Chance Harbor (26 page)

Bear kept wandering off the trail; he made Eve jump by startling a grouse into darting across the path right by her feet. The dog looked more surprised than anyone and made Eve and Darcy laugh with his bewildered expression.

“I can’t believe you’re still talking and walking,” Eve grumbled after an hour of steady climbing. “How old are you again?”

“Old enough to know a good photo op when I see one. Here. Stand in the sun by that boulder.”

She complied, glad to rest for a minute, removing her wool cap at the last minute and running a finger through her curls. Darcy lowered the camera after he’d taken the picture, shaking his head. “You must have been an adorable ten-year-old, with those freckles and curls.”

Eve put a hand to her face, damp with sweat, embarrassed. “Now you’re making me feel like my nose must be running and I have a milk mustache.”

“You’d be cute even then.”

“What were you like at ten?” Eve asked as they started up the trail again.

Darcy’s answer surprised her: “Sad and lonely.”

“Why?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “I was a little weirdo. Hyperactive—back in those days, schools dealt with the problem by pinning me in a corner with empty desks, so I couldn’t bother anyone—and lonely at home. I was an only child and my parents were very close. The sort of parents who wanted time to themselves more often than not. The upside was that I spent a lot of time outside and still love to explore. I’m never bored, because I got good at entertaining myself at a young age. What about you? What were you like at ten?”

“Overprotected,” Eve said. “My father was a professor at the University of Wisconsin. My mother could have been, but she stayed home with my siblings and me. My brother died a few years ago, but my sister still lives there in Wisconsin. I haven’t seen her in years.” She stopped. No need to tell Darcy about the hoarding.

“What were they like, your parents?” he asked.

“Oh, you know. Intellectuals. Liberals. My mother read constantly and wore her hair up in a French twist, like some sort of actress in an Ibsen play. She was very cool and removed and efficient. We were never close. She showed me only the finer things in life. Things that could come in useful at a dinner party, like how to use a finger cup and which fork to use.”

“Good Lord. And here I’ve been licking my fingers around you like a savage.”

“Yes, well. I’ve pretended not to notice. We’ve only ever eaten food outdoors. I’ve never seen you in a restaurant.”

“And now you never will,” he promised. “I’d be too terrified.”

Amazingly, they had reached some sort of summit. To Eve’s disappointment, there was just a field with short, scrubby pines and mottled yellow grass. Then Darcy pointed. “There’s our view.”

She turned and took in a sharp breath at the sight. The grass gave way to giant boulders and a drop-off beyond the rocky outcropping. Far below, she could see land jutting into the sparkling Atlantic, a peninsula with a white building on it. From here it looked like a toy castle.

“That’s the Keltic Lodge,” Darcy said, then guided her over the plateau to a narrower trail leading to another rocky seat. From here, they had a 180-degree view, not only of the sea, but of the canyon far below. The land fell in bright folds of color to a silver ribbon that snaked through the valley.

“Huh,” she said. “It was almost worth that bloody climb.”

“It’s certainly no ordinary Monday, right? Happy birthday to me,” Darcy sang. He put down his pack, unzipped it, and began unloading so much food that Eve started laughing, watching him arrange it all on a plaid blanket. “You were expecting twelve people, I see,” she said.

“You never know who might show up at a party.”

The array of food was astounding: several cheeses and sausages, two crispy baguettes, grapes and apples, shortbread cookies, dark chocolate truffles. And champagne, with fluted pink plastic cups, which Darcy produced with a flourish.

They sat against the rocks. The sun was warm enough that they shed their vests and fleece jackets. Eve ate more than she should have before reclining back against a sun-warmed boulder with a sigh.

“I might have to copy your birthday ideas,” she said. “This is a great party.”

“I’d have to agree,” he said. “When’s your birthday again?”

“February.”

“Ah. A bit tricky to hike up here in the winter without snowshoes.” He brightened. “I know. We can do Chile. The Andes would be perfect in February. Summer weather.”

“All right,” Eve said recklessly.

