Woman in Red (50 page)

Alice wondered if it was the same graveyard in which William had been lain to rest. It would be fitting somehow, that the lovers be reunited in death. Though from what she knew about William, it would have been more his nature to have been cremated, his ashes scattered over the ocean or the wild, windswept cliffs he’d captured so vividly on canvas.

Half an hour later she was pulling into the drive at her nana’s house. It was overgrown in spots with the brambles and weeds her grandmother had battled in her lifetime, now run riot, though the potholes she remembered had been
filled in. In the field off to her right, she saw a flash of red amid the brown grass—a crossbill. She remembered that crossbills didn’t fly south for the winter, a fact she’d learned from her grandmother. The long walks they used to go on had been more than recreational, Nana calling out the name of every plant and bird, animal and insect; pointing out a bald eagle riding the thermals, or pulling a branch out of a pond to show her the jellylike sac clinging to it, dotted with black specks that would become salamanders.

It’s just nature.
Nana would say with a laugh, when Alice wrinkled her nose in disgust.
It’s not always pretty, but it always has a purpose. And what could be more beautiful than that?

Her nana had taught her to listen for the frogs that heralded spring, and to appreciate the music they made, chorusing in the ponds and marshes; to spot the dark flash of brown bats diving after insects in the twilight and the woolly bear caterpillars that clung to the undersides of leaves, soon to morph into tiger moths. In winter, there had been lessons in picking out various animal tracks from among the delicate tracery that crisscrossed the snow.

The modest house at the end of the drive seemed almost an afterthought, tucked behind a curly-barked madrona twisted with age, a tree that had always reminded Alice of a wizened old man, his back bent under a heavy load. A newmodel Plymouth was parked in the turnabout. She pulled to a stop behind it and was climbing out of her car when a woman emerged from the house—petite with short blond hair, smartly dressed in a pantsuit and low-heeled pumps. The realtor, no doubt. With her was a middle-aged couple, prospective buyers presumably. She caught sight of Alice and paused to murmur something to her clients before walking briskly toward her.

“Hi! Are you here to look at the house?” she asked, when she’d caught up.

“Actually, no. This used to be my grandmother’s place,” Alice told her. “I heard it was for sale and I happened to be driving past . . . ”

The woman brightened. “Oh! You must mean Missus Styles.”

Alice nodded. “She was here a long time, over fifty years.” Eleanor had seemed as much a fixture as that old madrona. So much so that when the house was sold after her death, the sense of loss Alice had felt had been almost as acute as when she’d watched her nana’s coffin being lowered into the ground.

“Sylvia Brenner,” the woman introduced herself, putting out a manicured hand. “Let me give you my card.” She reached into the oversize leather bag slung over one shoulder.

Alice tucked it into her pocket, saying, “Do you mind if I take a look around?”

Some of the wattage went out of the realtor’s smile and she glanced discreetly at her watch. Then her saleswoman’s instincts kicked in, and Alice could almost hear her thinking,
You never know. It could lead to something.
“Not in the least,” she said. “Why don’t you have a look around inside while I show these folks the rest of the property. The front door’s unlocked.”

Moments later Alice was stepping through the door, assailed by the scents she associated with visits to her grandmother, that of old woodwork steeped in lemon oil, pine logs and smoke-blackened chimney bricks . . . and the dogs, of course. She didn’t know if the current owners had pets, but that doggy smell, as musky and familiar as the old blanket by the stove that her nana’s border collies used to sleep
on when they were allowed inside, was so distinct she half expected that any minute she’d be greeted by a wet nose and a wagging tail.

The house, too, was pretty much as she remembered it. The knotty pine walls in the living room and brass chandelier suspended by a dusty chain from the crossbeam; the river rock hearth where they used to pop popcorn over the open fire in a long-handled wire basket. As she wandered from room to room, she could see that the current owners had made some changes, such as replacing the old chiffarobes in the bedrooms with built-in closets and updating the thirties kitchen cabinets, but the essential spirit of the house was the same. It was in the kitchen that Alice felt her grandmother’s presence most strongly. The curtains drawn over the open window might have been fluttering with the air stirred by Eleanor’s ceaseless motion. Alice could almost see her pacing back and forth between the table and stove as she laid out supper, a path she’d traveled so many times her feet had worn away the linoleum in spots. She’d never appeared frazzled or in a hurry, but the sheer volume of what she had to accomplish in a day seemed staggering to Alice now, looking back on it through the eyes of an adult.

