by Luanne Rice
“And you?”
“I loved her too. Except when I didn’t.”
“Why, Griffin?”
“Because when I made her mad, she locked me in the basement. Burned the back of my knees with her cigarette. She would buy my favorite chocolates and bottles of Coca-Cola . . . this might seem trivial, but she would hide them from me, then eat and drink them herself, right in front of me, telling me how delicious they were and if I were a better boy, I could have them too. But she almost never gave me any.”
“Griffin, that’s horrible,” I said.
He nodded his head. “When I was ten she beat me so hard I had to go to the emergency room. I was black and blue, and she told me to lie and say I’d fallen while rock climbing.”
“What about your father? Why didn’t he protect you?”
Griffin laughed. “No one went against my mother. He found out it was easier to pretend he was Hemingway—go fishing off Bimini or grouse shooting in Scotland or to Paris with his mistress.”
“Griffin, I had no idea,” I said.
“You’re the only one I’ve ever told,” he said, pulling me close again. “I’ve never trusted anyone this much.”
And I took that to heart: grieving the fact my husband had survived an abusive childhood, cherishing his words telling me I was the only one he could talk to, the only one he trusted. It had taken an entire year of marriage to get to the point when he could tell me—and I felt it was the secret decoder ring to his behavior.
Back then I thought that now that I knew, I had something to work with. It would make me more understanding. It would help me avoid his triggers.
What an idiot I was.
Now, lying in my sleeping bag and listening to the person get closer to my cabin, I pushed myself up from the floor and stood ready to defend myself when he entered. I was picturing Griffin. Our last fight, the night before the art opening I never got to attend, had been about Ellen.
“I don’t want what happened to Ellen to happen to you,” he’d said through gritted teeth.
“Don’t worry, it won’t,” I whispered to myself in the cabin. I was ready to battle for my life.
I heard my name being called. “Claire! Can you hear me?” Then the sound of fabric ripping. “Jesus Christ!”
Someone had just snagged pants or a jacket on thorns in the thicket. I stood very still. More ripping, as if the garment were being torn free from the brambles. Then footsteps retreating, going back in the direction the person had come—toward Catamount Bluff.
I had recognized the voice.
It wasn’t Griffin outside my cabin.
It was Conor Reid.
My eyes stung with tears—that’s how badly I wanted to call for help. But Griffin’s words about “his” cops came back to me: “My cops go to the mat for me. They want to make me happy and bring me everything they’ve got—they’re loyal.”
What if Conor was part of Griffin’s force? No matter what I wanted to believe, that Conor was good, that he wouldn’t finish the job Griffin had started and kill me, I couldn’t take the chance.
One thing I knew was that I had to get out of here. That had been too close a call. I didn’t know where I would go, but my refuge in the woods was no longer safe.
ONE DAY EARLIER
26
SALLIE
Dear Ford,
I don’t know what I did to lead you on. I don’t believe I did anything. You are the son of clients of mine, and I thought you were a nice young man. When you came to swim in the Hawkes’ pool, I enjoyed our brief conversations.
I will never understand what led you to accost my husband in our driveway, speak such garbage about me in front of our children. Did you intend to destroy my family? Did your fantasy about me—whatever it is—really convince you that I would ever want to be with someone who could do such a cruel thing?
Talking to Dan about “spring break” . . . who even cares what you meant? It just shows how young you are, a college boy who doesn’t understand that people grow up, live complicated lives, try their best.
You are deeply troubled. You are delusional. I care nothing for you, but I encourage you to get help, so you don’t hurt my family or anyone else again.
Ford, if you ever come close to me, my husband, or especially my children again, you will regret it mightily. The fact your father has a position of power means absolutely nothing to me. You are sick, and yesterday’s criminal behavior proved it. The police won’t be swayed by a pathetic little boy saying Daddy will keep him out of trouble.
Stay away.
