Home Fires (12 page)

She stood there a few minutes more. The fire was dying before her eyes. The flames were retreating; the character of the smoke had changed. It didn't seem as acrid, as menacing as when she had first arrived. She didn't know how long it would be before the fire was totally out; she didn't know when Thomas would be finished for the night.

It didn't matter.

She turned away and headed toward town. He had said he would come back when it was over. She was going home to wait.

I
T
was nearly midnight when he knocked on her door. She opened it almost instantly; she'd been sitting in the living room, having a cognac.

He stood in the hallway, soot covering his face and hands. He must have left his helmet and coat on the truck; he was shivering, and the hems of his pants and the sleeves of his sweater were soaking wet. His eyes were red and swollen; there was dried blood on the back of one hand.

“I'm sorry it's so late,” he said. “I saw your light from the street.”

“It's not that late,” she said. “Come in.”

“No, that's okay. But I said I'd come back, and I just wanted to let you know the fire's under control. It was the old Dauntless Chandlery.”

“I know,” Anne said. “I was there. I saw you.”

“You did?” he asked, obviously surprised.

Anne stood in the doorway, hugging herself. Cold air swept up the stairs, filling the hallway. She reached out, to tug his sleeve. “Come on,” she said. “I was waiting for you. I'd be disappointed if you didn't.”

He shrugged and smiled shyly, ducking his head to enter the room. Anne closed the door behind him. When she turned around, she saw him passing a hand across his face. The smell of smoke was overpowering.

“I'm a mess,” he said. “There wasn't a place to clean up down there.”

“You can use my bathroom,” Anne said. “I don't exactly have a shower, but there's a little handheld thing.” She mimed spraying her head using the old-fashioned attachment.

Laughing, he showed her his blackened hands.

“I'll run you a bath,” Anne said, patting his forearm and giving him a big smile. “It's the least I can do after you saved my life and made me soup.”

He smiled. “You really don't have to, but okay. That'd be great. I'm too wound up to go right home. It was quite a fire. There's just a shell left standing.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No, Dick's wife brought sandwiches. But I wouldn't mind a glass of that.” He pointed at the bottle.

“Coming right up,” she said. She poured him a cognac, then disappeared into the bathroom.

She had a wonderful clawfoot bathtub, deep and long, coated with shiny white enamel. The building had endless hot water. She turned on the taps, and billows of steam filled the room. While the water ran she rummaged through the linen closet for the plushest towels. She found two dark green ones that matched the bath mat and washcloth; refolding them, she placed them on the towel bars.

Hesitating for one moment, she reached into the closet for a deep blue glass bottle. It held unscented bath oil, and she tipped it over the tub, pouring in a generous amount. Just before turning off the taps, she lit a single white candle. She didn't ask herself what she was doing, or what she wanted to happen. All she knew was that it felt good to be drawing a bath for Thomas Devlin. It felt good to be taking care of someone. To be taking care of him. Turning off the bright overhead light, she closed the door behind her.

“It's ready,” she said.

He was standing in the foyer, right where she had left him. His glass was empty.

“I'm going to track soot and ashes all through your apartment,” he said.

“I think I can handle it.” Anne refilled his glass and led him to the bathroom. The hallway was narrow, and she felt very conscious of his proximity. Their arms were practically touching. She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end as she stood against the wall to let him pass.

“Thank you,” he said, his hand on the door handle. “I'll make it fast.”

“Don't make it fast,” she said. “Have a wonderful bath.”

He closed the door very gently behind him, leaving her alone in the darkened hall. She stood still, hardly breathing. She hadn't felt like this in a very long time.

She heard him ease off his boots, undo his belt buckle. Brass clinked against tile as his pants slid to the floor. Anne couldn't move. She stood frozen, listening to him step into the bathtub. She heard the warm water sloshing around, and she imagined how good it must feel to his body. Then she walked quietly into the living room.

