Custody (45 page)

Friday evening was calm and clear as the fast ferry sped over the deep water to Hyannis. Kelly sat out on deck, eyes closed, head tipped back to receive as many of the sun’s rays as possible this late in the day. Inside, like Dracula, Felicity hulked away from the sun, reading a paperback novel by Scott Turow.

The boat was crowded, which seemed odd to Kelly—who would leave Nantucket on a lovely summer’s eve? Bits of conversation drifted her way, answering her question: people who had to get back to work after a month or a week in paradise.

Kelly had not come to the conclusion that Nantucket was paradise. It seemed, in fact, as subject to stresses and flaws as any other place of habitation. This week she’d seen two bitter divorces, the first of a family of amazing wealth and stature in the community, the other involving a nearly destitute family. All the people involved were as angry and vengeful as anyone living in what Nantucketers called “the real world.” It was not simply location that made a place idyllic.

Or was it?

She and Randall had met in a cemetery, away from the troubles, pressures, and eyes of the people they knew. Was their relationship no more than a hothouse orchid, coming to life only under ideal conditions? If so, it was about to be brought out into the full heat, glare, and vicissitudes of real weather, and then what would happen? Within a month of their meeting she had acquired, without foreknowledge or desire, a half sister who needed a home and a strong hand. Randall’s father had fallen; who knew what consequences that fall would have for the father’s life and those around him?

And what did it mean, really, that she and Randall had met at all? They had met at their mothers’ graves. She was certain that his adopted child was the daughter she had carried in her own body and given up for adoption. The workings of the universe were mysterious and complex: perhaps they had been moving toward one another all along.

The ferry dropped speed as it entered the long Hyannis harbor. All around her, people prepared to disembark, gathering up duffel bags, backpacks, shopping bags with Nantucket logos. Like a giant creature stirring all its tentacles, they congregated in long lines streaming toward the exit. Kelly’s suitcase was on one of the luggage racks that would be wheeled off only after all the
passengers were off; it made no sense to hurry. Instead of joining the crush shoving toward the stairs and the ramp, Kelly went to the side of the boat, leaned on the railing, and looked down.

Rumbling, the ferry slid neatly into its slip. The crew, handsome young men in maroon polo shirts, fastened ropes, fixed the ramp in place. Couples hurried out of the ticket office, other couples raced in, taxis pulled into the parking lot, their doors flying wide to disgorge more passengers. Dogs barked, children cried, college kids erupted with laughter. From behind a rope a line of people waiting to board the ferry snaked along the edge of the dock. From Kelly’s vantage point, they seemed like a pointillist painting, dots and blurs of color.

Suddenly, one person drew her eye.

Randall.

His silver-blond hair blazed like a fire, catching the sun’s light. His clothing was less casual than the other travelers’; while everyone else wore shorts or jeans or khakis, Randall wore light gray trousers, a yellow-and-white-striped button-down shirt, a blue tie loosened around his neck. With one finger he’d hooked his suit jacket over his shoulder. No doubt he’d worked until the very last minute.

Next to him stood a girl in black jeans and an oversize navy cotton shirt that hung nearly to her knees. Against the dark fabric, the girl’s hair shone like sunlight. She was thin, tall, gawky, a baby giraffe of a girl.

The sight of the child slammed her square in her belly.

This was her child
.

Randall bent to speak to his daughter. Tessa nodded her head. Now passengers were coming off the Hy-Line, tromping single file down the ramp onto the shore. Passengers waiting to embark shuffled and dipped, hefting their bags, pushing, eager.

The girl tipped her head back, looking up at the boat. A beautiful girl with a level brow and a patient expression, she scanned the decks idly, her gaze moving past Kelly’s without hesitation.

“Kelly? What are you doing? Come on!”

Kelly jumped, startled.

“Kelly?”

She caught her breath. Of course. Felicity.

“Are you seasick?” Felicity asked. “You’ve gone all white.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m coming.” Hoisting her shoulder bag, she followed her half sister down the stairs and across the stern of the boat to the small metal ramp leading to the walkways. They
stepped onto shore amid a crush of people hugging one another, searching for their luggage, chasing after errant toddlers.

Kelly turned, trying to catch sight of Randall and Tessa, and found their shining bright heads in the advancing line. He was bending to her, giving her a ticket.

Kelly started to call out his name, then suddenly changed her mind. All at once she didn’t want Randall to see her. She wanted to be free to stare shamelessly, avidly, without interruption, at Tessa.

The girl
was
thin. She looked tall for her age; perhaps she’d be as tall as Kelly. Other kids her age fidgeted and squirmed, unable to stand still, but Tessa was very still, shoulders squared, chin high, very self-contained. She seemed older than her age. Kelly yearned to protect the girl, to encircle her in the safety of her arms so that Tessa could drop her vigilance and
relax
. And be a child.

“Kelly?” Felicity tugged on her sleeve. “Let’s go.”

The boarding line began to move. Randall’s bright head and Tessa’s pale one were absorbed in the crowd filing up the ramp.

Tessa
was
her child. Kelly had no doubts. In her heart, longing blazed, stronger than logic or law.

Twelve

O
N
S
UNDAY
,
A HURRICANE OFF THE SHORES OF
N
ORTH
C
AROLINA
drove high winds laden with flooding rain through all of New England. Summer vanished in the great storm’s power. The temperature plummeted. Windows banged. Wind screamed around the corners of houses and roared down chimneys. Petals and leaves were ripped from flowers and trees, and carried sideways through the churning air.

Dutifully Anne dressed warmly and took herself off to church, even though she disliked going by herself and knew the attendance would be sparse on this miserable Sunday in the middle of Labor Day weekend.

