Chance Harbor (48 page)

Everything that Catherine had once considered bedrock in her life had crumbled. Not slowly, and not bit by bit, but with the sudden, deafening finality of dynamite felling a condemned building in a noisy pile of rubble and dust.

So she slept. When Russell called to ask if he could see her, she told him no, she had the flu. When Grey called, she felt suffused with guilt all over again about what he’d told her, about how Zoe had been through such a horrible thing without her support. Grey asked if he could see her, too.

“Oh, what’s the point?” she’d responded. “Everything is such a mess.”

“What is?”

“Me! I’m a mess.”

“Maybe I could help you,” he said.

“No. I’m sorry. I like you. I do. But I need to sort things out on my own,” she said, and hung up.

She was convinced that her desire for Grey—as powerful as it was—amounted to nothing more than that: physical sensations. Around Grey, she felt wanton, hedonistic, and giddily irresponsible. That couldn’t possibly be real.

Her mother had phoned last night to ask again if she could join them for Thanksgiving. She had even offered to pay for a plane ticket so Catherine wouldn’t have to drive to Prince Edward Island alone. She had politely declined this as well, then asked to speak with Willow a few minutes.

The girl sounded fine. Happy. She didn’t seem to need Catherine anymore. What a terrible, sad relief that was.

But Bethany was different. They’d known each other too long for Bethany to be fooled by anything Catherine did or said. No matter how hard Catherine ever tried to hide from the world, she was certain Bethany would find her. Whether she was in bed or meditating in a mountain cave, Bethany would drag her kicking and screaming into the light.

Which was what she did now. Three days after Willow left for Chance Harbor, Bethany arrived and literally tugged Catherine out of bed by the hand and made her get dressed in a way that reminded Catherine of how efficient and practical her friend had been in college and nursing school, using index cards and colored markers. These days Bethany was a take-no-prisoners sort of geriatric nurse practitioner, and that, too, was obvious as Bethany literally forced Catherine’s arms and legs into the holes of clothing she barely recognized.

Then, properly buttoned and combed and zipped, Catherine found herself sitting at the kitchen table with a pot of coffee between herself and her best friend. As Bethany chattered idly about her new workout routine at the gym—this was an evergreen topic with her—Catherine felt suddenly alert. She was awake, focused, and terrified.

Bethany must have sensed the change, because she began asking questions instead of talking about herself. Catherine told her everything, then sighed. “This is why I can’t go anywhere or see anyone,” she said. “I feel like my skin’s on inside out.”

“What does that even mean?”

“That I feel raw. Exposed.” Catherine struggled to explain. “Everything’s hard. Everything hurts. Bottom line: my life isn’t the way I thought it would be.”

Bethany laughed. “Welcome to my world. Do you think I expected to have twins so soon after my first kid? Or that I thought I’d get a promotion at work the same month my day care provider got arrested for embezzlement? Honey, having the world be different from our expectations is pretty much the definition of life.”

Catherine made a face at her. “Which fortune cookie did you get that out of?”

“Come on. You know what I mean. You’ve never been naive. You’re the most grounded person I know!”

“And where has that gotten me? I’m about to be divorced, Willow’s going to want to live with Zoe, and I can’t even be mad at my sister because now I feel too sorry for her. Plus, I’ve been having sex with a gypsy, for God’s sake. A guy who’s Zoe’s roommate and totally wrong for me.”

“You can still be mad,” Bethany said. “Zoe had a terrible experience. Horrible, really. But if that had happened to you or me, I doubt we would have done drugs and given up our children.” She caught Catherine’s shocked look, but didn’t back down. “Just saying.”

“That’s my point, though. It
didn’t
happen to me. But that was just lucky. Grey says Zoe wasn’t high or drunk when she got raped. Just with the wrong friend at the wrong party. You and I both got into situations like that. If things had turned ugly, who knows what we would have done? Or been like after?”

“Well, we’ll never have to know that, thankfully,” Bethany said, “but you can’t sit around in the house. This isn’t helping you decide anything.”

“Decide what, though? Everything is out of my control. Zoe and Willow and Russell will do whatever they want. All I can do is react.”

