Toby picked the maple nearest the fence to claw his way up and didn't stop until he was out on a limb too narrow to perch on, at which point his hind legs slipped off, dropping him a foot closer to his tormentor.
They all held their breath as the cat scrambled to regain his footing, and then they burst into action. Ben began climbing the fence, Liz picked up a stick to throw at the dog, Victoria shouted shoo-shoo-shoo as loud as she could, and Susy yelled words of encouragement to her terrified cat.
Snowball refused to budge from the base of the tree, piercing the air with his relentless, high-pitched bark. The cat, embarrassed and unhappy with this arrangement, began wailing like a banshee. Then Ben dropped to the ground on the dog's side of the fence, and Snowball turned on him instead, locking onto the cuff of his slacks and growling ferociously as he tried to tear the doctor limb from limb.
Ben was trying to shake off the clinging dog without hurting him when Jack Eastman came running up with a look on his face that was more annoyed than not. He called the dog's name — once — and Snowball left off the attack and trotted meekly to his side.
For some reason, it was Liz who felt she should apologize. "Sorry about that," she said to Jack through the fence. "Our cat's in your tree. Ben was just trying to —" Liz shrugged; she didn't know what Ben was trying to do, other than to seem heroic.
Smiling away his act of trespass, Ben introduced himself to Jack with an extended hand. "I was a diversion tactic. Worked pretty well, don't you think?" He lifted his right leg and surveyed his shredded cuff. "Ah, well. Linen's too fancy for a cookout, anyway."
Jack sniffed the air that was carrying down to them. "Speaking of which, I'd say your cookout is just about cooked out."
"The steaks!" cried Liz.
Victoria ran to the grill and lifted the hood. The extra shot of oxygen was just what the steaks needed to burst the rest of the way into flame. "Too late," Victoria said as she speared the burning slabs and flung them on the grass. "We'll dash up to the A&P and get more. C'mon, Spider Man. Can you make it back over?"
Ben grinned and took the fence in three quick strides. Liz was reminded — and so, no doubt, was Jack — that without barbed wire, this sort of thing was bound to happen more often. Ben and Victoria were headed through the rose arbor when Liz impulsively turned to Jack and said, "Any chance that you can join us?"
"Sure."
"Bring extra!" she shouted after them, even as she wondered what the hell she was doing, asking Jack into her life. It made no sense. She'd worked it all out. This new signal would only confuse him.
So what? she decided. Why should I be the only one who's off balance all the time?
"Meanwhile," she said with a smile that she knew was more come-hither than it should be, "my cat's stuck in your tree."
Jack nodded, then said, "Go home," to the dog. Snowball skulked off dutifully toward the house.
"I'm impressed," she said to Jack. "Are you having as much luck training Caroline?" It was a provocative question, she knew. But he chose to parry it with a laugh, for which she was grateful.
"I'll get a ladder," he suggested.
"Wait," Liz told him. "Let me try something first." She left Susy and Jack trying to talk the cat down from the tree and went into the house for a knife and a sharpening stone.
When she came out, Susy was showing Jack her latest artwork through the fence and explaining, no doubt, how she hoped the East Gate ghost would come slumming over to their house every once in a while. Whatever Liz believed, whatever she hoped still to discover, she would have to wipe those thoughts out of Susy's head, and quickly.
"I've had Toby for thirteen years," Liz said to Jack, rudely interrupting her daughter. "We've developed quite a vocabulary during that time." She poised the knife over the sharpener. "These are the words for 'raw meat,' " she explained, and drew the blade down over the stone left to right, right to left.
Toby pricked up his ears and stared down gingerly at them from his perch. Liz kept at it, adding a few words of encouragement as the cat began backing awkwardly toward the trunk. Raw meat, raw meat, raw meat, raw meat, said the knife and stone.
Jack chuckled as he watched Toby's determined maneuvers. "Must be a bore when you have to sharpen the bread knife."
"Oh, no," said Liz blithely. "He knows the difference in the length of the blades, and between steel and stainless steel. This is the only knife that brings him running."
