the coming campaign. Her shell of blue silk, in a shade that flattered the rust, had been shipped from
Paris
expressly for her.

She blushed prettily and said,
"
I spent a little mad money during my stay here. I hope you don
'
t mind lugging the extra parcels back with us on Sunday.
"

"
Not at all,
"
he said, but his attention was on his daughter.
"
Are you having a good time at Nana
'
s?
"

"
Sometimes I am,
"
Katie said dutifully. She studied the well-loved teddy bear that she clutched in one arm.
"
But sometimes I
'
m sad.
"

"
Oh? Katie-bear, sad? That
'
s not right.
"

"
Because I want to come home.
"

She laid her head on her father
'
s shoulder in an inexpressibly poignant way. The effect it had on him was profound. He sighed deeply and laid his hand on his daughter
'
s cheek, and smoothed the brown curls that had tumbled over her forehead.
"
And that
'
s where we
'
re going, darling,
"
he said, kissing her soft pink cheek.
"
Home. As soon as we get you packed.
"

With his free hand he slung his carry-on bag over his shoulder, and they fell in with the rest of the smartly dressed passengers moving through the pristine international airport.

Nat had a hundred different questions for his daughter; but Katie would not be drawn out about her vacation at Nana
'
s. Her answers, when they came, were in languid monosyllables.

Nat turned to Peaches and said over his daughter
'
s droopy head,
"She's
over the
flu
,
no?
"

"
Definitely. No temperature, no symptoms. She was running around like a monkey all morning long,
"
Peaches added in a lie.
"
I expect she
'
s worn herself out, that
'
s all.
"

Or maybe she's tired after the nightmares about witches all night.

"
So how are things back in
Salem
? You
'
ve been busy?
"
Peaches said, changing the subject.

"
Yeah, the usual,
"
he said, obviously distracted.
"
Sweetie?
"
he murmured, cocking his head to meet his daughter
'
s averted gaze.
"
Are you all right?
"

Katie shrugged uncertainly.

He laid the palm of his hand against her forehead.
"
You feel okay. Hmmm. Do you think if we stopped for an ice cream, that it would perk us all up?
"

Katie sighed and said,
"
Maay-be.
"

Reassured, he smiled and said,
"
I think maybe it would, too.
"
He turned and winked at Peaches, convinced that he
'
d managed to turn his daughter
'
s spirits around.

Peaches
smiled back. He was so naive.

****

Three days without him. Presumably it could be done. On Friday night Helen worked late at home. On Saturday morning, she cleaned out her closet and made Russ and Becky do the same. On Saturday afternoon she boxed everything up for the Salvation Army and made a list of it all for her accountant. On Sunday afternoon she went antiquing on
Pickering
Wharf
and came home with a set of silver butter knives and, for her aunt Mary, a pair of Victorian needlepoint pillows. On Sunday evening she dragged the kids off to a restaurant with their great-aunt to celebrate her seventy-fourth birthday. On Sunday night she drank a tall glass of warm milk to help her fall asleep quickly, so that she
'
d be all rested for Monday.

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: t
he 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 tim
e she heard footsteps in the hal
l, 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.