Summer Light: A Novel (9 page)

Chapter 5

T
HE BRUINS
LOST
,”
MICKEY AGNELLI
hissed into Kylie’s face. “Yeah,” Eddie Draper said. “You said they were going to win for sure.”

“I didn’t say for sure,” Kylie whispered, standing by the drinking fountain in the hallway of Black Hall Elementary. She glanced from side to side, wishing a teacher or a big girl would come. Here she was, a first-grader surrounded by third-graders, with no one to help her.

“You said Martin Cartier had special powers,” Mickey said.

“Yeah, the power to
lose,
” Eddie added.

“And you said Martin Cartier was going to come to school,” Nancy Nelson put in. “So where is he?”

Kylie cringed. Although Martin hadn’t said he would come to her school, Kylie had been sure he would. He was her friend, and she had been so sure her wish—all of their wishes were going to come true. From the first minute she had seen him on the plane, something about his eyes had made Kylie think he needed them as much as they needed him. She had picked him out to be her daddy, asked him to help them when the time came.

And now four days had passed, and he hadn’t even called Mommy once. He had dropped out of their lives as if he’d never been in them. Kylie’s stomach ached, just thinking about it.

“Yeah, where is he?” Mickey demanded.

“Not that we’d want him,” Eddie said. “The Bruins should trade him for Nils Jorgensen.”

Kylie felt her shoulders growing together in front of her chest, as if she could fold herself inside a pair of wings. She didn’t like people talking about Martin like this, even if he’d stopped calling, even if her wish wasn’t going to come true.

“Martin Cartier is a loser,” Mickey taunted.

“Lost the Stanley Cup,” Eddie said. “Know how big a loser you have to be to lose the Stanley Cup?”

“Don’t call him a loser!” Kylie cried.

“LOSER!” Mickey shouted.

“A big, stupid, dumb one,” Nancy added.

“Stupid and dumb are the same thing,” Kylie told her. “So maybe you’re talking about yourself.”

“You’re a loser, too,” Mickey said. “For lying about him. You don’t know Martin Cartier, and he never was coming to school. And he sure didn’t win the Stanley Cup. Come on, guys—let’s leave the first-grade baby alone.”

Kylie’s eyes flooded as she clenched her fists and watched the three older kids run down the hall. They all had fathers. She knew, because she’d seen them at the Shoreline Fair. Everything they had just said to her stung, but one part in particular bruised her ribs and made her hug herself. She wished the angels would come. She wished they’d surround her with their soft wings and be her friends.

“I didn’t lie,” she said to the empty hallway. “I do know Martin Cartier. I do.”

Martin went underground. He was in his house, in the middle of Boston, but he might as well have been in a cave. Shades drawn, phone unplugged, beard growing. They had lost the Stanley Cup again, and nothing was going to change it. He slept for two days straight.

The first day, he dreamed of the lake. The ice was smooth and black; you could see fish frozen beneath its surface. Trout, bass, pike. Martin skated like pure spirit, the silver blades barely scratching the ice. He was free, light, unencumbered. But he had to get somewhere; the wind at his back was pushing him toward a person he couldn’t see.

The second day, he dreamed of skating faster. Lac Vert spread before him, its serpentine path carved into the mountains of Canada. Tall pines shadowed the dark ice, and Martin knew the person he sought waited just beyond the next bend. Who was it? The closer he got, the farther away the person seemed. His mother? His father? Natalie? The ice began to melt around his feet.

Waking tangled in the sheets, his heart was racing. God, who was it? Lying back, he faced the truth: He had lost the Stanley Cup again. He had let everyone down. He was alone in the world, even in his dreams. The ice had been melting, the lake about to swallow him if he couldn’t get to her.

“Her?” he said out loud.

And then he knew.

Of course, it was May. She had been there, waiting for him. In the dream, he had nothing in his hands, nothing in his pockets. He had only himself.

That was all May wanted. She was good and kind, and he’d felt an overwhelming connection with her the minute they’d met.

Martin had felt himself sinking, the ice melting around his ankles. May had been just around the corner, waiting for him. If only he could get to her, maybe he could be saved. His throat caught, thinking of her little girl.

Maybe they all could be saved. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he stared through his darkened bedroom and thought about facing the light of day.

The month of May was a busy time for weddings, for couples who wanted to get married under arbors of wisteria, with bouquets of fresh-picked violets and lilies of the valley, but a slow time for wedding consultants: The planning was long done. May spent most of her time in the garden; it wasn’t uncommon for her to greet the few bridal parties for the first time with grass-stained knees and dirt under her fingernails. But these last days, May’s heart hadn’t been in her work.

Four days after the Bruins’ loss, after Martin’s last call, May knelt in the rose garden scattering coffee grounds around the roots of an old white rosebush. Every rosebush had a history, told to May by her mother, grandmother, and great-aunt. This one had been planted in 1946, the year Emily Dunne had built the barn. It had nearly died in an early frost that first year, but Emily and Enid had kept it alive by wrapping it in a scrap quilt made from their father’s old shirts. Abigail had lovingly fed it rose food.

“Give that one extra coffee,” Aunt Enid told May now, coming over to supervise.

