by Luanne Rice
“Jack and Nell, you must think I'm a crazy old lady. Let me explain to you . . . Henry is my stepson, just retired from the U.S. Navy. I adore him, beyond all reason, exactly as if he were my own son. He is a brilliant officer and gentleman, but, sadly, has been a tad moronic in the ways of love. He had this wonderful relationship with a dear, dear woman—Doreen—and he let it go . . .”
“How?” Nell asked.
“Well, by always sailing away. That's what sailors do. They make port, stay as long as they stay, and then sail away. Henry expected Doreen to always be there, waiting for him. And she was . . . until he retired. And he expected to just waltz right into Newport and be taken in. He wasn't planning to marry her, mind you. He just wanted to come and go as he pleased.”
Jack listened. Aida's words were hitting him in a completely unexpected way. Suddenly he saw his passport and the air tickets and the brochures about the corporate rooms-to-let in Inverness, the plaids and bagpipes of Scotland. He was running away, of course. From the pain of the past, but also from what he'd started to feel about Stevie. He was exactly like Henry.
“She gave him the boot,” Aida continued. “And I completely applauded her for it. Now, marriage isn't the be-all and end-all for everyone. It is far from a panacea. But once you know . . . as I believe Henry knew about Doreen a good ten port-calls ago . . . you owe it to yourself and your beloved to make it legal.”
“It's the knowing when, and when not, that can trip a person up,” Stevie said in a low voice, and when Jack looked over, he could see that her lively, beautiful eyes had turned faraway and tragic.
“Lulu!” Henry called, lumbering up the hill holding hands with Doreen. There were hugs and congratulations all around, and Stevie admired the ring, and then Jack and Nell introduced themselves.
“The famous Nell,” Henry said.
“I'm famous?” she asked, beaming.
“Absolutely. Stevie holds you in the highest esteem. You and your father.” He met Jack's eyes, and Jack saw a flash there—a challenge, as if some sort of gauntlet had just been thrown down.
“She told you about me?” Nell asked, delighted.
“Oh, my,” Aida said. “She talked and talked about you. She loved that you were brave enough to climb her hill and walk right past that awful sign she has. . . .”
“Please Go Away!” Nell giggled.
“Precisely,” Henry said. “That's a sign that needs to find a home in a nice trash heap.”
Jack watched his daughter interact with these people she had never met before—she was so open and happy, thirsty for their affection. It was all because of Stevie. Somehow Nell had adopted her as her own—like a stand-in aunt, her mother's former best friend. He felt a lump in his throat. He'd forgotten what it felt like to have extended family. His own parents and aunts and uncles were dead; all he had left was Madeleine.
Henry and Doreen had errands to run—they were going to see the priest at St. Mary's in Newport about a date for their wedding. Aida started toward the castle, leading Stevie and her visitors. Stevie and Nell were holding hands, and Jack was just behind them, when suddenly Henry called out.
“Hey, Stevie,” he said.
She turned around.
“Luocious is no more.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the Odyssey doesn't need another character. And because Stevie knows what she's doing. I can tell. Press on regardless, okay?”
Stevie stood rooted to the ground. Something about her bearing and posture made Jack want to wrap her in a hug—she looked as if she needed shoring up. But then a wide smile overtook her face, and she nodded and waved at her stepcousin, who waved back.
Jack didn't know what it meant, that exchange that had just passed between them, but he knew one thing—Stevie and Henry were each other's family, however attenuated, and they cared about each other's next step in life. He thought of Maddie and felt a little more hollow than before.
They stood at the door to the castle. A blast of cool, musty air greeted them. Jack's heart was pounding as he peered into the darkness. As an engineer, he was excited about the possibilities. Nell shivered, grabbed his hand and Stevie's. They all walked in together, Jack's pulse going a mile a minute.
All he could think was, I've got to get out of going to Scotland.
