by Luanne Rice
“What did she do?” Teddy asked, looking at his sister. For the first time, he noticed that her skin looked pink and scrubbed. Her hair was shining in the chandelier light.
Outside, Brainer started barking. He must have finished his afternoon circuit of checking out the beach and marsh. But when Teddy opened the door, he couldn't believe it was really their dog: Although Brainer had a few new brambles stuck to his fur, he glistened and gleamed. Bending down to pet him, Teddy felt that his coat had been brushed through, all the ticks and tangles gotten rid of.
“How'd she do it?” he asked, feeling the world tilt, turning his head to look at Maggie.
“We took him to one of those do-it-yourself car washes,” Maggie said. “She put on a raincoat and sprayed him with water, and then we dried him off with about a hundred towels. It was fun.”
“Who brushed him?”
“She did. And Brainer let her.”
Teddy closed his eyes, feeling the dog's soft fur against his cheek. He had lost in soccer that day. Distracted by something—someone in the stands calling out “Merrill-lover”—he'd let his opponent blow by him, to score a goal. He hadn't let himself think about it till now, but suddenly the overwhelming sense of loss surrounded and filled him.
“I couldn't believe it,” Maggie said, kneeling down, her whisper hissing in Teddy's ear. “Brainer just let her do it! He hasn't let anyone brush him since . . .”
“Mom,” Teddy said.
“Yeah.”
“How about you?” Teddy asked, looking at his sister's hair. “You look like you had a shampoo, too.”
“I took a bath myself,” Maggie said proudly. “I just felt like it.”
“Good job,” Teddy said.
“She bought us a pumpkin, too.”
“Where is it?”
“Right on the front steps. Didn't you see it when you came in?”
“No,” Teddy said, his heart tightening. “Because there weren't any lights on. Not even the porch light.” That was the worst part. Seeing their formerly bright and happy house so dark and morguelike was kind of embarrassing—being driven home by other kids' moms, getting dropped off at the grimmest house on the block. But the worst part was not being welcomed: His mother used to leave the outside lantern on until everyone in the family got home.
Now, rising, flipping on the porch light, Teddy peered through the side window and saw the pumpkin. It was squat, fat, and pale orange, with a spooky, curly stem.
“Good for carving,” he said.
“Yeah,” Maggie said. “That's what she said.”
“Maybe if I talked to Dad . . .” Teddy said, looking over at their father's closed door.
“Do it, Teddy,” Maggie said excitedly, grabbing his wrist. “Make him get her back!”
Nodding, Teddy rose. He petted Brainer for luck. He and Maggie touched knuckles, like teammates always did, and then Teddy walked toward the door.
The family den became John's office on days like this. He had cleared his grandfather's desk of the framed photos and bird sculptures placed there by Theresa, replaced the collected works of Hawthorne and Melville with a stack of case law, and installed two extra phone lines.
But even the computer, fax machine, and high-speed printer couldn't change the room's basic warmth—rug on the polished wood floor, leather chairs, a Windsor desk chair with the seal of Georgetown—his law school—emblazoned on the back, marble fireplace, a sunrise painting by Hugh Renwick, an undersea watercolor by Dana Underhill, and landscape paintings by other Connecticut Impressionists—Theresa had really known how to put a room together.
John was hunched over his desk, reading doctors' reports. Gregory Merrill had a paraphiliac mental disorder, resulting—according to Dr. Philip Beckwith, the psychiatrist John had hired for his defense—in a compulsion “to perpetrate violent sexual activity in a repetitive way.”
The State's own expert psychiatrist had called him a sexual sadist. He had described the obsession of Greg's mind, how he was constantly filled with repetitive thoughts, urges, and fantasies of the degradation, rape, and murder of women. The harder he tried to stop the thoughts, the more compelling they became. The feelings would build, until he felt there was no choice but to act upon them.
John's challenge, with Beckwith's help, was to convince the court that this mental illness should be considered a mitigating factor in overturning the death penalty.
Hearing a knock on the door, John shuffled the papers to hide them and called, “Come in.”
