by Elsa Kurt
Before William could answer, before she could see him look at her with pity, Feather Anne bolted across the beach, kicking up sprays of sand in her wake. Screw him and his pity. Screw this whole town. And screw Mae Huxley. She didn’t need her or anyone. She didn’t even need Gina. It was her that needed Feather Anne.
At the access road—aptly and unimaginatively named Beach Access Road—turned into Heron’s Way after the community parking lot. Here Feather Anne slowed to a walk, digging her bony fingers into the stitch in her side and looking around. It wasn’t much more than a sandy lot with a thatched roof hut in the corner housing a men’s and women’s changing and bathrooms. William’s car sat at one end and another car—a Prius—at the other. It belonged to Elise Martino’s husband, Ethan Whatever-his-last-name-was. It was weird that they were married and had different last names. She noticed there were two people in the car and kept walking.
On Heron’s Way, she saw the new people in the Stillmans’ driveway. Although, she supposed, it was their driveway now. The woman had one hand on her huge belly and gestured with the other at a pair of movers straining under the weight of the dark brown leather sofa between them. A man—Feather Anne supposed him to be the husband—stood at the front door, talking on his cell phone. At the edge of the driveway, a little girl sat with a bucket of colorful chalk and drew pictures on the sidewalk. As Feather Anne passed, the girl looked up and waved. The mother—in the way good mothers do and not like Gina would’ve done—caught the kid’s movement from the corner of her eye and turned to see who she’d wave to. The woman smiled a broad, toothy smile at Feather Anne and Feather Anne gave them both a half-hearted waggle of her fingers and kept walking.
“You wanna do chalk with me?” called the little girl.
Feather Anne opened her mouth to say, “Nah, no thanks, kid,” when the mother called out too. “Oh, yes, would you? Please? It would be such a help and—could you come over here, so I don’t have to yell like a crazy woman?”
She had a pretty-sounding voice with an accent kind of like Hector, Gina’s friend from Hartford, only way nicer. Feather Anne hesitated, looking off in the direction of her street. She scratched her nose and sighed. It’s not like she wanted to go there and see all her stuff tossed in a cardboard box—or, knowing Gina, a black garbage bag. So she crossed the street to the apparent relief of the tan-skinned woman and her kid.
“Oh, thank you, thank you. It’s been so hard trying to move everything in and keep an eye on Ileana. I’m sorry, I haven’t even asked your name yet. I’m Marisol, that’s my husband Pedro over there on the phone—he’s always on the phone—and this is Ileana.”
“I’m Feather Anne,” she said then waited for the inevitable remarks.
Instead, Marisol smiled in delight. “Why, that is a beautiful name,” she exclaimed. “Feather Anne, I would be more than happy to pay you to play with Ileana for a while. We used to pay our former sitter ten dollars an hour. Will that work for you?”
“Ten dollars an hour? Hell”—she caught herself—“heck ya, that’ll work.” She couldn’t believe her luck. Ten dollars an hour just to play with a little kid? The little girl patted the ground beside her, and when Feather Anne sat down, she handed her a fat, bright blue piece of chalk. “Thanks, Ileana. Blue’s my favorite color. What’s yours?”
Marisol smiled warmly down at them, and Feather Anne let herself imagine what it would be like being her daughter. She pictured family dinners and day trips. Playing in the yard and going to movies. Being tucked into a soft bed with crisp, cool sheets. Car ride sing-alongs. But before her wistfulness could turn to bitterness, she closed off the stupid ideas like the slam of a metal door. No point in dreaming about things that’ll never be. She was trailer trash, just like her mother, and she always would be.
“You broke it,” said the girl, neither sad or mad, but just matter-of-fact.
“Sorry. Look, it still works, though. See?” Feather Anne drew a bluebird with extra big feet and outstretched wings. Ileana laughed and clapped, and Marisol looked back at them from the front steps with another smile. She was tucked under Pedro’s arm, her arms wrapped around his trim waist. He turned the mouthpiece of the phone away from his chin, gave Feather Anne a friendly nod, then kissed the top of his wife’s head before resuming his conversation. Her ears perked at his mention of a familiar name.