First thing each morning there had been Grandpa Joe to bathe and dress, a task he hadn’t made any easier when he was having what Eleanor had called one of his “spells.” If he’d had an accident in the night, which he became prone to in his later years, she would have to strip the mattress and put it out to air. All that before she’d even gotten breakfast on the table. The rest of the day, when she wasn’t tending to her husband, was spent cleaning house, cooking and sewing, and gardening in summer. Sunday had been the one day of the week when she’d rested, after a fashion. Alice
couldn’t remember her ever going to church—that hadn’t been Nana’s style—but on afternoons when Grandpa Joe was napping she would go on long walks, taking Alice and Denise along if they happened to be staying over.

By that time, she’d long since boarded up the kennel, keeping only a few dogs as pets—Rufus and Checkers, and their mother, Jewel, a sweet old thing who’d been named after a rhinestone collar she’d been given as a puppy. Alice remembered when Jewel died, how Nana had wept as though her heart would break. Alice had been stunned to come across her stretched out on the bed in her room with her face buried in the pillow to muffle her sobs. She’d never before seen her grandmother cry. Come to think of it, Alice couldn’t recall ever having seen her lying down in the middle of the day.

Nana had sat up, patting the space beside her, and Alice had climbed up onto the bed. “Are you sad about Jewel?” she had asked.

Nana had brushed at the tears on her cheeks with an agespeckled hand. “Yes, honey, I’m sad about Jewel.”

She’d started to choke up again, and Alice had put her arms around her, beseeching, “Don’t cry, Nana.”

Nana had stroked her cheek, smiling through her tears. “It’s good to cry, Allie. It helps you remember.”

“How does it do that?”

She’d paused, as if searching for the right words. “When you mourn for someone you loved, it’s like they’re still a part of you. The only way you can really lose someone is if you forget them.”

It all made sense to Alice now: She’d been talking about William. She shivered now, in the cool of the old house, which even in summer didn’t retain heat. Poor Nana. How
had she been able to bear it, knowing the man she loved was so close yet so far from reach? There must have been times she’d longed to run away from her responsibilities, run to William. Especially once Lucy was grown. But she’d stayed, and by the time she was free of those responsibilities, it had been too late.

Alice’s reverie was broken by the sound of a car pulling into the drive. Another prospective buyer, no doubt. Minutes later the old strap hinges on the front door let out a squeal, and Alice looked up to see an elongated shadow fall over the scuffed floorboards of the entryway. It was followed an instant later by the figure of a tall, black-haired man, world weary but handsome in a tortured-hero kind of way, with eyes the blue of a banked fire and the kind of face you could never grow tired of looking at.

“Colin,” she cried softly. She’d been so wrapped up in thoughts of William and Eleanor, it was almost as if she were seeing a ghost. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he said.

“This was my grandmother’s house,” she told him. “I’d heard it was for sale, and I wanted to see it one last time.” Her gaze traveled about the room. For some reason, she was finding it difficult to meet his gaze.

“It’s charming,” he said, looking around.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re in the market for another house.”

He shook his head. “Calpernia told me where to find you.”

“You could have called me at work and saved yourself the trip. What was so important you had to drive all this way?”

“I wanted to give you the news in person.” Alice felt herself tense, but he was smiling, so she knew that it couldn’t be bad.
“I got a call from the D.A.’s office a little while ago. They’ve decided to drop the charges against Jeremy.”

Alice was so stunned that for a moment all she could do was gape at him. “But how . . . ?”

“It seems Carrie Ann changed her story,” he explained. “Without her testimony, there would be no case. Also, I suspect it had become a political hot potato.”

