Chance Harbor (22 page)

“Do I look bored? Try me.”

“Well, for one thing, this woman was always telling me what gorgeous boobs she had. Maybe because she bought them and wanted to know if she’d gotten her money’s worth. Who knows?”

“Or maybe she still felt insecure, even after the implants,” Eve suggested. “I’ve always wondered what they feel like. Do they feel real?”

Darcy shrugged. “Fine. Firm. They have their appeal. Though I did find it odd to lie down next to a woman and realize part of her was still awake and aimed at the ceiling. But that’s not the point.”

“I would think that would be two points, actually,” Eve said, laughing. “I’d love it if any part of me was still firm and bouncy.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You’re doing all right. You’re a very attractive woman.”

“For my age, sure.” Eve waved a crust of bread at him. “Don’t worry. I’m not fishing for compliments. I’m glad to have all of my limbs working at this point. Go on with your story.”

“Well, after a few months, she started migrating into my house without ever having discussed it with me. I’d come home and there would be a few pots and pans she’d brought over from her place, or a new blanket or something. I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t like it, either.”

“Why didn’t you stop her, if you didn’t like it?”

Darcy sighed. “You’re going to think I’m shallow if I tell you.”

“I promise I won’t.”

“Well, for the first time in years, I was having regular sex. My wife had been sick for a long time, and it wasn’t a gentle disease.”

“I understand. So what happened after the woman moved in?”

“Well, we went to Florence—a disastrous trip—and when we came back, my father fell ill and I had to travel to New York to see him. I decided to wait there until he died. It was near Christmas, and I didn’t want him to be alone.”

“Of course,” Eve said.

“Thank you. However, my new roommate didn’t see things that way. When I told her what I was doing, she cried and said I’d ruined her Christmas.”

“My God.”

“Yes. I invited her to remove her belongings from my home at that juncture.” Darcy cut another sliver of cheese and handed it to her. “Now. What about you?” he said, as they ate the last of the cheese and stood up to shake out the blanket.

“What about me?”

“You know. Marriage, sex, dating. Any good stories?”

Eve felt her face grow hot as she stepped toward him with her end of the blanket and their hands touched. She hastily moved away. “I’m not sure we know each other well enough for me to want to share that.”

“Come on. I did. Why would you want a conversation that’s a one-way street?”

“My husband hasn’t been dead long enough for me to make an open book of our marriage, much less of our sex life.”

Darcy reddened. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that it’s rare for me to be able to talk this openly with anyone.” He tucked the blanket into the bag, then called the dog as they started walking back toward the dune. “Listen, though. I have a favor to ask.”

“As long as it’s not anything to do with sex, ask away.”

Darcy laughed. “No, no. It’s about my birthday.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“In ten days. And I’ve been invited to look at a potential wind farm site on Cape Breton Island that week. Have you been there?”

Eve shivered and rubbed her arms. “Once. Many years ago.” She had a sudden image of Andrew, of his face turned up to watch her leave on the ferry, holding Catherine in her arms. She’d been so sick on that ferry. Pregnant with Zoe.

“So you know it’s beautiful,” Darcy said. “Good. I’d like to invite you to go there with me. I have to consult with someone in Baddeck for a couple of hours, and I’d love company on my birthday. My treat, of course.”

“You want me to go to Cape Breton with you?”

“Yes. Just for one night. Separate hotel rooms,” he added, seeing the look on her face.

“I don’t know. It wasn’t an especially happy trip for me, the one time I went there.”

“You’d be happy on this trip,” Darcy promised. “The leaves have turned and it’s the perfect time to go.”

“No. I’m sorry. Thank you for asking, but I couldn’t possibly go back there.”

“Because you’re afraid of what you’d find?”

“No. Of what I’d feel,” she said, and began climbing the dune ahead of him.

He caught up easily. “Maybe that’s why you should go back,” he said. “Not because of me or my birthday, as happy as that would make me. But because you haven’t finished with that place. That’s what this trip to Canada is really about for you, isn’t it? Saying good-bye? One thing I discovered after Frannie was gone was that I couldn’t move on until I’d revisited all the places we’d been and thought about the mistakes I’d made during our marriage. I had to forgive myself for them.”

