Summer Light: A Novel (20 page)

He went into the bathroom and closed the door. Turning on the light, he checked his face in the mirror. So many scars, from all the times he’d been smashed by sticks and pucks. Leaning forward, he tilted his head to examine the side of it. He had a slight dent, just above and behind his right ear.

The X rays in question, that the stupid nurse had called to remind him to bring, had been taken during the summer.

During the previous season, in a game against Chicago, a puck had split his head open. Concussion was obvious, and he’d missed the next two games. Against the doctor’s advice, he’d played the third. No problems for the rest of the season.

But then, one morning while he was fishing with Kylie, the headaches had started. Splitting, pounding, making him see double. He’d blamed it on the bright sun, a skipped breakfast, the stress—wonderful though it was—of being newly married. That night May had wanted to talk about something—Natalie or his father—and Martin had snapped at her. The next day he’d blamed his bad behavior on the headaches.

Then they had gone to Toronto. He had intended to accompany her and Kylie upstairs, to the doctor, to give them his support. But as he stepped inside the building, everything had gone dark. His vision had faded to black, and he’d thought he might pass out. Standing in the hallway of that old building, Martin had felt as if he was going to die.

So he’d done what came naturally: drove down to the nearest hospital for a quickie exam. A lifetime of hockey injuries had gotten him very used to emergency rooms, X-ray machines, doctors and nurses. The thought of telling May didn’t even occur to him—or maybe it did. She’d just worry, want to come with him, make more of it than it was.

Strange thing, coincidence—the Toronto hospital was the same one he’d been to for knee surgery while Nat had stayed with his father. Déjà vu, he’d thought the whole time he was getting checked out.

This time, the film had picked up a hairline skull fracture. No big deal—it would blend in nicely with all the others. The hospital had sent him home with the X ray, suggested he take it to the team doctor. Whose dumb nurse had decided to be helpful and leave the message with May.

The weird thing was, he thought as he turned out the light, his head hardly hurt at all anymore. He had hung on, and the pain had passed. That always seemed to be the way. Complaining had never done him any good. He didn’t believe in whining about his problems, never had. Being married wasn’t going to change that—he didn’t want to inflict every stupid hurt on May.

Past or present. Ever since she’d heard the truth about Natalie and his father she had seemed content to leave it alone. That was good. In Martin’s opinion, the deeper that business was buried, the better. Telling her stories about his family couldn’t make anyone happier.

The summer had seen many betrothals. May listened to stories all day long. She took copious notes. Often her best wedding ideas sprang from tales about proposals and engagements. One woman told of a flight to Italy, how she and her boyfriend had planned a week in Positano. At the airport, after they had placed their luggage on the conveyor belt and passed through the security gate, alarms went off. When the guard asked her boyfriend to empty his pockets, he refused. More security was called, and as they were pulling out the handcuffs and the young woman was panicking, he dropped down on one knee and took a small box from his pocket.

Other travelers gathered around. “He’s proposing, he’s proposing,” the woman heard them say, and then their voices faded. Her boyfriend took out a diamond ring and asked her to marry him.

“I said yes,” the woman, whose name was Jean Wesley, told May. “I couldn’t believe it; I was in shock. He had wanted to wait till we got to Italy, but the ring set off all the alarms. We want a Valentine’s Day wedding.”

Smiling as she made notes, the phone rang. Tobin answered, and May heard her talking to someone in a friendly tone. She laughed, and then hung up. Gesturing to May, she stood by the window.

“That was your husband,” Tobin said.

“Didn’t he want to talk to me?”

“He’s driving out—the onslaught has begun.”

“The what?”

“The press knows about you. They’re on the way here now.”

The trucks stayed a respectful distance away, which was to say they kept off the rose beds and herb gardens. Reporters swarmed around, while techs ran around with cameras, microphones, and lights. People were shouting, wires being dragged over green grass and stone walls.

Just another day at the Fleet Center or Madison Square Garden or Maple Leaf Gardens, Martin thought. But this was May and Enid’s meadow, their peaceful home. The statement should have been made anywhere else, but the vultures had already picked up the location and landed.

“All this, just because we got married?” May asked, a slight furrow of worry between her brows.

“If you have any secrets, now’s the time to tell me,” Martin told her.

“I know them all,” Tobin laughed.

“Talk to me later,” Martin said.

“I can’t believe this is news,” May said. “Our wedding. Our elopement.”

“Other women want him,” Kylie intoned.

“Well, they can’t have him.” Tobin raised her eyebrows at May over Kylie’s head as everyone chuckled.

“They wouldn’t want me if they knew me,” Martin said to Kylie. “Only your mother was blind enough for that.”

“Blind as a bat.” May closed her eyes tight as she leaned in to kiss Martin. Although the news conference wasn’t supposed to start for ten more minutes, a blizzard of flashes went off and a torrent of shutters snapped.

“Are you mad at me for blabbing?” Kylie asked anxiously.

So proud to have Martin as a stepfather, Kylie had gone up to everyone saying her new name was “Kylie Cartier,” that Mickey and Eddie hadn’t known anything when they’d called her a liar last May. Her lunch aide’s sister worked at WBTR and had called in the story. It had taken off like wildfire.

