by Rice, Luanne
8
THE FUNERAL TOOK PLACE ON WEDNESDAY MORNING at the same small white chapel where Sean and Bay had been married, where all the children had been baptized, where Tara and Bay had made their first communion together. Sitting in the second row, Tara looked at the back of her best friend's head and remembered back to first grade, when they had both worn white dresses and veils with silver crowns.
The kids seemed to be holding up. They were so well behaved, dressed in their best summer clothes, much more dignified than Tara had been at her own father's funeral. She had been eleven, Billy's age, and he had died in a car crash. He had been drunk, and he had smashed head-on into a station wagon, killing the woman driving. Tara had dreaded the funeral—how would she get through it?
With Bay, of course. Bay had helped her put on her black dress, held her trembling hand. Now they were here again, to bury Sean.
How was it possible that that tall, athletic, fast-talking, life-loving man could be lying in that gleaming wooden box? Tara stared at it, wishing she could shake him one last time.
The end had come so differently from the way anyone had expected. So . . . the word drifted into Tara's mind: softly. Everyone had thought Sean was a fugitive on the run, fleeing the jurisdiction with his loot. While the truth was, he had died alone just three miles from home, in his car, at the bottom of the Gill River. He had bled from the gash in his head, according to the police. Whatever had happened on his boat had caused him to lose so much blood, he had lost control of his car.
Sitting there, Tara ran her gaze over Bay and the children. They were all so quiet and composed, following along with the songbook, they might be at any Sunday Mass. Billy was the first to cry out loud, to show any outward signs of grief.
Now, as if it were catching, Pegeen began to cry. She tried to hold in the sobs, but they overtook her, and for half a minute she keened without being able to hold the sounds inside. Annie put her arm around her, weeping softly herself.
“But I want Daddy back!” Peg wept.
Tara concentrated all her energy on Bay. Just get through this, was the message she sent. You can do it. You are strong. You're their mother, and they need every bit of you right now. Tara's eyes bored into the back of her friend's head, sending her all the strength she could muster.
The priest went through the motions of Mass, saying the right things: “Sean McCabe, cherished husband of Bairbre . . .” he stumbled over Bay's name, Gaelic for Barbara, “beloved father of Anne, William, and Pegeen, taken too soon . . . the mysteries of the human spirit . . . unknown reasons of the heart . . .”
“What's he talking about?” Billy asked out loud.
“Dad,” Peg replied.
“But he's not saying anything,” Billy sobbed. “I don't even know what he means.”
Then it was Annie's turn to go to the lectern and recite her father's favorite poem. Tara held her breath, watching Annie make her way through the pew, past her mother, down the aisle, to the front of the church. She wore a navy blue skirt and pale pink shirt, her add-a-pearl necklace, and the small forget-me-not earrings her father had given her when she'd had her ears pierced. Her posture was hunched, her shoulder blades drawn forward, as if she had invisible wings and could enclose herself from behind. In spite of or because of that, her movements were filled with grace.
Annie cleared her throat. She had memorized the poem, Frost's “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” Without any paper to refer to, she recited the haunting words of the timeless poem.
Annie never took her eyes off her father. For Tara was sure that, as her goddaughter gazed down, she was seeing not a wood box but Sean himself. Seeing the father she loved so much, in winter, the icy blue air and frozen marsh all around.
Tara reached over the back of the pew, and Bay squeezed her hand. They were sisters, after all. Not bound by blood, but by love. They had adopted each other early in life, a lifelong commitment without any ritual, without any symbols but the breeze blowing off the Sound, the roses growing in their gardens.
Tara's chest felt heavy. Scanning the church, she'd seen a host of friends filling the pews. Hubbard's Point's Les Dames de la Roche—Winnie Hubbard, Annabelle McCray, Hecate Frost—were there with Sixtus Larkin; Zeb and Rumer Mayhew with the recently eloped Quinn and Michael Mayhew; Sam and Dana Trevor with Quinn's sister Allie . . . People from the beach, the bank, and town.
