Authors: Antoinette Stockenberg
"I'd have to check. Maybe only on your weekends with me in
Boston
."
"But why me?"
"Because you're my daughter."
"Really?"
"That's what they said."
"Cool! Oh, Dad, you have to make Mom let me!" she cried. "You have to!"
He gave her a grave look. "That won't be easy."
He knew there wasn't a chance in hell that Maddie would give her okay to the project, despite the fact that he saw no real danger in it. The simple truth was that he didn't want Tracey hanging around with him in the lab.
All he wanted was to drive Tracey, like a stake, through her mother's heart.
****
By the time Dan brought Maddie home from the fund-raiser, the lights in
Rosedale
cottage had been long turned off. Reluctant to part, they sat in the Jeep with the headlights turned off and the engine running.
"After having to share you with contributors all night," Dan admitted, "I don't think much of handing you directly over to your family."
"You never did," Maddie said, smiling. She reached for his hand in the dark. "I loved being with you, even if we never did get a chance to talk about—"
"
Afghanistan
."
"Among other things," she said softly. "Tomorrow you'll tell me everything." She sighed and added, "We're in such a hurry to catch up on our separate pasts. Maybe we ought to pretend we've just met and take it from there."
He shook his head. "Can't do it. The past is why I left; the past is why I'm here."
"You speak in riddles, sir," she said, smiling despite the gravity in his voice.
He took Maddie's hand in both of his and lifted it to kiss. For a long, somehow thrilling moment, he held her hand to his lips
that way. And then he said, "
Maddie. Do you believe in destiny?"
Caught by surprise, Maddie faltered and said, "I
... don't know. It's such an overworked phrase. Destiny," she said, trying out the word. "Destiny." She was almost afraid of the sound of it.
"Well, after
Afghanistan
, I do," he said. "Too many forces had to come into play
... too many events had to occur
... for me to be here, with you, asking you whether you believe in destiny."
"
That place
again," Maddie said, wondering. "What
happened
to you there?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "Whatever it was—I don't know. I can't explain it to you in twenty-five words or less. I may never be able to explain it to you. But I'm sure as hell going to try."
Someone in the house flipped on the outside floodlight; it poured through the front windshield of Dan's Jeep, blinding them both.
"My mother," Maddie explained, squinting. "She's always jittery now—and she wouldn't know your car."
Dan said wryly, "I guess I should be grateful for that."
He had no idea just how much. Maddie was afraid to be seen kissing him good night in the glare of the yard light, so she said, "See you soon," and scrambled out of the car like a teenager caught by police in a lovers' lane.
As soon as Maddie stepped onto the drive, the floodlight went off; she was left to grope her way down the flagstone path in the dark. No doubt her mother thought she was doing the polite thing. Would she have recognized Dan in the car? Not from the kitchen window, surely.
We'll soon find out, Maddie thought, steeling herself for the coming encounter.
She found her mother sitting at the kitchen table, cradling a cup of tea. The fragrance of chamomile scented the air as Maddie—strictly to humor her mother—threw the bolts on both the top and the bottom of the Dutch door.
"Did I wake you?" she asked.
Sarah Timmons pulled her seersucker robe a little more snugly around her. "You know how it is when it's your first night somewhere; you toss and you turn. Was your night a success, dear?"
"Wildly!" Maddie admitted, hugging herself.
Her mother looked startled by the level of her enthusiasm,
so Maddie quickly explained, "
The pledges just kept rolling in—the biggest ones from men. I had no idea that Norah was so well connected. I think maybe she's blackmailing these guys; I assume she has video
somewhere
."
"Don't be flippant," her mother said automatically. "Who was that who dropped you off? I didn't recognize the car."
"Oh! By the way," Maddie said in a clumsy diversion tactic, "did Michael come around tonight? I saw him at the fund-raiser and he said that he might." She edged nearer the hall, ready to make a break upstairs.
Her mother's voice became crisp. "Yes. He did. But he didn't stay long. On his way out he mentioned that you and Tracey were battling about something again. I don't understand how you and the child can keep butting heads," she added. "You and I were never like that."
So Michael hadn't mentioned Dan. Desperately relieved, Maddie smiled and said, "You must have been a much better mother than I."
Ignoring the remark, Sarah said with deadly calm, "I seem to be getting all my news from my ex-son-in-law nowadays."
She paused, then added, "He also told me that Daniel Hawke is staying in the keeper's house this summer."
Maddie's heart plummeted.
Her mother took a sip of her tea and then laid the cup carefully in its saucer. The tiny clink it made was the only sound in the kitchen. All else seemed to be waiting to hear what Maddie had to say next—even the old, wheezy refrigerator, which for once was holding its breath.
Maddie murmured, "Yes. He's staying there."
"Why didn't you tell me this?"
"Would it have changed anything?"
"It certainly would have. I'd never have come down this season."
"Then that's why I didn't tell you."
Among other reasons.
Her mother smiled wearily and said, ' 'Maddie, I know you mean well, but I resent the way you filter the truth for me. You do it all the time—withhold facts to make me do what you think is best."
"You know me, Mom, I'm a control freak," Maddie quipped.
Sarah Timmons was not amused. She lifted her face, so pale without makeup, and looked her daughter in the eye.
"I'm an adult, Maddie," she said with great dignity, "not your little girl. I'm old enough to decide how to grieve and how long to do it. When I'm ready to take up a normal life again, I will. You should respect me enough to let me make that decision."
