Chance Harbor (45 page)

“That’s enough,” Eve said.

“And guess what?” Catherine said. “I missed you when you were gone. I still miss the sister I had. I miss
you
. Again and again, I lost you. How hard was that for me, do you think? Oh, wait. You didn’t think, did you?” she cried, and then she was moving, dodging past her mother, whose mouth was open with shock, and running out the front door.

In the car, she locked the doors and then, realizing she’d forgotten her purse and keys inside, sobbed with her forehead pressed hard against the steering wheel.

A minute later Catherine heard a sharp rapping sound on the window beside her. She pressed both hands to her eyes, wiping away the tears before turning her head to the window.

It was Grey, his black hair loose and gleaming in the sunlight, his face unreadable as he held out her cell phone. He must hate her now, too.

She cracked the window and took the phone. “Thanks,” she said. “I know I acted like an asshole in there. I’m sorry.”

“Never mind that. You have a call,” he said. “It’s Willow. She’s at the police station in Salem.”

W
hen Grey came back inside to say he needed Catherine’s purse and that he was driving Catherine to Salem to pick up Willow, who had apparently been caught shoplifting, Zoe insisted on going, too.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Eve said, still so shattered by Catherine’s outburst that she hadn’t moved from the middle of the living room.

Grey came up with a quick solution: If Zoe and Eve wanted to go to Salem, too, they could take the Porsche. “I don’t think Catherine should drive alone, the way she is right now,” he said. “And I don’t know if it’s a good idea to put her and Zoe in the same vehicle.”

“No, you’re right about that,” Eve said. “Thank you, Grey.”

“Oh, great. Now you can be Catherine’s knight in shining armor, since I apparently don’t need you anymore,” Zoe said, sounding sullen.

“Grow up,” Grey said mildly. He handed Zoe the keys and left with Catherine’s small blue purse dangling absurdly from one muscular arm.

Riding in the Porsche with Zoe at the wheel was terrifying. The car’s slitted headlights and low, compact shape made Eve feel like she was trapped inside an insect’s carapace, and the car surged forward every time Zoe touched the accelerator.

It didn’t help that Zoe’s face looked stitched to her skull, the way she was squinting and pressing her lips into a thin line, or that she was taking the corners at top speed. She’d chosen a different route to Salem, not following Catherine’s sensible Honda from Route 97 to Route 1A, but using a mysterious warren of narrow side streets, threading her way through Beverly. How did she even know where to go? Eve wondered.

She couldn’t shake the image of her daughters facing each other in the living room, saying those horrible things to each other. This rift felt primal and permanent. How could they do this to each other, especially when Willow so clearly needed them to put her first right now? Eve couldn’t stand the idea of Willow feeling so lost and angry that she’d done something as stupid as shoplifting, especially since this was an echo of Zoe’s poor choices as an adolescent.

To calm herself down, too, Eve started babbling, saying, “This is a wonderful car. What an interesting job you must have, driving cars as exotic as this one.” She clung to the dashboard as Zoe careened around another corner. “You must have to be so careful with them, though. So expensive if you crash.”

Zoe rolled her eyes without looking at Eve. “I won’t crash. Anyway, this isn’t a work car. This is Grey’s.”

Somewhere in Eve’s cluttered mind, she still managed to feel shock. This car had to be worth a hundred thousand dollars. “What do you mean, it’s Grey’s? Does he work for the same place you do?”

“No. It’s his Porsche. He owns it.” Zoe’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. “Right, Mama Justine?”

“He has many cars,” Madame Justine said.

Eve had forgotten she was in the backseat; the other woman had somehow managed to squeeze into that tiny space. Madame Justine’s voice sounded slightly muffled, as if she’d covered her face with her scarf. Maybe she had to, going around these corners. She was probably carsick.

“I thought Grey was a boatbuilder,” Eve said.

“He is. But that’s mostly for fun,” Zoe said. “A hobby. Really what he does is invest in real estate. He’s loaded.” She braked so hard for a light that Eve felt Madame Justine’s bulk press against the back of her seat.

“But I don’t understand. Why does he live in a trailer with you?”

“We’re friends,” Zoe said.

Madame Justine spoke up again. “And because I am in my son’s house,” she said. “Grey, he is now building another one for himself. A house on the water like he always wanted.”

This was too confusing, so Eve let it go. “I’m sorry about your daughter,” she said.

