Authors: Jacqueline Sheehan
October
T
oday was the big day. Rocky waited for dawn, but the span of darkness stretched out longer in the fall. She finally gave up and turned on the light by her bed. Cooper rose instantly. What if she had lost him? What if he hadn't miraculously trekked back nearly thirty miles to Portland? What if the homeless guy hadn't recognized him and brought him back? (“Stop calling him that,” Melissa had said. “His name is Ryan, and he says that he can't live indoors anymore, not after being in Iraq.”) What if Danielle had been hurt? What if Melissa hadn't been hanging around Chester Hill taking photos without telling her parents?
“Cooper?”
The dog stretched, head lowered, butt up. One stretch in the morning, and he was ready for the day. He seemed built for diving into the ocean, leaping into the air, finding kidnapped children in a third-story walk-up. Just last week, when Hill had been on Peaks, waking up deliciously warm and easy in her bed on Sunday morning, he had told her, “You, me, and Cooper. I like the combination.”
“And Peterson the cat,” she had said, pulling him back under the thick muff of the comforter.
Now she pulled on stretch pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and a jacket. She'd clean up for the big events later, but for now it was just Rocky and Cooper. Soon enough, Hill would be there, along with most of the islanders. She wanted to see the two houses before everyone showed up for the dedication at eleven. It was a Saturday morning after Columbus Day on Peaks, and there were no cars on the streets. Being 6:00
A.M.
sort of clinched it.
If Natalie's world hadn't gone so horribly off the rails, Rocky would have insisted that the money go directly to her. If only . . . if only she hadn't staged a kidnapping and committed a federal crime. Rocky's lawyer said it best. “If she's ever found, she'll be arrested, just for starters. And the money was not left to Natalie, it was left to you.”
She had thought about it for weeks after Natalie was gone, after disaster was averted with Danielle. She had walked and walked with Cooper, throwing so many sticks into the ocean for her good dog that Tess nearly had to relocate her inflamed shoulder. She appeared in Isaiah's office in August. “Who owns the land adjacent to my new house?” she had asked him, as if they had just been talking about it moments ago instead of months ago. “The land with all the wild wisteria that I saw this spring?”
“Why do you want to know?” Isaiah had been getting ready to send out his two employees with the street sweeper for the roads down front, as they did every Thursday morning.
“Because I know what I'm going to do with the money. I'm going to build a house for foster families to use. They can come out to Peaks for a respite, and they won't have to pay. Ira Levine can help with this. I don't have to figure out the detailsâthat can be his job.”
Isaiah had put down a can of Pennzoil right next to his coffee cup. “I know this is a useless question with you, but have you thought this all the way through? Does this mean you are going to live right next to a house filled with a constant flow of families and kids? Your own house is well on its way.”
Rocky sat down on one of his chairs with the cracked vinyl seats. She hadn't felt this light or this good in months, not since the days before Bob died, back in her other life.
“The old Costello house was never quite right for me. I wanted to believe that the house felt right, but it didn't. I was a caretaker and now I know why. The house was waiting for me to fix it up for families who really need it. This way, there will be two houses right next to each other that can be respite houses. That's enough for about fifty families to come out here for a week who might not have been able to afford a vacation.”
Cooper slid down at her feet in the contented aftermath of stick retrieving. Rocky continued. “I'm happy right where we are. Your little rental cottage is perfect. It fits me like a favorite pair of jeans. You said you were tired of renting and that you might sell after I moved out. Why don't you sell me that little place?”
Isaiah didn't answer right away. He held Rocky in a long stare, then looked out the window and rubbed the back of his neck. “Let me talk to Charlotte first. She's wanted to sell that place for years. She doesn't have one drop of sentimental attachment to it.”
