by Luanne Rice
Her spirit was parched and dry; her bones ached with grief. Her throat was sore, and there were so many unspoken words. I'm furious with you, why did you do it? I love you more than anyone in the world. I love you like my own child, you broke my heart . . .
The cold New England winds of October whistled through the car; Kate closed her eyes and pictured the alabaster city of Washington. Great white buildings, illuminated, none taller than the graceful domed Capitol glowing like Oz. The green parks and squares, the Mall, the low bridges across the gentle Potomac.
That's what life was like back home: gentle. Washington was a gracious city, less rushed and not as hard as New York or Boston. And the grasslands and marshes and tidal creeks and dunes of Chincoteague and Assateague were softer than the seashore of New England . . . no rocks or high places, just the gentle cradle of ponies and oysters and motherless girls.
But Willa had run away.
Kate, closing her eyes tight as the car heat pumped and the chill wind stung her fingers anyway, had had six months to think about it all, to try to understand. Willa had rushed away from herself and what she and Andrew had done. Fearing Kate's grief and rage—over finally losing her husband, but perhaps even more, over her sister's betrayal—Willa had fled the jurisdiction.
How had she decided on here?
With the whole world to choose from, north-south-east-west, how had she spun the globe and pointed to southern New England?
Now, rocking herself in her car outside John O'Rourke's house, Kate knew. Of course she knew; no one understood Willa better.
The refuge would have had to be by the sea; it would have had to promise the smell of salt air, the sound of the tides as they rose and fell. There would have had to be museums—places of culture, art, and nature. It would have had to be far enough away from Washington and Chincoteague to define “escape,” but close enough for Kate to reach quickly when the call came.
The call had been Willa's postcard.
Kate removed it from her pocket, held it in her hand. It showed the view from the East Wind: the rocky coastline, the lighthouse shining in the distance, the crooked stone breakwater jutting out from the beach, Willa's handwriting on the back. Willa's love affair was over; she'd wanted to make things right with her sister so they could get on with their lives.
For years, Kate had known her marriage was on the rocks. Her husband was an important man, the chief aide to a prominent senator. He knew his way around Washington as well as anyone. His work kept him out late and, often, away from home. Kate, absorbed in her own busy career and in raising Willa, had turned a blind eye to so much.
She had sometimes wondered why she had married him in the first place. . . .
But he was so attractive, and he had made her feel so special. That was one of his great gifts, why he'd been such a successful lobbyist in years gone by: because he could sell a person her own car. He had sought Kate out at a Hill cocktail party, celebrating the senator's bill protecting shellfisheries—Kate had been impressed by Andrew's behind-the-scenes work, by his unfailing commitment to the environment.
“What makes you care about shellfish beds in the Chesapeake?” she asked, impressed and a bit intimidated by his custom-made suit, his elegant manners.
“I'm a country boy from way back,” he had said, leaning closer. “I was born and raised in Maine, and I know how fast a little greed can kill a whole lobster population.”
She had grinned, sipping her chardonnay. “For me it's blue crabs and oyster beds.”
“Your work is personal?” Andrew asked, trying to be heard over the voices and music.
“You can say that—I'm from Chincoteague.”
“No kidding! My sisters grew up in love with Misty. So, you obviously love nature. What brought you to the big, bad city?”
“College, then my job. I work for the National Academy of Sciences. How about you?”
“Wanting to do good,” he said, rolling his eyes and pretending to hit his head against the wall. “As crazy as that sounds.”
“I don't think it sounds crazy,” she said, feeling herself sparkle as she smiled into his eyes.
“Got to keep our planet going—for our kids.”
“And our little sisters,” Kate had said.
At Andrew's friendly, curious smile, she had told him all about Willa: about their parents' deaths, about Matt's life on the water, and about trying to raise a teenaged girl by herself. About being the youngest person chaperoning Willa's high school dances, starting to teach Willa to drive in the Chevy Chase Safeway parking lot, taking her on trips.
“Oh, those shoulders,” Andrew had said, stepping forward, touching the base of Kate's neck with his hand, concern in his eyes.
