A Crazy Little Thing Called Death (5 page)

“Don’t run with that damn sword,” Michael said. “Give it to me, Luce.”

Without a fight, Lucy magically surrendered her weapon to Michael and scampered off to her waiting mother, tutu fluttering.

We watched her go, and I said without looking at him, “A tire blew?”

With an easy motion, he pretended to use the foil as a baseball bat and took a swing at an imaginary pitch. “An accident. No big deal.”

“How much damage to your car?”

He hesitated.

“Michael—”

“It was just a bad tire.”

“You, of all people, have never had a bad tire. You maintain your cars with more attention than Barbra Streisand gives to her manicure.”

“Don’t start worrying about your Blackbird curse.” He stopped playing with the foil. “There’s no such thing. It was just an accident. Besides, I like spilling some blood once in a while. It makes me tougher.”

“But—”

He kissed me lightly on the mouth. “You can’t scare me off with an imaginary curse. Nice lipstick. It’s a new flavor.”

“It’s Lucy’s.” I smiled, too. “I don’t want to scare you off.”

“Good. I was starting to wonder.” He stayed close and captured my left hand. “At least you’re finally wearing the ring.”

With a flash of guilt, I looked at the enormous stone on my finger and didn’t meet his eye.

“What’s the matter? Still afraid to tell your friends about us?”

“Of course not.”

“So tell me what’s wrong.”

“Wrong?” I pulled my hand from his and tried to laugh. “For heaven’s sake, I’ve never been happier—”

“Is that true?”

“You know it’s true.”

Behind him, the stream must have continued to murmur, but I no longer heard it. The green, newly leafed-out trees seemed to lean down, enclosing us. Softer, Michael said, “It’s not just the ring thing, Nora. You’ve avoided me for days.”

“How can you say that? Just last night, we spent at least three hours—”

“Yeah, I know. And the two weeks of great sex before that was incredible, too. But this morning I figured it out. We’re getting naked every chance we can instead of talking.”

I turned away. “You must be the first man on earth with that particular complaint.”

He caught my arm, then immediately gentled his grip. “You’re going through a rough time.”

“I’m fine.”

Without waiting for me to face him, he said, “I hear you crying in the shower.”

When I couldn’t come up with a response, he said, “I know losing the baby was bad. It was for me, too. I just—it breaks my heart to see you like this. And spending half the night tussling in bed hasn’t made things better.”

Months had gone by before we moved our relationship into the bedroom. Although my sister Emma took her frequent sexual conquests in stride, I was more cautious. Michael and I had become intimate in other ways first, and when the sex eventually happened, it meant more. It had been satisfying and fulfilling and exciting. On our cruise, however, after my miscarriage, something else had been unleashed.

I still hadn’t come to terms with the loss of the baby in March. Michael was right. Instead of talking, I pulled him into bed every night. And there, perhaps I was taking out my frustrations.

Michael turned me around. “You need help, Nora. More than I know how to give.”

I still couldn’t meet his gaze. “I don’t—let’s not talk about it now. I’m working. I’ve got to get back to the party. I have to find the photographer. I need to interview people—”

“I love you,” he said.

I felt hot tears in my throat.

“Is it the baby?” he asked. “Is that what this is about? Or did something else happen when I wasn’t paying attention?”

Only a year ago he had been on his own terrible path of self-destruction, but now he knew what he wanted with fierce certainty. He was compelled by that new, powerful love to help me, and I was very grateful.

But I felt as if I were drowning just inches from his outstretched hand. Because asking for help meant telling him things he wasn’t going to like.

He said, “I’m not asking you to get over it. That’s never going to happen.”

“No,” I whispered.

“So what do we have to do, Nora? To make things better?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ll have kids, you and me. It’ll happen.”

I wasn’t so sure. But I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.

For a short time after my husband’s death, I had started to see a way for myself—a family of my own to take care of. A life with Michael and children. Now that route seemed blocked, as if by huge trees downed by a storm. I needed a map to find my way, and I didn’t know where to look for one.

A voice behind us said, “Excuse me!”

We turned, and standing ten feet away was a bedraggled teenage girl in an overly large rain slicker and sloppy wet boots. She had appeared out of nowhere like a somewhat scruffy woodland sprite. Her curly dark hair was caught up in a tangle on top of her head and stuck with a leafy twig she must have bumped into. With a nervous, rapid blink, she said, “You’re standing under the vireo’s spot.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She took a hesitant step closer. “He won’t come if he thinks you’re invading his territory.”

A pair of binoculars hung by a braided leather strap around her thin neck. Beside it swung a heavy old camera on a thick cord. She carried a well-thumbed paperback in hands that were bony, with nails bitten to the quick. The book, I realized, was a bird-watching manual.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Is this some kind of bird sanctuary?”

“Not exactly.” She looked from me to Michael, who made her even more nervous, so she blinked at me again. “It’s just a special place. And lately there’s been a warbling vireo.”

Michael said, “A who?”

She licked her lower lip. “Not a Philadelphia vireo. I’m sure of that. It’s the
Vireo gilvus,
the warbler. They’re easy to mix up, but I know I’m right. I want to document him, to prove it’s really here.” She touched the camera.

“You mean a bird?” Michael glanced up into the canopy of trees overhead. “What’s it look like?”

A little braver, she said, “It’s olive, of course. With yellow-tinged under-parts. And a dark spot at the base of the bill. That’s what makes him the warbler, not the common Philadelphia vireo. He’s not normally found around here, and this is way too early for him, too. That’s what makes my discovery so exciting.”

“Aren’t you Julie?” I asked. “Julie Huckabee?”

She blinked more rapidly at me. “Y-yes.”