Trying to concentrate on something, anything, Anne could think only of Thomas Devlin in the next room. She wandered into the kitchen and stared at a tarnished silver bowl. A feeling of deep longing pulsed inside her, so strong she could hardly stand it. She wanted to hold the man.

She moved nervously from the sink to the counter. She had never felt this way before, and she didn't know how to think of herself. Before, with Matt, she had been young and carefree, and everything had happened easily. Now her choices in life seemed to mean more. They carried more weight.

Her choices no longer came out of nowhere. They didn't sweep her along. When she was younger, everyone had loved her spontaneity, the way she could change course at the drop of a hat. She'd be walking the beach in January, and the next thing you knew she'd strip naked and dive into the icy sea. Before Matt, she had loved generously and often unwisely, and she had known or caused her share of broken hearts.

Even after her marriage and the birth of her child, she had still loved to play hard. She'd hated schedules, planning ahead, settling down. Matt's job was perfect, because it had meant lots of trips, changes of scene, new experiences. If there was one thing Anne had minded about Karen starting school, it was the inevitable loss of freedom.

Anne had once been passionate and wild. She had thought that part of her had died. All the color and joy had gone from her life, and she was too dulled to miss or mourn it. But now, standing in her kitchen, she felt it coming back. Not the wildness, but the passion. In total command, knowing exactly what she was doing, she walked back down the darkened hall. She stood at the bathroom door.

“Thomas?” she said.

“Yes?” came his voice, after a second, through the door.

Her hand trembled on the knob. She hesitated, then entered the room, closing the door behind her.

The room was swathed in candlelight. Particles of steam seemed to hold its warmth in the air. The bathtub faced away from the door; Thomas watched Anne over his shoulder. Their eyes met, and he didn't look away.

Anne knelt by the tub. She dipped her left hand in the water, as if testing the temperature. Then she trailed her fingers up his arm. His scars. The fire hadn't burned only his hands, the left side of his face. His back, shoulders, arms, legs: his entire body was a map of the fire. She couldn't look away. Tenderly, her fingers continued up his arm, across his back. All of a sudden, she didn't see the burns anymore. She only saw the man.

She kissed his right shoulder.

Thomas turned his head, brushing her cheek with his lips. His arms came around her now; she felt the warm bathwater through her shirt, soaking her skin. He held her so tight, as hard as she had dreamed. Her head buried in his shoulder, she wanted never to let go.

She shuddered, not because she felt cold. The warm wetness made her feel naked. He held her face between his hands, looked her deep in the eye. There wasn't a trace of shyness or awkwardness between them. Anne tried to read the expression in his blue, miraculously blue eyes. It was knowledge: knowledge of Anne, the true and hidden Anne. She had understood for some time, since that night at Ruby's, that she had met a kindred soul.

Still gazing into her eyes, he moved his hand to her mouth, grazing her lips. He pulled her closer, their lips almost touching. Every pause was electric, dizzyingly sweet. The kiss was slow and gentle, discovering each other's faces, mouths, for the first time. Anne felt Thomas's hand on the back of her neck.

Her shirt's wet fabric clung to her body. Slowly she reached down, to untuck it from her jeans. Thomas stopped kissing her, watching. She eased it over her head. Her full breasts were flushed in the candlelight, her nipples pink and hard. She watched Thomas's face. She had nursed a child. She had stretch marks.

“You're beautiful,” he said.

She felt tall, full of pride and passion.

“So are you,” she said, leaning to kiss him again. His hand brushed the outside of her right breast, then cupped it lightly.

“You're braver than I am,” he said after a moment.

“Braver?” she whispered, thinking of earlier. She had seen him fighting the fire and thought no one could be braver.

“For this,” he said. “I've wanted this . . . well, for a long time.”

For the first time Anne felt shy. Since when? she wanted to ask. What was happening between them felt so important, deep and somehow ancient, that suddenly she wanted to know its history. But she didn't ask. Instead, she reached behind her for a towel. Heat from the radiator had risen, warming it thoroughly.

