by Luanne Rice
She heard herself cry out. And she saw the tray teeter and tilt, and heard the glasses crash, and saw the lemonade pour all over the table, and all over the couple. They jumped up, to keep from getting soaked and sticky, but Nell had already turned away. She ran over to the counter, buried her head in her hands. Peggy’s arm came around her, and she felt herself shaking hard under her friend’s embrace.
Peggy was whispering, and the young couple—Jen and her boyfriend—were asking if she was okay, and Tyler and Brandon had hurried over, to make sure she hadn’t cut herself on the broken glass.
She hadn’t, and she said she was okay, she was sorry about the spill—about the scream—about everything. And then she’d said something to Peggy about covering her tables and her shift and how sorry she was to leave her with everything—and then, because she really didn’t have a choice, she just started running.
SHE LEFT FOLEY’S, but she didn’t go home. Instead of heading down toward the beach and the Point, she walked up the road to the woods just before the railroad trestle, and as she did, she felt as if she were coming down from the mountain, returning to sea level. Her lungs were exploding, as if she hadn’t had oxygen for a long time, as long as that couple had been sitting at that table. She relived the moment of her dropping the lemonade and cringed. She felt heat rising from the tar, but then shadows from the trees fell across the road and she cooled off.
She took a right on the dirt road that led into the wooded glade, into the cemetery. Her head was pounding, and her mouth was dry. She craved a drink of fresh water, so she stopped at the old pump. Back when Hubbard’s Point was first settled, before there was a water system and when some families weren’t able to dig their own wells, this was where everyone came to get water.
It was such an old-fashioned pump, tall and graceful, with a curved spout and a handle. Every winter it rusted in the salt air, and every June someone gave it a fresh coat of white paint. Nell pumped the handle a few times, priming it, then held her hair back as she drank the cool spring water.
The water soothed her a little. As she walked along the road, into the cemetery, she thought about those people at Foley’s. They’d seemed so nice, so innocently in love. She’d overreacted, of course. The tabletop was scored with so many initials, all of them crowded in and bunched together—the boy hadn’t had any real room to fit his and Jen’s.
Nell figured Peggy would fill them in. Two strangers, just passing through, wanting to do something sweet and romantic, would hear about what had happened to Charlie. Peggy was so intuitive—she’d look at the table, and see that the “J” was touching the “C,” and she’d know that’s why Nell had gone a little crazy. She’d tell the kids, but in a nice way. A way that would make them understand and not feel bad.
Nell felt so tired. She wasn’t thinking straight. The wine, and missing Charlie, and those crazy dreams last night…
As she walked through the cemetery, she said hello to the people who were buried there. Some of the gravestones were very old; the autumn she was nine, she and Stevie had come here and made grave rubbings.
They’d brought charcoal and fine parchment paper, knelt in the dry grass and gently pressed the paper to the stones. They’d rubbed the charcoal across the paper, and the names and dates and images carved in bas-relief on the gravestones had suddenly materialized onto the paper; it had seemed like ghost art to Nell. And it had helped her know something about each person buried here.
That’s the thing, she thought, walking through now: it’s so easy to look at cemeteries and think of them as one big mass of dead people, all blurring together. But that’s not how it is. Each person still matters. Every single person here existed, had a life, had people who loved them.
There were children buried in this ground, with angel heads and wings on their gravestones. A woman who’d died very young, just twenty-two, who had spent her summers sailing: she had a sloop on her headstone.
And Charlie. She walked along the dirt road, heading toward his grave. Sheridan had had an angel carved into the stone, but not just any angel: she was playing a guitar. Because Charlie had loved music, and Sheridan had wanted him to know he wasn’t alone, had wanted the pure, sweet notes she’d played for him since he was a baby to follow him always, even now, where she couldn’t go.
No one had ever explained that to Nell: she just knew. She’d lost her mother when she was young; that made it easier for her to understand why Sheridan had needed a guitar-playing angel for her son.
