“You think he deserted them?” Jack asked, some compassion replacing his skepticism.
I looked over his shoulder at the rustlings of a yellow maple. A sudden gust brought a leaf-fall, and the little yellow petals glittered and fluttered in the wind like gem-winged butterflies. “It sort of looks that way. But I promised his wife—it was dumb, I know—that I'd take a drive to his dad's cabin and see if he's holed up there.”
“A drive. Let me guess. Not local?” Jack asked.
“Michigan.”
Jack let out something like a hoot, and he was about to make a judgmental comment but saw the look on my face and bit it back. “Okay, right. Your life, your long drive.” He seemed to be mulling this over. He stood at the driver's door, effectively trapping me in the car. Finally he said, “I should come with you.”
I stared at him. I hadn't been planning to offer an invitation. However, despite Jack again trying to insinuate himself into my plans, I realized suddenly that a long drive alone did not seem that appealing. Jack and I had taken some fun trips together in the past.
Jack liked his own idea more and more, which I could tell by the sudden reappearance of the dimple and a slight hoisting of his pale brown eyebrows. “I do have the long weekend. Columbus Day. But I have some things to grade.…” Like Jack really wanted to sit and read reports while I was off in resort land.
“Hmm,” I said noncommittally.
“It's supposed to be the peak color weekend,” he said thoughtfully. “And we said we wanted to take a trip this fall, right?”
We had said that. I opened my door and stood up, facing him. “I've got to get some stuff together. If we leave by three, we can get there by five-thirty. Six-thirty their time. You in?”
“Can we have dinner together?”
“Sure.”
“And then we'll probably want to stay overnight. In a B and B, maybe? I'll foot the bill.” Jack was making a romantic face and rubbing my sore shoulders. I shrugged him off, but only halfheartedly. I was actually tempted to lie down in the grass and let him massage my whole body.
“This isn't about romance,” I said. “It's about sleuthing. And I'm going to write my travel article for Bill about little Saugatuck.”
“You still have to sleep somewhere,” he wheedled.
We had approached the front door, where Mr. Altschul was bent over the doorknob. He stepped away to let us enter, and I saw a series of evil-looking scratch marks around the knob and on it.
“What happened here?” I asked.
“Darn kids!” Mr. Altschul yelled. “This wasn't here this morning, or I'd have seen it. I went out to the Jewels for a few things, and this is what I find. Trying to break in and get at my collection! They know it's valuable!” he fumed. Mr. Altschul had a large collection of Civil War memorabilia. It all had a great deal of sentimental value and historical interest. I didn't think it was worth all that much money, but I was no expert.
“I'm so sorry,” I said to him. “I'll try to keep my eyes open from now on for any interlopers.” Jack agreed to be vigilant as well.
Mr. Altschul wouldn't be consoled. “That's a new paint job on that door!” he informed us, as if we didn't already know. Mr. Altschul was always painting something; the house continually smelled of latex. “The nerve!” he shouted as we mounted the steps. “The absolute nerve!”
“Back to the question,” Jack murmured close to my ear.
“We'll discuss this in the car,” I said evasively. “Now let me pack.”
“Okay,” he said, his good humor restored. “A kiss to seal the bargain?”
“First we talk, then we kiss,” I said sternly, unlocking my door. I heard him laughing as he marched to the third floor, which I interpreted as merely another effort to take control of the situation.
five
The quest for Logan Lanford began in an unimpressive way, involving an argument over who would drive to Michigan (I won), a stop at the Burger King drive-through for cold libations to ease the thirst of a long journey, and a quick visit to Fritz's apartment to drop off Jamie's money.
I warned Fritz that it would have to be paid back, and he made the appropriate sounds of concern. I wasn't at all confident that I'd see it again, but what was I to do? The faces of Noah and Cal drifted in and out of my mind, as did the remembered grip of their little hands and the sweet smell of their breath.
