She switched the selector abruptly, actually found a country station, which was more in sync with her mood and exactly the kind of thing that Richard couldn’t abide. The blues he understood, even appreciated. He owned a couple of Muddy Waters CDs as well as the complete recorded works of Sonny Terry, and he had once lectured her on the form’s basic structure—twelve-bar chorus consisting of three-line stanzas with the second line repeating the first with sub-dominate harmony. But to his ear, country was nothing but crude and sentimental tripe. Good enough reason to listen, Libby thought; in fact, precisely what was called for. Patsy Cline, tales of cheating men and the sad-hearted lovers who threw them out. She turned up the volume and listened to a woman singing a tale of betrayal and revenge.
Lord knows, Libby wanted revenge. She wanted to make Richard pay, big-time. She wanted to call the college and report him, and then phone the twins and tell them what a son of a bitch their father was. She wanted to pour sugar in his gas tank. The way she felt, he’d better hope every store in a hundred-mile radius was out of superglue, because she was in no mood to stop at zippers. That would be a country song she’d like to sing. Take your home-wrecking pecker out of my back door ’cause when I’m done with you it won’t work no more. But underneath her outrage, a bud of worry grew. She had to face Richard sooner or later—and then what? What was she going to do? Leave him? Throw him out? Forgive him? Again.
A small bug tapped at the inside of the lamp shade, circling the light, drawn to the heat that would kill it. Moth or butterfly? she wondered as she watched it flit about the bulb. Once Richard had told her how to differentiate between them: one rested with wings closed, the other with wings open; but she couldn’t recall which was which.
A woman’s voice broke into her thoughts. It was outside her door, the tone urgent.
“Hold on.”
Libby cocked her head, listened for more. She was sure she knew that voice. She got up, rising so fast that momentarily she felt light-headed, and crossed to the door. She unhooked the safety latch and checked the corridor, but found it empty. The words echoed clearly in her mind. Hold on, the woman had cried. Who had she been talking to? Why had she sounded so urgent and where had she gone? Or could the voice have come from a television in another room? But why had it sounded so familiar?
Hold on. Hold on to what?
Well, I’ve held enough in my life already, she thought as she re-locked the door and crossed back to the bed. She’d held her temper and she’d held her breath, too many times to count. In her life, she had held on, and held in, and held out.
She conjugated the verb. I hold, I held, I have held.
As if a gate had been opened, memories long ago sealed off spilled out. She remembered being ten and holding her breath beneath the surface of Walker Pond, absolutely certain that it was possible for humans to breathe water, that it was only fear that held one back. She remembered holding on to the towrope on the baby slope at Mount Mansfield for too long and causing a pileup when she finally let go. She remembered holding up her hand in fifth-grade geography and being ignored by Mrs. Mumsford, who always called on the boys. She remembered crossing to Sam’s bed and holding her sister when Sam was five and afraid of the night. She remembered holding her tongue when she wanted to scream at her mother.
She remembered holding Matt and Mercy, one in each arm, immediately after their birth. She remembered holding the joint she had found in Matt’s backpack, waiting for him to explain. She remembered holding on to Richard’s hand as they walked down the center aisle after Reverend White had declared them man and wife, and holding out an olive branch—her body—after an argument with him, and holding on to his hand at the memorial service for her parents, and again on the way into the center the first day of dialysis.
Hands held power of destruction and creation, her father had once told her. She held her hands, palms up, in front of her, saw the bulge of the shunt in her forearm. Not every wound showed, she thought.
A sigh, thin as old hope, slipped from her lips.
Hold on, the voice had said. But to what?
Hope? Faith?
She’d long ago felt the falling away of both. Illness and betrayal had come into her life uninvited and filled her with struggle, with questions for which she had no answer. So we hold out, she thought, and we hold on, and in the end what is left?
It came to her then with a shock of recognition. The voice in the hall had belonged to Hannah. Libby was certain of it.
How was that possible? Eleanor Brooks had said Hannah was in a coma. Had she recovered? But even if she had, what could she possibly be doing in this motel?
Libby got the number from information. She told herself she was calling Gabe to find out about Hannah, not to bother him with her problems.
“Gabe?” she said when he answered.
“Elizabeth?”
She was astounded that he knew her voice. She’d believed she was strong, that she needed no one, but at the sound of his voice, hers broke.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She started to sob, unable to reply.
“Elizabeth,” he said. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”
Hold on, a voice echoed. Hold on.
Sam
Hold on a minute,” Sam said. “What are you saying? Mercedes has disappeared, too?”
“Well,” Richard hedged, “I probably shouldn’t have said she disappeared. According to her roommate, she’s just off campus.” He refilled his cup, offered her more. Sam shook her head.
She waited for Richard to continue but he just drank his coffee, apparently finished with the subject. After a moment she asked, “And the roommate didn’t tell you where? Does she know?”
“If she knew, she wasn’t telling me.”
“Is there any chance she could be coming here?”
“Mercedes?”