“Yes, Mrs. Martino, I fully understand. Of course. Well, I’m glad you reached out to me. I’m sure we can arrange a beneficial outcome. Yes…”
He caught Feather Anne’s curious stare, gave a terse smile, and went inside the house. Feather Anne’s face went hot, and she looked down quickly. She wasn’t trying to be nosy. It was funny how she’d just seen Mr. Martino—she knew it that wasn’t his last name, but she had no idea what to call him—at the beach lot, and now Pedro was on the phone with his wife. Then she remembered she wasn’t going to be living in this town much longer, so she shouldn’t care one way or the other what happens to anyone in it and set back to the sort of fun task of drawing on the sidewalk.
Two hours later and twenty bucks richer, Feather Anne resumed her walk home. Gina was probably good and pissed off by then, thinking Feather Anne hadn’t been sleeping there. All she did was wait until Gina passed out then sneak in. In the morning, she’d sneak back out again. It’s not like Gina cared, anyhow. She just liked to make a fuss for the cops—use the old “remember, we go way back” song and dance—when they came around, hoping they’d be sympathetic.
The first part of Eagle Drive had modest ranch houses. As the street ran closer to the highway, the houses became mobile homes. Then, last on the road, set way back on the long-time vacant Jensen property, sat a dingy beige and burnt sienna striped, rusted-out 1982 Fleetwood Prowler RV in a patch of flattened out weeds and dirt. Beside it, an equally rusted out 1991 blue and grey Chevy van that Gina mysteriously came home with one night when Feather Anne was around six years old. Or at least, it was usually beside the camper. On that late July day, it wasn’t.
At first, Feather Anne felt relief. She wouldn’t have to deal with Gina wheezing over her shoulder, telling her what to pack and what to leave behind. Then she became annoyed. That van hadn’t been registered for the past six months, and Gina was taking a real risk driving it around. Chance PD turned a blind eye as much as they could, but other towns wouldn’t be so forgiving. Especially with Gina’s shitty attitude.
When she got about ten feet from the camper, Feather Anne stopped in her tracks and took another, harder look around. Something was off. Usually, Lucky came out to greet her right about that time. The one-eyed terrier mutt was old and half deaf, but he still had some pep left in him. Yet silence greeted her. The sound of Gina’s ever-playing boom box—another dinosaur from a long past age—was nonexistent. There was only the buzz of bees in the rampage of dandelions that marched over the ground haphazardly.
“Gina,” she called out. Then, more tentatively, “Mom?” She willed her feet to move forward, a hard knot forming in her chest. Stop being a baby. Gina’s always leaving you on your own. Nothing is different. But something was different. The weather-stripped picnic table was bare except for half a roll of paper towels, an empty bottle of bug repellent, and Gina’s ashtray. Usually, there were all kinds of stuff. Playing cards, a carton of Marlboro Lights, matches, the pink plastic dishpan with Dawn detergent. They were all gone.
A hot breeze drifted across the lot, and something taped to the camper caught her eye as it fluttered. On closer inspection, she saw it was a note scratched in pencil on a torn piece of brown paper bag. Feather Anne couldn’t read the words at first. Not because they weren’t legible—Gina actually had beautiful penmanship—but because there was a sudden blur in her vision. She swiped hard at the sting in her eyes and ripped the paper off the camper door, dimly acknowledging that Gina had used one of her old Strawberry Shortcake stickers to hold it in place.
Feather Anne, don’t be pissed at me, okay? This is the only way you got a chance. I kno
w you don’t wanna leave here. Hell, I don’t either, but I ain’t got much a choice. Go to your sister. She can’t turn you away now that I’m gone. You’ll be fine. I’ll come back once I get everything straight. Be a good girl, you hear? Stay out of trouble and try to get along with people. I know you don’t believe it right now, but I love you.
Xo –Gina
Feather Anne crumpled the note and threw it on the ground. The breeze rolled it away like a tumbleweed, and she hurried to catch it. She unfurled the scratchy brown paper, flattened it on the picnic table, and reread it several times before she sat down hard on the bench.
“You left me,” she said to no one. “You fucking left me, you crazy bitch.” Then she put her head down and cried. As if in commiseration, the sky shed a brief torrent of warm rain over that part of Eagle Drive. Feather Anne didn’t see the rainbow that followed, though.