“What about them?” she'd asked, his unexpected touch and kindness sending a jolt down to her toes.
“The weight of the world is on them. You must have been so young when all this fell to you—too young for so much responsibility.”
Two senators stood at the bar. There was a presidential aide, a lawyer from the Justice Department, three members of the House of Representatives, several newscasters, and many other players of power. Kate barely noticed. She had eyes only for the kind, understanding Maine country boy as he took her glass from her hand, plunked it on a bookshelf, and led her outside.
The Washington night had been sultry, fragrant with wisteria and lilacs. When the valet had brought his car—an old Porsche—they left the fancy party. By the time they'd reached the Tune Inn for a beer, they were holding hands. And once they'd ended up at his Watergate apartment, Kate's fate was sealed. Little did she know that that was his pattern, not the hallmark of a lasting love.
He had taken the world off her shoulders for one night. In the weeks to come, he had promised her love and security. The fatherless girl in her had needed—grabbed for—it all. Willa had been just fifteen at the time. Kate was so emotionally drained from raising her young sister, she had accepted with gratitude Andrew's seeming desire to take care of them both.
The marriage had lasted seven years. Had he been faithful for any of them? Kate wasn't sure. She didn't think so. He had a weakness for women in need, and there had seemed no shortage: assistants in need of more money, interns in need of more excitement, lobbyists in need of his time and attention, constituents in need of his boss's ear. Andrew, in his generosity, had been willing to give to everyone.
Or, he was a predator for the women who looked to him for help—another way to look at it.
By the time Willa had started working for him—to make money while she pursued her art—Kate had given up on the marriage. Perhaps she had harbored one last hope; that having her sister at work in his office would keep Andrew in line. She had never dreamed that Willa would become his next conquest. And she felt a sickening combination of guilt and fury for encouraging her sister to take the job.
What if Kate had received the card in time? Sitting in her car now, she reread those words: “I wish you could be here . . .” Would she have gone?
Bonnie whimpered, wanting the car to start moving again, but Kate just stared at the postcard. What if she hadn't moved out of the Watergate apartment she and Andrew had shared, if Willa's card hadn't gotten stuck in a pile of third-class mail for half a year?
If she had received Willa's card, would Kate have been able to save her sister? The answer to that question hung upon the answer to another one: Would she have been able to bury her pride, head north to meet Willa at the East Wind, talk things out?
No.
Kate knew that now—had admitted the truth to herself during this long dark night of her soul. She hadn't been ready. She had still been too angry. She had wanted Willa to disappear, had longed for the red slippers' opposites: Click your heels three times and go away forever, had hated her little sister, the person she'd loved and protected most in the world, with a sudden and powerful passion.
Bonnie cried again.
Kate blinked her eyes open. The sea wind rose. With darkness
falling, the lighthouse came alive, its beam resuming its journey through the sky.
Time had changed everything.
Six months had bleached the bones of Kate's hatred, had scoured them clean, purified them, left them brittle and crumbling, ready to be washed away by the tide. The only thing left behind was a burning love.
Kate's love for her little sister burned like a star. It glowed in her chest with white heat, where her heart should be. The love filled her blood, and it flowed with everything good: Christmas trees hung with oyster shells and sand dollars; spying on the wild ponies from sea-grass dunes.
Staring at John O'Rourke's house at dusk, Kate watched the lights come on—snap!—at six o'clock, and she thought of John. Had this been a difficult time of night for him? Had his wife been home where she was supposed to be, cooking dinner for the family? Or had she been off . . . who knew where? Six o'clock had always been the hardest time for Kate. Because she had known Andrew had left the office but wasn't home yet . . .
Kate blinked, forcing herself back to the present. Where had John taken Teddy and Maggie? Kate wanted to know—not only because she hadn't given up, because she planned to hound the lawyer till he either begged for mercy or agreed to ask Merrill about Willa—but because she longed to see the kids. They had lodged in her heart on that brief, intense morning she had first come to this house.