No, Santa Claus, she thought, but bit back the retort. “Yes.”
Richard shrugged. “It’s possible. Both of the twins have been upset about their mother’s illness. Mercy more than Matt, I think.”
“Have you checked with anyone else at the college? A resident adviser or anyone?”
Richard shook his head. “I think, at this point, that’s a little premature.”
Premature? Back when they were still speaking, Libby had told her what a wonderful father Richard was to the twins. Engaged in their lives, she had said. If he was so damn wonderful, so engaged, why wasn’t he on his way to Mercy’s college right now? “How long did the roommate say she’d been gone?”
“Two days.”
“Two days? And you’re not worried?”
“Look,” he said, his manner that of a professor explaining a problem to a particularly obtuse student. “I suspect the roommate is covering for Mercedes. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn there’s some boy involved. If I went storming out there, it would only embarrass her. Libby and I have always tried to honor her independence.”
Sam tried to remember how old Mercy was. Eighteen? Honoring independence was one thing, but what if Mercedes needed him? What if she was hurt?
A memory, long forgotten, surfaced.
It is after three in the morning. Sam is curled up in the corner of the upstairs landing, eavesdropping, although her parents believe she is asleep. At first their voices are soft and Sam has to strain to hear, but the talk quickly turns heated and now she can clearly hear both of their voices, raised in anger.
Her father wants to call the police. He is certain Libby has been involved in an accident and is at this moment lying in a hospital. Or worse, he says. (Sam won’t allow herself to even consider what worse could mean. The thought of Libby hurt or in the hospital makes her shiver; she hugs herself tighter.)
“For all we know,” her father continues, “she could be kidnapped.”
“For heaven’s sake, Peter,” her mother says.“Don’t be so dramatic. Why would anyone kidnap Elizabeth?”
Sam wants to go down to the living room and
bury herself in her father’s arms. She wants him to tell her that Libby is all right, but she stays on the landing. She knows if she goes downstairs, they will only tell her to go back to bed.
Her father wants to call the police, but her mother insists they wait until morning. In a tight voice Sam hardly recognizes, her mother says that Elizabeth is probably shacked up at some motel with one of the boys who’s been sniffing around ever since Libby turned fifteen.
Shacked up. Sniffing around. Sam can’t believe this is her mother speaking.
“If you call the police,” her mother continues, “the entire town will know your daughter is a tramp. Is that what you want?”
Sam presses back against the wall of the stairwell, her mother’s cruel words stuck in her chest, as if she has swallowed a twig. She waits for her father to insist on calling the police, but he caves to their mother’s will.
In the morning, Libby comes home. She is grounded for a month but whispers to Sam that it was worth every minute.
“Look,” Richard said. “Mercedes is an adult and she has her own life. We need to respect that.”
Sam wondered if Libby would agree. She looked around the kitchen as if searching for clues, something that would tell her about her sister’s inner life.
“Right now,” Richard went on, “I am more concerned about Libby. Her last dialysis session was on Wednesday.”
“So she’s missed a session.”
He nodded.
“How dangerous is that?”
“It depends,” he said.
“On what?”
“On what she’s been eating. I spoke to a nurse at the dialysis center and she said if Libby has been following her diet and limiting her liquids, one missed appointment isn’t critical. I’m waiting for the nephrologist to return my call now.” He checked his watch again. “Listen, why don’t I go and get your luggage?”
“I thought I’d get a room in a motel. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“Of course you’ll stay here.”
She handed him her car keys and he went out to bring in her luggage.
“Anything you need?” he asked when he returned with her bag. “Are you hungry?”
“Not right now.”
“Will you be all right if I go out for a bit?”
She nodded. “Of course. You go and I’ll stay here by the phone.” She imagined he was going to drive around, canvass the town, look for Libby’s car.
He scribbled down a number. “If you hear anything, you can reach me on my cell phone.”
She took the paper.
He checked his watch again. “I’ll be back in two hours at the most. We’re usually finished no later than nine.”
She raised an eyebrow in question.
“A rehearsal,” he explained. “We have a concert next Sunday.”
“Your wife and daughter are missing and you’re going to a rehearsal?”
“What would you like me to do? Shall I put my life and job on hold because Elizabeth has decided to take off?”
“Under the circumstances, maybe you should.”
Richard gave her a hard look. “Isn’t it a little late and out of character for you to be flying in here and putting on the concerned sister act?”
“I am concerned. A hell of a lot more concerned than you seem to be.”
“You’re no one to be judging anyone, Samantha. You weren’t here when Elizabeth needed you. You certainly had no compunction about cutting her out of your life because you didn’t get your way.”
“My way?”
“She told me how you cut her out of your life because she chose not to pay for your training. She wanted more for you, you know. She wanted you to live up to your potential and she thought you could be more than a cook.”
“That’s what she told you?”
“Yes.”
“Just to set the record straight, not that I care what you think, but first of all I’m not a cook, I’m a pastry chef—”
He waved his hand wearily. “Whatever.”
