The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (16 page)

By the light of a kerosene lantern, she tried to start reading her grandmother's yellowed and brittle
Gardens by the Sea,
one of the books she had brought over from
her
grandmother's house in Ireland. If she was going to start a new career, she was going to do it right. She would resurrect dead grass, restore vine-tangled borders, prune out-of-control rosebushes, make Black Hall gardens more beautiful than ever.

And amid all that beauty and new life, everyone would forget the things her husband had done.

But her kids would never forget. And they would never stop wondering why he had done them. And they would never stop loving him. And they might never, like Peggy, stop wishing that the year would stop right where it was: that the flowers would stay in bloom and the leaves wouldn't change and the snow wouldn't fall.

Because every day that passed took them farther away from their father, from the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand. And because no matter what Sean McCabe may have done to his customers, and to his wife, he was still the light of his children's eyes.

14

D
AD, ARE YOU THERE?
”

“I'm here, Eliza.”

“I didn't mean it—I swear I didn't.”

“Okay. Just keep being honest with your doctor.”

“I hate my doctor. He's an atheist.”

“But he's a very good physician. That's what counts.”

“You expect me to trust a man who doesn't believe in God?”

“First of all, I doubt very much that Dr. Reiss has discussed his religious beliefs with you. Second of all, regardless of what he believes, he's the best there is, and I want you to keep being open and honest with him,” Dan said, although what he wanted to say was “
start
being open and honest with him . . .”

“Great,” Eliza said, starting to cry. “You're calling your own daughter a liar. First a murderer, then a liar.”

“I have never, NEVER called you a murderer.”

“But you THINK it.”

Dan tensed his jaw and resumed planing the plank of teak supported between two sawhorses. As economical as he tried to make his movements, to keep them as quiet as possible, Eliza heard. “You are working, aren't you?”

“I'm in my shop, yes.”

“Your only daughter calls you practically from DEATH'S DOOR, and you're happily building someone a pretty little sailboat. How WONDERFUL for them, so they'll have a Daniel Connolly original, to go tra-la-la-la-ing in, sailing, sailing, fucking sailing into the goddamn sunset with—”

“Eliza.”

“The goddamn FUCKING sunset.”

“That's enough. You're not even supposed to be talking on the phone. Now go back to group and let the doctors take care of you.”

“I want to come home.”

“You will. As soon as you're ready.”

“Right NOW, Dad. Today!”

“You can't come home today. I couldn't legally get you out today, even if I thought it was a good idea.”

“I'm supposed to see Annie tomorrow!”

“She knows you're not available.”

“You didn't TELL her!” she wailed.

“No, of course not. I said you were away for a short time.”

“GREAT, Dad. Just as I get a friend, a real friend, you have to tell her I'm locked up . . .”

“Eliza, pull yourself together. I did not say you were locked up.”

“Well, of course she'll figure it out! She'd know the only reason I wouldn't see her would be if wild horses dragged me away or a shark ate me or I was locked up!”

“Maybe she's not as . . . lyrical as you are. Maybe she just thinks you're visiting your grandmother.”

“We are soul sisters, Dad,” Eliza said. “I know she knows the truth.”

“Well, if you're really soul sisters, she'd probably know the truth whether I screwed up and said the wrong thing or not,” Dan said. The scary thing was, Eliza's logic was starting to make sense to him.

“The minute I get out, I'm seeing her.”

“Fine.”

“Don't patronize me, Dad. Just because I'm in here,” she growled.

“Never.”

“Hey, I learned a new grounding technique. Want to hear?” she asked, her voice and mood changing completely, suddenly sounding like his sweet little girl instead of the reincarnation of Bela Lugosi.

“Sure. What is it?”

“Frozen oranges. You stick an orange in the freezer, and when you feel yourself going off, you take it in your hands. It feels so cold and solid . . . and it smells wonderful. Will you put an orange in the freezer for me? For when I come home?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Now she was silent, and so was Dan, but the line fairly shook with the emotion between them.

“I'm sorry I did it,” she whispered.

“I wish you hadn't,” he said. “I wish you could have talked to me instead.”

