Woman in Red (10 page)

Nadine herself had been a study in contrasts. She’d hated to cook but was a connoisseur of every ethnic eatery on the Lower East Side. She was allergic to dogs and cats but loved nothing better than to spend an afternoon at the zoo. Her only real flaw had been that she was maddeningly late for everything. Yet whenever she finally did breeze in, amid a storm of windblown hair and effusive apologies, after having kept him waiting for half an hour or more, it would always be as if his day hadn’t truly started until just then.

The irony was that the day she’d died was one of the few he could remember her leaving for work on time. By then, she’d given up acting in lieu of a full-time position as assistant manager at Windows on the World. He remembered her last words to him as she’d been dashing out the door. She’d paused, turning to him with that grin of hers that could melt a polar ice cap, “Hey, you, in the white boxers. Anyone ever tell you how sexy you are?”

Two hours later she was dead.

Now, five years later, Colin stared at his reflection in the shallow water rippling at his feet. He didn’t know how long he’d been hunkered there, caught up in his memories, but it must have been a while for his muscles registered a complaint as he straightened. I should get to the gym more often, he thought, wincing. His main focus, in the six months since he’d gotten out of rehab, had been staying sober. That was where he’d been, in fact, at a halfway house in Arizona, when he’d learned of his grandfather’s death. The news had devastated him, largely because he hadn’t had a chance to say good-bye; he’d been so caught up in his own problems, which, fueled by alcohol, had become all-consuming, that he’d kept in only sporadic touch. He hadn’t even been in any kind of shape to attend the funeral.

Now it was time to figure out what to do with the part of his life that didn’t revolve around AA.

He looked around to find the dog eyeing him as if it were wondering the same thing. A bleak smile surfaced on Colin’s face. “Come on, boy, let’s get you home,” he said, starting up the path.

His neighbors up the road turned out to be a couple around his age named the Henleys. They had two young children, a boy and a girl who expressed delight at the return of their missing pet. The little boy threw his arms around the dog’s neck, burying his face in its fur, to which it submitted with a dignified tolerance.

“We were wondering where he’d gotten to this time. Thanks for bringing him back,” said Nora Henley, a brisk little woman with thick, reddish-blond hair cut in a wedge. She eyed the dog with a mixture of pity and exasperation. “We took him in because we were afraid he’d be put down otherwise, but now I’m not so sure we did him any favors. I think he’d gladly have followed the old man. The poor thing hasn’t been the same since he went.” She brought her gaze back to Colin. “I’m sorry about your grandfather. We’ve only been here a year, so we didn’t know him all that well. But he was a good neighbor. Tommy”—she glanced toward the little boy now fetching the dog a bowl of water—“really took a shine to him. We all felt he’d have wanted us to look after Shep.”

Shep. Colin turned the name over in his mind. Yes, it fit. What was he but a shepherd who’d lost his purpose in life? “I was around your son’s age when I first started coming here,” he told the Henleys. “My grandfather had a different dog then, a border collie like Shep. His name was Dickie. I wonder if they’re from the same bloodline.”

“Mr. Deets would have been the one to ask,” said Doug Henley, a rangy, bespectacled man with thinning brown hair, a good foot taller than his diminutive wife. “He lived in this house for over forty years, did you know that? That’s what his niece told us.”

Colin recalled now the lawyer, Findlay, having mentioned something about a niece. As a kid, Colin hadn’t been aware of Deets having any family; a lifelong bachelor, he might have sprung from sea, like the creatures from which he’d made his meager living.

“She lives in Seattle,” Doug went on. “That’s why she sold the place; she didn’t want to be bothered with the upkeep. Frankly, I don’t blame her. It was pretty rundown when we bought it.” He put an arm around Nora’s shoulders. “My poor wife got stuck with most of the work. I was busy wrapping up things on the mainland at the time.” He explained that he’d sold his partnership in a group dental practice to open a private practice here on the island.

Colin could see all the work that had gone into refurbishing the old fisherman’s cottage. Cedar shingles replaced the original batten-board siding, and a new metal roof gleamed where the old moss-grown one had been. The garden, too, had been transformed, flowerbeds and tidy borders reinforced with railroad ties where there’d been only a wild green tangle. There was even a man-made brook that spilled into a pond stocked with koi.

“The only thing we haven’t gotten to yet is the shed,” said Nora, gesturing toward the ramshackle structure out back. “It’s so crammed full of old stuff, I couldn’t even tell you what most of it is.”

Colin’s pulse quickened. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Be our guest,” said Doug, looking as if he’d be only too happy to have Colin take any or all of that junk off his hands.

“Thanks.” Colin headed around back under the watchful eye of Shep.

As he pushed open the door to the shed, its rusty hinges gave with a loud squeal of protest. Inside, he batted blindly about overhead until his hand met with a pull chain. He yanked on it and the light came on, throwing into shadowy relief a stack of old crates pushed up against one wall. It took his eyes a little while longer to assemble into individual shapes the jumble around him: coiled ropes, a leaning tower of buckets stacked one atop the other, a pile of burlap sacks covered in mold that gave off a dank odor. Inside a box containing various pieces of equipment, he found an assortment of rusted shucking knives and a pair of leather gloves stiff with age. All that was left of a small yet oncethriving oyster farm.

By the time Colin emerged from the shed, streaked with grime, a vague plan had begun taking shape in his mind. Why couldn’t he start an oyster farm of his own? He had the land and nothing but time on his hands, and there was enough equipment here to cobble together a basic operation. He could always buy whatever else he needed. A fine plan . . . except it would mean staying on Grays Island, not selling his grandfather’s place. Could he afford to do that?