In less than a minute Toby was down from the tree, making a beeline for the hole under the fence that was a popular shortcut with the local wildlife — possums, coons, a tree shrew, skunks, maybe even the red fox that Liz had spotted on Jack's grounds.
"Unfortunately, now I have to find some raw meat to feed him," she said to Jack. "While I'm doing that, why don't you come on over — or under —or around," she said with an offhand smile that was betrayed by the pounding of her heart. "Whichever way you like."
"I'd like to come through, is what I'd like," Jack said with a frustrated look.
"You can't do that, Mr. Eastman," Susy piped up. "Only ghosts can do that."
"That's right," said Jack with a penetrating look at Liz. "Only ghosts."
Liz smiled lamely and beat a retreat to her kitchen. Why had he looked at her that way? Did he know something about the artist-ghost? Was it a fixture at East Gate? That the ghost was an Eastman, she had no doubt. Maybe it would take another Eastman to confirm its existence. Liz had assumed that she was the one who'd let the thing loose, that day in the locksmith's shop. But maybe it had been hanging around the mansion for the past hundred years, and she'd just happened on it at East Gate and later on the yacht.
What she didn't know was why it had chosen to appear to her. Twice.
Let me rephrase that, she told herself, her natural skepticism reasserting itself. What I don't know is why I've convinced myself I've seen a ghost. Twice.
Liz bought off Toby with a few minced pieces of frozen chicken livers and went back outside. Jack had cleaned up the steaks, poured himself a rum punch, and generally looked comfortable in the role of lord of her very small manor. Susy was working on another watercolor. It didn't surprise Liz at all to see that this one was a close-up of the ghost, a Caspar lookalike in a flowing white sheet.
"What's this stick in his hand?" asked Liz.
Susy frowned. "I don't know," she admitted. "I was going to make it a magic wand. But I think I'll make it a — paintbrush!" she said triumphantly. "Just like the one I'm using."
Liz felt the blood leave her face. This was too close for coincidence. Never mind Susy's logic; something was happening here, something that made the hair on the back of Liz's neck stand on end.
Jack, seeing Liz weave, put his drink down and took Liz by the arm. "What? What is it?" he asked, steadying her.
"Nothing," she said quickly. "This rum punch packs a punch, that's all." She sucked in a deep breath. "There. That's better. I'm fine now, thanks."
Liz had to say that, since Susy was watching her closely. The truth was, she felt anything but fine. Was it possible that whoever — whatever — it was had begun to communicate through her daughter? The thought chilled Liz's soul. Suddenly she was furious with herself for having had the drinks, for not staying completely in control. More than curiosity was involved now. Much more.
Jack said offhandedly, "When you were inside, I took a little tour around your house. Do you realize your south gutter is mounted to the house badly? No way it'll drain properly like that. I'll show you."
He led her, unprotesting, to the narrow strip of land on the south side of the cottage, the only place where they had a chance at privacy. Liz knew this, and so, of course, did Susy, who gave her mother one of her oh-you-grown-ups smiles as they walked away.
"What's going on?" Jack asked Liz as soon as they were out of earshot. "You turned white as a sheet when you saw Susy's watercolor."
"Not at all. I just get hypoglycemic if I eat late," Liz said briefly. She held out her hand. "Look how I sh
ake."
"Bullshit. This isn't about food. This is about these chronic stops and starts of yours. I've known you only a few weeks, and yet this is the third time I've seen you behave as if — okay, I'll say it — you've seen a ghost."
"You saw the watercolor," Liz answered with a calmness she did not feel. "It was a ghost.
"You know what I mean, dammit! I saw you whirling around on the dock the other day. What were you doing? A rain dance? And the night of Caroline's birthday party: you fetched up short at the longcase clock in the entry hall, then broke into a sprint for the door. What the hell was that all about? I had a cat like you once — completely goofy. It didn't live too long."
Liz blushed down to her shoes. The good news was, he really did seem aware of her. The bad news was, he really did seem aware of her. "I appreciate your concern," she said, trying not to sound huffy. "And I'll also grant that I haven't been myself."