“Like this?” May asked, spreading out half a cup.

“Twice that,” Aunt Enid said. Her hand shook with a slight palsy, and as she reached out she had to lean on May’s shoulder to steady herself. May’s grandmother had claimed that roses liked coffee, that they grew taller, fuller, and brighter when fertilized with the morning’s grounds. The smell of loam and French roast mingled in the warm air, making May miss her mother more than ever. She must have sighed, because Aunt Enid looked over.

“What’s the matter, honey?”

“Nothing, Aunt Enid.”

“I don’t believe you.” Then, as Tobin came over, “Will you see what you can do with your friend?”

“I’m trying, Enid,” Tobin said, putting her arm around the old woman.

Aunt Enid had once been five-five, but age had curved her spine and reduced her height by four inches. She had close-cropped white hair and pale blue eyes, and she was dressed in her favorite gardening clothes: a pink housedress, an old canvas jacket, and knee-high green rubber boots that had once belonged to her sister.

“Oh, honey,” Aunt Enid said. “Is it the hockey player?”

“The who?” May asked.

“Nail on the head,” Tobin said.

“Kylie told me he’d been calling, and then—” Aunt Enid stopped herself.

“Kylie liked him,” May murmured.

“Oh, and that’s the reason,” Tobin said.

Aunt Enid reached into the pot of old coffee grounds and let them run through her gnarled fingers. She did that over and over, and then she spread them carefully around the roots of the old white rose.

“Missing someone’s a funny thing,” Aunt Enid said. “It overtakes you, doesn’t it? You can’t figure out where it begins and where it ends.”

“She can’t,” Tobin said, and May felt her gaze on the back of her head.

“Will you two please stop?” May asked. “Page Greenleigh is coming with her mother in a little while. I’d better get washed up.”

“You could call him,” Aunt Enid suggested.

“That’s a fine idea,” Tobin agreed.

May looked through the rose bush at her aunt. The suggestion was Bridal Barn heresy: Emily Dunne had always maintained a man’s greatest fear was being trapped—“lassoed,” she called it. In her famous list of “musts and musn’ts,” calling men was at the head of the musn’ts. As if reading May’s mind, Aunt Enid went on.

“Men can hurt, too. He lost the championship,” Aunt Enid reminded her. “Maybe he needs someone to talk to.”

“That sounds right to me,” Tobin said.

“What about men needing time to lick their wounds?” May asked.

“Enough’s enough.”

“He knows he could call,” May said.

“I’ve never thought of you as prideful before.” Aunt Enid picked a Japanese beetle off a glossy leaf, holding it loosely in the palm of her hand to release into the rose-free field. “But it seems you’re putting your own feelings ahead of someone who might really need you right now.”

“Aunt Enid’s right,” Tobin said.

May didn’t reply. She spotted a second beetle, its shell glimmering like a murky rainbow in an oil slick. Taking it from the rose’s stem, she tapped the hard shell, the size of a cherry pit, with her fingernail. May’s own shell felt hot and hard in the morning sun, as she thought about how long she had lived with it on, wondered how it would feel to take it off.

Over the years, Tobin had tried to set her up with John’s brother and his cousin and men he knew from work. Barb Ellis had taken her on a ski weekend to meet a friend from Vermont she’d known was perfect for May. Carol Nichols had arranged a blind date with a guy she’d known in graduate school, an oceanographer in Woods Hole. Dutifully, May had gone along. But she was now thirty-six years old, and she had never once felt about anyone the way she did about Martin.

Very slowly, May stood up straight. She walked into the greenhouse, to the telephone on the north wall. Martin had never gotten around to giving her his number. Calling the Boston Bruins organization, she got a receptionist, then an office manager, finally the team publicist. Explaining herself, May heard the man’s skepticism.

“Remember that plane crash?” May asked. “He saved me and my daughter. He really did. Kylie, my daughter, asked him to help us, and the thing was, we became friends. He and I had dinner, just before the finals started, and I gave him—” she stopped, her mouth dry.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the voice said. “But we’re not allowed to give out the players’ numbers.”

“But we’re friends,” May argued. “We really are. I’m sure a lot of people tell you that, but in this case it’s honestly true.”

“Uh-huh, but even so, I’m not permitted…”

May leaned her head against the cool glass wall. A pair of swallows crisscrossed the air overhead, building a nest in the greenhouse eaves. May felt her chance slipping away.

“Please,” May pleaded with the man on the phone. Suddenly she knew she
had
to get through to Martin. If she could have climbed through the wire and seized his number, she would have. “You have to tell me.”

But the man had hung up. May walked slowly back to the rose garden and resumed her work. Aunt Enid glanced over, but she didn’t ask what had happened.

“You didn’t get him?” Tobin asked.

“No.”

“Damn,” Tobin said. “Maybe I could try. I could—”

“Sssh,” May said, digging in the garden. “Okay, please?” Her friend walked away.

When Aunt Enid went into the barn for some bonemeal, to supplement the coffee grounds, May bent over and put her face close to the earth. She felt damp warmth rising in waves, and she closed her eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening to me,” she said to her knees.