Authors: Antoinette Stockenberg
"That's just the point, Michael. They don't all do it. We want to believe that—it gets us off the hook—but most kids don't drink or use drugs, and we have got to make sure that Tracey doesn't either."
"Well, yeah, obviously. We'll keep her away from this Kevin character for starters. He sounds like bad news."
"Which reminds me: Does the name Mark Menninger ring a bell with you?"
Michael furrowed his brow. "Should it?"
"Tracey went to a birthday party at his house and drank there as well. You didn't smell it on her breath in the car when you picked her up afterward?"
"Did I pick her up? I can't remember."
"God, Michael! You've got to keep on top of these things!"
"But I'm always dropping her off somewhere or other," he said in his own defense. "Who can keep up? You know how they are at that age—totally wired. They can't sit still, not if they try. Maddie, don't beat me up over this. I love Tracey; I'd do anything for her. Let's just be glad she didn't experiment with something worse. Let's just stick together and do what we have to do to keep her out of harm's way."
How could Maddie argue with that? Relenting, she said, "All right. As long as we're consistent. Please—
please—
don't let her go off scot-free on your weekend."
"Absolutely not. I'll make that clear to her today. Maddie?" he said, fixing his gaze on her. "I mean it. We have to stick together on this."
"I agree," said Maddie. And yet something in Michael's tone was too intense, too ardent, for her to agree with any enthusiasm.
"I'm gonna see what she's up to right now," he said, heading off in an arbitrary direction. He came back half a minute later. "I meant to ask, how did she get in the lighthouse?"
"The door was unlocked."
He frowned. Obviously, he didn't like that answer. "What made you go to the tower looking for her?''
"I... I didn't. Dan found her and brought her back."
He didn't like that answer any better. "
What?
Who the hell does he think he is?"
Maddie said with spirit, "
What would you rather he did—let her loose without saying anything? Or maybe have the police round them all up; would that have pleased you more?''
"Hey. I'm not the villain in this piece. I'm not the one who left the door to the tower unlocked. Doesn't he know what a hangout the tower is?"
"How could he? He's not a local."
"It doesn't take a genius, Maddie. And as I recall, Dan Hawke was exactly that, back at
Lowell
. Ace student, raging idealist, leader of men, and biker to boot."
His voice became filled with innuendo, almost leering. "It couldn't have got any better than Hawke, could it?"
"Just drop it, would you, Michael?" she snapped.
Michael hunched his shoulders and leaned over her, a profile in menace. "Just keep him away from my daughter, that's all. Does the rest of your family know he's living there?" he added, yanking a thumb at the lightkeeper's house.
For whatever reason, Maddie felt obliged to answer him. "I don't remember mentioning it."
"I'll bet. Well, maybe you ought to. I'd be interested in hearing what Sarah has to say about having Dan Hawke for a neighbor—and your brother, too—although, why should they mind?" he asked sarcastically. "It's been twenty years since the trial. Probably George has forgotten all about assaulting Hawke in the courtroom."
Michael had landed the punch squarely on her conscience. Maddie was all too aware that she should have said something to her family by now. At first she'd remained silent because she didn't want to distress them. Lately she hadn't said anything for the simple, stupid reason that she didn't want them boycotting the fireworks because of Dan.
And where had it got her? Her family was probably going to miss the show anyway, and resent her hiding the news about Dan besides.
"Do me a favor, would you, Michael? Let me tell them about Dan. You're right," she admitted humbly. "They're bound to be upset."
Instantly Michael's manner toward her softened. His shoulders relaxed and his smile, always rueful, became tender. "Maddie, I'm sorry
... I shouldn't have thrown him in your face like that. I'm just rattled, I guess. It's weird, him being here. And him crossing paths with Tracey that way, that was weird, too. Hell, maybe I'm still jealous," he admitted with a soft laugh. "You always did prefer him over me."
"I married you," she murmured. "I had your child."
He grinned. "Yeah. You did." He dropped an unexpected peck on her lips and said, "Speaking of that child, I'm off to find her and give her what-for. Wish me luck."
"You won't need that, Michael. She'll listen to whatever you have to say."
He grinned and said, "You're probably right. Okay, where is she? Wait! Don't tell me."
He closed his eyes and Maddie knew he was trying to "sense" Tracey's presence. It bothered her more and more, that conviction of his that he was psychic.
"Michael, really. Must you?" she said, tense and put off by his manner.
"That way," he said, ignoring her reproach and pointing vaguely in the direction where Tracey had set up her blanket. He plunged into the crowd.
It wasn't until after he was gone that Maddie realized he hadn't brought up the subject of his windfall. It didn't seem possible that he didn't want her to know about it; he'd blabbed to too many people around her.
Michael's motives had always ranged from arbitrary to inscrutable, but one thing Maddie did know: he wasn't trying to hide his money from her. It was one of the reasons she didn't hold him in such bitterness as some of her friends did their ex-husbands. So many bruised feelings were really about dollars. That wasn't her problem at all.
Maddie continued to scan the crowd for the rest of her family, but without any luck. Hungry now, and feeling more adrift than ever, she joined the crush around one of the barbecue grills. This was new, this long wait for a complimentary hot dog. Too many people. She wondered whether the food would ever again have the charm of being free.
The grill she'd chosen
was manned by big Mickey Baret
sky, a local butcher and donator of the hot dogs in question. Mickey, who looked amazingly like Dom DeLuise, was a
driving force behind the barbecue every Fourth.
"Maddie, m'dear!" he cried, waving a giant fork in the air. "What'll it be? One dog or two?"
"One's fine, thanks," she said, lifted on the wave of his enthusiasm. "How's your charcoal supply?" she couldn't help asking. "Got enough to hold out?"