It happened as she leaned forward to clink her glass to his: Darcy kissed her, his mouth tasting of champagne and chocolate and all of the outdoors.

Eve was so taken aback that she let his lips touch hers without moving. Then, even more alarmingly, her body responded before her mind did. Heat rose in her belly as Darcy somehow pulled her over the food on the blanket between them and onto his lap without knocking anything over and without causing them to tumble off the cliff.

“That was quite a move,” Eve said, pulling away just enough to glance over her shoulder at the drop below. “I’d say it’s the champagne making me dizzy, but I suspect it’s my fear of heights.”

“I think it must be passion,” he said, pressing his lips to her neck now, making her shiver.

“Me, too,” Eve said, and kissed him properly this time, dizzy with the moment, with the champagne and the altitude and the feel of this man’s body against her own most of all.

O
n Sunday Catherine began a systematic scrub down of the house. She started in her own bedroom, pulling dirty sheets off the bed and making it up with clean linens before hanging up the clothes she’d flung onto the chair throughout the week. After beginning a load of laundry in the basement, she huffed back upstairs to tackle the guest room.

That was a mess, too. Not from her mother’s last visit—which seemed like years ago—but from her. She’d taken all of Russell’s remaining belongings and piled them haphazardly into boxes. Now Catherine lugged all seven boxes down to the front hall to make sure she’d deal with them. She had to erase every bit of him from her life if she was going to move on.

Well, she’d make him take the boxes with him tonight when he dropped off Willow. Catherine texted him right then to say that was the plan, using firm jabs of her thumbs and imagining herself pecking at Russell’s chest and face instead of at a phone screen.

If you don’t clear out your stuff, I’m putting it on the curb tonight
, she added. That should get his attention.

She pocketed the phone and scrubbed the upstairs bathroom, bagged the trash, then dragged the trash bags and cleaning supplies into Willow’s bedroom. She hardly ever stepped foot in here anymore; she was so exhausted these days that she usually went to bed before Willow.

Now, surveying the room—an obstacle course of books, shoes, clothing, and even a few plates and glasses—Catherine realized she’d better devise a strategy for getting Willow to pitch in around the house, or she was going to end up being as irresponsible as Zoe. She remembered Zoe’s room, how impossible it was to find anything.

“Oh, please, Catherine, help me get your sister ready for school,” Mom used to beg, her eyes wild with panic as the minutes ticked by on the clock. “You know she doesn’t listen to me. She’ll make me late for work if you don’t help. She’ll do it if you ask her.”

It was true. At least when she was young, Zoe had looked up to Catherine enough to comply when Catherine asked her to do something. Like find her own damn shoes.

Now, looking back on how often her mother had expected her to be mature while Zoe got away with murder, Catherine felt resentful all over again. Why hadn’t her mother ever had the same expectations of her younger child that she’d so clearly had of Catherine?

She heaved a sigh and began plucking clothes off Willow’s bedroom floor. She knew better than to go through a teenager’s things—total violation of privacy, her friends assured her, and not worth incurring their wrath unless you suspected drugs or risky sex—but at least she could toss Willow’s dirty clothes in with the next load of laundry.

Her arms were already full—jeans, T-shirts, socks, undies, all of it dirty—when Catherine bent over to pick up one last hoodie off the bed, Willow’s favorite black one. Beneath it was a stack of photographs spilling out of a manila folder.

Catherine stopped cold. The top picture was of a woman with long black dreadlocks, a shawl, and a striped hat. Despite her giant sunglasses, she looked creepily familiar. There was something about this woman’s features and posture that reminded her of Zoe.

Catherine shuddered a little, remembering her senior year at the university, when their parents had come to visit both of them on Family Weekend. “Zoe’s herself again,” her mother had said, taking Catherine aside, her eyes glistening. “We’re so proud of how she’s going to class.”

How pissed off she’d felt, hearing that pride in her mother’s voice. Why the hell was her mother crowing about a daughter who was only doing what she should? Catherine had been doing that all her life and never once heard about it.

Her father, too, was over the moon. “Zoe has completely turned her life around,” Dad had said.