"So you haven't always been this way?" He shook his head thoughtfully and let out a low, bemused laugh. "That's a relief — I guess."
Liz glanced around the corner, knowing full well that Susy had periscope ears. "Look, can we talk about this later?" she said, tilting her head in her daughter's direction. "I actually do have some things I'd like to ask you."
It seemed to satisfy him. He nodded, his deep blue eyes looking more troubled than she had seen before, and said simply, "Don't encourage your guests to stay."
****
By the time the meal was actually grilled, served, and eaten, everyone seemed tired and on the quiet side. It was a reasonable response, given the long gap between the alcohol and the food. Besides, Victoria and Ben could hardly wait to fall into each other's arms, that was obvious. And Susy was just plain tired; nine o'clock was well past her bedtime. As for Jack, he seemed to have fallen into a brooding, reflective mood that made Liz alternate between a desire to call him on it and a dread of what he might tell her.
When Liz stood to take her daughter up to bed, Victoria and Ben seized the moment to escape. Quick hugs and handshakes, and out they went.
Susy turned to Jack and said formally, "Goodnight, Mr. Eastman." Liz was too conservative a Yankee ever to encourage her daughter to kiss new guests good night, and Jack was no exception to her rule.
Jack nodded to Susy with a friendly smile but made no attempt to leave the chaise longue in which he sat. He was staying.
This was new, at least to Susy. She glanced back at him when she was on the porch and then sneaked a peek at him, sitting alone in the candlelit garden, from her bedroom window before being tucked in for prayers.
"Doesn't Mr. Eastman have to go to bed, too?" she asked innocently.
"He's just finishing his coffee, honey," Liz said, but she felt the familiar flush in her cheeks as she spoke of him.
The fact was, she'd never had to explain a man hanging around the house before; there simply hadn't been one. Liz had been so involved in keeping Susy and herself afloat that she'd had no time for anyone else. When well-meaning relations came up with what they considered suitable young men, she'd put the kibosh on their designs at once. Nor had the party-planning business yielded any real prospects: once or twice a single father had hit on her, but they were clearly on the rebound and she'd wanted no part of them.
And now Jack. He was far less likely a prospect than her mother's second cousin's son; far less likely than the airline pilot who was desperate for a woman to help him manage his three children on custody weekends. So why, oh why, did she insist on viewing him as a prospect at all — good or bad?
"And bless Gramma and bless Grampa and also bless Oliver."
"Oliver?" asked Liz, coming out of her daze. "Who's Oliver?"
"He's the ghost," Susy said, curling one arm around her dog-eared teddy bear. "I think Oliver is a good name for him."
"But he doesn't look anything like an —"
Good God, what was she doing, going on about what he looked like? One fleeting hallucination — okay, two — and suddenly the thing was being regarded as fact. This was how myths, legends, and wild stories that brought down presidents began.
Struck with an inspiration, Liz said gently, "I don't think you should call Oliver a ghost. I think you should call him your pretend-friend." God knew Susy needed one; she was never going to have any brothers or sisters.
Liz tucked her daughter in with a sweet-dreams kiss and was at the doorway when Susy said through a sleepy yawn, "I just think I don't know him good enough to call him my friend, Mommy. Maybe I'll just call him my pretend-ghost."
"Well enough,'" Liz corrected in a weary cop-out. "You don't know him well enough. Good night, honey."
Outside, Liz dropped into a chaise longue with a tired sigh. The first words out of Jack's mouth were, "Is the front door locked?"
"Oh yeah. Ever since the burglary. It's too bad, really; my parents never had to lock their door. Oh, and I have news about my graduate student," she admitted, hating like hell to have to pass it along. "It turns out that the scratches on his hands were from hiking. The police got hold of the Visa record of his fill-up; he really was in New Hampshire. Or at least his car was," she said, not giving up entirely on her theory.
She glanced up automatically at Susy's bedroom window, listening for a possible summons.
"Should we go inside?" asked Jack politely.
"No, I'll be able to hear her through the window," Liz said. "By the same token," she warned, "she'll be able to hear us, too."
She heard the smile in his voice as he said, "In that case I won't spell out where I'd really like to spend the rest of the evening."
