Sand Castles

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  "Oh ... you know Dave," Wendy said, automatically vague. "Always on the move."

  "Your aunt Genevieve is constantly asking me what he's up to—which of course she would; she knows it's always no good—and I really don't know what to say anymore. I think she asks out of spite. Her David's turning down business, her David's bought a new BMW. Her David has such important cases, Alan Dershowitz would be green. Her David, her David," she ended up darkly.

  "Yikes, Mom, you're in a mood."

  "Why shouldn't I be? I had my David first."

  The two Davids had been born less than a year apart, and to that day Wendy could not understand how first cousins born to close family in the same neighborhood could be given the same name. What could possibly have been the point? Someday she was going to work up the nerve to ask her aunt.

  "I think Dave's got a couple of things going on," Wendy said with a carefully offhand shrug.

  Her mother picked off her discomfort instantly. "Have you been giving him money?"

  "Money ...? Well hardly at all," Wendy had to confess.

  The look her mother gave her was more mournful than critical. Dave was the youngest, the most charming, and the most unemployable of all five siblings. He was his mother's last hope, the one she was praying would become a priest and use his connections to get her skipping past purgatory and coasting into heaven—but Dave couldn't decide on a job, much less a calling.

  "He's always on the lookout for work, Mom; really, he is," Wendy said, rallying to her brother's defense. (That's the way it always had been: five against one, and still they were outnumbered.) "But it's hard to find an exact match to his abilities. When's the last time you saw a want ad for inventors?"

  "There is a shortage, you know."

  "Of inven—? Oh, priests. Yes. But Dave has a girlfriend, don't forget."

  "He's had a hundred girlfriends. He can't support any of them. He can't support himself. A priest would have room and board."

  "Hmm. True. But I don't think that's considered sufficient motive for going into the priesthood."

  "It'd give him a place to take a deep breath and figure out what he wants out of life."

  Her words eerily echoed Jim's about himself. Dave and Jim: two men a lot alike, a lot at sea. Suddenly uneasy although she didn't know why, Wendy lied and said, "Dave seems happy enough."

  "Your brother is going to be thirty-three next month," her mother said crisply. "How happy can he be?"

  If Dave was going to be thirty-three, then Grace O'Byrne was going to be sixty-five; they were born in the same month. Was that, perhaps, what her tense mood lately was all about? Becoming a bona fide senior citizen who was eligible for Medicare?

  It was hard for Wendy to believe that her mother had reached that milestone. For someone who had raised five kids in a house the size of a shoe, on a budget the size of a shoestring, the woman looked fit and ready to take on half a dozen more of them. True, she was a little heavier, a little grayer, a little slower out of the gate; but to Wendy and her siblings, Grace O'Byrne Ferro was and always would be the Amazing Grace.

  "What. What're you smiling about?" her mother asked, cocking her head and narrowing her look.

  Wendy lifted her shoulders in a bemused shrug to go with the bemused smile. "You. I still don't know how you did it. Raising all of us and working part-time besides—how did you do it?"

  Now it was her mother's turn to shrug. "I had help. Your grandparents pitched in, and my sister, too, I'll give her that. Of course, Genny didn't have kids until late, and then only the one—but she was always there for me in a pinch, always."

  Filled with a rush of affection for her indomitable mother (and ignoring the reference to "only the one"), Wendy jumped up and impulsively crossed the room to give her a hug. "You're being too modest, Mom," she argued, squeezing cheek to cheek.

  Her mother made a dismissive sound and said, "You do what you have to do. I don't understand what's so heroic about keeping a family together. Why get married if you're not going to stick with it?"

  She was clearly thinking of Charlotte, Wendy's older sister, who divorced after a mere four years. Poor Charlotte, happily married now and pregnant again by her second husband, was always going to have to answer to that little black check on the report card of her life. It wasn't that Grace didn't love Charlotte as much as her other children; it was just that she worried more whether Charlotte would be able to attend what she liked to call the Grandest Reunion of All.

  Yet another reason, no doubt, for Dave to get with the priest program.

