The Geometry of Sisters (6 page)

That had to be it, right? She stared another few moments, wondering about the light source. There was no moon to illuminate the waves. Starlight? She thought of Carrie, her love of the night sky. Maura's memories of her had been so magnified since their arrival in Newport. Was it possible her daughter was here, close by?

She stared at the shimmering light, realized it was the reflection of a swimming pool. A pool on the top floor of a boarding school? It seemed so jarring, decadent in a very-Newport way, and she wondered why she hadn't seen anything about it in the school brochures, why no one had mentioned it, why the pool wasn't at the large athletic facility.

In that moment the fourth floor went dark, and she put the questions from her mind. She had a mission.

Maura drove down the tree-lined drive, through the arching iron gates, toward town. On Bellevue Avenue she passed the grocery store where she and her sister had shopped, the Newport Casino with its grass tennis courts hidden behind the dreamy old shingled façade by McKim, Mead, and White, all the big houses. Newport had a great story, full of history not taught in school.

Breathing deeply, Maura tried to clear her head. She'd just taught her first day. She'd worked hard to get to this point, and wished she had someone to celebrate with. Beck had come in after school, hadn't said a word. Travis had been sweet, congratulating her on a good job—two of his new friends had been in her class, told him that they'd liked what she'd written on the blackboard: Chaucer's observation that life is a
“thinne subtil knittinge of thinges
.”

And that was true. Last night's emotions and memories had stirred her up—things knitting together here in Newport. Being
here brought back that summer, how she'd nearly ruined her relationship with Andy. She ached for him, the father of her children, the feeling dissolving into something else, an old longing she'd kept below the surface all these years. But tonight she couldn't wait any longer.

The city had sections, clearly divided. Thornton Wilder, in
Theophilus North
, had written about them, but Maura made her own distinctions. Leaving the very rich Bellevue Avenue, she headed down the hill, crossed Spring Street—where she had lived with her sister so long ago—and descended toward the wharves.

Time had changed the city. Condos were everywhere. T-shirt shops, ice cream parlors, saltwater taffy stores and bed-and-breakfasts had replaced hardware stores, marine repair shops, and boat sheds, all that was new offering tourists the chance to buy a feeling: the sense of being part of amazing, magical Newport. But the true essence could never be bought. It had to be lived, breathed in like the sea air. Maura had done it that summer.

The wharf area, mostly developed, still had one dark and gritty stretch. Half a block down from Spring Street and up from Thames Street, away from the water, hidden from sight, was a row of warehouses.

She had to turn off the main road, onto Blackstone's Alley—a narrow cobblestone drive from the era of whaling, steamships, and carriages. Her heart beat harder, out of control. What if she saw him? Nothing here had changed since their summer together.

This area still reeked of industry. It was the part of Newport that stayed hidden, that tourists weren't supposed to see. Within sound of the harbor—the happy din of visitors strolling, eating, drinking, taking pictures—this was the Newport no one cared about. There were no views, lawns, gardens; instead, it was a place of ramshackle garages, machine shops, abandoned carriage houses, ancient boat sheds, some with iron rails heading down to the harbor.

Her sister's welding studio had been here before she converted
the barn in Portsmouth. Maura passed it slowly, almost seeing Katharine standing there in her fireproof mask, wielding a torch. Shuttered for the night, it and all the buildings were deserted. A stray cat sprang across the road, startling her. She braked, watching the cat chase a rat behind a brick garage.

Inching along, Maura felt every sense alert. This was where she had come to life. She'd discovered the danger in her own heart, found the thrill of it all. If the alley had been torn down, razed, developed into yet another condo complex, she might have gone back to Newport Academy, quit then and there, packed up the kids, and returned to Columbus. For she hadn't realized until right now, this very instant, how badly she needed this. She needed something not to have changed.

She needed the alley and warehouse to be just as it was. There was the other building she knew so well, the square structure just four doors down from Katharine's, up ahead. She stopped a few yards back.

With the car windows open, she heard the faint sound of halyards whipping and clanking in the harbor a block away. Or was it the
ka-chunk
of J.D.'s machine press, working there behind the corrugated steel shutters of the old warehouse? She'd met him here in the alley, one day when she was visiting Katharine's studio. They'd both stepped outside into the sunshine.

Sometimes everything in life crystallizes in one moment, one place. Time doesn't matter; years trickle away. For Maura, all that had happened since was linked to what took place long ago right here. The roar of a motorcycle, the defying of gravity.

Maura thought of Andy. She had loved him with all she had. For seventeen years they'd had the happiest family they could make. But she knew he would have divorced her if he hadn't died, and she understood that this place was why.

Patterns in the old brick: the arch of concreted-up windows, holes where gales had roared off Narragansett Bay, grabbed the
mortar and shaken it loose, cast iron reinforcing the corners. J.D.'s great-grandfather had been a shipbuilder, had constructed this warehouse and most of the others on Blackstone's Alley.

Some people said James Desmond Blackstone had run Newport— not as mayor, not in any legal or recognized form of government, but from this grimy, hidden warren where he'd made a fortune, halfway between the waterfront and the world of high society. An uneducated man, he'd been determined that his children have the best, attend school with the children of rich men. He had founded Newport Academy.

J.D. had been proud of his family heritage, of his greatgrandfather's vision and might, but he had paid his family rent for this place. He had needed to pay his own way, cared nothing about power. He'd wanted one thing: Maura.

Did he still come here? What would he look like? Would she be able to bear seeing him after all that had happened? She closed her eyes and imagined him still climbing towers, scaling bridges, scaring girls almost to death. The vision was so acute and cruel, she actually moaned.