“I am happy about yours, that she is here,” Madame Justine said. “That is why I made Grey bring me this morning. To tell her so.” She leaned forward to rest a hand, plump as a pigeon, on Zoe’s shoulder. Zoe patted it and accelerated through a yellow light.

People stared at the car: pedestrians, other drivers, even a cop. Eve supposed that must be why people bought cars like this one, to be noticed. Frankly, she hated the attention. Why hadn’t she driven them in her own Subaru? So what if Grey’s car was parked behind hers? She could have asked him to move it. It’s not like this was an emergency. Willow wasn’t in any danger now that she was in police custody.

But why had she shoplifted? Eve didn’t realize she’d asked the question aloud until Madame Justine responded.

“She is crying for help,” Madame Justine suggested.

“I used to shoplift,” Zoe said. “Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe she’s going to be a bad girl like me. A rotten apple.” She tucked a stray blond curl behind her ear and then shifted abruptly into second gear as the car in front of them slowed unexpectedly.

Eve glanced at her. “Honey, I don’t think Willow has bad genes. She’s just acting out. Protesting the changes in her life. You’re going to need to talk to her.”

“I’ve talked to her. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’m Willow’s biggest problem, right? That’s what you all think.”

“We don’t think that!” Eve said.

Zoe kept her eyes on the road without answering. Her face was bathed in sunlight, her hair and skin nearly the same shade of pale caramel. She was a beautiful woman. Even when she was this hungover and upset, she managed to look serene and sexy, Eve thought. Like those actresses who dominated every movie scene they were in. The light was drawn to Zoe.

Unlike Catherine, who in the living room had appeared nearly unrecognizable, in the grip of such strong emotions that her face and shoulders had been pinched tight, her skin mottled with anger.

“You haven’t really been honest with Willow,” Eve said. “She needs you to guide her. You’re her mother.”

“Ha. Tell Catherine that.”

“It doesn’t matter what Catherine says or who Willow ends up living with in the long run,” Eve said. “She will only ever have one biological mother, and that’s you. It’s time you told Willow who her father is, now that she’s older.”

“I can’t do that,” Zoe said.

Her daughter’s lips were pressed tightly together again. But maybe that was because the police station had come into view.

“But why not?” Eve was determined to learn the truth, no matter how ugly it might be, mainly because she thought sharing that truth, and having people accept it, might be a way for Zoe to start moving forward in her life. “Was her father married? Was he gay? Was it a one-night stand?” She took a deep breath, then added, “Were you raped? You can tell me, Zoe.”

“Stop it, Mom,” Zoe said. “I can’t talk about this with you.”

Eve shifted in her seat to look at Zoe. She took in the white knuckles on the steering wheel, the twitch in her daughter’s eyelid, the set of her jaw: pain personified. “I’m sorry this is difficult,” she said. “Whatever the circumstances, I promise we’ll figure out how to present them to Willow in the best possible light. But you have to tell her about her father before her curiosity gets her into even more trouble.”

Zoe was driving more cautiously now, easing the rumbling sports car down ancient-looking streets between brick buildings. “Look. Here’s the truth: I don’t know who her father was, okay?”

“You know what happened that night, though,” Madame Justine said from the backseat. She leaned forward, bringing her spicy scent with her. “You have not yet told your mother about this?”

Zoe shook her head. Her face was no longer serene. “I didn’t want you to know, Mommy.”

“Tell me,” Eve said, despite the fear fluttering in her own chest, a bird trapped beneath her ribs. Frantic, now that it had seen light but found a window covered in glass. “Please.”

“You must share this thing with your mother,” Madame Justine urged. “It is the only way. Remember what you and I talked about after Sadie died.”

To Eve’s shock and relief, Zoe nodded once, then took a deep breath and began.

“It was the end of freshman year. Mike broke up with me, and I felt so . . . I don’t know. Lost,” Zoe said. “I’d done everything Mike asked. I stopped drinking and doing drugs. I even kept going to classes and studied. I loved him, Mommy. I thought he loved me. But he couldn’t stay with me.”

“He did love you,” Eve assured her, the dread building. “I saw him with you. How he looked at you. Something must have happened. But that’s natural. You were both so young.”

“He was gay,” Zoe said.

Eve thought back: Mike’s precise magic tricks, his formal speech, his courtly manners at dinner, his strange clothes. Of course. Why hadn’t she seen it?