"More'n enough, now," he said, slapping a blistered sausage on a split roll. "Ketchup's on the table. Yeah, it was touch and go earlier. I'll tell ya," he said, "that Dan Hawke's a wonder. He picks up the phone and calls someone who calls someone who calls someone, and next thing I know, a traffic chopper's dropping what we need at the airfield. Even I don't got that kinda clout."
Amazed and yet not surprised, Maddie looked around quickly at the other grills, searching for a CNN correspondent in a white chef's hat. But he was nowhere in sight.
Undoubtedly back in his cave.
All innocent, she asked Mickey what he thought of their celebrity neighbor.
"I like the guy," the veteran said with a shrug.
Well, what did she expect? An in-depth character analysis? The
butcher
was surrounded by a hungry mob; you didn't chitchat when your life was at stake.
She took a hungry bite of her food, annoyed at the crowd for being there and annoyed at Norah for making it show up. She wanted everything back the way it used to be: quiet, slow, peaceful, restful.
Dull.
Norah was right. On the whole, Maddie preferred things dull. Dull was the opposite of murder. Dull was the opposite of drink and drugs and teenage sex. Dull was the opposite of
... Daniel Hawke.
Damn it!
She realized, suddenly, the real reason she'd been going round and round tonight, never stopping for long to talk with anyone. She was searching for Dan
Hawke, and the longer she went without seeing him, the more adrift she found herself feeling. Something had started up on
Cranberry Lane
on the night before. They'd reached across the darkness to one another and made some kind of emotional contact. She wanted—needed—to make that contact again.
There was only one thing to do, Maddie told herself grimly.
Use his bathroom.
She made her way through the crowd one more time. It was nearly dark. She could hear the murmurs of anticipation: the fireworks would be set off any minute. She didn't have much time.
Maddie knew what she wanted now. She wanted to watch the fireworks with him. It became incredibly important to her that she watch the Very Special Display with no one else but Dan Hawke. Why this was so, she had no idea. She was going on instinct now, headed straight for the lighthouse like a sailor for a beacon at sea.
"Maddie! For God's sake, I've been looking all over for you."
Her heart sank.
"George? Ah. You made it. Hi, Claire; how's baby? Hi, Mom." Maddie hugged her mother, then hugged Claire and pat
ted her nicely swollen belly. '
'Traffic was that bad, huh?''
"Where did you set up?" her brother asked. "I'm wiped. I've got to get a beer."
"I didn't set up any chairs," she said with an apologetic look. "There was no place to park this year, as you probably just found out, so I couldn't bring my car."
"What the hell are we supposed to do? Stand?"
Claire jumped in to justify her husband's bad temper. "You wouldn't believe the jam-up on the bridge. We were hoping the heavy traveling would be over by now. That was naive. And you're right about the parking; George ended up leaving the car at
Rosedale
."
Claire rolled her eyes in the direction of Sarah's mother, tipping Maddie off that Sarah Timmons was having a hard time tonight as well.
In fact, Sarah was on a different wavelength from all of them—distant and sad. "Maddie, honey," she told her daughter in a gentle, tired voice, "I'm too beat after that battle with traffic to enjoy craning my neck at the sky for half an hour. I think I'll just walk back to
Rosedale
now."
She did look stiff and more bent over than Maddie had seen her before. And even in the dark, her hair seemed more silver than gray. Sixty-eight—bent and silver? It didn't seem possible.
"Mom, no, don't leave. It's going to be three times better this year. I've been shaking down contributions from every store and business around. I—"
"Oh, I won't miss anything; don't worry about that. I'll watch it all through an upstairs window."
Ah, no.
"Watch it here!" Maddie insisted. She ca
me up with a desperate plan. "
You know what? Tracey and a couple of her girlfriends have a blanket. You could sit with them!"
Maddie saw that the idea, awful as it was, had some appeal.
"That might be nice," her mother agreed. "I never see Tracey except on the fly anymore. Where is she sitting?"
Maddie gave her precise directions and then a gentle nudge. That left George and Claire. George was adamant about having a beer before they shut down the stand, and Claire wanted to stay with him, so they agreed that just this once, it would be every man for himself.
"Are you sure?" Maddie asked her sister-in-law, feeling a vague surge of guilt about her condition.
"Maddie, you act as if I may give birth on the sand. I'm only seven months gone. I just look nine."
"Yes, but it's all very localized, isn't it?" Maddie said, grinning. "You look great, Claire."
"And I feel it." Something in Maddie's manner made Claire suddenly say, "Now go. You're obviously in a hurry to be somewhere."
Claire, lovely Claire. Maddie kissed her perceptive relative and ran to join—she couldn't believe it—the line for the bathroom in the keeper's house. It was shorter now; people were positioning themselves for the fireworks. Trixie, flaunting her power, spotted Maddie and directed her to use the upstairs bathroom instead.
Perfect! Maddie took the stairs two at a time, hardly bothering to take in the shabby state of the house, and came to a halt on the dimly lit upstairs landing. There were five doors on it, all of them closed.
She threw open the first door to a room with two metal beds, both unassembled, their stained, worn mattresses stacked up vertically against the wall. The room was dank and had an unpleasant smell, which wasn't surprising. The house had been rented to all manner of free spirits over the years. Not all of them were first-rate homemakers.
The second door opened onto a room that might have been used for a dressing room; it was too small for a bed.
Third door: the bathroom itself, which she ignored.
Fourth: a pleasant room facing the sea, with a neatly made- up bed and sheer curtains on the window. It wasn't a room that looked lived in. Probably a guest room. Not that he ever had guests.