Night Mares in the Hamptons (11 page)

Not that I'd be much help today, on taxi duty. I'd be more effective fielding phone calls about the reward. Or I could be scouring the countryside for hidden barns. There were no caves in the whole East End; I'd checked. Or I could walk Big Eddie through Grandma's farm and see if he could pick up a scent if the mares left one.

Instead, Little Red and I were stuck behind a beatup pickup filled with rakes and shovels and lawn mowers, on a two-lane road, in a no-passing zone. The whole drive should take about an hour and a half, one way, if there was no traffic and the ferry wasn't full. Landscapers and pool guys and garbage haulers added fifteen minutes at least.

Shelter Island was so close you could almost touch it on a clear day. And so far away you had to drive through three towns, a couple of dicey roundabouts where no one knew who had the right of way, and then take a ferry. It was a real island, with no bridges, only ten- to twenty-car ferries that ran on their own schedule. You drove and drove on a long stretch outside of Sag Harbor, then you found yourself on a line on a hill, watching one ferry leave and another come across the water to take its place. If too many big trucks were on the line ahead of you, you might have to wait for a couple of boats to dock and unload their cars and foot passengers.

Walt Whitman called Long Island by its Indian name, great fish-shaped Paumanok. The fish's split tail was made by the Island's north and south forks that divided in Riverhead. Poor Walt wouldn't recognize either one of them, though. Shelter Island sat right between the forked tail, separating Peconic Bay from Gardiner's Bay. If you drove across Shelter Island, you could take another small ferry to Greenport, at the end of the North Fork. From there, you could drive to Orient Point and catch a much bigger ferry that went to New London and the Indian casinos in Connecticut. You could gamble your life savings away without having to drive forty-some miles west from Paumanok Harbor to Riverhead, then thirty-some miles back out east on narrower North Fork roads through Mattituck, Southold, and Cutchogue. At least Route 25 took you through gorgeous farm country, vineyards, horse paddocks and potato fields, where nearly every house had a lush garden or a farm stand.

The long ride to the ferry made me wish for a convertible. It was one of those summer days that explained why so many tourists flocked to the Hamptons, away from the stifling cities. The weather was warm but not hot, with a lovely breeze of refreshingly clean air. T-shirt weather, with a hoodie in case.

I didn't have to wait long for a ferry today, maybe because it was early morning. The boat ride took less than fifteen minutes of sheer postcard heaven, with sailboats, egrets, blue waves in ripples. The saltwater scent and the slight rocking reminded you that you were on the water, a different world.

The ferry unloads onto Route 114, which sounds wide and important, but is wiggly and barely wide enough for a Hummer. I drove past old houses with gingerbread trim, huge mansions overlooking the bay, past the entrances to private beaches and private roads, then past a vast public nature preserve that had umpteen ticks per square inch. Deer carried the ticks; the ticks carried diseases. The whole region was inundated with both, contributing to vociferous arguments over hunting, spraying, deer contraceptives. So far, the deer and the ticks were winning.

I shoved Red over so I could find the directions to the doctor's house. No GPS in Mom's car. Right at the third Private Road sign, left at the second dirt driveway. The driveway seemed to go on for more miles than Shelter Island had, before I reached a gate with a speaker microphone on a cement post. I pushed the button.

“Yes?”

“This is Willow Tate, come to see Dr. Lassiter. Eve Garland said he was expecting me.”

“Of course, and how wonderful to meet Eve's granddaughter at last. Thank you for coming so far, Miss Tate. Please drive through.”

The gates swung open onto fields of wild daisies, black-eyed Susans, and sunflowers. My grandma would approve.

The doctor's voice was deep, not all quavery like an old man's, and his welcome seemed genuine. “Maybe this won't be as bad as I thought,” I told Little Red, who was trying to hop up to see out the window, not easy for a short dog with three legs.

Self-encouragement aside, my hands still felt clammy when I got out of the car, so I wiped them on my shorts, only to notice too late that the shrink was watching from his front porch.

The porch wrapped around a modest house that overlooked a pond. Tranquil was the word that entered my mind. No street noises, no traffic, no busybody neighbors. The doctor came down from the porch to meet me. He was about my grandmother's age, I guessed, late seventies, but seemed healthy except for the cane in his hand. He had silver hair, light blue eyes that twinkled behind gold-rimmed glasses, and a wide smile. He wore khakis and a tan polo shirt with an Izod alligator embroidered on the chest. Uh-oh. Not for the first time I wished my father's premonitions were a tad more specific.

I couldn't see the danger in this kindly seeming gentleman. Everyone trusted him. Everyone said he could help. It was my mother who always told me to judge a man by how he treated a dog, so I asked if it was okay for me to bring Red inside. Doctor Lassiter said, “Of course,” and instantly went to fill a small bowl with water. He got extra points for asking Red if he'd like an ice cube in his drink.

I followed him farther into the window-filled house to a comfortable living area with leather sofas, and a tray of iced tea and ladyfingers waiting on a coffee table.

He waited for me to sit, then took the seat opposite. I couldn't help myself: He was a shrink, therefore I was nervous. My hand even trembled when I poured both of us glasses of the mint tea.

“It's sad, isn't it,” he said, “how we cannot trust each other these days? Sometimes I wish we could see into each other's minds and know what we're thinking. We can't, of course, although I suppose somewhere in Paumanok Harbor someone can.”

I liked his voice, the reassuring way he smiled at me, as if he were genuinely happy to be meeting me. As if my nervousness was nothing out of the ordinary.

