Look Closely (7 page)

“Wel , they never made any decisions. They never drew any conclusions. Just looked into her death and closed the file. It got people to talking, though.”

“I remember the whispering and the looks,” I said, slightly agitated now that I was getting close to the topic, yet not learning anything. “But why did the police look into it?”

A gust of wind blew through the backyard, pushing Del a’s hair into her face. She brushed it away; she sighed loud enough that I heard it over the breeze. “Oh, sweetie, your mother died from a blow to the head. They wanted to find out if someone had done that to her on purpose.”

5

I checked into the Long Beach Inn, an aptly named bed-and-breakfast perched above a lengthy stretch of tawny sand that hemmed Lake Michigan. Because the summer season hadn’t yet started, I was able to get an upstairs room. It was the largest one, I’d been told by the housekeeper, who was fil ing in for the owner. The room took up half the third floor, a sunny space painted white, like a summer cottage. A large canopy bed covered in pil ows sat in the center. The French doors on the other side led to a balcony and, beyond that, the beach. I had always dreamed of a balcony off my bedroom overlooking the water, but I was too preoccupied now to enjoy it.

I unpacked the way I always did in hotels. I traveled so often that I liked to try to create a semblance of home for myself, even if it was a fictional and transient one. Once my clothes were in the closet and my makeup in the bathroom cabinet, I cal ed Maddy to tel her what I’d learned. For once I got no answer at either her home or cel phone. There was no one else I could tel about what I was doing, what I’d discovered.

I closed my eyes and let myself hear Del a’s words again.

Your mother died from a blow to the head. They wanted to find out if someone had done that to her on purpose.

It only confirmed what I’d thought—that something strange surrounded my mother’s death. What did it mean that my mom had died of a head injury? Did that necessarily mean that someone had purposeful y hurt her? I had asked Del a those questions before I bolted, but she had shrugged. “There were lots of stories about what happened, but mostly people said it was an accident,” she’d said. “No one real y knows.”

But someone knew. The person who’d sent the letter knew. Or at least they thought they did.

The sound of a vacuum downstairs made me realize I was standing in the middle of the room, motionless. I’d had so much momentum al day. What to do now? Though the room was cozy, a huge step up from the impersonal hotel where I’d stayed in Chicago, I wished for my own apartment right then, for my comfy sweatpants and the taupe chenil e blanket my father had given me. Under different circumstances, I would have loved to curl up on the canopy bed here with a book, but I couldn’t just sit around. Not now. I couldn’t stand the thought of being in Woodland Dunes and not be moving, remembering, doing. I wasn’t here for a weekend getaway. I was here for my mother.

The thought drew me to the French doors, but for a moment, I didn’t open them. I stared out at the wide beach, the gray-blue water licking the sand. As I watched the rush and recede of the water, I remembered the feel of my smal hand in my father’s as he led me down the unfinished wood pathway to the lake. I must have been about six or seven years old. He had come home to Woodland Dunes that day, a treat for the middle of the week.

“Where’s Mom?” he’d said when he was inside the front door. He crouched down and held open his arms. “Is she taking her walk on the beach?”

I nodded and charged into him, wrapping myself around his neck, breathing in the slightly stale scent of the city he always brought with him.

“Let’s find her,” he said.

We walked the two blocks to the lakefront and then down the wood sidewalk to the sand. We pul ed off our shoes, my dad rol ing up the bottoms of his suit pants.

“Which way?” he said, his voice playful. “You pick.”

I bounced on my toes with excitement. I looked both ways down the beach. The sun was growing gold and heavy, but it wasn’t dark yet. To my right, the houses were grand, some of them as big as hotels. To the left, they grew smal er and friendlier, and there were usual y more kids that way, so I raised my left arm and pointed.

“You got it, Hailey-girl,” my dad said.

We walked along the water where it was packed wet and hard, looking for beach glass, the colored shards of glass, rounded and smoothed by years spent in the water.

“Here’s a great one,” my dad said, bending down to lift a green piece the size of a quarter.

I held out my hand, but just then I saw a flash of pink farther down the beach. I looked closer, and I could see my mother’s pink T-shirt, the length of her sandy blond hair.

“Mom!” I cal ed.

