The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (29 page)

29

T
HERE HAD BEEN A FEW SLEEPLESS NIGHTS. LYING IN
bed, thinking of what he'd said and how he could have said it differently. The local papers were full of ads and stories about the Pumpkin Ball, and the morning after—following another night of lying awake—Dan wondered whether maybe Bay had gone, whether she had dressed up like a witch and tried to forget the stuff he had laid at her feet.

He worked all day, dividing his time between two boats he was trying to finish. The clock ticked by—should he call her? He could say he just wanted to see how she was doing. Or he could try to explain a little more.

Pride was a weird thing. Almost as bad as being taken by a con was knowing how close he had come, and not just by anyone: by the husband of a woman he was falling in love with. Telling the FBI the whole story really stuck in his throat.

Joe had listened, taking notes; at one point, he asked Dan if he wanted to have a lawyer present. Dan had stayed calm, kept a poker face. But he'd been shaking inside.

“You withheld information,” Joe said. “This could have helped us sooner, to know that Sean had wanted to use your daughter's trust fund. It might have helped explain that anonymous call you got last summer.”

“How?” Dan asked.

“Someone knows your connection to Sean. The call might have been an attempt to learn if you wanted ‘in' on a continuing operation. Or it could have been a subtle threat—maybe you know too much. Why didn't you come forward?”

“This is new to me,” Dan said roughly. “Living in the middle of an investigation. I have a very sensitive daughter. Anything regarding her mother needs to be handled carefully. I don't want her around this. What do you mean, ‘threat'?”

“It's your daughter's trust McCabe was going after,” Joe said. “Didn't you think that should come to light? And don't you think his partners would still want it?”

“Look, I protected it from him—I'm sure he told his ‘partners,' whoever they are. I did my part, and now I want it over. We live private lives around here—I don't like being studied, or feeling as if I have to report in to you or anyone else. Okay?”

Dan was really sick of guys in suits and the half-truths they lived by; it made him even sicker that for ten seconds he had been tempted to join them. That was the only real threat he could think of. Money was bizarre. He had become a boatbuilder because it was pure, something true, and because it was far from the rat race. But it came with expenses, just like anything else.

Eliza should be home from school, or would be soon. He'd call her in a little while, ask what she'd like for dinner.

But he had a bit of time before he needed to be home. Having unburdened himself to Joe, feeling free, he couldn't wait any longer to see Bay. He climbed into his truck and started it up, and with his foot heavy on the gas, headed westward, toward Hubbard's Point.

ELIZA HAD LINED UP HER PEAS: TWELVE OF THEM.

They had been frozen, and she had defrosted them. Cooking them would remove too much of their flavor and crunch. Even too much of their nutrition. Eliza wanted to want to be healthy. She was a step or so removed from actuality and realization, but she really
was
trying to improve her eating habits.

She poured a tall glass of water.

Then she put on her favorite Andrea Boccelli CD and lit a candle. If she made eating seem special, maybe she'd want to do it more. She looked out the window, wondering when her father would be home.

Sitting down, she ate the first pea, chewing it thoroughly. Her gaze roamed the kitchen. The knot in her stomach wasn't as bad as it used to be as she thought about her mother: how she used to fix Eliza's dinner. Until Eliza had seen her kissing Mr. McCabe, her eating had been mostly normal. The anorexia had kicked in right afterward.

It felt so good to have told Annie. In fact, the relief of divulging the truth to someone had made her want to tell even more of it: to her father. As they said at Banquo, “You're only as sick as your secrets.” Perhaps that was truer than Eliza ever would have believed.

Midway through chewing her third pea, she decided to do something even more special for herself: drink her water on ice, from her silver cup. Now, this was progress. This was fighting the demons, moving through the illness, taking a step toward healing.

Her mother had given the cup to her. It had come through the line of ancestors, all the way back to the general: the most romantic military figure in the history of the United States, or maybe anywhere in the world. General John Samuel Johnson had had the cup struck by Paul Revere himself, as a gift for his beloved, Diana Field Atwood. And he had delivered it to her across the frozen river.

As a baby, Eliza had drunk her milk from the cup.

Her mother used to tease her, saying she might be the only little girl in America to be drinking her milk from a cup made by Paul Revere. She had taught Eliza to recite the first part of the Longfellow poem the way other little children learned nursery rhymes:

Listen, my children, and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year.

Although Eliza had long ago outgrown drinking milk from a baby cup, a
quart militaire,
even one as precious as hers, she had always loved knowing that it was right here in her house, for her to see and hold whenever she felt like it. And this was the first time since the accident that Eliza had felt like it.

Padding into the dining room she opened the cupboard. There was her doll china—tiny monogrammed cups and saucers. But behind them . . . it was empty! Eliza reached in and felt around: it couldn't be true. She gasped, on her knees now, peering inside. It was gone! Her special, priceless Revolutionary War heirloom, made by Paul Revere, gone . . .

Inherited from her mother, who had inherited it from her mother, who had inherited it from HER mother, all the way back to Diana, who had received it from the general! It had been in a special little cabinet her father had built for her—a miniature version of the desk in his office, carved of Honduran mahogany with mermaids and scallop shells, to hold her doll dishes and the silver cup—but the silver cup wasn't there now!

Frantic, Eliza tore through the room, searching through the sideboard, on the bookshelves, even under the chairs. Where could it be? The cup was priceless—putting it mildly. Not only was it part of a legend, but it had been her mother's most precious gift to her.

And no matter what her mother might have done, she was Eliza's one and only mother, and she loved her, and when she was a little girl her mother had let her drink her milk from that cup and it had been their special time. What other mother would let her child drink milk from a priceless antique!