Some of Sean's clients had come: May and Martin Cartier, Ben Atkin from Silver Bay Auto, and Augusta Renwick—who was also one of Tara's housecleaning clients. She caught Tara's eye and gave her a dignified nod. Way in the back, seated in the last pew, was a face from the past: Dan Connolly. Tara would have recognized him anywhere. Hubbard's Point had a way of gathering everyone together, even the ones who had left long ago.
And new people, as well. Tara glimpsed Joe Holmes, standing by the back door. Her spine stiffened, wondering why he had come—couldn't he leave Bay and the family alone, let them get through the funeral?
But when Joe caught her eye, he held her gaze in a strange look of recognition, as if he understood her role in Bay's life and was sending her strength to help Bay get through this day. The look was fierce yet kind. Tara realized then that his being here was beyond duty—the kind of thing her grandfather would have done. Attending the funeral of a criminal in his precinct, just to support the family left behind.
Tara nodded back, and with that thought bowed her head. A sob ripped out of her chest as she thought of her grandfather, and as she realized that Sean's family would never see Sean again.
At the end, the priest extended the customary invitation for everyone to gather at the family's home, but very few people actually showed up. Bay stood at the door, greeting friends, trying to soothe the kids who couldn't understand why no one was coming.
“Is it because it's such a nice beach day?” Peggy asked. “They'd rather go swimming than come here?”
“Or is it,” Billy said hotly, “that they're scorning us because of everything at the bank and Dad being in the papers and all?”
Both kids looked up at Bay, wanting her to dispute Billy's statement. She knew he was right, but she'd never tell her kids that. “Daddy's friends love him,” she said. “And so do we. We're here, aren't we?”
“I'm his friend,” Tara said, nodding. “And I love him.”
“But there aren't many people here,” Peggy said doubtfully. “Not as many as at Granny's funeral.”
“Well, Granny was very old,” Bay said steadily, speaking of her mother, who had died at eighty-one. She wished her children could have remembered their great-grandmother, too. “She lived for so long, and everyone knew her . . .”
“Everyone knew Daddy, too,” Peggy said. “He was their banker.”
“Yeah. It SUCKS that he was their banker, and they can only think of the bad things about him,” Billy said. “Because there were good things, too. Lots more good things than bad. Right?”
“Right,” Bay said.
“Right,” Tara agreed.
“Dad is, was, will always BE, a great guy, and everyone should KNOW that.”
“Well, maybe we should have something to eat,” Tara said, pointing toward the table. They had ordered salads and small sandwiches from Foley's. “To keep up our strength.”
“I'm not hungry,” Peg said.
“No, I lost my APPETITE because of idiots who don't know the real Sean McCabe,” Billy said.
“He's got the old Irish fighting spirit,” Bay said to Tara as Billy stormed away. “Even when there's nothing to fight about.”
“When you're Irish,” Tara said, “there's always something to fight about.” Bay ached, because she knew Billy was hurting for his father's sake. She thought of Sean, of how competitive he had always been. Tears filled her eyes, to think that her son was right, that people were thinking badly of Sean right now. In so many ways, all Sean had really ever wanted was to be liked.
Mark and Alise Boland walked in, and came straight over.
“You're so strong,” Alise said, patting her back. “To see you in church, you and your kids . . . Your daughter did such a good job, reciting the poem.”
“We're so sorry he's gone, Bay,” Mark said.
“Thank you,” Bay said.
“We can't believe it,” Alise said. “Any of it . . .”
“I know,” Bay said, her voice breaking. How could she do this, talk about her husband's death with the president of his bank? They were such an attractive couple, Mark tall and athletic, Alise small and chic. She owned a decorating business, and had an impeccable sense of style. Bay and Sean had never spent much time with them. They didn't have kids, so there wasn't the usual socializing at soccer and baseball, but Alise had always seemed friendly and dynamic—Bay often thought she would like to get to know her better.
Now their presence made her feel so ashamed of what Sean had done, while all she wanted, today, was to mourn his loss.
