The Orphans of Race Point: A Novel

by Patry Francis

  Hey, Wolf, she said, talking to her ghosts for the second time that day. Have you heard the news? Your son’s going to be a father.

  Chapter 22

  Hallie sat up with a start to the sound of hammering on the front door and raked her hand through her loose, wavy hair. It took her a moment to realize where she was: there in her high bed, peering out on her own glistening bay. Home. But before she could absorb the pleasure of that, the knocks resumed more insistently.

  Hallie picked up the cell she’d tossed on her bedside table the night before: 7:25. She snuck out to the landing to catch a glimpse of the interloper. Then, realizing she was wearing only her bikini underpants and an old T-shirt that had grown tight across her chest in pregnancy, she quickly retreated.

  Shit. Whoever the hell’s banging at the door this early better be bringing coffee. She had thrown on her jeans and was searching for a bra when the pounding grew louder. Obviously, the bra would have to wait.

  When she snapped open the door, she was almost struck by a man with his fist in the air. He was dressed in a sleek suit and smiling in a way that instantly annoyed Hallie.

  “Dr. Maddox.” He looked her up and down. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You look considerably less formal than the last time we met.”

  “Lunes Oliveira?” Hallie said, hardly able to believe Gus’s attorney was standing in her doorway. She hadn’t seen him since the trial. “What exactly—”

  Undaunted, Lunes continued to grin. “So are you going to invite me in or not?” He consulted a black Rolex as he glided past her. “I’ve been up for an hour and five minutes and I still haven’t had coffee yet. I thought you might—”

  “This house has been vacant for a year,” Hallie interrupted. “The only edible thing in the kitchen is last night’s cold pizza. What’s more, I don’t seem to remember inviting you for breakfast.”

  “Cold pizza will be fine,” Lunes said, pulling up a chair at the blue table. “By the way, I’ve gotta say I like that wild look. Maybe you should have worn your hair down in court. God knows it couldn’t have gone worse.”

  Suddenly feeling self-conscious, Hallie hugged herself. She was about to toss her guest out of the house when a thought occurred to her. “Is there any new information about Gus’s case?”

  Lunes’s smile faded, and she saw a hint of the man behind the fine clothes and the swagger. “I wish there was. It was probably my childhood brainwashing, but that was one client I actually believed.”

  “Too bad you weren’t able to convince the jury.”

  “Ouch,” Lunes said, rising from the chair. “My feelings might be hurt if I wasn’t so confident in the work I did. If you recall, they had motive, a previous assault against the victim, and the testimony of the cab driver that put him at the scene. Not to mention all the physical evidence he left behind. But it was the abuse scandal that really killed us. The jury took one look at this young, good-looking priest and immediately decided he was guilty.”

  “Then why did you believe him?”

  “Guess I couldn’t imagine anyone would be that dumb. Sure, every criminal makes mistakes—even the smart ones—but if Gus had written out a ten-point plan to implicate himself in the crime, he couldn’t have done a better job.”

  “So you believed him because everything pointed to his guilt?” Hallie said, wishing Lunes could say something to erase the uncertainties that still haunted her. “That makes no sense.”

  Lunes shrugged. “We all have our weak spots, Doctor. The instances when logic fails, and emotion or a common history or . . .” He hesitated a minute before he continued. “Okay, all I had—all I still have is my gut—and the fact that a few good people who know him pretty well seemed to share my belief. Like Sandra. And what about her daughter? A National Merit Scholar who grew up in the projects. Can’t usually put much over on that combination.”

  Hallie remembered the quiet, sloe-eyed girl and her sharply dressed mother who looked as if she belonged in a hospital bed, not a courtroom. “How are they?”“Sandra passed away a few months ago, I’m sorry to say,” Lunes said. “She was quite a woman.”

  “And her daughter?”

  “There’s a new housekeeper, and Julia’s still living in the garage above the rectory. It’s a rather unorthodox foster home, but the old priest has connections and he’s made it work.” While Hallie was considering that, he continued: “Then there was your actor friend, the guy Little Cod almost killed—what’s his name?”

