Luanne Rice (18 page)

“Edward.
What brings you here?” she asked with enough coolness to keep him from kissing
her cheek.

“I was in
the neighborhood on business,” he said.

“Really.
Hubbard’s Point?”
She
glanced around—beach, rocks, salt water, roses, wishing well. “Not much
business here.”

“Not
Hubbard’s Point, exactly.
Black Hall, Silver Bay, and
Hawthorne.
I have clients in all three towns.”

“Aren’t you
successful.
Three of the most
affluent towns on the Connecticut shoreline.
You’ve always known where
to find new prospects.” She felt the words burning on her tongue. During the
investigation, she had been quoted as saying he was a predator and Mara had
been nothing more than a mark to him.

“Yes, I am
successful,” he said, staring at her, unable to keep himself from taking her
on. Everything to Edward was a challenge. Maeve knew that she could push his
buttons and have him slobbering with rage in ten seconds flat. Instead, she
counted to ten and smiled.

“Your
mother must be very proud,” she said. “That you made something of yourself.”

His jaw
rippled. My, but he was transparent. Maeve could almost see the wheels turning.
Should he put her through the plate glass window, or just continue his Ivy
League act? Maeve would refrain from pointing out that it
was
, in fact, an act. That Mara had discovered his lies about
Harvard and Columbia Business School. Sadly, in his profession of stock
brokerage, they didn’t matter. Too bad they couldn’t disbar him or revoke
privileges or something.

“She
is
proud,” he said.

“Of course
she is. And so must your new wife be.” Maeve thought of what Patrick had told
her about the marriage falling apart. Edward flinched.

“How have you
been?” he asked, not taking the bait.

Maeve
smiled gently and didn’t reply.

He waited
for a few seconds. When he realized that she wasn’t going to answer, he nodded
briskly, as if he hadn’t really asked the question. They stood there, facing
off. Did he really have the nerve to show his face here? The last place on
earth Mara had been seen alive? Maeve found her attention drifting across the
yard, to the only flat section big enough to hold a tent.

It had
actually straddled the property line between her and Clara’s houses. For Mara
and Edward’s wedding, eleven years ago this month, they had put up a pretty
yellow-and-white-striped tent in that very spot. There had been tables with
pale yellow tablecloths, white wooden chairs, vases of roses and wildflowers
picked from Maeve and Clara’s gardens, and a string quartet.

Everyone
from Hubbard’s Point had attended. All of Mara’s childhood friends: Bay McCabe,
Tara O’Toole, Dana and Lily Underhill, and all the other now grownup Point
kids. Maeve had invited people from school—other retired teachers, as well as
some still at Black Hall High, her old principal—and her roommate from
Connecticut College, who had flown out from Chicago, and some of her son and
daughter-in-law’s friends. Aida Von Lichen, Johnny Moore’s sister, had come,
and his daughter Stevie—from whom Mara had once taken art lessons—had read a
love poem of Johnny’s.

Edward’s
side of the aisle had been less populated. That should have been a red flag,
she knew now. But at the time, it had been just another reason to feel sorry
for him. His sister hadn’t been able to get time off; his mother had come down
with pneumonia; his father had spent the airfare Edward had sent him on booze.
It was all so sad; so Mara had worked overtime, extra hard, to make sure every
one of her and Maeve’s friends gave him extra love and attention.

Those
thoughts were crackling in Maeve’s mind as she stared at Edward now. Her
fingers literally twitched—she wanted that badly to rip his eyes out. She had
never known that she was capable of true, passionate, unadulterated hatred
until after Mara disappeared. Eight and a half months pregnant, her darling,
beloved Mara had just fallen off the face of the earth
… .

“Let’s
forget the pleasantries, shall we?” she asked now. “What brings you here?”

“I found
some things of Mara’s I thought you should have,” he said, now clutching the
bag to his chest. “The police had them for a while, but they returned them to
me. They’ve been in my trunk, waiting for a chance to bring them to you.”

“I don’t
want them,” she said.

