“Oh, you don’t say.” Becky clicked her tongue, looking at Maggie with a sudden compassion as she weighed and scanned the apples. “Such a tragedy. And then that terrible car crash so soon after. Now, how is Mrs. Firelli doing? I heard there’s been no change?”
Maggie shook her head. “Not yet. The doctors are doing all they can.”
“Oh goodness, and those three little ones. Such a beautiful family.” Becky shook her head, scooting the yogurt across the beeping scanner and into a bag.
“It’s been tough for all of us. But we aren’t giving up hope. And at least one person survived the first accident,” Maggie observed, setting the bait.
Becky looked up sharply, taking the hook. “You mean that fella, Daniel Wolfe?”
“The kayaker?” Maggie asked innocently.
“Well . . .” The cashier pursed her lips and nodded once. “You know what I keep asking myself?” She lowered her voice and glanced from side to side, then leaned confidentially toward Maggie. “Why was he on the water anyway? He should have known better, if you ask me. It’s not like he doesn’t know the currents. They can be mighty dangerous. Everyone knows that.” She shook her head again, resuming a normal tone of voice and ringing up the deli meat. “If it’d been a tourist, I’d have understood it. But a local? He’s been here long enough to know better.” She pursed her lips in disapproval and swooshed the bread and bagels across the scanner, then soundly punched the button for Maggie’s total.
“Oh, is he from around here?” Maggie asked casually, sliding her credit card through the machine.
Becky began putting the rest of the groceries into a second bag. “Well, I suppose you could say so. Moved to the island not long ago, though. He lives just a couple of miles up the road from the Firelli place, just a bit farther on West Side Road. It’s hardly a house, if you ask me. Doesn’t even have plumbing, just a little cabin by the water. He’s a strange one.” She handed Maggie a receipt. “’Course, folks say he got into some sort of trouble in New York. He’s a writer or something, I guess, some sort of hotshot. He’s from around here, though, on the mainland. Comes from one of the reservations.” She shook her head again. “If you ask me, local folks should have more sense.”
Maggie left a few moments later, bags of groceries and useful information firmly in hand.
Maggie waited until the kids had gone to bed before she put her new information to good use. She kept the routine they’d established over the past week—a chapter from Peter Pan, the book Lena had been reading to the kids before her accident, then a tuck-in and hug for Gabby and a quick check on the boys to see if Jonah was reading under his covers with a flashlight and if Luca had brushed his teeth.
It took longer than usual. The children begged for another chapter, and when Maggie refused, Gabby pouted and Luca thought up a half-dozen requests to keep from going to bed. After getting him a glass of water, a tissue, and a cough drop, Maggie put her foot down and sternly bid them all good night. Finally all was quiet from their rooms. She tiptoed down the stairs. Ellen was snoring softly on the couch, mouth open a little. The TV was turned to a crime drama. Maggie slipped into the home office, now Ellen’s room, and sat down in front of the antique French writing desk that held Lena’s MacBook Air and printer. Quickly she googled “Daniel Wolfe writer,” half expecting to find nothing there.
To her surprise the screen was instantly filled with a long list of links. American Society of Poets, New York University staff page, schedules for poetry readings. One listing showed thumbnails of several photos, and on impulse Maggie clicked on one. The image sprang to full size, and there was Daniel, the same sharp cheekbones, same dark eyes, but clean-shaven, and in a tuxedo, accepting an award from former mayor Rudy Giuliani.
She stared at the photo in amazement. Although Daniel was a good-looking man, even with long hair and camouflage pants, the picture revealed another side of him. She squinted, studying him. He looked like a young Johnny Depp, or maybe a more mature Orlando Bloom. Either way, in his tuxedo he was downright handsome. In another photo, Daniel was holding the award in one hand while his other curved around the waist of a beautiful redhead who looked demurely away from the camera. The caption read, “Poet Daniel Wolfe is joined by his wife, attorney Katherine Kernshaw, at the NYC Artist Vision Award ceremony.” A third photo showed Daniel clutching the award, head thrown back, sharing a laugh with former U.S. poet laureate Billy Collins. Maggie blinked, staring at the picture again. Billy had his hand on Daniel’s shoulder in a fraternal way. Maggie sat back for a moment, stunned. “Who are you?” she murmured, shaking her head in disbelief. “And what were you doing in our yard?”
