Beachcombers. Part 23

"It's not a compliment. It's not a line to get you into bed. It's the truth. It's a fact. Ever since you came to the cottage to see about renting it, I've wanted to be with you. The moment I saw you, it was as if I knew everything I needed to know about you. But I wasn't thinking about your side, about you knowing everything you need to know about me." Now he dropped her hands and turned away. "I haven't told anyone this before."

Marina held her breath. She could sense his struggling.

"I was having an affair when my wife died." He clenched his fists. "She drowned. I don't know, I'll never know, if Danielle found out and that's why she committed suicide. If it was suicide. The autopsy showed she'd taken an overdose of her medication. Perhaps she just made a mistake. Sometimes ... sometimes she thought she could swim forever." He ran his hand over his face, then continued. "Danielle always had emotional troubles. She tried everything, psychiatrists, medications, exercise, super blue-green algae--but it all got worse and worse for her. She was difficult to live with. She was difficult for herself to live with. And she had this spiritual side. Or maybe I should call it mystical. She wasn't happy here. She often talked about being there. And all I can hope is that she's there now. She loved our daughters with all her heart, but it just wasn't enough."

"Oh, Jim." Marina wanted to touch him consolingly, but held still.

"She started Prozac, and for a while we thought she was getting better. One night I went to Gretchen's house. I told Danielle I had to double-check a house I was caretaking. It was early September, still hurricane season. I was just gone for an hour or so. When I came home, Danielle was gone. I waited up all night. I drove around the island, searching for her." Jim was nearly bent double now, sitting with his head hanging low and his arms crossed over his knees. When he spoke, his voice was scarcely audible. "I didn't even think of notifying the police. Sometimes Danielle went off without telling us. Thursday I got the girls dressed and fed and off to school like always, and then I called some of our friends. No one had seen her." He paused. "That evening the police came to the house. Danielle's body had washed up on the beach out at Surfside."

"I'm so sorry," Marina whispered.

"It was devastating for the girls." His face was grim. "The pain of losing their mother--oh, G.o.d, it was so hard. I don't know, I'll never know, if Danielle found out about me and Gretchen. It only happened twice, but it happened the night Danielle died, and I don't think I'll ever stop feeling guilty. Forget being with another woman, if only I had stayed home. If only I had stayed home, I would have kept Danielle from going out. We might have fought. We often fought. But she would have stayed alive. The girls would have had their mother." He buried his face in his hands. "The girls don't know about the affair. I don't think anyone on the island knows, or knew. It was just a couple of times, it wasn't love--but I know I'm still a s.h.i.+t for doing it."

Marina rose, went into the kitchen, and set about brewing tea. Now she knew why the British made tea in every mystery she'd ever read. It provided a moment, a s.p.a.ce, to step back from the anguish and catch your breath. It gave you something sensible to do, as if you could ever do anything that mattered.

She carried the tea tray over to the table.

"Thanks," Jim said, his voice husky. "But I'd rather have a brandy."

"I've only got wine."

"That's fine."

She poured them both a gla.s.s, set one before him, and returned to her place on the sofa.

"Gretchen left the island shortly after Danielle's death." Jim took a sip of wine and a deep breath. "I haven't heard from her since. She was the only one, as far as I know, who knew about her and me. Not that there was a 'her and me.' It was just two times. And she wasn't in love with me. She was an actress, she was on her way to California." He drank more wine. "The only other person I've spoken to about all this is a counselor I went to see in Boston a few years ago. For years I focused my whole life, my time, my thoughts, everything, on raising the girls. I know I can never make up for the loss of their mother. For a long time I didn't date or see any women. I felt I shouldn't; it seemed to me that being celibate was what I should do, what I deserved to do, to atone for Danielle's death."

"I can understand that."

He looked at Marina. "So now you know why we're such an odd family."

She objected gently, "I don't think you're odd at all."

"Well." He nodded. "I guess the girls have turned out remarkably well, given what they went through. Sometimes it seems a long time ago. Well, it was years ago, and the loss is part of our lives. We're used to it. The girls have grown up. They're competent, happy--well, perhaps not so happy right now. I mean, Emma's miserable since that creep Duncan dumped her. But we manage to roll along okay together."

"I like your daughters. I think they're charming."

"Thanks. Sometimes they can be ... rather opinionated."

Marina touched his hand. "Jim, have you never dated another woman since your wife died?"

"Well, I've seen other women." His face went crimson for a moment. "But to be honest, not very often and I've always kept that secret. I haven't brought another woman into the house. Into my life. Into our lives." He turned to face Marina. "But I never wanted to until now. That's why I'm here. I don't know exactly what I'm saying here. I don't want to rush anything. But I want to have you in my life. I want you to meet my friends. I want to go places with you." He smiled bashfully. "I don't know why, but you just fascinate the h.e.l.l out of me."

Marina laughed. "And you fascinate the h.e.l.l out of me."