His eyes
widened with surprise. Maeve’s lips trembled. She half-turned away, began to
train the hose on the roots of the rosebushes climbing up the side of the
house. They were thick, hardy bushes of white and yellow roses—and they were in
full, delicious bloom right now. She couldn’t bring herself to look up, to
where the roses were most lush. The trellis stopped just short of a bedroom
window—Mara’s childhood bedroom, and the one they had decided would be the
nursery when the baby visited.

“I’m sure
you do want them,” he pressed.

“Hmm,” she
said, feigning indifference. Her hands shook, she wanted so badly to look
inside that bag. But Maeve had learned something about Edward, through Mara.
She remembered one of Mara’s visits, early in her pregnancy. Some of the truth
about Edward had started leaking out—and Mara was fighting awareness with every
inch of her body. She wanted to stay in the denial of a “happy” marriage, part
of a couple expecting a much-wanted—by Mara, at least—child.

“I don’t
get it, Granny,” she said. “As soon as I let him know I’m happy about
something, or excited, it’s as if he wants to take it away from me. Like last
night. He’s told me all spring that he wanted to take me to dinner at the
Hawthorne Inn. But at first I was sick, and then I was so tired, and I’ve had
lots of work—so last night was the first time I really wanted to go. We were
all dressed and ready—out the door—when he changed his mind. He just looked at
me and said he didn’t feel like it. That now
he
was too tired to go.”

“Maybe he
was,” Maeve had said. She kicked herself now, but back then, she had tried to
help Mara give him the benefit of the doubt.

“No,” Mara
had said, starting to cry. “He left me home, and went to hit golf balls at One
Hundred Acres.”

Maeve
remembered Mara’s tears. She stared at the spray coming from the hose and
thought of all the tears Mara must have cried—that she didn’t let her
grandmother see. She could almost feel Edward twitching with frustration.

“These are
things of Mara’s,” he repeated. “I thought you’d want—”

“Leave them
by the door,” she said.

“You’re her
grandmother,” he said. “I thought you’d care—”

Maeve
glared down at the roots of the rosebushes. A cool breeze blew off Long Island
Sound. Did Edward remember the times he and Mara had gone sailing? The times
they had rinsed off in this exact spot, using this exact hose? Maeve heard a
screen door slam, and not thirty seconds later, a breathless Clara appeared.

“Hello,
Edward.”

“Hi, Mrs. Littlefield.
Wow, you look great. I haven’t seen you in so
long!”

“It has
been a long time,” Clara said
,
her tone slightly more
friendly than Maeve wanted it to be.

“I came to
give these things of Mara’s to Maeve, but it seems she doesn’t want them.”

“I’ll take
them,” Clara said, and the instant Maeve heard the bag passed from Edward’s
hand to Clara’s, she felt something relax inside—as if the wire holding her
stiff and brittle had been cut, and she was suddenly a rag doll.

“It’s been
a long time,” Edward said. “I thought by now there’d be water under the bridge.
Every June and July, just past the time of year Mara disappeared, I miss her so
much. I swear
,
I’ve never gotten over it. I just
thought that we could maybe talk—”

“Nine
years,” Maeve said. “Three weeks, six days …”

“But if we
could just talk—”

“I don’t
think that’s such a good idea,” Clara said. “Why don’t you leave now, Edward?”

“I’m
staying at the Hawthorne Inn,” he said. “For the next three days. I live near
Boston now, but I have business in the area … in case you change your mind,
Maeve.”

“Thank you
for dropping Mara’s things off,” Clara said as coolly as she—the warmest person
in the world—was able. Just then a noise clanked—the hot-water heater under the
cottage, trying to restart itself. Odd, Maeve thought—she hadn’t been running
the hot water.

“What’s
that sound?” Edward asked.

“None of
your concern,” she said.

“Better get
it looked at,” he said, but Maeve ignored him. She looked away until she heard
Edward’s car start up. Then she did look—it was a big black Mercedes with
low-number Massachusetts plates. She watched him put on dark aviator glasses,
check his face in the mirror. He backed out into the dead-end turnaround, drove
away.