But as she rounded the corner, coming into sight of Charlie’s gravestone, Nell stopped dead. Someone was standing at the grave, his back to Nell. He was tall and muscular, and his head was bowed. Nell inched closer, her heart in her throat.
The young man seemed lost in contemplation or prayer. He didn’t move, barely even breathed. Nell knew she should hold her breath, stand perfectly still, not scare him away.
But she couldn’t hold it in anymore—she was shocked out of her mind and skin, and all she could do was open her arms and run toward him.
“Charlie!” she cried.
The young man froze. He turned straight toward her, facing her head-on. She saw his bright eyes, straight nose, sharp cheekbones. His hair was darker, and he looked as if he’d been lifting weights. For a moment she hesitated—she’d made a mistake. It wasn’t Charlie at all.
But then he turned away, and she caught his profile—identical to the boy she’d loved so much—and she knew: it was him. Charlie had come back. There’d been a mistake, he wasn’t dead at all, and he would explain everything.
“You’ve come home,” she said, starting to sob as she stumbled toward him. The young man hesitated, and in that split second she saw tears pouring down his cheeks. Then he pushed past her, brushing her arm as he fled, and ran as fast as he could away from her.
HE HAD PARKED HIS BLUE car not far from the cemetery, on the dirt road, deep in the woods, but he ran in the opposite direction now, trying to get away from her and not let her see his license plate. The graveyard was small and hilly, filled with trees. He ran between two rows of old gravestones, dodged behind a stand of pines. Behind him, he heard her calling.
“Charlie, Charlie!”
The name cut him, but he couldn’t react. Crashing through brush at the cemetery’s far end, he jumped over a low stone wall. She must have been in good shape, because she was keeping up—he heard her footsteps on the ground, heard her intake of breath as she took the wall. A dog barked in someone’s yard; he went the other way.
She kept calling and calling, crying now. He wanted to turn around, but he couldn’t. Everything depended on her not catching him, not even seeing him—how had he let that happen? His heart was pounding—he was running full-out now; there’d be time to think of the mistakes later.
Up ahead, a steep, wooded hillside—he flew toward it, using branches and vines for handholds. He tore upward, up and over and around boulders. Connecticut was the rockiest state he’d ever been in; he skinned his knee on a slab of granite, just kept going. Toward the top he heard a car pass by—he’d come to a road.
Jumping over the guardrail, he ran along the narrow lane. He was still in Hubbard’s Point, just the other side from where he’d driven in. The road was lined with little beach cottages. They all had pretty gardens and a car or two parked out front, but he didn’t care. This was where he was in most danger. This was Hubbard’s Point, where everyone knew his face. He kept his head down, pretended he was sprinting, training for a race or something.
He hadn’t lost her, but she’d fallen behind. He heard her cry out, fought the urge to glance back. Maybe she’d fallen on the hill, or hit herself on the same boulder that had gotten him. His shin was bleeding hard now, the blood running into his sneaker. When he reached a fork in the road, he instinctively took the left one—it led into the shade, more trees, less light.
Now he looked over his shoulder—she was nowhere in sight. He slowed down—what if she’d gotten injured? What if she’d t
wisted her ankle, or blown out her knee? Or really cut herself badly? She was so beautiful and delicate, and he’d hurt her so badly. He’d already done enough, he knew that, and he hated himself for it.
Seeing her at the cemetery had been such a shock—but why should it have been? How could he think she wouldn’t visit the grave? No, he was an idiot for coming here—he deserved to get caught. But that wasn’t going to happen—and he just started running again.
His mind kept going backward. That’s how it had been for almost a year now—as if the future didn’t exist. Mainly his thoughts were dragged back, night after night, to last August thirty-first. But right now they had a new focus: ten minutes ago.
