The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (11 page)

She considered coming back later, but something told her that now was the time, and so she knocked.

“Annie?” she asked, as a girl opened the door.

She was large, and her eyes were—as in a children's story—as wide as saucers. She wore the clothes Eliza had seen her wearing in church: a blue skirt and pale pink shirt.

“Yes?” Annie asked. Confusion ruled her eyes.

“Um, I'm Eliza Connolly.”

“Oh.”

Eliza took a breath. She saw Annie looking her up and down. They were fun-house-mirror images of each other: one a little heavy, one much too thin. Almost by instinct, Eliza found herself curling her left hand around her scarred right wrist. Her heart was beating fast. She took a step forward, stumbling on her own feet.

Annie caught her, arms coming around her in an almost-hug. Crashing into the soft body, Eliza felt tears burn into her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Annie asked.

Eliza tried to nod, but a huge sob was rattling her chest.

“You're not, are you?” Annie asked.

Eliza shook her head very slowly from side to side. She felt as if she was going to faint.

“Do you want some water?” Annie asked, leading Eliza to the side of her bed, gently easing her down. “Or are you hungry?”

“I haven't had anything to eat in two and a half days,” Eliza said.

“Oh, my God,” Annie said. “Why?”

Eliza stared into her huge blue eyes and felt the pain in her chest dissolve in slow, hot tears. She licked her lips, wishing the room would stop spinning, wished her feet could touch the ground. Her gaze was caught by a small, obviously homemade boat model over Annie's bed. She focused on it, and it brought her back to earth.

“Because I'm so sad for you,” Eliza said.

“So sad you can't eat?” Annie asked, and Eliza knew it was the opposite for her.

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“For your family. My father knows your mother, and he showed me the obituary . . . I'm so, so sorry about your father.”

“Does your mother know us, too?” Annie asked.

Eliza closed her eyes. This was the hard part, the awful part. That question could not be answered—at least not now. It didn't really have to be, though. This was the moment when Annie would begin to know that they were different, they were alone in this world together, they were lost souls . . .

“My mother is dead,” Eliza said. “That's why I had to meet you.”

“Because my father is . . .”

Eliza nodded, not making Annie say that word that was still so new, so terrible, so unwanted.
Dead
.

“The poem you recited was beautiful,” Eliza said.

“It was my father's favorite.”

“My mother had a favorite poem, too,” Eliza said. “About Paul Revere.”

“Will you say a little of it to me?” Annie asked.

Eliza nodded. She took a deep breath, and as she began to recite, she calmed down.

“‘Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch,

Of the North Church tower as a signal light—

One, if by land, and two, if by sea,

And I on the opposite shore will be . . .' ”

“I love that poem,” Annie said. “The part about the signal.”

“I do, too,” Eliza said, glowing at the immediate, intimate connection.

“You have to eat something,” Annie whispered, reaching into a bedside drawer, pulling out a candy bar. She offered it to Eliza as if it were a gift. Eliza stared down at the blue square and shook her head.

“But you'll waste away,” Annie said, touching the back of Eliza's wrist.

Eliza stared down at her long sleeves and with the X-ray vision of a girl whose father hated her, whose mother was a ghost, saw a spiderweb of scars spelling out the real truth of the matter, the truth that Annie couldn't possibly know, and understood that she couldn't tell this grieving girl that wasting away was, in fact, the point.

“I'm fine,” Eliza said, handing her back the candy bar.

“No,” Annie said, blushing. Girls who ate a lot always pretended they weren't hungry. Eliza knew, so she was patient.

Annie blinked, plump tears filling her eyes again. Eliza followed her gaze, saw her staring at the little green boat that had been sitting in her father's office for the past couple of weeks. Somehow Eliza understood that that boat was the most important object in Annie's universe at that moment.

“I like that little boat,” Eliza whispered.

“It reminds me of my father,” Annie said, starting to cry. “I made it for him.”