Chapter 17
RUMORS ABOUND
Mae—along with half of the café patrons—glanced up at the tinkle of the bells above the door. The man who stood there—surely feeling the dozen or so pairs of eyes on him—looked about the room slowly, taking in the copper-plated ceiling, the retro décor, and lastly, the people staring. He smiled, pushing creases into his nut-brown skin and showing a row of even white teeth.
“Oh my God. Tell me that is the new owner of the Stillman house,” hissed Brianna.
Mae set the mimosas on the table—their third round, but who was counting—and said, “I heard he’s a lawyer.”
Elise leaned forward with a sly grin. “His name is Pedro Villeneuve, and he’s in family law. His wife, Marisol, is expecting twins, and they have a little girl. Aileen—no, wait—Ileana is her name. She’ll be in pre-k one with Gianna, Ian, and Benjamin. If they put her in.”
Charlotte clapped her hand silently. “Oh, that would be so nice. We really need more diversity in town. I was even thinking of entering the lottery for one of those CREC schools.”
“Oh, Charlotte, you don’t even know what CREC stands for,” huffed Brittany.
“I do too, Brittany. It’s the Connecticut Regional Ed—well, it doesn’t matter what it stands for. They take kids from all over the state, and the kids get to meet people from all walks of life.”
“You literally sound like a typical white person. Just stop, please.” Brianna put her hand up in Charlotte’s face and rolled her eyes.
Katie, placing her hand over her phone’s mouthpiece, said, “I looked at it too, Char. Billy says it doesn’t look good for the First Selectman’s kids to go to an out of town school, so I’m out. He says St. Paul’s was good enough for all of us, it’s fine for our kids.” She shrugged in resignation and took her hand off the receiver to resume her call. “Yes, four p.m. at the governor’s mansion. The sitter should be at the house at three o’clock. That’s right.”
“Mae,” Brianna loud whispered, “seat him close to us.”
“I’ll see what I can do, ladies,” Mae replied with a smirk. She made her way over to the counter where Pedro Villeneuve waited. “Good morning. I’m Mae, welcome to the café, Mr. Villeneuve.”
“Oh, boy. Miles Hannaford wasn’t kidding about the speed of word traveling in a small town, was he? And please, call me Pedro.”
“Sorry, but new blood always sets the sharks a-swimmin’. You looking for something to go, or would you like a table?”
“You know, I think I’ll take a table. I’ve heard all about this place, and now that I’ve seen it for myself, I admit—I’m hooked. I can’t wait to bring my wife—Marisol, as if you don’t know that already—and my daughter in.”
“Oh, they won’t be joining you?”
“No, my in-laws are here for a visit, and I—well, to be honest—I needed a break. Miles is going to be joining me, though.”
“Ah, I see.” Mae tried to keep the surprise out of her voice. This conservative, gentlemanly man befriending brash, flashy Miles Hannaford? It sounded like science fiction to her.
Pedro, reading her thoughts, said, “It’s a business brunch. I’m relocating my office to Chance so I can be close to home. My wife is expecting twins in November, and—ah, you knew that already as well, didn’t you?”
“Guilty as charged. Full disclosure—I also know that you practice family law and your daughter’s name is Ileana. But that’s the extent of the gossip train I’m aboard.”
Mae was perhaps more aware of Brianna and company’s keen attention as they laughed together. If she weren’t in a mischievous mood, she’d have brought Pedro away from Brianna and closer to William, but this was not the case. Miles’s arrival was imminent, so Mae wasted no time seating Pedro behind the women.
As they neared the table, Pedro leaned down and staged whispered to Mae, “Should I greet them, or…”
“Swim at your own risk, Mr. Villeneuve. But don’t worry, I’ll throw you a life vest if you need one,” answered Mae with a laugh. She set two menus on the table and left him to it. As she walked away, he introduced himself to Brianna and company, and Mae had no doubt that Pedro Villeneuve could handle those piranhas with ease. She drifted with pseudo-casualness to where William sat.
“Miss Huxley.” William nodded.
“Mr. Grant.” She nodded back, fighting the urge to sit in his lap and run her fingers through his hair.