She clicked on link after link. She found Daniel’s two books of poetry on Amazon, The Keening Water and Salmon Song, half price if she bought them used. On impulse, she purchased them, choosing the fastest method of shipping.
After scanning through a dozen more links, she was even more puzzled than before. What was Daniel Wolfe doing here on the island? Halfway down the Google search page a news article from an online New York arts gossip column caught her eye. “Where in the World Is Daniel Wolfe?” read the title. She clicked on it. There was only a short blurb.
Award-winning New York City poet Daniel Wolfe was a no-show last Friday at the Poetry Circle critic’s award dinner, where he was to receive a special commendation for his work focusing on First Peoples. He also failed to make an appearance on the radio show Good Morning, Big Apple the next day. His agent could not be reached for comment. Mr. Wolfe, New York is asking, where are you?
The article was dated January 5.
“Hmm, that’s interesting,” Maggie murmured, scanning the few lines again, looking for clues. She looked again at the photo of Daniel with the beautiful redhead. On impulse, she typed in the name Katherine Kernshaw, coming up with fewer links, but still an impressive array. She browsed Katherine’s legal profile on the website of Brauer, McKinsey & Scott. Graduate of Stanford, a junior partner with the firm, specializing in litigation. In the accompanying photo she looked beautifully collected, wide bow mouth and fall of fiery hair softening the determined set of her jaw and the steel in those big green eyes. Maggie clicked out of Katherine’s legal profile page and went back to the list of search results. And then in the next link down on the Google page was a single sentence that sent a chill spiraling down Maggie’s spine.
Up-and-coming New York City attorney Katherine Kernshaw filed for divorce from her husband of eight years, poet Daniel Wolfe, on Monday, citing irreconcilable differences.
It was from the same online gossip column. There was no more information. It was dated two days before he failed to show up to receive his award.
Maggie stared at the screen until the words blurred. So that was it. He had simply disappeared, walked out of New York and disappeared. He was hiding here on the island. She recalled the haunted look in his eyes, the depth of sadness she sensed in him, the resignation creasing the corners of his mouth. He was not the same man in the photo, grinning as he shook Rudy Giuliani’s hand, handsome and successful and on top of the world. She knew the look he had now, for she saw it when she looked in the mirror, when she thought of her mother or of Marco or of the Regent. Daniel Wolfe was a man who had lost what he held most dear.
Becky had been right, Maggie thought grimly, surveying the tumbledown little wood cabin nestled on a bluff overlooking the water. It had an isolated air of neglect, a shutter hanging at an odd angle from a curtainless window, the yard a jumble of ferns and weeds overgrown and creeping up against the foundation. Since the day before when Maggie had googled Daniel Wolfe, she had been plagued by thoughts of him. The information she found about Daniel had not answered anything for her. Instead, it had only added to her questions. Again and again her mind returned to the accident that had claimed Marco’s life and the questions that still surrounded it.
She’d slipped away late in the afternoon, claiming an errand in town, but had turned the car in the opposite direction of F
riday Harbor, following the curve of the road as it hugged the shoreline. The island was sparsely populated here, with long stretches of trees and grassland between the houses. She found the cabin after driving the same stretch of road twice. It was almost hidden by a stand of evergreens that screened it from view. Parking along the soft shoulder, she approached on foot, picking her way carefully down the ribbon of dirt path that led around the cabin to the front door facing the water. Daniel’s old Honda moped leaned against the side of the cabin. When she saw it, she knew she had found him. The trees opened up on this side of the cabin, and the view was spectacular, the late-afternoon sun making the sea glitter like a bed of diamonds. Maggie raised her hand to knock, but the door opened before she touched the wood.
He was dressed as before, same black T-shirt and camo pants. He didn’t look surprised to see her, nor did he say anything. He just stood there, watching her with those dark, inscrutable eyes.