Jamie's directions had been simple enough: we had to take 294 to 94, and then wee, wee, wee all the way to Michigan. The drive, therefore, was relatively peaceful. Jack and I admired the many changes in the autumn sky as sunset approached, and we reminisced for a bit about a trip we'd taken together to Galena, Illinois. Jack, that indomitable Irishman, had brought a portable boom box instead of his iPod, along with an arsenal of Irish tapes inherited from his father. I had totally forgotten the Logan tape, which still sat in my glove compartment. This would have been a great opportunity to listen to it, and maybe to alter the future, but that's life. The tape lay forgotten, and the Irish music became the soundtrack of our trip. The first cassette was a monotony of mordant songs bewailing Ireland's sad history. I grew more and more melancholy as we hurtled into the unknown; my eyes were fixed on the haunting fall splendor, and now I could see only death in the withered leaves. Various Irish characters sang plaintively about their fates, sometimes a cappella, sometimes accompanied by weeping strings or subdued pianos.
Finally, during a song about the Potato Famine in which just about everyone starved, I grabbed a tissue and turned on Jack.
“Don't you have anything happy, for God's sake? I'm nervous enough about finding Logan without having to listen to this dreadful music.”
Silently, and with the exaggerated gestures of a man whose heritage has been maligned, Jack replaced the sad Irish tape with a happy Irish tape, mainly filled with drinking songs. I tried to avoid rolling my eyes; I considered this the height of maturity.
“So, weren't we supposed to talk now?” I asked finally, staring at the road.
“Yeah.” Jack sighed, and from the corner of my eye, I saw his head turn away, perhaps to look at the colors. Perhaps not. “The problem is, I have nothing new to say, Maddy. You know I love you. I'm sorry I opened your mail. If that makes you feel—” He broke off. Normally Jack was eloquence itself. I assumed he was treading carefully, for fear that I'd fly off the handle again.
I cleared my throat. “I guess I can admit here that I overreacted. I'm not exactly sure what got into me. I think I…might have gone overboard.”
Jack's head snapped back toward me quickly enough to cause whiplash. It wasn't often that he could squeeze an admission like that out of me. “I'm glad you said that, Madeline. It seems to me that ever since I started talking about marriage and a family, you've found reasons to become angry with me, where you've never found fault before. I'm wondering if maybe you're—”
“Afraid of commitment. Don't worry, my family has me all figured out. I've been analyzed, criticized, and duly chastised by mother and brothers alike. You are perfect for me, and therefore I fear you. Really, I should pay them for giving me all this consultation time.” I meant to sound lighthearted, but I failed.
Jack was quiet for a moment. “Don't blame your family,” he said eventually. “It's not because they love me that they do this, Maddy, it's because they love you. Sometimes they just don't know how to show it unless they're smothering you with something. Guilt, criticism, whatever. They like me, I think, but I'm not what's behind this crusade.”
I snorted.
“Anyway,” Jack continued, “do you see any truth in what they say?” He reached out and put a tentative hand on my shoulder. In some people, that gesture seems condescending, but Jack manages to project gentleness with it.
I beeped the horn. “Parp, parp! We are now entering Michigan. Need to stop at the rest area?” I asked.
“No thanks.”
He was waiting for an answer to his question. I puffed air into my cheeks and drummed my fingers on th
e steering wheel. The song “Suspicious Minds” was in my head, and I was tapping in rhythm to the beat.
“Madeline?”
“Yes. Yes. I suppose it must be true. I've never described myself as someone who fears commitment, and I'm not interested in dating anyone but you, but since you've started mentioning marriage, I think I've felt a bit…tense.”
I stole a look at Jack, who seemed afraid to put any expression on his face. I felt a stab of guilt. “I didn't realize that was the case until our fight, and that was kind of an explosion of several weeks of stress. But I didn't know, Jack, or maybe I would have tried to discuss it with you. Have you ever felt a certain way and not known it?” I asked, stealing a glance at him.
“Of course. It's understandable.” The hand on my shoulder started massaging—Jack's specialty—and I felt myself relax slightly.