Maggie and Teddy O'Rourke. In a different life, she'd like to be their baby-sitter. They were sweet kids, loyal to their father, devoted to each other. They reminded Kate of herself and Willa when they were young; she had no doubt that Teddy had helped Maggie with a book report or two.
The O'Rourkes were siblings without a mother, and Kate was a woman without her sister. She cared about them. Whether their father decided to help her or not, she needed to know they were okay. Disappearances—even ones that could be explained—were not to be borne.
Heading back to the East Wind, Kate knew that although this was her fifth cruise past the O'Rourkes' house, it wouldn't be her last.
Friday morning, Teddy woke up early. He had a big day ahead of him—a soccer game against Riverdale High. Their archrivals, the Riverdale Cannons, were nicknamed the “Cannibals”—because they killed their opponents and ate their dead. Shoreline Junior Varsity had lost in overtime on their last encounter, and Riverdale had promised to kick their butts again today.
The family was staying in his grandfather's house, with the idea that Gramps and Maeve could pitch in with him and Maggie till a new baby-sitter came along. Although Maggie was homesick for her room, Teddy liked it here, even more than his own house: The hole left by his mother wasn't as obvious.
Padding barefoot down the hall, he entered the laundry room. Things were different here than at home. For one thing, the clothes got washed. For another, everything was starched and bleached. Maeve came from Ireland, where she'd learned to be a washerwoman. She made the Judge's shirts so white they were almost blue.
Teddy's soccer uniform had never been so clean. The white letters and numbers popped, like 3-D. But the nylon fabric was also stiff as a board with starch: Teddy practically had to crack it, to stuff it into his gym bag. Brainer's tail thumped against his legs, as he followed Teddy down the hall.
Irish oatmeal simmered on the stove. Maeve made the long-cooking kind, and she stood in the avocado green kitchen—all the appliances rounded, old-looking—stirring the oatmeal with a long-handled wooden spoon, when Teddy walked in.
“Morning, Maeve,” he said.
“Morning, Luke, darlin',” she said in her soft brogue, smiling and giving him a kiss. She was small and plump, and when she hugged him, it felt soft and safe.
Teddy didn't bother correcting her on the name. She used to know who he and Maggie were, but lately she'd been forgetting. Her hair was white, so thin on top that her pink scalp showed—a lot like Gramps. They seemed like a pair, a married couple growing old together; since Teddy had never known his real grandmother, Leila, he loved Maeve and wondered what would happen to her when she retired.
His father sat at one end of the table, reading the paper. His grandfather sat at the other, doing the crossword puzzle. Eating his oatmeal, Teddy watched the two men drink their coffee—they both had thick white mugs, and they both gripped the handles with tension and might, as if they were going to finish breakfast, try cases, and slay the world.
“Hey, Dad,” Teddy said.
His father didn't look up from the paper; it was early, and his father woke up slowly—only after reading all the football scores and drinking two cups of coffee—but did manage to make a sound like “What?”
“I have a game today. Against Riverdale.”
“Your big rivals,” his grandfather said.
“Yeah,” Teddy said, grinning.
“You'd better cream 'em,” his grandfather said. “Great rivalries deserve extra effort.”
“It's only Junior Varsity—”
“Junior Varsity, nothing! Make no apologies! Great rivalries are all alike in character. Army and Navy, Yale and Harvard . . .”
Teddy laughed. “Riverdale and Shoreline . . .”
“‘Go Shoreline, Beat Riverdale,' ” his grandfather chanted, beating his spoon on the table.
“More, dear?” Maeve asked in her pretty brogue, thinking the Judge was demanding more oatmeal.
“No, thank you, Maeve,” his grandfather said, suddenly stern. Was he embarrassed because Maeve had called him “dear”? Yes, he was! Teddy saw the red begin just above the knot of his grandfather's tie, spread into his face. Teddy felt himself grinning. Now, to chase away the blush, the old man rattled his son's paper. “Hear that, Johnny? Big game today!”
