The Unforgiven

by MacDonald, Patricia

  Jess examined the ring curiously, holding it up to the light from the window and squinting at it. “Amethyst,” he pronounced.

  “Yes. It belonged to my grandmother,” she offered. “My father gave it to me. Shortly before he died.…” Maggie’s voice trailed away.

  “Is that right?” he murmured. “My mother has quite a collection of antique jewelry. Her enthusiasm is sort of infectious. My father can never pass a shop window without going inside to look. As a matter of fact I remember an amethyst pendant that he had his eye on for her for quite a while…”

  Maggie tried to concentrate on his words, but she found her attention slipping away. As she watched the ring turning in his fingers, anxiety began to rise in her chest and engorge her throat, as a long-buried memory bubbled up from within. Her eyes remained riveted on the ring, but her mind traveled back in time.

  “What is that you have there?” Her mother’s sharp question startled her as she sat, playing with her treasure on the floor of the parlor.

  Quickly she cupped her hand over it and squeezed it shut. “Nothing,” she whispered.

  “Don’t lie to me. I saw something,” her mother insisted, grabbing her arm and prying at the clenched little fingers.

  “No, it’s mine,” she cried, trying to wrest her hand from her mother’s grasp. With a sharp crack to her knuckles, her mother forced the fingers open, and the ring flew out, landing at her mother’s feet. Slowly the woman bent over and picked up the ring. She stared, ashen-faced, at the child.

  “Where did you get this?” she demanded in a shaking voice.

  “I found it,” the girl insisted tearfully, avoiding her mother’s eyes.

  “You couldn’t have found it. It was in your father’s dresser.”

  The child curled herself up, crossing her arms protectively over her chest.

  “You took it from him,” the mother cried, as if trying to convince herself. “You took it, after he died. Admit it.” She shook the child in desperation.

  “No,” Maggie cried defiantly. “He gave it to me.”

  Suddenly she heard the sound, familiar and ominous to her ears, of heavy fabric dragging across the carpet. The dark figure of her mother’s visitor came to a halt just above her, blocking out the patch of sunlight on the carpet where she crouched. The child cringed and did not look up.

  “We know how you got it. You’re a sinful, evil girl,” said Sister Dolorita. She spat the words out. “You are worse than a thief.”

  The child began to shiver, but she refused to look up at the sister’s accusing eyes. “No,” she whimpered, shaking her head. Then she saw, from the corner of her downcast eyes, a flash. And then again. It was the silver cross, swinging on a chain clenched in the sister’s fist.

  “Maggie.”

  The woman started, then stared at Jess, who was holding the ring out to her, a puzzled look on his face. “Anything wrong?” he asked.

  “No, I was just.…It was nothing.” She took the ring and forced it back on her finger.

  “It’s lovely,” he commented.

  “Thank you,” she said. For a minute his eyes held hers.

  “So,” he asked abruptly. “How are you finding it here?”

  “The job?” Maggie asked faintly.

  “Well, the job, the island. Did you find a place to live?”

  “Oh, yes,” Maggie assured him. “I’m renting the Thornhill place, on Liberty Road. It even includes the use of their old Buick.”

  “It’s comfortable?”

  “Very,” Maggie agreed. “All that room. And the property is beautiful. So far from everything.”

  “That’s what I love about this island. Gives you room to breathe. Privacy. Were you an apartment dweller before this?”

  Maggie avoided his eyes. “Yes. That is, I’m not used to… I’m used to a much smaller space. I grew up on a farm, though,” she added.

  “In Pennsylvania?”

  “Yes,” she said. He seemed about to ask another question. Hurriedly, she changed the subject. “I’m enjoying the work.”

  Jess nodded. “You seem to be catching right on.”

  “I’m doing my best.”

  “Any problems with Grace?”

  “Grace? No.” The false note hung in the air.

  Jess spoke reassuringly. “It will all work out. We’ll get things straightened out when Emmett gets back.”