  Wendy smiled and said, "Okay, Doctor Laura, we all know where you stand on wedding vows, so we won't go there."

  But her mother wasn't willing to drop the subject of the lifetime vow. "You seem to be sticking with your husband, at least—even before the money."

  "Because Jim's a good guy," Wendy answered. She knew for a fact that Charlotte's first husband was anything but.

  Grace nodded and said, "That was generous of him, paying off the mortgages and letting your brothers and Charlotte pay you back with half the interest. I just hope it doesn't cause hard feelings down the line between you and Jim—because sooner or later, someone's going to get squeezed and miss a payment, I hope you realize that."

  In that one way, Wendy and her mother were very much alike: leery of found money. There was too much of an easy-come, easy-go aspect to it. Nonetheless, Wendy said, "I'm sure everything will be fine."

  "Is Dave expecting you to buy him a house, too?"

  "Not at all. He has no desire for that kind of debt—low interest or not. He knows he can't handle it, at least now."

  Her mother lifted her chin a little and said, "Well. Give him that much credit, anyway. He has some pride."

  "I wish you'd let us do something for you and Dad, though," Wendy threw out. "There must be something you need; something you want."

  Grace didn't take offense, but she looked genuinely puzzled by the offer. "What do we need? Now that you've paid us off for this house, we're all set—at least, until we get ready to go into the home," she said wryly. "Then maybe we'll need to sit down and talk."

  One of the crew turned on the air compressor just then, sending earsplitting reverberations through the house and driving Grace O'Byrne to her feet. "Good grief, I can't sit through that! Please, Wendy—don't be so stubborn. Do us all a favor: move out."

  "I'll walk you to your car," Wendy said sweetly.

  "If I know Jim, he won't want to live here after the construction's done, anyway. Why would he? He can have any house he wants."

  "Well, you never know," Wendy said sweetly.

  "Rent this out if you're so set on keeping it in the family. Rent it to Dave."

  "That's one possibility," Wendy said sweetly.

  "At least I'd know where to find him. And don't use that tone with me. I'm still your mother, even if you are a millionaire."

  Wendy sighed and said, "Sorry," but then couldn't resist firing one last volley. "Anyway, think about what I said, Mom. If you and Dad get a yen to charter a yacht in Greece this summer and go skinny-dipping with the captain and crew—you let us know. We'll make it our anniversary gift to you."

  Her mother slanted her eyes and said, "You're my most evil child, you know that?"

  "Yes, I do," Wendy said sweetly.

  ****

  Luckily for Zina, two of the volunteers at the shelter were out of commission with bad colds; Zina was more than willing to pinch-hit for them, just to have something to do. Her job at the quilting shop wasn't enough just then: it kept her hands busy and her mind occupied, but her emotions were free to roam. Far better, she thought, to bring a little happiness to neglected animals than to anguish over her brother's mission.

  So she groomed each cat an extra long time, and spoke to each with all the affection she felt, and made sure that each had a little side dish of the food he liked best.

  And still her emotions roamed.

  Zack had warned her that he wouldn't call until
he had news, so presumably he hadn't had news. How was that possible? If Jim wasn't Jimmy, then that was it; case closed. But if Jim and Jimmy were the same man, then—what?

  One scenario was that Zack might knock Jimmy down and end up in jail. She never should have let her brother take the reins from her. She should've gone to Providence and seen for herself whether Jimmy was Jim or not. At least she wouldn't land in jail. Would Zack use his single call to contact Zina, or a lawyer? That was her only question by the end of the first full day he was gone.

  By the end of the second day, Zina had spun another scenario: Zack might not have been able to get anywhere near Jimmy. In that scenario, Jimmy was now living in a mansion, surrounded by a high brick wall like the ones around the estates in Newport. In that scenario, Jimmy had a security system, maybe even a security guard. It was so obvious, by the end of the second day, what the real problem was. Naturally Jimmy would have had to put precautions in place; otherwise, people would be beating paths to his door and asking him for money all day, all night.