  “Neil Gallagher.”

  “Poor bastard pretty much messed up his whole life trying to save his childhood buddy. Stopped showing up at his play rehearsals in the city, started drinking too much, blew his relationship with an up-and-coming actress, and ended up in Chicago, directing student theater.”

  Hallie knew about the job Neil had taken in Chicago, but the rest was news to her. “Shouldn’t you be investigating Gus’s case, instead of his friends?”

  “That’s where most investigations usually start, isn’t it? With friends and family. Usually end there, too.”

  “So that’s why you’re here? You’re researching me?”

  “Nah. I already know all the salient facts about you, Dr. Maddox. Got yourself a thriving medical practice at the clinic in Mission Hill. Married—rather coincidentally, I might add—to the millionaire son of your former boarder. Someday you’ll have to tell me how that happened.”

  “Yeah, someday we’ll have a long chat about every personal detail of my life,” Hallie said, feeling even more irritated.

  Lunes seemed to enjoy the feistier Hallie. “Anyway, I figured you’d be in touch if you had any new information.”

  “So if you don’t want to discuss Gus’s case, why did you come?” Hallie asked.

  “For the estate sale, of course. My ex-wife was something of an art collector and she taught me a lot. Aside from my kids and some pretty great sex, it was the best part of our marriage. Where are they?”

  “Excuse me?” Hallie said.

  “Your father-in-law’s paintings. I hear his finest work is here, rotting along with a rather fantastic house. If I were still married, I’d consider buying it myself.”

  Though it was technically true, Hallie never thought of Wolf as her father-in-law. And as for his art, it was like the bay outside the window, or the slightly fishy scent on the air—simply part of the atmosphere she’d breathed as a child. It infuriated her that someone, especially the maddening Lunes Oliveira, saw it as a commodity.

  “The paintings aren’t for sale,” she said curtly.

  “Newspaper says otherwise.” As if on cue, Lunes produced a clipping from the Cape Cod Times advertising the estate sale. He’d underlined the words including artwork.

  “What?” Hallie tore the scrap of paper from his hands. “Well, it’s a mistake. As I said, they’re not for sale. They’re . . . my daughter’s legacy.”

  She’d blurted out that last before she could stop herself—and she wasn’t even sure it was true. She and Sam had only talked about the fate of the paintings once, and his response had been blunt. “You want to know what I would do with them? Burn them. I don’t care what they’re worth—and frankly, neither did he.” He. It was the only word Sam ever used to refer to his father.

  Lunes cocked his head curiously, interrupting her reverie. “Daughter? I’m sorry; I didn’t realize you had a child.”

  Instinctively, Hallie put her hand over her abdomen. “Um, I don’t. I mean—not yet.”

  And there it was again, that voracious smile. “Well, I guess congratulations are in order. I’m happy for you, Hallie. Sincerely. And for Mr. Maddox as well.”

  Hallie nodded, appalled that she’d revealed her pregnancy to him. “I don’t mean to be rude, Lunes, but I have a lot to do this morning; and the man who’s handling the sale should be here any moment.”

  “I hope you don’t mind if I take a quick look? I promise not to bother you.” He drifted into the study, where he picked up Nick’s telescope and beg
an to examine it. “Pretty outdated, but still a fine piece of equipment. How much you want for it?”

  Furious, Hallie bolted across the room and put her body between the lawyer and his object of interest. “Don’t touch it,” she said before she could stop herself. Then, not sure whether she was flushing from embarrassment or just anger, she quickly added, “I’m sorry, but that’s not for sale, either.”

  Lunes laughed. “Another of your daughter’s legacies?”

  “No, mine,” Hallie said, recalling the clear nights when her father had packed a blanket and Thermos full of sweet coffee and headed toward Herring Cove, where he’d treated her to the wonders of the night sky.

  “I see,” Lunes said, walking through the room like a particularly agile predator, picking up and setting down various items.

  Every time he touched an object, Hallie cringed and held her breath until he completed his careful examination and returned it to its place.

