Chill Waters (4 page)

A year later, she’d met Greg. Handsome and charming, there wasn’t a girl in the office who didn’t flush and flutter whenever he stopped by her desk. Maybe it was because she didn’t that he’d asked her out. Certainly there were prettier, more interesting girls at Halston’s. When two months later he proposed, she accepted without hesitation. “I want a real wife, Rachael,” he’d told her. “I want you there for me when I come home.”

She’d quit her job without complaint or regret. Jeff was born the first year, Susan the next. Life was complete. She wanted nothing more than to be a good wife and mother the mother she herself had been denied—and was content to hold the ladder while Greg climbed it.

Betty kidded her about being reincarnated from a past era. Women weren’t content to keep the home fires burning anymore, she said. They had their own dreams to follow.

But she’d never thought she was missing anything. Oh, there were a few times when Betty popped in dressed like she’d just stepped out of
Career Woman
, while Rachael herself was up to her elbows in formula and dirty diapers, that resentment stung. But mostly she was grateful to be a stay-at-home mom, to watch her children grow under her guidance, not to have to hand them over to someone else.

At an excited chatter behind her, Rachael turned to see dark shiny eyes observing her from the trunk of a pine. Not waiting for her side of the conversation, the squirrel gave a flick of its red bushy tail, leapt to a higher branch, vanishing among the lush, green needles.

She set her cup beside her on the rock, impulsively took off her Nikes and socks. The feel of sun-warmed sand between her toes stirred something within hera response from the child she had been.

Rolling up her pantlegs, she walked down to the water’s edge. As an icy wave broke over her feet Rachael jumped back. Beneath her bare feet, the sand shifted, made snicking sounds as it receded.

Once, she had raced down that hill, eager to challenge the numbing cold of the Atlantic, filled with a sense of her own power. Whatever happened to that girl?

She stayed on the beach until the sun was almost down, the water darkened and distant thunder rumbled in the sky. Then she emptied the cold dregs of her tea into the sand.

Even through Susan’s fleece-lined
Save the Whales
sweatshirt that she’d left behind when she went off to college, Rachael had begun to feel chilly. As she bent to gather up her shoes and socks, a drop of rain slapped the back of her neck, ran under the sweatshirt on insect legs.

It was then that she noticed, about ten yards to her left, footsteps leading out of the water.
Strange, I didn’t
notice them before.
She followed them to where their edges blurred in the drier sand, disappearing in the tall grasses on the level above her.

Scanning the beach in either direction, she looked for a matching set of prints leading
into
the water, but there were only her own. Though she could hardly boast of tiny feet, these were much larger, made by someone wearing shoes or boots. A man, she thought, noting that the prints nearest the water, where they were more deeply embedded in the sand, were distinctly patterned in circles and half-moons.

Fat raindrops pelted down, slowly at first, striking her face and arms. Lightning flashed over the water, backlighting swollen black clouds, chasing the mystery of the footprints from her mind, and Rachael up the hill. She’d no sooner closed the door behind her when the sky opened, unleashing a torrent of rain that fell in straight, violent sheets.

She’d almost forgotten the late summer storms that visited Jenny’s Cove.

Like a bad dog with an unsuspecting deer in its sites, he watched her running up to the house. His narrowed eyes tracked her movements until she was inside. Then he lowered the binoculars and grinned.

Soon.

Eight

The bell above the door of Iris’ store chimed and Iris looked up from her book,
Modern Techniques in Pottery Making
, and smiled, experiencing the same warm pleasure she always did at the sight of her nephew.

“Peter, how wonderful. What can I get you? Coffee, a cold drink?”

His hair was wet from the rain and Iris noticed for the first time that it was beginning to recede. He’d had such beautiful thick hair as a boy, the color of cornsilk. She remembered Heather Myers telling her that the girls at school thought he looked like Harrison Ford. Iris couldn’t see it herself. She thought Peter was better looking. But perhaps she was biased. Thoughts of Heather lay heavy on her heart.