“Then I bet he loved it a lot,” Eliza whispered, holding Annie's hand. “I bet he loved it more than anything.”

DAN AND BAY STOOD TOGETHER IN THE KITCHEN,
surrounded
by people he half-recognized from the summer he had worked at Hubbard's Point. It felt strange, to be back after so many years, and he had to ask himself why he'd come. The beach had given him a summer job—his last before starting his business. He had grown up fifteen miles east, near Mystic—across the Thames River and a world away; he had settled there again, when he and Charlie got married. Perhaps he had subconsciously avoided coming here all this time . . . People helping themselves to coffee or iced tea at the counter glanced over at him with curiosity.

“They're wondering where they know you from,” Bay said.

“The boardwalk, about a hundred years ago,” he said. “The one you helped me build.”

He watched her try to smile. She couldn't, quite. She had changed, even in the days since her visit to his yard. Her eyes looked bruised, guarded. He remembered the bright young girl who had hung around him at the beach that year so long ago, who had taught him to love the moon, and felt a rush of sorrow.

Back then she had been unlike anyone else, and he thought that was still the same today. She had such a warm, comfortable way about her—her gray eyes were sad but still bright, her hair streaked by the sun and salt. Her house was filled with love—mementos of her family and the beach. He looked around and saw baskets of seashells and beach heather, a few basketball and baseball trophies on a shelf, smooth stones painted by the kids, driftwood scoured by the waves. He glanced down—couldn't stop himself. She had always gone barefoot, even on rainy days, and he half-expected to see her barefoot now.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing,” he said, feeling self-conscious.

“You didn't have to come,” she said.

“I know.”

“But I'm glad you did.” Her gaze drifted to the staircase, where Eliza had gone up in search of Annie. “I wonder how they're doing up there.”

“Eliza wanted to meet Annie,” he said.

“That's so sweet of her,” Bay said. “Really unusual for a girl her age, to be outgoing in that way.”

“Eliza's nothing if not unusual,” Dan said.

“It must be awfully hard, without her mother,” Bay said.

“Hard for both of us,” Dan said.

“I can't imagine what lies ahead . . .” Bay said.

Dan thought of Charlie, of how the world had gone so dark for so long when she'd died—very few people, even those closest to him, knew the depths of what he felt. And no one, with the possible exception of his daughter, knew why. He knew a little of what Bay had to face—having lost a spouse she at
best
had mixed feelings for—and he wished he could protect her from it.

“I know,” Dan began carefully, “that I can't begin to say what might help, what I might be able to do to help, but . . .”

She blinked, dully, as if he was speaking a foreign language.

“What I mean is, no one can fill his shoes,” Dan said, thinking of Charlie, of the huge hole torn in the sky by her death.

Still, Bay didn't respond. But he saw her eyes fill; she'd been crying when he first arrived.

“He's your husband, I know,” Dan said, reaching for Bay's hand as she clenched her fists, her face a knot of anguish. “Bay, I've been there—let me help you.”

“You haven't been here,” she said, tears pouring down her cheeks.

“I lost my wife—”

“But you loved her,” she said, choking on the words. “You loved Charlie so much . . . it's in your voice, it's all in your face . . . you loved her . . . adored her . . . but I . . .”

Dan stared into her red-rimmed eyes, swimming in tears. Still, in spite of the heat pouring off her skin, in spite of the fury in her face, he would have taken her hands, but she wouldn't let him—they were fists, all knuckles.

“But I hate Sean,” she said, the words bursting forth. She looked toward the stairs up which Eliza had gone, toward Annie's room. “I hate him! For what he's done to our kids and . . .”

Dan's eyes widened in shock and understanding. But then he nodded, hardly able to breathe, taking a step closer.
And
. . . she had said. She unclenched her fists, hugged her own arms as if the room had suddenly turned cold, as if she could keep herself warm.

