Her Name Will Be Faith (3 page)

"How did it go?" she asked, pulling her head
back.

"Fucking awful," he replied. "We had a
failure."

"Oh, no! In this weather? What happened?"

"A rigging screw went. Must
have been faulty from the start. And it
wasn't flat calm all the way. There was a squall night
before last. Quite
a
heavy one. Hell,
Esmeralda
can take it, so we weren't bothered, then
there was this sudden twang and
the whole shitting boat shook, with wire
flying
all over the place. We damned near lost the mast."

"So you retired?"

"Yeah. What a way to start the season."

"You'll get it right.
Where's your car? Can you leave now? Your folks
are expecting us for dinner."

"It's at Sam's place. But
there's no way I can come now."

"Oh, but..."

"Listen, Angelface. We only
just got in. There's one hell of a lot of
work to be done. And Sam of course had to go hustling off
because Sally
has a
party tonight. So I have to put the ship to bed. And replace that
screw and harden up the rigging;
we sound like a banjo out of control in
any breeze at all." He was helping them across the
other yachts as he
spoke,
and Owen Michael was hurrying
ahead
to gain the deck.
"Mark
Godwin is giving me a hand.
You remember Mark, Jo?"

The boy emerged from the companion
hatch. "Hi, Mrs Donnelly."

"Is there so much to be
done?" Jo asked. "I mean, you don't race
again for a fortnight."

"Now, Angelface, you know
the drill; the ship comes first." Michael
saw her disappointment, and kissed her nose.
"Listen, I will try to get
down
tonight, but tell Babs not to wait dinner for me."

"Oh, Daddy, we want to have you with us
tonight," Tamsin begged.

"Yeah, Dad. Say, why don't
you come with us now, and we'll all come
and help you fix her up tomorrow," Owen Michael
offered. "I thought
we could have a
little catching practice before dinner."

"No way," Michael said.
"Work first, play after." He bent and kissed
the top of Tamsin's head.
"You hustle along now, and look after your
Mommy."

The dismal trio walked back along
the pontoon in single file, and Owen
Michael kicked viciously at a pebble as they neared the
car, sending it
skipping across another
pontoon on to a boat's deck.

"Owen Michael! Stop that." Jo shook his arm.

"Leave me alone, can't you!"

His mother said no more; she
could understand his resenting being
rated second to a piece of plastic. But then her pleasure
at seeing Michael
had
also quickly dissipated into resentment. Even after ten years of
marriage and living in New
England she had not been able fully to
accustom herself to the way Americans used obscenities as
part of their everyday speech. But it was his attitude which was so shattering.
Work
before play,
she thought bitterly. The fact was that he loved
Esmeralda
more than any of his family. And
this was only the beginning of the
season; for the next twenty weeks she was going to be the
ultimate grass
widow
– even golfers at least came home for dinner. And it happened
every year. What right did Michael
have to abandon her and the children
every summer for his yacht racing? Why should she always
have to play
the
dual parent role? He never did. She felt like kicking a stone or two
herself.

The square, white-painted,
wooden-faced house stood tall and imposing,
fifty feet behind a white rail fence bordering the sidewalk
in the small
rural
Connecticut town. By New England standards it was very old,
having been built in 1832, and
from the moment that Big Mike and
Barbara Donnelly bought it in 1971 they had taken endless
pains to
furnish it
in its authentic period style. There were stained-glass panels
on the inner door of the lobby,
and beautifully laid tiles on the lobby and
hall floors. Moldings on the door and window frames were
faithfully
copied
throughout and Babs had spent months poring over books and
magazines and haunting retail
outlets before selecting the correct wall
papers for each room. The owners of every used-furniture
saleroom knew
her
face well, and Big Mike had laughed repeatedly when, on returning
home from his New York office, he
was proudly shown some decrepit
chair or worm-eaten table, the result of Babs' – his
wife's nickname to all
the family –
latest successful expedition. The little town boasted an expert
upholsterer and restorer, who gladly joined in
Babs' enthusiasm for
ancient
furniture, not least due to its profitability. The dining-room and sitting-room
at Pinewoods were charming and immaculate from the gilt
mirrors over the
carved wood fire-surrounds and mantelpieces, fire baskets
and brass-knobbed irons, and the paneled, interior
folding window
shutters, to the
wood-framed settee, prim armchairs, dainty round coffee
tables, and polished dining-table with its English
silver candelabra,
overlooked by oil paintings of sea scenes.

Big Mike genuinely admired the
finished results, and was happy to
show off the house to visiting friends, but his favorite
room nevertheless
was
the big family kitchen in which they now sat watching the News.
Authenticity was all very well in the other rooms, but
it had been partially
abandoned here. The
tile-topped units, the cupboards, dishwasher, icebox
and freezer were whitewood fronted, and the
matching wall cupboards had leaded glass doors to display china and crystal.
The bowed window
ledges behind the
kitchen sink and fitted dining area were filled with
potted plants and flowers. Pictures and
hand-painted plates hung on the
walls
beneath a collection of polished copper pans, and every size and
shape of wicker shopping basket imaginable. Freestanding
in one corner
was an antique but
highly efficient wood-burning stove, prettily painted
enamel panels set in the dull grey metal sides.
Next to it were two very
comfortable
armchairs. Big Mike was sitting in one now, shoulders
hunched, greying black hair scattered thinly across
his head, while Babs,
tall and still blondely attractive, prepared
vegetables.

