Julie sent him a look of silent thanks.
“But I would’ve come back for you,” Callum continued. “First of all, I could’ve been wrong in what I guessed, and second, the Hempsteads don’t intimidate me. Walt was a good man, but the rest have always kept their distance, which is what we all seem to prefer.” He paused. “I would’ve suggested you get a little tough with the family if need be. You’re allowed to leave if you want to, and if you insisted on keeping the trip a secret, well, then you and I both could’ve spent the night in the motel.”
“So why didn’t you?” Julie asked, suppressing a flutter of longing as she imagined the night if Callum had been there beside her. “Come back?”
“Because Mrs. Hempstead sent someone to my house.”
“What?” Julie said. She recalled her paranoia in the motel room. “Who?”
“His name is Mike Cowry. Do you know him?”
Julie sent him a do-I-ever sort of look.
“Cowry said Mrs. Hempstead needed to see you. He was to bring you to the estate. He’d checked your house, knew you weren’t there. Or out to dinner or maybe seeing to something at Ellie’s. Which was a little too much knowing for my taste. Then Cowry heard my phone blowing up, and it seemed like”—Callum broke off with that same troubled air—“he’d guessed you were the one who was calling, which would’ve given the lie to me telling him you were upstairs in my room.”
A bright streak of scarlet appeared to line the horizon.
Julie blinked. “You told him I was there?”
Callum gave a nod. “Indisposed. Sick. I might’ve suggested we both had a little too much to drink. I had to convince him that you were on-island but unable to make it to the Hempsteads. Having your dog helped with the story. Cowry seemed to buy it.”
“I guess I’m lucky it was him,” Julie said. That pallid, stumpy man, willing to do everything from rifle through her recycling to abduct her for the grandmother’s purposes. “I have a feeling the grandmother might not have been so readily fooled.”
The streak in the sky began to paint the underbellies of clouds with coral.
“That doesn’t look good,” Callum said, tracking her gaze.
“Is it true?” Julie asked. “Red sky at morning, sailors take warning?”
Callum looked at her levelly. “What does the old lady want with you? As I say, that family has never been my favorite group of people. But this went beyond that.”
Julie splayed both hands on the side of the boat, pushing down as if bracing herself. Spray coated her skin and the floor rolled underfoot.
“All right.” She took in a salty breath. “I’ll tell you.”
* * *
“That’s not possible,” Callum said, once Julie had woven the incidents involving Peter, her own heightened suspicions, and what she’d just learned from the Crofts into as coherent a narrative as possible. “I remember when Martha Hempstead got pregnant. Doug Meetz over at Perry’s is a pal of mine, and he joked about all the supplies he had to order—early pregnancy tests, vitamins, this special pillow, things he didn’t usually stock.”
Julie opened her mouth, but Callum went on.
“The whole island was talking about it. They felt about Martha and Walter’s coming baby the way folks do on the other side of the pond”—Callum gestured out to sea, then spun the wheel on the Mary Martin—“when one of the royals is expecting.”
“They were trying to get pregnant,” Julie corrected. “But they wouldn’t have succeeded in having a child apparently. Not a biological one.”
At which point, the grandmother banished Melinda, never to be seen on Mercy Island again, while sequestering her firstborn daughter somewhere for the remainder of the gestation, or maybe helping her fake a pregnancy for the benefit of the islanders.
“I felt the same way,” Julie said, watching the look of horror in Callum’s eyes rise like water as the implications came clear. A stolen child, imposed adoption, duplicitous parenthood achieved—or inflicted. She licked her lips, tasted a lacing of salt upon them.
“Okay,” Callum said, squinting as the western shore of Mercy penciled a thin line across the horizon. “So what do we do about it?”
We, Julie heard. How could she have suspected Callum of being another trick in the grandmother’s dark book of spells, one more soldier in her lair?
“I want Peter and his biological parents to see each other,” Julie said. “At least once. Then the family—families, I mean—can take it from there.”
“Makes sense. I guess we don’t know what they’ll decide to do.”
“But teachers are supposed to act in loco parentis,” Julie went on. “Not kidnap their students. Which this would basically be.”
Julie could never inflict the pain of losing a child. Even though Martha didn’t really seem to want to be a mother. She’d said as much, and the caretaking attempts Julie had witnessed all looked wooden, rote, often driven by the grandmother. If Peter had a chance to meet his biological parents, then the playing field that had been tilted so steeply in Martha’s favor would be leveled a bit. Martha could still choose to fight for the boy if she wished. Melinda and Bobby had lost a baby, an agony Julie knew all too well. Only they had a chance to get theirs back.
Callum rubbed his scruff of beard. “It isn’t kidnapping. It’s island justice.”
“Island justice,” Julie echoed. She didn’t need Callum to explain what he meant. Her uncle and grandfather had dispensed mountain justice, often not using the most moral of means. But perhaps Julie could do better.
“If Cowry’s visit last night is any indication,” Callum said, “it isn’t going to be easy to get Peter off-island.”