The surprise bonus with the wisteria land was that it had a big chunk of soggy land that the beavers were turning into their own watery world. Rocky and Isaiah had Carlos the Realtor broker the sale of the rental cottage, and he was instrumental in acquiring the property that Rocky wanted. Once Rocky told him what she was going to do with the property, he slashed his fee down to 1 percent. “I can't go lower than that. Business is business,” he said. Rocky kissed him on the cheek. He came up with the idea to make the beaver zone a land trust. Now two houses were being built for the Maine foster care system. With the last bit that she had left over, she made a down payment on Isaiah's little cottage and got a mortgage for the rest.
“I come from blue-collar stock,” Rocky had told Carlos. “We like to be saddled with mortgage payments.”
Today was the dedication of the two houses and the land trust for the beavers. Rocky jogged along the dirt roads, and Cooper trotted in large circles, dipping into the woods, peeing at his favorite places, always keeping Rocky in the center of his circle. Part of the sky melted into gray, then pink.
Ira Levine would be here today as the representative of the foster care system. He had sent over his framed calligraphy, the words
Tzadikim Nistarim,
and instructed Rocky to have it placed in between the studs on one of the houses, sealed like hidden treasure. He had offered Rocky a job as a psychological consultant for the Portland area, and she had accepted the position on the condition that she could keep her job on Peaks as animal control warden.
Tess insisted that a fir tree be hoisted to the top of each house for good luck, even if the second house was little more than framed. Russell Barry had to figure out how to attach a big potted fir tree to a roofless house. Tess and Danielle had strung white lights on the tree. Russell said that if he had to figure out how to attach a tree to the second story, then he should get to read one of his narrative poems for the occasion.
Rocky smelled the raw lumber as she approached the new house, just a quarter-mile from the house she'd bought back in June. Raw lumber was so full of promise, free of tortured past deeds. She stood in the center of the first floor where massive flats of bathroom fixtures had arrived the day before, an unsolicited donation from Home Depot with a note that said, “You were right about the Labradoodle. Mark.” Cooper brought along a newly found stick and delivered it to her feet.
The crows began to wake up. The birds called each other with plans for the day and news of the night. She might have time to get in some archery practice this morning. There were pizza crusts that she could give to the crows. Lately they had been crazy about the pepperoni.
Cooper heard Melissa before Rocky did. He dropped his stick and looked down the dirt road. He wagged his tail and let his jaw open in a happy Lab smile. Rocky finally heard the crunch of gravel. Melissa cruised down the road on her mother's bike, her camera gear already stashed in the front basket. Cooper greeted her as if he hadn't seen her in years, rubbing his large black body around her legs.
“I figured you two would be here,” said Melissa, swinging off the bike. She pulled a large manila envelope from the basket. “I wasn't ever going to give this to you, but Tess said I should.”
What could be so reluctantly offered? Rocky slid open the clasp and pulled out an eight-by-ten photo of Natalie, taken before all the bad things happened. Melissa had caught the look of longing, of wanting, of falling in love for a nanosecond. A breeze had blown her sandy hair across one cheek. She could have been anyone's daughter, a girl with an expectant whispered secret. Rocky felt a jolt to her spine.
Melissa cleared her throat. “She was watching Tess and Danielle dance on the rocks. I think in this one moment she saw how much they loved each other. You know how Tess is. How can you not see it? I still think Natalie was a five-star wacko, but . . .” Melissa stopped, shrugging.
“Thanks,” said Rocky. She slid the photo back into the envelope. She shuffled her feet, as if she was clearing a special space right there on the plywood subflooring. “Let's see if Isaiah is in his office yet. Maybe we can drag him out for coffee before everyone gets here.”
“You go ahead. I'm going to take some pictures, a series about the houses, right from the beginning,” said Melissa.
I
saiah still had a sleep wrinkle on one side of his face, but he broke into a smile when he saw them. He pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and rustled about for something. He finally extracted a coffee cup that said, P
ORTLAND
P
UBLIC
R
ADIO
. He wiped it off with a piece of paper towel. “Perfect. Charlotte donates money to them every year. She has an entire collection. The café should just be opening up. Let's see if they made cinnamon buns.”
