The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (30 page)

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but I didn't want to upset you.”

“So you protected me,” Bay said, trying to smile. Annie nodded and went over to hug her, and she and her mother stood there for a long time. Annie didn't want to let go.

“Why did Daddy do it?” Annie asked.

“Kiss Eliza's mother? Honey, I don't know—”

“No, I mean, why did he kiss
any
of them? And why did he take that money? Did he really take drugs? Was he going to run away? Why didn't he just want to stay home, and be our dad?”

“It had nothing to do with you,” her mother said forcefully, taking Annie's shoulders and giving them a gentle shake. “Don't think that. Ever, okay?”

“I can't help it,” Annie said, feeling the tears well up again, a sob filling her chest. “If I had been better . . . I know he thought I was ugly, that I couldn't control myself. He always talked about my weight. If I hadn't eaten so much, he would have stayed home. Or if I'd played field hockey, or basketball—”

“That had nothing to do with why your father did the things he did. He was unhappy inside, Annie. We don't know why, but he was.”

“So we should feel sorry for him?” Annie wept, wanting that to be true. It was so much easier to have pity for her father than to feel anger at the things he'd done.

“We could,” her mother said, “feel sorry for him. But we can feel a whole range of other things for him, too, including incredibly angry. They're all okay, Annie.”

“I wish . . . I wish . . . Eliza hadn't seen him doing that. I don't want her to know.”

Her mother just held her, listening.

“She's my best friend; I don't want her to think of Daddy that way. She said he was so nice to her at the bank, and then she saw him doing that. I like that he was nice to her . . . I wish the rest had never happened!”

“So do I, Annie,” her mother said into her hair.

“I'm glad I told you,” Annie said after a long minute. “That I
could
tell you. Eliza doesn't want her dad to know. He idolizes her mom, and she's afraid of destroying what he thinks.”

“Parents know a lot more than their kids give them credit for,” Bay said. “Eliza might be surprised by what her father really thinks.”

“Really?”

Her mother nodded.

Annie let that sink in, but she found herself thinking of her father again. She wished he could see her getting thinner. If only he was right here right now. He would know how much he'd hurt her, but how much she still loved him.

And then, as she watched, her mother walked across the room, to take Annie's model boat off the bookshelf. Annie ached, just to remember how much love she had put into it. Her father had appreciated it so much, too. He had held it for so long, examining every board, every line, the color of the paint.

“He promised me he'd keep it with him always,” Annie whispered.

“I know he did,” her mother said, with surprising bitterness in her voice and eyes.

“It was a symbol of my love,” Annie said. “And it still is.”

“I know, honey. It always will be.”

“Do you think Daddy knows? Wherever he is right now?”

“I hope so,” her mother said, her face flushed, her voice cracking. “I really, really hope he does.”

Just then, Tara's voice came calling up from downstairs. Annie's mother set the boat down on the desk, and kissed her. “Let's talk more after dinner, sweetheart,” she said as she left the room. Annie picked up her little boat again and heard something rattle. Maybe a piece of wood had come loose. She couldn't see anything wrong, and started to look more closely. But first she had to check to see if the call had been Eliza. She bet it was . . .

As she headed downstairs to check caller ID, she heard voices coming from the den.

Best friends, Annie thought, scrolling through caller ID. That's what best friends were for: to talk, to listen . . .

She found the last call—yes, it had been Eliza. There was the by-now-familiar Mystic number . . . and the time: 4:45
P
.
M
.

A record of the exact moment Annie's mother had come home and walked into the terrible, hard truth about another woman in her dad's life. And Eliza, just by making that call, had somehow been with Annie, giving her strength, offering her blessing.

Annie dialed the number, and it was busy.

Okay, she thought. Try again. Still busy.

Seven more tries. She looked at the clock: now it was 5:50. She tried ten more times, once a minute, until six o'clock.

With every call, Annie's emotions changed. She started out being neutral, fine. Then she felt a little jealous: Whom could Eliza be talking to? Did she have another close friend? Then momentarily relief: Maybe she was on the phone with her dad. But that idea went out the window as the time ticked by: NO ONE talked on the phone with their parents more than a minute or two. Finally, at six, her strongest and growing emotion was worry.

Her mother and Tara walked into the kitchen. Their faces brightened up at the sight of Annie.

“Hi, Annie,” Tara said. “How are you?”

“I'm worried about Eliza.”

“Why?” her mother asked.