"And there's something else," Jim said.

She s.h.i.+vered at the intensity of the moment. "Yes?"

"This." He leaned forward and kissed her. "There's this."

"Jim," Marina said. "Wait."

He pulled away. "I don't want to rush you--"

"Rush me all you want," Marina said. "First, just let me turn off the light."

34.

Abbie Abbie didn't sleep. She tossed in her bed, tortured with thoughts of Howell making love with Sydney. She rose early in the morning, while the others were still sleeping. She would have liked it, she admitted to herself, if Lily had forgotten to go to the grocery store again. It would have felt so good to yell at someone. She kicked herself for that thought. Still, it would have been something positive to do, to buy groceries. But the shelves were stocked. She settled on putting together a stew in the Crock-Pot and making a carrot cake with b.u.t.tercream frosting. For the first time ever, she wasn't tempted to lick the icing off the beaters.

She biked over to the Levins, and after making more mistakes on the computer keyboard in ten minutes than she usually made all morning, she got herself in control and concentrated on her job, which made the time go faster.

Finally, it was time to bike over to the Parker house. She biked around their block a few times, trying to get her breath in control. She didn't know if Sydney would still be there. Probably she'd gone back to New York.

But when Abbie tapped on the door and then slipped into the front hall, there was Howell's wife. Sydney looked whip-thin and brittle in her black suit and crisp black hair.

"Hi, Abbie. Come into the living room with me. I need to talk to you."

Oh, man, Abbie thought. She swallowed. "Okay." She held her head high as she followed the other woman into the living room.

Sydney shut the door. "I understand you took Harry horseback riding."

Abbie's blood pressure dropped back to normal. "That's true. I have a friend--"

"I don't want you taking him again."

"But he loved it!" Abbie protested. "He loves horses!"

"I'm well aware of that. He is my son, after all. But he's only a little boy, and he's a particularly fragile child. Oh, for Christ's sake, don't look so horrified. I don't mean he has a condition or anything like that. But he's clumsy. He's not naturally athletic. And he takes everything to heart so terribly. He needs to toughen up, and I mean mentally as well as physically, before he does anything serious like horseback riding."

"We didn't let him go off on his own," Abbie a.s.sured her. "My friend Sh.e.l.ley was with him every minute. Harry didn't really ride. He didn't hold the reins. Sh.e.l.ley held the reins and only led him around the ring."

Sydney crossed her arms and tapped her foot. "I appreciate your kindness and your friend's kindness. But I don't want it to happen again. Is that understood?"

Abbie took a deep breath. It was odd, being spoken to this way by someone pretty much her own age. But Sydney was Abbie's employer. "Yes. I understand."

"And you won't take him horseback riding again." She glared at Abbie, waiting for her to parrot back her words.

"No. I won't take Harry horseback riding again."

Sydney sent Abbie off to the beach with Harry. She had already packed a basket for them and dressed her little boy in bathing suit and flip-flops. Abbie had to leave the Parker house without even seeing Howell.

Dutifully, Abbie helped Harry build an intricate sand castle. She walked on the beach, collecting sh.e.l.ls with him. She continually slathered him with sunblock. Time seemed to stand still even though Harry was especially animated and brave today. But at last she took the little boy back to his house.

Sydney was gone.

And Howell was there.

Howell reclined on the sofa, his ankle in its cast propped on a pillow. Harry raced in, jumped into his father's arms, and reeled off a list of the adventures he'd had with Abbie that afternoon.

"Abbie." Howell's eyes were warm on her face. "Can you stay for dinner with us tonight? Please? I need to talk to you."

"All right." Abbie turned away to hide the hope that she knew must be glowing from her eyes.

In a kind of trance she prepared dinner and got Harry fed and bathed and ready for bed. Howell read Harry a story and tucked him in, and the little boy fell asleep easily.

Quietly, they left the room and went downstairs. Howell sat on the sofa, but Abbie sat in a chair across from him.

"Abbie," Howell said. "I'm sorry about the way Sydney treated you on Friday."

Abbie couldn't speak. She could only wait. She was like a prisoner waiting for a verdict.

"Abbie, listen to me. I don't want you to imagine that I made love with Sydney this weekend--"

Abbie dug her fingers into her palms, fighting for dignity, but unable to keep quiet. "How could I not? She was so obviously--in the mood--for you."

"It was an act, Abbie. A show. If I'd objected, we would have fought, and I hate having Harry see us fight. Anyway, all we did was argue, but not too much, because she'd made plans to go out for dinner with some New York politicos who were here for the weekend and she needed me as her willing accessory. Believe me, it's in public, not in private, that she wants me to play the role of the adoring husband."

Abbie searched Howell's face, hoping he was telling the truth, needing him to say more.

He leaned toward her. "Abbie, I'm going to ask Sydney for a divorce."

Her heart leapt. "Oh, Howell."