The café opened at seven during the off-season. They walked in companionable silence as autumn leaves caught updrafts. Few people could hold a silence for long, but Isaiah was one of the masters. When they reached the café, he said, “My treat.” He handed the slightly chipped cup to Francine, the owner, and said, “This is Rocky's official cup until she can come up with something better.”
The smell of sticky buns was intoxicating. Cooper put his nose straight up. Rocky placed her hand on the counter, and all the ceremony of the day rushed into her, filling her past capacity.
“I was wondering what she was waiting for,” said Francine. “I'll put it right next to your M
UTUAL
L
IFE
cup.” She reached up and grabbed his cup from the clatter of cups that belonged to the regulars. She grabbed stainless steel tongs and pulled a bun from the pan, dripping with buttery sugar and nuts, and put it on a plate.
Rocky didn't know that it would feel like this, or that she would recognize it when it happened. The sense of being home, belonging, had been an ossified emotion since Bob died. He had been her home, wherever he was, and when he left, Rocky's home had evaporated. She had been able to get through the worst months looking almost like a normal human being. Except to those who loved her. When Francine hung her ceramic cup with the others, she finally understood that those who loved her had known all along that she had been living on the cusp of the in-between land. With her cup hanging up in the café, she had a sense of things stirring and rearranging themselves in some elemental way.
“Now it's official,” said Francine, dramatically reaching for Rocky's cup as if she hadn't just put it there ten seconds ago. Isaiah's easy hand on her shoulder threw the final circuit breaker.
Cooper, sensing a sea change, did something he rarely did, and almost always in times of dire circumstances. He barked. One, two, three barks that harmonized and hung in the air long enough for Francine to stop wiping down the small counter, for the two customers seated by the window to turn their heads, and for Rocky, who needed no translation, to know a bark of celebration when she heard it.
The following people generously offered me places where I could write in undisturbed solitude: Patricia Lee Lewis and her hundred acres, Lisa Drnec Kerr and Owl Cottage, and Fred Ranaudo and his sunny dining room. Susan Stinson's Writing Room at Forbes Library in Northampton, Massachusetts, offered me the collective juice of other writers. I am sincerely thankful to Hawthornden Castle in Scotland and Jentel Arts in Wyoming for their support and good humor.
Fiction opens up new realms of research, and many people shared their time and expertise with me. They include: Cynthia Hinckley of Bright Spot Therapy Dogs, physical therapist Joann Berns, Sheila Ryan of the Department of Children and Familes in Massachusetts, the Portland Police Department, and all the good people of Peaks Island, Maine.
The homing beacon for my writing is the Great Darkness Writing Group. They are: Marianne Banks, Jeanne Borfitz, Jennifer Jacobson, Celia Jeffries, Lisa Drnec Kerr, Alan and Edie Lipp, Patricia Lee Lewis, Patricia Riggs, and Marion VanArsdell. My Manuscript Group maintains a steady drumbeat of deadlines, without which I would write even more slowly. They are: Marianne Banks, Kris Holloway, Rita Marks, Brenda Marsian, Ellie Meeropol, Lydia Nettler, and Dori Ostermiller. Morgan Sheehan-Bubla provided essential editorial reviews.
The people are HarperCollins are brilliant. I work closely with my editor, Carrie Feron, and associate editor Tessa Woodward. And I can never say it enough times: Jenny Bent, you are the best agent ever.
J
ACQUELINE
S
HEEHAN
, Ph.D., is a fiction writer and essayist, the bestselling author of the novels
Lost & Found
and
Now & Then
. Currently on the faculty of Writers in Progress and Grub Street in Massachusetts, she also offers international workshops on the combination of yoga and writing. She writes travel articles about lesser-known destinations and lives in Massachusetts.
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This book is a work of fiction. References to
real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only
to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other
characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author's
imagination and are not to be construed as real.
PICTURE THIS
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Copyright © 2012 by Jacqueline Sheehan. All rights reserved under International
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FIRST
EDITION
ISBN: 978-0-06-200812-1
Epub Edition JUNE 2012 ISBN: 9780062101532
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