Reluctantly, Mae had agreed to keep their budding romance quiet. William worried that the knowledge would compromise his credibility as an objective observer, to which she’d grudgingly agreed. As it was, everyone who’d had a shot at bending William’s ear had told their stories in a way that cast them as the hero or heroine. Joey Mitchell had even claimed that he saved one of the First Selectman’s children from drowning the summer before. In reality, Katie’s oldest, Billy, Jr., was merely pretending to be Aquaman and was perfectly fine until Joey jumped in and dragged him from the pool, shouting, “Call 911” at the top of his lungs. The ambulance that arrived ended up taking him to the hospital because the stress of the incident gave him chest pains.
It seemed everyone wanted to be the star of the book—even though they had no idea what it would be like—so if they knew beyond speculation that Mae and William were involved, they would assume she was taking the spotlight.
She bent down lower than necessary to pour his coffee and smiled wickedly as she spoke in a husky tone. “You look tired, William. Late night?”
“Indeed, it was. A little minx kept me awake into the wee hours.” He coiled a lock of her hair around his finger and gave a playful tug before sitting back. His eyes slid over the room and paused at Pedro Villeneuve’s table. Miles had just joined him, and Brianna Baker glared at the back of his head with a ferocity that should’ve caused him to burst into flames on the spot. Meanwhile, Elise Martino seemed to be studying her menu with keen interest. What made this odd was that her food was already set before her.
“That’s Pedro—”
William cut Mae off. “Villeneuve. Yes, I’m aware.”
“Who told you already?” Then Mae froze and turned glacial. “Oh, let me guess. Feather Anne?”
He frowned. “Actually, I haven’t seen Feather Anne in a few days. It was Elise Martino. I ran into her at the post office. She’d been talking quite animatedly with Pedro until I came upon them. Yet now she seems to be studiously ignoring him.”
“Oh, shit. You don’t think they’re—”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. Maybe she was talking to him about a legal matter and not something nefarious.”
“Nah, he’s a family lawyer, so—oh. Oh, wow, do you think she wants to divorce Ethan?”
William put his head in his hands in mock defeat. “Mae, sweetheart, let’s not make any wild suppositions just yet. Observe and take note. That is all.”
“I love it when you call me sweetheart,” said Mae. She then blushed deeply, realizing with horror that she’d used the word love. Even in such an innocuous context, it bore weight. At least, to her it did. William, on the other hand, seemed to have hardly noticed a
nd resumed his observations. She turned to walk away, but he grabbed her wrist.
“Have you seen her?”
Mae didn’t have to wonder at who he referred to. “Like I’ve told the Brightsiders, she a tough kid. I’m sure she and Gina are out scamming somewhere on the public beaches. She’ll turn up just like a bad penny—whatever that means.”
He nodded and released her arm, but she could sense the disapproval under the surface of his placid expression. She’d shut him down enough times on the topic for him to realize she wouldn’t budge, and he’d given her that look enough times to tell her he wasn’t ready to give up. It was not their only impasse.
William had been quick to bring up their age disparity, citing it as a reason for them to reconsider what they were doing together. He believed they had to be pragmatic and cautious, whereas Mae eschewed such pessimistic talk.
“Just jump, William,” she’d said the other night under the stars. “Jump with me and let it go where it goes. I’m not afraid, so why are you?”
“Oh, sweet girl. Your life is just beginning. Mine is—”
“Don’t say ridiculous, awful things William,” scolded Mae. “If my father’s death has taught me anything, it’s that when happiness comes to you, you take it. You don’t ask questions and fill yourself up with doubts. You live, William. You live.”
The notion of him dying struck her with a violent force, one that stunned her with its intensity. Mae was in love with William Grant. Perhaps she’d been in love with him from the moment he’d walked into the café. What did it matter when? What mattered was that it was real, and pure, and good. She had to convince him of it, though. She could feel him holding back from her, putting up a barrier. But when his guard was down, when they lay close in the quiet hush of night and his arms wrapped around her, she knew. When he thought she was asleep, he brushed her hair from her cheek and kissed her temple with a gentleness born of sweet reverence, she knew. William was falling in love with her as well, and he was trying his damnedest not to.