  “Well, whenever,” said Maggie lightly. “I guess I should be getting back to work.” She stood up.

  “Maggie,” Jess said, looking at his watch. “I was just about to knock off for lunch. I was wondering if you’d like to join me.”

  Flustered, Maggie bit her lip. “Oh, thank you. No, I can’t…”

  Jess looked at her expectantly.

  “Well, I need to do some shopping, you know,” she mumbled.

  “That’s all right,” he said. “I understand. Maybe another time.”

  “Yes, maybe,” she said, getting up and backing out of the office door. “I’m sorry.” She closed the door behind her.

  “Watch where you’re going,” Grace whined.

  In the dimness of the hallway Maggie had not seen Grace coming. “I’m sorry, Grace.”

  The older woman assumed a long-suffering expression. “While you’re busy chatting, there’s work piling up on your desk.”

  Without a word Maggie followed Grace back into their office. She walked to the chair by the window, picked up her pocketbook, and started for the door. As she crossed in front of Grace’s desk she could feel the older woman glaring at her. Ignoring the butterflies in her stomach, she spoke calmly.

  “I’ll do it after lunch.” Maggie left without glancing back.

  You idiot, she berated herself as she turned onto Main Street and started up the block. Refusing his invitation like a bashful schoolgirl. He’s your boss. He didn’t mean anything by it. But the combination of elation and apprehension making her stomach churn belied the lecture that Maggie was giving herself.

  Carefully she made her way along the cobblestones to the sidewalk, where she began looking into the merchants’ windows. Through the sparse foliage on the trees between shops, she caught an occasional glimpse of whitecaps and waves.

  It wasn’t just business, she thought. He was being friendly. But that, she reminded herself, was the point. She couldn’t even consider a flirtation with him that might lead somewhere. Unless she wanted to tell him about how she had spent the last twelve years. And that was impossible. That melancholy realization stifled her appetite. With a sigh she decided that a walk might do her more good than lunch.

  Maggie paused at the darkened window of the gift shop and saw the child-size sweat shirts with Heron’s Neck printed on them, placemats with a map of the island, and a rack of post cards forming a dusty display. She gazed wistfully along the deserted sidewalks and tried to imagine what it would be like in the summer, thronged with vacationers in sneakers and sailor hats, teenagers eating ice cream, and music blaring on the street. What she saw before her was a wide street, nearly empty of people, with a few cars and pickup trucks parked outside the scattered shops which were open.

  A little farther up the block she stopped outside the ice-cream parlor and peered through the unilluminated window. Inside, the imposing mahogany fountain, the marble-topped tables, and wrought-iron chairs formed a curious scene to her eyes, like the stage setting for some Victorian drama, waiting there in the gloom for the actors to appear and the lights to come up. Waiting in vain, Maggie thought.

  “There’s nobody in there.”

  Maggie straightened up to see a man in a plaid lumberman’s jacket carrying a roll of barbed wire. “I was just looking,” she protested.

  The man eyed her suspiciously. Maggie noticed that his right hand was bleeding slightly where he grasped the wire. “Closed for the winter,” he said balefully.

  Maggie nodded and slipped past him. She could feel his eyes on her as she hurried away. At the next corner she spied a sign for Croddick’s
Dress Shop. She was about to pass it by, assuming that it too was closed, when she saw a woman emerge from the store carrying a large shopping bag with Croddick’s printed on it with a flourish. Curious, Maggie pushed the door open and went in.

  The store was softly lit and redolent of bayberry. A few women were browsing among the clothes, and in one corner a man was arranging a display of belts and scarves. He turned and gave Maggie a smile. “Hello,” he said.

  Maggie returned his greeting and turned toward a nearby rack of skirts.

  “I’m Tom Croddick,” he said, coming over to her. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Maggie felt a pinprick of annoyance at the intrusion on her anonymity. However, she answered him politely. “My name is Maggie Fraser.”

  “Are you new to the island?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  The shopkeeper looked at her expectantly.

  “I work at the paper,” said Maggie grudgingly.

