The Seduction of Water

by Carol Goodman

  He’s not among the partyers on the south end of the terrace. Tables have been set up here and most of the guests have formed little groups around them, talking over cigarettes and glasses of champagne or brandy. As I walk north along the ridge, though, I see pairs and stragglers who have slipped beyond the trail fence to sit on the flat rocks at the edge of the ridge. It’s tempting, of course—I’ve spent many a summer night sitting out on those rocks myself, staring out into the darkness, dangling my legs over the lights of the valley far below. I know the topography of the rocks much better than these guests, though, and I worry that someone will slip. I should be herding them all back to the safety of the terrace, but if I stop to do that I’ll never find Harry, never get the registration book back to the room on time. I’ll just remind Joseph to do it; I’m surprised he hasn’t chased them off the rocks already.

  When I get to the north end of the terrace I see why. The drop below the ridge is much steeper here and most of the guests seem to realize that and have stayed on the apron of flagstone outside the dining room where the band is set up, or are sitting in the gazebos along the ridge trail. The largest group is inside Half Moon—no doubt because the two shallow crescent-shaped benches are conducive to conversation. The people inside, however, are not seated and not engaged in conversation. They’re all standing on the far side of the gazebo focused on the rocks beyond.

  There’s a large, flat boulder here that extends out from the cliff edge and if you go to the very end it’s as if you are hanging over the valley. There are, of course, signs strictly forbidding anyone from doing that but someone—a woman—has ignored them and is standing on the farthest rock, her back to her friends who are imploring her to return. One man is making his way gingerly over the rock face toward her. I notice among the onlookers in the gazebo Gordon and Harry. The woman on the rock—her thin shoulder blades standing out sharply in the moonlight—is Phoebe. The man heading toward her is Joseph.

  Later I’ll be ashamed to remember that my first thought was to take advantage of this distraction and run up to Harry’s suite to replace the registration book, but that unworthy thought is brief, replaced quickly by one that’s perhaps not all that much worthier: that Phoebe’s life isn’t worth the risk of Joseph’s.

  “What’s Joseph doing out there?” I demand, coming into the gazebo. “He’s too old to go out to the edge.”

  Gordon turns to me and quickly turns back—afraid, I think, to take his eyes off Phoebe. “I wanted to go out myself, but he said he knew the lay of the land better.” Gordon’s voice cracks on better and I feel instantly mean-spirited for thinking so little of Phoebe’s life. “But how did Phoebe get out there?” I ask.

  “Um . . . I think she had too much to drink . . . she’s not used to it. That gardener was trying to get her to come away from the edge and she suddenly started yelling at him—” Gordon looks more nervous now than he did before his lecture.

  “And then I let her know what I thought of her behavior,” Harry interrupts, “and now she’s making me pay for interfering. Phoebe, dear,” Harry raises his voice, “I’ve said I’m sorry. Could we please talk about this privately? Somewhere less precipitous, perhaps?”

  Phoebe doesn’t respond but the sharp bones of her shoulder blades quiver like a bird’s wings before flight. The image frightens me and reminds me that Phoebe’s mother was a suicide. Joseph too must sense that tension because he raises his hand to silence Harry and takes another step toward Phoebe. He’s only a few feet behind her. In a moment he’ll be close enough to make a grab for her should she decide to jump, but will he be able to restrain her? I can’t help but notice the shakiness in Joseph’s step and I’m not the only one who does.

  “Such a prima donna, she’ll take that man down with her, just as Vera did to Peter . . .” Harry says.

  I’m so surprised by the reference—coming on the heels of my own discoveries about Vera Nix and Peter Kron—that I don’t react right away to what Harry’s doing. It’s so quick—amazing that a man his age is able to swing his legs over the edge of the gazebo and onto the rock and get to where Joseph is before any of us in the gazebo is able to stop him. No one even shouts at him to come back—there’s just a collective intake of air as Harry Kron strides over the rock, throws an arm over his niece, and drags her back. Phoebe too must be too surprised to struggle. Instead she goes limp, which is almost as bad because it makes Harry lose his balance. I see Joseph step forward to keep Harry from losing his footing and for a moment the three of them sway—like a tripod with one short leg—and then steady. I can hear the release of breath around me but then something else must tip the balance out on the rock because Joseph suddenly falls.