  Finally, Lunes sauntered back into the kitchen and opened a cupboard. Hallie assumed the pushy intruder wanted to get himself a glass of water before he left. But instead, he pulled a cracked brown cup from the shelf and held it in the air. It happened to be the mug Nick has used to drink his coffee every morning. “How much for this?”

  “Are you joking? You want to buy a coffee-stained mug?”

  “Believe it or not, I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  “It’s an old diner cup. Obviously worthless. There’s no way I would sell you such a thing.”

  “Then you’re saying I can have it for nothing—a little gift to signify our growing friendship, perhaps?”

  Hallie reached out to grab the cup, but the smiling Lunes lifted it higher.

  “A thousand dollars, Dr. Maddox. I’ll give you a thousand dollars for your worthless brown cup.”

  “It’s from a place in Cambridge where my parents used to go,” Hallie said in a low voice. “The coffee shop was torn down about twenty years ago and my father—”

  “Ah, another family heirloom,” Lunes said, holding up his free hand. “No need to say another word.” He placed the cup on the shelf as if it were a delicate piece of crystal, then removed another mismatched cup—Wolf’s favorite—and held it aloft. “How about this one? Will you accept my generous—no, let’s be honest, insane—offer for this fine piece? One thousand dollars for a cup you couldn’t get two cents for in a yard sale.”

  This time Hallie was successful when she reached out and grabbed it out of his hand. “Get out of my house, Mr. Oliveira,” she said, shaking as she clung to the blue-rimmed mug.

  Lunes laughed, again consulting his elegant watch. “I’d love to stay and see how the sale goes, but it turns out you’re in luck. I’m due in court in less than an hour, and as you know, I still haven’t had a cup of coffee. I’ll leave you to your heirlooms.”

  Hallie closed her eyes in relief as he headed for the door.

  But just before he reached it, Lunes made one of his dramatic pivots, which she remembered from the courtroom. “A little advice? I don’t practice real estate law, Hallie; but if I were you, I’d get a hold of whoever’s advising you on the sale right away. You’ve only got a couple days till the closing. And you better get that sign out of your front yard, too.”

  “What the—what are you talking about?” Hallie said, clasping the mug to her chest.

  The lawyer smiled. “Look at you—you’re not ready to part with a single cup. There’s not a chance in hell you’re going to give up your father’s house. The sooner you break the news to the poor bastards who think they’re buying it, the better.”

  Chapter 23

  Hallie wrangled a bra on under her T-shirt, grabbed an old denim jacket from a hook, and ran a brush through her tangled hair. Then she walked into town and picked up a cup of coffee and a malasada, to go. She argued with Lunes Oliveira in her mind as she walked. So she was having a little trouble parting with her father’s things. That was to be expected, wasn’t it? It didn’t mean she wasn’t ready to sell a house that had sat empty for over a year. Besides, she hadn’t even come home very much when her father was alive. Why would she want to be here now?

  She could almost see him smirking as he made her face the question she’d been avoiding since her father’s death: Why hadn’t she come home more often? Why did she deny herself the pleasure of Nick’s company when it was still available? Why did she deny him?

  It seemed like they had so much time. All the time in the world, as Gus had once said about their love. Another lie, as it turned out. She would be there for the Portuguese Festival, she had promised her father . . . In late fall, when the tourists were gone . . . For Christmas, definitely.

  When she noticed two men watching her suspiciously, she realized she was crying openly right there in the gallery district of Commercial Street. Fortunately, they were strangers. What are you looking at? she wanted to say. Or, more like, What are you doing here in my town? But of course, it wasn’t her town anymore.

  She swabbed at her face with the sleeve of her jean jacket and kept walking. She had a thousand excuses for failing to visit, but mostly she blamed her busy schedule and her husband’s aversion to the place. Can’t you come here? she ended up saying to Nick every holiday. And he had. Bearing linguiça and sweet bread, trutas, and the vinho no one but him found palatable, he would cheerfully trudge to Boston. He would sit at her mother-in-law’s formal table in what looked like fishermens’ clothes, watching with sly amusement as Sam’s mother announced to every guest: Have you met Hallie’s father? He’s a doctor. As if she needed to bolster his image. Hallie finally saw him as he’d been back in his Harvard days, or when he’d gone to meet Liz Cooper’s family, refusing to allow anyone to make him feel inferior.