“What mistakes? You sound like you were the perfect husband.” Eve moved away from him, climbing faster.

“No,” Darcy said. “How does that old Springsteen song go? ‘Sister, I won’t ask for forgiveness. My sins are all I have.’ That’s it, right?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Eve said. “I only know it’s late, and I need to get back.”

She’d crested the hill and was walking ahead of him on the sandy trail to the car. The tall rushes seemed to grab at her clothes, threatening to halt her progress; she shouldered through them, not caring if the sharp leaves slashed at her cheeks. She needed to get back to Massachusetts. Away from Darcy.

Away from this island.

I
t took several days, but Willow had finally gotten up the courage to stay after school and talk to the photography teacher. Her classes were bigger here, twenty-five kids instead of eight or ten like at her old school. She’d thought she would hate this, but the chaos was a good thing. The teachers lectured and, as long as nobody pulled stupid shit or interrupted the class, left it up to the kids to learn or not.

Today, for instance, the two guys behind her in English said, “Dude, ow! My eyelids are, like, frozen shut!”

When Willow turned around, she saw they were using ChapStick on their eyelids. They made dumb faces, and what could she do but laugh? After class, they high-fived her and asked her to sit with them at lunch. She was wary at first, then realized these kids were part of a whole group that had known one another since grade school. One of them was the class president.

“Yeah, he ran on a platform of killing Meatless Mondays,” one girl told Willow, smirking. “Gotta love it, here in crunchy Cambridge.”

Photography was taught by Ms. Fiero, a stick of a woman with a crest of pink hair who wore striped leggings, like a Dr. Seuss character. She’d already taught Willow tons. Today, for instance, she talked about “the rule of thirds” and showed them how to divide a picture into a grid of nine squares.

“Most people think they should center every shot, but the human eye is naturally drawn to intersections of those squares,” she said, and showed them cool examples.

Ms. Fiero was pretty pumped when Willow asked about hand tinting, and she admired Willow’s photographs. Usually only juniors and seniors were allowed alone in the darkroom, but she would give Willow special permission, Ms. Fiero said. “You seem serious about photography, and being passionate about something trumps grade level in my book.”

Willow stayed after school to develop her newest rolls of film. Then she walked home, shuffling through the noisy leaves on Cambridge Common until she was spooked by a tall shadow dropping onto the path in front of her.

She froze. A guy was blocking her way. He had a weird little beard and wore a sweatshirt so small that his huge hands stuck out of the sleeves. It was like somebody had jammed them in there: Mr. Potato Head hands.

“Yo, you got any cash money dollars, girl?” the man said.

“No. Sorry.” Willow glanced around and, with a sharp little intake of breath, realized they were alone on the Common.

“C’mon, man,” the guy said. “You gotta have some spare change. Or how about an iPod? I need money, man.” He grabbed at her backpack as Willow tried to sidestep him.

Panicked, she tried to jerk out of his grip, but the man looped an arm tight around her waist and held her so close that she felt his belt buckle pressing against her hip. She flashed on Tom, the Real Deal, his fingers in her panties.

“Let go!” she said, and tried to stab him with an elbow.

“Why would I do that?” he said close to her ear. “You might have something I want.”

It was like a gate opened to let out all those memories she’d been keeping locked up in her mind. Buried deep: all the times she’d been in bed and opened her eyes to find Tom standing next to her bed, his thing out, stroking it near her face. She always closed her eyes again and pretended to be asleep. Tom sometimes did it even when Mom was home. Willow had never told anybody.

“Get off me!” Willow pleaded. Her heart was knocking against her chest like a fist.

“Not till I see what you got.” The man locked her in place with one arm while he used the other to unzip her backpack and rummage through it. He smelled gross, of sweat and something metallic. Blood?

Willow tried kicking his shin, but she was too close.

“Hold on. Hold on.” Her attacker’s voice was calm, but his breath was a hot flame licking her neck. “I’ll let you go when I’m ready.”

“You’re ready now, you bastard,” somebody growled behind them.