It finally sank in, and Alice let out a whoop, jumping up off the sofa and throwing her arms around Colin. She might have been dreaming, if not for the very real presence of Colin in her arms, as solid and comforting as this house. With an effort, she drew back to ask, “Have you told Jeremy?”

“Not yet. I wanted you to be the first to hear it.” Colin was grinning.

“I think I need to sit down.” The muscles in Alice’s legs gave way, and she plopped back down on the sofa. Colin sat down beside her. “Does this sort of thing happen very often?” she asked.

“Actually, it’s pretty rare,” he told her. “Usually they’ll go for a lesser charge in exchange for a reduced sentence, if the defendant agrees to plead guilty. Sometimes, if it’s a bigger fish they’re after, they’ll give immunity. But I’ve only seen them drop the charges this late in the game twice in my whole career. All I can say is, Jeremy’s one lucky kid.”

“Do you think it was just luck?”

“Who knows? He said something about having run into Carrie Ann at Bucky’s the other night. Maybe that had something to do with it.”

“Funny, he didn’t mention it to me.”

“He probably didn’t want to worry you. You know, in case she took out a restraining order or something.”

“Am I that much of a worry wart?”

He smiled. “You’re a mother. It’s your job to worry.”

She hadn’t thought of it that way.
My job
. The realization drifted down through old, encrusted layers of guilt and self-recrimination. “Thank you for coming all this way to tell me,” she said, her throat tight.

“My pleasure, but I’m afraid my motives were more personal than professional.”

Alice saw from the look on his face that something had changed for him, that whatever he’d been struggling with before, it had lifted. She felt herself grow still, and she had a sense that things were about to change for her, too.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he went on. “Mostly about the ways I’ve screwed up, but about my grandfather too. How sad it must have been for him, losing the two people he’d loved most in the world. There was nothing he could have done about Eleanor, I suppose. But he tried hard with my dad. I think if he were here now he’d give me the same advice. He’d tell me not to give up on something this good before I’d even given it a chance.”

She knew then that she hadn’t imagined it: The connection between them was real. As real as the man sitting beside her now. “Your grandfather sounds like a smart man,” she said.

“He was. Just unlucky in love.”

“And you?”

Colin took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “I’m two down in the ninth inning, but the game isn’t over yet.”

“I didn’t know you were a baseball fan,” she observed, with a giddy little laugh.

“Growing up in my house, it would have been hard not to be. Though I think I was the only kid in Bayside who couldn’t hit a fastball to save his life.” His expression turned
serious. “Look, Alice, I know I’m a little late to the game on this one. I was so busy feeling sorry for myself, I couldn’t see what was right in front of my nose. But I realized something the other day—that we don’t always get a second chance in life. I don’t want to lose you, too.” In a more formal tone, he added, “I guess what I’m asking is, if you’re willing to take a chance on a down-and-out lawyer with nothing to show for himself except a dog that doesn’t belong to him and an oyster farm that so far hasn’t made a dime.”

“I happen to love oysters,” she said. “I love dogs, too.”

“Should I take that as yes?”

Her heart was so full that she had difficulty finding the words. Then together they rose, unbidden, as though it were scripted by an unseen hand. “Don’t you know? You’ve already given me more than I could ever ask. All that matters to me is that you haven’t given up, on yourself . . . on us. I can live with just about anything else, as long as I have that.”

His face was that of a man who’d emerged from the shadows into sunlight, clear of any doubt. As he drew her into his arms in a slow kiss that seeped through her like water through porous rock, a memory stirred in her: how it had felt stepping out of the prison walls after her release, how she’d stood there a moment on the sidewalk with her eyes closed, feeling the sunlight on her skin and taking in deep breaths of air that had seemed newly invented just for her. Alice felt that way now, as though she’d been set free.

Sylvia, the realtor, chose that moment to poke her head through the doorway. “Oh!” she cried, looking startled and a little embarrassed to have found Alice kissing a strange man, as if it were their house and she the interloper. “I’m
sorry. I came to lock up. Would you and your husband like to make an appointment to come back another time?”