Why am I doing this? she thought. I should just walk away now. Instead, she raised her chin and met his gaze.
“I’m Magdalena Henry.”
“I know who you are,” he said.
She stopped, thrown off-kilter by his response. When she’d pictured confronting him, she’d only imagined asking the questions. She had never dreamed he’d know who she was.
“I’ve followed some of your work,” he said, seeing her confused expression. “Your series on farmers fighting for their land in Brazil was very good.”
Maggie stared at him, taken aback, feeling suddenly exposed. She glanced away, trying to regroup for a moment, aware of his eyes on her. She set her jaw, determined not to be dissuaded from asking the question that had been plaguing her since their encounter at the altar.
“Why were you on the water the day Marco died?” She raised her chin and met his gaze, demanding the truth.
“Why are you asking?” he answered evenly. His eyes were hooded, cautious. He was protecting something; she could sense it. She swallowed hard. He was protecting something, and Marco was dead because of him.
“What happened?” she asked, ignoring his question. “How did you survive and Marco didn’t? Why were you out on the water that day?”
Daniel watched her carefully. “Which do you want to know? Why your friend died or why I was on the water?”
Maggie paused. “Both. All of it.”
Daniel stepped back and inclined his head, a tacit invitation. She followed him. The cabin was small and dim. Square four-paned windows let in a little light. It was sparsely furnished—a twin bed with a wool blanket, a small woodstove, a table, and one chair. Underneath the far window sat a workbench with a set of carving tools and a block of half-carved wood on it. The room smelled like cold coffee and fir shavings, sharp and pungent, for a moment reminding her of Christmas. Maggie let her eyes adjust to the dimness. Daniel offered her the lone chair, taking a seat on the workbench. He picked up the half-formed carving, a salmon just beginning to emerge from the wood, and turned it over in his hands carefully. He had beautiful hands, she noticed, well-shaped with long fingers and neatly trimmed nails.
“I know the currents,” he said finally. “I knew it was dangerous to be on the water with that wind.”
“Then what happened? Why did you go?” Maggie spread her hands, seeking an explanation.
He met her eyes. “I didn’t intend to come back.”
She inhaled sharply. “You went out there on purpose,” she said, understanding dawning. She felt sick.
He nodded, his face impassive. “I was desperate. I wasn’t thinking clearly. At the time I felt I had nothing to lose. I knew it was dangerous, and I didn’t care. I got into trouble near the Firellis’ house. I’m a novice with a kayak, and I capsized it. You know how strong the currents are there. And then all of a sudden he was paddling out to me, trying to save me, pulling me up. I kept shouting to him to let me go, that I didn’t want to be saved, but he kept saying, ‘Hold on, I’ve got you—’” Daniel dropped his head, his voice breaking off suddenly at the memory. He turned away from her, looking out the window, as though seeing the scene replaying through the glass. Just as Lena had the day she told Maggie how Marco hadn’t come back.
“When my head went under the water, I panicked. Suddenly taking another breath on this earth seemed like the best idea in the world. Marco was trying to help me, but then his kayak capsized. I think he hit his head as he went under. It was all a blur. I just know I tried . . .” His voice cracked, and he ducked his head again, going silent for a moment. “When I realized he was sinking, that he wasn’t conscious, I tried to hold him up,” he said softly. “But he was dead weight, and when he went under, I couldn’t hold him anymore.”
Maggie touched her cheek, trying to reassure herself that she was still sitting there in the cabin, not in some terrible dream. She was surprised to find it wet.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Daniel said at last. He turned toward Maggie, his face open and desolate. He spread his empty hands, a gesture of helplessness. “I tried to save him. It was supposed to be me.”
Maggie had braced herself for anger, expected to lay blame and feel hatred toward the man whose carelessness or ignorance had cost Marco his life. She had readied herself for it. But now, faced with the reality of Daniel, penitent, a man broken with remorse, she was surprised to find she felt only a great swell of sadness tinged with pity. How tragic that the man who wanted to die had in fact been saved, while the man who had everything to live for had lost his life. They sat together in silence for a long moment. A fly buzzed frantically against the windowpane. Far out on the water, a freighter honked its deep bass horn.