  One of the women in the gazebo screams. I’m probably the only one here who knows there’s a ledge right below where he was standing and so I’m the one who rushes around the gazebo onto the rock to see if Joseph is all right—the rest of them have probably given him up for dead—and thank God I do, because Joseph has landed on the ledge but he’s only just hanging on to a gnarled root poking out of the dirt. I grab his arm, yelling for help, and then Gordon is next to me helping pull Joseph onto the terrace. As soon as we’ve pulled him up he crumples onto the ground and I think that he must be having a heart attack.

  “Joseph,” I say, looking in his face, trying to assess coloring and pain through the deep lines that always seem to convey pain, “tell me what hurts.”

  He sees how frightened I am and pats my hand. “It’s just my ankle, girl, don’t fret. I caught it in a crack between the rocks. Probably saved me from going over the ledge.” For a man who’s just narrowly escaped death his voice is remarkably calm. “An Ace bandage and a couple of aspirins will fix me up just fine.”

  “I’ll go get the first-aid kit and ring the doctor,” I say. “Make him comfortable,” I order the little crowd, “and put something over him to keep him warm.” I glare at a guest who’s got a pashmina shawl draped around her shoulders and only leave when I see her laying it over Joseph’s frayed denim shirt.

  In the lobby I run into Aidan and Ramon, who have already heard about the accident and are headed to the terrace with the first-aid kit and a guest who says she’s a doctor. I start to follow them back to the terrace but then remember what else I have to do. Joseph’s all right, I assure myself turning back to the elevator, and no one will miss me now.

  When I get off the elevator on the third floor I see a woman at the end of the hall, but her back is to me and she’s heading for the staircase. I wait until she heads down the stairs, realizing as she turns to go down that it’s Hedda. Fortunately, she doesn’t see me.

  I get the book out of the dumbwaiter and head to Harry’s suite, letting myself in with Mrs. Rivera’s key. It’s not until I slide the book in with the others—checking to make sure it’s in chronological order like I found it—that I notice how badly I’m shaking. I lean against the armoire, breathing in the scent of citrus cologne and Havana cigars, and close my eyes. Instantly, I relive the moment Joseph fell and I snap my eyes open, shaking now not with fear, but with anger.

  Damn her, I think, remembering Phoebe’s rigid back, her thin arms wrapped around herself like a stubborn child, and how she went limp in Harry’s arms—like a two-year-old having a tantrum. How dare she endanger Joseph’s life with her theatrics!

  Just like her mother, Harry had said. Then I remember what Hedda had told me in the library—how Vera Nix had driven their car off the road, killing herself and her husband, leaving a six-month-old baby to grow up without either parent. Who could blame Phoebe for turning out as she had? How many times have I blamed my own failures in life on my mother’s death? But at least I had her for ten years and at least I had my father after she was gone. And even though I’ve often blamed my mother for the circumstances surrounding her death, I still don’t believe she deliberately chose to leave me—at least not forever.

  But Phoebe, I recall now, has never said a bitter word against her mother—only again
st her father and the trappings of marriage. I wanted to remember, she told me at Tea & Sympathy, explaining why she had engraved a pattern of barbed wire and thorns on her mother’s wedding ring, every time I looked at it that marriage is a trap. It killed my mother.

  What if it turned out her mother had killed herself because she knew her husband had been in love with my mother? What if Phoebe already guessed—after all she has her mother’s journals—but she wants me to find out so I’m forced to expose the affair in my book? Is that why Phoebe is spurring me on to write this book—to reveal my mother as the other woman, the culprit in her mother’s death? After all, I suppose it would be better to think your mother killed herself because of an infidelity than to think it was because she was so depressed over your own birth.

