East Hope (14 page)

“So, you like old recipes?” He looked at the flyleaf:
$2,
written in pencil. Will had decided not to change any of the prices already written in Mr. Taunton's books. Pricing was still something he was trying to figure out. So many things to consider: condition, rarity, popularity of subject.

“I've just discovered them. There's a whole shelf of old cookbooks left in the house.” She reached into the pocket of her sweater and looked up at him. One eye had a greenish tinge, definitely a different color from the other. “I don't have any money with me,” she said.

“That's okay. You can pay me later.”

“Sorry. Silly of me. I guess I didn't think I'd need it.”

“Please. It's not a problem.” He handed her the book and a sales receipt. “I'll collect it one day when I run by.”

“That's so nice of you.” She accepted the book and leafed through it, as though still intrigued by what she'd seen earlier. Pale hands, narrow wrists, no wedding ring, he noticed. In fact, she wore no jewelry at all. Not even a watch. “Listen to this.” She read, “ ‘Jolly Boys, Spider Corn Bread, and Rocks.' That last one's a cookie recipe.” She laughed.

“Sounds delicious.”

“Wait. How about ‘Apple Puffets'?”

“The names are certainly poetic,” he said.

“I'm sorry.” Her face grew serious again. “I'm taking up too much of your time.” She closed the book.

“No. Not at all.” He hoped he hadn't sounded unfriendly. “You know, people leave odd things behind in books. I found a recipe the other day. The paper was greasy. Like something had been spilled on it.”

“Really?” She looked at him with interest. “Cookbooks reveal a lot.” She tilted her head, then glanced at the clock above the door. It was a large-faced clock, like the ones he remembered from his elementary school classrooms. “I need to go. Vern—he's my carpenter—wanted to talk to me before he goes to the lumberyard at noon.” She frowned, deepening a line between her eyebrows. “The list of repairs on my house seems to get longer every day.”

“Stop by again,” Will said. “I'll be on the lookout for more cookbooks.”

“Thanks.” She started for the door, then turned back. “I'm Caroline, by the way. Caroline Waverly.”

“Like the town in Rhode Island.” He felt like a jerk. “That's where I'm from.” She appeared to be waiting for something more. It dawned on him. “Will Harmon.”

“Glad to meet you, Will.” She walked out the door. “I like your geraniums,” she called back.

He waited a moment and went to the window. She carried the book under one arm and followed the road toward the harbor. He glanced at her house across the bay. It stood out clean and sharp in the summer sun.

Caroline awoke certain that something was wrong. Exhausted from the physical labor of cleaning out another room, she'd fallen into a deep sleep before ten. Lila, a frugal New Englander, had carefully kept everything, and then grown too old to sort things out. Caroline had cleaned out two more closets that afternoon and had filled several huge garbage bags that Vern said he'd take to the dump. Fortunately, the work was satisfying. As she emptied cupboards and rearranged some of the china on the shelves, the house began to feel more her own.

It must be the middle of the night now. Her mouth was dry and the faintly queasy feeling had returned. The curtains by the open window were still. The wind had dropped. Perhaps it was the silence itself that had awakened her.

At home in Washington there was always a faint roar, the persistent hum of city life. At Lila's house she'd often go to sleep listening to the wind, sometimes the clanging of the sailboat masts in the harbor, even the faint sound of the waves on the other side of the point. The sounds depended on which way the wind was blowing. She didn't hear the familiar ticking of the front hall clock. Of course, she'd forgotten to wind it. She pictured Mr. Moody's gnarled hands and promised herself she would do it first thing in the morning.

A moment later something black whooshed across the room.
My God.
Had a bird flown in? All the screens had been taken down for painting and stacked against the house by the kitchen door.
Damn.
She didn't move. She heard it again, a quick movement sounding like the intake of breath. It must be a bat. Drawing the covers over her head, she felt her heart pound. Vern would have to get the screens back up tomorrow. At least the screens in her bedroom. Her legs trembled. She brought her clenched fists to her mouth, feeling totally alone.

Harry would have told her not to worry. He would have gone downstairs to get a broom, a tennis racket, something. Years ago, the first summer in their house in Chevy Chase, a bat had come down the chimney, soared through the living room, and landed on the armoire in the hall. Harry was as inexperienced as she was in regard to wild things, but he had bravely corralled the bat toward the front door and eventually it had flown out.

She remembered that incident vividly. Rob was just a toddler. Harry had teased her for cowering in the kitchen. They had laughed together when she had called him her hero. She could still recall the feeling of relief that Harry had been home. It must have been a Saturday or Sunday morning. She'd been pregnant with Grace and coping with morning sickness.

Morning sickness. Now, breathing heavily under the covers in the still night, she thought of it. The uneasy feeling of saliva rising onto her tongue and the unpleasant possibility of being sick. When had she started to feel that way? Could she be pregnant? By Pete?
Oh, my God.
She was too old. Her body grew rigid.

All those years after Grace she had never become pregnant again. Little Grace, born with a hole in her heart, a rare abnormality, discovered when it was too late. Then the months of depression. At first Harry had remained armored in silence and Caroline had said nothing. She didn't want to risk losing a baby again, go through that kind of loss. Neither spoke of it, and only their happiness with Rob made life bearable.