“I’m so sorry,” Daniel said simply.
Without another word, Maggie got up and left.
Chapter Nineteen
“AUNT MAGGIE, AUNT MAGGIE, I GOT ONE through the hole!” Gabby yelled excitedly as Maggie climbed from the car, still shaken from her trip to Daniel’s cabin. Curls bouncing, Gabby swung a croquet mallet almost as tall as she was, running over to Maggie’s side to demonstrate. Maggie had seen the motorcycle parked by the mudroom door as she’d driven in, and she now spied Griffin in the side yard, which had been transformed in her absence into a croquet court. Griffin raised a hand in greeting and then went back to showing Luca how to line up a shot through a wicket.
Ellen had told her the priest stopped by the house several times. But he’d always come on the days Maggie was at the hospital, so Maggie hadn’t seen him since their confrontation at the hospital right after Lena’s accident.
Sammy was barking, chasing every shot, prancing and pouncing on the balls as they rolled toward the wickets. Jonah swiped at the dog with his mallet, trying to shoo him away as a ball missed the wicket and came to a stop in the grass beside it.
“Come on, Aunt Maggie.” Gabby took her arm and led her to the remaining mallets. “You can be red. I’m yellow,” she announced. Maggie allowed herself to be pulled to the court, intending to put in an appearance and then excuse herself.
“But, sweetie, I don’t think I’m going to play.” She tried to disentangle herself from the little girl’s grasp. Gabby stuck out her lower lip.
“Please?” she entreated.
Maggie took a look at her expectant little face and caved. “Okay, but just one game.”
Satisfied, Gabby raced ahead. Maggie lingered for a moment at the edge of the court. The others were all intent on their game, making a ring around Griffin as he explained a technique. Maggie glanced out at the Strait, at the swirling dark water, the long strands of bull kelp waving gently under the surface. She shuddered, closing her eyes and trying not to imagine Marco and Daniel in the water, Marco being pulled under the surface by another man’s folly. The ache was too much to bear. She took a deep breath and then another, steadying herself with the croquet mallet, trying to banish the images from her mind.
“Maggie!”
Maggie opened her eyes. Griffin was looking at her curiously across the court. “You okay?”
he called.
She nodded, pasting a smile on her face. “Great,” she called back, although her voice wavered just a little. She didn’t trust herself to say more. She took her time gathering up her croquet balls, buying a few seconds to regain her composure. She didn’t want Griffin or the children to sense anything was amiss. She felt as though every fiber of nerve had been stripped raw. She wanted nothing more than a long run and a hot shower, a little solitude to try to recover her equilibrium.
“Come on, Aunt Maggie, your turn,” Luca called to her.
With a sigh, Maggie put all thoughts of long runs, hot showers, and the Strait’s dark, cold currents from her mind and joined the group. She pointed her red mallet at Gabby, who giggled. “You’re going to regret this,” she announced ominously. “I’ve got a wicked curveball.”
Griffin glanced over his shoulder at her and then sent his ball through two wickets. “Nice to see you join us,” he said cheerfully. “I should warn you. I never lose this game.”
“Well, there’s always a first time,” Maggie retorted, hitting her ball crooked and sending it spinning into the grass far to the left of the wicket.
“Want to make a bet?” Griffin grinned. “Just to keep it exciting.”
Sammy chased Maggie’s ball, bounding around it joyfully.
“Are priests allowed to gamble? Isn’t that against the rules?” Maggie asked as Luca took a turn, tapping his ball and getting it halfway through the first wicket before it stopped.
“Not if it’s a bet for something good,” Griffin said. He tapped his chin in mock contemplation. “Ellen’s making cookies for us right now. Let’s say if I win I get your cookies.”
Maggie considered his offer. “Okay,” she agreed finally, “but if I win I want something more than cookies.”
“Like what?” Griffin asked.
Maggie thought immediately of Lena, then the number of zeroes needed to pay off the debt and keep the house. “A miracle. Can you deliver that?”
Ascension of Larks Page 19