“Because she called earlier, just before you came home, and I've been trying to call her back, and I keep getting a busy signal.”

“Maybe she's talking to someone else,” her mother said.

Annie shrugged. “I know it's possible, but I just have this feeling . . . this awful feeling. I can't explain it.”

Her mother and Tara exchanged glances. “You don't have to,” her mother said. “We get it.”

“Call the operator and tell her you want the line checked,” Tara said.

“How do you do that?”

“Dial ‘O' and give her Eliza's number. Say you want to know whether there's conversation on the line, and ask her to break through. Tell her it's an emergency.”

“But what if it's not?”

“Then you'll say you're sorry.” Tara smiled.

“Go ahead, honey,” her mother said. “If you're worried . . .”

“Your mother and I do it to each other all the time,” Tara urged. “It's a very best-friend thing to do.”

Annie felt very grown up and efficient as she gave the operator Eliza's phone number and waited, just knowing she'd be mortified when Eliza came on and Annie told her she had the operator break in just because the line had been busy for fifteen minutes . . .

But then the operator came back on to thank Annie, telling her that there was no conversation, that the line appeared to be out of order, and thank you for reporting it.

“Well?” Tara asked.

“Honey?”

“Something's wrong,” Annie said, her heart starting to race. “The phone is out of order at her house. Something's happened to Eliza—I can feel it!”

BAY UNDERSTOOD THAT FEELING SO, SO WELL: THE GUT
feeling
that harm has befallen someone you love. She had felt it about Sean so many times, over the years, when she didn't know where he was. When she saw the panic in Annie's eyes, heard it in her voice, she began to churn inside, too.

“What can we do, Mom?” Annie begged.

Bay took a breath. “We can call her father at the boatyard,” she said.

“Or I could call Joe,” Tara said slowly. “She's probably fine. She probably just knocked the phone off the hook and didn't realize it . . .”

“No, but, we don't
know,
” Annie said. “It could be something
awful.
”

Bay nodded at Annie, trying to pass on a sense of calmness. She knew the moment had less to do with any danger Eliza might be in than with giving Annie a feeling that she was doing something, not just stewing with worry. “I'll call Danny,” she said.

“Looks like you might not have to,” Tara said, pulling back the curtain and looking into the driveway. Bay's pulse skipped a few beats as Tara said, “It's him.”

“Mr. Connolly? Why is he here?” Annie asked.

“Come on, Annie,” Tara said. “Let's let your mother have a word with him.”

“But I have to tell him about Eliza!”

“Your mother will. Won't you, Bay?” Tara asked, tugging Annie's hand.

“Yes. I promise.”

Bay watched them as they left the kitchen, Annie reluctantly following Tara down the hall. Her palms felt sticky, her heart sore, as she stood by the door, waiting for him to knock. She heard his feet on the steps, and then a long pause, as if he was getting up his nerve. Bay stood very still, holding the doorknob, conscious of the fact that he was doing the same thing outside.

He knocked; she pulled the door open.

“Bay—”

“Why did you come?” she asked. “Didn't we say everything at your office?”

“No,” he said. He stood out in the cold, cheeks flushed, eyes intense. She could read so many things in his face: He was tense, and he was sorry, and he wanted to take it all back and make things right between them again—when they weren't his to make right.

“This is about me and Sean,” she whispered, and that was really all she had to say.

“I'm so sorry,” he said. “You don't know how much—”

“It doesn't matter,” she said. “None of it is your fault.”

“But I care about you!” he said, his voice rising. He reached out to clasp her hand, but she pulled it away. In the split second that their fingers touched, she felt a jolt straight to her heart.

“I've spent my life loving you,” she said. “I didn't even know, until I saw you at the beginning of the summer . . . I thought I had you in perspective, and I thought that perspective was about a beautiful memory. Of someone who cared about me, who took time with me, who took care of me when I hurt myself. Someone who was different.”

“All those things are still true,” he said. “You have to believe me, Bay.”

She looked up into his dark blue eyes, gazing directly into hers with a challenge and just a glimmer of humor in them.

“Because I'm an idiot,” she said. “I see what I want to see—that's what happened with Sean. I was shocked when you told me what he wanted you to do.”

He shook his head, hands in his front pockets. A cold November wind blew off the Sound, across the marsh.

“I know,” he said.

“I wish you had told me sooner,” she said. “That first week, when I first showed up at your office. I don't like that you kept it from me.”

“You don't believe in forgiving a friend?”

That stopped her short.

