Beach Girls (23 page)

And then the week before Maddie had scheduled her trip, he and Emma had had the biggest fight of their marriage—supposedly about the time she was spending at Dixon. Really, though, about the long slide of their relationship, from love and partnership into some sort of hateful charade—neither of them happy, neither of them seeming able to change.

Jack surveyed the line with Jim, uncovering more boundary markers and posts. He hadn't thought this way for a long time. Birds flew overhead, flushed from the underbrush by the activity. Jim called out notations, and Jack wrote them down in the notebook. Shadows and light fell across clearings and woods. Jack's mind spun with old memories.

He still couldn't think about the accident without cringing. But he was able to remember the aftermath—when Emma was in the hospital, before they had lost hope for her survival, when he had knelt by her bedside and prayed for her to live. He had begged God to make her whole and well again. And when God turned him down on that, Jack had prayed for Emma to haunt him—to love him the way she had at the beginning.

Maybe that was why he related to Aida—loved her on first meeting, actually. Because the woman wanted to preserve this place where she and her husband had known such great love. Jack's heart squeezed inside his chest. He heard Jim call out another number, and he wrote it down. His throat ached.

Because he knew he would do whatever he could to help this woman maintain her land and the castle her husband had loved so much. And because he seemed to be running as fast as he could, as far as he could, from any place that he and Emma had ever lived—from the lie their life had become.

Scotland was far away. And Jack was so tired of running.

He had made his plans, arranged for work permits, given his word that he would start work within the month. The problem was, he no longer wanted to go. Every night he dreamed of staying, dreamed of walking the beach, splashed by warm waves, going to old, almost unintelligible beach movies, holding hands with a kind, curious, open, beautiful woman. With a woman who had obviously won the heart of his brokenhearted daughter.

Stay,
Stevie had said.

Romanov was counting on him. And Francesca and the people at Structural felt betrayed by his leaving, and would probably love to see him fail.

Penance came in unexpected places. This dilemma must be Jack's punishment, for loving badly the first time. If Emma hadn't been so unhappy with him, she wouldn't have had to go down the road she had chosen. He thought of what Madeleine had told him—in a medicated stupor, her hysteria subdued.

That while Madeleine drove down that rutted country road, Emma had slapped her in a fit of rage, sent the car out of control. Jack had refused to listen then, and he didn't want to listen now. He needed to keep Emma's memory safe. He'd force himself, if necessary, for Nell's sake.

But somehow now, emerging from the woods and seeing Stevie's Aunt Aida coming toward him with such kindness and wisdom in her violet eyes, Jack thought of Madeleine, Nell's aunt, and felt a sickness in his soul that told him that just maybe he'd been blaming the wrong person all this time.

“Hello, Jack,” Aida said, giving him a hug. “Thank you so much for taking the time to do this. It's your vacation . . . I really have no business taking you away from the beach, and Nell . . .”

“That's okay, Aida,” he said. “This is such a wonderful place, I'll do whatever I can to help save it.”

“I'm going to load the equipment into the car,” Jim said. “I've got tickets for a Red Sox game tonight, and I've got to hurry back. Take care, Jack. Nice meeting you, Aida.”

“And you, too, Jim—thank you
so
much,” she said, shaking his hand. “Now, can I offer you some tea?” she asked Jack.

“Sure, thanks,” he said, and followed her into her small house.

It was almost entirely an artist's studio, with a small daybed pushed against the wall behind the easel and table. She went out into the yard, to fill a copper kettle with water from the well, then set it on the narrow stove. They sat in straight-backed chairs at a scarred oak table, streaked with pigment. Her hands were elegant and capable, knuckles and fingernails rimmed with paint, like Stevie's.

“You have quite a daughter,” she said, staring at Jack, as if taking his measure.

“Thank you. I know it.”

“She knows her own mind. I still can't believe she went searching for Stevie—and found her. And was brave enough to knock on her door.”

“She skinned her knees that day, badly,” Jack said, remembering. “She came home with scrapes and Band-Aids. Stevie had bandaged her up. But it hit me, seeing Nell, that she must have really wanted something very badly, to take a fall like that and keep going.”