“Not a thing, thanks. Just dropped by to see if I couldn’t interest my favorite aunt in joining me for dinner. I happen to know Hartley took Kathy in a nice catch of flounder today.”

Kathy was Kathy Burgess, who owned Kathy’s, a café noted for its good home-cooked food and the fact that it stayed open year round. It was also licensed and Iris could have done with a good shot of whiskey just about then. Reluctantly, she declined the invitation. “Best offer I’ve had all day, but I’m going to have to ask for a rain-check. There's somethingI have to do tonight.”

“Sounds serious.”

“It—could be. Make it tomorrow and you’ve got yourself a date.”

“Well, can’t promised the flounder will be as fresh,” he kidded, “but you’re on.” His lighthearted note did not hide his disappointment. She suspected this was one of those nights when going back to an empty apartment held little appeal. Ever since Mary Ellen’s death, three years ago, Peter spent most of his time at the school where he taught English. His students had become his purpose in life. Hearing the awful news about Heather couldn’t be helping his mood. She’d been one of his favorites. “Iuh, heard about Heather. Do you know how…?”

“She’s in pretty bad shape, Aunt Iris,” he said, with a mix of sadness and anger. “Only time will tell.” He hunkered down to pat Cleo, who was rubbing against his leg, demanding attention, purring like an old washing machine.

“I wrote a note to Helen,” Iris said. “It’s so hard to know what to say.”

“There are never adequate words for something like this. But I know Helen will appreciate it.”

After Peter left, Iris donned her coat and scarf, scooped Cleo up in her arms and left the store. While fumbling for her keys in her pocket and trying not to lose Cleo, she darted out into the rain.

Wet, but safely inside the car, she’d driven only a short distance when Nate Prichard’s old pickup rumbled toward them, water splaying from the trucks big tires. Cleo sprang up on her hind legs, front paws propped against the windshield. As the truck roared past, she let out a low, anxious growl.

“I know, Cleo. He’s not my favorite person, either.”

Across the cove, in the village of Harding, Peter parked his car in a small clearing and made his way to the log cabin. The sound of someone chopping wood traveled to him as he tromped through thick brush, navigating gnarled roots and brambles, fallen branches. The smell of sawdust, pine and rain hung in the air. The rain had let up, but by the look of those clouds, not for long.

Hartley was intently splitting his winter wood. Not wanting to startle his old friend, Peter called out, "Hey, Hartley, you’re getting a pretty good pile stacked up there.”

Only when Luke let out a short excited bark and bounded over to Peter, did the old man look up. Luke’s tail wagged happily as the black and white Collie mix gave him a big doggy grin. Peter scratched behind his ears. “Hey, Luke, fella.” Luke was getting on in years, but clearly hadn’t lost his puppy zest for living.

As Peter came into view, a wide grin broke on Hartley’s face. “Hey, Peter, good to see you, boy. How you getting’ on?”

“I’ve felt better,” Peter said, speaking above his normal volume, knowing Hartley’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be. Though he’d be too proud to admit it and get himself a hearing aid. “Glad to see you got your boat back.”

“Yeah, me too.” Hartley spat over his left shoulder into a pile of sawdust. “It was drifting toward town, ya know, over ‘t’ other side.” He was near to shouting, the way folks tended to do when they began to lose their hearing. “Elton got the call, and motored out after it.” White spokes of hair sprang loose as he pushed the Red Sox cap to the back of his head. “Good man, Sorrel. Bit of a hot dog, maybe.”

Peter agreed on both counts.

“Goddamn kids, more ‘n likely,” Hartley said.

As much as he’d like to have argued the point, Peter wondered if Hartley might not be right. There’d been a rash of criminal activity lately. The week before school opened, vandals climbed in through a basement window, trashed computers, kicked in walls and upturned desks. Walking into the classroom that morning, he’d felt sick, almost as if he’d been personally attacked.