  I feel suddenly weak and dizzy at the thought of such an animus directed against my mother—against me. I close my eyes and remember what Gordon said. Joseph had been trying to get Phoebe to come back when she’d suddenly started yelling at him. Maybe they had been talking about something else. Had Phoebe tried to find out from Joseph if her father had been seeing my mother that summer? I can imagine what Joseph’s response would be and that it wouldn’t make Phoebe happy. I think of how Phoebe had collapsed and then Joseph fell. Could Phoebe have deliberately tried to hurt him, knowing how much he meant to my mother and to me?

  I shake myself free from the questions, remembering where I am and that any minute Harry and Gordon—Phoebe too no doubt—could find me here. I’ll have plenty of time to sort out Phoebe’s motives later. For now I’ll have to be wary of her. I start to close the armoire door, but I decide to do one more thing. I check Harry’s pocket for the gun and am less surprised than you would think to find it missing.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE NET OF TEARS

  When I told Naoise where the net of tears was kept he promised that he would take them to the place where the salt water turns to fresh and drop them into the river so that the net would spread a path of pearls that will lead us back to the sea. The spell would be broken and the net of Connachar’s power would dissolve.

  I first realized that something had gone wrong when I heard that not just the net of tears but all the jewels that the woman in the green dress had worn were gone. Naoise had said nothing about taking those. I waited and waited but nothing changed. The selkies were still enslaved within their skins, our men still bowed under the weight of their wings. Connachar still called me to his rooms each night only now instead of laying the jewels around my neck he laid his bare hands on my skin and looked into my eyes as if he would scour the truth out of me. One night he told me that Naoise had been caught and sent to the prison at the bend in the river. He watched my eyes, while he told me what had been done to him, how his wings had been severed from his body.

  “And the jewels,” I asked, forcing my voice to be cold, “were they recovered?”

  “All but the necklace with the green stone. The one you used to wear. But don’t worry, my men will find it and when they do you’ll wear it again.”

  The orthopedist I take Joseph to tells me he’ll be on crutches for at least four weeks. When I report the news to Harry he tells me to make Joseph as comfortable as possible and then hire a replacement.

  “Hire two replacements,” he says, “and have that young Irish fellow sit in on the interviews and do the training—he’ll know the scope of Joseph’s duties by now. When he’s got them trained you can start him on planning the Arts Festival.”

  “Really, so soon . . . Aidan will be pleased.”

  Harry looks up from the accounts book and studies me. “I hoped it would please you too. What’s wrong? Do you have any reservations about giving Mr. Barry more responsibility?” I notice that the vague that young Irish fellow is quickly replaced by a name and realize that some of Harry Kron’s apparent disregard for the minor details—and minor characters—of the hotel is an affectation.

  “No,” I say, “not at all. It’s Joseph I’m thinking of. It’ll kill him to think he’s being replaced.”

  “Well, we can’t have that. I have an idea that will distract your Joseph, but I’ll need him to be accessible.” While Harry pauses to think I wonder what miracle could make taciturn, recalcitrant Joseph accessible. “I know,” Harry says, “that run-down cottage he lives in will never do while he’s on crutches. I think we should install him in one of the suites . . . let’s see,” he says, turning to the computer screen on his desk, “let’s see, which one can we spare . . .”

  “I’m not sure being in the hotel will suit Joseph . . .”

  “Nonsense. How about the Sleepy Hollow Suite? My niece said there were a few broken drawers and loose floorboards . . .”

  “You know, I spoke with one of the maids—Mrs. Rivera—about that and she said those drawers were fine before . . .”

  Harry waves a hand, dismissing these mundane details. “However they got broken, the fact is they’re broken and Joseph can putter away on them while he’s recuperating. It will make him feel useful.”