“What do you think she wanted?” Aida asked. The kettle whistled, and she poured hot water into mugs.

Jack didn't answer. The question hung in the air, then drifted off. There was something dreamlike about the visit—everything seemed very vivid, and laden with meaning—or no meaning at all. He saw black-and-white photographs on the wall of Aida as a young woman—tall, lean, theatrical. Dressed in gowns, costumes, nude . . .

“Van took those,” she said. “He was so talented. A great actor, but he could easily have been a photographer, as well. That's him—”

Jack followed her gaze to a series of photos of a large, rotund man with an aggressive nose and chin, and intense dark eyes. Dressed as Iago in some and Falstaff in others, he seemed equally at home in both roles—intense, expressive, larger than life. Jack saw the resemblance to Henry, and could well imagine such a man fathering a naval officer.

“Henry's father,” Jack said.

“Yes. They adored each other, but had a hard time showing it. I'm convinced that every battle Henry ever fought was for his father.”

“He's getting married now?”

“Yes. After all this time. His parents' marriage was quite difficult—his mother was very hurt, and always let him know. That was her prerogative, but oh, it damaged him terribly. He never trusted himself to love someone and not hurt them.”

Jack closed his eyes, thinking of how painful and mixed up it all got.

“He's so . . .” Aida's eyes grew misty. “He's so the opposite of Stevie in that way—and yet exactly like her.”

“What do you mean?”

“As I've told you, Stevie's parents had an idyllic marriage. One of the truly rare ones. My brother was a poet, calm and gentle and insightful. My sister-in-law was an artist and art historian. . . . They were, to use that terribly overused expression, ‘soul mates.' They are Stevie's model. She has such a strong belief in love, and she wants to have what her parents had.”

“Maybe it doesn't exist,” Jack said, surprised by the bitterness in his heart.

“Oh, I know it does,” Aida said.

“Because of you and Van?”

She nodded. “It wasn't the first go-round for either of us. Mistakes get made, and people get hurt. That's tragic—lives are affected. But love is there—it's real. You find it, or it finds you . . . that's all it takes.”

“That's why you want to preserve this place, isn't it?” Jack asked. “Because you loved Van here?”

Aida nodded. “I did, and do,” she said. “I can never thank you enough for helping me this way. I've called my lawyer, and he is going to set up a land trust. I have a major show scheduled for October, and I plan to use all the proceeds to fund the trust. This will be ‘the Van Von Lichen Nature and Art Center.' The Black Hall art types will love it. Van was a great supporter of the arts, and he had many a wild party with the Connecticut Impressionists here.”

“That's not what you paint, though, is it? Impressionism?” Jack asked, embarrassed not to know enough about art to be sure of the difference.

“Please!” she said. “Darling, I'm in love with the
new
. Although it's been rather a few decades since Abstract Expressionism was considered
new. . . . anyway . . .”

“Thanks, Aida,” he said. “As soon as I get my notes together, I'll send you what I have. Before I leave for Scotland.”

“Stevie mentioned that you're moving there. I must say. . . . I feel sad about it.”

“Oh, I'll stay involved with your project, even from there. Your lawyer can call me, to discuss the plans, or talk over ideas . . .”

“Jack, that's not why I feel sad. It has nothing to do with my castle, or the hillside.”

“Then what?”

Aida was silent. She sipped her tea, staring at Jack over the rim of her mug with eloquent dark-rimmed eyes. He felt as if she could see right into his heart.

“I don't know you very well,” she said, “and yet I feel I do. Stevie has told me a bit. . . . It's a feeling that I have. Simply, that . . .”

“What? Please tell me.”

“I think my niece will be very sorry if you go. You and Nell. I know Nell will be. And . . . I think you will be, too.”

Jack wanted to tell her she had no idea. He cleared his throat. “There's the matter of the contracts I signed.”

“The marvelous thing about contracts,” she said, “is that there's always a way out. It might cost you more in money, but it will save you in the things that matter.”

