In-Laws and Outlaws (13 page)

Sleep was impossible. I got out of bed and pulled up a pair of trousers over the tail of my nightshirt, thinking that I simply must stop making these idiotic assumptions and suppositions. Look where they'd led me: to big bad Connie Decker, murdering other people's children because she went off her rocker when her own child was killed. Sick, Gillian, sick. Suddenly I felt an urgent longing for a place where I once was happy, where family members didn't start thinking other family members might be homicidal maniacs. I wanted to see Stuart's and my house.

The moon lit the road running just inside the Decker-protecting stone wall fairly well, but I could have done with a flashlight just the same. I passed the grove of fragrant cedar trees, Elinor and Oscar's house, and Tom Henry's house, where one light was still burning. Then it was there, my house, silhouetted by the moon-bright ocean behind it.

It was the smallest and most modern of the five Decker homes; Stuart had built it only the year before we met. We used to keep a spare key in a tin box hidden around back, but I wouldn't be needing it. All these years I'd held on to my own key; I'd given copies to the twins when I left. Only now did it occur to me that the family might have had the lock changed. But no; the key wouldn't go in at first, but then it did and it turned easily. The door clicked open.

I stood there in the dark a few moments, trying to calm the fluttering in my stomach. Creeping back in the dead of night was not the way I'd envisioned returning to this house; but there I was, so I might as well get on with it.
It's only a house
, as I'd earlier said to Connie about her own place. I felt for the switch and turned on the light.

And saw Tom Henry pointing a gun at me.

“Tom!
” I screamed.

His face turned white and he lowered the gun quickly. “Oh my god, Gillian! I'm sorry! I thought someone was breaking in!”

“No! I have a key!” I held the key up stupidly, as if justifying my right to be there. I was upset, to say the least.

Tom put the gun down on a table and came over to grasp my shoulders. “I really did give you a scare, didn't I? I am so sorry!”

“Of course you gave me a scare! No one's ever pointed a loaded gun at me before.” I took a deep breath and willed myself to calm down. “It is loaded, I assume?”

“Unfortunately, yes. You must forgive me, Gillian. It's just that … I've been a bit jumpy lately.”

Well, of course he had—and more than a bit, if the gun was any evidence. “It's all right, Tom. No harm done. What are you doing here?”

His hands dropped away from my shoulders. “I've been having trouble sleeping. The last few nights … well, I do better if I can just get away from
there
for a couple of hours.” He jerked his head toward his own house. “A different bed under a different roof helps. I apologize for intruding, Gillian.”

He must have used the key we'd kept hidden out back; either that or the twins had had copies made for everyone. “You're not intruding. No one's using the place—you might as well sleep here. But I saw a light on in your house.”

He gave me a wry smile. “That's for the Fergusons' benefit. I leave it on most of the time. Elinor tends to fuss if she doesn't know where I am.”

I was thinking. “Why don't you just move in, if you're more comfortable here? There's no reason you shouldn't.”

“Thanks, but that won't be necessary. It just gets bad at night. But as long as you're here—how about some coffee? Or cocoa? Or maybe a drink.”

“No, no—this was a bad idea. The middle of the night isn't the best time for a nostalgia trip. I was having trouble sleeping too. I'll come back tomorrow.”

“Don't go—”

“Yes, I must. Good night, Tom.” I fled.

I practically ran all the way back to Connie's house, barely able to see the road under my feet. Poor Tom. He'd obviously wanted company, someone to talk to … and my running out on him was not only ungenerous, it was unkind. But I'd had all I could take for one day; enough was enough. Besides, I didn't want to turn into that one family member that the others feel they can always go to with their troubles.

And that too was ungenerous.

It wasn't until I was back in bed that I realized I'd actually been in Stuart's and my house for the first time in ten years … and I hadn't seen it. The furnishings, the fittings, the little odds and ends—I hadn't seen a thing.

All I'd seen was a man with a gun.