Afterward, she met Rebecca and Eleanor and a few other hard-core party supporters for lunch in their favorite Cambridge bar and grill. They sat around a circular table tucked off in a corner, discussing strategy and plans and flaws and assets, making lists on napkins (Anne made
lists in her Palm Pilot), plotting, laughing, while rain thundered on the roof. It was cozy. It was, Anne felt, very much like a kind of home for her, and her political allies a kind of family. Certainly a more trustworthy family than the one into which she’d been born or had married into.

Finally they adjourned, forcing themselves out into the dark afternoon. She couldn’t help but be aware, as she walked through the crowded room, of the admiring glances that followed her. Strangers nodded to her, said hello, gave her the thumbs-up. It was early yet, of course, but all signs were positive. It looked very much like Anne would be elected, and then she’d really be able to dig in and accomplish something.

At the door, Anne tied the belt of her raincoat around her slender waist, flipped the hood up over her sleek hair, bade farewell to her companions, and ran, avoiding puddles as best she could, to the shelter of her BMW. It was so dark that when she clicked her key holder to unlock the door, the lights blinked on automatically.

She loved her luxurious automobile, and she relaxed on the leather seat for a moment, catching her breath, turning the windshield wipers and defogger on. She was energized by the war talk at lunch, by her run through the rain. She felt confident, attractive, ready to take on the world. Randall and Tessa were still in Nantucket and wouldn’t be coming back until tomorrow. What could she do with the rest of the day?

Now, she realized, was the perfect time to drop in on Mont. Have a little chat with him. See if she could win him over to her side. Certainly it was worth a try. Anne had never felt comfortable with Madeline—the two women just didn’t like one another, although they both had tried to hide this—but Mont had always been kind to Anne, and complimentary.

She should take him something. Chocolates? No, it was Madeline who had liked chocolates. Madeline, the pig, had had a real sweet tooth. Mont liked cheese, and pâté, salty things. She stopped at Dean & DeLuca and bought a rich Stilton in a pot, a wrapped cloth bundle of goose liver pâté, and crackers.

She drove to Route 2 through the flooding rain, her wipers flicking rapidly as passing trucks drenched her with their spray. When was the last time she’d seen Mont? Hard to believe, but it had been at least three months ago—at Madeline’s funeral.

What a grim time that had been. Randall had asked Anne to allow him to take Tessa to the funeral; it was, he’d pointed out,
his
mother who had died. But Anne had refused. Death was a serious matter, the kind of traumatic event that necessitated delicacy and restraint, especially when dealing with a girl of Tessa’s tender years. Mont and Randall were both just too emotional right now, Anne had argued. Look at the way Randall had broken down and wept when he came
to tell Tessa her grandmother had died. Really, he should have shown more self-restraint. He could have frightened Tessa. As it was, the girl had been nearly savage in her grief, dissolving in an orgy of sobs and collapsing in her room like some Victorian waif, pale, listless, lying on her bed with her face turned to the wall. For God’s sake! Anne had wanted to yell, Madeline was old. Old people die!

Anne had held her tongue, ministering dutifully to Tessa’s dramatic misery. She’d sent a lavish bouquet from herself and Tessa to the mortuary. She’d bought Tessa a nice black skirt and blouse for the funeral; she’d taken Tessa to the funeral, the mawkish graveside service and the reception at the farm, comporting herself with the necessary attitude of sorrow.

It had been an awkward time. She and Randall had separated, were living apart, but were not yet divorced, and so she was both part of the family and detached, so, not certain of the etiquette, she’d written Mont a note of condolence on her finest, stiffest stationery, and insisted that Tessa write one, as well.

So Mont should have no reason to behave without civility to her, Anne decided. It was a rainy day. His son and grandchild were visiting her parents. He was probably alone, probably lonely. He’d welcome Anne in, make a pot of tea, or even, perhaps, offer her a bit of Scotch. It was cool enough today for a small fire. They’d sit in the living room, talk about old times, and she would be charming, for she could be, when she set her mind to it, very charming.

She could see the scene quite clearly in her mind. She could almost hear the old man say, why, yes, when she put it
that
way, it
would
be better for a young girl to live with her mother than with two men.

Right now, Anne realized, Randall and Tessa were with
her
parents on Nantucket. It was nicely
symmetrical
, that Anne should visit Mont.

The farm looked rather bleak in the rain. The horses stood still as statues on the field, resigned to the downpour. All Madeline’s beloved perennials, her mums and morning glories and climbing roses, were drained of color by the lightless sky, and even the trees drooped with the weight of water on their leaves, bending defeated on either side of the lane.

The house itself was drenched in darkness, except for one light burning on the second floor. Mont and Madeline’s bedroom, Anne remembered, with those hideous rag rugs that Madeline’s mother had made, which Madeline still used and treasured. Why people who had plenty of money chose to live like peasants, Anne could not understand.

At least those vile dogs weren’t here to jump on her, muddying her coat, making runs in her hose. She parked as close as she could get to the door; then she jumped out of the car and
raced to the house.

She hammered on the door and tried the knob. It would be open—they never locked their doors, ever. Hurriedly she stepped into the shelter of the mudroom, thinking, as always, how bizarre it was that people who had money and not inconsiderable taste—Madeline had been an artist, after all, and a decent one at that—would allow the world to achieve its first vision of their residence in a grubby hall with ancient coats hanging off wooden pegs and abandoned boots covered with mud and manure scattered willy-nilly over the cement floor.

Hurriedly she went into the kitchen.

“Mont?” Stripping off her raincoat, she draped it over a chair. She didn’t especially want it touching any of those old garments in the mudroom; they were still undoubtedly covered with dog hair or horse hair.

“Mont?” she called again. “It’s Anne.”