Authors: Joy Fielding
The truth was that she was more convinced than ever that Devon was alive, that she’d seen her again this very afternoon, and that it was only a matter of time before they came face-to-face. After all, Cork wasn’t that big a city. Tomorrow she’d go back to the O’Connor house, wait for their nanny to emerge, spend the day following her around. She was confident Shannon would lead her to Devon eventually.
If only that damn bicycle hadn’t come flying out of nowhere to knock me down, Marcy was thinking as she lowered herself gingerly into the tub, we might already be together. She gasped as the hot water surrounded her, covering the fresh bruises that dotted her legs and arms.
She heard her sister admonish her:
It’s not good to take such a hot bath
.
“Go away, Judith,” Marcy told her impatiently, sinking down lower in the tub, the water rising to accommodate her as she stretched her feet out to their full length. She felt it creep
above her chin to tease at her mouth, and she closed her eyes as the water reached her forehead, feeling her hair floating around her head like seaweed.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
, she recited silently, recalling the last few lines of her once favorite poem by T. S. Eliot.
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown./Till human voices wake us, and we drown
.
In the aftermath of the discovery of Devon’s overturned canoe, Marcy had tried to imagine what it felt like to drown. Every day for weeks she’d climbed into the tub in her master bathroom and let the water surround her, feeling it tug on her skin like an anchor, weighing her down. Then she’d slip slowly and quietly beneath the surface and open her mouth.
One time Peter had walked in on her.
He’d come into the bathroom to get ready for bed and discovered her submerged in the tub. He’d literally grabbed her by the hair and yanked her up, as if he were some goddamn caveman, she remembered thinking at the time, all the while screaming at her, “What the hell are you doing? What the hell are you doing?” Then he’d forcefully removed the door from its hinges with a wrench and a pair of pliers. The bathroom had remained doorless for the better part of eighteen months. He’d replaced it again only weeks before he moved out, as if underlining the fact that she was no longer his concern.
He needn’t have worried. She couldn’t have gone through with it. The feeling of panic as the water replaced the air in her body was simply too terrifying for Marcy to endure for longer than a few seconds.
Had Devon felt that same panic? she’d often wondered. Had she struggled to survive even as the icy water filled her lungs? Had she cried out for her mother one last time before she died?
Except she hadn’t died, Marcy knew now.
“My baby’s alive,” she whispered as the water licked playfully at her ears. “She isn’t dead. She isn’t dead,” she repeated, the pleasant sound of her words vibrating gently against her eardrums.
Except it wasn’t her words that were ringing, she realized after several moments. It was her cell phone. Undoubtedly her sister, she decided, trying to ignore the persistent sound. Except it couldn’t be Judith, she realized with a start. There was no way Judith could have found out her number, no way she could have traced her call. She’d blocked her number. No, the only person it could be was Liam, and if he was calling her, it meant he’d seen Devon.
Perhaps she was with him right now.
Marcy vaulted from the tub, her wet feet slipping on the tile floor and sending her crashing against the side of the bathroom door. “Damn it.” She cursed, feeling new bruises already forming as she flung herself toward the bed. She’d be lucky to get out of Ireland alive, she thought, flipping open her phone. “Hello? Hello?”
“Hello?” Liam said in reply. “Marcy, is that you?”
“Liam?”
“Are you all right? You sound a little—”
“Have you seen Devon?”
“No,” he said. “Have you?”
Marcy’s response was to burst into tears.
“Marcy, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s okay. I just thought …”
“You thought that my calling meant I’d seen her,” he said. “I’m so sorry. Of course you’d think that.”
“Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” Marcy told him about having seen Devon earlier.
“Wait a minute,” he said when she was through her story. “You’re saying you got hit by a bicycle? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. A few bruises is all. It was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“You’re sure you’re all right? You could have a concussion.”
“I’m fine,” she repeated, sounding as tired and defeated as she felt.
“Except that by the time you got back on your feet …”
“She was gone,” Marcy said.
“Well, I wish I was calling with some news.…”
“Why
are
you calling?”
She felt him smile. “There was someone here just now askin’ about you.”
“What? Who?”
“A man.”
“What man?” Was it possible Peter had tracked her down, that he’d abandoned his new love on the golf course and flown all the way to Ireland to bring Marcy home?
“I’m pretty sure it was the man you were with the other day,” she heard Liam say.