Only Zoe hadn’t. In December of that year Mike had broken up with her, and by late spring Zoe had left school and moved home. She was pregnant. Hardly emerged from her room long enough to vomit and eat so she could throw it all up again. Hollow-eyed and silent. Zoe wouldn’t tell them anything about school, Mike, or anything else, other than saying, “He left me. Screw him.”

“Honey, you’re both so young,” their mother had said, trying to comfort Zoe one weekend when, in desperation, she had called Catherine to come home to Newburyport, to “talk sense into your sister.” It was understandable, Mom had told Zoe, that Mike wasn’t ready for a commitment. “Maybe the two of you need a break, that’s all.”

“No. I loved Mike and he left me,” Zoe had said, burying her head in her arms. “It’s over. I never want to see him again. I can’t.”

“Oh, don’t be so fucking dramatic,” Catherine had finally snapped. “Everyone goes through this. You think you’re so special? You’re not, Zoe. You’re really not. Get a grip and move on.”

Now, hearing her own harsh words replayed in her head, Catherine flinched. She had been deliberately cruel, thinking she could make Zoe angry enough to muscle her way through that breakup. Of course it hadn’t worked. Zoe had always been fragile, beneath the bluster and manic daredevil stunts.

She sighed and dropped to the bed, dumping Willow’s clothes to the floor at her feet. They were already dirty; what would it matter? She picked up the photograph and held it at various angles. This woman could definitely be Zoe. That pretty mouth, the sharp contours of the cheekbones beneath the big glasses. And there was a guitar at her feet. Zoe had played the guitar in high school. Maybe this was an old picture.

But where on earth would Willow have gotten it? And when had Zoe gone out in this disguise? Halloween, it must be.

Wait. There was something wrong here. Something Catherine caught only when she flipped through the rest of the pictures on the bed and realized there were more of this woman, some taken from farther away: this photograph couldn’t have been taken at Halloween. The leaves were still on the tree above the bench, the grass lush and tall except for a few scattered leaves at the woman’s feet. A boy walking along the sidewalk near the bench in one of the photos was wearing only a T-shirt and board shorts.

This picture had to have been taken in early September, at the latest. So who was this woman, and why was she dressed in this absurd costume?

Catherine tucked the photographs back into the folder and stood up, shaking her head. She picked up the heap of dirty clothes again. Right now she’d better keep cleaning. She could ask Willow about the pictures later.

Somehow, though, the evening got away from her. Russell showed up around seven o’clock, scarcely spoke to Catherine, and asked Willow if she’d help carry his boxes to the car. She complied, the dog trotting back and forth across the yard with them. Catherine watched from the window as Willow hugged Russell good-bye and turned away. They were getting along. That surprised her, and somehow pissed her off, too.

But she couldn’t deny that Willow was in a good mood. She claimed to have done her homework and actually offered to help fold the laundry when she saw Catherine with the baskets in front of the TV.

“I should have washed my own clothes, Mom,” Willow said. “Thank you.”

Catherine felt her irritation evaporate. “It’s no problem, honey,” she said. They watched a brainless romantic comedy as they folded clothes on the coffee table. By then it was bedtime.

The next day was hectic at work, like every Monday, but there was only one real challenge: a teenage boy who’d stepped barefoot onto broken glass. Catherine had to remove the glass splinters with tweezers and put up with his swearing despite giving him enough local anesthetic to numb a hippo.

Her last two patients of the day canceled, so Catherine left earlier than usual, delighted to have some extra time in her day. She emerged from the clinic and zipped her jacket to the neck against the chilly air. She had driven the car today because she was running late. Now it occurred to her that she could drive over to the high school and pick up Willow, who spent most days after school working with the photography teacher. This would be a good night for pizza.

Maybe they should institute some new traditions, now that the weekends were disrupted by Willow going to Russell’s, Catherine thought as she walked to the parking garage. Pizza on Mondays instead of Fridays. She liked that idea.

