To Know You (9781401688684)

by Ethridge, Shannon (CON)

  And she kept walking.

  First to the Public Gardens, the grass winter brown, flowers long dead. They’d come back in April, the same blazing ripples of tulips and daffodils as when Tom and she sat on the benches overlooking the Duck Pond and he made promises he didn’t keep.

  Not here.

  She hiked back up Boylston Street and crossed behind the Westin to Huntington Avenue. How ironic that Susan Middlebrooks had booked a hotel so close to the Massachusetts College of Art.

  A salty breeze stung her face. The wind coming off the water, misting the city. Nothing felt right. And yet, her fingers itched under the cast. The doctor would say the wounds were healing, and Julia could only pray that was so.

  The leaden sky pressed down on her. Thank You, Jesus, because sometimes you need a storm to cleanse the shame. Julia stood on the sidewalk outside her old dorm, stared at the door as if willing her twenty-year-old self to walk out so she could tell herself it’s all going to be okay. Not easy. Not the way you planned. But there is no shame in doing the right thing for your beloved child. Shame off you, Julia McCord. Jesus died to take the shame off you, so let Him.

  She hiked back to the Westin Hotel, sweating under her shawl even as the wind picked up. She knew where she needed to go and it meant renting a car.

  Though it was midday, traffic was heavy coming out of the city. Rain in Boston, the weather lady had said, and snow in New Hampshire and Maine. Maybe a lot of snow if the Arctic air mass danced with the warm air coming up from the Gulf.

  A good, old-fashioned Nor’easter. Not that Julia missed those—not one bit.

  Chloe probably didn’t understand what can happen in New England when weather moves in from all sides. Julia wouldn’t call and pressure her. Maybe she’d send a text, just reminding her to head back to the city before night came and the rain began.

  The traffic jam broke a couple miles north of Boston. After fifteen minutes, Julia took the exit for Lynn. A few miles later she crossed the long causeway to Nahant. She took a left onto Ocean Boulevard, then found the right to Marginal Road, where the big homes overlooked the water. It was only a short half mile to the mansion they had restored. Julia parked, got out of the car, and stared down the driveway.

  Surely the massive house had been renovated a couple times in the past two decades. And yet, she could see the barren branches of the roses she had reclaimed climbing the trellis on the front porch. They would bloom red in July. Tom would pick the biggest bloom and sprinkle petals on—

  Long forgiven, child.

  She felt God’s touch—that flame in the haze—and she heard His voice, dear God, thank You. Nothing could erase what she and Tom had done, yet redeeming the past and the future—redeeming Destiny—was God’s delight.

  Julia got back in the car and unwound the Ace bandage that enclosed her cast. The half casts finally came loose but stuck to the surgical packing that was stiff with dried blood. She pulled the old gauze away from her skin, cried out when it stuck to the stitches in her fingers. This was insane, to think she could chalk with a broken hand.

  This was faith, to believe—to know—that God specialized in using the broken.

  All she had was her thumb and little finger. The middle three were crusty and swollen, so tremendously painful without the support of the packing and cast. She selected the blue and the red chalk, then got out of the car and crossed the front lawn.

  She expected the homeowner to come out and challenge her as she crossed the property. The massive door that she and Jeanne had stripped and refinished remained shut. The gardens had been put to bed properly for the winter with mulch and burlap.

  Julia picked her way down the path, through the scrub pines. This craggy point of land had no beach, just the ocean crashing against the rocks in cold fury. In a few hours, this would be a maelstrom, but for now she could make her way to the flat rock where she and Tom had hidden from their friends and made love.

  No, not love. Make-believe.

  The tide was coming in. Julia had a half hour at the most to do this. She squatted down and clutched the blue chalk between her thumb and pinkie. The pain in her hand was terrible, shooting into her wrist and up her arm. She began to sketch, one swooping letter at a time.

  Free Baby Doe.

  She outlined it in red, melding with the blue to make that amethyst color, the color of sacrifice. The pain in her hand lessened as the cold seeped through her skin. The spray drenched her as she worked. The tide came closer now, but this had to be . . . not perfect because only God was perfect. Her job was to make it just right.