“If there's anything we can do,” Mark said gently.
“Anything,” Alise said, her expression worried, pained, somehow letting Bay know she really meant it.
Bay nodded as they walked away. Tara stood by, watching from across the kitchen. She was making a pot of coffee, but at the sight of Bay dissolving in tears, she hurried over.
“That was nice of them.” Bay shuddered. “Considering what Sean did at the bank.”
“They don't blame you for that,” Tara said. “No one does.”
“Why did he do it?” Bay asked. “I can't understand.”
“It's not the Sean we know,” Tara said, holding her.
Bay closed her eyes, weeping silently into Tara's shoulder. She couldn't believe any of it. Sean would never pitch another ball to the kids, shoot free throws down at the basketball court, never take them on another boat ride. He had been so wildly alive, and now he was gone. It seemed impossible that life could just go on, that the kids would grow up without him knowing them. She couldn't believe she would never see him again. She would never hear his voice . . .
When she pulled back to dry her eyes, she saw Dan and Eliza Connolly entering the room.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, immeasurably touched as they came forward.
“We're so sorry, Bay,” Dan said.
“I know what you're going through,” Eliza said. She was wearing all black: a long-sleeved ballet top, ankle-length black tube skirt, onyx necklace. Bay saw lavender crescents in the pale skin beneath her eyes, and she recognized someone else who couldn't sleep.
“You do,” Bay said, meeting her eyes, drawn to take her hands. They felt cold and so thin; Bay wanted to hold them, warm them up, and Eliza seemed to want that, too.
“It's terrible for your kids,” Eliza said.
“Oh, it is,” Bay said, her voice breaking.
Eliza's gaze slid around the kitchen, as if looking for something, taking everything in: the photos and drawings and reminder lists held to the refrigerator door by magnets, the collection of balls and bats by the side door, the tall green bottle filled with change, the oak table with Bay's mother's blue willow sugar bowl and cobalt blue glass salt and pepper shakers.
“Annie,” Eliza said. “Anne. I saw her name in the paper. In the obituary. And I heard her read the poem. She's my age.”
“Yes, she is,” Bay said, feeling something come together even as Eliza slid her hands away. “Would you like to meet her?”
Eliza nodded. “Yes,” she said.
“I'll take you to her room,” Bay said.
“You don't have to,” Eliza said, glancing around the kitchen—right past her father, who seemed to be watching her intently—at some of the other people standing around, speaking in quiet voices. “I can go myself.”
“It's just upstairs,” Bay said. “The second door on the left.”
ELIZA WALKED THROUGH THE FAMILY'S HOUSE.
She had never been here before, but she knew everything she needed to know about the people who lived here. They were the new lost souls.
In one instant, in the blink of their father's eye, their lives had changed forever. She took in the polished wood floors, the bright hooked rugs, the sports trophies on bookshelves, the watercolors on the wall of serene shoreline scenes: lighthouses, beaches, boats, breakwaters.
She wondered whether the family had ever before looked at the pretty pictures and thought of those girls who had been murdered last year and left in the breakwaters, of boats that sank, of beaches washed away by hurricanes.
Her heart hurt, because she knew that those were the things they would think of now . . .
When she got to Annie's door on the left, she stopped and stood very still. The upstairs hallway was cool and dark. Light came from an open door down the hall, but Eliza stood in shadow. Like a detective, ear against the heavy door, she used all her senses and instantly felt Annie's presence inside—she could feel the grief coming through.
She considered coming back later, but something told her that now was the time, and so she knocked.
“Annie?” she asked, as a girl opened the door.
She was large, and her eyes were—as in a children's story—as wide as saucers. She wore the clothes Eliza had seen her wearing in church: a blue skirt and pale pink shirt.
“Yes?” Annie asked. Confusion ruled her eyes.
“Um, I'm Eliza Connolly.”
“Oh.”
Eliza took a breath. She saw Annie looking her up and down. They were fun-house-mirror images of each other: one a little heavy, one much too thin. Almost by instinct, Eliza found herself curling her left hand around her scarred right wrist. Her heart was beating fast. She took a step forward, stumbling on her own feet.
