Chance Harbor (40 page)

Willow understood what he was trying to say. “You can say you’re gay, you know. I won’t be shocked.”

Mike’s shoulders sagged a little and he smiled at her. “You are wise beyond your years, little cricket.”

“Why did you leave, though?” she blurted. “I know my mom didn’t want you to stop living with us. She cried all the time after you were gone.”

There was a small silence filled with the scent of mint, and then Sammy stood up. “I’ve got some work to do before bed,” he said. “Nice to see you again, Willow.”

“Thanks for dinner,” she said, wondering when she’d seen him before. She didn’t remember Sammy and, after he left, said so to Mike.

“You were a little kid,” Mike said. “Maybe seven. And Sammy never slept over.”

“But now he’s your boyfriend.”

“My husband, actually.”

Willow nodded. “Is that why you left Mom and me? Because you found out you were gay?”

“Partly.” Mike traced a finger on the tablecloth. Figure eights. “I also couldn’t watch her destroying herself.”

Willow nodded. She remembered something else now: hiding in a closet while her mother fought with some guy who stole her drugs, until Mike came home and kicked him out. Mike was the one who found Willow in the closet. His nose was bleeding, but he picked her up anyway and took her somewhere, shouting at her mom, who kept trying to throw things at Mike and calling him names.

“Where did you take me, that night you found me in the closet?” Willow asked. “Do you remember that night?”

Mike made a face. “Of course. That was toward the end, when things went from bad to hell-o. I took you to my mom’s house for the night because I was afraid that guy would come back. I tried to get Zoe to come with us, but she went after her boyfriend.”

“So you weren’t her boyfriend anymore, but you lived with us?”

“Yes. Zoe and I broke up in college, when I discovered I wasn’t exactly prime boyfriend material, unless you count advice tips on shoes. But she needed a roommate to help her with rent and expenses after she had you, so I invited her to live with me.”

“What made you stop being friends? Was it me?”

Mike’s caterpillar eyebrows practically crawled up his forehead, he looked so surprised. “Oh, honey, no. It was never, ever because of you. You were the reason I stayed as long as I did.”

“Because you were my dad?” There. She’d said it, and it wasn’t nearly as hard as she’d thought it might be.

But Mike looked shocked. “What did you say?”

“I know you’re my dad.” Willow smiled, trying to reassure him. Of course he’d have to feel guilty for leaving. He was a nice guy. “It’s okay that you weren’t around. You took good care of me when I was a little kid. I’m glad I found you again. And I really like Sammy. I don’t care that you’re gay. It’s cool.”

She could definitely live here, Willow thought, if neither Catherine nor her mom wanted her anymore, and if Russell and Nola split up and Russell couldn’t afford a big enough place for her to visit. It would be cool, having gay dads. Plus, Sammy could teach her to cook, and Mike could teach her magic tricks. She could use some magic.

“Honey, I’m so sorry, but you’ve got the wrong idea,” Mike was saying. “I wish I was, but I’m not your dad.”

Willow clenched her hands and dug her nails into her palms. “But it
has
to be true! You and I are both artists. We both love photography. You even gave me a camera before you moved out! I tried not to let Mom sell it!”

“No, no, no,” Mike said, his face sad. “If I did have a child, Willow, believe me, I would want her to be as beautiful and as smart as you are. But Zoe got pregnant after she and I broke up in college.”

“That’s not true,” Willow whispered, but Mike kept talking.

“It really hurt your mom when I broke up with her, I know. I still feel bad about that. I tried to be her friend after, but it was tough.” He sighed. “When your mom was using drugs, there wasn’t much I could do to support her. I finally moved out because I couldn’t stand to see what she was doing. Not just to herself, but to you.”

The room was silent then, except for the ticking of computer keys from the other room. Willow realized that Sammy could probably hear everything they were saying. She wanted to get up and slam his door shut, she was so ashamed, but what did it matter now? She hadn’t found her dad. She’d only found more evidence that she was alone.

“Who is he, then?” she demanded, folding her arms.

“Who? Your dad?”

“Of course my dad! I need to find him!” Willow said. “If my mom got pregnant in college, you must know who he is. You were there.”

“Sorry to break this to you, but I wasn’t in the room when she got pregnant, sweetheart,” Mike said.