  When Julia was done, she slipped her frozen hand under her shawl and thought about the blues and reds of frostbite. How if you let it go too long, the skin blackens and dies.

  God had saved her, and in saving her, had spared Tom.

  Please, God, save my baby.

  Heavenly Father, please save all my babies.

  A wave crashed over the rocks, flooding the flat rock. Julia watched as her words were swept out to sea.

  Gloucester

  Tuesday, 4:35 p.m.

  Chloe sat at the bar in the Two Brothers Café. Rob Jones will hate me. She typed a good game but was useless out in the world. Twenty-two-years old and this was the first time she had actually sat in a bar and ordered a drink.

  Ridiculous to have experienced so little of life. Was she supposed to tip the bartender when she paid for each drink? Not like she could call Jack and ask. She dug a twenty out of her backpack and hoped Rob would get there before she finished her wine.

  On paper both Chloe and Jack looked like a Christian powercouple. They had worked in West Africa on mission trips, facing deprivation and disease. Their labor and money had been a nice contribution; however, though they were the most willing benefactors and hardest-working volunteers, they were well-fed and well-immunized. He regularly volunteered at local shelters, helping people regain life skills such as balancing checkbooks and interviewing for jobs. For her premed package, she volunteered in pediatric oncology, soothing children and assuring parents that the professionals would do every possible thing to save their babies.

  Was it some kind of cosmic irony that she couldn’t assure her birth mother the same thing about Dillon Whittaker? It was blasphemous to even consider fate might have a hand in their lives. She had to excuse God somehow because as reckless as Julia McCord had been, she had given up her first two children for their benefit. Why an almighty Father hadn’t blessed her with a healthy child she could raise to adulthood was a calculation only prophets and pastors dare touch.

  Chloe fidgeted as she stared at herself in the bar’s mirror. She looked good. The saleswoman at the boutique had said so, and the mirror agreed. Would Rob Jones find her attractive? The whole eyes-of-the-soul thing she inherited from Julia made every look seem meaningful. The clothes she bought after Destiny’s tutorial accentuated the slender body that Jack took for granted. The haircut she’d gotten at the ritzy salon stepped her up five notches from the home-clipped college student.

  She paid cash because Jack had a program that informed him of every credit card purchase. Good stewardship, he’d said, and a good hedge against fraud and identity theft. Did he understand that it made her feel guilty every time she charged something at Starbucks or on Amazon?

  He’d be humiliated if she told him that, a fact that bound her even tighter to his control. It wasn’t his fault that she fell so quickly into beta mode behind anyone—male or female—who wore the mantle of alpha dog”.

  After Father died, Mother took the reins of the dos and don’ts. Love the Lord your God was always rule number one. On those lonely nights when she cried for the parent who wasn’t there to comfort her, God’s arms seemed too short to substitute. And Mother had her own tears to contend with.

  Love your neighbor as yourself. Chloe wanted to do that. Becoming a pediatrician would be an act of sacrifice and commitment to others. She had done the volunteer work above and beyond, something that their wealth and
faith decreed. And yet the concept of neighbor was vague. Church, school, and social obligations formed the community in which Chloe moved.

  Among the residents of their exclusive condominium complex, they only knew Dr. Marj MacArthur well enough to invite for tea. Chloe could have bonded with her fellow premed students if she lived in the dorms or ratty apartment buildings. In class and labs, they climbed up another’s back and stepped on faces to distinguish themselves as the best candidate for Harvard or Stanford or UNC.

  Before WaveRunner, Joe Phinney was her only friend. An equipment repairman, he seemed perpetually in residence at the labs. Joe was ex-military, trained in making things work correctly without worrying about the theory. She was a lab assistant freshman year, relegated to washing glassware and mixing acids and bases, when she met him. The first time he removed a panel and she saw the guts of the machine—the circuits, micropumps, fluid lines—Chloe felt like she’d tumbled into a living mystery.

