The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (9 page)

“How old are you?” Bay called up.

Silence.

“She's twelve,” Dan said.

“Eliza can talk, you know,” said Eliza.

“Is Eliza Day Boat Builders named after you?” Bay asked, squinting into the dark loft.

“Officially, no. It's named after my grandmother. But since I'm named after her, yes. That would be the general idea.”

“Why don't you come down here, Eliza?” Dan asked. “I want you to meet an old friend.”

Bay heard some rustling above, watched as the girl walked gracefully the length of one rafter, as if it were a balance beam, and then climbed down a rough ladder at the end of the shed. She was tall and thin, like her father, but—unlike him—with translucent pale skin, and a wreath of curly blond hair. Her coloring must have come from her mother.

“Eliza, this is my friend, Bay Clarke—”

“Bay McCabe,” she corrected him, watching for a reaction. Dan smiled.

“You married Sean,” he said.

“I couldn't wait forever,” she joked, because it was
such
a joke—he had broken her young heart without even having a clue.

“WAIT?” Eliza asked. “You mean for my FATHER?”

Bay's heart tugged, thinking of Annie and her proprietary attitude toward Sean. Children cherished the illusion that their parents had never loved anyone but each other. She smiled reassuringly.

“Your father was way out of my league, Eliza,” she said. “I was just a kid—not much older than you. He was the man who fixed everything at the beach. I looked up to him, that's all. He taught me to fix things.”

Eliza nodded, satisfied. She was very pale, as if she never went out in the sun. Even now, standing on the first floor of the big shed, she backed into the shadows, to keep from standing in the summer sunlight pouring through the open doors.

Now Bay handed her the small paper airplane she had picked up. “You must have some of your father's talent,” she said. “For making things. This is a really good airplane.”

“It's a dove,” Eliza said, holding it in her hands. “A white-winged dove.”

“Well, it's beautiful,” Bay said, feeling emotion pouring off the child. Bay felt it herself. She had come here on terrible business, and she didn't even know what to ask. It felt more comfortable to tune in to this little girl, who was so unlike Annie in almost every way—height, weight, pallor, outspokenness—yet like her in heart; Bay could read this girl's pain the way she could her own daughter.

“It reminds me of my mother; the way she is now,” Eliza said, still staring at what Bay now realized was an origami bird. The girl tilted her head, to look up at her father. Following her gaze, Bay was shocked by the expression on Dan's face.

It was hard and cold. His jaw was set, as if he was holding a barrage of feelings inside—and they weren't good, and they weren't simple. He was staring at his daughter as if the sight of her caused him agony.

Eliza registered his expression, too. Her eyes flickered, and as if with acceptance she blinked and looked away.

“Maybe I will go home, Dad,” Eliza said.

“Let me talk to Bay for a minute,” he said, “and then I'll drive you.” The icy stare was gone; his voice was warm and loving. But Bay knew what she had seen, and she leaned just slightly closer to Eliza.

“I'd be happy to give you a ride,” she said. “On my way home . . .”

“You live in Hubbard's Point,” Dan said, over Eliza's pointed silence.

“Yes—you know?” she asked, her heart flipping over at the confirmation of Sean's having been here.

He nodded. “Is the boardwalk still there?”

“Don't tell me you haven't brought your wife and Eliza down to the beach!” Bay said. “Showed them all the things you built—a hurricane washed away the old footbridge, but we replaced it, and almost everything else is still there.”

“Dad builds things to last,” Eliza said. The statement was proud, but she said it quietly, as if there was something dark beneath it. “Too bad people aren't made that way.”

“People?” Bay asked.

“I'm going to wait in your truck, Dad,” Eliza said, as if Bay hadn't just spoken, and as if she hadn't offered to give her a ride. “Tell her about Mom.”

“I'll be right out,” Dan said.

Now, as he turned to face Bay, she saw worry in his eyes. She had his fax with her and she wanted to ask him to explain it, but she couldn't speak just yet. She knew very well those furrows around his eyes, the worry that showed itself in lines on a person's face. She probably had quite a few going herself.

“Thanks for the offer,” Dan said. “But I need to talk to her. You can probably tell, she's got a lot going on. Her mother died last year.”

“Your wife? I'm sorry!” Bay exclaimed.