“And to me,” she whispered, the fight going out of her, the rage in her eyes turning to pure grief. “We grew up together, and I
tried
to love him all this time, but . . .”

“But what, Bay?”

“I didn't know him at all,” she whispered, sobbing in such wrenching sorrow, private anguish, that Dan could only stand very near, very still, not touching her at all, not saying one word.

9

A
HEAT WAVE SETTLED IN, AND THE NEXT DAYS
were
oppressively hot, with the sun a ball of fire in the thick, white sky. Bay tried to gather the kids close, help them get through every day. Tara helped her remember and plan things they had always loved—picnics in the shade, beach time, trips to Paradise Ice Cream.

Bay went through the motions, doing the best she could—if she fell apart, the kids would be more terrified than they already were.

Every morning, she and the two younger kids would go to the beach, lay down their blanket, dive into the water. Billy and Pegeen would race out to the raft, as if frantic activity could block reality. Annie wouldn't come to the beach at all; she wanted to sleep late, and then she'd get up and stay inside to read. Bay was consumed with worry for her, and tried to keep an eye on her without seeming to hover.

Frank Allingham stopped by with casseroles made by his wife. Mark Boland had called twice, to see if Bay needed any help, and Alise called, too. They were trying to be friendly, but the sound of their voices cut her badly. Their efforts reminded her of what Sean had done.

On Tuesday morning, the doorbell rang. Bay answered it in her beach clothes: bathing suit, big old shirt. And it was Joe Holmes, dressed as always in what seemed to be the FBI uniform of a dark suit, dark tie.

“Bay, may I come in?”

“All right,” she said, opening the door wider. She felt vulnerable, only half dressed, but she didn't want to take time to change: She wanted this over and him out of her house quickly. She led him into the living room, and he sat down in Sean's chair. Her stomach froze.

“I'm sorry to intrude like this. But our investigation has turned up some more things I want you to know.”

She waited, her skin tingling, unable to speak.

“We've been going over the scene where your husband's car went off the road. We've measured the skid marks, the turning radius . . . and they don't add up to an accident. We think Sean was murdered.”

“No . . . Why? I don't understand.
Murdered
. . .” she whispered, in shock, shattered by the word.

“We don't know for sure,” the agent said. His eyes were soft, and she swore they were filled with compassion, as if he really cared about her feelings. Her eyes stung. How could she ask her kids to face this? And how could she herself face it? There seemed to be one shock after another.

“What makes you think that it's possible?” she asked when she could speak. “You said he'd gotten hurt on the boat, that he'd lost a lot of
blood . . .”

“That's true, he did,” Joe said quietly. “But even so, why didn't he pull off sooner? Why didn't he call for help? Accidents like this don't usually happen on a quiet country road with a well-maintained car. Did Sean take drugs?”

“No, never. Why?”

“We found cocaine in his system.”

“Sean NEVER used cocaine,” Bay said. “He was really straight—he was so against drugs. He was—wild in other ways, but not drugs.”

“Maybe he changed his position on that.”

Bay lowered her head. He had changed his position on so many things—why not drugs? But her gut told her he hadn't. “Could it have killed him?” she asked.

“It could have impaired him so as to make his driving unsafe, especially with the blood loss. And he may not have been alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“He may have had someone in the car with him.”

“When he went off the road? When he died?” Bay asked. “Who?”

“That's really all I can say right now,” Joe said. “The investigation is ongoing; I'm very sorry for it all. For you and your children.”

“Oh, Sean,” Bay gasped, bowing her head.

“The press will get hold of the story, I'm sure, by the end of the day,” the agent said. “I just wanted you to know first.”

She couldn't even thank him for that; she didn't stand when he left. She just sat very still, listening to his car drive away, staring at the stairs that led up to her children's rooms.

She thought of how happy she and Sean had been the day they'd bought this house. It was at the beach, near Tara, near all their best summer memories. Her vision blurred with tears, with fresh grief for Sean and the realization that he was gone forever, a feeling of heaven splitting apart. Although her marriage had been far, far from perfect, it had been her dearest, wildest hope that they could make it better.