  “What if I changed to a hands-on discipline?” she asked Jack that night at the library. “Some sort of engineering, like electronic or even . . . biomed?”

  “You could,” he said, his eyes telling a different story. “It would delay the wedding by a year.”

  At nineteen, the wedding was still a sacred pact—and a secret. When they were with family or at church, Jack would clutch his right hand over his left as a shared signal of betrothal. The plan was to tell Mother and his parents at the beginning of their sophomore year. Jack said they would freak at first. Eventually they would acknowledge a Deschene-Middlebrooks match was wonderful enough to have been made in heaven and thus should be cemented on earth.

  “Why would a change to engineering mean changing the wedding?” Chloe had asked.

  “So you could catch up in your studies.”

  She knocked him affectionately on the side of the head. “Duh—premed at Duke. You think I can’t make it in the engineering school?”

  “Of course you can. Except . . . Advanced Calc. Remember?”

  Jack had aced it first semester. She had done so poorly she had to drop it before it ruined her GPA. Four years later she understood how her mind worked—she needed to touch things to grasp their essence.

  Now in marriage, Chloe longed for the touch and not the plan. Jack’s intention was pure, almost too pure. She wanted a luxury sex life; he preferred to dole out his touches like his stupid manufacturer coupons. Chloe didn’t know whether he despised his own sexuality—or hers.

  Her phone chimed. Julia, sending a text.

  Hope day is going well. Pls watch weather. Boston can be treacherous.

  Should she respond with a quick I’m with friends? Best not to. Julia would know she had the phone on and she might call. If something developed of this evening—and the thought made Chloe’s hands sweat—then she’d send a text.

  She swiveled on her stool so she could look out the window. Outside, the harbor had gone dark except for the occasional security light on the piers. Cars passed by on the street, framing fog in their headlights. She had gotten to Two Brothers early, wanting to see Rob before he saw her.

  How would she handle the greeting?

  She’d have to remember that she was Hope McCord. Just for tonight while she sorted out this nature-or-nurture question. Which would win out? Nature—the young and foolish Julia McCord? Or nurture—Jack, Mother, Mr. Metzler, countless professors and mentors and advisers and youth leaders?

  She imagined Rob Jones folding strong, calloused hands over hers. His face would be wind-burned, his eyes so alive. It doesn’t matter, he would say. Let’s just live this night and let the rest go.

  Mother would say this whole adventure was sordid and unworthy of a Middlebrooks. She still had time to turn back.

  A blast of cold caught Chloe on her neck. She turned and saw Rob Jones framed in the door. So not Jack that she almost wept at the sight of him. Even as he stared at her with a shy smile, she wanted to text him and say this is a mistake.

  And yet, like the ship on which Rob sailed, the turning radius was long, and she’d built up too much momentum to change course.

  Tuesday, 4:45 p.m.

  “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Destiny said.

  Julia stood in the hall outside the suite. “I’m glad.”

  Destiny fidgeted with the doorknob. “I’m sorry you guys didn’t work out.”

  “God . . .” Julia paused, understood Destiny wasn’t the biggest fan of the heavenly Father. “. . . God has a way of putting things together in ways we don’t always choose.”

  “Whatever. So are you coming in or are you going to evangelize to the rest of the guests on this hallway?”

  “Tempting.” Julia grinned as she followed Destiny in. “Where’s Chloe?”

  “She’s not with you?”

  “No, I texted an hour ago, didn’t hear back. I just texted again.”

  Destiny took out an iced tea for Julia from the mini-bar and popped a beer for herself. “I spoke to her before lunch. Called a couple times since, heard nada.”

  “Ouch.” Julia’s injured hand throbbed, tiny shocks like electricity in the knuckles.

  “Something wrong with your hand?”

  “Bad weather, I think.”

  Destiny took a long swallow of her beer. “Rain. They’ve been saying it all day. So what?”

  Julia pressed her injured hand to her abdomen. “Not rain. Snow. I think it’s going to be bad.”

  “Not in Boston.”