9

I was awakened the next morning by a brisk ratatattat on my bedroom door. Assuming it was Connie, I called out to come in; but no, it was Joel, overflowing with the kind of youthful ebullience that's always slightly obscene that early in the day.

“Time to get up, Aunt Gillian!” he announced with unbearable morning cheeriness. “You don't want to be late for your first windsurfing lesson, do you?”

First? Of how many? I peered at him through one eye. “What time is it?”

“It's daytime. Time to be moving!”

I looked out the window and saw a blanket of gray. “Is that fog?”

“It'll burn off by the time you have your other eye open. Come on, Aunt Gillian, put on your swim suit. Let's go!”

“Joel,” I said firmly, “I'm not going anywhere or doing anything until I've had some coffee.”

“Already thought of that,” he said smugly. “I started a pot before I came up to get you. I'll wait in the kitchen.” Then before I could protest, he was gone.

I'd managed to forget how the family always made themselves at home in each other's houses on the Vineyard. Joel wouldn't have dreamed of letting himself into his Aunt Connie's Boston house without permission, but here he probably even had a key. Being awakened by a fifteen-year-old boy eager to go do something wet, chilly, and undoubtedly hazardous was not my idea of a great way to start the day. But I pulled myself out of bed and went through my morning ritual. When I'd put on my new swim suit and cover-up, I stopped by Connie's door. No sound; still sleeping. I followed the aroma of fresh coffee down to the kitchen.

Joel was eating blueberry muffins and drinking milk; I poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the table with him. “Admittedly I am no expert on New England weather and related phenomena,” I said, “but that still looks like fog out there to me.”

Joel swallowed a mouthful of muffin and said, “It's already lifting. It's not much of a fog anyway.” He placed one spread-fingered hand on his chest and proclaimed dramatically. “‘The fog comes on little cat feet.'”

“Um. I bet Carl Sandburg never had a cat walk on him while he was trying to sleep. Joel, is this windsurfing stuff absolutely necessary?”

“Absolutely. You said you wanted to learn to sail, didn't you?” I hadn't exactly said that. “Well, this is an easy first step,” he went on. “You learn to control one sail before you move on to something more complicated. Besides, it's fun. Prepare yourself for the thrill of a lifetime!”

“Thrills I don't need. Another hour's sleep would be nice.”

“Too late. You're going windsurfing and you're going to love it.”

And my mother's a duck. But I finished my coffee and the two of us left by the back way for my lesson in windsurfing. Joel was right about the fog; it was lifting fast. I followed him along the beach between Connie's house and his own until he stopped before a couple of boards with furled sails. I started to make some ironic remark about how he just happened to have two boards when I realized one of them must have been Bobby's.

Michelle had called them flimsy, but up close they looked pretty solid. Still … “Joel, I don't know about this—”

“Don't say no till you've given it a try, Aunt Gillian. And don't worry, nothing's going to happen. This is a good place to learn—the winds are gentle here. If you want big waves, you have to go upisland. Besides, the wind's blowing toward the land right now, so if you mess up you'll drift back toward the beach instead of out to sea.”

“Oh, that's a comforting thought.”

“That one's yours,” he said, pointing.

White board, red-and-white sail. “It's a lot bigger than the other one.”

“It's an entry-level board—bigger means more stable. Bobby and I both learned on that board.”

“Wait a minute—yours has footholds and mine doesn't!”

“I took the footstraps off that board. You'll be moving around a lot until you get the feel of it. Most beginner boards don't have straps at all. Look at that! The sun's out. Now we can get started.”

Hurray, hurray.

We pushed my board out until we were standing waist-deep in the water. The mast puzzled me; I'd always expected well-behaved masts to stand upright in one spot and not move about, but this one was built to pivot all over the place. Joel lowered the centerboard—which he called a daggerboard—and unfurled the sail, which promptly drooped down into the water. “Is it supposed to do that?” I asked.

He assured me it was. “We'll start you off by uphauling. Hop aboard.”