A couple of hard cases had come to mind, but he couldn’t let himself believe that any student of his could be capable of such a willful destruction. Then, two Sundays ago someone tossed a firebomb through the post office window. And last night a house on the edge of town was broken into. Thankfully, the owners were away.

And now Heather.

“Heard about that poor Myers’ girl,” Hartley said, picking up on his thoughts. “What kind of sick bastards are running around loose out there anyway. If that poor kid does get her voice back and says who done it, the cops oughta fire a warning shot between his eyes, ask questions later.”

Fingers were already pointing to Tommy Prichard, also a past student of Peter’s. Tommy had been dating Heather. Suspicions not so surprising, perhaps, considering the violent nature of Tommy’s old man. But Tommy was nothing like his father; he was absolutely sure of that.

“Think I’ll pack ‘er in for tonight,” Hartley said, giving the axe a final swing, chunking its steel blade into the chopping block. Grimacing, he massaged his left shoulder. Peter remembered Aunt Iris mentioning that Hartley’s arthritis was giving him trouble. He was pretty sure Hartley wouldn’t have willingly shared that information; sometimes his aunt just knew things.

“Will you come inside for and sit a spell, Peter? I’ll brew us some coffee. Or maybe you could do with something a mite stronger.” Fishing a red polka-dotted handkerchief from his back pocket, he wiped the sweat from his tanned, creased brow.

“Don’t mind if I do, Hartley.”

A half-hour later, as they walked outside together, Hartley said, “Hear tell some woman from Deering up and bought George and Ethel’s old place.”

“That right?”

“Rumor has it.”

“Well, that’s good then. The place needs work, but it’s too fine a house to be left to the elements and the squirrels.”

The old man nodded as he lifted his gaze to the rolling dark clouds. “Getting ready for another downpour.” He met Peter’s eyes squarely. “You ever figure Jimmy Ray’ll come back here?”

“Dawson?” Peter said, surprised at the question. “No, why would he? Ethel and George are long gone from here. Anyway, Jimmy’s probably cooling his heels in a jail cell somewhere. What made you think of him?”

Hartley shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. Talking about the house, I suppose. Thinkin' of that lady over there alone. Maybe Jimmy Ray doesn’t know they moved. It would be like the little slimeball, you know, to come back here. Expect a light in the window. Kick a dog and expect it to lick your fingers.” He patted Luke on the head, as if to reassure him that such a thing would never happen to him. Then he looked out at the bay.

A light wind had come up, turning the water choppy.

“Margaret used to like to sit on the porch and look out at the water,” Hartley said, his voice thoughtful with memory, speaking more to himself then to Peter. “Used to say it was always different. Just like the sunsetsno two ever the same.”

Peter said nothing, sensing no reply was required or expected. Feeling his presence an intrusion, he headed back to his car, leaving the old man looking out at the bay and thinking about his long departed wife.

He glanced over his shoulder once to see that Luke had settled devotedly at his master’s feet, warm golden-brown eyes barely glancing at Peter’s retreating form.

Nine

The house was damp and chill from the rain, so after washing and putting the dishes away, Rachael set about lighting a fire in the fireplace. She was about to put a match to the paper when someone knocked at the front door.
Who could that be? She knew no one here.
The paper took and she tossed the match into the flame, went to answer.

She was startled to see the storekeeper standing in the doorway, grey hair blowing about the scarf she wore, and clutching two bags of groceries. Rachael could see the box of Oreos peaking from one of the bags.

“Mrs. Brandt?”

The woman gave a tentative smile. “I’m flattered you remembered my name. I do hope I’m not intruding, though I’m sure I am. You probably have a million things to do, getting settled in and all. But I promise I won’t hold you up. I just wanted to see ifwell, I’ve brought a few things from the store. I thought you might not feel up to cooking right off. And please—call me Iris.”

Just what I needed, Rachael thought ungraciously. The welcome wagon. “This is very generous of you, Mrs.—Iris. But I couldn’t possibly…”