“Dad?”
It was Teddy, and John waved him in. Seeing his son standing there in his grass-stained soccer clothes, John let out a big breath. He had missed another of his son's games.
“Whoa, Dad—your face. It's all cut and bruised.”
“I know,” John said, laughing. “Looks worse than it is. But I'm going to rule at court—even the judges will be giving me wide berth. What's going on?”
“I just wondered about the baby-sitter,” Teddy said. “Kate.”
“Ah, Kate,” John said, leaning back in his chair, arms behind his head.
Teddy didn't reply. Eyes hopeful, he waited for his father to explain.
“She seemed like a smart, competent person,” John said. “Unfortunately, only in matters having nothing to do with taking care of my kids. She took your sister out on an errand without my permission, without leaving a note—”
“That was my fault,” Teddy said.
“Your fault?”
“That she took Brainer to give him a bath. It was because I said he had tangles. She said her sister had a dog, and—well, never mind. You had to be there. But trust me, Dad, she's good. She's the best so far. Both Maggie and I liked her.”
“You hardly knew her, Teddy. She was in your presence for a total of—what? Fifteen minutes?”
Teddy didn't flinch. He was tall and lean, with a serious, dark expression deep in his eyes. He'd lost his little-boyness so long ago, John hardly remembered. Teddy stood before him now, like an adversary at the bar.
“We want her back, Dad.”
“Ted, that's not going to happen. She used—”
“I know, I know—you're going to say she used bad judgment. And maybe, if you didn't know the facts, you'd be right to think that. But actually, she used good judgment, Dad. Think about it: Maggie was upset, worried about you. Brainer was totally tick-and-flea infested—what if one of those ticks bit Maggie and gave her Lyme disease? Instead, Kate gave him a bath. You shouldn't have fired her, Dad.”
“The prosecution rests,” John said, chuckling.
“Get her back, Dad,” Teddy said. “Before the agency sends one of those bored ladies who does everything right—they use such good judgment it's ridiculous. But they don't laugh at Maggie's jokes, or give Brainer a bath, or buy us pumpkins.”
“She bought us a pumpkin?”
“Didn't you see it on the steps?”
“Yeah,” John said, picturing it now. “I guess I figured Mrs. Wilcox dropped it off.”
“No, it was Kate. Something else, Dad: Those other ladies don't last.”
“I know,” John said, feeling the twist in his guts. They didn't last because he was a slave driver. “What makes you think Kate will?”
“I can't explain it,” Teddy said. “I just know.”
John sat back, thinking it over. Tempers had been running high, that was for sure. Perhaps he had overreacted. The Harris woman hadn't meant any harm; in fact, her bathing Brainer had inspired Maggie to give herself a long bubble bath. Two problems solved in one day.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was four-fifty-eight. That left him two minutes to call the employment agency. He supposed it would do no harm to at least check Kate Harris's references; besides, he had to make arrangements about sending her check. . . .
“Let me call and ask about her, Dad,” Teddy said eagerly. “Come on, okay?”
“Go ahead.” John pushed the phone across the desk, proud of his son's sense of responsib
ility.
Relating the number he by now knew by heart, John watched Teddy call the Sea and Shore Employment Agency.
“Hello?” Teddy said. “This is Thaddeus O'Rourke. We have an account with you. We live at . . . oh, you know us? Good. Well, it's about the lady you sent over here today. Kate . . . um, maybe it's Katherine, or maybe Kathleen . . .”
John fished her card out of his shirt pocket and read the name: “Katherine,” he told Teddy.
“Katherine Harris,” Teddy said, nodding silent and solemn thanks. “She came to our house today . . .”
Listening to his son take care of business, John was filled with pride. Teddy had a knack for talking to others. He was direct and efficient, yet respectful and kind. He would make a great lawyer someday—or anything else he decided to do.
“No, she did,” Teddy said now, into the receiver. “She arrived first thing this morning. Tall, brown hair, drives a blue car . . .”