My father stood in one quick motion, the glass fal ing from his hand. I knelt to pick it up. When I stood again, I saw my mother hadn’t heard me. She was standing a few hundred yards away, her back to us, and she was talking to someone.

“Let’s go see Mom,” I said, tugging my father’s hand, but he refused to move. He was frozen, it seemed, with his pants rol ed up, his suit coat over his arm, staring at his wife.

I looked at my mom again, too. I couldn’t see who she was talking to, but I could tel it was a man, someone a little tal er than her, and for a second, I saw the man reach out and put a hand on my mom’s shoulder.

“Let’s go.” My dad pul ed my hand so hard I almost cried out. He marched me back the way we came, pul ing me down the beach. In my other hand, I gripped tight to the beach glass, trying not to drop it. When I looked up, my father’s jaw was hard, his eyes narrow. A few times, I almost stumbled as he propel ed us over the sand.

When we reached the wood walk that would take us back to the street, he slowed so we could sit and pul on our shoes.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked.

He looked at me as if I’d said a terrible thing, then he pul ed me to him, hugging me so close it was difficult to breathe.

“Everything’s al right.” He released me, but I thought for a moment he might cry because of the way his eyes were pul ed down, the way his mouth seemed ready to tremble. “Let’s go home.”

We walked back quickly, not strol ing as we had on the way to the beach. When we reached the house, he said he loved me very much but he’d forgotten something at the office. He needed to go back that night.

I sat on the window bench in my room, watching him pul out of the driveway. The bench reminded me of the larger one in my parents’ room where my mother often rested and wrote in her journals. Usual y, when I sat on my own bench, it made me feel a little like my mom, and that made me happy. That night, though, staring out at the now dark lawn, I didn’t want to be my mother. She’d made my dad leave, and I only wanted him to come back.

When my mother came in the room, I was stil there. “You made him go away,” I said.

“What?” My mother raised a hand and smoothed the pink cotton front of her T-shirt.

“Dad was here. We saw you on the beach, and he left.”

My forehead was touching the glass of the French doors. Stil , I peered at the beach, thinking over this new memory the way I studied a witness’s testimony after a deposition.

I’d always assumed my parents were happy together, from the devastation my father experienced after she passed away. But was my mother involved with someone else? I knew my father had been upset with her that day, but I’d been too young to draw any conclusions. Now it seemed possible my mother was having an affair.

I opened the French doors and went onto the balcony. The spring air was balmy and light. I leaned on the painted white railing and gazed at the beach, trying to bring back more of the memory, the parts that had happened before and later, but nothing else came.

Just a few blocks to my left was where my father and I had taken our walk, where my mother had stood with the man. Just because he was a man, though, didn’t mean my mother was involved with him. Why was I so quick to jump to the conclusion that my mother had been unfaithful? The hand on my mother’s shoulder, the way she’d smoothed down her pink shirt when she’d come to my room, that was why.

I sank down on the Adirondack chair, painted white to match the railing. The hand had reminded me of the vision I’d had on the stairs today, of the hand that I had seen steady my mother at the door. The lawyer in me confronted myself. How can you assume it was the same person? And even if it
were
true, who was he? Did it matter? He might not have anything to do with her death.

I ran a hand through my hair. I was going in circles. This happened to me sometimes during a big case. My mind wound around too many details, unable to see the important things.

I threw on a pair of khaki shorts, a long-sleeved shirt and sandals. Once down on the beach, I walked to the left, the way my mother had headed that day, the way I’d fol owed with my father. A soft breeze blew, playing with my hair, pushing it in my eyes. There were only a few people on the beach—a jogger and an older couple who were camped out with chairs and a cooler. The couple gave me a happy wave.

As I walked, I gazed across the lake toward Chicago. If I narrowed my eyes, I could see the blocky outlines of the Sears Tower and the Hancock Building through the hazy sun.

Somewhere over there, probably on Monday morning the arbitrators would come to their decision on the McKnight case, or maybe it was done already. Either way, it seemed a lose/lose situation. If I lost the arb, I’d have to work with Sean McKnight during a trial, and if I won, he might hire me again. The thought of dealing with his arrogant attitude on another case was not pleasant. I made myself find the bright side. If I won, it might be what I needed to ensure I would make partner. Some associates thought I was a shoo-in, knowing my father was on the executive committee, but the reality was that the higher-ups were so afraid of nepotism accusations that I had to prove myself more than the average attorney. Winning the McKnight case could help seal the deal.