“He still
looks at himself in the mirror every chance he gets,” Clara said. “I remember
you saying you didn’t trust him, the very first time Mara brought him home,
because he couldn’t take his eyes off himself.”

“She loved
him.”

“And you
accepted that. Why wouldn’t you take the bag from him?”

Maeve wiped
tears from her eyes. “Because I was afraid that if he knew how badly I wanted
it, he’d change his mind.”

“But he’d
brought it all this way—to give you.”

“You don’t
know Edward the way I do,” Maeve said. “No one does.”

“He’s
always seemed so charming,” Clara confessed.
“And vulnerable.
Even today … In spite of what we know about him.”

Maeve
nodded. Her stomach flipped. Edward’s charm and friendly manner had gotten him
far in this world. He still fooled people like Clara. Only Patrick Murphy had
really seen through him. Even with a murder accusation hanging over his head,
Edward had been able to get clients. People had short memories, especially when
dealing with charmers like Edward.

“Let’s go
inside,” Maeve said. She heard that clanking again—the hot-water heater making
noise. She’d have to remember to call the plumber to come look at it. “I can
hardly stand to wait another second. Clara, hold my hand.”

“Are you
okay?”

“I just
have to see what’s in that bag,” Maeve said, feeling as if she might faint, her
eyes glittering with tears as she realized she was about to see and touch items
that had once belonged to Mara.

Chapter 17

L
iam had driven home to Cape Hawk, to give the
commander his car back, check the mail, make a few changes to a program he had
running along the beaches east of Halifax—where the great white attack had been
last month—and pick up clothes and other things for Lily.

He stopped
at the inn to see Anne, who had been to Lily’s house. She took the laundry bag
of old clothes from Liam, handed him back a bag of clean ones. They stood by
the front desk, and Anne wanted to know everything. There was a Ceili band
playing that night, and their Celtic music filled the lobby.

“Rose has
been doing better and better, every day,” he said. “She’ll be moving to Boston
tomorrow. The doctors say she’s ready.”

“Thank
God,” Anne said. “How is Lily holding up?”

“She’s
fine,” Liam said, holding the truth inside. His eyes must have told more than
his words, because Anne came around the counter to give him a hug.

“You give
her this from me,” she said, holding him hard.

He nodded,
thinking that would be the day. He’d have to get through about six inches of
body armor as well as a Kevlar force field before that happened. The hide of a
bull shark was less rugged than Lily’s. But he told Anne he would deliver her
good wishes. Just then he happened to notice the display set up at the front
desk.

“What’s
that?” he asked, pointing to the placard saying “Help Our Rose Grow.” There
were pictures of Rose—in her school class, at her birthday party, and standing
with Lily.

“Oh!” Anne
said. “I almost forgot. Rose’s best friend, Jessica Taylor, came up with it
three days ago, and the Nanouks immediately got on board. We’re selling these
pine pillows, raising money for Rose. You know—pine is such a Nova Scotia
thing, the visitors love it. The girls have been staying up all night to make
them.”

Liam picked
one up—it had a picture of Nanny embroidered in green thread, with the words
“Bring Rose Home” underneath. It smelled unmistakably of pine. Anne showed him
the cash box, with twenty dollars inside. “We’ve sold four already. People
checking out of the hotel have been snapping them up.”

“I’ll take
one,” he said.

“We’ll give
it to you,” she said. “You’re doing plenty for the cause.”

“Let me
pay,” he said. “I want to.”

Almost
reluctantly, she took his money. She handed him change, along with a small bag.
Looking inside, he saw jewelry made of tiny pinecones spray-painted gold.
Several pairs of earrings, a couple of necklaces, and a ring.

“Jessica
made them for the nurses,” Anne said. “She wanted to be sure they treat Rose
right.”

“She’s a
good best friend,” Liam said, feeling proud of Rose for instilling that sort of
love and loyalty. He wasn’t surprised. She’d been special since the day she’d
been born.