Willow heard a whacking sound. The man grunted and released her. Willow took off and kept running until she was halfway across the Common and had to stop because the stitch in her side felt like somebody had stuck a knife in there. She put her hand there to check: nothing.

She looked around. The guy was gone, but the blind woman who’d given her Mike was coming toward her fast, the cane swirling leaves up around her, like she was her own little tornado. “You okay, honey?”

Willow nodded, dropped the pack to the ground, zipped it back up, and pulled it onto her shoulders again. “Your voice,” she said. “It sounds different.”

The woman’s voice sounded like a normal person’s—not the grunting syllables she’d used when she’d given Willow the dog.

The woman waved the cane. “So?” she said. “Is your voice always the same? Different days, different voices, okay? Did that guy hurt you? I’ll kill him if he did. I know where he sleeps.”

Willow stepped away from her. Clearly, only crazy people hung out on Cambridge Common at night. “No. He just scared me. I shouldn’t have been walking here at night. Mom always tells me not to.”

“You should listen to her. Stay on the sidewalk after dark.” The woman pointed her cane toward Mass Ave, as if Willow couldn’t see the sidewalk between the Common and the street for herself, with its reassuring bright lights.

But wait, Willow thought. How could a blind person see the sidewalk? And how could she have attacked that guy, or followed Willow? Maybe she wasn’t completely blind.

“You don’t obey yourself, seems like,” Willow said. “Why aren’t you in a shelter after dark?”

The woman snorted, flipped a black dreadlock over one shoulder. “Shelters are crap. More thieves than anywhere. Anyway, do I look like the kind of woman worth mugging?” She rattled the coins in her guitar case.

“Still. You should be careful.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, honey. I was
born
careful,” the woman said. “Now, go home.”

If you’re so careful, how come you’re homeless and begging?
Willow wanted to ask. But that would be rude, especially after this woman saved her life.

“Get going,” the woman barked. “Go home.”

“Okay, okay,” Willow said. “Thanks for stopping that guy. See you.”

She started walking toward Mass Ave. The wind had picked up; her sweatshirt hood blew off and Willow tugged it back up again. She was aware of the blind woman following, heard her moving through the leaves, but didn’t stop. It was creepy, yeah, but she knew the woman was probably still trying to protect her.

Once Willow reached Mass Ave, the sidewalk was crowded and bright. Traffic clogged the street and the storefronts were lit up for Halloween, orange and white lights everywhere. When Willow turned around to wave good-bye before slipping through the wooden rails of the fence bordering the Common, she saw the woman standing with her arms at her sides, the guitar at her feet. Watching over her.

“Hey, want to come home with me and visit your dog?” Willow asked.

The woman shook her head. “I gave him to you so I wouldn’t have to think about him anymore. I don’t like to get attached, you know?” She turned around, the guitar case banging against her leg, and started walking back toward the inky center of the Common.

Willow didn’t want her to go without thanking her in some way. She had granola bars. An apple, too. Snacks she always meant to eat but didn’t have time to anymore, since you weren’t allowed to eat in class at the public school the way you could at Beacon Hill.

“Hey! Wait!” Willow called. “I want to give you something!”

The blind woman stopped walking without turning around. Willow circled around in front of her and set the backpack on the ground between them. As she unzipped it, she said, “I want to repay you for helping me. I don’t have any money. But maybe you can use something to eat.”

She glanced up at the woman as she handed her the food. To Willow’s shock, from this angle the face beneath the big sunglasses looked eerily familiar: the high, flat cheekbones, the wide-set eyes, the turned-up nose.

No. It couldn’t be.

Willow’s heart began hammering again, a drumbeat in her ears. Her tongue felt cottony and thick as she watched the woman silently tuck the food into the folds of her loose clothing, then begin walking away again, tapping the ground ahead of her with the cane.

She didn’t need that cane, Willow thought, and called out, “Wait! Hold on. This is your real present!”

The woman turned around and shuffled back, grunting.

Willow removed the folder tucked next to her laptop inside the backpack, opened it, slid one of the photographs out, and handed it to the woman, careful to hide the rest from her—especially the photographs of her.

