Woman in Red (3 page)

“I used to take your dad up here,” William had remarked. “He ever tell you about it?”

“He doesn’t talk about those days too much.” Colin had felt keenly the awkwardness of the moment. He’d been fourteen at the time, his voice reedy with all the changes in his body, which had sprouted a foot seemingly overnight.

“I don’t suppose he would.” William had squinted off into the distance, wearing a look of sad resignation. There had been only the creak of snow settling under their boots and
the whiffling of wings as a cardinal swooped from the branches of a nearby hemlock.

His grandfather was often given to such silences; they’d been as much a part of him as his shock of white hair and the old leg injury that had caused him to limp. And yet they were seldom uncomfortable, even when Colin sensed an underlying sorrow; it was like the sound of the wind in the trees on the cold mountaintop, lonely and peaceful at the same time.

The years melted away, Colin’s memories of those boyhood summers sharper than of recent events. He pictured his grandfather bent over his easel, Dickie curled asleep at his feet, and saw the boy he’d been racing down to the cove with his binoculars at the sighting of a whale. Another boy might have been homesick or lonely for the company of other kids his age, but for Colin, those summers had been a welcome respite. He’d experienced a kind of freedom he hadn’t known before or since. If his grandfather had spent long hours holed up in his studio, leaving Colin to his own devices, it was just what a young boy sprung from the confines of a row house in Queens, where the great outdoors had consisted of a scrubby patch of grass out back, had needed. Grays Island, with all its nooks and crannies to explore, had been like a magic carpet at his feet, and those endless days of summer had rarely seen him indoors.

But that was Before. Before the world, quite literally in his case, had come tumbling down around his ears.

Colin’s mind closed like a fist around the thought, the chill in the air seeping into his bones. The hope that he could escape the more recent past by coming here seemed foolish all of a sudden. It would never be any further away than the nearest bottle in which to drown his sorrows.

A final call from the loudspeaker roused him from his reverie, and he made his way back inside and down the stairs. He was among the last to disembark, and as he exited onto the walkway that ran parallel to the loading ramp, where a caravan of vehicles was crawling its way toward the street, his gaze was drawn to the woman just ahead of him. Slim, dark-haired, around his age—late thirties—and wearing an expression of such intense preoccupation as she trudged along pulling her wheeled suitcase, she seemed scarcely aware of her surroundings. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Someone he’d met on the island? Or maybe it was just that she reminded him of someone he knew. These days, every woman who bore even the slightest resemblance to Nadine brought a tug of painful recognition, of yearning.

The thought that earlier had attempted to surface—the part of his past he’d just as soon forget—thrust its way into his consciousness with such startling suddenness he had to pause to catch his breath, reeling with more than the swaying motion of the ramp. He was gripped by a deep terror. What if he were to discover that he’d traveled all this way only to find he couldn’t escape his demons?

When he finally caught up to her, the woman appeared to be bracing herself against some unseen force as well. She stood poised on the landing, scanning the passenger waiting area, wearing the anxious, hyperalert look of someone not quite sure of her bearings. Her full-length wool coat that might have been purchased at Goodwill and cheap imitation leather suitcase were at odds with her refined, if somewhat worn, appearance. To the eye of an attorney practiced at spotting such telling details, it suggested someone of privilege who’d fallen on hard times.

He paused beside her, inquiring pleasantly, “First visit?” Normally, Colin wasn’t in the habit of making conversation with strangers, but something about her drew him to her. Even with her light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and no makeup other than a touch of lipstick, he could see that she’d once been beautiful. She still was in a stark kind of way, as if whittled down by hard circumstances, like a granite peak by the elements. Her wide-set eyes, an indeterminate shade that shifted from gray to green, held the shadow of some deep sadness, and her delicate features didn’t match the look of determination on her face—not that of some grand ambition, but of a woman reaching into herself for the simple courage to take the next step.

She cast him a startled, almost frightened, glance, then her expression smoothed over. “No. It’s just that it’s been a while. I can’t get over how little it’s changed,” she replied, gesturing around her. Her tone seemed that of someone whose own life had altered so drastically, it hardly seemed possible that time had more or less stood still here on the island.

