Home Fires

by Luanne Rice

  “Not quite,” Maggie said. She had fought her mother tooth and nail to be allowed to wear cutoffs and a halter, but her mother had definite standards you couldn’t argue her out of. Maggie should have known, after years of watching her mother iron the little black dresses and starched white aprons she made her waitresses wear.

  “I can’t believe you gave up Kurt for Ned Devlin. He’s not even cute.”

  “That’s your opinion,” said Maggie, who found Ned a) adorable, b) sexy, c) super smart, and d) in love with her. Kurt had possessed only the first two qualities, and Maggie had found they definitely weren’t enough.

  “You just never seemed like the type who would turn your back on your friends.”

  “I still want to be friends,” Maggie said.

  “It hasn’t seemed it.”

  “Well, I do. It’s just, why is everyone out here so afraid of someone changing? What’s so bad about wanting to do better in life?”

  “Better than who?”

  “Better than no one!” Maggie said. “I’m not talking about competition. I mean, doing the best you can. I feel as if people like me better when I’m stoned and stupid. Even my father.”

  “Your father?” Vanessa asked, her mood improving. Parent bashing had always been one of their favorite pastimes.

  “Yeah, you know. He’s still the same.”

  “Hitting the Bud while your mother does the work?”

  “Pretty much,” Maggie said, feeling a tickle of guilt for saying so. “He doesn’t like Ned either. I don’t think he wants me going out with someone who might do better in life than him. See what I mean? Everyone out here has the same complex.”

  “So, what’s Ned doing for the summer?”

  “Learning to be a fireman. He just started, and already he got to go to a sort-of fire. Some stupid renters lit a fire in the fireplace without opening the damper, and it smoked them out.”

  “I’m just glad you’re not turning your back on everyone else,” Vanessa said, returning to what she considered the important stuff. “We miss partying with you.”

  “Yeah,” Maggie said noncommittally. Before Ned arrived for the summer, she had missed partying with them, too. The temptation of beer and pot and old friends was strong, and she didn’t yet know if she had the willpower to keep it under control. To resist getting swept over her head.

  “Well, it’s Friday,” Vanessa said, “and Eugene and Kurt are picking me up after work. We’ll probably head over to the cave to party, if you want to come.”

  “Thanks anyway,” Maggie said.

  “Tomorrow, then. Or whenever. Ned should give you one night off to hang out with your old friends.”

  “I’ll see,” Maggie said, even though the answer was, and would be, no.

  JET-LAGGED to within an inch of his life, Matt Davis ran from JFK’s Air France terminal to the waiting helicopter. He’d been planning to fly to La Guardia, where he would catch a shuttle to Boston and make that day’s last scheduled flight to the island. He had been traveling for forty-eight hours, back and forth through the time zones so fast his head was spinning.

  His meeting with Countess Nazarena Splagda had been surreal, in her compound full of exotic animals and waited on by her staff composed entirely of midgets—not dwarves, as she had haughtily informed him. The meeting had been attended by her bodyguards, lawyers, business manager, literary agent, sons, ex-husband, and current lover, the wife of a prominent Texas heart surgeon.

  A full day’s worth of that, and then a slew of transatlantic lies to Tisa, telling her that negotiations were stalled, that he would be home on Monday. Three days late. Then the plane from Nice to New York.

  Buckling himself into the helicopter’s front seat, Matt settled back. He could go straight to sleep. But the flight to La Guardia was just ten minutes long.

  “Is this for hire?” he asked the pilot.

  “The aircraft?” the mustachioed pilot asked sternly, with a tankload of military behind the voice.

  “Yeah, the aircraft.”

  “Let me call control,” the pilot said.

  Matt heard the rotors slapping overhead. His eyelids fluttered, and he felt himself drifting off.

  “It ain’t cheap,” the pilot said, quoting Matt the price.

  “Fine,” Matt said, not even opening his eyes. “Take me to the New Shoreham airport.”

