Pictures of Emily (4 page)

“Come on, Doreen,” Sonny said, wishing she’d lighten up. “You’re not up on things. Medical schools are back to using leeches. And you don’t have anything to worry about,” he added. “I never get sick. You know that.”

She made an impatient sound with her tongue. “You know what I mean. These people aren’t like us. They’re frozen in time.”

“It amazes me how a nice person like you can be so damned narrow-minded.” Sonny scooped up his room key from the dresser, pocketed it, then shrugged into his jacket.

Leaning against the wall next to the door was Emily Christian’s tattered dragon kite. When Sonny had gone back to the wharf to get his boots, he’d fished the kite from the water. Now he tucked the dry, broken remnants under his arm and stepped into the hallway with Doreen, shutting the door behind him.

“It’s called being realistic,” she said. “Normally I’d be thrilled at seeing you take an interest in something that’s going on around you. But Sonny—” The worry lines in her face deepened. “Not these people.”

“Why not these people? You’re the last person I would have expected to be prejudiced.”

“I’m not prejudiced. I’ll even grudgingly admit that the islanders have a certain charm. I just don’t want to see you involved in something that might be hard to get out of.”

“Doreen, we’re talking about dinner, not marriage. You’re reading stuff into this that isn’t there.”

She let out a deep breath and shook her head. “You’re probably right. Guess maybe I’m going a little stir crazy or something. Doting in my old age.”

“Don’t get started on that old-age stuff. You’re the youngest fifty-seven-year-old I know.”

“That’s funny. You’re the oldest twenty-eight-year-old
I
know.”

He gave her his usual reply. “Go to hell, Doreen.” It was a standing joke between them. Seven years ago she’d wanted to photograph him. He’d told her no, but she’d persisted. She’d followed him, called, hadn’t given up, not even when he told her to go to hell. So he’d finally said yes, just to get rid of her. His career had been moderately successful up until that point. It had taken Doreen and her skill with a camera to make him famous.

Now, every so often, just for old time’s sake, he told her to go to hell.

She walked him to the top of the steps. “Don’t stay out too late. We need to be up by four to catch that pure light. Hopefully we’ll be able to wrap up in one more day and get the hell out of here.”

Like a kid facing a return to school after summer vacation, Sonny felt a flutter of panic at the thought of going back to neon and concrete. He wished the vacation could last forever. Like an adult, he knew that was impossible.

* * *

Fog swirled about his feet as he followed the winding lane that led to the gray two-story house perched atop the hill like some moody painting.

For a second Sonny wished he’d brought along his camera. It would have made a great picture. The house silhouetted against the darkening sky, the fog…everything in shades of gray. Lonely. Mysterious. A little magical. Just the right place for a mermaid to live.

As he approached, smells of wood smoke mingled with the briny scent of the ocean and the smell of the damp earth underfoot. Warm light poured from latticed windows, reaching out to him across the uneven walk. He wasn’t sure which door to use—front or back. He finally settled on the front one that opened onto the porch.

He climbed steps that had been painted a gray enamel, and knocked.

From behind the door he heard excited voices followed by running feet. The door opened wide and he was greeted by three dark-haired girls. He wasn’t too good at figuring kids’ ages. He guessed one to be about twelve or thirteen, the youngest five or six.

He’d seen the middle one before. She’d brought back his jacket. Dressed in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, hair tied in a ponytail, she looked more… he wanted to say American, but they were all Americans.

It was a little unnerving the way they were all staring up at him, eyes wide.

“Hi,” he offered.

“Hi.” All three spoke in unison.

“Emily!” the middle girl shrieked, never taking her eyes off Sonny. “He’s here!”

From behind the girls, footsteps sounded on the wooden floor. He looked past the sea of dark hair and green eyes to find Emily Christian standing there, hands clasped in front of her.

“Please—come in.”

Her voice was low and soothing, like the brook that ran behind his cabin in the woods.

He stepped across the threshold—into Emily Christian’s world.

It was a warm world with waxed wood floors and ruffled curtains at the windows. At one end of the living room stood a black-and-silver woodstove. Most of the furniture looked antique. If not for the incongruity of the TV, stereo and telephone, he could almost think he’d stepped back in time.