“It's such a cliché, ‘fear of commitment.’ I don't like being cliché.”
“I don't think you're all that fearful, are you?” he asked.
I sighed. “I really never thought much about marriage, not seriously. In high school, I suppose I did, when all the girls think about it. I had that boyfriend, Tim, and we talked about how we'd like to be together forever. When I graduated, though, I got absorbed in my education, and my career, and the book I someday wanted to write. And I never really looked back. When I met you, and we said we loved each other, I guess I thought, ‘Someday.’ The kind of thing you keep putting off.”
“Sure,” Jack said.
“Today, though, I was sitting with these little kids of Logan's and Jamie's, and they're so sweet, and I found myself wondering what mine would look like. Mine and yours.”
For me, this was deep emotional content. The German reserve was ingrained in my whole family. When we met long-lost relatives at the airport, we shook their hands. Joyfully so, of course. When we exchanged presents at Christmas and wanted to say “I love you,” we settled for “I thought you'd like that.” For us, it was basically the same thing. Jack understood this, and he understood my groping into the dark unknown of intimate revelation.
“Maddy, we're going to be okay,” he told me. “I think I'd like to stop at the rest area after all.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, I guess I should go too. You never know if they have bathrooms in certain public—”
“That's not why I want to stop,” he said.
I blushed, finally understanding his intent, and took the exit.
After making out with Jack quite thoroughly, parked under a lovely orange and yellow tree in the rest stop's parking lot, I felt consumed by Puritan guilt at the thought that people might be looking in our windows. It was a busy place, after all. Jack seemed unconcerned. His hair was comically rumpled, and there was a smudge of pink lipstick on his cheek. The smugness on his face was forgivable because I also saw the relief there. He was glad to have me back in his life, and I certainly couldn't be angry about that. I watched him clicking and clacking his way through his tape collection, perhaps trying to find some Irish funeral music.
“I'll be right back,” I said. “Your hair is all messed up.”
“That's your fault,” he said, smiling. I was briefly tempted to dive on him once again. Something about that vigorous autumn air, maybe. Instead, I stepped out of the car. The rest area was filled with Michigan tourist literature and, apparently, Michigan tourists. I struggled past a large group all laughing together, then fought my way around a chubby girl with a giant ice cream sandwich, which she seemed intent on eating in the middle of the main foot-traffic artery.
While I stretched my legs, I selected some pamphlets I thought I could use for my travel article, finally struggling away from the display because of someone's overpowering BO.
I waited in line at the ladies’ room, noting that a great many people bound for Michigan liked to smoke and did not like to acknowledge the posted “No Smoking” signs. One learns so much about humanity when one travels.
When I finally earned a stall, I was shocked to discover a toilet that flushed itself. Still reeling from the sudden explosion, I rinsed my hands in too-cold water and headed back into the frigid air. I walked briskly toward my car and noticed that Jack had moved behind the wheel. I felt a stab of annoyance. I reminded myself that I'd driven the majority of the way and attempted to adopt a generous attitude. As I drew closer, I noticed a vehicle pulling out a few spaces down. I was staring directly at its back window, which bore a big blue bumper sticker that said, “Don Paul Has It All! Vote Paul for Mayor.” My mom had suggested that slogan.
It was a black Caddy, just the kind Sunil had said had followed Logan. The car was pulling away, toward the exit, to merge back onto the highway. I squinted at the license plate, which revealed three digits—W23—and a logo indicating it was an official vehicle.
I tried to get a look at the driver, but I was too far away. It might have been a man. Or a woman. In other words, I had no idea.
I jogged the remaining distance to the car. Logan had worked for the mayor. Could it have been merely a coincidental meeting in the parking lot of the White Hen? An old colleague rolling down the window to say hello, to offer Logan a ride? Could I be reading too much into that meeting? The vibes were getting stronger, though. Just seeing that car with the blue bumper sticker had given me tummy butterflies. Plenty of people probably had the Paul election bumper sticker, though, right? In the window?