  Her friends had warned Hallie that the Provincetown where they’d grown up was gone. The fishing industry was waning, real estate prices were stratospheric, and most of the old families had moved to Truro or further up Cape. And yet every breath she took as she walked the streets told another story. From the salt-laced wind to the mixture of shells, sand, and multicolored pebbles that crunched beneath her feet to the sweet, greasy smell of the malasada in her white bag, Hallie was home.

  The entrance to the alley beside her house was narrow, but it widened on the bay. It opened her lungs and split her heart every time she walked through it. She planned to watch the tide go out while she drank her coffee, but just before she turned in to it, she saw a cluster of unfamiliar cars parked outside her house; and even more alarming—a rabid-looking group of strangers inside the gate. Some of them had made themselves comfortable on the old wicker chairs while others were walking around the property, gaping in the windows. They exuded a strange tension, like competitors at the beginning of a race.

  “Um . . . Excuse me?” Hallie said, a little too loudly, nearly spilling her coffee on the sidewalk.

  The interlopers turned sharply in her direction. But instead of being embarrassed, they appeared put out. Those who were seated jumped to their feet and lunged toward the door, while one woman who was carrying a large, obviously empty shopping bag spoke up in a sharp voice. “Are you the seller?” she asked. And then before Hallie could answer, she added, “We’ve been here for almost a half hour!” The man beside her looked Hallie up and down, taking in the loose hair Lunes called wild, her old jeans with a hole at the knee, and a T-shirt bearing the logo of Doyle’s Pub, one of her and Sam’s favorite places to relax in South Boston. He nodded to himself, apparently deciding that she conformed to his stereotype of the typical Ptown resident.

  Hallie glanced at her wrist, then realized she hadn’t bothered to strap on her watch. “What time is it?”

  “Eight-forty!” the man who’d nodded judgmentally at the sight of her yelled out. His tone made it sound like an indictment.

  “Eight forty-three,” a woman corrected from the porch. When Hallie looked in her direction, she realized it was none other than Mavis Black, her hair a brighter shade of neon oran
ge than ever. Otherwise, she looked no different than she had when Hallie left Provincetown fourteen years earlier.

  “Mavis?” Hallie mumbled, momentarily forgetting the mob in her yard.

  “Very astute of you, Hallie,” Mavis said, eyeing the pastry bag pointedly. “I’ve been waiting here for over a half-hour while you apparently wandered over to Ina’s for a greasy Portuguese doughnut. We’re here for the estate sale.”

  The idea of the nosy Mavis wandering through her house, touching Nick’s things was even more repellent than Lunes’s visit had been. Hallie quickly decided she didn’t want any of these people stampeding through her rooms, gaping at Wolf’s paintings, or running their hands over the spines of Nick’s books.

  “Well, the estate sale doesn’t start till nine,” she said. “I think that gives me seventeen minutes to drink my coffee in peace.”

  “But we’re early birds,” a woman who was guarding the door with the ferocity of a goalie shouted. “I’m sure you were told to expect early birds.”

  Safe behind the screen door, Hallie tried for the third time that day to be courteous in the face of extreme provocation. “If you could please give me a few minutes, there’s something I’ve got to do.”

  “No more than five!” the woman by the door warned. “If you take any longer than that, the regular crowd will be here. It’s not fair.”

  A surge of agreement bubbled up among the group.

  True to her word, Hallie promptly reemerged from the house, carrying a large sheet of paper and a piece of tape. “The best I could do,” she said as she covered the sign.

  ESTATE SALE CANCELED

  GOOD DAY TO ALL!

  The people on the porch refused to forfeit their places until a loud murmur went up from those who were close enough to read the sign. “But it was in the paper,” a man cried out, waving his cane in the air, and for a moment Hallie was afraid they might storm the place.