Emily was wearing a print dress along with dark stockings and brown leather shoes. Her blond hair was braided, hanging to her waist. Fine tiny curls had escaped around her hairline, framing her delicate features.

Most of the women he was around were models; he wasn’t used to seeing a face so free of makeup as Emily’s. Her skin was light and smooth; her cheeks glowed.

She was just as beautiful as he remembered. Just as otherworldly as he remembered.

And her eyes. God, her eyes. They were so blue. When he looked into them, he felt the same strange pull he’d felt out there on the wharf. He had the uncanny sensation that she could read his mind, see into his heart and soul, his past and future. Which was crazy.

At the same time he sensed an inexplicable danger. He felt that in some strange way, she had the power to hurt him.

He shouldn’t have come.

But he was careful to keep his trepidation from showing. He was good at that, at putting up a front, at keeping his inner-self hidden.

Then he noticed that she was staring at his left side, curiosity in her eyes. He remembered the kite and held it out to her. “I’m sorry. There’s not much of it left.”

She took it and held it in her arms, her fingers smoothing the emerald fabric. “It’s my fault. The design is unstable. I’ve tried lighter material, different struts—” She made a small, sad sound, then put the ruined kite aside on a nearby bench. When she turned back, she was once again the hostess. “May I take your coat?”

He shrugged out of his leather flight jacket, all the while aware that the children were still staring. The oldest girl’s eyes were full of adoration—which he was used to, the middle child, Tilly’s eyes were bland, completely unimpressed, bored almost. He liked that. And the youngest…

She reached up and shyly touched her fingers to the back of his hand—a butterfly skimming his knuckles. “Did you ride your noble steed?” she asked.

Steed? He’d seen a few horses on the island. He cast a helpless glance over his shoulder.

Tilly put a hand to her mouth and ribbed the older girl with an elbow. “Babbie thinks you’re a prince,” she explained.

Babbie continued to stare up at him, her eyes huge and trusting. “Tilly said you’re not a prince, you’re a king. King of—”

Whatever she was going to say was lost as Emily clapped her hands. “Girls! Girls! I think you’d better go to the kitchen and set the table. Claire—” Hands to young shoulders, Emily ushered them in the direction of the kitchen.

Claire shuffled along, head turned, eyes dreamy, catching a final look.

“Good grief! He’s not that cute,” he heard Tilly say as she gave her sister a final push through the kitchen door. “It’s not like he’s a hockey player or something.”

Emily turned to Sonny, frown lines between her brows. “I’m terribly sorry. Tilly is very outspoken.”

“That’s okay. It’s good for me. Keeps my ego in line.” He handed her his jacket, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the designer label sewn on the inside collar, of the rich suppleness of the leather. A cashy item.

When she took it from him, he saw that her fragile hand trembled. It wasn’t evident in her face or voice, but now he knew she was just as nervous as he was.

The difference was she belonged here; he didn’t.

A heavy footfall sounded on the stairs.

Emily looked up. “Papa, come and meet Sonny Maxwell.”

Then Sonny’s hand was being crushed by John Christian’s.

“I want to thank you for saving my daughter’s life,” the burly man said while continuing to pump Sonny’s hand. “If I’d ’uv lost my Emily—” His voice caught and he couldn’t continue.

Emily came to the rescue. “I’m alive and well.” She flashed Sonny one of the sweetest smiles he believed he’d ever seen, then she was leading them both to the kitchen, in the direction of those good smells.

There had only been a couple of times when Sonny had eaten a meal with a family. He usually ate fast food or restaurant food, or, when he was alone at his cabin, he’d just heat something from out of a can— when he remembered to eat at all.

Sonny took a seat at one end of the table, John Christian at the other. To his left were Claire and Babbie, his right, Tilly and Emily.

He wasn’t used to saying prayers, either. Seeing all the bowed heads, he awkwardly locked his fingers together.

John Christian said the blessing. “Thank You, Lord, for this food which Emily has worked so hard to prepare. And thank You for sending a stranger into our midst to pull my daughter from the sea.”