She walked up the stairs and down the hall. It seemed very important to be very quiet right now. As if to counterbalance the violence that had been done to Sean, she knew she needed to tread very lightly, speak very softly to his children. Walking into Annie's room, she asked, “Can you come out here?” and Annie got off her bed without a word.

The same to Billy, who wanted to know, “What was HE doing here?”

“Mr. Holmes? I'll tell you in a minute. Come into Peggy's room for a minute.”

She moved slowly, as if through water. Her voice was thick with tears even before she began to speak. The children sat on Peggy's bed, looking up at her with bruised eyes. Every time Joe Holmes visited their house, their world fell apart a little more.

“It's about Daddy,” Bay said.

They all just stared. She had already told them the worst thing possible: that he was dead. She could see in their eyes that they were past shock, into a new realm. She wanted just to clutch them to her, take them back to their babyhoods, start everything over.

“What is it?” Billy asked. “What did the FBI guy want?”

Bay looked into the eyes of her three children, so guarded and hurt, and she couldn't bring herself to tell them.

“Let me sit with you,” she said, squeezing between Annie and Peggy on the bed. She reached around Peggy to hold Billy's hand. Her heart was beating so fast, she thought the force would knock her over. She heard Peg starting to whimper, and she hadn't even said a word.

“It's about Daddy,” she said, and the word sounded so sweet, and she could hear each one of them saying it to Sean, and she could see the delight in his eyes—how happy it had made him. Her eyes filled, and she didn't think she could go on.

“Tell us, Mom,” Annie pleaded. “Don't make us wait.”

“It's upsetting,” she said, feeling their tension. “I'm going to tell you, and you'll have to be very brave. We all will. Okay?”

They all nodded.

“Annie, Billy, Peggy. Mr. Holmes said, that is, he thinks that Daddy was, probably . . . murdered.”

“Murdered.” Peggy tried the word out, scarcely audibly.

“No,” Billy said. “Not Daddy.”

“Why would someone do that?” Annie asked. “They wouldn't. No one could do that to him.”

“It happens on TV,” Peggy said, starting to cry. “It does, all the time. So why
not
Daddy?”

“This isn't TV,” Billy said. “This is our
dad
.”

“It wouldn't be fair for someone to just
do
that,” Peg wept. “If his car just went off the road, that's one thing. But for another person to
do
that to him, I can't stand it.”

“I can't stand any of it,” Annie said, her hands tightly clenched on her lap.

“I don't believe he's even gone,” Billy said, breaking on the words. He began to sob, rubbing his eyes with fists. “He can't be—he's so great and
real.
How can he just suddenly be gone? He's supposed to be here, with us.”

“No one should be able to just take him away from us,” Peggy cried.

“We're a family,” Annie said. “And he's our father.”

“I hate what they're saying about him,” Billy said. “And this will just make it worse. I want him to be here to defend himself.”

Bay sat among her children, dry-eyed now, holding them close. She felt the same way they did—that Sean had been too strong and real to just suddenly be gone. She couldn't respond to Billy. Maybe Sean couldn't defend himself, because he had done everything that people were saying.

This was her family's first lesson in death, and it seared their hearts, cauterized their veins. Bay knew it was like being in the car with Sean, that whoever had killed him was killing a part of them, too. And that realization helped her summon a resolve stronger than any she had ever felt.

“We're going to get through this,” she said.

“How?” Peggy wailed.

“Together,” Bay said. “We have each other.”

“But not Daddy,” Billy said. “We don't have him anymore.”

“That's not true,” Bay said. “You do have him. You have his love.”

“What do you mean? He's gone. You just said he was
murdered.
”

“Love never dies,” Bay said. “Your father loved you too much for that to happen. I promise you, he still loves you. I promise.” She said it so ferociously, the children all sat up a little straighter, staring at her with wide eyes. “I promise,” she said again.