  “Is that right?” he asked. “Well, welcome, welcome. Have a look around.”

  “I was surprised to find you open.”

  “Oh, yes. Winter or summer, the ladies always like something new to wear,” Tom said philosophically. “Go ahead. See what you like.” He waved Maggie off and returned to his display.

  Maggie began to pick through the clothes, sliding the hangers by her on the rack, occasionally holding up a skirt or blouse against herself to see how it looked. She noticed, to her surprise, that the clothes in Croddick’s store seemed quite fashionable and well tailored. They also seemed terribly expensive, although she realized that she was still getting used to the prices of things, which seemed to have tripled while she was away.

  She knew about changing fashions on the inside. In the news magazines she was allowed to read were occasional articles about fashion. And she could also tell by the ads and the things people wore on television. But she still felt overwhelmed by it all. Getting out and buying clothes, she felt like an alien from another planet, trying to assemble a costume so that she could pass, unnoticed, through human society.

  Maggie turned away from the racks of skirts and blouses and drifted over to a table that displayed trays of jewelry and hair ornaments. Using the gold-rimmed, oval mirror which stood on the counter, she tried on several necklaces, feeling silly and yet pleased at the game. Then she removed each one and carefully replaced it on the display rack. Slipping a bracelet on each of her narrow wrists, she turned them over, admiring them. Then she wriggled them off and put them back on their velvet tray. She was about to walk away from the counter when she spied two matching silver combs with blooming irises engraved on the top. Lifting them up with a smile, she drew back the sides of her mass of hair and inserted one on each side. She liked the way they looked. The style seemed to draw her face up, making her look less tired, more carefree. She decided to leave them in for a little while, although she reminded herself that she could not afford to spend money on such a frivolous item.

  Yet something about wearing the combs lightened her spirits. She wandered through the racks of clothes, giving a desultory glance to the businesslike clothes she needed, being drawn instead to the array of more frivolous clothes and lacy lingerie. She ran her fingers over the soft fabrics of sheer nightgowns and wondered who on Heron’s Neck would ever wear the peek-a-boo camisole Tom Croddick had hung at a rakish angle above the shelves of underwear.

  She thought she had about exhausted the store’s stock when she suddenly discovered a rack of evening gowns, hanging in the back, near the dressing room. Maggie began to flip through the rack of floor-length dresses to the clacking of bugle beads and the rustling of taffeta, when all at once she came upon a dress that captured her whole attention.

  It was slate blue and satiny, with a simple, low-cut bodice that looked as if it would cling to every curve of a woman’s frame. Maggie grasped the hanger and pulled it out. She looked at the price tag and whistled under her breath. She felt grateful that she had utterly no need for such a dress. Put it back, she thought. But it was so tempting.

  Humming to herself, she waltzed discreetly to the mirrored door of the dressing room, relieved that no one seemed to notice her. Removing the dress from the hanger, she held it up against herself, covering her dowdy skirt and blouse. Turning this way and that, Maggie admired herself furtively. The color of the dress whitened her skin and complimented her gray eyes. Her reddish hair glowed by contrast. She was grateful that it had not turned gray. She was only thirty-two, but she had seen women of twenty-five go completely gray in a year on the inside.

  And she was still slim. Slimmer, in fact, than when she had gone in. But of course one did not expect to gain weight in prison. She noted that her complexion was slightly pallid and she resolved to get some fresh air. She wanted to look attractive.

  For a moment she imagined herself dancing in the dress. Her partner was Jess Herlie. She could picture him smiling at her, his eyes traveling down the neckline, admiring her. She shivered with pleasure and smiled at herself in the mirror.

  Suddenly she stiffened. The mirror caught the murky image of another face staring at her, eyes narrowed, as she preened.

  Maggie blushed furiously, caught in her posing. She could see, without turning around, that whoever was watching her was outside the store, looking at her through the window. The noon light made the figure dark and amorphous, but there was no doubt that the eyes were trained on her as she cavorted before the mirror.