“What would they be?”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Kilvert,” Aida said, her solemn eyes twinkling. “You wouldn't be here, walking these acres and saving my castle, if you didn't know exactly what they are.”

Jack drank his tea and thought of Stevie's story about the magical castle and the wise aunt. He didn't reply to Aida's question, because he didn't want to hear himself say that he did know; he knew all too well.

Chapter 21

MADELEINE SAT IN HER CAR, PARKED
at Emerson's Market, just outside the train trestle that was the gateway to Hubbard's Point. She felt nervous but determined. While she sat there, two trains went by: one toward New York, one toward Boston. When she and her brother were young, they used to count the train cars.

After quite a while, she saw what she was looking for: Jack's station wagon came down the Shore Road and drove under the bridge, into Hubbard's Point. Madeleine had scouted it out two days earlier, on a dry run. She had driven down from Providence, cruised the cottages around the tennis courts, where Stevie had said he was staying, hoping to run into her brother. But when she'd seen him and Nell climb into their car and drive away, she'd lost her nerve and driven back home.

Today she was back, braver than ever. Was Nell with him? Madeleine craned her head to see—no, the passenger seat was empty.

Her heart was beating so fast, she felt as if she'd run a marathon. She was sure her face was bright red—and her lips felt so dry, and her hands were sticky on the steering wheel.

She hadn't told anyone of her plan—not Chris, not Dr. Mallory, not Stevie. Her therapy had been going well; she was starting to feel better after just a few sessions. She felt clearer about everything—if Jack would just give her a chance, she could talk to him. She could sit with him, face-to-face, rely upon their old love for each other to lead her into exactly what she needed to say. She purposely hadn't told Stevie that she was coming; although she knew that her friend would support her desire to set things right, she needed to do this all by herself.

As she pulled out quickly behind Jack's car, she nearly rear-ended him. She had to calm down—she hadn't expected to be this frantic. Talking in her therapist's office was one thing. It was safe there—free from the reality of confrontation. But here, at the beach, anything could happen.

She saw Jack catch sight of her in the rearview mirror.

Their eyes met and held.

What was going to happen? Madeleine clutched the wheel and coasted into the driveway outside a beach cottage, directly behind her brother.

JACK COULDN'T MOVE.
He parked the car in the sandy driveway and looked into the mirror, straight into his sister's eyes. The castle blueprints and plans lay on the seat beside him. He'd been thinking of Aida's words of wisdom, and of Stevie asking him to stay. He had planned to go straight over to Stevie's and tell her that he was calling Ivan Romanov in the morning—contract or no, he was bagging the Scotland plans. Swirling around in that decision was the need to work things out with his sister.

But actually seeing her was a shock to his system. Slowly, he reached for the door handle, pushed the door open. Madeleine was already out of her car. She stood back slightly, clutching her hands together.

“Jack,” she said. Her eyes filled as she said his name. “Don't run away.”

“I won't, Maddie,” he said slowly.

He let himself really look at her. It had been a year since he'd seen her, and he saw the scars: dark red, from her neck to her shoulder, running under her dress. She had gained weight, and her face looked swollen. Her hair was neatly brushed, held back with tortoiseshell combs; she had put on fresh lipstick. Somehow the care she'd taken broke his heart. She looked so vulnerable, he didn't think he could stand it.

“How have you been?” he asked.

“I'm fine, getting better,” she said bravely. “I know I look terrible—it's from the steroids, I had to take them after the surgery, they've made me gain weight. I hate having you see me fat.”

“Maddie, you're not—”

“Please, don't say that,” she said, shaking her head, as if she couldn't stand any dishonesty between them. Jack's heart was in his throat. He took a step forward, wanting to hug her. But she shook her head harder, stopping him in his tracks, burying her face in her hands.

“I tried calling you,” he said.

“I knew,” she sobbed. “I
knew
it was you. Why didn't you say anything?”

“I wasn't sure what to say, Maddie. It all seems so complicated. What Emma said to you, and what she did . . . and then, the accident . . .”