“I believe in it,” she said quietly, riveted by his eyes. She thought of the men who ran away from talking, from trying to make things better, and she knew, by the sincerity in his voice, in his eyes, that he was serious, but that she had no idea how to do this. This man gave everything of himself. He deserved no less. But she was empty, hollow.

Life with Sean had taught her nothing about working things out in a relationship; he had worn her down. She felt unutterably raw, just thinking about it now. It was all she could do to keep it together for Annie and Billy and Pegeen. She had nothing left for Dan. Not now. Not for a long time, if ever.

“I told Agent Holmes everything I told you,” he said.

“You did?” she asked.

“Yes. Whatever help it can be. I told myself I wanted to keep Eliza out of this whole mess.”

“Eliza!” Bay said, remembering.

“Yes . . . what about her?”

“Annie was worried,” Bay said. “I don't think it's anything, but she's been trying to call Eliza, and the phone is off the hook.”

“Our phone?” Dan asked, frowning.

“Yes. And she had the operator verify the line—there's no conversation.”

“God, Eliza,” Dan said, seeming to turn pale before Bay's eyes. Suddenly, thinking of Eliza's self-harm, cutting, thoughts of suicide, Bay's stomach dropped and she berated herself for not saying something immediately.

“Go,” Bay said, touching his shoulder. “Do you want to call a neighbor from here? To have them check on her?”

“I have a cell phone,” he said, fumbling in his pocket. “I'll call from the truck. Bay—” he began. “Bay, will you . . .”

“I'll come with you, Danny,” she said.

And then she ran in to tell Tara and Annie that she was going with him, that she'd be back soon, that they should keep trying Eliza's line to see if they could reach her.

30

S
HE WAS ON A SHIP.

Rocking on the waves.

Tossed back and forth like a piece of cargo in the hold.

Everything dark red, the color of wine, the color of blood.

A sweet taste, marzipan, rising up inside, filling her nostrils, a memory of the yellow sponge.

And she smelled gasoline, exhaust. Sick to her stomach, tape over her mouth, a blindfold over her eyes. Seasick, carsick. And scared . . . starting to cry because she was on a boat and she didn't like boats and because she was going to throw up. Making the sounds of getting sick, wriggling around on her side, her hands and feet tied.

“Oh, God.” The angry voice. “Pull over!”

The tape pulled off her mouth as the ship—no, not a ship at all, but a car, a vehicle—swerved to the side of the road for Eliza to stumble out, to bend over, throwing up what little she had in her stomach all over the road and her shoes.

And no one to hold her head or stroke her hair, because she hated vomiting; she was scared of how violent it always felt; she had always felt so sorry for all the bulimics at Banquo. So, crying now, wanting her mommy and daddy, she gulped in fresh air and, because they had stood back to let her vomit, she tried to run.

Feet tied, hands tied, she tried—and fell to the ground, facedown, hard. The sound of a crack—bone against tar. The worst dizziness she had ever felt, head spinning, salt in her mouth—no, blood. Her tongue, her lip split, running her hurt tongue around inside, sharp surfaces in front—her two front teeth broken.

Spitting out blood, crying harder, a hand on her arm, helping her up.

“Don't touch me!” Eliza's voice high, shrill, surprisingly loud in her own ears—a revelation. She couldn't run, but she could scream.

“Help me, help me, help!”

Hand over her mouth, trying to grab her from behind, to control her, biting and kicking and flailing—the other slamming the door, rushing over to subdue her, the blindfold slipping from her eyes—nighttime, dark, a streetlight shining just enough . . .

“Oh, God!”

“Get it out, hurry—” to the other person.

“Oh, God!” Eliza shrieking at the sight, not of the sweet-soaked yellow sponge that was coming back her way, but the car she'd been riding in that wasn't a car at all—

It was a maroon van.

She had seen it before, but not for a long time, not for more than a year, not since the worst day of her life, not since she had seen it strike her mother on a lonely country road . . .

Not since she had seen it kill her mother.

EVEN IN THE DARKNESS, BAY COULD SEE WHAT A
beautiful
house the Connollys had. It was an old sea captain's home on Granite Street, directly across the Mystic River from the Seaport. A white Federal with a broad porch and Doric columns, gleaming black shutters, brass ship's lanterns—unlit—on either side of the wide door.

The view made Bay feel that she had stepped into another era: the dark river, and on the other side, the ghostly spars of old whaling ships. The Seaport buildings silent at night, but wind in the ships' rigging clanging with tuneless but eerily affecting music.