“The man I was with …?” What man had she been with? “Do you mean Vic? Vic Sorvino?” Marcy asked incredulously.
“Yep, that’s him. I’m starin’ at his business card right now.”
What was Vic doing here? “Did he say what he wanted?”
“Just that he was lookin’ for you and that he thought you might have come back to the pub.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure what you’d want me to tell him, so I said no, I hadn’t seen you.”
Marcy couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or relieved. What was Vic doing back in Cork? Hadn’t she told him this was something she needed to do alone?
“Did I do the right thing?” Liam was asking.
“You did. Thank you.”
“Do you want his number?”
“I have it.” Marcy reached into her purse and extricated Vic’s card, tearing it into a bunch of little pieces and watching them fall to the bedspread like so much confetti.
“So, what do you want me to tell him,” Liam asked, “assuming he checks in with me again?”
“Tell him you haven’t seen me.”
“You’re sure?”
Marcy felt Vic’s lips brushing gently against hers, felt his fingers tracing delicate lines along her flesh, heard his soft words,
You’re beautiful
, as they floated tenderly across her skin. It had felt so good to be wanted again, to have a man look at her with something other than pity or contempt. Or worse—indifference. She didn’t deserve to feel so good. Not yet. Not until she’d found Devon. Not until she’d had a chance to make things right. “I’m sure.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“There was just somethin’ about the man that made me a bit uncomfortable,” Liam said.
“Uncomfortable?”
“I don’t know how else to say it. Something just seemed a little off. You know what I mean?”
Marcy shook her head. In truth, she had no idea what Liam was talking about. Vic Sorvino hadn’t struck her as “off” in any way. But then she’d never been a very good judge of character when it came to men.
“Marcy?” Liam asked. “Are you still there?”
“Oh, yes. Sorry.”
“I haven’t insulted you, have I?”
“How could you insult me?”
“Well, if this Vic fellow is a friend of yours …”
“He isn’t.” He’s just a man I met on a bus, she thought, trying not to feel Vic’s warm body pressing against hers or hear his comforting snores echoing in her ear.
She didn’t deserve to feel comforted.
“You hungry?” Liam was asking.
Marcy immediately felt her stomach cramp. “I am a bit, yes.”
“Pick you up in half an hour,” he said.
W
ELL, LET’S SEE. HUSBAND
number one was a musician,” Marcy was saying, a little voice in the back of her head telling her she probably shouldn’t be discussing her sister in this way.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Liam said, as if sensing her reservations. “It’s none of my business really. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s no big deal. Judith wouldn’t care.” How many times had she heard her sister boast of being “wildly indiscreet”? Besides, could any woman who’d been married five times really expect
not
to be talked about?
“I was just trying to take your mind off things.”
“I know.”
By “things,” he meant the fact that despite taking her to
one of the most popular gathering spots for young people in all of Cork, they’d yet to spot Devon. Despite showing her daughter’s picture to virtually everyone in the noisy room, they’d yet to find a single person who recognized her.
“Oh, well. It’s early,” he’d said as they settled into the corner booth of the crowded downscale restaurant on Grattan Street. “Maybe she’ll turn up in a bit,” he’d said as they’d placed their dinner orders with the pink-haired waiter. “This place stays busy all night,” he’d remarked as they finished the first of their Irish coffees. “If not tonight,” he’d said reassuringly as they placed their orders for a second, “then tomorrow. She’ll turn up. You’ll see. We’ll find her.”
Marcy had smiled. It felt good to be a “we.”
A unit, she’d thought, feeling Peter’s instant disapproval.
“You grimaced,” Liam had said immediately. “Are you sorry you let me ambush you into coming out tonight?”
He notices everything, Marcy thought, looking around the brightly lit room. “No, I’m glad I came. Why
did
you ask me out?” she asked in the next breath. “I’m sure there are dozens of young women out there you could have called.”
“Maybe I did. Maybe they all turned me down.” Liam smiled. “Or maybe I don’t find young women all that interesting.”
“And you think I am?”
“I think you just might be.” His smile spread to his eyes.
Marcy had blushed and turned away.
Which was when he’d asked about her family.
“I have an older sister,” she’d told him, relieved to shift the focus off herself. “Judith. She’s been married five times.”
He laughed. “Obviously an optimist.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it.”