“I killed her,” Madeleine said. “I wouldn't have hurt her for anything, but she slapped me, and I lost control—”

Jack's stomach clenched. He loved his sister—there was no doubt about that. But he couldn't stand to hear details of the crash. What Emma had confessed, how violent she'd been with Maddie—were too much for him to handle, even a year later.

She stopped, frozen by the stricken look on his face.

“I just want to explain it all to you,” she said.

“Let's not go down that path right now,” he said.

“It's the only way,” she said. “To make you understand that I didn't mean to destroy everything.”

“Stop, Maddie,” he said, his heart searing. Sweat poured down his neck, and he felt sick. He wanted to be reasonable. This summer had healed him a little—meeting Stevie, spending time with her, seeing Nell getting better. Talking to Aida, seeing her with her own niece. Memories of Emma—and Maddie—good memories, had been everywhere here at Hubbard's Point.

“But you have to listen, Jack—you have to!”

“I can't!” he shouted.

The silence was deafening. All the happy Hubbard's Point activity seemed to stop—tennis balls and basketballs ceased bouncing, radios were turned down, people stopped talking. No one yelled here. Jack's voice echoed in his own ears. Madeleine stood in front of him, pale and paralyzed.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“I'll go,” she said, her voice shaking.

“No, Maddie—” he said, his hands trembling. He moved toward her, but she was already climbing into her car. She fumbled with the seat belt, couldn't get it fastened. He wanted to reach in to her. But he didn't dare touch her. She seemed so breakable . . .

“Jack,” she said. “I love you.”

“Madeleine,” he said. Their eyes met, and he felt the tears fall down his cheeks. He couldn't get the words out. He loved her too much to even say. Sometimes when he thought of the accident, he was so angry with her, he wanted to shake her. And other times, all of his considerable rage was directed at Emma—for nearly killing his sister. If Emma hadn't been having a crisis, Madeleine wouldn't have been driving her down that road.

“What?” she asked.

“Don't leave.”

“I shouldn't have come.”

The sight of her eyes was breaking Jack's heart. “Maddie,” he said. He wanted everything to be different, the way it used to be, when loving his sister had been the easiest, most automatic thing in the world.

“I've got to go now,” Maddie said.

“Don't,” he said.

“Tell Nell how much I love her.”

Her window was open, her hand on the wheel. Jack realized he hadn't even hugged her. He reached through the window, and his fingers brushed hers. She shook her head, and gulped a sob.

“You don't know how much she loves you—you have no idea, Maddie,” he said. But she wouldn't stop—she just drove away.

Jack stood in the driveway. What had just happened? How badly had he blown it? The crazy thing was, none of it made sense. It wasn't logical—it was all just too soon. One year after the accident, and seeing his sister made him feel as raw as if it had happened yesterday. Maddie hadn't killed Emma. But she had killed his idea of her.

Death had taken Emma, but she'd been ready to leave all on her own. Seeing Madeleine brought that memory right to the surface. He needed to sort through all of it, come to terms with it, find solid ground somewhere where he could get his head straight and concentrate on being father and mother to his little girl. He had to do what was right for Nell. He had left her care one hundred percent to her mother, and look what had been about to happen there. Now he couldn't afford to make any mistakes. Nell was too fragile and needed him too much.

Everything happened for a reason
—that's what the nuns used to tell him at school. It was a catch-all explanation for the worst things: for kids who flunked, who got kicked off the team, whose parents died. The strange thing was, those words floated back to him now, standing in his driveway. Madeleine's coming here had shown him one thing: he loved her as much as ever. But he just wasn't equipped to deal with everything that came with it—the truth about Emma, about what a lie their life together had become.

And his instinct had been right all along—to get away, as far and as fast as he could.

NELL AND PEGGY
finished swimming with the others, then ran off to hop on the bicycle-built-for-two. They had gotten really good at it, and today was Nell's time to drive it. She immediately set off for the Point.

“I know where we're going,” Peggy called from behind.

“No you don't!”

“
Heart of stone, house of blue . . .
”

“Her house isn't blue anymore. Besides, didn't you like being at the movie with her? It was so fun.”

