“Yes.”
“You’d qualify for a loan, no problem. The house is your collateral.”
She pictured herself going to the local bank, applying for a loan, dealing with people who had known Victor for years. “It’s not qualifying that worries me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You know, this thing about my husband.”
“Banks are in business to make money. Not to listen to gossip.”
She studied his rough-hewn face, his patient, blunt hands. He wore no wedding ring, but that didn’t mean anything. He was a workingman; he’d probably left his jewelry at home. Maybe on the nightstand, next to his sleeping wife. Did he bend down to kiss her when he left in the morning? Did she inhale the scent of his pillow, feel his lingering warmth in the bedclothes?
Sandra swallowed hard, chagrined by the turn of her thoughts. “But my husband is . . . Victor was pretty well known around here.”
“I don’t know the finer points of the law, but it’s illegal for a bank to discriminate.”
She thought about what happened Sunday, the Winslows refusing her gift to the church, and the sting of that moment hardened into stubborn certainty. She couldn’t recall the last time she had felt so decisive about something. But she wanted this. Wanted to transform the house on Blue Moon Beach into the beautiful home her great-grandfather had built for his family. It didn’t seem to matter that she had to let it go once it was finished. The prospect of the building project itself had an elemental appeal. It was something constructive, something that had a beginning and an end. Maybe it would bring her life back into balance, at least for a while. “All right,” she said. “Let’s talk about the restoration.”
They worked out a tentative plan, and he was more than reasonable, even agreeing to defer his own fee until the house sold. Enviably self-confident, Malloy led her through each step of the contracting process. Victor used to take charge, she recalled. But in a much different way. Victor had an agenda. Mike had a vision. They were two different things.
As they concluded their schedules and figures, the kids came back from the beach, running across the yard. Mike got up, his whole face softening at the sight of them. “I’ll have them wait in the truck.”
“Oh, no you won’t,” she said. “Not on a day like this. It’s freezing outside. They’re probably starving.”
Doubt shadowed his face and her stomach plummeted. Maybe he wasn’t immune to the gossip after all. Maybe he didn’t want his kids in the house of a killer.
“They’ll live,” he said. “I don’t like leaving them by themselves when I’m at work.”
“You’re a single dad?”
He nodded. “The kids live with my ex-wife in Newport.”
“I see.” So, he wasn’t married after all. Suddenly, the world changed color. And her palms began to sweat. When she thought he was married, her interest in him had been like her interest in a Judith Lieber evening bag—something dazzling, but way out of her reach. The fact that he was single took away that safe distance.
“You seem to like having them with you,” she said.
“It shows?”
She smiled. “In every breath you take. I really would like it if they’d come in and warm up.”
“You asked for it.” He studied her briefly, then went to the back door and held it open. “This way, you two,” he said. “Leave your boots on the mat. Leave the dog out there too.”
“But, Dad, Zeke is freezing his balls off,” Kevin said. “His little furry balls.”
“That’s it. I’m leaving
you
on the porch,” Mike said.
Kevin stared at the floor. “Sorry.”
“Just leave your boots, okay?”
Trailing their jackets behind them and walking along in stocking feet, Kevin and Mary Margaret came into the kitchen. They looked around, Hansel and Gretel with red cheeks and hungry eyes.
Sandra was suddenly grateful she’d made that batch of molasses cookies. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Sandra. Would you like some cookies?”
“Sure, thanks.” Kevin Malloy had round cheeks, lightly dusted with freckles, his father’s petal-blue eyes and a grin that wouldn’t quit. Just seeing it stretch across his face made Sandra smile, too. For that alone, she liked the kid immediately.
“What about you, Mary Margaret?”
The girl shrugged. “All right, I guess. Thanks.”
There was nothing instantly likable about Mary Margaret. Sandra understood this as fully as a weather report. She noted the wariness in the girl’s wind-chapped face and hooded eyes, and it was like gazing into a mirror through time. Mary Margaret was the same kind of child Sandra had once been—awkward, intelligent, emotional. Her sharp gaze never missed a thing.
“What about some hot spiced cider?” Sandra suggested. “It’s from a mix, but it’ll warm you up.”
“Okay,” said Kevin.