“Jack, follow that car!” I yelled as I jumped into the passenger seat. I pointed at the black vehicle, now merging into highway traffic.
Jack grinned at me. He thought I was joking.
“Seriously, Jack, follow it! This is about Logan!”
He sobered up enough to say, “Maddy, I'll never find it now.” He started the engine, though, to avoid being strangled. He made a halfhearted attempt to catch up to the Caddy, but of course we had lost it.
I let out one of those sighs that, translated into English, means, “This is so your fault.”
Jack sighed back. “I didn't know we were doing cloak-and-dagger stuff, Madeline. I thought we were just delivering a message. If I'd realized I had to be ready to drive like Mannix, I would have had the car idling and been scanning the area for perps.”
This was all a hilarious joke to my boyfriend, the one I'd just shared all those intimate thoughts with, the one I'd just kissed for twenty minutes. I sighed again—same translation. I told myself that the car might have been just a coincidence, that lots of people might have that bumper sticker. When I stopped being mad at him, I asked Jack what he thought.
“Other than people who work for Mayor Paul? Maybe,” he said unconvincingly.
“So should I be freaked out by the fact that there was a black Cadillac in the parking lot near our car with a blue bumper sticker in its window, or would that be a pretty common sight?” I asked nervously.
Jack stretched his arms over his head, steering with his knees. “I think you need to relax, Madeline. After this Logan Lanford business is over, I'm going to whisk you away for a weekend somewhere. And we'll plan our wedding, whenever that may be. And we'll plan our children, and name each one.”
“But did you see anyone while I was in there? Anyone we know?”
“Why does it matter?” he asked.
I clenched my fists. “Why can't you just answer the question?”
Jack spoke exaggeratedly, as though to someone of questionable intelligence. “No, Madeline, I didn't see anyone we know. And it's beside the point now, isn't it?”
He had me there. At that point, it really didn't matter. Not half so much as it would matter later. A woman should always listen to her intuitive voice. Instead, I shrugged and responded to Jack's idea about children.
“Don't even think about naming them some of those Irish names that I can't pronounce,” I said crossly.
“Like Seamus? Or Mairead? Or Siobhan? Ah, those are good names,” he purred with a false brogue.
“So is Hans. And Wolfgang. And Johanna,” I countered.
>
As he drove toward Saugatuck, I thought about the black car. I could still see that sticker pulling away, like a little blue warning in the back of my mind.
six
When we finally drove off the interstate and curled around the winding Blue Star Highway into Holland Street in Saugatuck, the sun was setting on the water in the harbor, which gave the town a mysterious glittering sheen. I spied an antique barn and some luxury vacation condos, and then some more mainstream businesses on the quaint little downtown streets.
“Maybe I should go shopping,” I murmured. “For the article.”
“Sure.” Jack was generosity itself, now that I'd promised dinner and eternal devotion. “But let's eat first. I see an Italian place. And this looks like seafood. Or we could eat at that hotel back there.”
I felt a sudden nervousness. “You know, though, Jack. I'm having a funny feeling.…”
“Oh, please, Maddy, can't we just eat in peace?” he asked. “Look. Water Street. We're right on the harbor here.”
“I'll feel more relaxed if we just look at Logan's place first. If he's there, he can answer my questions and call his wife, I can tell him off, and then we can come back. If he's not there, we'll be back even faster. Let's just get it over with.”
Jack agreed, and I pulled Jamie's directions to the cabin, which she'd scrawled on a sheet of Noah's construction paper, out of my purse.
I couldn't account for my sudden anxiety. Certainly, it would be awkward to talk to Logan and explain my own involvement in all of this, especially after ten years of non-communication. That hadn't bothered me up until now, though, and it certainly didn't merit the nervous rumblings in the pit of my stomach.
I guided Jack to some back roads in the growing twilight.
“You turn here at this cornfield, I think. Is that a stop sign? It says turn at the stop sign,” I bellowed, squinting at Jamie's writing.
Madeline Mann Page 5