John's ears perked up. He sat forward, leaning over his documents, watching the expression on Teddy's face turn to worry. Teddy listened for a while, growing paler by the second. His face drained of color, but his eyes filled with tears. By the time he hung up the phone, he'd gotten every bit of his childishness back from wherever it had gone—and John knew what he was going to say before he said it.
“She doesn't work for them,” John said.
“How did you know?” Teddy asked.
“Because,” John said quietly, wishing he could pull his son into a hug the way he used to—the way Theresa would have done. He shivered inside, thinking of what might have happened. Whoever the woman was, she had been alone with Maggie for several hours. “I just know.”
“She seemed . . .” Teddy said, helplessly.
“So nice,” John said, knowing they had somehow just dodged a bullet. “They all do.”
chapter 4
Kate Harris stood in the shower that evening, water streaming down her body. It was as hot as her skin could stand, and great clouds of vapor billowed around her, misting the glass. Her sister was a great believer in the healing powers of showers—of any water, really. Even as a little girl, she'd always want to go swimming or take a shower whenever she got upset.
“Water washes troubles away,” Willa would say, towel pulled around her body, fresh out of the billowing surf. Her eyes would be shining—they always did, with a light from within, her beautiful spirit bursting forth. “Can't you feel it, Katy? No matter how mad or hurt or terrible you feel, water cleanses everything. . . .”
“You're too young to be so wise,” Kate would say, pretending to frown. In fact, she was incredibly proud of her younger sister. Willa was an artist, a spiritual child, her personality the opposite of Kate's type A overdrive. Born and raised in the sea-and-pony territory of Chincoteague, Virginia, the two girls had gone in totally different directions.
“Just try it, Katy—don't hold onto everything so tight. Just let things gently flow away, breathe in and out, let all the bad stuff go. Be like the ponies! Even they go swimming . . . and don't you love the way they just stare out to sea so steadily, breathing in the wind?”
Kate tried it now. Leaning against the inn's tile shower, she thought of Willa's words and wished for it all to wash away. She tried to sing—remembering that Willa had always sung in the shower, from when she was a tiny girl, that exuberant voice drifting through their house on the tidal channel between the island and the mainland—but she couldn't quite manage that.
When Bonnie started barking in the other room, she quickly turned off the faucets and heard knocking at the door. Any calming effect had by the shower drained away faster than the water. Her heart began to race. She wasn't expecting any visitors.
“Just a minute,” she called, quickly pulling on the terry-cloth robe hanging behind the bathroom door.
Bonnie, Willa's Scottie, patrolled the door, seriously barking. The inn was small, with just six cozy rooms. Kate had chosen it for its location—by the sea, within range of most of the breakwaters—and because it took pets. Willa had stayed here six months ago, and had sent a postcard saying how nice the place was for Bonnie. The Scottie ran a circuit from bed to chair to window to door to Kate, covering all bases.
“Okay, Bon,” Kate said. “Calm down.”
The knock sounded again.
Kate stood against the door; the problem with these old inns was that they lacked certain modern amenities, like peepholes. The owners, Barkley and Felicity Jenkins, had named each room after famous paintings by the local artist Hugh Renwick: “High Tide,” “Day Lilies,” “Red Barn,” “Country Fair,” “Lighthouse,” and, Kate's room, “White Sails.”
“Who is it?” she asked.
“John O'Rourke,” he said.
Kate leaned against the doorjamb, relief turning her bones to jelly. When had a knock on the door started making her feel terrified?
“Ms. Harris, are you there?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, grabbing a fresh towel. “Just let me get dressed, and I'll be right out. Meet you in the parlor downstairs in a few minutes, okay?”
“Okay,” he said.
And as she heard the echo of his footsteps going down the hall, she took a deep breath. This meeting was what I came here for, she thought. Maybe it would be the answer to her prayers. Toweling her hair with one hand, pulling on her jeans with the other, she hurried as fast as she could while Bonnie, mistaking the excitement for walk time, came running over, dragging her red leash the way Willa had taught her.