  “It’s hard to get it right in the Northeast because of the ocean and all. They say rain, we get a foot of snow. We have to find Chloe right now. Because she won’t know.”

  Destiny stared at her. “Know what?”

  “Your sister won’t know how bad it can get.”

  Tuesday, 5:18 p.m.

  Melanie Connors would say to trust a mother’s instinct. It’s a spiritual gift. Julia was right, a worm of worry twisting in Destiny’s belly.

  “This was under the door when I got back.” Destiny carefully opened the envelope marked with the Westin logo and Chloe’s name. “It’s from the concierge desk. A car rental receipt. Why would she rent a car if she was going to MIT? That’s just across the river. A cab would be cheaper.”

  “Maybe she had an invitation to someone’s home out of the city.” Julia dragged her left hand through her hair. “And she’s not answering the phone . . . either the battery died or there’s no cell reception.”

  “You’d make a terrible cop. If she’s in Boston, there’d have to be reception. And if she’s outside, then she’d call us.”

  “Why do you think she’d call us?” Julia said.

  “Scratch that. She’d call me.”

  Julia handed Destiny her phone. “Call Jack Deschene.”

  “Me? Are you crazy? If she’s just having dinner out with some geekoids, she’d kill us if we set off the Deschene early warning system.”

  “What if she went back to North Carolina and didn’t tell us?”

  “No. Her laptop is on the desk. She wouldn’t leave without that. She’s fine. You’re just being irrational.”

  Julia stared at her. “Really. Is that what you think?”

  “I am not calling her husband. No way.” Destiny grabbed the laptop, pushed the power button. The desktop came up with no password. Double-clicking on Internet Explorer brought up the most vanilla form of Google.

  “Anything?” Julia said.

  “Hold on.” Destiny clicked the browser arrow. “Ah, MapQuest was her last . . . hold on.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “I said, hold on. Good grief, woman, would you be so snippy if I was the one miss—”

  “Yes.” Julia stroked Destiny’s hair. “If you were missing and bad weather was coming and you weren’t used to it, I would be more than a little crazy.”

  “Where’s Gloucester?”

  “Gloucester?” Julia pronounced it Glah-ster. “Why would she be there?”

  “She’s
got directions to 221 Front Street. Maybe she’s meeting up with friends there. Though why wouldn’t they come here to meet her? I never even heard of Gloucester so why woul—”

  “Destiny. You’re in the film business. Surely you’ve heard of Gloucester.” Julia walked to the window, pressed her face to it. Her breath steamed the glass, making a hazy halo. “Gloucester, commercial fishing, George Clooney.”

  “Oh yeah, The Perfect Storm. Where the fishermen left from before they . . . you’re not saying this is another perfect storm.”

  Julia handed Destiny her phone. The radar map showed a blotch of thick white swirl stretching from Maine to Rhode Island. “This is Massachusetts weather. Unpredictable. And if the tides are right and the storm is coming from the Gulf of Maine . . .”

  Destiny found the remote, clicked on the television. She flicked through channels until she found Channel 7 and the big banner: Blizzard Warning. “It was rain when we checked it this morning.”

  “She doesn’t know,” Julia said. “She doesn’t know how quickly things can go bad around here.”

  On the Road to Gloucester

  Tuesday, 6:07 p.m.

  Julia insisted on driving, even with one hand in a cast. “You grew up in Nashville, live in Los Angeles,” she said. “You won’t know how to handle this.”

  “And you’re the picture of sure-handedness. Right.” No way Destiny would admit she was relieved to not be driving.

  A blanket of snow coated the windshield, even with the wipers on. The headlights reflected on a wall of white, as if they were driving through cotton batting. The traffic was stalled coming north from Boston, commuters leaving too late to beat the storm. Destiny stared out the window, queasy as the snow built up on the roadways.

  Julia had browbeat the concierge until he told her that Chloe was driving a subcompact. Nice in the city, useless in the face of a blizzard. Chloe could already be off the road somewhere.

  Stop it, you fool. She’s smart, brilliant. She’ll figure this out. But will she, without Jack to do the thinking for her?