Ten minutes ago he’d seen Nell. Their eyes had locked—a split second before he’d taken off—but in that time, he’d seen all the spark and sorrow and passion and life he’d always known was there. Her love for Charlie had flooded into him—he’d felt it filling his mouth and lungs, veins and muscles. Love like that, the kind of love that made a person cry out and run faster than she’d ever run before, chasing him with all her might because she wanted him so badly…He shivered, because he’d felt that love coming from her, and he didn’t know how he could live without that kind of love. He’d had it once….
His head was a mess; he’d had a plan, to go back for his car and just drive away, but now he knew that wasn’t going to happen. He couldn’t leave, not yet. He told himself he had to just see Nell one more time, make sure she was all right. Just then, jogging along, he happened to look up at a passing car.
The man driving waved, and he waved back. That made his stomach drop—had he been recognized? Yes, the car was turning around, coming back for another look. He started to panic, knowing he had to hide in a backyard or somewhere, and fast.
There were more beach cottages along the road, and he studied them as he ran. They were small and quaint, close together. It was high season for Hubbard’s Point—midsummer, when everyone was using their cottage, enjoying the sun and fun. At midday, people were starting to head home from the beach for lunch. Moms and kids were strolling along the road. He kept his head down.
He began making calculations, thinking of where he’d parked the car, wondering the fastest way back to it without running into her. He heard a train whistle and the Doppler effect of a locomotive speeding past, here and gone close by, and he went in that direction, glancing back to see if the car was coming yet.
There was an old overgrown field, surrounded by an Anchor fence. The faded sign said Harry Anderson Recreation Area. Too bad for the kids—looked as if it hadn’t been used in some time. He saw a shed behind the fence, as well as a rusty old swing set and seesaw. A jungle gym had become a perch for crows—there were five big ones on the metal bars, watching him.
He looked around, ready to vault the fence. But just then the car came along, slowing and rolling down the window.
Jesus, he thought. This is it.
“Hey,” the man called.
“How’re you doing?” he asked, continuing to walk.
The car rolled alongside, and he felt the man studying him. He just kept walking, as if he had somewhere to go. The man in the car didn’t say anything, so neither did he. His chest was exploding. Any second, Nell might come tearing over the top of the hill, and it would be all over.
“Can I help you?” he asked, just to get this over with.
“My mistake,” the man said. “I thought…”
He looked at him now, through the open window.
“You know something,” the man said, “you are the spitting image of someone I know. A boy who used to live here.”
“Yeah?” he said.
“It’s uncanny,” the man said. “You had a double.”
Had. He heard the past tense, but ignored it and just gave the guy a smile as he drove away. As soon as the car disappeared, he started for the fence again. He had his eye on the shed, his mind was racing, figuring it all out, when just then—out of the corner of his gaze—he caught sight of something.
Newspapers on a front porch.
That’s all it was, but that’s all he needed. He’d been good at his work, his job, his craft, whatever you wanted to call it. He knew what to look for, knew the signs, didn’t make many mistakes.
Papers, a week’s worth of papers. Piled up on the front porch. Flowers in the garden wilting, tomatoes heavy on the vine in the little strip of vegetables along the side of the house. He was already looking both ways. Not taking the front walk, the concrete embedded with sea glass and beach stones, not taking the side door, arched over with a rose-covered trellis. Some of the roses were dead, needed water.
He went around back. Tall hedges that needed pruning separated the narrow yard from the neighbors. The privacy couldn’t be better. He heard the Doppler effect again—the train tracks ran right behind the property, and here came another train, this one heading in the opposite direction from the last.
If he’d had more time, he would have checked under flowerpots, in window boxes, under the garden gnomes for the spare key. People in houses like this always hid a spare key. But he didn’t have time. He heard the voice again, Nell’s voice calling “Charlie, Charlie!” Still in the distance, but at least she was on her feet—he felt a split-second flash of relief as he bent down to pick up a brick, a loose brick dislodged from the chimney, maybe in a storm or something.
If he’d brought his tools, he wouldn’t have to break the window. But he hadn’t planned on staying around here. So he edged close to the back door, right up alongside, and gave the pane closest to the knob a good tap.