“The lights are out,” Dan said, parking in the driveway, getting out of the car. “She always puts them on for me.”

Bay took a breath, followed him up the brick sidewalk, up the wide granite steps to the front door. As soon as he put his hand on the knob, she knew something was wrong—the door swung open.

“She always keeps it locked,” he said, rushing inside.

Bay went in behind him. She had the impression of faded gentility, beautifully burnished furniture passed down through generations: an ebony chest, a Newport desk, Hitchcock chairs, paintings of ships and the Seaport, brass lamps, a Tabriz rug.

Through the dining room, where, from the light of one candlestick lamp, Bay noticed a cabinet door wide open, into the kitchen. The lights were on here—bright overhead lights, illuminating Eliza's dinner.

“Eliza!” Dan yelled, running through the house. “Eliza!”

“Oh, God,” Bay whispered, staring at the huge dinner plate with Eliza's dinner on it: nine shriveled peas. The poor girl, the poor baby, Bay thought, thinking also of Annie.

“She's not here,” Dan said, tearing into the kitchen. “What did she do to herself?”

“Dan,” Bay began.

“She's been suicidal before,” he said, raking his hand through his hair, pacing the room. “She's cut herself, talked about drowning herself . . .”

“Dan, I don't think she's hurt herself,” Bay said. She took his arm, led him to the table, showed him Eliza's plate. “She was trying to eat.”

He stared at the peas, and Bay knew that only the parent of a child with eating disorders would understand, would comprehend the good news on that plate.

“She was,” he agreed, eyes closing with momentary relief, then blinking open. “You're right, Bay. But where could she be?”

They wandered through the first floor, through rooms that Bay found beautiful, impeccable, but somehow cold. Where were the pictures of Eliza? Where were her school drawings and wall hangings? The plaster-of-paris molds of her hands? The shells and rocks she would have picked up and painted?

There, over the mantel, a portrait of a young woman. Bay stood still, staring into her amber eyes. It was an exquisite portrait of Charlotte Day as a debutante: white satin dress, long white gloves, soft brown pageboy, perfect bow lips, but a smile that didn't quite touch her eyes.

The woman who had kissed Bay's husband.

Gazing at the picture, Bay felt a visceral, churning dislike for Charlie Connolly—for her perfect, impersonal house, for the way she had lied to her husband, for the fact she had kissed Sean in front of her daughter, sleeping or not.

“That's Charlie,” Dan said, pausing, standing beside Bay to regard the painting.

“I figured.”

“It was done by Wadsworth Howe—one of Renwick's contemporaries. Her parents commissioned it for her eighteenth birthday, after her coming-out party. I've thought I should have one done of Eliza . . .”

Bay shook her head, never looking away from Charlie's cold stare. “It would never do Eliza justice,” she said. “A portrait like that could NEVER capture Eliza's sweetness and spirit. Never.”

Dan noticed her tone, and it took him aback. He stared down at Bay, shocked, and she came very close to telling him that she didn't like his wife, that she considered Charlie to be the perfect candidate for pristine entombment in a debutante portrait, but they still had to find Eliza, so she held her tongue.

“Come on,” Bay said. “It's late, it's dark, she hasn't eaten. We have to find her.”

“But where? Where could she be?”

“Something at her school?”

Dan shook his head. “I wish. Eliza's a self-proclaimed hermit. She says she's practicing for joining the convent.”

“And this is her cloister,” Bay said sadly, thinking of a young girl walled up—by choice—in her own home, her father working too hard to keep ahead of his bills, and the memory of a dead mother who had kissed another man.

Thinking of the four wounded children, her three and Eliza, Bay accompanied Dan back the way they'd come, looking for something they missed. In the dining room, Bay again noticed the open cabinet door.

“What's that?” she asked.

“A cupboard I made for Eliza's tea set,” Dan said. “She loved her grandfather's desk so much, I tried to carve some of the same things into the door.”

Bay crouched down, to see the shells, fish, mermaid, sea monster, and Poseidon. She reached inside, took out one of the blue cups and saucers—tiny, monogrammed with Eliza's initials—and imagined Eliza serving tea to her dolls.

“Oh,” Dan said, standing above Bay, brushing her shoulder with his hand as he opened the door a little wider. “The general's cup is in there. Remember the one I told you about?”

“The one that proves there's true love?” Bay asked, as his hand lingered just slightly on her shoulder.

“Yes,” he said.