The East Wind Inn stood at the end of a long driveway, on a tall bluff looking out over the Sound, midway between the O'Rourkes' house and Silver Bay Light. The white house had wide porches and a sharply peaked roof, black shutters with cut-out crescent moons. Built over a hundred and fifty years ago, it had once stood beside the lighthouse where, before automation, Barkley Jenkins's father had been the light keeper.
When technology took over, the government sold Barkley the old house and permitted him to move it off the bluff. Barkley had named it the East Wind—the house's name an homage to the constant wind that blew in from the sea. He made his money by operating it as an inn, by serving as the light's caretaker, and by being a jack-of-all-trades around town. John and Theresa had hired him to fix their roof, and that's how the affair had started.
John sat in the front parlor drinking a cup of Earl Grey tea. Felicity Jenkins had brought it to him, barely able to hide her curiosity. Did she know the whole story about her husband and John's wife, or had Barkley managed to keep his secret safe?
“Here, John,” Felicity said, proffering a plate of cookies decorated to look like jack-o'-lanterns. “Have one, and take a few home for the kids. Caleb used to love when I made these—it's my Halloween tradition.”
“Okay, thanks,” John said, taking one just so he didn't hurt her feelings. They had known each other forever, since she and Barkley and he and Theresa double-dated in high school, but now he felt a secret kinship with her that she might not ever understand: Their spouses had had an affair, meeting in secret up and down the shoreline. John's pride made him sit up taller, even though he was burning to be inside Barkley Jenkins's home.
“Go on,” she said, rattling the plate lightly. “Take some more for Teddy and Maggie. I saw her on her bike the other day—adorable.”
John glanced at his watch. Against Teddy's protests, he had asked Mrs. Wilcox to come over to stay with the kids for an hour. Teddy thought he was old enough to watch out for his sister, but after this morning, John wasn't taking any chances. He had locked the doors behind him—Brainer slipping out for the car ride—and headed over to see Kate Harris.
Felicity stood there, watching John chew. He could feel her eyes on him, sense her wanting to say something more. Perhaps she did know. She had the strong body of someone who did lots of physical work, blond hair swept up in a messy bun, and a sharp, direct gaze.
“How's Caleb doing?” John asked, to head her off.
“He's great,” Fe
licity said, and the words began spilling out. “Never been better. He's working on his father's crew—Barkley's got him doing some plasterwork on the lighthouse. Those storms take their toll, and with winter coming on . . .”
“Great,” John said, muscles tensing at the name. “I'm glad to hear it.”
“There's never been another problem—not a one—since . . .”
“That's terrific.”
“Not that we thought there would be.” Felicity laughed. “Boys will be boys, and just because some people can't take a prank . . . I'm so glad that wonderful psychiatrist convinced the jury about his ADD . . .”
But just then, they heard a door close in the hall upstairs. Felicity patted John's arm and smiled. “She's a mysterious one,” she said. “Never even been here before, but seems to know everything about the place. Her sister apparently stayed with us. Client of yours?”
John shook his head, brushing the cookie crumbs from his fingers, and rose from his seat.
“I'll leave you your privacy,” Felicity said in a stage whisper, backing out of the room.
Kate Harris came down the front staircase. Very slender, she wore a black wool turtleneck and jeans—somehow managing to make faded jeans look incredibly elegant. She had a small black Scottie dog on a leash, and the dog jumped all over John's legs, tongue hanging out in a friendly smile, as if he were a long-lost friend.
“Great watchdog, Bonnie,” Kate said wryly.
“She barked a good game when I knocked on your door.”
“How did you find me, anyway?”
“Well, you left your card. I called both numbers, and when Felicity Jenkins answered the second, she said you were staying here.”
“So much for high security,” Kate said.
“Hello, Kate,” said Felicity Jenkins, bearing another china cup. “I thought perhaps you and John would like to have tea here in the parlor. I didn't know you two knew each other! I thought you said you didn't have any friends in town . . .”
John glimpsed annoyance in Kate's eyes, but he felt sad for Felicity. She was threatened by the other woman—perhaps she was worried that Barkley would notice her.