  IT didn’t happen often—maybe three or four times a summer. But when the Island Volunteer Fire Department got together for burgers and beer after a drill, you could bet the farm that things would get rowdy. Wives and girlfriends were excluded. Although most of the women considered themselves lucky, some of the men complained that their wives gave them a hard time, that they resented being left out.

  Thomas Devlin would trade the whole thing to spend the evening alone with Anne. Ever since she’d called him, earlier in the day, his heart had been pounding with the thought of “afterward.” He couldn’t wait to see her. But they were breaking Ned into the department, and Thomas wanted to introduce his son to the camaraderie of firefighters.

  With Ned helping Marty Cole at the grill, Thomas stood in the sandpit out behind the firehouse, pitching horseshoes with Dick Wade. The sun was down, but there was still enough light to see. Every so often one of them would hit the stake, and the resultant clang would get the other men cheering and hollering.

  Dick was tall and portly, getting old fast. The evening was warm and muggy, and Thomas could hear him wheezing. The emphysema that had made him leave the Boston force early had gotten much worse this last year. Thomas loved him like a father. No one told Dick what to do, but Thomas could see the exertion was getting the better of him.

  “Come on,” Thomas said. “Let’s stand aside and let some of the others take their turn.”

  “All right,” Dick said, winded. “You young turks ought to learn some patience,” he said to Mike and Hugh, but Thomas caught the grateful look in his eyes. They headed for a pair of webbed folding chairs.

  “That son of yours will make a good fireman,” Dick said.

  “He will,” Thomas said. He knew it was brave of Ned to try. At the chimney fire yesterday, Thomas had watched Ned stare wide-eyed, with fear and respect, at the oily black smoke billowing out the front door. Fire was Ned’s demon. Thomas had been surprised, and secretly pleased, when Ned had asked if he could volunteer.

  “Nothing makes a man out of a boy faster than fire,” Dick said.

  “If that’s true, it happened to Ned long ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Dev. You’re thinking of Sarah.”

  “She’s been on our minds a lot this summer. Ned didn’t take too kindly to my seeing Anne Davis.”

  “To hell with that, son. Life is too short to let our children rule it. If Richard Junior and Beth had their way, Mamie and I would still be living in Roxbury, and their old rooms would be little shrines, full of all their baby things. Blooey to that, I say.”

  “Ned’s coming around. I just have to convince the lady she shouldn’t be so worried about it.”

  “A pretty one, that Mrs. Davis,” Dick said. “She’s put a sparkle in your eyes, that’s for sure. Mamie and I are going to want to meet her before the wedding.”

  Thomas laughed, and clapped Dick’s knee. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

  “No, I don’t think I am,” Dick said, his squint giving him that sly-fox look. “I’ve known you a long time now, and you don’t go about things in a casual way. If she’s the one, you’re going to marry her. And she’s the one.”

  “How can you tell?” Thomas asked, feeling absurdly happy.

  “Just look at you!” Dick said, the Irish of his childhood seeping into his thick Boston accent. “Blushing like a boy at the mere mention of a wedding. You’ll be needing a best man. And if Neddy’s got a problem with it, you know who you can count on.”

  “I’ve always been able to, haven’t I?” Thomas asked, smiling with affection for the old man.

  WAITING for Thomas, Ann
e sat on her living-room sofa, a blank piece of stationery on her lap. The night was beautifully hot. A gentle breeze came through the open window, raising goose bumps on her arms. It’s not the breeze, she told herself: it’s anticipation. Soon Thomas would arrive, and they would be together. She would feel his fingers in her hair, his kiss on her lips, and they would make love until he had to leave. But there was something she had to do first.

  Anne sighed. She forced herself to concentrate on the letter she had to write. She had avoided this for too long, but if she was going to give herself over to loving Thomas Devlin, she had to take care of unfinished business.

  First, she pulled Karen’s drawing out of its folder. She stared at it long and sternly, asking herself if she was sure. Mommy, Daddy, Gramercy Park, vacations together on the island: was she ready to give that up?

  You didn’t choose what happened before, she told herself. But you have to choose now. You have to decide. And so, she began to write.