“Yes, please,” Mary Margaret said. Without being told, she went to the sink to wash her hands, and motioned for her brother to do the same.
Pouring hot water from the kettle, Sandra mixed the spiced cider in thick china mugs. The kids sat at the table eating cookies, waiting for the cider to cool. Mary Margaret took a delicate sip. Almost crossing his eyes, Kevin blew on it with all his concentration. Sandra noticed Mike watching his son with a depth of affection so apparent and so private that she glanced away.
Mary Margaret tried to smooth down her fine, sandy brown hair, staticky from the hood of her jacket. Her gaze wandered to the profusion of notes stuck to the refrigerator with cartoon-character magnets. Sandra’s habit of making lists had long since gone beyond the notebook phase. Quickly, she scanned the notes to see if any of them would embarrass her.
Ten Things to Eat for Breakfast. Ten Things I Remember About Granddaddy Babcock. Ten Things to Say to a Phone Solicitor.
“I keep a lot of lists,” she explained, though no one asked. For some reason, she didn’t feel at all silly—probably because they were kids. Children never made her uncomfortable. It was one of manythings she liked about them.
“They all say ‘Ten Things,’” Mary Margaret observed. “Why ten?”
“I’m not sure. I picked that number randomly, a long time ago, and now it’s a habit. I suppose if you can’t think of ten items for a list, then either you’ve picked the wrong topic, or you’re not thinking hard enough.”
Kevin made a loud slurping sound in his mug, then announced, “My dad’s thirty-eight.”
“Thanks, pal,” Mike said, half smiling.
“Idiot,” Mary Margaret muttered under her breath.
Kevin ignored her. “Did you know a horse’s heart weighs nine pounds?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Sandra. “Did you know that a beaver can hold its breath for forty-five minutes?”
His eyes got big, and she could see him mentally filing the factoid away while Sandra did the same—assimilated the fact that Mike was the same age as Victor would be now, had he lived.
Kevin held out his wrist, showing off an oversized watch. “It’s one
A.M.
in Italy right now. This thing’s got three time zones.”
Mary Margaret exhaled a long-suffering sigh at the ceiling. Malloy, who was scraping a cabinet with his penknife to see what was under the green paint, paused and turned to Kevin. “Where’d you get the watch, son?”
“Carmine. That’s my stepdad,” Kevin told Sandra.
She sensed a sudden chill in the room and changed the subject. “My dad spent all his summers here when he was a boy,” she said. “He claims there’s buried treasure in the yard, but he can’t remember where.”
Kevin asked, “Is this a haunted house?”
“I’m still checking on that. When I was little, I used to visit my grandparents here, and I thought it might be haunted.”
“Really?” His blue eyes grew round with wonder.
“Yes, but I’d better not tell you about it, or you won’t get to sleep at night.”
“Ghosts don’t scare me.”
“See this?” She went to a square, shoulder-height door on the wall. “It’s a dumbwaiter. Broken now, but it used to run between the kitchen and the root cellar. When he was a little boy, my grandfather used to hide in here. One day, when I was about your age, I noticed that it seemed to go up and down all by itself.”
Kevin whistled between his teeth. “Cool. Does it still do that?”
“I ‘m not sure.”
“But it might,” he persisted.
“Maybe. This house is over a hundred years old-plenty of time to get infested by ghosts.” Almost defiantly, she stole a glance at Mike to see if he disapproved of the conversation, but he seemed preoccupied with measuring the soffit space above the cabinets with a long metal tape measure.
“Why do you say maybe?” Mary Margaret asked. “Have you seen any evidence?”
“I haven’t exactly seen anything. It’s just a feeling I get sometimes. I might be staring at the fire in the wood-stove, and see something unusual in the flames.”
“Do you get scared?” asked Kevin.
“No. A little sad, perhaps, because in most explanations of hauntings, the ghost suffered some sort of sadness or loss in the house. But my grandparents were nice people, so they’d probably turn into nice ghosts.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Mary Margaret said.
“Are you going to fix this place, Dad?” Kevin asked his father.
“You bet, sport.”
“Good. It needs it.”
“Kevin— “
“Sorry. Let me know if you spot a ghost.”
