The Second Silence (16 page)

There were other memories, too: of her breasts swollen with milk; of her baby’s hungry cries in the night as she dragged herself out from under the warm covers into the icy cold. Memories that made the earlier, innocent ones seem no more substantial than dreams. But she would never forget that night, the way she’d felt slow-dancing in Charlie’s arms.

Rousing herself from her reverie, she was momentarily unable to meet his gaze. For if he could read what she was thinking, he would also know how often over the years she’d relived those memories, how many times while making love to other men she’d imagined them to be Charlie.

Briskly she suggested, ‘I could start by talking to Corrine’s mother. Nora might remember something.’

Charlie nodded thoughtfully, tapping his chin with a loosely clenched fist. ‘It’s a long shot.’

‘I’ll phone her as soon as I get back to the house.’ She rose and started for the door, suddenly impatient to be on her way. ‘It’s been a while. I owe her a visit anyway.’

‘Let me know if anything comes of it. We can decide then if it’s worth having you pursue this.’ Charlie followed her to the door, touching her elbow lightly as she turned to say good-bye. ‘And, hey, just for the record, I’m impressed, too. I’ve heard how successful your firm is. Whenever I ask how you’re doing, it’s all Noelle talks about.’

Mary started, heat rising in her cheeks. She didn’t know what flustered her more: Charlie’s asking about her or the fact that Noelle boasted of her accomplishments. An awkward silence fell; she rushed to fill it. ‘Thanks, Charlie. Like you, I’ve worked hard.’

‘We’d make a great team then.’

His eyes seemed to hold hers a beat longer than necessary, a corner of his mouth hooking down in a small, ironic smile. Then the moment passed, and he was once again a concerned father, nothing more.

‘She’s our daughter, Mary, yours and mine.’ He spoke slowly with emphasis on each word. ‘I know you love her as much as I do. Emma, too. Whatever happened with us in the past,
they’re
what counts now.’

Shaken in a way she couldn’t have explained, Mary replied in a low voice, ‘I wasn’t always there for Noelle the way I should have been, I know. But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere until Emma is back home, safe and sound.’

It was only a five-minute walk to her sister’s bookstore, but as Mary trudged along Main Street, she felt as if she were wading through the heat that shimmered off the pavement in serpentine waves. Its familiarity was comforting nonetheless. The pink gingerbread-trimmed Curlycue Café, as incongruous among the stolid brick storefronts as a lacy Victorian valentine amid flyers for a sale. And Cochran’s Deli, which advertised the ‘World’s Best Donuts’ that really
were.
She noted the cluster of sleekly tanned men and women in tennis shorts out front—weekenders brought in by those new condos of which Charlie had spoken so disparagingly—and wondered how long Burns Lake would remain a sleepy backwater.

The Hollywood Dress Shop where she’d once worked, on the corner of Main and Fremont, reassured her that fashions at least hadn’t changed. Displayed in the window were the same fifties-era mannequins, sporting dress styles that had gone out with the Hula Hoop. The shoe store next door too was exactly as it had been when Doris used to take Trish and her shopping every fall for back-to-school Buster Browns. Even the Benjamin Franklin across the street, the last of a dying breed, continued to hold its own with the tenacity of an aging dowager decked in rhinestones. The last she’d heard, you could still sit at its soda fountain and order a root beer float.

Her sister’s bookstore occupied a narrow storefront wedged between the Snip-Shape Beauty Salon and Peterson’s Grocery. Ten years ago, when The Dog-eared Page first opened, local cynics had predicted it would fail. Why pay $19.99 for a hardcover when you could take your pick from the rack of paperbacks in Peterson’s? But Trish had proved all those naysayers wrong, carving out a niche for herself, selling both new and used books. With no family of her own, she’d poured all her devotion into promoting her favorite authors and pet causes.

When Mary walked in, the first thing she noticed was the easel next to the cash register, displaying a handmade sign. Large bold letters across the top read:
HELP SAVE OUR ORANGE-CROWNED WARBLER!
Photos of the endangered bird, clipped from magazines, were taped below. On a small table beside it was a stack of leaflets and a clipboard holding a petition half filled with signatures. But before Mary could take a closer look, her sister came rushing over.

Trish, looking a bit like a small brown bird herself, with her soft round face and baby-fine hair that fluttered in wisps about her temples, stood on tiptoe to hug her. She smelled of something faintly fruity, like the lemon drops she’d liked to suck on as a child. A book tucked under one plump arm dug into Mary’s ribs.