That was something he understood all too well. Hers could have been any one of the faces he’d looked upon in countless AA meetings, those for whom despair had become a way of life and the effort it took to simply go through the motions was almost more than they could manage. Yet they kept going somehow, just as he had, one day, one step, at a time.

“I used to come here as a kid,” he remarked. “It’s been a while for me, too.”

She glanced up at the sky, where a thick, gray cloud cover had moved in, bringing the threat of rain. “Not exactly tourist season.”

As if on cue, a sudden chill blast of wind sent a loosely tied tarpaulin nearby rattling. She pulled up her collar, holding it tightly about her neck as she hunched inside her coat, shivering. “Actually, I’m here on business,” he informed her. “Family business.”

“That makes two of us.” Her lips curled in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She obviously hadn’t had much practice at it lately.

“Colin McGinty.” He put out his hand.

She hesitated before taking it. “Alice,” she said, not giving her last name. Her hand, narrow and long-fingered, might have seemed elegant, that of a pianist or a ballerina, if not roughened in a way that told of hard manual labor.

“Someone coming to meet you?” If she had family on the island, it was more than likely, he thought.

“No,” she said simply, not offering an explanation.

“I’d offer you a ride, but mine doesn’t look to be here yet,” said Colin, scanning the cars along the curb for the white Chevy Suburban Clark Findlay, his grandfather’s lawyer, had told him to look out for.

“Thanks anyway, but I don’t have far to go.” After a moment, in which she appeared to have forgotten he was there, she straightened her shoulders and tipped her suitcase onto its wheels. “Well, I guess I should be off. It was nice meeting you. Enjoy your stay.”

As he watched her walk away, he continued to wonder about her. Had she taken a wrong turn somewhere? Hooked up with the wrong guy? Or merely gotten hooked, like him? Before Colin could ponder it further, she’d turned the corner and was out of sight.

He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder. That was when he noticed the border collie he’d spotted earlier. It
was standing half a dozen feet away, its intelligent brown eyes fixed on him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. Colin sank into a crouch and extended a hand. “Here, boy. It’s okay. I won’t bite.”

The collie—a male, he saw—edged closer. Despite looking well-cared-for, he was skittish in the way of pets left to fend for themselves. It was a good minute or so before he’d crept close enough to take a tentative sniff. “Good dog,” Colin murmured encouragingly. “See? Nothing to be afraid of.” He patted Dickie’s head—for he couldn’t stop thinking of him as Dickie—which was black except for the softly folded tips of his ears and the patches of white around his eyes and on either side of his nose. The dog allowed it, but it was clear he was only tolerating it out of politeness. Either that, or he thought Colin might know something about his master’s whereabouts. When it became clear that Colin wasn’t going to be of much help in that department, he retreated, sinking onto his haunches to regard Colin with a look almost of reproach.

Colin drew himself up. “I’d take you with me, but I’m guessing you know the way.” The dog cocked his head, eyes fixed on Colin as if in comprehension. How much longer would he go on waiting for his dead master? The thought wrenched at Colin. But was it any better knowing there was no hope? When he dreamed of Nadine, with her smile as wide as the world in which she’d lived—a world in which everyone had a good side and every bad thing its shades of gray—he would invariably awake with a fresh sense of loss, knowing that was all he would ever have of her from now on: memories.

When several more minutes had passed with no sign of Findlay’s SUV, Colin fished from his pocket the scrap of
paper with the lawyer’s number on it. But he was unable to get a signal on his cell phone, and when he went off in search of a pay phone, there were none to be found. On Grays Island, the lack of modern conveniences seemed a conspiracy of sorts, a gentle reminder to slow down, not be in such a rush. Here, people moved at their own pace, not by your timetable, and if you couldn’t reach someone by phone you’d run into him or her eventually.

His grandfather’s lawyer proved no exception. Moments later a mud-spattered Suburban that might once have been white pulled up to the curb. The driver, a very un-lawyerly looking man in a fisherman’s hat, stuck his head out the window. “You must be Colin,” he said, with a grin. “Hop in.”