She had another visit to make, and it wouldn't be easy; she had to see Katharine. Something between the O'Donnell sisters had broken at the end of that summer. The distance between Rhode Island and Ohio wasn't all that kept them apart. How could love do so much damage?

Katharine would know how J.D. was, whether he would even see her. Maybe telling J.D. the truth would finally set Maura free; perhaps it would return her to her sister, give her back Andy, help her find Carrie. Maybe it would give her back herself.

Or none of the above …

4
WHILE MOST OF THE GRAND GILDED AGE MANSIONS of Newport were built for the summer enjoyment of wealthy New York and Boston families, designed for lavish balls and grand-scale entertaining, Blackstone Hall, the main building at Newport Academy, had always been intended for education.

The founder had come from Ireland and had strict notions of propriety—separate entrances for girls and boys, distinct living quarters, and a chapel on the third floor. There were many hidden passageways, built so the teachers and masters could spy on the students, make sure they were behaving.

Those corridors had been boarded up for years. But rumors of secrets remained. Students claimed they heard the ghost of old James Desmond Blackstone roaming the halls at night, keeping everyone in line. They saw apparitions of a young girl, Mary Langley who'd died one winter day a hundred years ago—the December anniversary commemorated school-wide each year.

“Who was she?” the new students would whisper.

“The richest girl in America,” some upperclassmen would say. “So wealthy her father demanded she have her own private floor, the top floor of Blackstone Hall.”

“Her father was a rival and the brother-in-law of the Dark Lord—Percival Vanderbilt—of Newport's second-richest family, and
he wanted Percival's envy. He sent Mary to school practically on Percival's home turf, with every luxury imaginable.”

“Her own private carriage.”

“Her own private swimming pool.”

“Her very own elevator.”

It was true: a creaky rarely used elevator existed. Sometimes it would growl to life, frightening students who hadn't heard it before. They lived in large, bright rooms with tall windows overlooking the grounds and ocean, the walnut-paneled walls lined with bookcases.

Upperclass students had rooms with wide fireplaces built of Italian marble. At night, with a sea wind rattling the panes, wood fires would crackle on the hearth and the students would gather round to study.

They would hear the elevator climb to the fourth floor, stop, and then descend. Wanting to see the ghost of Mary, the students would dash down to the ground floor, waiting for the elevator to inch downward.

But then the doors would open and Angus would walk out into the grand hallway, pushing a huge cart full of shattered roof tiles or a cracked gargoyle—things the sea wind had smashed, loosened from their pinnings, that if ignored could fall from the roof and hurt someone on the ground.

Passing Stephen Campbell on campus one early morning, Maura pointed up at the fourth floor and told him about the strange lights she'd seen there a few nights earlier. He'd nodded.

“The reflection of Mary's swimming pool,” he said.

“Mary's pool?” she asked.

“You've heard about Mary Langley right?” he asked.

“The school ghost…”

“Right,” he said. “Well, when Mary became a student here, her father got the school to build her a pool. Apparently she loved to swim.”

“He must have adored her.”

Stephen nodded, gazing at her. “Most people react differently— they say he spoiled her. But Newport is Newport—families like the Langleys had unimaginable money. Importing marble from Italy hiring the best architect, making sure their pool was better than anyone else's … that's how it was.”

“He loved his daughter,” Maura said. She thought of all the ways she'd tried to show Carrie how much she loved her. And now, how she would spend her last penny to find her: she had just authorized another five thousand dollars for the private detective. “Maybe that's all it was. And he realized life is short.”

“It is,” Stephen said.

“Who uses it now?” she asked. “The pool…”

“It really isn't used,” he said.

“That green light bouncing off the ceiling,” she said. “The pool was illuminated, and someone was swimming.”

“Must have been moonlight shining through the windows …” he said.

“No, I don't think so,” she said, staring up at the building, early morning sunlight glancing off the Atlantic, shimmering across the limestone face. “Someone was there.”

“Let's see,” he said. “Light from an unknown source, plus speed, plus distance, divided by the legend of Mary and her swimming pool, and there you have it.” His smile was crooked and boyish.

Gazing at the second floor, she saw morning light hit the chapel's stained glass window. She thought of how J.D. had described his great-grandfather, a man of Irish faith combined with New England austerity; she knew he must have had a sentimental side to allow a student's father to demand a swimming pool for his child.

“It's really not in use?” she asked.

“Let's just say it's not open to the school community,” he said, smiling. “By the way, Beck is your daughter, right?”

“Yes.”

“She's very good at math,” he said. “She's already standing out in my class.”

“Thank you,” Maura said. And she hurried across campus, to call the detective before her next class, just in case the latest payment had inspired him to work hard and actually find something out.

Travis had worked out with the football team back home all through August, so he was ready for Newport Academy. He made the cut, no problem, and soon found out that the Independent School League was a long way from the Midwest.

Newport Academy was not a football school, not the way Thurber and Savage were. Back home, sports were front and center. Here in Newport, everything was aimed at academics, and football was a second thought. The team had the dumbest name he'd ever heard: the Cuppers, as in the America's Cup, the yacht race that used to be held in Newport. Still, Coach Bishop used a spread offense, a three-step/five-step passing game, and a gap-control defense, eight men in the box, stuff that made Travis feel right at home.

He trained for his position as tight end, falling into step with Jeremy Lathrop, Ty Cooper, and Chris Pollack as they ran up and down the hills of Newport. The September weather was warm; the sun baked the top of their heads, but a cool breeze blowing off the ocean cooled them off. The temperature made it almost too easy.