Eventually, when Caroline hadn't conceived, Harry suggested that they see a doctor. They were told that there was nothing physically wrong and to keep trying. By then Caroline had started writing the family restaurant reviews for the newspaper, was volunteering in Rob's school, and worked in her garden. Their lives had taken on a comfortable rhythm, and she thought that she had recovered from losing Grace. Caroline remembered when Harry had suggested adoption.

“We're just not meant to have another child,” she'd argued.

“I've found out about an adoption agency,” he'd said.

“I don't want to adopt.” She'd been adamant. “I believe in fate. If we don't get pregnant, that's what's meant to be.” Caroline had also worried that if they entered into the adoption process it would bring back memories of that terrible time after Grace died and trigger another depression. By then she was enjoying her work. Her life with Harry and Rob seemed complete.

Now, as she lay in the darkness, her thoughts raced.
Oh, God.
Could she be pregnant? Surely it was impossible. She forced herself to remember. She grew hot under the covers and began to perspire, but was too afraid to pull down the blanket for fear of the bat. Her periods had been erratic, late even. She couldn't remember the last one.

She had successfully put the memory of the night with Pete out of her mind. It had been six, maybe seven weeks ago. After that one tense phone conversation after the dinner party, his calls had stopped. When Rob had told her of his plan to go out west, she had nearly called Pete to seek comfort. It would have been so easy to open that door. Instead she had sent a note to his office telling him about the house in Maine and her plans for the summer in case anything came up having to do with Harry's estate. Now, curled up in this bed so far from home, Caroline grew hotter still. She felt as if she were suffocating.

She slowly lowered the covers from her face. Nothing moved. The bat must have flown out. She waited. Barely allowing herself to breathe, she counted again. How many weeks had it been? Sleep would be impossible now.

Will rounded the bend and began the gradual climb toward the house on the point. It was the final week in June and the first hot day of the summer. He'd grown used to cool, misty mornings, and today he was too warm in the navy sweatpants he'd pulled on out of habit. He should have been wearing shorts. His T-shirt stuck to his back. He hadn't thought it ever got this hot in Maine.

He had spoken to Mary Beth on the phone last night. She was in New York, back from Japan. He told her about Taunton's, how he'd reorganized the shop, how he'd worked out a business plan, and how, by adding new titles, and by investing some of his own money, he could see making a profit. Her reaction had been cool and her tone unenthusiastic. When he suggested she fly to Bangor for the July Fourth weekend, her answer was no. She explained that she needed the time in the office to get caught up.

Sitting alone in the apartment above the bookstore, Will had begun to doubt the wisdom of leaving for the summer. Mary Beth had let him down, but was that enough of a reason to bail out for the summer? Maybe his leaving would drive them further apart. He had slept fitfully, restless in the first night without a breeze.

Now the stark whiteness of what he now knew to be Caroline's house shone like a beacon. He focused on that destination and not the gray strip of pavement beneath his feet. When he awoke early that day he'd remembered the grease-stained recipe he'd told her about, and decided to take it to her. It was in his back pocket.

Will had been running off and on since high school. He was good at it. It was the only sport he'd been allowed with his back problem. Running seemed to clear his head, though lately his thoughts had been stuck in the last miserable months in Habliston. As his feet pounded along the quiet roads around East Hope, the dreadful memories would flood back: the encounter with Jennifer Whitely, the meeting with Jack, his letter of resignation, having to give up the work that he loved. And Mary Beth, who had shown so little sympathy, who acted as if she couldn't have cared less.

Despite the heat and his fatigue from a bad night, he ran faster as he approached the hill. Within minutes his indignation turned back into doubt. Mary Beth had probably been right. A lawsuit would have cost a lot. They might have lost all their savings. And if his situation had been made public, it could have hurt his reputation, making it even more difficult to find another job. He probably should have moved to New York with Mary Beth right away and looked for whatever lousy adjunct position he could find. Their commuter marriage had been a mistake. He should have given up his job at Habliston long before the false accusation. In his heart he knew that he hadn't paid enough attention to their marriage.

There had been many good times with Mary Beth. In the early fall they used to sit on the back steps of their house in Habliston and sip wine together. At that time of year it grew dark by six and there was a hint of cooler weather to come. Still, they clung to the last bits of summer, and he made her laugh with descriptions of nervous freshmen in his classes and the long-winded older faculty members who held forth at the meetings that marked the beginning of the semester. In those days she seemed to hang on his every word. Once her travel schedule picked up they had fewer talks. He missed moments like that, the intimate mixing of their voices in the dark.

Now, reaching the crest of the hill, he slowed to a walk, not wanting to appear at Caroline's door panting and in a full sweat. At least he had this summer in East Hope—the books, the quiet, a chance to think things over in this beautiful place. The sky was a brilliant blue and unmarred by clouds. Just before he reached the house, he stopped and twisted his back to the right and then left. If he stretched gently, his back muscles would stay loose and leave him alone. A red truck with Maine plates was parked on the gravel driveway. An older, dark gray station wagon was pulled up closer to the garage, a separate barnlike building away from the house.