IstoppedwalkingwhenIsawaglintinthesand. Reaching down, I wrapped my fingers around a piece of clear beach glass, rounded to a perfect oval. I rubbed it between my fingers, caressing its smooth, dusty surface. It had the same feel as the green beach glass I’d found with my dad that day.

When I got back to the inn, I looked at the clock over the front desk, surprised it was almost three in the afternoon. I hadn’t eaten anything for lunch except those few cookies at Del a’s.

“Can I help you?” A man in his late twenties or early thirties came out of the back room. He grabbed a handful of the rusty hair that had fal en over his eyes and pushed it away, but it fel right back again.

“Oh no,” I said. “I’m already checked in.” I pointed uselessly with my finger toward my room upstairsasifthatmightprovidesomeexplanation.

“I’m Ty.” He held his hand over the desk. “Ty Manning.”

He wasn’t much tal er than me, but he had a presence about him. When he smiled, his blue eyes crinkled a little around the corners.

“Hailey.” I shook his hand. “That’s an interesting name—Ty.”

“It’s short for Tyler, which is too preppy–East Coast–boarding school, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” I said, unable to imagine this guy who wore old jeans and an olive T-shirt going to a boarding school on the East Coast or being cal ed Tyler. I knew a mil ion of those types from Manhattan, and unlike my first impression of Ty, they were much more arrogant, much more reserved. “So, do you work here?”

“I own the place.”

Icouldfeelmyeyebrowsrise.“Youowntheinn?”

“Yeah. My parents bought it years ago. Their plan was to rehab it and run it as a B and B for an early retirement. My dad can’t seem to retire though, so I bought it from them.”

“I’m impressed.”

“You are?” He gave me a disarming smile, and again, his eyes crinkled with his grin. “Thanks. Which room do you have?”

“Third floor on the right. It’s beautiful.”

“I cal it the nap room because I feel like lying down every time I’m in there.”

I laughed. “I can understand that.”

Ty turned around and reached into a multileveled box where they kept the keys. “You said your name was Hailey, so your last name must be—” he lifted out a piece of paper with my check-in information, “—Sutter.”

“Right.”

He glanced up at me. “That sounds familiar.”

“I used to be from around here.”

“Ah.”

“Do you know someplace I can get lunch?” I said. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in Woodland Dunes.”

“Sure. I can make a few recommendations.” He looked at the check-in slip a moment longer before he put it back in the box, then turned back to me, his lazy hair fal ing farther over one eye. “Mind if I join you?”

“Oh.” I hadn’t expected him to ask that, although it wasn’t a total y unappealing thought. “Don’t you have to stay here?”

“Nah, everyone’s checked in, and Elaine, my housekeeper, she’s like my right hand. She can deal with anything.” He paused a second. “But if you’d rather be alone, I can tel you where to go.” He pul ed a map out from under the desk and placed in on the counter.

Alone. I thought about it a minute. It might be the best thing since I needed to keep looking, to keep pushing in corners until I found out what happened to my mother. Yet I wasn’t sure what my next step was, and it would be helpful to have someone who knew the area.

Truth was, I was feeling a little rattled. I didn’t want to be alone right now.

I smiled at Ty. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Ty took me to a diner cal ed Bingham’s, where we could sit in the sun. The restaurant was in the downtown section of town. It stil boasted quaint shingled buildings and bricked sidewalks, just as it used to when my family had lived there, but the stores that used to sel hardware, flowers and crafts had been replaced with a designer boutique, a coffee shop and an upscale delicatessen.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised at the change. Decades had passed since we’d left. During that time, Woodland Dunes and the surrounding towns had morphed into sort of a Midwest version of the Hamptons—a summer enclave for those looking to escape the city. When my parents had original y bought here, they too used the place as a summer retreat, but my mom had fal en in love with it. They had two children then, Dan and Caroline, both of whom adored the space and the freedom they couldn’t get in the city, so my parents made the house near the lake their permanent home. My dad bought an apartment in Chicago for the nights he couldn’t get home during the week.