Martin smiled down at her. While the grown-ups leaned on a stone wall, Kylie sat cross-legged at their feet. She wore Nat’s old blue Blue Jays hat Martin had given her their last day at the lake, and it hurt him slightly less every time he saw her wearing it. “
Mais non
,” he said. “We’re not mad at you. Not even slightly.”

“Who told you other women want him?” May asked.

“Kids on the bus. It came on the radio on my way home from school. The big girls were saying it, and then our bus driver—Mrs. Patterson?—pretended to cry. She says the only thing that keeps her going is Martin’s poster on the wall in her bedroom.”

“Her husband ought to rip it down,” Martin said.

“She made me promise to get your autograph,” Kylie said. “So did Mickey, and Eddie, and Jeff, and Austin.”

“Can I have it, too?” Tobin asked.

Martin smiled, shaking his head.

But by then Pete McMahon, the Bruins spokesman, had finished briefing the press, and the moment had arrived. Lights blared from above, even though the sky was clear and bright. Martin put his right arm around May and his left hand on Kylie’s head. He swallowed, his throat already parched. Although he had faced the media a thousand times, he had never felt so nervous or uneasy.

“Ready, Martin?” Pete asked, walking over. “And you, May?”

“I might need to kill you later,” Martin growled.

Pete laughed. Martin’s shoulder muscles rippled, exactly the way they did when he felt the urge to slam an opponent into the boards. But Pete was a good guy. Publicity was his job, not his fault.

He and Martin had huddled together on this, coming up with a strategy to face the media. In a Stanley Cup year, Boston was rabidly protective of its hockey stars. Pete had told Martin one tabloid had headlines set to call May “The Cartier Gold Digger,” and Martin had suggested Pete warn the editor to kill the tag or prepare for a new face. Martin wanted Pete to make the statement for them, but Pete suggested that by giving the press one fair shot at May and Kylie, they might head off future intrusion.

So Martin had agreed.

“All set, sweetheart?” Martin asked.

May nodded, looking nervous and excited. Martin scowled at Pete and nodded. Walking in front of the cameras, Pete straightened his tie and raked his hair back. The newscast would be carried live on certain Boston stations, and one producer began counting down. “Four, three, two…”

“On June seventeen, 2000, Martin Cartier married May Taylor at his lakeside home in the Laurentides, just north of Quebec, in Canada. It was a quiet, private ceremony attended only by family and close friends. They, along with Ms. Taylor’s daughter Kylie, welcome you now, and will be happy to answer your questions.”

“Cartier, Mommy,” Kylie said.

“I know, honey,” May whispered. She sounded suddenly terrified, and although she was talking to Kylie, she was staring into the wall of cameras like a deer caught in the headlights.

“But he called us Taylor, and now we’re Cartiers. Right?”

“Right, Kylie,” Martin said firmly as the entire crowd of reporters began to laugh, as Pete gave a desperate head shake and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think it’s funny,” Kylie said, frowning.

Now the questions came hard and fast.

“Martin, how did you meet?”

“Mrs. Cartier, what did you say to get him to notice you?”

“What time was the wedding? Who exactly were the guests?”

“When you say ‘family,’ was Serge Cartier aware of the ceremony? What was your father’s reaction? Did he send his good wishes? Have you introduced your bride to him yet?”

“Do you think your performance in the Stanley Cup finals was adversely affected by your imminent wedding plans?”

“For any wedding planner, this had to be the coup of the century! How’d you pull it off?”

“Why the rush to marry? Why the secrecy?”

“Ms. Taylor, do you feel you made him lose the Stanley Cup?”

“A rumor has surfaced regarding rose petals. May, can you explain—”

“Her name is ‘Mrs. Cartier,’ ” Martin said, his voice so forceful that many earphoned techs swore and ripped off their headsets.

“I’m sorry,” the reporter said. A smarmy jerk with hair too dark and perfect for his age and the light wind, he smiled and continued, “Mrs.
Cartier,
can you explain the story circulating in Boston now, that you gave Martin ‘rose petals’ ”—he might as well have been saying “Spanish fly”—“to carry during the play-offs?”

Martin wondered who had leaked the rose petals—had to have been someone on his own team. His back muscles trembled as he prepared to loosen the teeth in the reporter’s head, but May answered sharply, “When you love someone, you want to help in any way you can.”

“Help him fall in love with you, you mean?” the reporter asked.

“No, not exactly, although I was happy that that was the outcome,” May said directly, every inch of her shining as she smiled.

“Then you
did
intend—”

“She just answered you,” Martin said through clenched teeth, ignoring Pete’s wide-eyed warning gaze from the sidelines.

“To slip him a love potion?” the reporter continued.

“Mommy’s a wedding witch,” Kylie said proudly. “She makes people fall in love.”

Shutters whirred, and the crowd of reporters snickered and scrawled. They had just gotten what they wanted, Martin knew. They were looking for a way to bash May and Kylie had inadvertently given it to them. Not realizing, May beamed. She hugged Kylie from behind, rocking her back and forth.