  Zina had no idea how her brother was going to breach the high brick wall, but if anyone could do it, Zack could.

  She went home with her spirits a little higher, and after she checked her messages she made herself a cup of tea and sat on the braided rug sipping the hot brew while she dragged a feather on a stick for Cassie to chase.

  Back and forth over her legs she dragged the feather, while the black-and-white cat, her pupils dilated in the hunt, hopped over Zina's shins like a horse in a steeplechase. The sweet creature had come a long way in her rehab, and Zina was convinced that it was because she herself was spending most of the time at home on the floor, at cat level, relating.

  When the phone rang, Zina jumped so suddenly that the cat went skittering off to hide under the bed again. Zina snatched up the phone and said, "Yes?"

  "Hey, Zee," Zack said by way of a hello.

  "Is it him?" she asked. There was desperation in her voice that she didn't try to hide.

  Zack hesitated, then said, "At the moment, I'm not sure."

  "But you did see him?"

  "From down the block."

  "Because of the security guard, you mean."

  "What guard? There's no guard," Zack said. "He has an ordinary house that's getting a makeover, which I don't get. He can afford better. Jim Hodene is not living anything like the multimillionaire he now is."

  "Maybe you have the wrong Jim Hodene."

  "There's only one in Providence."

  "Tell me everything you saw. What was he like?"

  "How do I know what was he like? That's an impossible question to answer, Zee."

  "I mean, did he seem nice? Does he have a dog? A cat? Does he care about his house and his garden? Is he neat? There are things you can tell about someone, even from down the block."

  "I'll send you a written report when I find out," Zack said.

  He sounded more sarcastic than amused, so Zina added, "I realize that they'd only be first impressions, Zack. I know he could be a serial killer or worse. I'm not asking for a warranty from you or anything."

  She had learned, during their lifetime together, that Zack actually liked it when she was sarcastic; it made him somehow less worried about her. This time was no exception. Sounding relieved, he laughed and then said, "I gotta go. Say hi to the cat."

  Her heart felt as if it were lodged between her ears. She said, "Wait! Do you have a plan, Zack?"

  "Absolutely. My plan is to see him tomorrow. More than that, I will not say. I'll call you at night with an update."

  Zina was thrilled to hear confidence in his voice. They hung up, and the first thing she did was to coax poor Cassie back out from under the bed.

  Zack hung up more amazed than exasperated. His sister's powers of denial were awesome: it apparently never even occurred to her to ask him whether Jim Hodene had a wife. Besides her, that is.

  The fact was, Jim Hodene had not only a wife but a kid: a young boy who looked like him. There was no dog, there was no cat, as far as Zack could see. Just, gee, a human family. Zack, who'd been to City Hall to check the deed to the house, had already determined that there was a Mrs. Hodene to go with the mister. But even though he was prepared for the fact, it hadn't hit home until he saw the son of a bitch take the missus in his arms.

  And later, when Zack drove past the house again, that's when he saw the kid. A ten-year-old son easily trumped a baby that Hodene had never known—even Zack, a dedicated bachelor, could understand that. Another no-brainer: a decade-plus marriage to one woman trumped half a year of wedlock to another one. Jim Hodene, once Jimmy Hayward, was right where he wanted to be, financially and emotionally speaking.

  That, however, was about to change.

  Chapter 6

  Zack hitched up his leather tool belt, surprised at how heavy it felt. In the last few years, he had become used to working with more refined tools than hammers and prybars and fifty-foot rules: chisels and spokeshaves were his instruments of choice nowadays. Still, it took him less than a minute to adjust to the weight of the belt and slip into his old role as housebuilder.

  The three men standing around their trucks alongside the Hodenes' house were in no hurry, finishing their cigarettes and slugging down coffee from Dunkin' Donuts cups. Zack introduced himself and learned that Pete hadn't shown up yet, which explained the general lack of hustle.

  The crew showed no surprise at Zack's appearance on the site; he learned that a steady stream of carpenters had come and gone during the last couple of years, mostly because the boss had little patience for slackers.