He pulled the stopper from the drain. They smiled: a moment of truth. He stood in the tub, the water pouring off his body. Anne shook out the towel, wrapped it around him. She stood on her toes, asking for another kiss.

“Down the hall,” she said. “On the left.”

Her bedroom was many degrees colder than the bathroom had been. Shivering, Anne stared at the bed. It was a joke: a single bed exactly like the one she'd had as a child. She didn't even know if Thomas Devlin would fit in it. When had she last changed the sheets? Over the weekend sometime. Not so long ago.

Standing in the dark, she took off her jeans and panties. She folded them, placed them on the straight-backed chair. Once again she had the image, as she had not since the day she'd signed the lease, of her apartment as a monk's cell. Feeling decidedly unmonkish, she pulled down the covers and climbed into the bed.

After a minute Anne heard the bathroom door open. A shaft of dim light fell into the hallway, then disappeared as Thomas blew out the candle. He made his way quietly to her room. Light from the street came through the tall bedroom window. Lying still, Anne called to him.

He sat on the edge of her bed. Anne stroked his arm; he was still warm from the bath.

“The bed's tiny,” she said.

“It's okay,” he said, sliding under the covers.

They faced each other, exchanging a long, open-mouthed kiss. Then almost instinctively, to make room for him, Anne turned to face the wall. She felt his erection, hot against her bottom. His arms encircled her, and she half turned her head to meet his kiss.

They fit perfectly. His body closed around hers from behind, and suddenly the bed didn't seem so small after all. His left hand held both her breasts, kneading the erect nipples with exquisite friction. Reaching down, she guided his penis between her legs. They lay there for a few minutes, rocking in quiet rhythm, and then he entered her from behind.

Their bodies joined together; it felt to Anne so right and eternal. As if they were one, as if they had been together all through the ages. He held her so tight, her back pressing against his hard, flat belly.

“I love you,” he whispered fiercely, and it was the truest thing she had ever heard.

“I love you,” she whispered back, her voice rising with passion.

He touched her in ways she had forgotten or never known. She met his thrusts, reaching back to stroke his hips, his balls, turning her head to be kissed again and again. She came easily once. Then, quivering with pent-up emotion and desire, she waited for him. The rhythm of his strokes, his power inside her increased, and together they slid off the cliff into one avalanching orgasm.

They slept, or at least Anne did.

When she awakened, the bedside clock said four
A
.
M
., and Thomas was kissing the back of her neck. They made love again, hungry at first, like the night before. Then languorous, slow and lazy, as if they knew it was going to last. That neither one of them was about to disappear.

“I'd better go,” Thomas Devlin said some time later. The streetlights were still on, but the black night had begun to soften. Anne had spent this hour awake many times since coming to this apartment, and she could read the sky. Dawn would bring clouds, rain clouds. She snuggled into Thomas.

“Not yet,” she said, rolling over to press her body flat against the front of his. She gave him a long good-morning kiss.

“The first ferry will be loading in an hour or so,” he said, kissing her forehead, cheeks, the tip of her nose. Her lips. “I want to leave before the town's awake. I don't want anyone talking about you.”

“What about you?” she asked, touched by his protectiveness.

“You know it's different. It would do wonders for me, people knowing I'd been with you. My stock'd go right up.”

“I don't want you to go,” she said.

He kissed her, looked her in the eye, kissed her again.

“I'll be back,” he said.

Anne nodded. She'd take it as a promise. Lying under the covers, savoring his heat and the smell he'd left on her pillow, she watched him dress. He had laid his clothes across the bathroom radiator, and they were something close to dry. He put them on, resurrecting smoke from the fire.

“I should have washed those for you,” she said, not accounting for the fact that she didn't have a washing machine or dryer.

“We had better things to do,” he said. He stood by the bed, watching her for a moment. Then he kissed her once more, and he left. Anne listened to the door close. She heard his tread on the stairs. After half a minute she heard a truck start up. It fired right away. It drove up Transit Street, heading out of town.