“What’s this?” The woman’s voice was muffled now by the red shawl, pulled up over her chin again.

“A picture I took of a boy skateboarding in Harvard Square,” Willow said.

“Pretty good.” The woman held it out for Willow to take back.

“No, you keep it.” Willow stood up. It was more difficult to see the woman’s features now that they were eye to eye. “Hang it in your room. I mean, if you like it. And if you have a room.”

“Of course I have a room,” the woman snapped, but the hand holding the photograph was trembling.

“You’re not really blind, are you?” Willow said. Was she crazy? Or pretending to be blind to make people feel sorry for her and give her money?

There was one other possibility, too, but it was so out there that even imagining it for a second made Willow feel like she must be the crazy one. “Take off your glasses,” she said.

The woman pulled her shawl up over the bridge of her nose and shook her head.

“Please,” Willow said. “I need to see you.”

“Not going to happen.” The woman spun around, dropping the cane and guitar, gripping only the picture as she sprinted across the Common. After a moment of openmouthed shock, Willow ran after her, drawing breaths of cold air in gulps. She might not have caught her if the woman hadn’t tripped and fallen. She went down with a soft thump on the carpet of leaves and tried to roll to a standing position. But her boot heel got stuck in her long skirt and she wasn’t fast enough.

Willow practically fell on top of her, pinning the woman in place, saying, “Take off your glasses! Please!”

At last, when the woman stopped struggling beneath her, Willow sat up. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t force you.”

The woman sat up, too, head bowed. “That’s right. Just leave me alone.”

With a sudden lurch, Willow leaned forward and grabbed the glasses off her face.

Even in that moment, even seeing the pale blue eyes, huge with fright now, and the familiar face with its tiny scar across the chin, Willow wasn’t completely sure. Not until the woman slowly slid the rainbow tam and black wig off her head, revealing cropped, curly pale blond hair beneath it.

“Mom?” Willow said, staggering to her feet.

Her mother pressed her hands to her face while Willow stood above her, the ground tilting crazily beneath her feet.

•   •   •

Catherine’s Saturday hours were all accounted for now: Zumba class with Bethany at the Y, God help her. Then dinner with Seth.

Three weeks into her separation with Russell, but plans were still crucial to her survival. Well. Only nineteen days, to be exact, yet she was exhausted. Catherine hadn’t imagined how difficult it would be to keep a house—a whole life—going on your own. Planning meals and getting groceries, taking the trash out on the right day, laundry and vacuuming and walking the damn dog. What was that expression?
The devil is in the details.

Other than the few days she’d spent clearing out the Chance Harbor house and the rare times she went out—usually when Willow went with Russell, like this weekend—Catherine had stuck to her routine. She saw Willow off to school and went to work, came home and made dinner, dropped into bed, failed to fall asleep. Did frantic sums in her head to see if she could pay the bills. Took an antihistamine to help herself drop off.

Every morning she woke feeling drugged. But she’d tried not sleeping and that was even worse. Bad enough getting through daylight hours without having to be awake at night, too, and reflecting on her miserable single state and on her mother’s lies about her own marriage.

Catherine had mostly managed to forget that awful conversation with Russell about her parents. But then her mother had called this morning to say she was going to Cape Breton with a friend next weekend, and would be driving back to Newburyport the Monday after that.

“You and Willow should come up to Newburyport after I get home and spend a weekend,” she’d said. “We’ll go hiking or take out the canoe if it’s still warm enough.”

Who was this woman, who would just take off for Cape Breton with a friend? Who wanted to hike and canoe? That was not her mother, Catherine thought as she pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt and laced up her sneakers. Her mother had been the quintessential career woman—tailored suits and late nights at the office, weekends spent catching up on household chores. Always with an agenda filled with work and chores, not fun. Like Catherine now.

Hearing her mother’s voice brought back everything Russell had said. How could her mother have cheated on Dad? Catherine could understand Dad, with all of his traveling and business stress, having a brief affair. A blip, as her mother had said. But her mother, too? She didn’t know what to make of that, other than to think she didn’t know her mother at all.