“You’re Juana’s daughter, aren’t you? I knew your mother when she was alive.”

Juana, the housekeeper who worked for years for both Vivian and Potty Devine, had baked plantain cookies for my sisters and me when our mother occasionally paid calls on her peculiar cousins. Juana, with her exotic island accent and thick black locks, had married Kell Huckabee, one of the gardeners at Eagle Glen. Their daughter, Julie, had been a little girl when I’d last visited the estate. I remembered the toddler scribbling in a coloring book while her mother worked at a desk in the corner of the kitchen.

It was odd to see Julie all grown up now. As a child, she’d had a certain biracial beauty—golden skin with a corona of dark hair and surprisingly pale hazel eyes. But now her coloring seemed faded, her appearance unkempt and her anxious blinking a little off-putting. Her jeans were dirty—the kind of dirt that was embedded from weeks of wear. Her mother would have been shocked.

“Yes, I’m Julie Huckabee.”

“I’m Nora Blackbird. I knew you when you were little.” I shook her hand and found her fingers icy cold and painfully thin. “I was so sorry to hear your mother passed away. She was a vibrant lady—always singing, I remember. And you used to be a dancer when you were little.”

The girl toyed with her binoculars. “I don’t anymore. I’m not very musical. I’m doing a study of local birds and animals.”

“So you’re a naturalist.”

“Just an amateur.”

“Not such an amateur if you can spot a—what did you call it? Some kind of warbler?”

“The warbling vireo.” Her narrow face became intense again. “Even though it’s early in the season, I knew exactly what it was as soon as I heard its song. It sounds a lot like the purple finch. It’s very unusual to find one here because of Dutch elm disease ruining their habitat.”

“Right,” I said. “Well, I hope we didn’t scare it away.”

Julie frowned up into the trees. “Me, too. We’re not used to having people around. Maybe I better go downstream just in case he felt threatened.”

“Sorry. It was nice seeing you again, Julie.”

She said good-bye and clomped away, her boots making sucking noises in the mud. She clutched her binoculars and craned to scan the branches overhead.

“Well,” said Michael. “There’s another well-adjusted teenager. Think she eats nuts and berries? If she eats anything at all? That is one skinny girl.”

I didn’t answer. I was busy thinking about Julie’s mother and how little her daughter resembled the vibrant, laughing woman I remembered.

“Nora, you’re frowning.”

“What? Oh, sorry. I was just—I thought Juana would always be here at Eagle Glen. She held the place together, if that makes any sense. Things have gone to pot since she died a few years ago. It’s even more sad to see Julie so—well, bereft. I should have contacted her after the funeral.”

“What about her father? Where’s he?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s some kind of general maintenance person for the estate. He grew up here, never left. I remember him as a man on a mower when I was a kid. Except…”

“Except?”

“He had a very bad temper.”

I found myself recalling an afternoon long ago at Eagle Glen. While our mother conducted some kind of family détente in another room, Emma and I had played a board game at Juana’s kitchen table, and little Julie had toddled around the kitchen clapping wooden spoons together. I recalled the smell of limes and baking, and Juana singing.

But Juana’s husband Kell had burst through the back door, furious about something Juana had asked him to do.

“You bossy bitch!” he’d hissed, grabbing her wrists.

He was a small man—shorter than Juana by a few inches—but bristling with anger all the time. It was as if there was a bigger beast fighting to get out of that diminutive body. His short hair stood up at the back of his balding head, and his clothing—a hunting jacket and rough trousers—smelled of grease and gunpowder. He kept shotgun shells in the little pockets under his sleeve, and the sight of those frightened me. I pulled Emma deeper into the breakfast nook.

Kell slapped Juana across her cheek, but she didn’t flinch. Her face was impassive, and she stared down at him until he backed off.

“You’re not the boss of me,” he snarled at her, then slammed out through the door again, banging it on its hinges. Little Julie had burst into tears.

Michael had been watching my face as I flashed back on that afternoon. He said, “Don’t tell me you’re going to take this kid under your wing.”

“What? Of course not.”

“You’ve got enough going on right now.”

He was right, of course. I said, “Yes, I know.”

“It’s time to think about yourself for a while.”

Yes, perhaps. But it was easier to think about other people’s problems.

I looked up at Michael and saw his concern. “Look,” I said, “I know we need to talk. I’m just not ready, Michael. I don’t know what’s going on in my head, but I—I need time, I guess.”

Michael put his hand on the back of my neck and squeezed gently. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

A throng of men on horseback cantered down the slope, in a rush of hoofbeats, friendly shouts and snorting animals. They were headed for the upper field by way of the streambed, to make a grand entrance for the waiting audience. But some of the helmeted riders swarmed toward us, swinging mallets teasingly, warming up for their match while they taunted us for canoodling by the stream.

Michael didn’t see the humor and drew me close. When the ponies jostled even nearer, he spun me behind him to keep his body between the animals and me.

“Hey,” he snapped to one rider who reined closer yet.

But the rider circled us and came back to bump us again aggressively, and this time Michael fended off the pony with a stiff-armed shove and a curse.

“Nora?” The voice of the rider had a thick accent. “Nora Blackbird?”

I looked up, shielding my eyes from the dappled sun with one hand, but I couldn’t make out his face. The pony threatened to step on my toes, and once again Michael pulled me out of harm’s way.

With an impatient phrase, the rider dismounted and held the pony’s bit to steady her. He was long-legged and broad-shouldered with a lithe, athletic horseman’s build accentuated by perfectly tailored breeches and a pair of boots clearly custom-made in Italy. With a flourish, he unsnapped his helmet and took it off, revealing a cascade of beautiful black hair and a very tanned, familiar face.