The words washed over Liz like warm honey. She felt caught by them, held by them, unwilling to work her way out of them. She should run. But she didn't want to.
"She's probably out like a light by now, anyway," Liz said, amazing herself. Apparently she was hoping that Jack would spell out exactly where and how he'd like to spend the evening.
Dangerous, she told herself. This is getting dangerous. But she hardly cared. She rolled her head lazily toward him and murmured, "I'm glad you were free for supper. It was fun."
Liz had turned off the kitchen lights on her way out, leaving the two of them in a deep, satisfying darkness broken only by a small citronella candle flickering in its red bowl on a nearby stepstone. Jack reached over and took her hand, threading his fingers through hers. "I hardly know anything about you," he said in a voice more wistful than before. He seemed surprised by the fact, as if he'd just found out she was a double agent. "Tell me who you are."
Liz laughed at the challenge of explaining herself in a phrase or two. "Single working mother," she said, defining the most elemental thing about herself.
"Right. Now tell me something I don't know," he said, absently rubbing the pulse point of her wrist with his thumb. "Tell me ... oh, let's see ... how did your marriage end?"
"Awkwardly," Liz said, sucking in her breath. Did he really have the right to know? It was such a humiliation; even her family hadn't been told the whole story.
"I'm sorry," he said after a pause. "You don't want to say."
Liz decided after all that she did want to say. She didn't know why. She wanted to make some sort of ... gesture. Of trust. It was all, really, she could ever give him: a small, wrenchingly intimate piece of her history.
"When we got married," she said very softly, "it was with the understanding that we wouldn't rush into having children. Well, what can I say? In a couple of years I changed my mind. I suppose it had something to do with this slew of babies that were being born, all at once, into my family. We all joked about there being something in Newport's water. I was the only one, it seemed, who wasn't pregnant or nursing."
Liz stopped and listened for sounds through the upstairs window. Susy was asleep; she knew that. And yet she felt as if she were about to say something disloyal, and it made her hesitate.
She took a deep breath. "What began as theoretical discussions about the pros and cons of quitting my job to have
a baby became ... well, knock-down, drag-out fights. Keith was dead against it. I was dead for it. It became — I don't know — a power play between us. I don't think, now, that he was as against it as he said. And maybe I wasn't as ready as I'd insisted I was. Not that I'll ever know," she added with a small, pained laugh.
"Anyway, one day — without telling him — I just stopped taking my pills," she said, forcing herself to go on. "The maneuver was a grand success; I got pregnant almost instantly. If I'd had any second thoughts, they disappeared in the next round of arguments over whether to keep the baby or not. I suppose, if I'm going to be brutally honest about it, that was a power play, too."
The candle flickered more fitfully than ever; it was on its way to burning out. Liz fixed her attention on it, listening for sounds from Susy's bedroom, wondering whether Jack was going to interrupt. But he said nothing. He could have been asleep, for all she knew; only the gentle, idle caress of his thumb on her wrist told her he was not.
If the candle goes out, I'll stop the story. The end is obvious, anyway. But the candle flickered on, and Liz resumed.
"I had the baby," she said simply.
She wanted to say, "And suffered a postpartum infection," but he hadn't asked her how the delivery went, and she hadn't either the courage or the audacity to offer the information on her own.
"About a week after the baby — after Susy — was born, I came home from a visit to the pediatrician and found —" She bit her lip and told him what she'd found. "A note. From Keith. At least he took the time to say good-bye. We think he's in California, but nobody really knows. There was talk of an ashram in Iowa, but Keith's more of a loner than a commune type."
After a long pause, Jack said, "He can be tracked down, you know."
Liz blinked away the tear that had risen, Pavlov style, at the thought of the note, and then blinked away her disappointment at Jack's response. That was it? An offer to track Keith down? For this she'd split her heart open in front of him?
She slid her hand carefully out of his and sat up on the chaise. She, of all people, should've been able to predict that he, of all people, would cut right to the chase: the missed payments of child support. Everything with his kind was about money. Everything.
Time After Time Page 15