After a while she couldn't hear the engine. Closing her eyes, Anne let herself drift back to sleep.

Chapter 10

W
ith every passing day, Anne came to believe more and more in the existence of happiness. Not contentment. Not the state she had once known, where you sat back and thanked your stars, or forgot to thank them, for all that was good in the world. Contentment was gone for good. But happiness, soaring moments of bliss, opposed, as always, by the old sadness, was possible.

After that first night with Thomas in her little bed, they had spent other nights together. Once again at her house, but usually at his. His bed was big, and his house was isolated. Owls hunted over the potato fields. Sometimes she surprised deer, licking salt from the pines that lined his road. He had a garage in which to hide her car. After a few nights she stopped hiding it.

They walked the country roads after dark, holding hands. Thomas told her all about Ned. The pride he felt for his only son was evident and adorable. Anne loved hearing about Ned. She'd sit beside Thomas on the sofa, looking through old photo albums, and she had the feeling she would like the boy very much.

In Ned's baby pictures he was big and quizzical, and he seemed to love being tickled. There was a wonderful shot of Thomas kissing Ned's stomach, Ned doubled over in hilarious baby laughter. There were shots of Sarah, alternately delighted and solemn, as she regarded her baby. Anne knew there were similar photos of herself, boggled by the wonder of her own child, when Karen was that age.

You could tell, from Ned's picture, the moment Sarah had gone from his life. All expression left his face. At six, he became a blank slate. No smiles, no tears, no more laughter. He stared at the camera, his Christmas stocking hanging from the mantel behind him, and didn't flinch. Anne passed her fingers over that picture. She stared at it for a long time, and for those minutes she felt her new happiness balanced out by the old, familiar sorrow.

“He'll be home for spring vacation,” Thomas said, his arms around Anne's shoulders.

“I can't wait to meet him,” she said. “Do you think he'll mind?”

“Mind what?”

“You seeing someone.”

“No, I think he'll like it.”

“Have you ever before? Seen someone?”

“Not like this,” Thomas said, kissing her cheek, the side of her mouth. “I've had dinners out. Movies. A weekend in Vermont one time. But nothing like this.”

Anne nodded, the happiness coming back. She knew what he meant. It didn't matter that she'd been married all those years. She had never felt love like this.

“When did you start to feel it?” she asked.

“That's easy,” he said. “The minute I saw you.”

She laughed nervously. She didn't believe him or even want to believe him. What she felt for Thomas Devlin had evolved over months of getting to know him, of realizing that he was the only person she knew who had faced the horror. She didn't believe in anything as romantic as love at first sight anymore.

“No, really,” she pressed. “When?”

“Anne, I told you. From the very beginning.”

“It's not possible,” she said, feeling her shoulders tighten, resisting the concept. “You didn't know me then. All you saw was some deranged woman in a nightgown in the snow.”

“Yes, that's what I saw. And I
did
know you. The look in your eyes told me everything I had to know. I'd felt that intensity before, but I'd never seen it in another person. I fell in love with you right there.”

“Hard to believe,” Anne said, even though she did. She leaned against him, letting him hold her tighter.

“And you weren't deranged.”

“A little,” Anne said. “Maybe just slightly.”

“Maybe you should invest in a lockbox, to keep the picture safe. I don't want you running back into any more burning buildings.”

“It's in my bag,” Anne said. “I keep it with me.”

“You have it here now?”

“Yes,” Anne said, afraid that he would think her paranoid. She had shown him Karen's drawing the day after they had first made love, when he had returned to fix the clock. She had explained all the elements in the picture, encouraged him to smell the crayon wax. He had appreciated it with her, listening to her tell about Karen, then sitting beside her in silence while time ticked by.

“I told you I was deranged,” Anne said now, embarrassed.

“I think it's wonderful,” he said. “It's not everyone who gets to carry paradise around with them.”

Anne kissed him hard on the lips. He'd just reminded her why she loved him so much.