Just then
Camille came around the corner. She had had a small stroke last year, and she
walked with a cane.
But her expression was just as dour, and
her white hair was tinted just as blue as ever.
Liam knew that she
hadn’t had a happy life—ever since her husband had drowned in Ireland.

“Liam,
dear,” she said, coming over to kiss him. “Where have you been?”

“In
Melbourne,” he said.

“Melbourne?
Courting someone new in town?” she smiled.

“No,” he
said, and gestured at the poster emblazoned with Rose’s picture. “I’m down
there with Lily and Rose.”

Camille’s
smile dissolved. “You know, I’ve never felt the front desk is quite the place
to raise money. Our guests pay quite enough to stay here, without guilting them
into giving to our local charities.”

“It’s
Rose,” Liam said, staring her down. “Not a local charity.”

She laughed
nervously. He was very tall, and he had just used his shark researcher voice on
his own aunt, but she was so imposing on her own, he didn’t feel bad.

“Dear.
You’d almost think she was
your
daughter, the way you act. If I didn’t know for sure that her mother was
pregnant on arrival, I might have my suspicions.”

“Pregnant
on arrival,” Anne said dryly.
“POA.”

“She’s not
my daughter,” Liam said quietly.

“But you
care about her. It’s touching, it really is. Only you know—I’m going out on a
limb to say this, and I’m sure I’ll get my head bitten off—as the standin for
your dear parents, and the last of their generation alive, I have to state the
facts as I see them. It just seems to me that this attention you pay to the
Malones has kept you from meeting women of your station.
Intelligent,
educated women who would be just dying to marry such a fine young man!”

“Women of
my station?” he asked, feeling—as he often did when talking to his aunt—as if
he had wandered into a Victorian novel. He also knew, complicated woman that
she was, that she had contributed money to the trust he had established for
Rose years ago, once her problems had become obvious.

“Yes. I’m
sure you know what I mean. You have a
doctorate.
”

“Look,”
Liam said, shaking his head, “I’ve got to head back to Melbourne. Thank Jessica
for trying to raise money.”

Anne’s eyes
twinkled. “We all know who takes care of Rose.”

“Sssh,”
Liam said.

“The pine
pillows can stay,” Camille interjected. “They’re charming, in a rustic way. No
one will say that Camille Neill is so hard-hearted as to banish the pine
pillows!”

“Thank you,
Camille,” Anne said, winking behind her back at Liam.
“Ever
the humanitarian.”

“She’s
right, Aunt Camille,” he said, giving her a hug.

“Let’s not
get carried away,” Camille said, resting her head against his shoulder before
limping off.

“‘Women of
your station,’ ” Anne said, smiling. “Sounds like the strangest
combination between Jane Austen and
Debbie
Does Dallas
.”

Liam
chuckled, trying to gather everything together with his good arm. Anne helped
load him up, but suddenly she stopped, reaching up to pat his cheek.

“You’re a
really good man, Liam Neill. Right up there with your cousin Jude.”

“Thanks,”
he said.

“My friend
Lily is a hard case, but don’t give up on her.”

“It’s not
like that between us,” Liam said. “I just care about Rose.”

“Uh-huh,”
Anne said. “Just remember what I say—don’t give up. She needs you, Liam. She always
has.”

Liam shook
his head, trying to hide how her words made him feel. He was very good at
that—shoving his emotions out of sight—so he scowled and hoisted the bag over
his shoulder.

“She has,”
Anne said, giving him one last pat on the cheek.
“Ever since
she arrived in town POA.
Give her my love, will you?”

“Sure,”
Liam said, somehow unable to laugh, even though the twinkle in Anne’s eye was
asking him to. He started to stick the pine pillow in the bag.

Anne
glanced down, pointed at the embroidered image. “You know, no one has seen
Nanny since Rose’s birthday,” she said. “Jude says the whale boats are all
watching for her, but she’s just not there.”

“Really?
Once she comes for the summer, she usually
stays till the snow falls.”

“I know.
Jude says it’s strange.”