“Not necessarily. By wallowing here, don’t you think you’re being a little bit like Zoe?” Bethany reached across the table to pat her hand.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve pretty much abandoned Willow, Catherine! She acted out. Ran away. Shoplifted. You know why? She wanted your attention. But you’ve completely shut her out in the cold by acting like you don’t care if you spend Thanksgiving with her or not.”

“I thought it was the right thing to do! To give her time with Zoe,” Catherine said, confused. “Free of my interference.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe Willow
wants
your interference? You’re the one who’s always telling me that my teenagers feel free to say they hate me because they know I’ll always be there. Maybe that’s what this is about. Maybe Willow isn’t really trying to find her father as much as she’s testing people to see who really cares about her.”

“I think I’ve made it clear to Willow that I’ll do everything in my power to keep her safe.”

“That’s not quite the same thing as telling her that you want her to live with you, but you’ll always love her no matter what happens.”

Catherine pulled her hand away from Bethany’s. Her chest felt tight, imagining Willow in Chance Harbor without her. Without knowing what was going to happen. “God. How can you be so right?”

“Because we’re not talking about my life here,” Bethany said. “We’re talking about yours. I suck at giving myself advice. And I’m even worse at taking it.”

Bethany stayed with Catherine while she made the phone call to Eve. Her mother didn’t pick up; Catherine left a message saying she’d decided to come for Thanksgiving after all, then hung up, feeling shaky.

“Are you sure this is the right thing?” she asked.

Bethany put her arms around her, rested her chin on Catherine’s shoulder. Her body felt round and solid against Catherine’s. “I am,” she said. “Remember. You don’t have to do anything or say anything to Zoe. All you have to do is be there with Willow. You’ve been her mother for five years. Don’t quit now.”

“But I’m not her mother.”

“You have been her mother in every way that matters,” Bethany insisted, giving her a little squeeze before she released her. “Especially in the worry department. Now, get packing. And I want you to promise me you’ll stop and see Grey on your way north.”

“What would be the point of that?”

Bethany shrugged. “Do you like this gypsy man?”

“Yes.”

“Does he treat you right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love getting naked with him?” Bethany gave her a wicked grin.

Catherine grinned back.

“So, what’s the problem?” Bethany gave her another little shove. “Go tell him how you feel! Catherine, honey, you have spent way too many years being responsible. For once, follow your heart instead of your head. Let yourself enjoy the moment instead of worrying about what might come next.”

An hour later, Catherine’s heart was thudding in her throat as she stopped at the trailer park on her way north. She was equally relieved and despondent to discover that Grey wasn’t there.

As she was trying to find paper in her car to leave a note, a small blue sedan pulled up in front of the mobile home. Madame Justine stepped out of it wearing a full-length, tan quilted down coat. She looked like a bratwurst with feet.

“You want my son,” she said.

Catherine hoped Grey’s mother didn’t know how literally true this was. “Yes,” she said. “I stopped by to tell him happy Thanksgiving. I’m driving north to spend it with my mom and Zoe and Willow.”

The other woman nodded. “You will get in my car,” she said. “I will take you to him.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t bother you.”

“You must,” Madame Justine insisted. “You are the one,” she added ominously. “The healer. I have seen you in my son’s cards. The High Priestess.”

Whatever that meant. Reluctantly, Catherine slid into the seat next to Madame Justine, whose scent—something spicy, with a hint of coconut and lime—filled the car. Catherine’s sinuses, clogged from being in bed for three days straight, cleared instantly.

“I really should be getting on the road,” she said, “if I’m going to make it to Prince Edward Island in time for Thanksgiving.”

“You will make it.” Madame Justine drove like a pro, her hands fluid on the wheel, her foot heavy on the gas, passing other cars smoothly and at a speed that made Catherine grip her seat beneath her thighs.

Catherine wondered whether the woman was well-known in town. She’d have to be, if she told fortunes on the boardwalk. Sure enough, a minute later they passed a state police car, and the two cops inside it waved, grinning. Madame Justine lifted one hand off the wheel just long enough to grace them with a queenly flutter of her plump fingers.

“Where are we going?” Catherine said.