Bang: all it took.
He reached his hand through the shattered glass, taking care not to cut his wrist, clicked the lock open, turned the brass knob.
He was in.
CHAPTER 14
WALKING UP THE STONE STEPS TO RETURN STEVIE’S pie plate, Sheridan noticed the little sign saying Please go away, the letters faded, the sign nearly overgrown with ivy. It seemed more like an artifact than anything else, causing Sheridan to reflect on how times had changed.
Not so many years ago, Stevie had been the official Hubbard’s Point hermit. Young fans of her children’s books would stop by to visit or get them signed, and Stevie had done her best to keep them away.
Knocking, Sheridan noticed a new sign taped to the screen door: I’m painting in my studio—come on up! She let herself in, left the pie plate in the kitchen, and headed upstairs. She smelled oil paint and turpentine, walked into Stevie’s studio and found her standing before her easel.
“Hello,” Sheridan said. “I don’t want to interrupt you—I just returned your dish, and I wanted to check on Nell. How is she?”
“She’s fine…slept a little late, and then went to work. I think Agatha’s wild thyme disagreed with her.”
“I’m sure my sister didn’t expect Nell to drink from my glass; I’m immune to her potions, she should know that by now.”
“Uh-huh,” Stevie said, raising her eyebrow. “I’m glad you’re here—come in, keep me company.”
Sheridan walked over to the loveseat, sat down. She glanced up at Stevie, laughing quietly.
“What’s so funny?” Stevie asked.
“Well, I don’t mean to laugh. I’m actually just happy for you.”
“For what?”
“You just seem…so content. It’s such a change, walking up your steps and seeing that sign all covered with vines. And then to come to your door and find, basically, an open invitation for anyone to just walk inside and visit with you.”
“Things do change,” Stevie said, smiling as she worked on a painting of three baby robins lined up on a branch.
“You were such a recluse,” Sheridan said.
“I know,” Stevie said. “I was a love-wreck. I was so sick of making mistakes, falling in love with the wrong guy…I had to hide out from the world for a while. But sometimes I think back even further, to when we were kids. I was so happy then, so carefree; that’s how I fe
el now. So what does that mean?”
“I’m not sure,” Sheridan said.
“I have nothing profound to say,” Stevie said. “I think life is full of circles. That’s all I can think of. Maybe because I feel I look like a beach ball…”
“You look great,” Sheridan said. They smiled at each other. Sheridan knew there weren’t many people she felt like visiting with, and even this felt touch-and-go. Seeing Stevie’s pregnancy reminded her of when she was pregnant with Charlie.
“That’s debatable,” Stevie said. She put her brush down, wiped her hand with a rag, and came to sit with Sheridan.
“I was hoping to catch you while Nell was at work,” Sheridan said, choosing her words carefully. “Gavin’s been hinting at something, and I wonder what Nell’s said about it.”
“What’s he hinting about?”
Sheridan shrugged, shook her head, knowing she had to just spit it out. “Well, that Charlie might have been seeing someone else.”
“Besides Nell?” Stevie asked.
“I know,” Sheridan said. “Crazy, right?”
“Completely. He didn’t know them together—didn’t know what they were like, how they drove us nuts needing to be with each other twenty-four/seven…he’d never say something like that if he had. Where did he get that idea?”
“Something about the band Charlie went to see that night. Gavin thinks Charlie might have had plans he didn’t tell Nell about.”
“So? They don’t have to tell each other everything…who does that? What couple in the world tells each other every plan they make? He must think there’s more to it…”
“A beautiful bass player,” Sheridan said.
“Well,” Stevie said, “I’d like to think our old friend Gavin is a little more enlightened than that. A young man goes to see music, and just because there’s an attractive female musician, he must be lusting after her? Or sleeping with her? What’s wrong with him?”
“So there’s nothing to it, right?” Sheridan asked. “I’m not the only one who knows he’s barking up the very wrong tree?”