They said
goodbye, and Liam left. He walked out of the inn, through the parking lot to
his truck, having dropped his friend’s car off at the Coast Guard dock and
hitched a ride from the lighthouse keeper. Climbing in, heading south on the rocky
road, he looked out at the bay. He saw the black backs of several fin whales,
on their way to the feeding grounds.
Glossy black cresting
the surface, disappearing underneath.

He had his
laptop beside him, and he pulled over to the roadside to tap in data. The
screen began blinking with dots of green and purple.
Lots of
sharks in the Halifax area—more than usual.
The purple dots, indicating
great whites, were especially thick down there. Liam typed in “MM122,” waiting
for Nanny’s green dot to start blinking on the LED, but it didn’t.

Liam typed
it in again—
still
no sign. Could her transmitter have
failed? The battery pack was a few months old; he had been planning to replace
it, if Jude could get him close enough this summer. His stomach fell, thinking
of predators. Sharks were everywhere in this bay—he didn’t even need the purple
dots to tell him that. Suddenly he remembered how avidly Gerard Lafarge had
watched Nanny with binoculars the day of Rose’s party. Predators came in all
species. He felt sick to think of it.

He dialed
Jude’s cell number.

“Hey, where
the hell have you been?” Jude asked, answering instantly upon seeing Liam’s
number on caller ID.

“At the hospital.”

“How are
they?”

“Strong as ever.
Listen—Anne tells me none of the boats have seen
Nanny.”

“That’s
right,” he said. “She’s disappeared.”

“You know
what? I saw Lafarge watching her. He hates me, and he knows how I feel about
belugas, her in particular.”

“More like he knows how you feel about Rose, and he saw Rose and her
friends going crazy for Nanny that day of her party.
That scum
of the earth.”

“Do you
think …
”

“Fuck. I
wouldn’t put anything past him. I’ll ask around. Some of his crew
hang
out at the inn bar. Maybe I can get something out of
them.”

Liam
thanked his cousin and hung up. He had to get on the road, get down to
Melbourne. He kept his laptop on, and he keyed “MM122” to beep if it showed up.
Every mile seemed longer and longer as the computer stayed silent.

Losing
Nanny—he couldn’t even think of it. Thoughts of Connor filled his head, but
even more so, of Rose. How could he tell Rose, if something had happened to
Nanny?

He
couldn’t. That was one thing even the rough, tough shark researcher wasn’t
brave enough to do.

Lily sat
beside Rose as she slept. Sunlight streamed through the window. She hadn’t been
outside all day; it was easy to forget what summer was like. She had pulled out
her needlework—she always stitched in the hospital; it was one of the reasons
she finished so many things—and was finding comfort in pulling and pushing the
needle in and out of the canvas, just repeating the motion over and over, just
like breathing, or the beating of a heart. After a few minutes, she closed her
eyes, and the images that filled her mind were from summers long ago—those of
her childhood.

A garden
full of red roses, orange day lilies, honeysuckle,
their
sweet fragrance mingled with the tang of salt air … So different from the salt
air of rocky Cape Hawk, the scent of her childhood sea mist mingled with the
tide lines of a sandy beach and the sweet decay of marsh flats. Not that there
weren’t rocks … there were. Long granite ledges sloping down to the water, in
front of the cottage, the place she had called home for as long as she could
remember. And the woman who loved her, had raised her—

Lily opened
her eyes. Don’t think of that, she told herself. It was too hard, too painful.
Staring at Rose, all hooked up with wires and machines, she knew that if she
started remembering that other time of her life, she would not be able to get
through this next part. She would cave in. Her hands began to move, soothing
her as she started stitching again.

She had
made the decisions she had out of love. People’s lives had been at stake: it
was nothing less than that. Lily had grown up reading Nancy Drew mysteries. She
had heard stories about people who disappeared, assumed other identities. There
was so much loss—the sacrifice of family, relationships, endless love between
the generations. But look at what was saved—
people’s
actual lives. There was evil in the world, and Lily had encountered it. No one
would have believed her, because his mask was so effective. He was so good at
hiding who he really was.