“Oh, honey,” she said. “That must have been difficult.”

“It was horrible!” Zoe said. “He was the first guy I ever loved! I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid. How did I not know he was gay, especially when all my friends said so?”

She went on talking: about being so depressed she couldn’t go to class and how a friend had suggested going to a party. About how she was determined to stay straight after the breakup. “I thought that if I could just convince Mike I was doing okay, I wouldn’t look pathetic and he’d change his mind about wanting to be with me,” Zoe said. “I didn’t even care about him being gay. I told him he could have boyfriends and we could still live together.”

Eve didn’t know what to say to that, so she simply said, “You still loved him.”

“Yes! But I didn’t know what else to do, so I went to this party one night with my friend Gaby. It was at a fraternity house in Amherst. A house I’d never been to before, but a nice place. Not one of those firetraps. I don’t know what happened. Oh, God. I can’t tell you this, Mommy. I really can’t.” Zoe was crying, the tears shining silver against her freckled skin.

“But you must be strong and finish,” Madame Justine said, leaning forward again, this time touching Zoe’s cheek. “Secrets can destroy you from the inside. We have talked about this, daughter. Think of Sadie.”

Zoe nodded. They’d reached the police station parking lot. She pulled into a space and shut off the engine, staring straight ahead, her face bleak.

“Somebody at the party must have spiked my drink,” she went on, “because suddenly I couldn’t control anything I did. I got really, really dizzy. Then I felt so tired I couldn’t move. I tried to tell my friend I needed to leave, but she was off dancing and I couldn’t get my arms and legs to follow my orders. I finally blacked out.” She stopped talking, put a hand over her eyes as if to shield them from whatever was on the other side of the windshield: the sun, a car accident, a beast in the woods.

“Oh, Zoe,” Eve said, wanting to cover her own eyes. “I’m so sorry.” She swallowed hard. “What happened then?” She didn’t want to hear the answer, but she knew Zoe had to say it.

Zoe took a shaky breath before going on. “I woke up in a dark room. This guy was on top of me, pulling down my jeans. I tried to move, but he had me pinned, and my head wasn’t right. I just let him do whatever.”

“Oh, God.” Eve felt like she might be sick and fished for a tissue in her purse.

“Yeah. That wasn’t the worst of it, though,” Zoe said. “After he was done, there were other guys. I don’t know how many. Three? Four? I kept blacking out. I woke up at one point and two of them were on me, even though I was hurling over the side of the bed. It was like being trapped in a nightmare. Finally I passed out for good. When I woke up, I was on the lawn behind the house, in the bushes.” She shuddered. “I wasn’t wearing anything except a T-shirt. It wasn’t even mine. I don’t know who put it on me.”

Eve felt her own face with one hand. Sure enough, her flesh was literally crawling with horror, doing just what Zoe’s had earlier: crumpling, the skin sinking in around her cheekbones and jawbone. “Why didn’t you tell us?” she said. “Your father and I would have done something. Pressed charges! Gotten those bastards thrown in jail!”

“I didn’t know who they were! Anyway, I didn’t want anybody to know. Any girl I’d ever heard of who accused a frat guy of rape lived to regret it. Everyone talked about them and hassled them, called them sluts. My roommate knew one girl who had to leave school, it was so bad. Plus, I felt stupid, getting myself into something like that. I’d always had better street smarts. And I was afraid of Mike finding out, because he’d just think I was drunk or using again. That’s the worst thing, Mommy,” she whispered. “I really wasn’t. For the first time in my life, I was actually trying to be good.”

“Oh, honey. You have always been good,” Eve said, unfastening her seat belt so she could slide across the seat and put her arm around Zoe. “You’re my girl. You have a big heart and a big life. You’ve made mistakes, just like we all do, but you’re here now and trying to fix them. You’re still my girl, my baby, no matter what happened to you. Those bastards have to live with what they did on their consciences, and I hope it eats away at them. But you weren’t to blame, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong that night.”

“Except be stupid, stupid me,” Zoe said, unfastening her seat belt and flinging herself out the door as Catherine’s car pulled up next to theirs.

•   •   •

Willow had told the policewoman not to call anyone. She’d already phoned Henry after the security guard caught her and made her wait in his tiny office behind the drugstore pharmacy. The security guard wasn’t that much older than she was. Twenty, maybe, with a constellation of pimples on his face and a haircut his mother probably did in the kitchen.