Hop? I pulled myself up on the board and put one foot on each side of the mast. The board that had looked so big on the beach now seemed
awfully
small. Following Joel's directions I “climbed” the uphaul line, hand over hand, until the sail and mast were completely out of the water; they looked heavy as all get-out but were surprisingly light. Then Joel had me lean back slowly to allow the water to drain off the red-and-white sail. It felt as if I were going to topple over backwards at any moment, but it didn't happen.

Then my lesson started in earnest. The boom was a curved rail to hold on to while sailing, but Joel had me start out by grabbing the mast with both hands right under the boom. I learned to tack; I took tiny little steps around the mast while swinging the sail toward the back of the board. The result was a 180-degree turn … it worked! Then I reversed the procedure, swinging the sail around toward the front to jibe back in the direction I was originally facing. Joel made me practice those two turns until I was ready to scream at him; I was itching to get going.

At last Joel had me pull in the mast until it was right over the center of the board; only then was I allowed to grab the boom. Joel shouted, “Go! And remember to keep your knees bent and your back straight!”

I went. Oh, I went like the wind! The rig tended to pull me into a stiff-legged posture so at first I had to concentrate on keeping the proper stance. But then I got the hang of it and didn't have to keep thinking about it. And it was splendid, simply splendid! I know simple planing like what I was doing was kid stuff in the eyes of the experts in the sport; but to someone out on a board for the first time, it was glorious! How could anything be so exhilarating and so relaxing at the same time? It wasn't long until I was looking around for rougher water.

Joel appeared on his board, his yellow-and-green sail billowing out in front of him. “How do you like it?” he called.

“I love it!” I yelled back. “You were right!”

“Ready for a little race?”

I was. At least I thought I was, but we'd barely lined up before something started to go wrong. I could feel the sail pulling me over and let out a howl.

“Let go with your back hand!” Joel shouted.

I did, but it was too late. Over I went into the ocean with all that board and rigging over my head. The sun hadn't had time to warm up the water yet and it was
cold
. I swam to a clear spot in the surface and came up to find Joel laughing like crazy.

“Look on it as a baptism, Aunt Gillian!” he called. “Has to happen to everybody. Now start over.”

He wouldn't lift a finger to help me, but kept circling and talking to me while I went through the whole rigamarole by myself. I got the board right side up, climbed on, uphauled, drained the sail, positioned the mast, grabbed the boom, glared at Joel, and announced the race was on. The two of us planed along side by side, until we passed the point of land we'd agreed on as the finish line. The race was a tie. Whoever said fifteen-year-old boys couldn't be diplomatic?

I didn't quit until the muscles in my legs began to cramp. I waved to Joel and headed in. Once on the beach, I let the sail down; then I let myself down, very gingerly, and started massaging my calves. Joel was still tacking and jibing effortlessly, farther out from shore now. Another sail appeared, this one attached to a real boat; I could see a teenager on board, waving and calling something to Joel. The two youngsters rode the water in small circles, staying close enough to talk. After a few minutes the sailboat slid gracefully away.

What if that had been a man with a gun?

Alarms went off. I'd been suppressing thoughts of danger for too long; now they all but swamped me. It was so easy to be lulled into a false sense of security, especially when you want to be lulled. But nothing had changed; there was still somebody out there who was killing Deckers.

I looked out at Joel, balanced on top of the water with nothing but a glorified surfboard between him and drowning. Exposed, vulnerable, an easy target for someone with malice in his heart and a rifle in his hands. Anyone could come along and put a bullet in Joel, and that would be the end of the Massachusetts branch of the Decker line. Was that what this was all about? Somebody wanted to kill off the entire family? Destroy the younger generation and the whole family dies.

If I were Joel's mother, I wouldn't have let that boy out of my sight for one minute. And yet both his parents let him go about his business as if nothing were happening, as if none of them had a care in the world. Why weren't they more on guard? Why weren't they all banded together in some impregnable fortress, armed to the teeth and determined to defend themselves at all costs?

“Are you having fun?” a voice said from over my head.