—Sallie Benson
On Thursday morning, the day after Ford told Dan about Edward, Sallie sat at her desk and wrote the letter. When she finished, she stared at it for a long time, deciding what to do. No words on a page could do justice to how she felt, how Ford Chase had bulldozed her family, crushed the spirit out of them.
She had actually been excited about going away for the weekend. The whole family had planned to go shopping after Dan got home from work, let the kids pick out all sorts of treats to have on the boat. As an extra surprise, they were going to go to Barks and Purrs in the mall, to buy a special tiny life jacket for Maggie.
Now the trip was off—or at least it was for Sallie. She felt as if she deserved the hate she saw in Dan’s eyes, the devastation in Gwen’s and Charlie’s. Ford had reeked of alcohol, slurring the disgusting words he said about her, telling Dan about her affair with Edward Hawke.
“What’s an affair?” Charlie had asked, sobbing and throwing his arms around her waist—not because he understood what Ford was saying but because he sensed the violence of the moment.
“It’s nothing,” Sallie said, wanting to block his ears, rush the children into the house. But Dan stopped her, gripping her wrist and tugging hard.
“It means Mommy loves someone else,” Dan said. “And she’s going to be with him instead of us now.”
“Dan, that’s not true! Never! Please, let’s go inside.”
Gwen stood there silently, staring at Sallie.
“Come on, honey, we’re going into the house,” Sallie said, touching her shoulder.
“It’s better they know who you are,” Ford said, staring at her. “Right now, while they’re so young, instead of spending their lives, all through middle and high school, hoping their mother is the sweet person they want her to be instead of who she really is.”
“Get out of my yard,” Dan said.
“You’re defending her?” Ford asked.
“No, but I’m going to beat the shit out of you if you don’t get into your car and drive away. Then I’ll call the cops on you for drunk driving and breach of peace.”
“Good luck,” Ford said. “And by the way, I know what you did too.”
“What I did?”
“Yeah. Spring break ring a bell?”
Sallie turned to look at Dan. He was staring at Ford with disbelief.
“Ellen Fielding wasn’t the only girl to drown, was she?” Ford asked.
“That’s enough,” Dan said.
“How much have you told your wife? Maybe that’s why she cheated. She knows the kind of guy you are. Right, Sallie?”
She didn’t reply.
“Perfect people in a perfect town,” Ford said. “Anyway, nice talking to you both. Enjoy life knowing each other’s secrets.”
Dan seemed frozen with shock as Ford got into his car, backed out of the driveway, and screeched away. Sallie took a step toward Dan, but he shook her off.
“Don’t,” he said.
“What was he talking about?” Sallie asked. “Spring break?”
“Are you kidding?” Dan asked. “He’s a maniac, just stirring up trouble.”
“What girl drowned? And who’s Ellen Fielding?” Sallie asked.
“You’re confronting me?” he asked. “After what I just heard?”
She glanced at the children. They were both crying.
“Mommy, Daddy, don’t fight!” Gwen said. Charlie c
lung to Sallie.
“Let’s go for a ride, kids,” Dan said. “And we’ll get ready to go to Block Island. Maybe we’ll play mini golf and get an ice cream. Mommy’s not going to come. She has other things to do. But we’ll have fun, Gwen, Charlie—I promise.”
Sallie went inside, up to her room, and lay down on the bed. Ford’s words to Dan haunted her, but she told herself he was just being spiteful—as Dan had said, he was a maniac. Certainly under the influence and not mentally well. She heard everyone come home a couple of hours later, but she couldn’t go downstairs and face them, not even her children. She smelled hamburgers, Dan cooking dinner.
She didn’t sleep all night. Dan slept in the guest room and went downstairs before dawn. She heard the door close quietly. He started his car and drove away. She went downstairs immediately afterward, made coffee, and drank it on the back porch while thinking about what to do next. Her heart seized when she heard the kids get up, but when they came down, she cooked scrambled eggs for breakfast as if nothing had ever happened. Nobody mentioned Ford.