Dale Donnelly breezed in, wearing
shorts, throwing his tennis racket
on to
a chair. "Hi! Anything I can do to help, Babs? What's for dinner?"

"Sure. Empty the trash can.
The Robsons and roast rib-eye." Babs
tilted
her face to receive her son's kiss of greeting.

"Who else?"

"Michael and Jo. James and
Suzanne will probably come too, but
Jason
is away."

"Ugh!" Dale groaned; he
was a languid young man who drifted from
job to job, resolutely refusing to join his elder brother
in the Wall Street
firm.
This lack of drive bothered his parents as much as the hash he
enjoyed so much. "I suppose I'll have to
entertain them."

"What's the problem? They're
nice kids." Big Mike lit a cigarette and
fiddled with the remote control panel.

"James is a wimp. He agrees with everything I
say."

His father looked at him through a
cloud of smoke. "Yeah? Well, in
that
case he's gotta be a wimp."

Dale grinned. "Okay. Okay."

"Suzanne's sweet," Babs said.

"Are you putting me on?"

"No, I'm serious." His
mother turned away from the sink. "She's very
shy and nervous, but she does try..."

"Too hard. And I think she
has something going for me. She follows
me around like a tame dog, rolling her contact lenses and
saying, 'Yes,
Dale,' and 'No, Dale,' and
'Can I fix you a cup of coffee, Dale?' "

"You've made your point; the girl's obviously a
nut. Now shut up and listen to the news." Mike commanded more volume and
concentrated on the Washington reporter's latest political scandal.

The door opened and Jo hurried in, following by Owen
Michael and
Tamsin. "Hi, Babs. Hi Dad.
Dale." She kissed each in turn and laid a
big bunch of mixed
flowers on the counter.

"Hey, aren't those beautiful!
Where did you get them?" Babs asked.

"I just picked them from your garden," Jo
admitted.

Babs laughed. "I'll get you a
vase and you can arrange them for me.
Hi,
Owen Michael. Have you got a kiss for your grandmother? And you, Tamsin?
Where's Michael?'

"Oh ... er ... he sends his apologies. He's had
to stay in Newport a
while longer because
he's got problems with the boat, but he hopes to
join us later." Jo smiled brightly, but her mother-in-law detected
the
shadow in her eyes, and her heart sank. She was very aware of Jo's
disappointment – and her own.

"They nearly lost the mast," Owen Michael
announced.

"Holy shit!" Big Mike remarked, ignoring his
wife's frown of disapproval. "How the hell did they manage that?"

"I'm sure Michael will tell
you all about it when he gets here." Jo
finished her flower arranging and Babs removed her frilled apron to
join the men, immediately switching off the set.

"Hey," Big Mike protested. "What did
you do that for?"

"Neal and Meg are due here in half an hour. You
haven't opened the wine yet. And those pants are filthy. Anyway, you don't
usually watch NABS."

"Yeah? Well I wanted to see this new whizz-kid
weatherman they've got.

"Oh, Richard Connors," Jo said.

"That's the guy. You remember watching him last
year when we were
in Eleuthera, Babs. He
was with WJQT in Miami then. Big, good-looking
guy."

"I remember," Babs said. "He seemed to
know what he was talking about. What's he doing in New York?"

"Working for NABS," Mike told her, with
heavy patience.

"I'm to interview him next week," Jo said.

"Is that a fact?" Big
Mike switched on the set again. "Shit! We've
missed him. I didn't know he was that famous."

"NABS is working on it. Seems their manager,
Kiley, called Ed and suggested it."

"Well, you can watch him tomorrow," Babs
said. "He can't tell us anything about the weather tonight we can't find
out for ourselves by looking out of the window. Come on, Mike, be a doll."
She blew him a kiss as she passed his chair and he grabbed her and sat her on
his knee.

"Say, will you old folks
cut this horsing around and attend to your visitors?"

"Marcia!" Babs jumped up and ran to the door
to greet her younger daughter. "How are you, sweetheart?"

"To what do we owe this
honor?" Big Mike held out a hand and
pulled
her down for a kiss.

"New York is hot and sticky,
so we thought we'd drive up and beg
dinner
and a bed for the night."

"We?"

"There's someone I want you to meet. He's parking
the car."

Big Mike and Babs exchanged glances; Marcia went
through young
men like a dose of salts
– but every one was
the man,
for as long as he
lasted.

"Now," Marcia said. "What's for dinner?"

"The Robsons," her father announced.

"Oh, hell. Look, we can go..."

"No, you cannot," Babs
said. "You're staying right here. I've set the
table but we can easily place two more chairs."
She opened the crockery cupboard.

"Here, let me." Marcia took the plates from
her.

"You really only need to set one more. I doubt if
Michael will be here much before ten," Jo pointed out.

Marcia glanced at her, one eyebrow raised as she
identified both the
irritation and the
probable cause, but said nothing. What was there to
say? In her opinion, if Michael wanted to fix the
boat before coming home
to see his parents – so what? Did that
give Jo the right to look so pissed off? Why didn't she do her own thing, while
he did his?

"Mommy, can I stay up until Daddy comes?"
Tamsin asked.

"Depends on what time he comes and how sleepy you
are," Jo called from behind the kitchen door. They'd had a long day and
were both tired.