NELL HELD her father's and Stevie's hands, thrilled by the castle. She noticed all sorts of magical things. The walls were made of dark oak, carved with heads and faces. The floor was made of slate squares, and shields and words were etched in them. Aunt Aida pointed them out, saying they were the names of theaters where her husband had acted in plays.
“He made his name at the Royal Shakespeare Company,” she said. “Very early on, he was mentioned alongside Gielgud. He played at Covent Garden, and his notices as Iago were brilliant. I'm talking rare air, Olivier territory. He played Prince Hal, and same thing. Then . . . well, life took hold and interested him more than theater. He was a bon vivant of the highest order, my Van. As he aged, he settled into Falstaff. It suited him, the darling.”
Nell didn't understand all the words, or what they meant, but she could tell from Aunt Aida's voice that she had loved Van a lot. And she could tell from the way Stevie leaned over to hug her that she knew that something about this visit was hard for her aunt.
They walked through the downstairs, their footsteps echoing. There was a great hall, with cobwebs hanging from a huge black chandelier and scary mildew on a big wooden table. Nell held tight to her father and Stevie. Her father was talking, in his steady business voice.
It was the one she heard him use on the phone, and when she visited him at the office. One of the ways she knew he didn't really like Francesca was the fact that he used it with her. He never really dropped it when she was around.
Her father never used that voice with Nell. He had used it with her mother only once, just before she'd gone away. And he didn't use it with Stevie. Even when he was mad that day Nell had gotten so upset about Aunt Maddie at Stevie's house, her father hadn't used his business voice. He had used his upset Daddy voice, which he usually only used with family—Aunt Maddie, for example.
He was saying something about donating the land and castle, a directed gift, a tax shelter . . . whole bunches of stuff Nell didn't get. But she could tell from looking at Stevie and Aunt Aida that they were interested, even happy. Her father took out a notepad and measuring tape, began making notations. He measured the thickness of walls, the height of ceilings.
Aunt Aida began pointing out things like dry rot and termite holes, and her father took out his penknife and dug into the wood along the floor a little. He said something about having an inspection to make sure, but not seeing any insects or eggs. Aunt Aida seemed relieved.
They entered a small door in the wall and found themselves in a darkened circular stairway. It reminded Nell of a prison. The only light came from small stained-glass windows, so Aunt Aida pulled a flashlight from her smock pocket to illuminate their way. Nell felt afraid because she had to let go of the adults' hands, but she was right between them as they climbed, so she knew it would be okay.
Stevie was saying something about a “nature center,” and Aunt Aida said, “One hundred and sixty-four acres would make a wonderful wildlife refuge,” and her dad said, “This castle is incredible, and it should be preserved just as it is,” and Aunt Aida actually let out a cry and said, “Thank you for seeing it that way! The developers all want to gussy it up with media centers and hot tubs!”
When they had climbed four tall stories to the very top, it was like stepping out of jail into a garden of sunshine. The tower overlooked the entire valley, straight down to the silver sea. Moss and weeds grew from the cracks in the stones. Wildflower seeds must have blown up here, because flowers were growing out of the mortar, waving in the summer wind.
Nell blinked into the bright sunlight, staring over the treetops. Birds hopped from branch to branch. She thought of Stevie's story about the pine bar
rens and Old Oaks, about the deer and rabbits and songbirds and owls. She felt the mysterious blessing of having stepped straight into a real-life fairy tale. She could almost believe that a white stag, or unicorn, would come bounding out of the forest before her very eyes.
The woods went on forever. Her father was talking calmly, but excitedly, about preserving them and the castle. Aunt Aida was asking questions a mile a minute: what should she do, who should she talk to, what papers should she sign?
Stevie stepped away from the adults, to crouch down beside Nell. Together they looked at the thick pine woods, at the tall and ancient oaks. They looked at the vine of red flowers that grew out of the castle stones, trailing all the way up to the parapet above. As they watched, two tiny emerald green hummingbirds hovered in midair, drinking nectar from the tubular blossoms.