P
EOPLE
were talking. Gabrielle heard it first from Steve, who had heard from Emma Harwood. Emma delivered the morning paper. One morning last week, just before sunrise, she had leaned out the window of her late husband Arthur's Chevy 4 ¥ 4 to pop Thomas Devlin's paper into the blue plastic tube bolted to his mailbox, and guess what she saw? The rosy fingers of dawn reflecting off the windshield of Anne's VW.

The nerve of Emma, telling tales on Gabrielle's sister to Steve, was a matter of ethics that Gabrielle would save for later. The more pressing issue was Anne.

Thomas Devlin was a decent enough, if mysterious, man. He kept to himself. You'd see him at the Firemen's Picnic on the Fourth of July, the Cross-Island Fair in August, the occasional roast-beef supper at Grange Hall. He cut a romantic figure, living such a lonely island life, and being so tall and scarred.

Gabrielle had once entertained notions of fixing him up with Monique Deveraux, her best friend from eighth grade. Monique had never married; she'd spent nine years hating men after being dumped by Winthrop Alcott, a rich summer kid from Baltimore who had dated her twelve summers straight, then run off with a girl from Bryn Mawr he'd known only four weeks.

Anyway, Gabrielle had thrown a cocktail party—her first and only, not counting the ones she got paid to do. She'd bought a pony keg, a case of blanc-de-blanc, and a half gallon of rum; she and Maggie had spent one hot summer day making páté brisé and filling it with tasty aphrodisiacs like salmon roe, wild mushrooms, and smoked mussels. Gabrielle had felt giddy with the power of a born matchmaker.

The idea was a bust. Totally. Monique came on too blue-eye-shadow and décolletage, and Thomas couldn't stop blushing or think of anything more interesting to discuss than the record-breaking heat wave. Which had broken a full two weeks earlier.

Standing at her kitchen stove, slicing yellow onions into a skillet, Gabrielle sighed. Thomas Devlin and Anne would never work. It warmed her heart to think of Anne sharing someone's bed. That would be lovely, if that's all there was to it.

But Anne was vulnerable. She might not be completely in command of her faculties. She might be ignoring one crucial fact: that she and Thomas Devlin were about the least likely pair on God's green earth to last longer than it would take to break each other's hearts.

Anne needed excitement, travel, the best of things. She needed a man who could run an empire, a man others looked up to. She needed a lot of attention. From the time Anne was old enough to date, Gabrielle had watched her dismiss the island boys. They hadn't posed enough of a challenge. She wanted to keep a man guessing, and be adored for it. Island boys wanted meat-and-potatoes wives.

Thomas Devlin was too reserved, too withdrawn, to be Anne's sort of man. Anne needed a Fortune-500 CEO, a movie producer, something like that. Not Thomas Devlin—the local fire-fighting clockmaker. Gabrielle could understand the initial attraction, but she knew it wouldn't last. She only hoped no one would get hurt.

K
URT
wouldn't give up. It kind of thrilled Maggie, to see just how far he would go. Roses in her locker, notes passed in the hall, telephone calls every day, no matter how vehemently she refused to talk to him.

Still, she would not relent.

She had gotten an A on her history test, a B+ on her last math quiz, an A with an additional
Excellent and frightening!
on her English homework, a short story she'd written about a girl hitchhiking to Boston who gets picked up by a serial killer.

Vanessa called her stuck-up, and Eugene made pig noises when she walked past. It gave Maggie a kind of satisfaction. Let them waste their lives in the sewer, see where they wind up. Probably married to each other, fat and wasted, with a bunch of kids going to Island Consolidated.

What a life.

But one morning Maggie's resolve was tested. Waiting for the bus, she realized that she had forgotten her French homework. She could just see it: on the sideboard in the dining room, where her mother had made her put it so they could have a heartwarming family dinner at the table where she'd been studying.