I ate a ladyfinger while he asked me about some of his old friends. He kept in touch with a few, but had lost track of others. Then we talked about my books, which he thought was a great accomplishment. Three ladyfingers later, with a morsel to Little Red, we got to the trouble in Paumanok Harbor. Doc—we were already on familiar terms—had heard some of the problem, but he wanted to hear my version, because I was closest to the center. He nodded and made encouraging noises and
tsk
ed when I told him about the Danvers incident and the cue sticks.

He loved my idea about putting up the posters infused with good intentions. “I bet it's working already.”

“I think it might be, but it's a temporary Band-Aid at best. We have to find the young horse.”

“The one you dreamed about?”

“I dreamed I
was
him.”

“The night horses are strong projectors.”

“Especially of their distress.” I confessed about my fears and my worries that I couldn't help the colt, couldn't help the town. “Somehow they made me responsible. I don't know if I am or not, but they all think I can fix it.”

“I know you can, or you wouldn't have come to me. You need help with the people, so you can concentrate on the horses.”

“Exactly.”

“It's a big burden.”

“Huge.”

“And getting lost in the colt's nightmare is terrifying, while the people you count on for support aren't there for you.”

I sighed. “You are very understanding.”

“And you are just what Paumanok Harbor needs.” He took my hand, and I could feel his approval and his caring seep right through me. “You have the power and the strength, Willow Tate, and I am so pleased I got to meet you.”

Damn, he was good. A touch and a smile, and I felt stronger and braver and not so alone. Hell, I was in love. I'd found what I hadn't known I was missing all these years: a godfather. Not a Don Corleone, ruthless mob boss, but a benevolent elder statesman with plenty of ruth. He was honest, and honestly pleased to be my friend. I felt like a kid whose grandfather handed out silver dollars for no reason other than affection and approval.

Doctor Lassiter was my own shiny silver dollar.

On the way back to the Harbor, he even taught me another horse song. An absurd ditty about a horse, of course, named Mr. Ed. I told him about Big Eddie and sang him “Wild Horses,” off-key. We laughed and sang and pointed out pretty vistas, a special fish-shaped mailbox, a classic turquoise T-bird. Doc was happy to be going back to Paumanok Harbor; Red was happy on his lap so he could see out; I was happy I had someone on my side.

Doc explained that he used to visit his old friends until a stroke left his right leg weak, so he couldn't trust his driving. He was looking forward to seeing my grandmother again. “Is she still as good a cook?”

“Better, but wait until you taste my cousin Susan's cooking. She uses some of Grandma's recipes and a lot of her fresh ingredients.”

“And a few incantations, too?”

We laughed again about Grandma's supposed sorcery, then I tried to bring him up to date on births and weddings and divorces, who moved away, whose children accepted the Royce Institute's free college tuition in England.

Doc knew Grant's father. All he said was that the earl was a true gentleman who handled his responsibilities well. His son, Doc heard, was just as fine a man. I didn't say anything.

When we reached Paumanok Harbor and drove down Main Street, you'd think the circus had come to town. Everyone wanted to greet Doc, welcome him home, beg him to move back here, shake his hand. That was it, I realized. Not his caring, his sensitivity and understanding and good humor. His touch was the secret. That was why I couldn't just call him on the phone.

So many people filled the street, I had to pull over and park. Soon a whole crowd surrounded the Outback, everyone wanting a hug, a handshake, one of his big grins.

Which was fine for the town, but Doc looked weary. He wasn't a young man, and he wasn't used to the commotion. I made some excuse about having to get him to my grandmother's before she called out the cops. Someone asked if he could come back downtown later, and someone else suggested a block party on the commons. The volunteer firemen shouted that they'd make hot dogs. The deli had a freezer full of ice cream. Three high school kids offered to set up a sound system so that the school jazz band could play. Two people had fireworks left over from the Fourth of July, but don't tell the chief. Everyone else was to bring a six-pack, a salad, a batch of brownies.

Doc was touched. He took his glasses off to wipe his eyes. “Oh, it's so good to be here among friends, isn't it?”

It was. I smiled. My new godfather had a mob of his own.

G
RANDMA EVE GAVE DOC THE WARMEST welcome of all, and he gave her the brightest smile. I wondered how good friends they were, or could be later. How about that, me matchmaking for the old witch now? It seemed natural, since Doc had to be a wizard to lift that pall of woe from everyone in town with just a handshake.

I left them to check my phone messages at Mom's house.

Dad left a new alert: a banker. Cave, alligator, banker. Two were impossible, one unlikely knowing Mr. Whitside at the bank. Dad's message said nothing about more horses unless you consider his comment about my mother: “I wish the old nag would go home already.”

The second message asked how much of a reward was being offered. It was odd 'cause I'd left my cell phone number on the posters, not my mother's, but I guess the word was out about me. I didn't recognize the male voice, and the return number was a cell phone, no caller ID. I couldn't call back, but I could curse.

My editor wanted to know how soon before I had cover art for my new book for him to work with. Someone else wanted to sell my mother a new cable TV plan. A Police Benevolent Society I never heard of wanted a donation, via credit card over the phone. Right.

Grant's message was garbled. He was at an airport, found help, we'd talk soon. Yeah, if he didn't freeze to death on a mountain peak.

That was it. No miracle message saying someone found a pony trapped in their old outhouse, come and get him. No report of a neighbor suddenly getting a hay delivery. I tried to convince myself that it was early days yet, but I knew it was early for the posters, not for the colt.

I called Susan on her cell to let her know about the party. She'd already heard and was cooking up vats of clam chowder to bring. Her uncle decided to close the Breakaway Restaurant for the night because no one was going to pay for dinner when they could get it free on the commons. I congratulated myself on not asking Susan where she'd spent the night, or the morning, just said I'd see her later.