  I’m still unsure of Harry’s plan—and I can’t imagine what could possibly distract Joseph from having his gardens usurped—but it’s clear that as far as Harry’s concerned the subject is closed. I’m turning to leave when he calls me back.

  “One more thing. I think we’ll have to start replacing the locks with an automated card system sooner rather than later. Something was taken from my suite last night.”

  “That’s terrible,” I say, “was it something valuable?”

  “More dangerous than valuable, I’m afraid. It was my gun.”

  On the last word Harry looks up and catches my eye. I say in as calm a voice as I can muster, “Well, then you’ll have to notify the police.”

  “I already have. I certainly can’t have a gun registered in my name floating about, but if it had been anything else I would have handled it myself. You see, I have a strong suspicion I know who took it.”

  I count to ten and wait. There’s a look of regret and disappointment on Harry’s face that I’ve never seen before. It shows his age and makes me realize how fond I’ve grown of him. Fond, the way a daughter feels toward her father, I say to myself. It makes me see too how little I would like to be the cause of his disappointment.

  “Well, it would have to be Phoebe, wouldn’t it,” he says, finally. “She was the only one in my room last night.”

  Although Harry’s plan to distract Joseph turns out to be more brilliant and generous than I could have imagined I am still surprised at how well the old gardener takes to convalescence and life in the hotel. As July slides into August and the days grow even hotter and drier, I suspect that Joseph will be prowling the gardens on his crutches to make sure his flowers—especially his prized rosebushes—are getting enough water. Instead I find him comfortably ensconced in the Sleepy Hollow Suite, surrounded by an admiring coterie of art students and absorbed in planning the new conservatory Harry has proposed. In addition to the students from The Art School who have come up to complete their garden follies for the contest, Harry has invited architecture students from Cooper Union and initiated another contest for the design of the new conservatory. Joseph has been appointed the ultimate judge.

  At first I think the avid and loquacious students will get on Joseph’s nerves, but I find him eagerly answering questions about his design inspiration for the chuppas he’s built over the years. I watch while they show their sketches to Joseph, who then freely expounds on his ideas for the structures. He offers criticism and suggestions on their design projects and even asks them about their backgrounds and plans for the future. He seems especially fond of Natalie Baehr and spends hours going over her jewelry designs. I’ve never seen him so talkative.

  When I think about it, it makes sense. Before he’d been forced to leave, Joseph had been an art student at a prestigious academy in Vienna. I once asked him why, after he survived the concentration camps, he didn’t return to painting. He answered gruffly that he’d had to
go to work, but a few weeks later, while we were putting in a border of blue salvia around the roses, he sat back on his heels and sweeping his hand toward the gardens said, “Isn’t this better than a dead canvas,” and, plucking a rose from a bush, “doesn’t this smell better than turpentine?”

  All these years the garden has been his canvas, and now he’s finally being recognized for the artist he is. If I find his transformation unsettling, well, maybe that’s just my problem. Maybe I’m just a little jealous. Even Sophie is less rattled by the change than I am.

  “Maybe he just needed a little breathing space from his daily chores to get back to what really mattered to him,” she tells me when I finally track her down to ask what she thinks about Joseph’s new role. She’s become, I only now notice, harder to find. For years she’s filled in for all the odd jobs at the understaffed hotel, but now that Harry’s hired a full staff and installed a new computer system her bookkeeping responsibilities apparently leave her with time to spare. Today I’ve found her on the back porch of the servants’ wing, sitting in a rocking chair with an unopened notebook in her lap, watching the sun set over the Catskills. She looks away from the darkening horizon just long enough to study my face. “Is there a problem?” she asks me. “Do you think the garden is being neglected?”

  If she’d asked only the first question, perhaps I would confide some of my misgivings. But then I notice her eyes move away from me, back to the light shifting over the distant ridges, and her hands stroking the cover of the book in her lap—a sketchpad, I notice, not an accounting ledger. I answer her second question instead. “No,” I tell her, getting up to leave. “Everything is being taken care of.”