Willow gave him Nana’s evil eye. “Don’t make fun of me. Can’t you see how much this
sucks
for me?”

Mike pulled the deck of cards out of his pocket again and busied himself shuffling them. “Want to see another trick?”

“No,” Willow said. “I’ve seen enough tricks. Life is one big trick.” She buried her face in her hands.

Mike came around to her side of the table and sat on the chair next to her. “Hey, now,” he said softly. “Everything will be fine. I’m not your real dad, but I can be your friend.”

“I don’t need any more friends!” She dropped her hands. She was too pissed off to cry.

“Not even friends who can do this?” He pulled a quarter from behind her ear and put it on the table in front of her. “Come on. We’re friends. And, in my book, that’s better than family. Friends are together because they want to be, not because they have to be, right?”

“I guess,” Willow said, staring at the quarter flickering in the light of the candles in front of her and wishing there really was such a thing as magic in the world.

•   •   •

Eve had finally arranged to meet Marta at a coffee shop in Newburyport at Darcy’s insistence.

“It’s like facing Cape Breton Island again,” he had said, holding her one last time before he left for Vermont late on Saturday afternoon. “Remember: memories can’t control you unless you let them.”

“I’m not in control of anything,” Eve said. “Obviously.” She tipped her face up to his, scowling. “Otherwise I might have scheduled Catherine’s surprise visit a little differently.”

He laughed. “Lucky for me, I’ll be gone before she starts asking questions.”

“A lot of good you are.”

At least she could walk to the coffee shop. Eve didn’t even want to waste gas on this woman. It was a nice walk, though she missed having Bear tug her along. She’d left him at home, not wanting to share even that much of her life with Marta.

The day was cooling down. The river glittered beneath the sun, sparking silver, and she spotted a pair of loons as she followed the boardwalk to the coffee shop.

Marta was already there, as glamorously out of place as ever. She wore her rich chestnut hair (dyed, it must be, to have that monochromatic look, Eve thought with a petty stab of glee) in a sophisticated twist high on her slim neck. Her black wool coat was belted tightly around her slim waist. She had on lipstick, bright red, that matched her fingernail polish, and she carried a black briefcase.

“Thank you for coming. I am so delighted to see you,” Marta said in her rich alto, and held out a hand.

A man would be tempted to kiss the back of that hand, Eve thought, but she ignored it. “I needed a coffee anyway.”

Marta nodded toward the line at the counter. “Go ahead. I will score us an available table.”

Eve had forgotten how much Marta, with her deep voice and slightly robotic German accent, sounded like Arnold Schwarzenegger in
The
Terminator
.

She stood in line for an impossibly long time as the tattooed girl behind the counter played with designs in the foam. The back of her neck itched, a sure sign that Marta was watching her.

When she sat down, Marta pretended to be absorbed in one of the free newspapers, taking her time about glancing up at Eve. Finally she did. “You are looking well,” she said.

Eve pushed a hand through her curls and wished she’d put on makeup, or at least worn something besides black pants and her old bomber jacket. “We don’t need to make small talk,” she said. “I’m sure neither of us wants to be here.”

“That is not true. I am glad to be here,” Marta said. “This visit is something I owe to Andrew. I am sorry you are not curious. But maybe you will change your mind and be glad when you hear what I have to tell you.”

“I doubt it.” Eve took a long, deliberate sip of the coffee, just short of a slurp.

“First, please let me apologize.”

Eve held up a hand in warning and leaned forward across the table. “Do. Not. Say. You’re. Sorry. It’s too late for that. You slept with my husband,” she said in a low voice. “You tried to get him to leave me. You continued having an affair even after meeting me and my children in our own home. Now my husband dies on your couch, and you’re finally trying to
apologize
? It’s probably
your
fault he’s dead!”

She sat back in the chair again. She had tried to keep her voice low enough to avoid being overheard, but the few people in the café—a pair of young moms with sleeping babies in strollers, an elderly woman in a crocheted beret with a French bulldog on her lap, a guy scribbling in a journal—were all staring at them. Eve felt her face flush. She had meant to be civil, not hostile. But she certainly wasn’t going to apologize.

