Four o’clock came and went.
The cardboard boxes began to fill with bones. Ribs and lumbar vertebrae. Femurs and tibias. The bulldozer had not, in fact, scattered the bones far. The female’s remains were all located within a six-foot radius; the male’s, bound together in a web of blackberry roots, were even more contained. There appeared to be only two individuals, but it took all afternoon to unearth them. Gripped by the excitement of the dig, Maura could not bring herself to leave, not when every shovelful of dirt she sifted might reveal some new prize. A button or a bullet or a tooth. As a Stanford University undergraduate, she had spent a summer working on an archaeological site in Baja. Though the temperatures there had soared well into the nineties, and her only shade was a broad-brimmed hat, she had worked straight into the hottest part of the day, driven by the same fever that afflicts treasure hunters who believe that the next artifact is only inches away. That fever was what she experienced now, kneeling among the ferns, swatting at blackflies. It was what kept her digging through the afternoon and into the evening as storm clouds moved in. As thunder rumbled in the distance.
That, and the quiet thrill she felt whenever Rick Ballard came near.
Even as she sifted through dirt, teased away roots, she was aware of him. His voice, his proximity. He was the one who brought her a fresh water bottle, who handed her the sandwich. Who stopped to place a hand on her shoulder and ask how she was doing. Her male colleagues at the M.E.’s office seldom touched her. Perhaps it was her aloofness, or some silent signal she gave off that told them she did not welcome personal contact. But Ballard did not hesitate to reach for her arm, to rest his hand on her back.
His touches left her flushed.
When the CSU team began packing up their tools for the day, she was startled to realize it was already seven, and daylight was fading. Her muscles ached, her clothes were filthy. She stood on legs trembling with weariness, and watched Daljeet tape shut the two boxes of remains. They each picked up a box and carried them across the field, to his vehicle.
“After today, I think you owe me dinner, Daljeet,” she said.
“Restaurant Julien, I promise. Next time I’m down in Boston.”
“Believe me, I plan to collect.”
He loaded the boxes into his car and shut the door. Then they shook hands, filthy palm to filthy palm. She waved as he drove away. Most of the search team had already left; only a few cars remained.
Ballard’s Explorer was among them.
She paused in the deepening dusk and looked at the clearing. He was standing near the woods, talking to Detective Corso, his back to her. She lingered, hoping that he would notice she was about to leave.
And then what? What did she want to happen between them?
Get out of here before you make an idiot of yourself.
Abruptly she turned and walked to her car. Started the engine and pulled away so quickly the tires spun.
Back in the cottage, she peeled off her soiled clothes. Took a long shower, lathering up twice to wash away every trace of the oily mosquito repellant. When she stepped out of the bathroom, she realized she had no more clean clothes to change into. She had planned on staying only one night in Fox Harbor.
She opened the closet door and gazed at Anna’s clothes. They were all her size. What else was she going to wear? She pulled out a summer dress. It was white cotton, a little girlish for her taste, but on this warm and humid evening, it was just what she felt like wearing. Slipping the dress over her head, she felt the kiss of sheer fabric against her skin, and wondered when the last time was that Anna had smoothed this dress over her own hips, when had she last looped the sash around her waist. The creases were still there, marking the fabric where Anna had tied the knot. Everything I see and touch of hers still bears her imprint, she thought.
The ringing telephone made her turn and face the nightstand. Somehow she knew, even before she picked it up, that it was Ballard.
“I didn’t see you leave,” he said.
“I came back to the house to take a shower. I was such a mess.”
He laughed. “I’m feeling pretty grungy myself.”
“When are you driving back to Boston?”
“It’s already so late in the day. I think I might as well just stay another night. What about you?”
“I don’t really feel like driving back tonight, either.”
A moment passed.
“Did you find a hotel room here?” she asked.
“I brought my tent and sleeping bag with me. I’m staying at a campground up the road.”
It took her five seconds to make a decision. Five seconds to consider the possibilities. And the consequences.
“There’s a spare room here,” she said. “You’re welcome to use it.”
“I hate to barge in on you.”
“The bed’s just sitting here, Rick.”
A pause. “That’d be great. But on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You let me bring you dinner. There’s a take-out place down on Main Street. Nothing fancy, maybe just some boiled lobsters.”
“I don’t know about you, Rick. But in my book, lobsters definitely qualify as fancy.”
“Do you want wine or beer?”
“Tonight feels like a beer night.”
“I’ll be there in about an hour. Save your appetite.”
She hung up, and suddenly realized she was starving. Only moments ago, she’d been too tired to drive into town, and had considered skipping dinner and simply going to bed early. Now she was hungry, not just for food but for company as well.
She wandered the house, restless and driven by too many contradictory desires. Only a few nights ago, she had shared dinner with Daniel Brophy. But the church had long ago laid claim to Daniel, and she would never be in the running. Hopeless causes might be seductive, but they seldom brought you happiness.