“And second, that wasn’t what our fight was about.”
“Let’s forget it,” Richard said. “It’s beside the point now.” He picked up his car keys and headed for the door. “I’ll be back by nine. Call me if you hear anything.”
Sam watched from the front window as he backed out of the drive. She wondered if he really had a rehearsal or was going to the woman Libby had seen him with. It was not her business, she said to herself. Nothing that happened here was. But it wasn’t that simple. Libby was in trouble. And who knew what the story was with Mercedes.
She returned to the kitchen and poured another cup of coffee. The wall clock said it was nearly seven, which would make it eight on the East Coast.
Lee didn’t pick up on his cell and no one answered at either his house or the boatyard. Finally she called Stacy’s number. Carl answered and she held on while he turned down a ball game that blared in the background.
“It’s Sam,” she said. “Can I talk to Stacy?”
“She’s not here. She’s over at your place tonight. She’s working on some wedding cake.”
Sam had completely forgotten about the Chaney wedding. She dialed her own number. Stacy picked up on the second ring.
“Hey,” Stacy said. “How’d you track me down? Let me guess? You called Carl, right?”
“Right. Is he angry ’cause you’re working at night?”
“Are you kidding? He’s thrilled to have me out of the house while he’s watching the damn game. He gets mad because I root for the team with the cutest uniforms and the best butts.”
Sam smiled. “How are you doing? Everything okay?”
“Not to worry. We’ve got it all under control.”
“We?” Now Sam could hear other voices, music.
“My crew,” Stacy said. “Wait a minute. Someone wants to talk to you.”
“Hello, dear.”
“Alice?” Why in the world had Stacy called Lee’s mother? “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine here,” Alice said. “You should see the cake. You’d be proud of Stacy.”
“It’s done already?” The last-minute assembly should have waited until tomorrow.
Alice laughed. “She made a practice cake, the smart girl.” She added something, but the words were muffled.
“What?”
“There’s someone else here who wants to speak to you. Hold on.”
“Hey,” Lee said.
“You’re there, too? What’s going on?” Sam asked. “Are you having a party or what?”
“Just giving Stacy a hand,” Lee said. “Not that she needs it. She’s doing a terrific job. In fact, I think you’re going to have to consider giving her a raise.”
Stacy said something in the background that Sam couldn’t catch, and she heard Alice laugh.
“God,” Sam said. “I’m sorry she bothered Alice.”
“Here,” Lee said. “I’m going to hand the phone back to her and let you try and tell her that.”
“Tell me what?” Alice said.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I had no idea Stacy would call you. I told her to call Tricia Nelson.”
“Are you kidding?” Alice said. “I’m having the time of my life. We’ve sent out for Chinese and I’m in charge of cleanup.”
Lee got back on the phone. “See,” he said. “She would be insulted if she wasn’t here to help.”
There were more muffled words in the background.
“Alice said to tell you that’s what a mother’s for,” he said.
Sam let the words spill over her. What a mother’s for. A wave of loss for her own mother washed over Sam, taking her by surprise.
“How are things out there?” Lee asked, bringing her back.
“Where do you want me to start?” She took a deep breath.
“Problems?”
“Libby has disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Lee echoed.
“That’s just th
e start of it. It appears that my brother-in-law is having an affair, and my niece is missing from her dorm. In fact, she’s been gone for two days, not that Richard seems overly concerned.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s gone to a rehearsal.”
“Let me get this straight. Your sister and your niece are missing and your brother-in-law is at a rehearsal?”
“You got it.”
She heard Lee exhale. “I’m coming out,” he said.
“No, really. There’s no need. There’s nothing you could do here. I’ll keep you informed.”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
After she hung up, she roamed the house, finding memories everywhere: her mother’s china cabinet in the dining room and her silver tea set on the sideboard, a collection of blown-glass paperweights that had been in the family, a pair of chairs that Sam remembered Libby had caned herself.
Shortly after nine, Richard returned. “Anyone call?” he asked.
“No. So how was rehearsal?” She didn’t try to ease the sharpness in her voice.
He took her question seriously. “Not as good as it should be at this point. The concert is a week from Sunday. It’s a Brahms piece. Difficult.”
Sam remembered Libby once telling her that all Richard really cared about was his music. She had thought her sister was exaggerating, but now she believed her.
“I’m going to have a glass of brandy,” Richard said. “Can I get you one?”
She knew brandy would mean she wouldn’t sleep well, but she nodded.
He was pouring when the phone rang. The liquor slopped over the top of the snifter, dripped on his hand—the first sign he’d given that he was not as calm as he appeared.
“Hello?” he said.
Sam listened openly.
“She is? Should I come now?” There was a long pause while he listened to the caller. “In the morning then,” he said. “If you’re sure.” There was another pause. Then he said, “Oh, will you give her a message? Tell her that her sister is here. Yes. Samantha. Here. At the house.”
The Law of Bound Hearts Page 20