Can you afford not to?
countered a voice in his head. What was waiting for him back in New York except more excuses to drink? It wasn’t as if he had a job to go back to, or friends urging him to return. And this way he’d at least have a purpose, even if it made sense to no one but him.

He shook off the excitement growing in him. He’d have to do his homework before he made any final decisions. For now, he merely informed the Henleys that he’d be happy to haul off any of the junk they wanted to get rid of. They told him he could have it all, and he jotted down their number, promising to return as soon as he’d lined up a truck.

He was walking away, with a new spring in his step, when he happened to glance back over his shoulder. The dog, Shep, had gone back inside, but Colin could see him in the window, peering out at Colin, ears pricked as if in expectation. It seemed a good omen somehow.

Two hours later, Colin was standing in line at the public library with several books on oyster farming to check out. The librarian, a pretty young woman with long blond hair held back with a headband, was taking her time with the elderly man in front of Colin, suggesting some books he might like in place of the one he had on reserve that wasn’t in yet. No one seemed to be in any hurry, even those in line behind Colin. No clearing of throats or rolling of eyes; no one muttering loudly,
Is this going to take all day?
A reminder that he wasn’t in New York; that was why people moved here, to get away from just that sort of thing. His impatience must have shown on his face, though, for he caught the eye of a woman walking past, who smiled knowingly. A woman he recognized at once as Alice Kessler.

As soon as he’d gotten his books stamped, he went in search of her. He found her at one of the tables in the periodicals section. “Hello again. Colin McGinty, we met at the ferry landing,” he said to refresh her memory.

But it was clear from the way she was looking at him that she’d needed no introduction. “Yes, hi. How are you?” She kept her voice low, as if not wanting to draw attention to herself.

“Not bad.” He realized, to his surprise, that he meant it. For the first time in months he didn’t feel an oppressive pall hanging over him. He eyed the newspaper spread open in front of her to the real estate section. “Find what you’re looking for?”

“Not in my price range. But I’m not exactly in a position to be picky. As long as it’s four walls and a roof over my head, it’ll do. What about you? Looks like you’ve decided to stick around awhile.” She gestured toward the books under his arm.

“For the time being, at least. Until I get things sorted out.” Colin felt reluctant to discuss his plans. They seemed wildly impractical even to him at this point.

“Family business?” She reminded him of his stated reason for being here.

This wasn’t the time or place to get into it, so he merely said, “It’s complicated.”

“With family, it’s always complicated.” She smiled. “Just when you think it’s safe to go back into the water . . . ”

“You sound as though you’ve had some experience with that.” She shrugged, as if to say, Who hasn’t? “So what are your plans? Beyond finding a place to live, that is,” he asked.

Her expression clouded over briefly. “I’ve been job hunting, but so far no luck. Seems good-paying positions are hard to come by on this island.”

“Keep looking. Something will turn up eventually.” Easier said than done when you’re a convicted felon, he knew.

A flush rose in her cheeks, as if she’d read his mind.

An older woman seated at the other end of the table made a shushing motion, and Colin leaned in to whisper, “What do you say we grab a cup of coffee? I wouldn’t want to run afoul of the library police.” She hesitated long enough for him to wonder if he’d overstepped the bounds, then she nodded and rose to her feet.

Outside, they strolled along the sidewalk in companionable silence. She was wearing her brown hair loose today; it was blowing around her face in the wind. She looked prettier than he remembered, not so pale and pinched. Only her eyes were the same—those of someone cold and hungry peering in through a window at a happy family seated around the dinner table.

The weather had warmed up a bit, so they got their coffees to go and headed for the town green. Across the street stood the museum, housed in a log cabin from the days when Grays Island was a remote trading post, but with tourist season winding down there was no one else about, except a teenage boy tossing a Frisbee to his dog and a maintenance worker pruning one of the trees. They sat down at a picnic table, steam rising from their cups to mingle with their breath.

“This is nice,” she said, looking around her at the grass carpeted in gold and crimson leaves, the sturdy maples, the creek that wound along the north end of the green. “I’ve been so busy since I got back, I haven’t had a chance to sit back and enjoy the scenery.”

“Seems like I’ve been doing nothing but that,” replied Colin.

She turned to him. “I heard your grandfather left you his place.” At the startled look he gave her, she added, in a rueful
tone, perhaps thinking of her own notoriety, “Word travels fast in small towns.”

“Well, you heard right.”

“There’s talk that you’re planning to sell.”

“That so? Well, they must know something I don’t,” he said. “Actually, I’m thinking I may hang on to it.”

“So you’d live here full-time?”

“Looks that way.”

“Don’t you have a job to go back to?”

“Let’s just say I’m between jobs at the moment.”

“I understand you’re a lawyer.”

“Was,” he corrected. “In my previous life, I was a prosecutor for the Manhattan D.A.’s office.”

“I see. Well.” She blew on her coffee before taking a careful sip. She appeared unsettled by what he’d just told her. It was easy to see why. What must it have been like for her, all those years in prison? Put away by a hard-hitting prosecutor not so different from himself.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he said, touching her arm.

“Ah, so you’ve heard. The infamous Alice Kessler.” Her mouth twisted in a pained smile.

“Only what I’ve read in the papers,” he said.

“Don’t believe everything you read.”

“I don’t. Anyway, it was a long time ago.”

“Not to people around here. To them, it’s like it happened yesterday.”

“Like you said, it’s a small town.”

“You’re probably wondering why I came back.”

“Why did you?” He sipped his coffee, eyeing her thoughtfully over the rim of his cup.

“My son. His name is Jeremy. He’s sixteen.” He saw something flare in her gray-green eyes. “He’s living with his father right now, but I’m hoping . . .” She bit her lip, and fell silent. After a moment, she said, “What about you? There must be a reason for moving here besides the fact that you inherited a house.”