Mike reeled in his tape measure with a metallic hiss. “Sure thing.”
T
hey sure were happy to see you at the lumberyard,” said Phil Downing, climbing into the passenger seat as Mike signed the invoices.
“Yeah, it’s been a while.” Mike started the engine, adjusted the mirror to check the load of lumber, plaster, concrete, nails and tools in the bed of the truck.
“Feels good to be working on something other than a leaky basement,” Phil said. He was a plumbing and electrical contractor Mike had used in the past. Mike planned to subcontract for the painting, plaster and finish work, but not until the job was further along.
“Trust me, you’ll find more than leaks at this place.” The prospect of restoring the old beach house reminded him of the things he used to love about his work—probing the hidden mysteries of a hundred-year-old house, excavating the core layout, trying to see the building and landscape through the eyes of its original designer.
He’d spent days with the Babcock house in his head and on his computer screen, mentally and virtually weaving together history, symmetry, nature and architectural theory. He always liked this stage of the work, but it also brought on a bittersweet sense of regret. This was what he’d liked way back in his college days—this was what he was good at. Everyone had dismissed him as a jock, but his classes on architecture and design had set his brain on fire. Then the knee thing had happened, then Angela, and he’d had to leave in the middle of it all. Everyone said how great he’d done, the way he’d started his firm and made a big success of it—yet he’d always wished he could have stayed in school.
The current project couldn’t compare to the work he used to do in Newport, when he’d hired crews of restoration specialists and handled seven-figure budgets for wealthy clients. All that had fallen away during the divorce and dissolution. Fifteen years of work and sweat. Maybe Mike would build back up to that point one day, maybe not. For now, he’d settle for a project with a scope and rhythm he could control.
He put the invoices in a folder and drove out of the parking lot. “This order is chickenfeed compared to our previous volume.”
“One day at a time,” Phil said, then chuckled at the look on Mike’s face. In his late forties, a chain smoker in a knitted fisherman’s cap, Phil was a quiet, deliberate type who did steady work and kept his promises. He had one other skill Mike found rather startling—Phil had become a sophisticated computer expert. His gift for ferreting out lost files and configuring systems had bailed Mike out more than once. Mike didn’t know him well, but Phil was pretty open about the fact that he hadn’t always been so reliable. He’d had a rough life. Years ago, he was held liable in an auto accident he hadn’t caused. He started drinking, and his wife had taken their two boys out of state. Phil had hit bottom with a DUI, gone into court-ordered rehab and had been sober a good ten years.
He was like a ghost, sitting there—a sad, middle-aged guy, out of touch with his kids and ex-wife, subsisting on coffee and cigarettes and memories that grew dimmer every year.
Phil took out a Camel and turned it, unlit, over and over in his fingers. “That’s pretty much the way to deal with any setback, I figure.”
Highway 1 followed the curve of the Pettaquamscutt River, visible through the bare trees at the roadside. The sky was a sharp winter blue, so clear it made his eyes smart. If the weather held, he’d work on the old slate roof, a rare opportunity this time of year.
During the drive to the job site, he went over the work plan, while Phil studied computer-generated diagrams and elevations.
Paging through the printouts, Phil gave a low whistle. “You’re looking at a tight work schedule.”
“I’ll finish on time and on budget. I promised.”
“You’ll have to practically live there.”
“One thing I have plenty of these days is time,” Mike said. “I only get my kids one weekday and every other weekend.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“The arrangement’s up for evaluation next summer. I intend to ask for a lot more time.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “It sucks, after raising my kids for years, I suddenly have to prove to some social worker I can provide ‘adequate and stable housing,’ and a ‘nurturing environment.’ My lawyer’s advising me to look for a house, but hell, my kids love Paradise. They’re safe on the boat— they’ve spent practically every summer there.”
“It’s a damned funny thing—if the parents stay together, they can do God-knows-what to their kids, raise ’em as idol worshipers or tattoo their behinds or whatever. But as soon as a judge gets involved, you’re following someone else’s orders. Buddy of mine who’s Methodist has to take his kids to Catholic mass every other Sunday. By order of the judge, of course.”