‘I don’t believe it. So it
is
true!’ Trish cried. ‘Mama phoned to let me know you were on your way over, but seeing is believing. And look at you. Two hours behind the wheel and not a wrinkle in sight.’

Mary drew back with a breathless laugh, glancing about at the shelves of lovingly displayed books and walls hung with framed needlepoint samplers. Nothing had changed since her last visit. Browsers perched contentedly on step stools and where there was room sat cross-legged on the floor. In the children’s section, which had its own carpeted play area, a curly-haired toddler was happily absorbed in yanking books off shelves. Even Homer, the store cat, looked perfectly at home. The tabby lay curled on an easy chair, regarding Mary sleepily with one slitted eye.

There was only one new addition. Gesturing toward the easel, Mary observed dryly, ‘I see you’re still trying to save the world.’

Trish frowned, brushing a stray lock from eyes the cloudless blue of a newborn’s. ‘No way, you’re not getting off that easy. Mama told me you’d moved back into your old room lock, stock, and laptop. Come on, I want to hear it—every gory detail—was this your idea or did she twist your arm?’

‘Actually, it was a little of both.’ Mary dropped her voice. ‘But don’t go spreading it around that I’m back. I wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea.’

‘Heavens, no. Who in their right might would stay in Burns Lake if they didn’t have to?’

There was a note of wistfulness buried in Trish’s jest and Mary instantly felt contrite. ‘I didn’t mean…oh, you know what I meant. Look, the truth is, Noelle’s not exactly thrilled with my being here. I don’t know that Mama will be, either
…
once the novelty wears off.’

‘So you don’t think this will blow over in a day or two?’

‘Knowing Robert, no, I don’t.’

Standing there, wringing her hands, Trish looked like a character from one of the glossy paperback romances lining her shelves, lady-in-peril variety. ‘Poor Noelle. I wish there were something I could do to help.’

Mary felt a flash of annoyance, and wanted to snap,
If you’d stood up to Robert the night you were supposed to be looking after Emma, we wouldn’t be having this discussion now.
That was Trish for you—terrific when it came to passing petitions, but put a
real
crisis in front of her and she instantly turned to jelly.

‘The hearing is Thursday at ten,’ Mary told her. ‘Can you make it?’

Trish didn’t hesitate. ‘I’ll be there with bells on.’

Mary felt ashamed for being so quick to judge her. Trish had a big heart. Her trouble was she didn’t always know where to put it. Though patiently waiting out the longest engagement in history—eight years and still counting—she had no children of her own. There was no question about Gary and her living together out of wedlock either. Not as long as Doris drew breath on this earth.

‘I’m not so sure Mama will be up to it, though. She
says
she’s better, but…’ Mary let the sentence trail off.

Trish shrugged. ‘You know Mama. She could be trapped under a car with both legs crushed and be thinking about what she was going to serve for dinner that night.’

The two sisters who looked nothing alike shared a wry laugh. Trish, in her plaid jumper and Birkenstocks, and Mary, in her eighty-dollar jeans and bench-made loafers.

‘Speaking of dinner, what’s on the menu for tomorrow night?’ Mary picked up a book off the display table, idly flipping through its pages.

‘I don’t remember inviting you.’

‘I accept anyway.
You’re
not the one who has to sit across the table from Mama every night.’ Mary looked up to find her sister’s eyes dancing.

‘No big deal. I’ll throw some steaks on the barbecue.’

‘Since when do you eat red meat?’ Mary couldn’t remember a time her sister hadn’t been a strict vegetarian. Hold the beef, pass the tofu: That was her motto.

Trish shot her a quizzical look, as if to say,
Where have you been all these years?
But she only shrugged good-naturedly and said, ‘You know Gary—Mr Meat and Potatoes. I got tired of eating just the baked potato.’

‘Speaking of Gary, how is he?’ Mary arranged her features in an expression of pleasant interest. The truth was, she’d never much liked the guy. Not since the time he’d groped her under the table at Noelle’s rehearsal dinner.

Trish turned away to fuss with a stack of books. ‘Oh, you know how it is. We’re both so busy. We don’t see each other nearly as often as we’d like.’

Mary swallowed the smart remark on the tip of her tongue,
What is so hectic about being an elementary school PE teacher?
Instead, she only commented mildly, ‘Business must be good.’