Annie caught her, arms coming around her in an almost-hug. Crashing into the soft body, Eliza felt tears burn into her eyes.
“Are you okay?” Annie asked.
Eliza tried to nod, but a huge sob was rattling her chest.
“You're not, are you?” Annie asked.
Eliza shook her head very slowly from side to side. She felt as if she was going to faint.
“Do you want some water?” Annie asked, leading Eliza to the side of her bed, gently easing her down. “Or are you hungry?”
“I haven't had anything to eat in two and a half days,” Eliza said.
“Oh, my God,” Annie said. “Why?”
Eliza stared into her huge blue eyes and felt the pain in her chest dissolve in slow, hot tears. She licked her lips, wishing the room would stop spinning, wished her feet could touch the ground. Her gaze was caught by a small, obviously homemade boat model over Annie's bed. She focused on it, and it brought her back to earth.
“Because I'm so sad for you,” Eliza said.
“So sad you can't eat?” Annie asked, and Eliza knew it was the opposite for her.
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“For your family. My father knows your mother, and he showed me the obituary . . . I'm so, so sorry about your father.”
“Does your mother know us, too?” Annie asked.
Eliza closed her eyes. This was the hard part, the awful part. That question could not be answered—at least not now. It didn't really have to be, though. This was the moment when Annie would begin to know that they were different, they were alone in this world together, they were lost souls . . .
“My mother is dead,” Eliza said. “That's why I had to meet you.”
“Because my father is . . .”
Eliza nodded, not making Annie say that word that was still so new, so terrible, so unwanted. Dead.
“The poem you recited was beautiful,” Eliza said.
“It was my father's favorite.”
“My mother had a favorite poem, too,” Eliza said. “About Paul Revere.”
“Will you say a little of it to me?” Annie asked.
Eliza nodded. She took a deep breath, and as she began t
o recite, she calmed down.
“‘Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch,
Of the North Church tower as a signal light—
One, if by land, and two, if by sea,
And I on the opposite shore will be . . .' ”
“I love that poem,” Annie said. “The part about the signal.”
“I do, too,” Eliza said, glowing at the immediate, intimate connection.
“You have to eat something,” Annie whispered, reaching into a bedside drawer, pulling out a candy bar. She offered it to Eliza as if it were a gift. Eliza stared down at the blue square and shook her head.
“But you'll waste away,” Annie said, touching the back of Eliza's wrist.
Eliza stared down at her long sleeves and with the X-ray vision of a girl whose father hated her, whose mother was a ghost, saw a spiderweb of scars spelling out the real truth of the matter, the truth that Annie couldn't possibly know, and understood that she couldn't tell this grieving girl that wasting away was, in fact, the point.
“I'm fine,” Eliza said, handing her back the candy bar.
“No,” Annie said, blushing. Girls who ate a lot always pretended they weren't hungry. Eliza knew, so she was patient.
Annie blinked, plump tears filling her eyes again. Eliza followed her gaze, saw her staring at the little green boat that had been sitting in her father's office for the past couple of weeks. Somehow Eliza understood that that boat was the most important object in Annie's universe at that moment.
“I like that little boat,” Eliza whispered.
“It reminds me of my father,” Annie said, starting to cry. “I made it for him.”
“Then I bet he loved it a lot,” Eliza whispered, holding Annie's hand. “I bet he loved it more than anything.”
DAN AND BAY STOOD TOGETHER IN THE KITCHEN, surrounded by people he half-recognized from the summer he had worked at Hubbard's Point. It felt strange, to be back after so many years, and he had to ask himself why he'd come. The beach had given him a summer job—his last before starting his business. He had grown up fifteen miles east, near Mystic—across the Thames River and a world away; he had settled there again, when he and Charlie got married. Perhaps he had subconsciously avoided coming here all this time . . . People helping themselves to coffee or iced tea at the counter glanced over at him with curiosity.