“How did they fly all the way up here?” Nell whispered. Just watching them—no larger than dragonflies—made her knees feel strange. She wobbled a little, thinking of how hard it could be for little things, how much they had to go through to get to the red nectar.
“They fly halfway around the world,” Stevie said. “They are strong and determined.”
“They look so small,” Nell said. The wind was blowing, and she felt afraid it would dash them into the castle's rock walls. “What if the wind kills them?”
“It won't,” Stevie said, taking her hand. “Their wings are powerful, and they resist strong winds.”
“How come only one has a red throat?” Nell asked, watching the pair dart in and out, noticing their iridescent green feathers, wings a blur, long beaks reaching into the flowers.
“That's the male,” Stevie said. “They're ruby-throated hummingbirds. Nature gave the male brighter markings, but I think the female is just as beautiful—maybe even more. She's subtle and mysterious.”
“How come nature did it that way?”
“So she would be attracted to him. And so she would be protected from predators.”
Nell's eyes filled with tears. She didn't know what “predators” meant. Was it a rough and bumpy country road? Was it a wrong turn taken by a loving aunt, who had lost her way in the dark? Was it the monsters that came out of the night, any night, to remind a girl her mother was dead?
“What is it, Nell?” Stevie asked, her voice steady but her eyes sad.
“I miss them,” Nell whispered.
Stevie hugged Nell close, and held her there without letting go, and Nell felt her thinking of the beach girls, of Nell's mother and aunt, and Nell heard her whisper back, “I know. So do I.”
THAT NIGHT, after Nell was asleep, Jack picked up the phone and dialed a now-almost-familiar number. His heart was racing, but not quite as bad as the first time he'd called. This time he was ready—this time he'd speak, say hello, ask how she and Chris were doing. He would tell her he'd heard she had been to visit Stevie. He'd tell her that Nell missed her.
She answered on the third ring.
“Hello?” she said.
Jack closed his eyes.
His heart picked up the pace. This wasn't a flatlands sprint, it was an uphill climb, too steep for him to handle. If he talked to her, really talked, he'd have to drop the charade and the story, the steel that had gotten him through this last year. He'd have to acknowledge that he believed what she'd told him about Kearsage. And Nell might find out the truth. . . . His hands were sweating so hard, the phone slipped.
“I'm glad you called,” she said, her voice breaking.
How could she know? Or could she? Even if she had caller ID, how would she recognize the number of this rental cottage?
“I miss you, I do,” she said, her voice full of tears. “I wish I could turn back time and do everything differently. . . . I miss my big brother.”
Jack's throat was too closed to speak. He heard her sobbing softly, and he didn't want to make it worse. Quietly, without a word, he hung up.
Chapter 17
MADELEINE KNEW IT WAS JACK. SHE HAD caller ID, and the number was from Hubbard's Point, Connecticut, and she checked her phone book and saw it wasn't Stevie's, so she knew it had to be his. She sat in the study of her Federal house, wiping her eyes, feeling cold in spite of the warm summer air coming through the open window.
Chris poked his head into the room. She looked at his bright blue eyes and graying blond hair and forced a smile, nodding to let him know she was okay. He'd been checking on her more than usual since she'd come home from seeing Stevie. In fact, his attentiveness reminded her of how he had been in the months immediately after the accident, when she'd been in such bad shape.
“Who was that?” he asked.
“Wrong number,” she said.
“I thought I heard you talking . . .”
At least he hadn't said “crying.” Madeleine smiled and said, “I was just being polite.”
Chris believed her and went back to watching the baseball game on TV. Madeleine shivered. She hated lying to her husband. But she knew if she told him that her brother had called, he'd hit *69 and give Jack a piece of his mind. A part of Madeleine wanted to do the very same thing.
She couldn't believe that he still wouldn't, or couldn't, talk to her. She took responsibility for driving, for taking Emma away. But the rest—Jack had been unable to handle hearing the truth. Madeleine remembered how—through the Demerol haze that first day in the hospital, when she came to and found Jack at her bedside—she had told him, and only him, what had really happened. He had broken down—shaking his head, wailing like a madman, smashing his fist against the wall.