“Shit,” she said, checking her watch. She had about three minutes before the bus would arrive. She glanced around at her fellow schoolmates. Dennis Lawson, third grade. Dori Adamson, sixth grade. And let us not forget Skip Adamson, dweeb man of the sophomore class.

“Don't let the bus leave without me,” she said to Skip in her most menacing tone.

“You know it won't wait,” he said, visibly stunned that she would even speak to him.

“The ball's in your court,” she said, leaving him reeling.

Running home, she smelled the damp island earth, the first mark of true spring. The crocuses, the first robin, the departure of the seals were false signs. You knew it was spring when, and only when, the air began to smell like dirt. Wet dirt. Let's be honest: you knew it was spring when the air began to smell like shit. The aroma of cow manure would drift downwind from Darlings' Farm, and you'd know summer was right around the corner.

Maggie raced into the house, grabbed her homework, and ran outside again. Her knapsack banging against her rib cage, she sprinted down the road. She heard the bus. At first she thought she'd made it. She thought the bus was just pulling in, but no: it was leaving without her.

“You die!” she hollered, cursing Skip Adamson.

Dejected, she was ready to meet her fate. She would walk home and ask her mother for a ride, and she would suffer the lecture on how her mother had never missed the school bus once in her entire twelve years at Island Consolidated. Then Kurt pulled up.

“Hey,” he said, leaning over to open the passenger door.

“Hey,” she said.

“Did you forget how to use the telephone or something?” he asked.

“I've been busy.”

“Yeah, I notice you missed the bus. Want a ride?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Kurt said, not driving away.

“Thanks anyway.”

“Okay,” he said again.

She peered across the roof of his car, as if she were waiting for a much better, more exclusive bus. Feeling his eyes on her, she felt herself grow flushed.

“Thanks anyway,” she repeated.

“Maggie.”

She tried not to, but she had to look at him. “What?”

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for what I did to you.”

“Yeah, well.” She resumed scanning the horizon for the phantom dream bus. She'd gotten herself into such a state, she half believed it would drive up any minute now. Tinted windows, a glass roof, hostesses dispensing chocolate milk and blueberry muffins. God, the air smelled like spring.

“Please. Let me drive you to school.”

She shot him a look.

“You don't want to be with me—I understand. I do. But how're you going to get to school?”

Reluctantly, Maggie opened the door. She climbed in. What was her alternative? Get her mother to drive?

Once in the car, she felt herself relax. Kurt had Led Zeppelin in the tape player, hardly audible. He fast-forwarded to “Stairway to Heaven,” her favorite.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Hey,” he said, patting his pocket. “You feel like smoking a joint?”

For one bee-sting second she felt tempted. Nothing would feel better than getting stoned with Kurt, listening to Led Zeppelin, ditching school to spend the day driving around.

“No thanks,” she said, smiling. Removing herself from the danger zone. His frown told the whole story: he didn't want Maggie bettering herself. He wanted to keep her zonked.

Kurt gave Maggie a long, evil stare, loaded with disgust. “You're different,” he said. “I don't even know you.”

“You hurt me,” Maggie said. “I hated that you wanted me to sleep with Fritz.”

“How many times can I tell you I'm sorry?”

“I've only heard you say it once.”

“That's because you won't answer my calls. I feel like such an asshole, asking your mother if you're there. She must be eating this right up.”

Maggie didn't say anything. She had to admit he was right.

“You want to take after your aunt, right? Mrs. Above-it-all.”

“If that's how you see her,” Maggie said. She still felt a tug for Kurt: his ripped jeans, his glossy blond hair, the sexy sneer in his voice.

“She's fucking the freak,” Kurt said.

“What?”

“Burns. You remember Burns? The guy who pulled her out after she lit the house on fire?”

“No way,” Maggie said, frowning. They pulled into the school parking lot. Kids were still straggling off the bus, so she knew she had a minute.

“It's true. She's high-and-mighty one minute, and next thing she's down and dirty. Think of that while you're on your head trip,” Kurt said. Hurt, he looked out his window, away from Maggie.