Colin climbed into the passenger seat. “Thanks for coming to meet me.” He stuck out his hand, which was seized in a firm, dry grip. Clark Findlay looked to be in his late forties, early fifties, gangly as a late-summer plant that’s bolted, and freckled all over.

“No problem. Sorry I’m late.” The lawyer spoke casually, as if it were the norm. “I got tied up at the office. Missus Brunelli. Her husband, Frank, passed on a few months back. She’s lonely and likes to talk. I didn’t have the heart to cut her off. How was your trip?”

“Long,” Colin replied, with a weary smile. The flight from JFK had been delayed, and he’d had to stay the night in Seattle, followed by the four-hour ferry ride.

“That all you brought?” Findlay jerked a thumb at the backpack Colin was tossing into the backseat.

“I travel light,” he said.

“Smart man. Anyway, you won’t need much. Couple changes of clothing, warm jacket, boots, that’s about it.” As if Colin needed to be reminded of the island’s dress code, or
lack thereof. “ ’Course, it depends on how long you plan on sticking around.” Findlay darted a curious look in his direction as he edged his way back into traffic.

Colin offered no response. He didn’t know any more than Findlay what his plans were.

They turned off Harbor and began the climb up Crestview. At the summit stood the Queen Anne–style mansion that had once been the home of shipping magnate Henry White, since converted into a bed-and-breakfast. However many times it had exchanged hands throughout the years, it would always be known to the townsfolk as the White House, a place as firmly fixed in the local firmament as the lore surrounding its original owners, Henry’s son, Lowell, in particular. Now, seeing its windows lit up and its gingerbread strung with fairy lights, casting a welcoming light in the gathering dusk, Colin wondered briefly if he wouldn’t have been better off getting a room there rather than facing the cold, shuttered cottage where his grandfather’s presence would be so keenly felt.

Findlay turned left at the top of the hill, headed in the direction of Ship’s Bay. “I had Edna give the place a thorough cleaning. It’s in pretty decent shape, all things considered. There was some damage with the last storm—some off the roof, a couple of trees down—but Orin took care of that.” Orin Rayburn and his wife, Edna, Colin recalled, had worked for his grandfather. “That reminds me, he wants to know if you plan on keeping him on once everything’s settled.” Findlay was referring to the fact that the probate period was almost up. “You didn’t say whether or not you were planning to sell.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Colin replied.

“For whatever it’s worth, property values have gone way up in the past few years. Fifteen acres of prime waterfront could set up a man for life,” the lawyer went on.

Or save his life,
Colin voiced silently
.

The idea that had been growing in his mind ever since he’d learned of his inheritance. The bulk of the estate had gone to his father, never mind that Daniel hadn’t even attended the funeral. (Nor had Colin, for that matter, but that was a whole other story.) The house and land on which it stood had been left to Colin, with a small bequest for his brother, Patrick. Colin was free to dispose of it however he wished, but he suspected the reason the old man had left it to him was because he, of all the family, would benefit from it the most—in ways that had little to do with financial gain.

Colin might have fallen out of touch these past few years, not just with William but with the world, so lost in the corridors of his despair he’d been a stranger to himself, but it seemed his grandfather had known what he needed. Just as years ago William had understood when Colin, his life consumed at the time by college and girls and the selfcentered concerns of young men, had stopped visiting on a regular basis. Not once had William made him feel guilty. Instead, he’d encouraged Colin to go out in the world, to find himself. When Colin had graduated from Haverford, William’s gift to him had been a roundtrip ticket to Greece. The note attached had read:
You’re only young once. Enjoy it while you can
. Almost as if he’d had a sixth sense of what was to come.

“I wasn’t thinking about the money,” Colin replied now. Though in all honesty he could use it. He hadn’t held a
steady job in more than five years. The former rising star of the Manhattan D.A.’s office, frontrunner for the top spot when his boss retired, had exactly three hundred dollars to his name at the moment.
Make that two hundred and fifty
, he amended, subtracting the amount he’d withdrawn from his checking account to pay for the ferry ride and last night’s hotel.