She heard the rumble of thunder and went to the screen door. Outside, dusk had deepened to night. Though she saw no lightning flashes, the air itself seemed charged. Electric with possibilities. Raindrops began to patter on the roof. At first it was only a few hesitant taps, then the sky opened up like a hundred drummers pounding overhead. Thrilled by the storm’s power, she stood on the porch and watched the rain pour down, and felt the welcome blast of cool air ripple her dress, lift her hair.
A pair of headlights cut through the silvery downpour.
She stood perfectly still on the porch, her heart pounding like the rain, as the car pulled up in front of the house. Ballard stepped out, carrying a large sack and a six-pack of beer. Head bent under the torrent, he splashed to the porch and up the steps.
“Didn’t know I’d have to swim here,” he said.
She laughed. “Come on, I’ll get you a towel.”
“Do you mind if I jump into your shower? I haven’t had a chance to wash up yet.”
“Go ahead.” She took the grocery sack from him. “The bathroom’s down the hall. There are clean towels in the cabinet.”
“I’ll get my overnight bag out of the trunk.”
She carried the food into the kitchen and slid the beer into the refrigerator. Heard the screen door clap shut as he came back into the house. And then, a moment later, she heard the shower running.
She sat down at the table and released a deep breath. This is only dinner, she thought. A single night under the same roof. She thought of the meal she’d cooked for Daniel only a few days ago, and how different that evening had felt from the start. When she’d looked at Daniel, she’d seen the unattainable. And what do I see when I look at Rick? Maybe more than I should.
The shower was off. She sat very still, listening, every sense suddenly so acute she could feel the air whisper across her skin. Footsteps creaked closer, and suddenly he was there, smelling of soap, dressed in blue jeans and a clean shirt.
“I hope you don’t mind eating with a barefoot man,” he said. “My boots were too muddy to wear in the house.”
“I’ve been ready for hours.”
She uncapped two bottles and handed one to him. Sipped hers as she watched him tilt his head back and take a deep gulp. I will never see Daniel looking like this, she thought. Carefree and barefoot, his hair damp from a shower.
She turned and went to look in the grocery sack. “So what have you brought for dinner?”
“Let me show you.” Joining her at the counter, he reached into the sack and took out various foil-wrapped packets. “Baked potatoes. Melted butter. Corn on the cob. And the main event.” He produced a large Styrofoam container and flipped it open to reveal two bright red lobsters, still steaming.
“How do we get those open?”
“You don’t know how to crack one of these critters?”
“I hope you do.”
“Nothing to it.” He pulled two nutcrackers out of the sack. “You ready for surgery, Doctor?”
“Now you’re making me nervous.”
“It’s all in the technique. But first, we need to suit up.”
“Excuse me?”
He reached in the sack and came out with plastic bibs.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“You think restaurants give these things out just to make tourists look like idiots?”
“Yes.”
“Come on, be a sport. It’ll keep that nice dress clean.” He circled around behind her and slipped the bib over her chest. She felt his breath in her hair as he fastened the ties behind her neck. His hands lingered there, a touch that made her shiver.
“It’s your turn, now,” she said softly.
“My turn?”
“I’m not going to be the only one wearing one of these ridiculous things.”
He gave a sigh of resignation and tied a bib around his own neck. They looked at each other, wearing matching cartoon lobsters on their chests, and they both burst out laughing. Kept on laughing as they sank into chairs at the table. A few sips of beer on an empty stomach and I’m out of control, she thought. And it feels so good.
He picked up a nutcracker. “Now, Dr. Isles. Are we ready to operate?”
She reached for hers, holding it like a surgeon about to make the first incision. “Ready.”
The rain pounded its steady drumbeat as they pulled off claws, cracked shells, and teased out sweet chunks of meat. They did not bother with forks but ate with their hands, their fingers slick with butter as they opened fresh bottles of beer and broke apart baked potatoes to expose the warm and yeasty flesh within. Tonight manners didn’t matter; this was a picnic, and they sat barefoot at the table, licking their fingers. Stealing glances at each other.
“This is a lot more fun than eating with a knife and fork,” she said.
“You’ve never eaten lobster with your bare hands before?”
“Believe it or not, this is the first time I’ve encountered one that wasn’t already out of its shell.” She reached for a napkin and wiped the butter from her fingers. “I’m not from New England, you know. I moved here only two years ago. From San Francisco.”
“That surprises me somehow.”
“Why?”
“You strike me as such a typical Yankee.”
“Meaning?”
“Self-contained. Reserved.”
“I try to be.”
“Are you saying that it’s not the real you?”
“We all play roles. I have my official mask at work. The one I wear when I’m Dr. Isles.”
“And when you’re with friends?”
She sipped her beer, then quietly set it down. “I haven’t made that many friends in Boston, yet.”
“It takes time, if you’re an outsider.”