“Everything I’ve been ordered to do is reasonable,” Mike said, “so far. I just don’t like being ordered to do it, like I’m a moron or a deadbeat.” The system seemed specially designed to bring out the worst in everybody involved. He’d had to learn to let go of things even when every instinct told him to hold on with all his might. He’d had to change the whole focus of his life, and maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, but it sure as hell felt that way. He’d been cutting expenses every way he knew how, living on his boat while looking for the right house for his kids, putting something by for their education every month, no matter what, keeping up with child support payments. Every spare dollar he earned went to savings—for the legal war chest he was amassing for the new custody evaluation, and for making a better life for Kevin and Mary Margaret.
“Hang in there,” Phil said. “Things will settle down, you’ll see.”
Mike kept his eyes on the road. He was getting too used to the way things were. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to get accustomed to living alone, to seeing his kids on a court-ordered schedule. What the hell kind of life was that?
Angela’s husband, Carmine, had more money than time for a family, supplying ample quantities of designer toys while skimping on anything that resembled serious parenting. He liked the idea of having kids more than the reality of it. Mike tried to be thankful that Carmine was an okay guy—a business owner, volunteer fireman, seemed proud of the kids. He didn’t care for Mike at all, of course, though he did a pretty good job of hiding that from Kevin and Mary Margaret. Mike wasn’t crazy about the fact that Carmine doled out expensive gifts like candy on Halloween, but he never said a word, even though they always seemed to have something new from their stepfather.
Sometimes Mike tortured himself, wondering what it was doing to them to have their family split into two separate households. He’d watched Mary Margaret and Kevin stagger through the whole gamut of emotions from grief to remorse, insecurity to fury. The family counselor advised him and Angela to expect conflicts of loyalty, acting out, sliding grades in school.
What are we doing to our kids, Angela?
“Hey, slow down, pal,” Phil cautioned. “Don’t want to lose our load before we get there.”
Mike glanced at the speedometer. Eighty-five. Jesus. “Sorry,” he said and eased up on the accelerator. As they turned down the coast, the landscape grew wilder, more dramatic, the woods unkempt, the waves exploding against high, rocky banks. Mike could see the crooked wind vane of the old house poking above a thicket of mangled trees and overgrown bushes.
“There’s one thing you ought to be aware of before we get started,” Mike said. “The client is Sandra Winslow.”
“Victor Winslow’s widow?” The unlit cigarette twirled in Phil’s hand. “You don’t say.”
“She wants to sell the family beach house.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. You can’t get away with murder until you actually get. . . away.”
“You think she did it?”
“Probably not,” Phil said, “but where’s the fun in that? So what’s she like?”
Sad. Quiet. Nervous. Fragile. Mike wasn’t sure how to describe her. He couldn’t even figure out his complicated reaction to her. The fact that she was so alone reminded him of his own losses, bringing him face-to-face with a truth he didn’t want to acknowledge. “She doesn’t strike me as the type who would off her husband for the insurance,” he said.
“You never really know about people, eh? But you’re okay with her as a client?”
“I can’t be choosy.” In the past, his clients had reacted to his work with pride and wonder, but he didn’t expect enthusiasm from Sandra Winslow. Impatience and irritation, maybe.
Mike pulled into the drive, parking behind her blue hatchback. Phil got out and lit up, pushing back his cap to look at the house.
“So this is it,” Mike said. A hedge of mountain laurel bordered the yard, and Concord grapes, with last year’s shriveled clusters still hanging on the vines, draped the rickety cedar fence on one side. Under a graceful sycamore tree stood a small bird feeder, and he was a little surprised to see that it was well stocked with seeds.
“This is some place,” Phil said. “I don’t blame you for wanting to restore it.” He surveyed the long, curving porch and busy woodwork edging the roof. Like most Carpenter Gothics, the house had been drawn from the builder’s own fanciful ideas rather than the plans of a trained architect. The ornate wooden detail was unique to this house alone, one of the factors that was going to make it a valuable piece of real estate.
A peculiar feeling came over Mike each time he studied the house. He felt a vague sense of recognition—not only because he was an expert on this sort of design, but because of the way the whole place was put together. It felt right, oriented perfectly to the ocean view, every line whimsical but balanced.