  Dear Matt,

  I have dreaded the day that I would write this letter. For several months I have had moments when I thought I was ready to write it, but then doubts would surface, preventing me. I promised myself that as long as I had questions, as long as I felt ambivalent, I would wait. But now I am ready; I no longer have those doubts. I want a divorce.

  It’s hard to believe that we have been married eleven years this month. So much of that time I was happier than I had ever believed possible. You showed me the world. Every trip we ever took is etched in my memory. My birthday in Venice, when you took me to a Vivaldi concert in that pink jewel-box theater; Ireland, where we found my grandfather’s grave in that little churchyard north of Galway; all those enchanted trips to Provence, in search of the most beautiful flowers.

  And, of course, our daughter. The day she was born I loved you more than ever before. I truly believe I couldn’t have gone through those twenty hours of labor without your strength and love and sense of humor (although I distinctly remember wanting to kill you at the time—how many times did you have to tell that piece-of-string joke?).

  Anne put down her pen, smiling at the memory. She didn’t want to write the next part. There were things she needed to say about Karen, to make this difficult letter complete, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to write them. Thomas would be arriving soon. She had hoped to have this done by then.

  Just finish the letter, she commanded herself. Reading over the words she had already written, she searched her mind for what would come next. Downstairs, the front door closed, and she heard footsteps on the stairs. So be it, she thought, laying the letter facedown on the coffee table. She went to the door to answer his knock.

  But the man standing in her hallway was not Thomas.

  “Hello, Anne,” said Matt.

  His eyes looked bloodshot, as if he had not slept in some time. But they were bright, and they couldn’t hide the pleasure he felt in seeing her. He looked as handsome as ever. Tall and lean, with boyishly tousled brown hair, a straight nose, and a charmingly crooked smile. His rumpled dark suit hung elegantly on his athletic body, and although he affected his usual air of “who cares?” confidence, Anne could see his hands shaking.

  “Will you invite me in?” he asked, the tone in his voice a possible indication that he feared perhaps she would not.

  Wordlessly Anne stood aside, and her husband walked past her, into her apartment.

  Chapter 19

  Matt made a quick study of Anne’s apartment. Tall white walls with hardly any pictures on them, a few pieces of shabby furniture, the windows overlooking the harbor the room’s best feature. Aside from her typically messy worktable, there wasn’t a trace of Anne’s personality present. She didn’t plan to stay here forever. He turned to her, grinning.

  “How have you been?” he asked. “God, it’s good to see you!”

  “Why are you here?” she asked, sounding shell-shocked. She looked lovely: her jet hair longer than he had seen it in years, not a trace of makeup on her porcelain skin, black palazzo pants and a black mesh tunic clinging to her beautiful curves. She looked sexy as hell, and all Matt wanted to do was kiss her.

  “It’s been more than six months since I’ve seen you,” he said, just drinking her in. “Do you know, for the last eleven years, until now, I don’t think we’ve gone more than a few days without each other. Eleven years this month.”

  “Yes, I was just thinking that,” she said, turning away from him. Her voice was flat, unwelcoming, as if she were afraid of feeling something for him.

  “May I sit down?” he asked.

  “You should have called,” she said, whirling around, fire in her gray eyes. “You know my number.”

  “This morning I was in Nice,” Matt said. “Yesterday at this time I was returning to my hotel from a meeting with a perfectly vile countess who wants her name on a perfume guaranteed to ‘stimulate the male sex glands.’ Her words. She doesn’t give a hoot whether it smells like orchids or roses or musk or horse manure as long as it makes men horny.”

  Anne passed a hand across her eyes, standing stiffly across the room from him. Frowning. Shit, Matt thought. Usually his tales of fame-crazed would-be perfume hawkers cracked her up. But he had miscalculated. The jet lag had totally thrown his timing off.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you’d think it was funny.”

  As if he had sprung a slow leak, he felt the adrenaline start to whistle out of him. For days, he had thought of nothing but seeing Anne. In his fantasy, his old ways had worked: he had half expected to settle into the sweet banter he had prized with Anne, that had totally eluded him and Tisa. He felt dizzy.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked again.