  The boss himself turned up fifteen minutes late—flat tire, Pete explained with disgust as he shook Zack's hand. There was a harried look in his eyes, testimony to the ridiculous workload he apparently had. Given the current rehab boom (no one could afford to sell and move up), it hadn't taken a lot of ingenuity for Zack to check the want ads and match one of the phone numbers there to the one on Pete's truck. Zack had called the number, and after a brief telephone interview, had been given a job sight unseen.

  Pete sent off the youngest and the oldest of the men to work on another site; Zack was plunked right where he wanted to be, in Jimmy Hayward's addition, paid for by Jim Hodene.

  "Billy, I want you to finish up the subfloorin' on the second level," Pete told his remaining help as he strapped on his own tool belt. "Zack and I'll frame up the south wall."

  "Okay," said Billy, but then he added, "I should've mentioned yesterday, but the leak on the compressor hose is worse; the compressor runs pretty near all the time now," Billy admitted. He lowered his voice and added, "Someone, I think her mother, come up to us yesterday and said can't we shut the thing up, something like that."

  "Ah, shit. I'll have to go back to the shed for another hose. Why the hell didn't you tell me this yesterday? All right. Zack, you and Billy can start pulling off the siding on the old outside wall. I'll be back."

  Off Pete went, muttering ominously. Zack sympathized. He'd been there himself, riding herd on a crew, which is why he'd gotten out of house building and into furniture making. He was a loner by nature, skeptical of the very concept of teamwork; and besides, he'd never yet tried to call himself in sick.

  The fact was, he loved having complete control of a project. Sculpting wood was one of the most satisfying highs he'd ever known. The thought that right then he had a half-carved corner chair waiting in his workshop for him to finish was almost as painful as the thought of a woman waiting in his bed for him to return and bring her to climax.

  Damn. He had to get through this and get back to his real life.

  He climbed through a roughed-out window onto the first floor of the addition and, while Billy went searching for a prybar, sized up the task at hand. Years ago the plastic siding had been attached over peeling clapboard, undoubtedly to save money. Big mistake. Whatever modest, New England charm the house had possessed was covered over in a mass of featureless vinyl strips that trapped moisture and encouraged ro
t. Hopefully the house was going to be returned to its original look.

  Not that it mattered to Zack either way; he didn't plan to be there long.

  Billy came back with a prybar, and together he and Zack began pulling off the siding that surrounded the two original kitchen windows. They were standing in what was going to be the family room; Billy explained that the entire outside wall they were working on would eventually come down, creating an open floor plan between the old kitchen and the new family room.

  The kitchen windows were fitted with miniblinds, but these were hauled all the way up. Apparently the Hodenes weren't too shy. Sure enough, as Zack worked, a sleepy-eyed kid came moping into the kitchen and headed for a cupboard, oblivious to the two men on the other side of the windows. Behind him came his mother, apparently fresh from a shower. Her hair hung in dark wet ringlets around her clean, shiny face, and although she'd thrown on a T-shirt over tattered jeans, her feet were still bare.

  The windows were old and anything but soundproof; Zack heard every word of her motherly harangue.

  "Tyler, if you think you're going to a sleepover tonight and leaving behind that sinkhole you call a room—"

  "What's the difference?" the kid shot back as he took out a bowl. "The whole house is a pit."

  "Maybe so, but in this pit, the laundry is clean and the dishes are done. So you just march right back up to your room and collect all the dirty plates in there, and then march right back down to the sink and wash them."

  "I'll be late for school!"

  'Tough. Move it."

  Fists parked on shapely hips, she was focused on the confrontation, with her back to Zack and Billy. Zack had a flash of that same awareness he had when he saw her jump down from the SUV: of a woman with strength to spare and a will to match. It occurred to him that he wouldn't ever want to tangle with her. And then it occurred to him that he'd probably have no choice.

  "Ma—"

  "And bring your dirty clothes down, too. It smells like a beach at low tide in there. Good grief, Tyler. Shape up, will you?"