“I just keep thinking I'd be better off dead. You wouldn't have to look at me and know that Mom died because of me.”

Dan squeezed his eyes shut. His heart lurched as he thought of Charlie's death, of Eliza keening for hours afterward. That single night—with his anguish and horror—was the reason for all his daughter's problems now, had caused all her scars, inside and out. He was certain of it. He should have done a much better job of just loving his suddenly motherless child.

So he was very careful now, knowing he held Eliza's life in the palm of his hand, as he held back his own tears and cleared his throat.

“You're so wrong,” he lied. “I never look at you that way.”

“Promise, Dad?” she wept.

“Oh, I promise, Eliza. My sweet girl—I promise. Just talk to your doctor, and get well, and come home.”

“Will you send me another phone card, Dad?” she cried. “Or bring me one when you visit?”

“I will, Eliza. Now go back to group.”

“Okay. Bye, Dad. Call me!”

“Soon,” he said. “I'll call you soon.”

When they hung up, he put all his strength into planing the board. Teak was so hard and true. The grain was fine. He kept at it, feeling one hand on the steel plane, one on the smooth teak as curls of wood fell at his feet. That's what he loved about his work—it was so solid, and it was so satisfying to see the results: a smooth board, a well-joined boat.

If only life could be that way.

Back when he had been working on the boardwalk at Hubbard's Point, he had had such young ideas about love. He and Charlie had fallen in love the next year, after he'd returned from a trip to Ireland; shortly after that he had proposed to her. In some ways she was the opposite of Bay—cool, reserved, with a mysterious unhappiness that Dan had, at first, considered a romantic challenge: He would make her the happiest woman alive.

And they had gotten married, in the church on the green in Stonington, where he'd sworn to love her for the rest of his life. And he'd done his best. . . .

They had tried to have a baby for twelve years, and had just about given up when Eliza came along. Dan had been bowled over with love for his daughter. He still found it hard to fathom this: Eliza not only cemented him and Charlie as a family, but she was proof of miracles right here on earth.

“She's ours,” Charlie had said once, within the circle of Dan's arms, while Eliza slept in her crib.

“No, she's
us,
” Dan had corrected—and she was. The tiny girl, a very distinct person in her own right, had her father's eyes and chin, her mother's nose and cheeks. Looking at her was like seeing a miracle come to life: Dan—who made graceful, amazing boats out of white cedar planking and silicon-bronze screws—was a total hack amateur creator when it came to this league. Eliza's presence in the world bonded her parents together as nothing else could.

Until the night of the accident.

Dan couldn't deny that, in some sense, Eliza was right. When he looked at her, he still saw her mother—and all the hopes that had died the night of her accident. Dan had never stopped believing it was his job to make her happy, his remote, elusive Charlie. That last year of her life, Charlie had seemed to come more alive, gotten more interested in things—and Dan had hoped she would finally feel that sense of joy he'd always wanted to give her but had never felt she truly shared.

Now Dan knew he had lost the chance to have a happy wife, a close marriage. He'd seen the life they'd been building all those years come crashing down. He could never blame Eliza for it—he never would. But she reminded him of what had happened; and sometimes, when he looked in her eyes, he saw hints of her mother's unhappiness, and he almost couldn't stand it.

Dan had already lost his wife and his sense of hope and, for what it was worth, security: his little unit of love and family. Now he felt on the verge of losing even more. He felt he was on the brink of losing his daughter.

As he tried to persuade the steam-bent frames into shape aft, he felt all the muscles in his back and shoulders strain and burn, and he suddenly thought of another parent in pain: Bay McCabe.

This summer was ending soon, and she had the fall and winter to look forward to. Her kids' first Thanksgiving and Christmas without their dad. He hoped the McCabe children wouldn't shatter the way Eliza had. As Dan leaned harder into the curved frame, he was glad for the work and wished Bay would have something to distract her from the worries he knew she had, and the ones he knew were coming. Dan had some new fears of his own: That anonymous call, asking for Sean McCabe, meant that someone knew something. It had to be a warning, but of what?