The nurse had run in—whisked Jack away, to bandage his hand—and Madeleine had slipped back into a shocked and tormented sleep. Chris had stayed with her day and night; doctors came and went. They had her see a psychiatrist. The police showed up, but Chris convinced them to come back when Madeleine was more alert.
She couldn't remember much about the accident. The psychiatrist told her she was having a “trauma reaction.” The words pricked her—they brought her too close to the trauma itself. The screams, the crash, the blood.
Other things came to her easily, from the days and hours before. She recalled picking Emma up at their house at the start of the trip; she could see the white fence and the peach tree in their front yard. She could feel Nell's hand in hers, hear her niece chatting brightly about school and the story she was writing about a pony named Stars. She remembered kissing Jack goodbye, thanking him for letting her take Emma away for the weekend.
And the weekend . . . lazy mornings over coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice, power-walking on the beach for exercise, finding the right spot for their blanket and chairs, settling into the hot sand with nothing but hours for talking to Emma. Maddie remembered looking into Emma's eyes that very first day, smiling at her, saying, “Oh, the beaches we've been on together.”
“We've come a long way from Hubbard's Point,” Emma had said.
“That's where we first came together. I remember the day I first met you and Stevie Moore. We thought we'd be together forever . . . remember how inseparable we were?”
Emma hadn't seemed interested in remembering, but Madeleine couldn't stop. “Remember how her father got her that little English car . . . what was it? A Hillman! That's right. It was so cute, just perfect for the beach. And she'd put the top down and take us to Paradise Ice Cream?”
“We'd all be squeezed into the front seat in our bikinis,” Emma said, unable to resist smiling. “Eating ice cream cones as we drove along . . . all the boys beeping at us. Remember how Jimmy Peterson nearly drove off the road?”
They'd laughed, remembering rides in the sea green Hillman, the mysterious powers they'd had at seventeen. Madeleine had glanced over at Emma, remembering buying Summer of the Swans for Nell. How negatively Emma had reacted to Stevie's work . . .
“Stevie was so shy about boys at first,” Madeleine said. “I guess she was so sheltered, living alone with her father.”
“The professor,” Emma said. “I remember hi
s English accent . . . I had a little crush on him.”
“Me, too,” Maddie said.
“Stevie had it lucky,” Emma said with surprising harshness. “She found a career to take care of herself, so she didn't have to rely on any one man to support her. She made up for being shy with boys by marrying and divorcing anyone she pleased.”
“Emma . . .”
“I'm sorry, Maddie. You're not going to want to hear any of this. But it's why I came away with you. I need to talk. . . .”
They had tilted their sunscreened faces toward the sun, reveling in the warmth even as Maddie felt the chill of what Emma was saying. She had known of her sister-in-law's unhappiness; she just hadn't realized the extent. She had known about her drifting away from Jack, but she hadn't known there was someone else. She hadn't had any idea at all.
The beach, the island, the cottage, the long, wrenching talks—all were indelibly recorded in Madeleine's memory. She remembered feeling completely shocked—no, those words weren't too dramatic—by what Emma told her. How would she keep it a secret? From her own brother? As the hours passed, the sun kissing their skin and the waves gently lapping the island's white sands, Madeleine listened and listened. And her skin began to crawl. . . .
She was Emma's best friend. But she was also Jack's sister. It was that statement that had, finally, sent Emma off in the car. When Madeleine had finally spoken up, told Emma she couldn't hold back any longer, that as much as she loved Emma and was trying to understand her choices, her behavior, she was, after all, Jack's sister.
And Nell's aunt.
It was the mention of Nell that had made Emma slap Madeleine. At the end of the weekend, they were hours into the ride home. There had been a buildup of tension between them; Madeleine had had to stop herself more than once from sounding sanctimonious. Emma must have sensed Madeleine's growing anger and disapproval, her disgust with what she'd been hearing. And her worry over how it would affect Jack and, especially, Nell.