“If you promise,” Annie said very quietly, “then I believe you.”

Bay hugged each of her children. Violence had come to their home. She would be gentle, and she would fill their home with love.

Annie's words did that for Bay.
If you promise, then I believe you.

BY THE NEXT DAY, WEDNESDAY, IT WAS THE NEW TALK OF
the
beach. Sean's accident might have been murder. Had
probably
been murder. And he'd been using cocaine. He might have had help, stealing from the bank. With all of the executives already exonerated, the authorities were still, according to the paper, interviewing tellers.
Young female tellers
went the whispers up and down the beach.

Or it might have been someone from outside the bank, someone who wanted Sean to commit the crime: One sidebar story talked about a wife in Dallas who had gotten her banker husband to pilfer accounts so she could buy her own oil well.

Sitting in her beach chair, Bay glanced around at her neighbors, wondering which of them thought she had egged him on. She took the morning paper from her straw basket. Trying to pretend that her husband wasn't the front-page story, she struggled to keep her hands steady as she began reading the classifieds, looking for a job.

Tara came down to join them, and together the two friends walked on the hard sand below the high tide line. Their footsteps made shallow impressions, and they walked slowly, with the lifelong habit of staring downward for treasures: shells, sea glass, lost diamond rings. The summer they were six, they had heard a woman cry out: Her engagement ring had slipped off while she was coming out of the water. They had never, in all these years, really stopped looking for it.

“How are you doing?” Tara asked.

“Great,” Bay said in a tone she knew her best friend would instantly translate into “really rotten.”

“I figured,” Tara said.

“I thought you might,” Bay said. “Frank Allingham called again. He was just trying to be nice, but I feel too horrible to talk to him . . . I'm looking for a job.”

“Finding anything?”

“Not yet,” Bay said. “I don't know enough about computers, and everyone seems to want someone who knows Windows and Excel . . .”

“Computer illiteracy is highly underrated in our society today,” Tara soothed. “But I get by, and so will you. What else?”

“Have you heard people talking?” Bay asked, her gaze snapping up. She wore a straw sun hat and had to peer beneath the rim to see Tara's face.

Tara shook her head. “No one is going to bad-mouth Sean to me.”

“I'll bad-mouth Sean to you,” Bay said. “I just lost my husband, he was probably murdered, but I'm so angry, Tara. You can't believe it. If I had him here in front of me . . .” Bay shook her head, as if to banish the violence of her thoughts. “I started adding up the mortgage, the insurance, the utilities, expenses to keep us all going . . . I'm worried we'll have to sell the house.”

“Never,” Tara said. “I'll die myself before I let that happen.”

“Oh, Tara. Thanks. How could he do this? What was he thinking? Unless I get a job right away . . . and one that pays me enough money . . .” Her dark heart was throbbing, she swooned with the possibilities of loss, when there had already been so much.

“You'll find something. Keep reading the ads, and I'll ask around. You're so good at so many things.”

She had always liked working hard, the more strenuous the better.

“I told Dan Connolly I hated Sean,” she said.

“It's okay for you to hate him right now,” Tara said. “It would be impossible for you not to. Are you going to have Dan build the dory for Annie?”

“I don't see how.”

“The money?”

She nodded. “Summer's almost over. We're going to need every cent we have to last till I get a job. I'd pawn my engagement ring to pay for the dory, but it wouldn't do any good sitting in the yard till next summer anyway . . .” Bay said, trailing off. Every part of her hurt to think of how happy Annie would have been if her father had been able to follow through on having a boat built for her.

She glanced at the sandy rise, bristling with silver-green beach grass, the thicket of bayberry and gorse, the craggy cliff, the narrow path leading under the fallen tree. She knew that if she followed the path, she would eventually come to the turnoff leading into the thick woods . . . She could almost picture the clearing, the spot where Danny had hung the swing.