“I know . . .”

Since Peggy wasn't really protesting, Nell just grinned and rode up behind the tennis courts, around the corner, onto the shady Point road. When they got to Stevie's, they leaned the bike against her stone wall. Nell took Peggy's hand, to give her courage. They started up the stairs, passing the sign.

“Can't you read?” Peggy whispered.

“She doesn't mean me,” Nell said, feeling certain.

When they got to the back door, Nell knocked loudly, wiping the sand off her bare feet. Peggy did the same. They were wearing their bathing suits, which were still fairly damp. Plus, the waves had been bigger than usual, churning up the bottom, so they had some sand in their suits. Nell considered the fact that they should have changed, and was frowning over the thought, when Stevie opened the door.

“What a great surprise!” she said. “Come on in!”

“Um, our bathing suits are wet,” Nell said. “And kind of sandy. I'm sorry.”

“Sorry, shmorry,” Stevie said. “Beach girls are supposed to have wet, sandy bathing suits. I'm glad you came. Hi, Peggy.”

“Hi,” Peggy said, in the quietest voice Nell had ever heard her use.

“I liked seeing you at the movie the other night. How are your mom and Tara? Did Joe get home?”

“They're good, and yes—Joe's back,” Peggy said, perking up. Nell saw her glancing around. Probably looking for Stevie's black hat, cape, and broomstick. Tilly sat in the corner, giving them stern looks. Nell giggled, crouched down, and held out her hand. For the first time, Tilly walked over to rub up against her.

“She knows me!” Nell said. “She helped me set the table the other night!”

“I can tell,” Stevie said, “that she's glad you're here. Guess what I was just about to do?”

“Paint a picture for your book?” Nell asked. Then, because she felt so proprietary and happy, she turned to Peggy and said, “She wrote a book all for me and my dad. About a magical castle that we went to. My dad is there now, helping Aunt Aida save the hillside from the wicked bulldozers.”

“Oh, he's there now?” Stevie asked, sounding a little funny.

Nell nodded. “He's been there every day. He showed me the drawings he did about how to keep the castle from crumbling anymore. Today he was going to look into the woods, to plan bridges and walkways. That's his specialty—bridges.”

“Cool,” Peggy said.

Stevie just smiled, but Nell thought she looked a little worried. That made Nell feel funny—as if she'd said the wrong thing. So she touched Stevie's elbow and asked, “What was it you were about to do?”

“Teach Ebby to fly,” she said. “Come on upstairs.”

“Ebby?” Peggy asked as they walked through the house.

“The bird your brother brought me. He's a crow, so I named him Ebony. Nicknamed Ebby.”

Nell saw Peggy looking around the room, at the comfortable old wicker furniture, faded pillows, hooked rugs, baskets of shells and stones, and paintings on the wall. The house was so colorful and friendly, it was as far from witchdom as it could possibly be. Nell laughed, because Peggy looked so surprised.

Up in Stevie's room, the bird was already flying! She had left his cage door open, and he was sitting on the top, cawing. As Nell watched, he flew up to perch on the top of Aunt Aida's large canvas. Then he flew up to land on a rafter.

“This is where you paint?” Peggy asked, eyes wide.

“It is,” Stevie said.

“Cool,” Peggy said.

“Look at this,” Stevie said, leading the girls to her side window. It gave onto her terrace, where the red flowers grew. As Nell looked down, she saw several hummingbirds, and she remembered that moment at Aunt Aida's with Stevie. The memory made her feel even closer to Stevie, and she leaned against her side. But Stevie wasn't pointing at the hummingbirds today.

“Can you see?” she asked. Nell peered out, at a cedar tree growing behind the blue stone terrace. Several crows were hidden in its branches.

“What are they doing there?” Peggy asked. She took a step back into the room, as if the sight of the birds scared her.

“I think they're waiting for Ebby,” Stevie said.

“They're his family,” Nell said, breathless.

“I think you're right, Nell,” Stevie said. “The crow is the Native American totem for creation, spiritual strength, and loyalty.”