“Thank you,” he said simply, almost brusquely. “Anyway, we live out of the way for you. The opposite direction, in fact—in Mystic. Near my parents' old house.”

“You've lived in the area this whole time, and I didn't know,” Bay said.

“It's strange. Whenever I drive past the Black Hall exit on Ninety-five, I think about the beach, wonder whether you and some of the others are still there.”

“You must have known, though,” she said, taking the fax from her pocket and handing it to him. “You've been in touch with my husband.”

“I know,” he said, pulling a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket. His dark brown hair was streaked with gray. So much time had passed, Bay thought. No one was the same anymore. “I couldn't believe when he came to see me.”

“Why did he?” she asked.

“He wants me to build him a boat,” Danny said, tapping the fax.

“I see that,” Bay said. “But why? Why you?”

Danny's eyes glimmered for a second. “I wondered the same thing. But after we got through the pleasantries, and I asked about you, he got straight to business. His visit was all about boats.”

“Have the—I was wondering—have the police or the,” she paused, because it was still so unbelievable to her, “FBI . . . contacted you?”

“No,” he said, taking off his glasses. “I'm sorry for what you're going through, I've seen the news.”

She nodded with as much dignity as possible. “Thank you,” she said.

“I just barely remember Sean from the beach—really only in context with you,” Dan said.

She took a deep breath, trying to settle down.

Dan's building was filled with works-in-progress. Bay recognized finished but unpainted dories and skiffs, all made of wood, as well as a twenty-foot sailboat under construction. There were gracefully curved ribs, fine cedar planks, sheets of plywood, lengths of oak.

“Are you still particular about wood, Bay?” he asked, watching as she leaned over to touch a smooth-grained board. “That's okoume plywood, and that's luan. For a catboat on order from a guy in Maine. I'll finish it off with white oak and mahogany, and she'll be a pretty boat.”

“I like the way it smells,” she said, closing her eyes.

“Are you still in love with the moon?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, I am,” she said. “Especially the crescent moon . . .”

He nodded. That summer she had kept a moon watch, reporting to him each day on the phases of the moon. “Everyone always thinks the full moon is so romantic,” she used to say, “but I think it's so bright and obvious! I love the crescent moon, just a mysterious little sliver there in the sky . . .”

“Since the beach hasn't given me a budget to pay you for all your help,” Dan had joked, “I'll have to give you the crescent moon. I'll make something out of it for you.”

“You think you can make anything,” she said. “I dare you to make something from the moon!”

And he had. He had found a weathered sickle of a driftwood log washed up on the beach after a storm, smooth and silver as moonlight, and he had made it into a swing, for her alone.

“Is it still there?” he asked, letting her know he was thinking the same thing. Was he remembering her surprise and delight, how he had pushed her on the swing that first time? She could see the spot: a sunny clearing deep in the woods, off the path to Little Beach. The swing's ropes had looked like vines, and no one but Bay knew how to find it.

“No,” she said, looking into his blue eyes. “The ropes rotted years ago. I took my oldest daughter over when she was little, to show it to her. The seat is still there. I keep expecting it to turn back into the moon, to just disappear into the sky.”

He stood still, leaning against one of the boats, arms folded across his chest.

“You have more serious things on your mind,” he said, “than an old swing in the woods.”

“I do,” she said.

“I wish I could help you more,” he said. As he spoke he began to walk, through the shed—dust golden in the hot sunlight slanting through the open doors—to a small office toward the back. Bay followed him inside, watched him begin to rummage through a stack of papers on the top of an old desk.

“That's beautiful,” she said, noticing the carving in the dark wood: fish, shells, sea monsters, and mermaids.

“It belonged to my wife's grandfather,” Dan said. “And it was carved by my grandfather. Long story . . .”

“Is that her? Your wife?” Bay asked, spotting a framed photo of Eliza and a lovely woman with light hair and pale skin, both wearing straw hats with long blue ribbons.

“Yes,” Dan said. “That's my Charlie . . .”