Sandra Winslow met them at the front door, and Phil ground out his cigarette on the brick walkway. She looked a little distracted, a pen tucked behind her ear, a tentative smile on her face. Today she wore dark slacks and a sweater, her hair pulled back. No makeup. Mike introduced them, explaining that Phil would be in charge of the electrical and plumbing work.
She held the door open wide to the formal vestibule. “There’s coffee on in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Phil stepped into the entranceway, all business as he scanned the area from baseboards to tall ceilings. The house had a dining room adjacent to the broad front parlor, a library nook and a big country kitchen down the hall. Phil headed toward the kitchen, drawn by the sharp, rich aroma of coffee.
“Your copies of the contract.” Mike handed her the stapled pages. “You’ll want to take your time looking over that.”
“Thanks.” The softest of smiles touched her lips. “And I have something for you.”
His mouth dried.
Damn.
What the hell was it about this woman? Just one look, a brief exchange of conversation, generated a swift, unexpected heat between them, and the reaction intensified each time he saw her. She wasn’t beautiful the way Angela was, not in a head-turning, wolf-whistle way. Sandra had a subtle magnetism in the depths of her brown eyes, and there was something fresh and honest in her face. According to Ronald Winslow, that was how she’d beaten the rap during the medical examiner’s investigation.
“So I’m supposed to guess?” he asked.
“You’d never guess.” She led the way into the parlor, the most dramatic room in the house with its leaded bow-front window framing a view that dazzled today. The blue of the sky had the crispness found only in winter, imbuing the Atlantic with the deeper hue of sapphire. A pair of colored glass birds hanging from the window sash caught the light. He touched one with a finger, and color swept across the room.
“Victor made those,” she said softly. “It was a hobby of his.”
Mike turned away, making no comment. It was hard, seeing those little glass ornaments hanging in the sunlight, knowing Victor had made them. How much harder it must be for Sandra, his widow. He wondered how she could stand it.
She went over to the library alcove, which was littered with books, a desk with a computer and printer, stacking trays overflowing with letters and forms. He couldn’t quite make out the text on the computer screen. Had she been surfing the Internet? Playing computer solitaire? Sending E-mail to a secret lover? Was her world inside that computer now that the locals shunned her?
He wanted to ask her, but he knew he wouldn’t. Her invisible, self-protective shell set boundaries between them. At the same time, she moved him in a way he hadn’t expected and didn’t like. Her vulnerability made him sharply aware that he had numbed himself to emotion and had been doing so for too long. He wanted his family back, he missed them like hell, and for some reason, Sandra Winslow unearthed all that buried need in him.
“Here you go,” she said, handing him a rolled document, yellowed with age and brittle at the edges. Just for a moment, her eyes shone with artless delight. He wondered if she’d been this way with Victor, unconsciously sexy, a little awkward, almost girlish in her appeal.
He unrolled the paper on the round table in front of the window. Sandra weighted the corners with a seashell, an ashtray filled with buttons, an empty soda bottle and a coaster from Schillers Bar. Mike stared in amazement at a well-preserved house plan, complete with detailed elevation drawings.
“Cool, huh?” she said, standing close enough to touch. “I found this at my father’s, along with the deed.”
“You’re—” Mike broke off, unwilling to get too personal with this woman. “It’s a rare document—pretty in-credible. I’ll have working copies made, and we can register the original with the historical society.” For a second, a light glinted in her eyes, giving him a glimpse of a different woman beneath the somber facade. The unguarded moment revealed sensitivity, vulnerability, and those were things that shouldn’t interest him at all. But the thought swept through him like a rogue wave—I
want you—
and somehow, she must have felt it, because she stepped back, as though from a too-hot stove.
“Fine with me.” Even without moving, she seemed to withdraw.
“You’re lucky. It’s a hell of a find.” Mike could tell he made her nervous, and he didn’t know why. He thought about the way she’d been around his kids—far more relaxed and natural than she was with him. Kevin and Mary Margaret didn’t have a clue about her troubles, and they accepted her at face value. In the truck on the way home, Kevin even declared that he liked her. Mary Margaret hadn’t said much at all—Mike was never sure what was going on in his daughter’s head these days.