Long, slender fingers played with the collar of his black
shirt before fanning out around his face, his chin resting in the palm of his hand. “And how would you put it?”
Marcy gave the question a moment’s thought. “I think she’s just afraid of being alone.”
“My mother used to say there was nothing lonelier than an unhappy marriage.”
Marcy nodded. “Your mother’s a very wise woman.”
“Not so sure about that,” Liam said, sipping on his Irish coffee. “So … about those five husbands …”
Marcy began. “Well, let’s see. Husband number one was a musician.”
“You don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business really. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s no big deal. Judith wouldn’t care.”
“I was just trying to take your mind off things.”
“I know.”
“In that case, what kind of musician?” he asked.
“Drummer.”
“Oh, no. The worst.”
Liam laughed and Marcy laughed with him, deciding to go with the flow. “He really
was
awful. But she was all of nineteen and I think the fact he made a lot of noise was very appealing to her. It kind of blocked out everything else that was going on.”
“Which was?”
“Way too complicated to get into now,” Marcy said. “Anyway, to absolutely no one’s surprise, the marriage lasted less than a year.”
“What happened?”
“The band broke up.”
“Ah-ha, I see. No more noise.”
Marcy agreed. “No more noise.”
“And husband number two?”
“A photographer she met when she was trying to break into modeling.”
“Your sister was a model?”
“For about ten minutes. Judith has a rather short attention span.”
“And the marriage lasted …?”
“Two weeks.”
“I see what you mean about a short attention span.”
“Actually, that wasn’t the reason they split up,” Marcy clarified. “It turned out he was gay.”
Liam nodded. “Dare I ask about husband number three?”
“An advertising executive. It lasted four years.”
“Well, now, that’s an improvement.”
“He was away a lot.”
“And it broke up because …?”
“He started staying home.”
Again Liam laughed. “Number four?”
“A stockbroker she met at the gym. Nice enough guy until he started taking steroids.”
“It lasted …?”
“Eight years.”
“Perfectly respectable,” Liam said. “Which brings us to husband number five.”
“A lawyer. Specializes in medical malpractice. Does very well indeed. They’ve been married almost fifteen years now.”
“So, he’s a keeper, is he?”
“Well, that remains to be seen.”
“Any children?”
“No. Judith never wanted kids.”
“Unlike you,” Liam stated more than asked.
“Unlike me.”
“So, how many times have you been married?”
Marcy took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “Only once.”
Liam cocked his head to one side, clearly intrigued. “So … widowed, divorced, happily married?”
“Separated,” Marcy said. “My divorce should be final in another month or so.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“How am I supposed to feel?” Marcy could hear the sudden testiness in her voice.
“Sorry, I think that was
definitely
none of my business.”
Marcy took a long sip of her Irish coffee, not because she wanted more but because it gave her time to think. “No, it’s all right. It’s just that I haven’t really talked about it with anybody.”
“Do you want to talk about it now?”
“No,” she said. Then, “Maybe.” Then again, “Actually yes, I think I do.”
Liam looked at her expectantly.
“There’s really nothing to say,” Marcy told him after a pause. “I mean, what do you say? My husband left me for another woman. It’s such a cliché.” She took another deep breath, returned the mug of Irish coffee to her lips, then lowered it again immediately. “You asked me how I feel. I’ll tell you. I’m angry. No, I’m furious. I feel betrayed. I feel abandoned. I feel embarrassed. I mean, he left me for one of the golf pros at our country club. They haven’t had a scandal like this in years. And all my friends …” She laughed, a sharp bark that scratched at the air. “My friends. What friends? We didn’t really have that many friends to begin with, and then after what happened with Devon …” She broke off. “I can’t really blame them. It’s hard for people after a tragedy. They don’t know what to say. They don’t know what to do. So instead of saying or doing the wrong thing, they don’t say or do anything. And then pretty soon
they stop calling and coming around. And then it’s just the two of you. And you don’t know what to say to each other either because everything you say is a potential land mine waiting to be stepped on, and it makes it hard, it makes it really hard, for a marriage to survive. Not that we didn’t have problems before.” Marcy continued, unable to stem the flow of words that poured from her mouth like water from a tap. “We’d been having problems for a few years, ever since it became obvious that Devon, that Devon, that Devon …” Her voice stuck on her daughter’s name, as if it were a broken record.