Teddy's grin wavered. He tried to eat his oatmeal, but he couldn't swallow. He hoped, he hoped . . . Come on, Dad.
“I'd be there myself,” Gramps said, “but I've got to get my foot looked after. Got an appointment with the podiatrist. . . .”
Teddy didn't speak. He knew his grandfather was lying; it was Maeve's appointment, not his. Teddy knew, because he'd seen Maeve limping for two days. He'd spied his grandfather sitting beside her on the sofa yesterday, helping her take her sock and heavy shoe off, examining her bare foot with such tenderness Teddy had longed for his mother. And then he'd heard his grandfather call the podiatrist. . . .
“You've got a game this afternoon?” his father asked, lowering his paper.
“Yes,” Teddy said.
“Go on, tell him what time, so he can set his clock for it,” his grandfather urged.
“Four o'clock. At home.”
By the devastated look on his father's face, Teddy could see it wasn't going to happen. His father opened his mouth—probably to explain about a motion hearing or a conference call or a meeting in chambers—but Teddy didn't wait around to hear.
“That's okay, Dad,” he said, smiling so his father couldn't see his disappointment, hurrying out of the kitchen—Brainer at his heels—as Maggie walked in, bleary-eyed, saying she didn't like oatmeal and needed a Halloween costume for the pageant.
“Teddy, what should I be?” she called, wheeling to run after him.
“Anything you want, Maggie,” he said.
“You don't want to help . . .”
“I'm sorry,” he said, seeing the injury in her eyes. His dad's busy schedule wasn't her fault, and Teddy felt bad for hurting her feelings. The thing was, Teddy was hurt inside, too. His dad hadn't been to one game all month. Teddy had blown one game and scored two goals in another, and no one from his family had been there to see.
“Can I go as a soccer player?” Maggie whispered. “In your old uniform?”
“Mags, you wear it to school,” Teddy said, his throat aching. “The kids have seen it already. But if you want to, yeah. Sure you can. . . .”
He grabbed his jacket and gym bag. His book bag was wedged against the table in the front hall, and when he bent down to get it, he knocked against Brainer, who bumped into the table; a flurry of papers fell to the door.
Things from his father's pockets: He always emptied them out at night, wherever he was. Keys, wallet, business cards, scraps of paper picked up through the day. Teddy's mother had called the piles from his father's pocket “archaeology.” Meaning that if she sifted through them, she could learn what he'd been doing all day.
Restoring the papers to the table, Teddy noticed a woman's picture. Smiling, head tilted prettily, she reminded him of someone. Wide-open eyes, straight brown hair . . . Eyes the color of river stones, Teddy thought, and then he had it: Kate.
Kate, his friend, the woman who had taken care of Maggie and Brainer. This picture was of her—of a younger Kate. Taken years ago? Or could it be someone else . . . her daughter?
Suddenly the truth came to him: her sister. Kate's younger sister, her “Maggie,” the person Kate Harris loved most. In the same pile of his father's things, Teddy found a scrap paper with “East Wind Inn” written on it. Teddy just knew—why else would his father care about the East Wind? Kate had to be staying there. He thought of her soft voice, her slightly southern accent, the way she'd helped him.
Although the inn wasn't on his direct route to school, it wasn't far out of the way. Teddy checked his watch. It was early, just seven-fifteen. He didn't want to wake her up, but he had an idea. He could leave her a note. . . .
Even if his father and grandfather couldn't come to his soccer game, maybe someone could.
chapter 8
The crowd was wild. Parents lined the field, screaming encouragement. Classmates jumped up and down. Girlfriends couldn't look. The coaches yelled. Cheerleaders had dressed in pumpkin heads and witches' hats. Dark clouds raced overhead, threatening rain or snow. The J.V. squads were on fire, and the game was tied, 1–1.
Kate pulled her green wool jacket tighter, watching Teddy race down the field. Sure on his feet, he had the ball, deftly weaving between Riverdale players. Although she didn't know much about the game, she found herself screaming louder than anyone.
“Go, Teddy!” she cried, holding Bonnie's red leash.