An outsider. Yes, that’s what she felt like, every day. She’d watch cops slap each other on the back. She heard them talk about barbecues and softball games to which she’d never be invited because she was not one of them, a cop. The M.D. behind her name was like a wall, shutting them out. And her doctor colleagues in the M.E.’s office, all of them married, didn’t know what to do with her, either. Attractive divorcées were inconvenient, discomfiting. Either a threat or a temptation no one wanted to deal with.
“So what brought you to Boston?” he asked.
“I guess I needed to shake up my life.”
“Career blahs?”
“No, not that. I was pretty happy at the medical school there. I was a pathologist at the university hospital. Plus I got the chance to work with all these bright young residents and students.”
“So if it wasn’t the job, it must have been the love life.”
She looked down at the table, at the leavings of her dinner. “Good guess.”
“This is where you tell me to mind my own business.”
“I got divorced, that’s all.”
“Something you want to talk about?”
She shrugged. “What can I say? Victor was brilliant, incredibly charismatic—”
“Gee, I’m already jealous.”
“But you can’t stay married to someone like that. It’s too intense. It burns out so fast you end up exhausted. And he …” She stopped.
“What?”
She reached for the beer. Took her time sipping it before she set it down. “He wasn’t exactly honest with me,” she said. “That’s all.”
She knew he wanted to know more, but he had picked up on that note of finality in her voice. This far, no further. He stood up and went to the refrigerator for two more beers. Popped off the caps and handed a bottle to her.
“If we’re gonna talk about exes,” he said, “we’ll need a lot more beer than this.”
“Let’s not, then. If it hurts.”
“Maybe it hurts because you don’t talk about it.”
“No one wants to hear about my divorce.”
He sat down and met her gaze across the table. “I do.”
No man, she thought, had ever focused on her so completely, and she could not look away. She found herself breathing deeply, inhaling the smell of rain and the rich animal scent of melted butter. She saw things in his face she had not noticed before. The streaks of blond in his hair. The scar on his chin, just a faint white line below his lip. The chipped front tooth. I’ve just met this man, she thought, but he looks at me as though he’s known me forever. Faintly she heard her cell phone ringing in the bedroom, but did not want to answer it. She let it keep ringing until it fell silent. It was unlike her not to answer her phone, but tonight, everything felt different. She felt different. Reckless. A woman who ignored her phone and ate with her bare hands.
A woman who just might sleep with a man she scarcely knew.
The phone started ringing again.
This time, the urgency of that sound finally drew her attention. She could no longer ignore it. Reluctantly she stood up. “I guess I should answer that.”
By the time she got to the bedroom, the phone had once again stopped ringing. She dialed up her voice mail and heard two different messages, both from Rizzoli.
“Doc, I need to talk to you. Call me back.”
The second message, recorded in a more querulous voice: “It’s me again. Why aren’t you answering?”
Maura sat down on the bed. Couldn’t help thinking, as she gazed at the mattress, that it was just big enough for two. She shook the thought from her head, took a deep breath, and dialed Rizzoli’s number.
“Where are you?” Rizzoli demanded.
“I’m still in Fox Harbor. I’m sorry, I didn’t get to the phone in time to answer it.”
“Have you seen Ballard up there yet?”
“Yes, we just finished dinner. How did you know he was here?”
“Because he called me yesterday, asking where you’d gone. He sounded like he might head up that way.”
“He’s right in the other room. Do you want me to get h
im?”
“No, I want to talk to you.” Rizzoli paused. “I went to see Terence Van Gates today.”
Rizzoli’s abrupt change in subject gave Maura a case of mental whiplash. “What?” she asked, bewildered.
“Van Gates. You told me he was the attorney who—”
“Yes, I know who he is. What did he tell you?”
“Something interesting. About the adoption.”
“He actually talked to you about it?”
“Yeah, it’s amazing how some people open up when you flash a badge. He told me your sister went to see him months ago. Just like you, she was trying to find her birth mother. He gave her the same runaround he gave you. Records were sealed, the mother wanted confidentiality, blah, blah, blah. So she returned with a friend, who finally convinced Van Gates it was in his best interests to give up the mother’s name.”
“And did he?”
“Yes, he did.”
Maura had the phone pressed so hard to her ear that she could hear her own pulse thumping in the receiver. She said, softly: “You know who my mother is.”
“Yes. But there’s something else—”
“Tell me her name, Jane.”
A pause. “Lank. Her name is Amalthea Lank.”
Amalthea. My mother’s name is Amalthea.
Maura’s breath whooshed out on a tide of gratitude. “Thank you! God, I can’t believe I finally know—”
“Wait. I haven’t finished.”
The tone of Rizzoli’s voice held a warning. Something bad was coming. Something that Maura would not like.
“What is it?”
“That friend of Anna’s, the one who spoke to Van Gates?”
The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle Page 106