  Feeling ridiculous, and angry with herself, Maggie grabbed the hanger from the nearby chair and forced the dress back on it with trembling hands. She must have looked a sight, she thought, puckering her lips, her face aglow with her romantic fantasy. She should never have been thinking that way about Jess. Never. It was exactly what she had promised herself not to do. Just the kind of fantasies she had to avoid. And to be caught at it. It served her right.

  Clutching the dress in both hands, Maggie hurried over to the rack and shoved the dress haphazardly back into line. Then, with her head down, to avoid the eyes of any other shopper who might have noticed her antics, she headed for the front door of the shop.

  Just as she put her hand on the brass door handle, a hand clamped down on her upper arm.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Maggie jerked sharply around to face the bespectacled glare of the white-haired shopkeeper.

  For a moment she gazed at him, perplexed. He was staring at her hair with a grim expression on his face.

  “Did you intend to pay for them?” the man asked, a hard edge to his voice.

  A light of recognition came into Maggie’s eyes. She reached up her free hand and felt the comb. “Oh, the combs.” She winced in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out.

  She had not intended to buy the combs. They were too expensive for her fragile budget. But it seemed futile to try to explain that to the angry shopkeeper.

  “I forgot I was wearing them. I’m really sorry. Of course I’ll pay for them,” Maggie conceded nervously.

  The shopkeeper went around behind the counter to the cash register, and Maggie reached for her purse. She avoided meeting the offended look in his eyes. Resigned to the fact that she would have to pay for her impulsiveness, she opened her bag and fumbled inside it. At least she would be able to wear the combs. At the moment, that thought was no comfort.

  “That’s nineteen ninety-five,” the man said.

  Maggie realized that it was almost half of the cash she had. The thought of asking Jess for an advance was humiliating. She thought of telling the shopkeeper that she simply could not afford it, but the look in his eyes was forbidding. Maggie groped in the bag for her wallet. Through her confusion, she realized that she could not put her hands on it. She pulled open the top of the bag and stared inside.

  “My wallet is gone,” she said quietly.

  The shopkeeper shifted his weight and said nothing.

  “Someone must have taken it,” Maggie protested. “It’s not here.” />
  The man glared at her. “Then I suggest you remove those combs, right now.”

  Maggie stared at him, and he returned her look without flinching. A muscle worked in his cheek, but he did not avert his eyes.

  “Someone must have taken it,” she repeated.

  Then, her cheeks aflame, she reached up and loosed the combs from the tangle of her hair. She laid them on the counter and turned to leave the store, avoiding Croddick’s gaze. As she reached for the door handle she could feel his eyes on her, disbelieving, like a cold spot on her spine.

  There she was.

  Smiling at herself in a mirror. Picturing herself in that party dress she was holding. Probably thinking she was some kind of fairy princess.

  The lips of the watcher curved into a hideous parody of a smile. The stony eyes flickered as they observed Maggie before the looking glass. Unaware. It was fascinating.

  But it would not do to stand there too long on the sidewalk in front of the dress shop on a sunny, windblown street. Someone might stop. Say something. It was better to move on.

  One last look. The gown that Maggie held was blue-gray and cut low. The watcher imagined the white shoulders, the white throat, splotched with bruises, purple and red, where the vessels burst. Ragged fingernails dug into the watcher’s palms. The fingertips tingled.

  Maggie was looking up.

  Their eyes met.

  Then Maggie began to fumble with the dress.

  Quickly, silently, the watcher moved from the window and started down the street.

  4

  “Have you got everything?” Grace asked, brushing by Maggie, who stood in the doorway of the News building, looking out toward the street.

  Instinctively Maggie reached into her bag, although she had already checked twice for her wallet before she got up from her desk. The day before, when she returned from Croddick’s still smarting from the humiliating incident in the dress shop, she had blurted out to the disinterested Grace that someone had taken her wallet, only to see her glance across the room at Maggie’s desk.

  “What’s that over there?” Grace had drawled.