“Oh, God, oh, God,” Eliza cried and prayed as she searched the house. Eliza sobbed, circling the room, wringing her hands. She felt paralyzed. A robber had obviously stolen it! Her father wouldn't have moved her cup . . . She had to call Annie; Annie would help her know what to do. Grabbing the phone, she dialed Annie's phone number.

“Annie, Annie,” she said out loud, waiting for her friend to answer.

Just then, there was a knock on the door.

Eliza jerked her head toward the sound and then looked back at the phone. What should she do? She wasn't really supposed to answer the door . . . But she was very upset, and she needed to see who was there.

Peeking out the window, she felt at first puzzled, but then relieved.

“Mr. Boland!” she said, opening the door. “I was just about to call the police! Someone took my cup, my silver Revolutionary War cup.”

“They did? Are you sure?”

“Positive. It's gone.”

And suddenly it felt a little strange, to be seeing Mr. Boland at her house. Previously, Eliza and her mother had seen him only at the bank, with Annie's father, and that had been enough—Eliza had found those banking excursions to be so incredibly dull. But now, seeing him just brought back sadness; she'd gladly endure a boring day at the bank to have her mother back.

“Um, excuse me, but I have to call the police now.”

“Well, I'm just glad you haven't done that yet.”

“Why?” Eliza asked, thinking she had heard his voice much more recently than at the bank . . .

Eliza, Eliza, your mother wants you . . .

And, then, watching a small yellow sponge emerge, her heart racing with fear she felt but didn't understand, she tried to back away. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

She smelled something sweeter than a garden of flowers, and sank heavily to the floor.

THE PHONE HAD RUNG, BUT BY THE TIME ANNIE FOUND
the
portable, the person had hung up. She held the receiver, listening to the dial tone for a minute. She hoped it was Eliza, and that she would call back; Annie had something huge to do, and she needed moral support. She could check caller ID—the box was on the table. But just then she heard her mother's car in the driveway, and she knew she'd have to do it without Eliza's help.

“Mommy,” Annie said. “Can I talk to you?”

Just inside the door, her mother's eyes looked faraway and awfully sad, the way they used to all the time when her father was still alive, out at night instead of home. Annie's stomach dropped, and she almost lost her nerve, because she didn't want to add to her mother's pain, just when she had started seeming happy again sometimes.

“Of course, honey,” her mother said.

Billy and Peggy were each in their own rooms, reading or doing homework. Annie had been watching through the window, in the gathering twilight, for her mother's headlights, but now that she was actually here, Annie wasn't at all sure about this. How could she be the one to break her mother's heart? Perhaps she should wait, talk to Eliza first . . .

“Would you like some tea?” her mother asked. “It's getting so cold out.”

“No, that's okay,” Annie said, forcing herself to be brave. “Can we talk in my room?”

Together they went upstairs, and her mother stopped to check the thermostat in the hallway. It had been so cold, they'd turned the furnace on early this year. But Annie knew her mother was very worried about money, conscious of keeping the heat down as much as they could. She dialed it down another notch.

“I can't believe it's November,” Annie said.

“Seems like summer was just yesterday,” her mother answered.

“Summer . . .” Annie said, looking out her bedroom window at the bare trees scratching the darkening sky. Summer seemed so out of reach, impossibly far away.

“It will come back, honey.” Her mother smiled a little, as if she could read her mind. “Summer will be here again before we know it.”

“It doesn't feel that way,” Annie said, her voice breaking. “It feels as if winter will last forever, and it's not even here yet.”

“Oh, Annie . . .”

“Mom, Dad kissed Eliza's mother,” Annie blurted out.

Her mother flinched, as if she had been slapped. She just stood there, her mouth slightly open, trying to make sense of what Annie had said. Was she picturing it in her mind, as Annie had done a hundred times? Did the image of her father kissing another woman hurt her mother as much as it did Annie?

“Sweetheart, who told you that?”

“Eliza,” Annie said.

“Hmm,” her mother said. She hugged herself, as if she was suddenly cold, and she turned away from Annie. Taking a deep breath, Annie could almost read her mind: She was trying to find a way to make this better for Annie. To say,
Honey, your father wouldn't do that.
Or,
I'm sure Eliza was mistaken. Don't say those things,
Annie silently begged now.

And her mother didn't.

“Did she say how she knows?” she asked instead.

“She saw them. She said her mother had business with Daddy at the bank,” Annie said, and the relief of spilling the truth was so great, she began to let go inside, to feel tears in her throat and her eyes. “They used to go to the bank, Eliza and her mother, and Daddy was their banker.”

“I know,” her mother said.

“They have a trust,” Annie said. “It means they have a lot of money. But they don't seem that way, do they? They seem so normal.”

“They do,” her mother said. Her voice was steady and calm, but her face was very pale. “Did Eliza say anything else?”

“No. Just that they were in the car one time, and they thought she was asleep, and they kissed.”

“I'm sorry Eliza had to see that,” her mother said. “And I'm so sorry that you've had to learn about it. Have you kept this inside for a long time?”

“Since the night they came for dinner,” Annie said, her forehead wrinkling with worry. “She told me over at Little Beach. I felt someone watching us—Eliza talks about ‘evil people' who want her. I thought I heard them walking in the woods, following us down the beach. Do you think it was real? Or my imagination?”

“I don't know, Annie; Eliza is very sensitive and fragile. Maybe she conjured it in her imagination, and it began to seem real to both of you,” her mother said, but Annie could tell she was totally distracted by the other revelation.