Even though it was still August, and the shed was thick with sawdust and summer's damp heat, Dan felt a shiver go through his bones as if it were the dead of December. He thought of the moon, of how much Bay loved it. Would it comfort her now? He hoped she'd look out her window tonight and know that he was there for her.

And later that night, unable to sleep, with his daughter miles away in the hospital, Dan pulled himself out of bed. He went to the window, to look. There it was, angling overhead, the white moon—not quite full, but getting there.

“An obvious moon,” Bay would have said to him years ago. “I like the crescent moon better, just resting on top of the sunset . . .”

But it was all they had that night, so Dan found himself getting into his truck. It was after two in the morning as he drove west. The almost-full moon lit his way, weaving a path of silver on the water he glimpsed from the highway. New London spread out beneath the Gold Star Bridge. He caught sight of his boatyard, just a few piers south of the railroad station, the boats' masts glistening in the mysterious light.

When he got to the Hubbard's Point exit, he turned off and wound down the Shore Road. The countryside was dark and quiet, all the trees blocking the moonlight. He felt strange, excited, as if he had a mission and he needed to accomplish it before moonset.

Under the train trestle, right toward the marsh, he drove through the sleeping community. The small cottages were all dark, their beach toys stacked on the porches until the morning.

He parked in the sandy parking lot, walked past the boat basin to stand on the boardwalk. From here he had the best view anyone could have of the moon: Tilting westward in the sky, just above the big rock behind the raft, it spread its white light like a blanket on the waves.

Could Bay see it from her window?

He wanted her to . . .

Staring across the marsh, he saw her house. Sean had bragged about it, of course. The big white farmhouse had been separate from the beach at one time; the farmer who owned it had used the salt flats to graze his sheep. Dan was glad that Bay owned such a great Hubbard's Point landmark. He would have killed Sean himself if he'd known that his recklessness would put Bay and the children's house in jeopardy.

The moon was hazy around the edges: from summer's humidity, and from the fact that it was a few days shy of being really full.

“Obvious” . . . what a potent word. Too bad Dan had never thought more about it, paid more attention to the obvious things in life. He had always been more drawn to the subtle mysteries.

As he watched Bay's house, he saw a light upstairs go on. His heart sped up. He wished she would look out her window, see the moon, walk down to the boardwalk to see it on the water. The boardwalk they had built together.

Dan wanted to talk to her. He wanted to tell her the whole story. Even more, he longed to be with a woman with whom he'd built something. Right now his chest was aching so hard, his heart hurting so badly . . . He really wanted to talk to Bay, to enjoy her gentle presence in his life again. To have her remind him to look up at the sky.

It was as obvious as the almost-full moon, over the big rock.

ON THE LAST TUESDAY BEFORE LABOR DAY, WHEN TARA
went
to work at Mrs. Renwick's, Bay accompanied her. She wore her garden clothes: chinos, a long-sleeved blue chambray shirt, white socks, green plastic clogs. And she brought her ratty old straw hat, soft deerskin gloves with a four-inch gauntlet to protect her arms from thorns, and her old Girl Scout canteen filled with ice water.

“You're the only holdout I know, still putting tap water in that thing.”

“I'm not going to spend a dollar on bottled water,” Bay said, staring at the Renwick manse as if it were a haunted castle. “That's the whole reason I'm doing this—because we need the money.”

“Can you imagine what we'd have said, back when we were kids, if someone ever told us that we'd be paying someone a buck for water? What a bunch of suckers we all are,” Tara said.

“That's for sure,” Bay said, yawning because she hadn't slept well the last few nights. The moon had been shining through her windows, trying to pull her down to the beach.

The two friends stood outside Augusta's house, right by the kitchen door. Most of the windows were open, and white curtains were blowing around on the cross-ventilation of a breeze coming off the sea. Bay glanced up, thought she saw a shadow pass the window.

“Is Augusta in there?” Bay asked.

“Probably,” Tara said. “But she's pretty reclusive. She asked me to get you started.”

“Well, you tell her that next summer she's going to have the most beautiful flowers on the coastline. Just look at those bushes! Black Beauty roses, hydrangeas, lilies,
anemones . . .”