Bay peered inside. The cupboard was filled with shadow, and Dan moved the candlestick lamp closer, to illuminate the interior. Two stacks of doll-sized plates, cups, and saucers were inside, as well as a teapot, pitcher, and sugar bowl.

“I don't see it,” she said.

Dan crouched down beside her. “Neither do I,” he said.

“Could she have it with her? It must mean a great deal to her.”

“It does,” Dan said. “But not because it's worth a fortune—because she used to drink her milk out of it, with her mother. She'd never take it out of this house.”

“Dan,” Bay said, growing cold inside, suddenly feeling an overwhelming rush of dread. “I think you need to call the police.”

“I know,” he said, already moving for the phone.

NOW ELIZA WAS COLD. SICK TO HER STOMACH AGAIN, BUT
mostly cold. She felt the wind, and she smelled the sea. The salty tang chilly in her mouth and nose, her lungs—but refreshing her, getting rid of that sickly sweet smell and taste.

She made her body as limp as a rolled carpet, lying on the hard floor as they bumped along. The blindfold had been pulled back down over her face, and they had replaced the duct tape over her mouth; she could barely breathe.

Their voices were low, and she tried to tell how many they were—men, women? A man, just one, or two? And someone else, a woman sounding anxious, afraid . . .

And then, suddenly, she remembered Mr. Boland!

The memory hazy, swimming back to her from the predrugged past . . . Mr. Boland coming to her door at home, just as she'd been about to call the police. Maybe Mr. Boland had seen these people take her, maybe, even now, help—her father, the police—was on the way . . .

Unless—no . . . it couldn't be . . . she refused to believe, even though the voices sounded so familiar, so incredibly familiar . . . It was him . . . no—how could it be? Someone who knew her? Who had always been so nice to her?

“Maybe I shouldn't have listened to you at all. Maybe I shouldn't listen to you now,” Mr. Boland said.

Just let me go,
Eliza begged silently.
Let me go home . . .

“I know your thoughts on the matter, so please keep them to yourself. We already have two to answer for—you know that, don't you? Have you counted lately?”

Two?
Eliza wondered. What did that mean? Her heart was beating so hard, she prayed Mr. Boland and the woman wouldn't hear it. She strained her ears, wanting to hear the voices one more time, inwardly begging for mercy, and terrified that she'd hear that familiar voice again—yet, at the same time, hoping—

“Then what will we do?”

“We'll drive around, and then we'll go to the bridge.”

“The bridge? The same one as . . . McCabe?”

“Isn't that what we decided? The tide is fast there—”

“I know, but—”

“Don't lose your nerve. Stay cool here. She's the only one who has seen anything. As long as we keep our heads and don't let them divide us, we'll be fine. She's still the only witness, right?”

Eliza lay still. Her eyes filled with tears.

She shivered, trying to block out their words. The least they could have done was covered her up with a blanket. You didn't just lay a sleeping person on a cold van floor without placing a blanket over her. Even if she hadn't heard their words, if she were better able to push them from her mind, she would know that they cared so little about her that they were going to kill her.

Mr. Boland had called her in the dark, through her own window, had tried to get her to climb outside, saying her mother wanted her . . .

Eliza squeezed her eyes tight and gulped on her tears, knowing that she was lying in a maroon van, the blood-colored van; she knew now that it was dark red and not dark blue or dark green, and she knew she had seen it somewhere before, somewhere before that she couldn't remember, and she shuddered to think that she was riding in the same dark red van that had killed her mother.

With the people who had whispered in the night that her mother wanted her . . .

THE POLICE CAR DROVE UP GRANITE STREET,
strobelights reflected in the flat, black calm of the Mystic River. Followed by an unmarked sedan it glided into the Connollys' driveway, its presence a stark contrast to the sea captain's architecture and a reminder that no house is so gracious that it can't be touched by trouble.

Bay sat in the living room, remembering how just six months ago the police had entered her peaceful life one hot summer day and changed everything forever. The memories raced through her mind as she sat beside Dan and tried to help him get through this.

Two detectives, Ana Rivera and Martha Keller, sat opposite them, watching Dan intently as Rivera asked questions. Bay had an uneasy feeling in her stomach: Missing children always made police suspect the fathers. Bay inched closer to him on the sofa.

“Tell me her name and age,” Detective Rivera said.

“Eliza Day Connolly,” Dan answered. “She's almost thirteen.”

“And you came home from work at your regular time, and she wasn't here?”