Marta looked completely unruffled. She’d probably had years of practice at deflecting emotions from disgruntled employees at the company. Andrew’s former company, where Marta was still a VP and probably in charge of firing people whenever someone needed to be let go. She nodded and picked up the briefcase, set it on the table. “To begin with, you should know that your husband was finished with me.”

“I don’t believe you,” Eve said. “If he was done with you, why did he die at your house?”

“It was completely my fault. I called him and said I was having a breakdown, that I might end my life. I am ashamed to admit that, but I fully believed it at the time.” Even this, Marta said without emotion, as if she were half machine.

“So he came to your rescue.”

“Yes. That is precisely what Andrew did. He knew I would not call him unless I was serious. We were good friends, despite everything that came after our involvement. We shared things that we couldn’t with anyone else.”

“He couldn’t give you up,” Eve said. “He was in love with you.”

Marta seemed to think about this. “He was for a time,” she agreed, her voice surprisingly gentle. “But not in the way you think. He loved you more. Think about it. Otherwise, why would he have stayed?”

“Because of the children,” Eve said.

“No. Because of you,” Marta said firmly. “That is why Andrew ended our love affair after that time you and I talked on the phone.”

“Really?” Eve was stunned. She had certainly thought otherwise, when she arrived at the hospital and Marta explained how she’d come out of the kitchen and found Andrew dead on her couch.

“That is correct. We did see each other, many times through the years, but not for the reason you think. We were never intimate again. We had a friendship. And Andrew had no choice about that.” Marta was watching her steadily. “You must believe me when I say your husband loved you more than anyone. Despite your affair with Zoe’s father.”

Eve was startled, and horrified, too, that Andrew had confided so much about their marriage to this person. On the other hand, hadn’t she done the same with Malcolm? Poured her heart out about her loneliness, her uncertainty about whether she could stay married to a man she couldn’t trust?

Marta was sitting quietly, watching Eve’s face. Finally, she unsnapped the latches on the briefcase. “I came here to show you something.” She pulled out a slim black photo album.

“I have no interest in seeing any of your pictures,” Eve said, her stomach churning.

“Just look.” Marta opened the photo album and turned it so that Eve could look at the pictures right-side up.

“I don’t understand,” Eve murmured.

But she did. She couldn’t take her eyes off the images. Infant photos, first. A baby sleeping in a crib, on a sheepskin blanket on a floor, then growing into a toddler in overalls, a little boy laughing up at the camera in almost every shot: at a playground, a beach, a preschool where he’d smeared finger paints on his face. And then a boy in elementary school, ruddy-faced and blond, snub-nosed, sturdy.

A MacLeish.

“Your son,” Eve said, a dull headache starting between her eyes. “Andrew’s son.”

“Yes. You see? You won, Eve. Andrew loved you. He didn’t just stay with you because of the children.” She continued to turn the pages. “He and I had a child as well. But my son never knew that Andrew was his father. Andrew came to see us sometimes, but that was our agreement: that I could never tell my son his father’s name.”

Eve’s headache had reached cataclysmic proportions. The noise in the café seemed deafening and she felt an attack of vertigo coming on. She was barely holding it together. Yet she couldn’t look away as Marta kept turning pages, as Andrew’s son went from being a small boy in a Spider-Man costume at Halloween to kicking a soccer ball, growing leggier and leaner by the year, though his face kept Andrew’s elfin proportions. Only his dark eyes made him resemble Marta.

Finally the boy was in a graduation robe, throwing his hat in the air. The last shot was of the boy, now a man with a blond beard shot through with red, turning to laugh at the camera as he hiked away from it down a wooded path, the leaves a blur of gold and orange around him.

“He is gone now,” Marta said simply, and closed the photo album.

There was a roaring in Eve’s ears, as if she were underwater. She knew what Marta meant. A mother always knows. “What happened?”

“My boy was caught in an avalanche in Nepal,” she said. “He was trekking there for his twenty-fifth birthday. Doing what he loved. But since he is gone, my heart is broken.”

“Yes,” Eve said. “Of course.” She reached over to touch Marta, to feel the woman’s warmth beneath her coat.

The other woman turned her head away, but not before Eve saw the tears. “That is why Andrew came to me the night he died. Because it was our son’s birthday, and I didn’t want any more birthdays without my boy.”