"Yeah, but sometimes people can get so immersed in a mood that they need to be shaken out of it," Maddie argued. "You know how it was whenever Dad wanted to go on vacation. He wanted to go, wanted to go, but you never did. And then when he dragged you, kicking and screaming, someplace, you'd end up having a wonderful time."
"I somehow don't see me having wonderful times just now," her mother said with a dry smile. "But I promise to think over what you said."
Maddie came back into the room and leaned over her mother, kissing her cheek. "That's all I ask. Good night, Mom."
"Good night, dear," Sarah said, patting her daughter's
arm. Maddie got as far as the bottom of the stairs when her mother called out in a hushed voice, "Oh—Maddie! You never said who that was in the car."
Maddie winced. She could pretend not to hear. She could run up the stairs and hide in her room. She could behave, in short, like her immature, hormone-driven daughter, the one who was driving her crazy.
She came back into the kitchen.
"Dan Hawke brought me home, Mom."
"Him?
I don't believe it!" her mother said, shocked. Her face went three more shades of pale.
"He was at the fund-raiser and offered to take me home. I was on his way, obviously." It was half a truth—filtered facts again—but better than nothing.
But her mother was wise to her now. "Why didn't you take your own car to Norah's?"
"My car was blocked in our drive."
"Then how did you get there?"
Caught.
Maddie looked down at the checkerboard floor. "Dan took me.
Her mother said in a trembling voice, "He wouldn't dare. He's not that low."
Maddie's head shot up. "Why is it low to want to be seen with me?"
"You know what I mean!" her mother said. "He ruined your father's life!"
"He made a mistake!"
"One that I'll never forgive! Never!"
"That's crazy!" Maddie said, exploding. "That's medieval! We have to be willing to forgive and forget and get on with life. Life's too short—we, of all people, should know that, Mom! Life's too short! It comes and goes in the blink of—"
"Don't tell me about life! My life was destroyed—twice!—by that monster."
"That's a stupid thing to say!" Maddie shouted. "Dan's not the one who murdered Dad; some demented slug can take credit for that!"
Her mother slapped an open palm on the table in anger. "Who's to say? Who's to say?" she cried. "If your father hadn't been disabled, maybe he would've been able to defend himself."
"Mom, he was shot!
Four
left arms wouldn't have defended him against a bullet!"
"But we'll never know, will we! We'll always wonder if it would've turned out differently, won't we!"
"You will, anyway," Madd
ie said, ducking behind sullen
ness.
"And you will, too, Maddie. You know you will."
It was flung at Maddie like a curse. She stepped back instinctively, trying to get out of its way. But she knew that her mother had scored a hit. She knew that whenever she saw Dan from this day forward, she would wonder about it. Was Dan responsible for her father's ultimate fate?
Destiny. Here, surely, was a reason not to believe in it.
"I
don't think you have the right to play God, Mom. No matter how good a person you are," Maddie said, giving her mother a level look.
She turned on her heel an
d walked smack into her sleepy-
eyed, thoroughly irritated brother.
"What's the matter with you two?" he said in a hushed growl. "It's three in the morning, and you're going at it like a couple of fishwives. My God—what will the neighbors think?"
"Go to bed, George," his mother snapped. "This is between Maddie and me."
"Since I was forced to hear most of the exchange, I'd have to argue the point, Mother."
He turned to his sister and said, "Dan Hawke? Are you out of your mind?"
"Oh, not you too. I
have
to listen to Mom," Maddie said to her brother. "I
don't
have to listen to you. Good damned night!"
She fled to her room, exactly the way Tracey would have done, and threw herself across the bed, exactly the way Tracey would have done. Overwhelmed by a mass of conflicting emotions, she lay without moving, trying to sift her fury from her heartbreak, her frustration from her sympathy.
It was
déjà vu
all over again, she decided, smiling grimly over the famous quip. She remembered the first time she'd thrown herself across a bed because of Dan, remembered how devastated she'd felt at the news about the demonstrations and the fire, and how angry she was at Dan, and how betrayed by him. Her loyalties had lined up squarely with her family, and yet somewhere under all that grief and rage she'd still felt a terrible, terrible longing for him, and that was the emotion that she had worked for twenty years to destroy.
With no luck at all. Because here it was again, that longing. It hadn't gone away. It had only gone deep. Somehow she had nurtured it and kept it alive—on the sly, without ever letting herself know—and now the longing was back, stronger than ever. The more reasons she had for not wanting Dan Hawke, the more she wanted him. He was the Kevin of her life.
Kevin. Suddenly her heart softened toward her poor, punished daughter. For two cents she'd invite Kevin to Sunday brunch, just to see Tracey's face light up. If only the girl knew how much her mother was identifying with her now. Maddie had an almost irresistible urge to wake up her daughter and tell her.
Almost. But not quite.
Eventually she got up from the bed, too exhausted to sleep, and went over to the one window that had a partial view of the lighthouse. Drawing the curtains aside, she slid the screen up in its tracks and leaned out the window, bracing herself on the sill with her hands. If she stretched, she could just see a slice of the lighthouse. Were the lights on? Was Dan thinking of her, missing her, wanting her, too?
Maddie thought she saw a vague loom of light, but she couldn't be sure. After the long night of ordeals, it seemed inconceivable that he could still be up; but then, it was equally inconceivable that
she
could still be up.
She sighed, then dropped back into the room, feeling as adrift as a paper cup floating on the sea. She wanted to be with him. She wanted to hear his voice, kiss his lips, run her hands all over him. She wanted him in ways she didn't understand, in ways she couldn't know.