Amens were heard all around the table.

The meal consisted of fish chowder loaded with potatoes and carrots, hot homemade bread with butter, and blackberry jam. It was some of the best food Sonny had ever tasted.

He’d never been good at small talk, but somehow the warmth of the small kitchen sneaked up on him. Or maybe it was the soft smiles Emily would occasionally send his way. Whatever the reason, he began to relax.

Claire even came out of the clouds enough to ask, “How old were you when you made your first commercial?”

“About four. Younger than Babbie.”

“Did you like it?” Tilly asked.

He thought a moment. “It was fun, like playing pretend.”

More importantly, it had made his mother happy. But she never stayed happy long. One moment, she would hug and kiss him, the next she would shove him away. He’d been too young to understand that her violent mood swings were due to alcoholism.

“That sounds really neat,” Tilly said. “I heard about a kid who was making a movie, and he didn’t have to go to school. Did you ever get to ditch school?”

“If I missed very much school, a tutor would come to the studio and work with me.”

“That would be so neat!” Claire and Tilly said in unison.

He didn’t want them to get the wrong idea, didn’t want them to think that his life had been fuller than theirs. Nothing was further from the truth.

And he didn’t like to talk about his childhood, didn’t even like to think about it. He’d been seven when he learned that being a child actor wasn’t so neat. He’d wanted to go to a birthday party, but his mother made him go for an audition instead. Once there, he’d sulked and refused to say his lines correctly and some other kid ended up getting the part.

His mother went berserk. He’d seen her mad, but never like this. She jerked him out of the studio, shoved him into the convertible one of her men friends had bought for her, drove him home and told him to pack all of his things.

The next day she took him to a huge four-story mansion—surrounded by a black iron fence—a boardinghouse for child actors, the place that was to be his home for the next several years.

“I’d like to be on TV and miss school,” Tilly said.

“It wasn’t as great as it sounds,” Sonny told her. “There weren’t many other kids around, and it was pretty boring most of the time. You had to be ready for your part, even if it meant waiting all day to say one line. It wasn’t so great,” he repeated.

He looked up to find Emily staring at him, her eyes huge and sad, full of question and a strange compassion. Again he had the uncanny feeling that she could read his mind.

Then her eyes pulled away from his. “Well, who’s ready for pie,” she asked.

“What I think is neat,” Tilly said, “is the way you get paid for doing nothing.”

“Tilly—” John Christian cut in from the end of the table. “Help Emily with dessert.”

Tilly was half out of her seat when she paused and said, “Emily and Papa say it’s sinful for a person to get paid for his looks, but I think it’s neat.”

In half a heartbeat a heavy silence descended.

Sonny felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. Their opinion of him shouldn’t matter. He knew that. But for some reason it did.

It was always the same. He would find something only to have it taken away, only to find out it hadn’t been real to begin with.

At age ten, he’d been pulled off the set to be told that his mother had been discovered dead in a hotel room.

He’d felt like somebody had kicked him in the stomach then, too.

But the shoot had continued. The show must go on.

Later, he’d overheard one of the light technicians talking about what a heartless little bastard he was. At the time, Sonny had wanted to tell them he was just doing what he’d been taught to do. Pretend.

It not only came in handy in front of the camera, but in real life.

Like now. He had sensed danger here. His instincts had been right.

He pushed his chair away and got to his feet.

“Sonny—”

Emily was coming around the table toward him, her face creased with concern and embarrassment. And something he didn’t want to see: pity.

He was careful to keep his expression neutral, his voice polite. “Thanks for the meal. I’ll pass on dessert.”

Mechanically he brushed past her, through the living room. He wrenched open the front door, the damp night air hitting him full in the face. He pulled in a deep breath, stepped out and shut the door behind him.

* * *

Emily stood staring at the closed door, Sonny’s frozen face an image in her mind.

His jacket still hung from the wooden peg near the door. She snatched it from the hook and hurried outside.

A low-lying fog had moved in, but the light from the windows illuminated the area around the house. She could see him just past the edge of light, a darker shadow among the shadows. He’d already reached the end of the sidewalk and was ready to walk down the lane that led to the main road.