Julie moved to stand beside him at the wheel. “No, it won’t be. I’m never alone with Peter when I’m not in charge of all the other children as well.” A pause to run through something in her mind. “But I have an idea. If you can get to the cove again with your boat.” Julie computed quickly. “This afternoon at 3:20, maybe a bit earlier. Don’t be late.”
If the students could be in their places, do their parts as directed, and everything went as scripted, then this just might work.
Callum gave a slow nod.
“First,” Julie told him, “I have to put on a show.”
Part V
Angel of Mercy
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Julie ran around the building a few times to give Depot some exercise, then opened up the schoolhouse. Still early enough to arrange things before the children arrived. She brought Depot to the teacher’s room, fed him, drank a cup of coffee herself, then climbed up to the loft to make sure the spotlights were aimed correctly. From this angle, it would be impossible for the audience to see the wings of the stage. The kids were only performing one scene today; the lights could stay fixed in position.
Island justice, Callum had called it, and Julie for the most part bought that as an explanation. Or justification. Unless that was just excuse making on her part? If anything went wrong today, she would be at best a loose cannon, at worst a felon, and no ends-justifying-the-means-style rationalization could save her. She would never teach again. Ruin the life she’d only just begun to piece back together.
But far worse than that was the possibility that she might ruin Peter’s.
Julie climbed down the ladder, lost to her thoughts, her mental ping-pong, should she or shouldn’t she, as she felt with her feet for each rung. When she reached the bottom and turned around in the narrow space, the grandmother stood there.
Julie clapped a hand to her chest, letting out a muffled swear beneath her breath.
The grandmother’s mouth lifted in a partial smile. “Language unbecoming to one charged with the care and keeping of our youth.”
“I’m sorry,” Julie said. “You took me by surprise.”
“I imagine I did,” the grandmother repli
ed.
“Would you like to come have a seat in the schoolroom?” Julie suggested. “I just made coffee and there’s extra.”
“No need for that,” the grandmother replied.
She turned and led the way out from backstage, behaving for all the world as if the place belonged to her, were just one more part of her domain.
When they got to the classroom, Julie sat down in the chair behind her desk before the grandmother could appropriate it, too, take it for her throne.
But the woman seemed content to remain standing, looking down at Julie. “I’m sorry to hear you were taken ill last night.”
Julie nodded shortly. “Thank you. I feel much better now.”
Uncharacteristically, the grandmother hesitated. “Have you ever had a child who disappointed you, Ms. Weathers?”
Julie felt something twist inside her. “Now, Mrs. Hempstead. You did your research. You already know I’ve never had the privilege of experiencing that.”
The grandmother threaded her long, elegant fingers together. “Well, I have,” she said. “One who did something so incorrigible, such a betrayal of all who loved and raised her, that she fled, never to be heard from again.” The grandmother’s face tightened in a pinch of contempt. “Martha knew better. She married a man from a family with all the shine and staying power of our own. She and Walter gave us an heir, and if not a spare, that was all right, because Peter holds the potential of any two children.”
It wasn’t quite a statement of love. Need perhaps. Regard for who Peter could be. But not for who he was.
The grandmother’s gaze hooked Julie’s, offering no dispute. She was fine with Peter’s role in their dynasty, his reason for being. She’d stolen him to meet it. “Peter is not an actor, and never will be. And he won’t be in your little show.”
Was the grandmother faking her out, pretending that the only problem was Peter’s desire to act? Or did she know that Julie had learned the truth about his lineage, and Julie’s plan for today as well? The former was just this side of possible, but the latter would’ve required mind-reading. Still, as the grandmother’s eyes went glacier-blue, Julie was convinced that via whatever dark magic means, she had somehow ascertained everything. It didn’t really matter. Julie couldn’t allow her to ban her grandson from performance; Peter needed to be in the mini-production this afternoon. Period. Julie’s thoughts scrambled, trying to come up with a way to convince the grandmother of something when the old woman was always the one to do the convincing, employing any strategy necessary.
She couldn’t change the grandmother’s character. But she could use it against her.
“We’re only putting on one scene this afternoon,” Julie said. “A run-through of sorts, like a trial session. But all the parents will be here. I don’t know if it would do for the Hempsteads not to be front and center at an island-wide event. That might suggest a certain downturn, a step away from a previously prominent position.”
She met the grandmother’s blue iron gaze, steely, unblinking.
“You were good enough to approve my last-minute budgetary request for the spotlights. I think it would be appropriate for this to be known as the Hempstead Theater.” Julie pointed behind them to the stage. “I have a thank-you all prepared to share with the crowd.”
A gleam sparked in the old woman’s eyes, desire for what was on offer perhaps, but also respect for Julie. Well played, Ms. Weathers, her expression seemed to say.
The grandmother answered with stately dignity. “As we do wish to support young Peter, we will make the effort to be here today for your special project.”
Julie bowed her head a respectful distance.
“But after that, Peter will be removed from this classroom and homeschooled. His mother has been at loose ends since her husband died, and this will be a productive form of endeavor for her.” A studied pause. “We’ll ask for your removal as well, Ms. Weathers. Laura Hutchins is already in the process of finding an interim replacement.”