Bay's heart broke at the way he said it:
my Charlie
. With so much love and sorrow, leaving absolutely no doubt about the way he had felt about her. Now, staring at the photo, his eyes were narrowed and tight, as if the pain of her loss, of never seeing her again, was hitting him again. Bay wondered how she had died, but knew it wasn't the time to ask. She considered her own horrible mixed feelings about Sean and wished she had nothing but love for him, nothing but regret for the missed chances, for the wonderful times they had shared.

“You must miss her,” Bay said awkwardly.

“Yes,” he said, still frowning as he continued looking through invoices on the old carved desk. “We both do.”

Bay couldn't stop looking at his wife's picture—she had such striking eyes, such an open gaze. Had Dan taken the picture? Bay recognized the background—the carousel at Watch Hill—a favorite spot of all the little girls of southern New England. Annie and Pegeen adored it, as had their mother and Tara before them.

Her gaze wandered the rest of the room. Big windows overlooked the Thames River. Electric Boat was on the other side, one submarine at the dock. Ferries passed—the high-speed hovercraft heading out as the Cross Sound boat came in from Long Island. Small sailboats tacked, their white sails and hulls gleaming.

“I know I have his order somewhere,” he said. “He was very specific, if only I can find it . . .”

“My husband isn't really a wooden boat person. That's why I'm surprised he came to you,” she said, noticing his drafting table, drawings of rowing boats spread over its surface. Now she glanced at his bookshelves, books on Herreshoffs and Concordias beside the collected letters of E. B. White and a stack of old maritime magazines. “Did he say anything about letters?” Bay asked abruptly. “The ones we wrote to each other?”

“You and I?” Dan asked, glancing up. “No, he didn't. God, those were a long long time ago . . .”

And I saved them all, Bay thought. Was that crazy? She glanced at the picture of Charlie again and felt embarrassed. What had she been holding on to, all these years? If her own marriage had ever been really happy, wouldn't she have thrown them out? Clearly Dan had found the real love of his life in Charlie . . . Bay's gaze swept across the desk, and settled again on Dan. He was older, more rugged than she had remembered, weathered by life and love. But he was still her first love, and she still felt a thrill just to see him.

“I'm getting closer,” he said. “Up to June now . . . hang on.”

“Take your time,” she said, exhausted by the storm of emotions. She arched her back, walked over to the window to look out at the river, tripping over a tool belt lying on the floor.

Reaching out to steady herself, she stumbled into the bookshelf and cried out with surprise.

“What is this doing here?” she asked, reaching forward with a trembling hand for the object on the top shelf.

Dan's eyes widened, and he flushed slightly.

“It's my daughter's,” Bay explained, her eyes filling with tears as she lifted down the small green dory. “Annie made it for her father.”

“She did a great job,” Dan said. “The details are excellent—the joinery, and the fairing . . .”

“He promised her he would keep it with him always.”

“I think he meant to,” Dan said, finding the invoice. “This is the order form for a twelve-foot rowing dory. He just left her boat for me, so I'd know what to build.”

“But why would he want a dory?” Bay asked, looking into Dan's clear blue eyes. “Sean's taste in boats is so different . . .”

“He wanted it for your daughter.”

“Annie?” she asked, her heart thudding.

Dan nodded. “Yes. It was going to be for her. I haven't started it. I'd put the whole thing aside, after I read about Sean in the paper. But he was adamant about it—he said he wanted it for Annie. And that he wanted me to build it myself—not to give it to my assistants to help with. He showed me the model on that first visit—and finally dropped it off for me to work with, just a couple of weeks ago. Should I go ahead and keep working?”

“You'd better hold off for a while,” Bay said, thinking of the money, feeling confused about it all.

Just then, the truck horn sounded from out in the yard. “DAAAAADDDD!” came Eliza's voice. Dan gave Bay a look of apology, and she managed to say something about kids being kids. She shook his hand across the ornate desk, and without asking or explaining, tucked Annie's boat under her arm and walked out to the parking lot at Dan's side.

She climbed into her car, set Annie's boat on the seat beside her. Inserting the key in the ignition, she started up the Volvo and rolled down the windows. Salt air blew through the car with boatyard smells of epoxy, varnish, and fish. She couldn't wait to get back home, to the beach.

But as Dan and Eliza pulled out, in a big green truck with “
E
LIZA
D
AY
B
OAT
B
UILDERS
” painted in small gold letters on the doors, Bay again reached for Annie's boat.