  “I came to see you,” he said, subdued now. “To try to work things out.”

  “Matt—”

  “Please, listen. Just for a minute.” He took a deep breath and swallowed. He felt his resolve coming back. “I made a mistake. I really messed up. Losing you is the worst thing that could happen, and I did it myself. I miss you so much, Anne.”

  “Matt—”

  “On my way to the plane I started thinking about summer, how this would be my first summer without coming to the island with you. Then I happened to be glancing through the travel section, and I saw an ad for the big house. Gabrielle’s turned it into a hotel?”

  Anne nodded, her expression still hard.

  “So, I made a reservation.”

  “At the big house?” Anne asked with disbelief.

  “‘Fitzgibbons’,’ as I believe it’s called in the ad.”

  “Gabrielle knows about this?”

  “I doubt it. Some girl, not Maggie, answered. And I made the reservation under a different name.” Matt hesitated. He wanted to tell Anne that he’d booked himself in under Dr. Ventura’s name, but he restrained himself. He sensed that he would not win favor, groveling for brownie points. Better that she find out on her own.

  “That’s sneaky.”

  “I know. But maybe it gives you some idea of how desperate I am to get you back. And I will, Anne. You can’t talk me out of it.”

  His heart overflowing, Matt moved closer to his wife. Her hair smelled freshly washed; he detected no traces of the perfume she had always worn, the one he had had created especially for her on her thirtieth birthday. He had given it no name, for no one would ever find it at any store. It was Anne’s alone.

  He gazed down at her, willing her to look up. If she did, if her expression had softened even slightly, he would caress her cheek, tenderly kiss her lips. He would make her his own again. He wondered whether she could hear his heart, pounding like crazy in his chest.

  Not even thinking, he sank to his knees, took her hand. So tiny, filled with such delicate bones. The feel of her hand brought back such memories, tears came to his eyes. She didn’t pull away, but she wouldn’t smile at him.

  “Please, Anne,” he said. “I love you. Please forgive me.”

  He felt her stiffness. Pa
in flashed across her eyes as she looked away, then back. She stared down at him, as if memorizing his face. Perhaps she was remembering his proposal: on his knees, at twilight, at a beach not five miles away from this very spot. If it weren’t so late, he would invite her to dinner at Atwood’s, the restaurant where they had dined later that night, the first place she had appeared in public wearing his ring.

  She wasn’t wearing it now. For the first time since entering the room, he noticed. No diamond, no wedding band. But he held his tongue. His life was on the line, the decision hers. She stood tall, her gaze flickering from his eyes to his mouth to the air above his head.

  “There’s something I have to show you,” she said, gently withdrawing her hand. She walked to the sofa, leaving him alone on his knees, as if he was saying some frantic prayer. Which he was.

  “Please,” she said. “Come sit down.”

  Slowly, he raised himself off the floor and walked to the sofa. She seemed to want him to sit beside her, and for some reason he felt afraid. Objects swam in his vision. He couldn’t focus, and his throat felt dry. On the table in front of him were two sheets of paper. One appeared to be a child’s drawing, and the other was blank. She handed him the blank paper. When he turned it over, he saw her handwriting.

  How many times had he seen that handwriting? No one in the world could know it better than he. All the notes she had left on the refrigerator, the shopping lists, the checks she had signed, the notes she had tucked into his luggage. He had never, not once in all the ten years they had lived together, gone away from home without finding one of Anne’s notes nestled in his underwear. Notes so full of her wit and love. So full of Anne herself.

  His throat choked up, he forced himself to read.

  When he came to the word “divorce,” he heard himself say “oh!” He looked at Anne, but she was facing away from him. When he had finished reading, he lowered the paper to his lap.

  “I should have had the courage to say it out loud,” she said in a measured tone.

  Matt’s head was buzzing. He heard her speak, but he couldn’t make sense of her words. Mechanically, as if he was in a trance, he reached for the other paper on the table before him.