“I will take you to my son’s house.”

“But I thought he lived in the trailer park. With my sister.”

Madame Justine’s smile was bountiful. “Not anymore. He is in his own house now. Since last week.”

They had backtracked south from Salisbury Beach and were now turning onto Ring’s Island. The island overlooked Newburyport’s brick and church-steepled skyline on the other side of the Merrimack River. Catherine had been here only twice before, when she was little and her parents took her and Zoe to watch the fireworks.

Once a Colonial fishing village, Ring’s Island was now a tiny enclave of restored antique houses set close to the curb along narrow streets. Grey’s house was on the water, a classic Colonial painted deep red with silvery teal trim. It was surrounded by a picket fence stained a warm gold and capped in copper. The copper weather vane on the barn roof was shaped like a dinghy.

Catherine could hear an electric power tool buzzing in the barn when Madame Justine shut off the car engine. “You will find Grey inside there,” she said, gesturing with her chin. “He is waiting for you.”

“But he didn’t know I was coming.”

Madame Justine smiled. “I told him you would be here.”

To Catherine’s shock, the minute she was out of the car, Madame Justine began pulling out of the driveway. Great. Now she’d have to ask Grey to give her a ride back to her car.

Catherine studied the building’s classic lines and new roof, the expensive landscaping, the new asphalt driveway, and couldn’t believe it was Grey’s house. It had to have at least four bedrooms, given the number of windows, and the view of the river and the city was spectacular.

She made her way up a brick walk laid in a herringbone pattern—this also looked new—and called Grey’s name when she opened the barn door.

He was inside, dressed in jeans and a thick blue sweater dotted with wood shavings. He wore a mask over his face, but lifted it when he saw her, grinning over the boat hull he’d been sanding. “So my mother was right. She said you’d come.”

“I don’t know whether it would be creepy or useful, having a fortune-teller for a mother.” Catherine couldn’t help grinning back.

“It’s good when my fortune is favorable.” He set down the sander and came over to her.

“I came to say good-bye.” Catherine felt suddenly nervous.

Grey stopped smiling. “Why? Where are you going?”

“I’m on my way to Chance Harbor to spend Thanksgiving.”

Grey’s face relaxed. “Good. I’m glad. You and Zoe need to work this out.”

“I can’t promise that will happen.”

He stepped forward and embraced her, resting his chin on top of her head, holding her in place so effectively that she felt rooted to the spot, breathing in sawdust. “You’ll try, though,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Good. Want a coffee before you go?”

“All right.”

As the coffee brewed, Grey showed her the new kitchen cupboards he was building out of refurbished barn boards. “There were two barns on the property originally,” he said, “but one was in such bad shape, I didn’t have any choice but to tear it down.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing all this yourself,” she said. “And I’m still having trouble believing that you’re a gypsy, living in a house like this.”

He looked amused. “Why?”

“I don’t know. This house seems so grand and permanent.”

“Not a place for gypsies, tramps, and thieves, huh?”

“A rolling stone,” she amended. “That’s what I thought all gypsies were.”

He pulled her close and kissed her. “I’m a rolling stone that favors a particular riverbank. And one particular woman.” He kissed her again.

This time, when Grey pulled away Catherine moved closer. Bethany was right: life was made up of moments, and maybe this one could be hers. She wouldn’t worry about after.

She was the one to lead them upstairs. They made love in Grey’s bedroom, with its windows letting in the milky autumn light, in a cherry sleigh bed piled high with quilts. Afterward, they curled up together on the window seat overlooking the river, which was rapidly darkening beneath the afternoon sky, a black ribbon now edged in silver.

“It’s too late for you to go now,” Grey murmured. “You’ll have to spend the night.”

She shook her head. “I can still make it to Bangor.”

“I could drive you to Chance Harbor in my Porsche. Fast.”

This was tempting. But something inside her resisted. This had to be
her
journey. “I’ll see you when I get back,” she promised, and knew she would.

Grey drove her back to Newburyport. From there it took her three hours to get to Bangor, where she stayed in a hotel room that smelled of chlorine. She didn’t care; she sank into a deep sleep and woke before the alarm she’d set for six o’clock.