Julie’s whole body buckled. She felt the announcement like a physical stab.
The grandmother’s expression contained an uncustomary softness. “Go home, Julie. Return to where you came from. You have family there, people who care about you. I hear that your husband came to visit you the other day. It’s not too late to reconcile, try to save your marriage. Go back where you belong.”
For a fragment of a second, Julie’s perception of the grandmother shifted, finding a certain benevolence in her rule. For the first time, she understood why people chose to listen to this woman, believe that while autocratic and in control, she had their best interests at heart.
It hadn’t been a request, but still Julie murmured, “Perhaps you’re right.”
The grandmother didn’t have to resort to breaking laws, Ellie had told her. She possessed other means. She would find your fault lines, push till they cracked. The grandmother ferreted out a person’s true nature, the sore and wanting spots, yes, but also people’s deepest desires, needs, and urges, which made them susceptible to her command.
Julie glanced through the schoolhouse windows to the cove. As the gray swath of sea lifted and fell, she thought of the mountains back home. She missed them; they’d always been steadfast friends to her, lifelong presences and hulking protectors she never took for granted. They would be a kaleidoscope of color before too long, a living, dying, impressionist tableau.
Julie pushed back her chair from the desk and stood up.
She extended her hand to the grandmother, who took it between the lacy skin of her palms, the wrinkles of old age on hands that had known both hard work and cosseting.
“I believe we are in agreement?” the grandmother said, and Julie nodded.
The grandmother wanted her to leave the island, and Julie would obey that order.
But she was taking Peter with her.
Chapter Seventy
Julie opened the barn doors and the students trooped in.
She watched as all but one of them got settled at their desks, nudged the seventh-grade boy into his, while ticking off names for attendance. Everyone was here for the big day, except the sixth-grade boys, who were missing. Julie’s eyes found Macy in her seat. She didn’t even have to pose a question; something was clearly up.
Macy fought, but failed, to repress a grin. “It’s surprise time again, Ms. W. Go over to the other door and look.”
Julie crossed to the side entrance, and drew it open.
Outside stood the sixth-grade boys, minus Peter. They were balancing structures covered with sheets, three, four feet high, one steeply peaked, and each with the circumference of a gargantuan tree, a Sequoia or Redwood. A flatter one had the shape of a round banquet tabletop. The boys held the objects upright, breathing hard with effort. Scott Harness gripped the handles of a wheelbarrow, which looked to be filled with a heap of blocks, ranging in size from a brick to a microwave, their outlines apparent beneath another drape of cloth.
“What on earth?” Julie said, fighting a smile herself.
“Hey, can I get some help over here?” Scott asked, the demand concealing his obvious excitement. “It’s not like you can just push a wheelbarrow across sand.”
The students formed a conga line between the side door and the stage so that the wheelbarrow could be unloaded. Then the larger objects were tipped on end, rolled, maneuvered, or lugged into the school, before being hoisted up to the waiting arms of the biggest children who pushed and heaved and dragged them onto stage and behind the thick velvet curtain.
Martha appeared at the end of the library path. Without a word of farewell, she sent Peter on his way, and the boy came skidding into the schoolhouse.
Huffing and panting, he called out, “Am I too late? I want to help!”
It was like a camera angle changing, revealing the image that had been distorted before. Of course Peter was Melinda’s son
and not Martha’s. That silky flop of hair, its texture identical to his mother’s feathery strands versus his aunt’s spiral curls. Sometimes Peter’s eyes appeared gray-blue, and that was all Martha, but whenever azure light returned, while performing, or in his hideout, or with Depot, he became Melinda’s again.
Peter ran and joined the throng of students. And as he extended his arms to accept one of the draped pieces and pass it to the next child in line, another transformation occurred. Peter didn’t blend into the group so much as become one more distinct part of it, an additive factor no greater nor lesser than any of the other children around him.
In deed and comportment, he emerged, essential and unique, as one of them.
* * *
Lara Milton gave Julie a shy smile, then yanked the curtains shut. A thud of hammers followed, objects falling, hissed commands telling the seventh-grade boy to watch out, older students cautioning younger to be careful, until Julie cried, “What are you all doing back there?” She thought they might need adult supervision, although island kids were capable, roaming free, assisting their parents, keeping themselves from drowning.
Eddie Cowry pulled the curtains apart just far enough to form an oval opening around his face. “Shh! You’ll see in a little while.” His voice contained a ringing note of authority, and Julie felt a flicker of happiness for the boy.
Knocks and banging continued to come from behind the curtain. Then the grating sound of wood against wood. At last, a dusk of quiet fell, and all was still onstage.
“Ready, Ms. Weathers?” someone asked.
“Close your eyes!” another child shouted.
“Put your hands over your face, okay?”
Hurried exchanges of last-minute thoughts, ideas, decisions.
“Fasten that piece tighter.”
“Macy, is this good?”
“Yes. Oliver, can you stop it, just stand over here.”
“Not there, here.”
“Hey, quit it, Oliver!”
The Second Mother Page 35