"But I need time," Howell continued. "There's a lot to figure out. I don't know where I want to live. I don't know that I want to keep the job I have or take one of the offers I've received. Most of all, there's Harry. I need to think about how to do this in the best way for him." Howell frowned. "I don't want Harry ever to think I left Sydney for you. I want him to like you. I want him to love you. I want him, most of all, to feel safe with you."

Abbie said, "I see." She struggled to appear sympathetic and concerned when really, she wanted to jump to her feet and cheer. Howell wanted to be with her! He was going to divorce Sydney! She would spend her life with this man and she would give real nurturing love to little Harry. She'd provide the warmth and consistency and maternal affections the little boy needed. She wanted to hug herself and laugh with glee like a child on Christmas morning.

"But we have to go slowly," Howell continued. "It would be a disaster if Sydney suspects how I feel about you before the divorce takes place. Can you trust me with this, Abbie? Can you understand--I don't want Harry to connect our divorce with this island. We need to take our time. The more Harry gets to know you, the better." He smiled suddenly. "And the more I get to know you, the better for me."

He looked at her then with such love in his eyes that Abbie could do only one thing. She went into his arms.

35.

Emma As she did every day, five days a week, Emma opened the unlocked front door and stepped into the Bracebridge house. From the living room came the sound of angry voices. She shut the door behind her quietly and stood for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Emma didn't want to be eavesdropping, but she did want Sandra Bracebridge to know she had arrived at work on time.

"It is my Elizabeth Rebecca Coffin painting!" Millicent Bracebridge insisted. "Mine. My parents gave it to me for my twenty-first birthday. And if I want to give it to the historical a.s.sociation, I can and I will!"

She was speaking of the ill.u.s.trious oil painting that hung above the fireplace in the living room. It was called Gathering Seaweed and featured a horse and cart on the beach with a young man and a pitchfork. It had been painted around 1900, and it glowed as if lit within. Certainly it was the focal point of the room. On the other hand, so many other treasures and antiques were gathered in the room, it was hard to focus on one.

"Millicent." Sandra Bracebridge's voice was honeyed. "Darling, I know what you're doing. You want to give the painting to the NHA so that you'll help Spencer's career along. But he doesn't need you to do that. He's doing perfectly well on his own."

"Of course he is!" Millicent snapped. "I know that. That is not why I want to give them the painting now. I want to get it out of this dark old house and exhibited where people can see it. I'm getting old. My vision is going. I can't see it. I shouldn't be selfish."

"Well, then, Millicent," Sandra cooed smoothly, "why not sell it to the NHA? Or sell it to someone else. If you don't want to be selfish, then think of your children."

"My son left you a very healthy inheritance," Millicent reminded her daughter-in-law.

"That's true. And I'll always be grateful to him for that. But if you don't want me to have any more money--although may I remind you that in this economy, money isn't worth what it used to be--at least think of your grandson. You should give Spencer the painting to sell. He could use--"

Spencer spoke up. "Mother. If Grandmother gives me the Coffin painting, I would give it to the NHA. That's where it belongs."

"Oh, of course you want to seem high-minded!" Sandra's voice grew shrill.

Hearing Spencer's voice spurred Emma into action. She opened the front door and slammed it shut loudly. "h.e.l.lo!" she called.

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake, that girl's here," Sandra snapped.

Spencer stepped out into the hall. "Hi, Emma. Come on in. We're just having a little family discussion."

"Not anymore, we're not." Sandra grabbed up her lights.h.i.+p basket bag. "I'm leaving. I'll talk to you again when you're in a more reasonable mood." She stormed out of the house without speaking to Emma.

Spencer grinned at Emma. "I don't suppose you ever fight with your mother."

She hesitated. This wasn't the time to tell him her mother had died years ago. She decided to let the question slide. "I have two sisters, and it seems we fight constantly. In the nicest possible way, of course," she added, returning his grin.

"I hope you will be as fortunate as I am," Millicent said. "I have children I love and grandchildren I adore."

"That's because we're so adorable," Spencer joked, kissing the top of his grandmother's head. "Okay, I'm going to get back to work."

"Take the painting with you," Millicent ordered.

"Not now. If I do take it, it has to be done with some ceremony. If you do give it to the historical a.s.sociation, there should be an article about it in the papers. Some fuss should be made."

"I hate fuss!" Millicent complained.

"Maybe you don't want fuss, but this painting deserves it. I'm not talking about anything complicated. Just perhaps having the director of the a.s.sociation over for a gla.s.s of champagne and a photograph."

"Oh, really, Spencer. Why can't you just take it?"

"Because it's an absolutely magnificent and historically important gift. I'll give you awhile to think it over," Spencer said. "Bye, Grams. Bye, Emma."

Millicent's hands were trembling as she rearranged herself in her wheelchair. "I don't think my daughter-in-law will ever have enough money," she grumbled. "I suppose some people just always want more."

"How about a nice quiet Agatha Christie murder to calm you down?" Emma said.