Trish glanced up. ‘It’s okay. I’m holding my own at least. To tell the truth, though, I’m a little worried about the new store that’s going in at the mall.’ Trish had her head down, but Mary could see her chewing on her lip, a nervous habit from childhood.

‘What store?’

‘Bigelow Books. I thought I told you.’

Mary felt a flicker of alarm. ‘How many square feet?’

She knew from promoting authors that Bigelow Books owned fifteen hundred stores nationwide. If her guess was right, The Dog-eared Page would be facing at least thirty thousand feet of competition, at prices that would undercut her sister’s by more than 20 percent.

Trish grew flustered. ‘I … I don’t know. When I first heard about it, I was so upset I didn’t think to ask. And Robert didn’t say.’

Mary felt slightly sick. She should have known who was behind it. Was there nothing that man wouldn’t stoop to? ‘Well, there’s no sense worrying about it now. The mall is still months away.’ Her attempt to reassure Trish sounded false even to her own ears. Eager to change the subject, she pointed at the sign by the register. ‘In the meantime, what’s the story with the birds?’

Trish quickened in a way Mary recognized all too well. She sensed an attack of political correctness coming on. ‘As you may have heard, the Sandy Creek reservoir is slated for development by you-know-who. Which is bad enough on its own, but that’s also where the orange-crowned warbler nests. Unless the town council puts a stop to the development, its entire bird population will be wiped out.’ Bright pink flags of indignation stood out on her cheeks, and in that moment she looked ten feet tall. Then abruptly her shoulders sagged. ‘The trouble is, the orange-crowned warbler hasn’t officially been declared an endangered species.’

In college, Trish had been active on campus protesting the Chilean junta and US intervention in Nicaragua. In the years since there had been a number of such causes, most recently the Green Earth recycling center, for which she’d campaigned heavily, and the fight to restore the Victorian-era train station that had been on the verge of being torn down.

Now, with her own livelihood at stake, she’d chosen to concentrate on saving a creature that would no doubt survive long into the next millennium, with or without the aid of Patricia Ann Quinn of Burns Lake, New York.

But despite their differences, Mary loved her sister dearly. Without missing a beat she marched over and scrawled her signature on the petition. ‘Long live the orange-crowned warbler.’ Peering closely at a photo of a small olive drab bird dusted with gold, she added dubiously, ‘Not much of a looker, is he?’

‘In a way that makes it more special,’ Trish replied staunchly. ‘Think what this world would be if only the beautiful and exotic were allowed to exist.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.’ Mary wondered if her sister thought of herself the same way, as an ordinary woman making a stand in a world that too often looked the other way.

Just then a heavyset man in a denim jacket and bill cap sidled up to the cash register, clutching a copy of the Living Bible. Trish shot Mary a regretful look. ‘I have to go. Can we talk later?’

‘I’ll call you tonight,’ Mary said. ‘Are you going to be home?’

Trish rolled her eyes, as if to say,
Where else?
and hurried off to wait on her customer. There hadn’t been any mention of either a night out or a quiet evening at home with her fiancé. Gary Schmidt clearly was in no rush to tie the knot, Mary thought.

As she stepped out onto the sidewalk, a huge man loomed suddenly into her path. Startled, she looked up into a beefy red face that looked vaguely familiar. A middle-aged man with strawberry-blond hair and eyebrows so pale they stood out like strips of adhesive against the shiny pink of his skin. It wasn’t until her eyes dropped to the badge gleaming on the front pocket of his sheriff’s uniform that recognition kicked in.

‘Wade. Wade Jewett,’ she recalled. ‘My goodness, it’s been a long time. I hardly recognized you.’ She hadn’t seen him since high school, but when she’d heard he was a deputy sheriff, it hadn’t surprised her.

‘Hello, Mary,’ Wade greeted her casually, as if running into an old classmate from out of town were an everyday occurrence. ‘It has been a while, hasn’t it? Guess you couldn’t make it to our last reunion.’ Was that a note of resentment she detected in his voice? Or a snide reminder that she hadn’t graduated with the rest of the class?

Mary told herself it wasn’t worth getting annoyed. Wade Jewett had been a pompous ass back then, and clearly nothing had changed. ‘My work keeps me pretty busy,’ she replied pleasantly. ‘I don’t get back to town much these days.’