It was Thursday, and they were happy it was the last day of school before the trip to Block Island. Sallie walked them to the end of the driveway at seven thirty, kissed them goodbye, and told them to have a good day at school. They hugged her as they always did, waved from the school bus steps when they climbed aboard.
Writing to Ford had made Sallie feel a little better. She folded the copy and put it into an envelope. She could never confront Ford in person, vicious and vengeful as he had been, but she needed him to know exactly how she felt, to read what she had to say. She didn’t know where he lived, whether he had a place of his own, but she knew where to leave it, where he would be sure to get it. And if he was there, she had a question for him.
The route to Catamount Bluff had become familiar, almost second nature. The security guard—Officer Ben Markham today—waved her through. She had been here so often, working on all four houses, the off-duty cops who manned the gate didn’t even stop her anymore.
It was seven forty-five, and the sun had just crested the tops of the trees that lined the road. In the distance, beyond the last house, Long Island Sound sparkled in the morning light.
She drove past two clients’ properties—the Coffins and Lockwoods. When she passed the Hawkes’ driveway, she averted her gaze and couldn’t even breathe, couldn’t bear the idea of seeing Edward or Sloane. Or Edward with Sloane. Pulling into the Chases’ turnaround at the end of the road, she gripped her steering wheel and wondered what to do next. She didn’t see Ford’s black Porsche, but there was an almost identical red one parked by the front steps.
The Catamount Bluff residents received their mail at the small post office halfway down Shore Road to Hubbard’s Point. But they had “social chutes”—small tubes nailed to posts in the ground, used by the four families for informal notices and invites among themselves. She started to roll up the envelope, insert it into the chute, when the front door opened. She quickly hid it behind her back.
Alexander, Ford’s twin, stepped outside. She had met him a couple of times when she’d worked on the kitchen. He was forgettable compared to his brother—where Ford had the same focused, magnetic energy as his father, Alexander was quiet, easygoing. Ford had made himself known to Sallie from the beginning—hanging out, asking her about herself, drinking more coffee than any kid should drink, just to be in the kitchen. Then, showing off his body while swimming at the Hawkes’. Alexander had seemed so shy that Sallie hadn’t gotten to know him at all.
“Hi, Mrs. Benson,” Alexander said now, standing at the top of the steps. He already had a slight summer tan, and his fair hair looked streaked by sun and salt. He appeared worried but attempted a smile. “How are you?”
“Fine, Alexander,” she said.
“Have you seen Ford today?” he asked.
“Why would you ask me that?” she asked, taken aback.
“Because he told me he was going to see you yesterday, and we haven’t seen him since. We’re worried.”
“No,” she said. She felt nervous, awkward. She had hoped to just leave the envelope and escape. She tried to ease it into the back pocket of her jeans but dropped it on the ground.
“Is that for my parents?” Alexander asked, spotting the envelope.
She hesitated. “It’s a note for your brother,” she said, bending over to snatch it up.
Alexander looked confused. “Why did you write to him?”
“Never mind,” she said, starting to back away. “I’ll give it to him another time.”
“Please tell me,” Alexander said, taking a step forward. “Please. I know he was upset when he headed over to you. If you can give me an idea what happened . . .”
“He was very drunk, Alexander,” she said. “He shouldn’t have been driving.”
“Did you try to stop him?” he asked, his voice shaking.
“There wasn’t time,” she said. “He was angry and just sped away.”
Sallie’s heart was pounding. Alexander had left the front door open, and Sallie saw Claire standing just inside. She stepped out, put a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. He turned slightly to look at her, and she gave him a warm smile.
“Hi, Sallie. Alexander’s worried about his brother,” Claire said.
“Sallie said he drove away drunk yesterday,” Alexander said. “Aren’t you worried too?”
“Yes, I am,” Claire said.