The high school was still busy and brightly lit, with students milling about in front of the main entrance and in the foyer. Catherine had to speak into an intercom to be admitted, a security procedure that surprised her only momentarily. Of course city schools had to take precautions these days. Maybe all schools, given the number of shootings in the past few years. She shuddered, hating the question that came next: Was Willow safer in a big school, because there were more targets to hit? Or in more danger because anybody could get into a public school, and the teachers couldn’t possibly know their students as well as they did at Beacon Hill?

Jesus. What was wrong with her, having thoughts so warped?

She found the office and spoke with a gray-haired woman at the front desk who wore a suit too tailored-looking for a secretary. “Can I help you?” the woman asked, raising her head from a sheaf of folders with a smile.

“Yes. My daughter, Willow MacLeish, has been staying after school to work in the darkroom. I got out of work early and came by to see if she wanted a ride home.”

“May I see some ID, please?” the woman said.

Catherine produced her driver’s license and waited while the woman used the school intercom to buzz the darkroom. After a moment, a voice replied, also a woman’s.

“Willow MacLeish’s mother is here in the office, looking for her,” the woman said. “Do you have her there with you, Aubrey?”

“No. Not today. In fact, I haven’t seen her after school in a while. Sorry.”

Catherine swallowed past a thick knot of apprehension. “Thank you,” she said. “I must have been mistaken.”

She hurriedly turned away before the woman at the desk could flash her one of those knowing looks that said,
Another dumb mother, too clueless to keep track of her own kid.

Catherine blindly made her way out of the office and stopped in the foyer to text Willow.
Where are you? I need to see you immediately.

She erased the second sentence—no need to alert Willow to how angry and scared she was right now, since that might put her off—and waited.

No response. Now Catherine’s breath was coming in short pants and her mouth had gone dry. She thought about texting Russell to ask if he or Nola had picked up Willow. Was Willow sneaking out to see her father after school?

No. That was ridiculous. Willow wouldn’t have to lie about that.

Maybe she had a boyfriend?

That thought actually cheered Catherine up a little. That, at least, would be normal. But why would Willow feel like she needed to hide that from her? They’d always talked so openly about dating. And, truthfully, Willow still seemed put off by the very idea of sex. Even kissing, she said, was creepy. “Why would I want somebody else’s germs in my mouth?” she’d demanded once.

Catherine slowly walked out of the school to her car. It was completely dark now. She considered her options. She could drive home and see if Willow was there. That was probably the most logical thing to do. After all, Willow wasn’t expecting Catherine to be home until her usual time, six o’clock. She could follow the route Willow usually walked home—or the route she thought she took, anyway—and see if she spotted her.

She drove down Broadway to Cambridge Street and turned left so she could circle the Common. Maybe Willow had gone to Burdick’s with a friend for hot chocolate after school. She adored that place. If so, she would probably walk back this way, though Catherine hoped she’d have the sense to stay on the brightly lit sidewalk around the Common instead of cutting through it at night. The very idea of that made Catherine shiver with fright, though of course at Willow’s age she probably would have thought nothing of doing it. Not when there were still so many people around.

So many, she would have missed seeing Willow if she hadn’t spotted the girl’s bright blond hair, loose and curly around her shoulders in the inky dusk as she sat on a bench near the playground.

At least I know where she is
, was Catherine’s first thought.

Her next thought was less coherent, as she realized that Willow was talking to the woman with black dreadlocks Catherine had seen in those photographs. The woman wore the same striped hat and sunglasses, too. Despite the odd clothing and near dark, this bizarre person looked even more like Zoe than she had in the photographs, right down to the way she was sitting on the bench and gesturing wildly with her hands as she said something that made Willow laugh.

Catherine’s mouth was so dry that it felt like her lips had cracked at the corners. She could hear her heartbeat drumming in her ears, a steady whooshing sound, as if she were swimming in powerful surf. She felt like she was drowning. Just like she’d felt when she was caught in the undertow with her sister, all those years ago and their mother had chosen to save Zoe, not her: terrified and betrayed. Hopeless.

Catherine’s vision blurred and the car veered toward oncoming headlights. A horn blared and Catherine regained control at the last minute.