“She wrote him a note,” Alexander said. “I want her to tell us what’s in it—she was the last one to see him. It could give me a clue.”
“Alexander, that’s between Sallie and Ford,” Claire said.
Sallie blushed and felt like running away. She remembered what Edward had told her, that Sloane had been with Claire when Ford confronted her. So Claire knew. When Sallie met her eyes, she saw Claire gazing at her with compassion.
“I’m going to leave now,” Sallie said. “I hope he comes home soon, Alexander.”
“Mrs. Benson, I know he went over to confront you,” Alexander said. “He told me. I told him he shouldn’t. I don’t really know what happened between you—he didn’t go into it—but he was pretty mad when he went over to your house.”
“He was,” Sallie said, and suddenly she was reliving it, seeing Ford’s angry face, hearing his vicious words, and she couldn’t help it—everything spilled out. “He said terrible things about me in front of my husband and children. My son and daughter heard the whole thing.”
“Your son heard all that stuff?” Alexander asked.
“Yes. Charlie’s only seven. And my daughter is nine.”
Alexander buried his face in his hands. Sallie thought he was going to cry.
“That’s it,” Alexander said. “I’m sure he’s hating himself right now—having your kids see. That’s why he’s gone away.”
“What do you mean?” Claire asked.
“That was our life,” Alexander said. “Mom and Dad fighting, us hearing terrible stuff about her. If Ford threw that kind of garbage at Charlie, he’d feel like the worst person on earth.”
He is, Sallie thought and wondered why Alexander was so focused on Charlie when Gwen had been just as devastated. She couldn’t take this anymore, hearing a brother in so much anguish over the person who had done all he could to ruin her life.
“What if he hurts himself?” Alexander asked.
Sallie saw Griffin, dressed for work in a jacket and tie, approach from inside the house. He raised his hand to wave, but she didn’t return the greeting. She just turned away, got into her car. She completely understood the impulse toward suicide. When you hurt people so badly, when you see the effect your behavior has had, you might just want out of this life. She thought of the look on Charlie’s face—and Gwen’s also. If Ford had seen their pain too—and it had affected him—Sallie was glad. She started her car and drove out of Catamount Bluff for the last time.
27
CLAIRE
I watched Sallie speed away. I had seen
Ford’s wild fury when he had stumbled into my studio and told Sloane about Edward and Sallie. Sloane’s pain, the sudden anguish, had nearly knocked her down. I could well imagine Ford acting that same unhinged, violent way, telling Sallie’s husband her secret in front of her kids.
“What was that about?” Griffin asked. He had come into the front hall with his cup of coffee, frowned as he watched the trail of dust from Sallie’s SUV driving down the unpaved road. I had brought Fingerbone from my studio into the house; it was sitting right there on the hall table.
I willed Griffin to glance over and see the shadow box. I had planned to show him after breakfast, when we were alone, and then drop it off at the gallery. But the scene with Sallie changed all that.
“I asked a question,” Griffin said, laser focused on Alexander. “What was she here for?”
Alexander and I exchanged a look. There was no good way out here; telling Griffin the truth could flip the mood switch but so could lying. It was odd, I thought. Now that I was mentally on my way to leaving, I didn’t really care anymore. Let Griffin flail around in one of his rages—I knew he had taught Ford how to do the same thing, intimidate people with his moods. He had created a son just like himself.
But Alexander wasn’t like that, and I wanted to protect him. I watched carefully to see how he was going to handle his father’s question. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. I knew his inner struggle so well—it had been my own for so long. Walking on eggshells was our family norm.
“Ford went to Sallie’s house yesterday,” I said to Griffin.
“For what?” Griffin asked.
“Claire, don’t,” Alexander said sharply.
“To speak to her husband and make accusations right in front of her children,” I said.
Griffin listened to me but didn’t react at first. He sipped his coffee. His eyes looked normal. He turned his gaze from me to Alexander.
