Water Like a Stone (5 page)

Hunched against the cold in her padded coat, she looked more vulnerable than he had ever seen her. She was regarding him with a puzzled expression.

“Duncan, can’t we go?” she asked.

We’ve got family waiting,
she had said to Babcock. He thought of Gemma and the boys, marooned at his parents’ as Christmas Eve ticked away, and cursed himself for a selfish bastard.

“Of course,” he said, and to Babcock he added, “Good luck with it, then.”

He turned and walked Juliet to her van, but as he started to get into his own car, he couldn’t resist a look back at the scene.

Babcock was still standing in the same spot, watching him, his lips curved in a knowing smile.

“Where the hell is she?” Caspar Newcombe slammed the phone back into its cradle on his desk. “It’s nearly eight o’clock and not a word from her, and we’re supposed to be serving dinner for her whole bloody clan before midnight mass.”

“Have you tried ringing her mother?” His partner, Piers Dutton, settled himself a little more comfortably in one of the client’s chairs across from Caspar’s desk and arranged one ankle over the other. Fed up with pacing round the empty house and ringing his wife’s unresponsive mobile phone, Caspar had walked the short distance to his firm and found Piers there, finishing up some paperwork. Seeing Caspar’s expression, Piers had got up from his desk and followed Caspar into his office.

Newcombe and Dutton, Investments, occupied the ground-floor premises at the end of a Georgian terrace near the town square, just a few yards from St. Mary’s Church. The building was a gem,
and Caspar took great pride in their acquisition of the office suite. He’d also expected his wife to share his feelings, and to look on her position as office manager of Newcombe and Dutton as a privilege.

Instead, she had walked out on them without so much as giving notice, and had
borrowed
money to set herself up in business as a builder. A builder! If she had intended to humiliate him, she couldn’t have made a better choice. Not that she hadn’t always been handy around the house—in fact, he’d been pleased when she’d tackled projects that would have required calling in a professional—but this was beyond the pale. And now—now he found she’d done worse.

“I shouldn’t have to be chasing after her like she was a wayward child,” he said sulkily to Piers. Caspar eyed his own chair, an executive leather model that had cost the earth, but felt too irritated to sit. Instead, he crossed the room to the drinks cabinet and poured a good finger of Dalwhinnie single malt into two crystal tumblers. These were not just any tumblers, of course, but Finnish crystal in a contemporary design. Waterford was passé, in Caspar’s opinion, and he made a point that everything in the firm’s offices should reflect the best and most up-to-date.

That included himself, although he was forced to admit that even in the finest wool trousers and a pale yellow cashmere jumper, he still looked like the accountant he was, no matter how glorified his title. He was too tall, too thin, too dark, with fine-boned and serious features that had not been designed for the sort of nonchalant charm his partner radiated so effortlessly.

“Cheers,” said Piers now, as Caspar handed him a whisky. He sipped and took a moment to savor the taste before giving his verdict. “Very nice. You shouldn’t let Juliet raise your blood pressure, you know,” he added, peering at Caspar over his glass. “She’s probably just got hung up with family. Didn’t you say her brother was arriving? He could have been delayed by the weather.”

Caspar was not to be mollified. “I don’t see how that excuses her
turning off her phone. It’s inconsiderate, under any circumstances. And that’s not to mention her inviting them all for Christmas Eve dinner without consulting me.”

“It’s Christmas, Caspar. If I can achieve détente over dinner with my lovely ex, then you can certainly put up with the in-laws. You make it sound as if they have the plague.” Piers downed another third of his drink. He was a big man, with thick fair hair that sprang from his brow in a leonine wave, and if he had begun to put on a little weight as he entered his forties, he carried it well. Tonight he wore a long denim coat over a nubby green sweater, and looked every inch the country squire.

Stinging a bit from Piers’s criticism, Caspar changed the subject. “Is Leo already at Helen’s, then?” he asked.

Leo was Piers’s fourteen-year-old son, Helen his ex-wife. Piers and Helen shared custody of the boy, but since Piers had bought the Victorian manor house a few miles from town and begun playing at country gentleman, Leo spent most of his time with his father.

Piers supported Helen very well, however, in a mock Tudor cottage on the west side of Nantwich, just the other side of the river, so perhaps Helen found it wise not to protest. Helen, unlike his own recalcitrant wife, knew on which side her bread was buttered.

“Oh, yes. Leo’s grandparents are there as well, and he’s on his best behavior. Hoping to increase the size of his Christmas check, I should imagine,” Piers added with an air of satisfaction. Leo Dutton had inherited his father’s good looks, and was already well versed in using them to his advantage.

Piers polished off the last third of his whisky, stretched, and stood. “I’d better be off. If I make Helen keep dinner waiting, I’ll have to endure injured looks the rest of the evening. We’ll see you at church later on, shall we?”

Caspar doubted that Piers felt any more religious impulse than he did, but several of their clients were churchwardens or members
of the congregation, so it behooved them to put in an appearance. Nantwich was still a small enough town that the social lives of those with money to spend on investments were closely intertwined, and the firm’s business depended on their keeping and strengthening ties with those in prominent positions.

“If we make it,” responded Caspar, with another glance at his watch. “At this rate—”

Piers turned back from the door with a sigh of exasperation. “For heaven sake’s, man, ring your mother-in-law. If you’re worried—”

“I’m not worried,” Caspar said mulishly. He downed half his drink in a rebellious gulp and felt the fire burn all the way down to his gut.

“Caspar.” Piers eyed him speculatively. “You’ve had a row, haven’t you? A flaming row.” His heavy brows drew together as he frowned. “You didn’t tell Juliet about our little talk, did you? That was to be just between us. You agreed.”

Now Caspar was torn between guilt and a desire to vent. “It just came out,” he admitted. “I didn’t intend it. She had the gall to say she’d always tried to do her best by our marriage. Bitch.” He swallowed the rest of his drink, and this time he barely felt the burn.

“Goddamn it, Caspar.” Piers no longer looked amused, and Caspar suddenly felt crowded by the other man’s physical presence. “I’d no intention of making things worse between you and Juliet. I was just looking out for your interests, because you’re my friend as well as my partner. If you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.” He turned away, and a moment later, Caspar heard the outside door open and then slam firmly shut.

He stood, his empty glass dangling from his nerveless fingers. Now he’d torn it. Piers was right, he should have kept his mouth shut. The last thing he’d wanted was to make Piers angry with him, or to betray his trust. He couldn’t remember Piers ever raising his voice towards him before.

But it was odd, he thought, swaying slightly as he made an effort
to set the glass neatly on his desk. Piers had been angry, there was no mistaking that, but just as he’d turned away, Caspar could have sworn he’d seen a gleam of satisfaction in his partner’s eye.

Annie Lebow had no trouble getting a mooring at Nantwich Canal Center. On Christmas Eve, most sane boaters were happily landlocked with family or friends.

The canal center occupied the old Chester Basin, once the terminus of the Chester Canal. Finished in 1779, the canal had been cut wide to accommodate the barges carrying heavy goods, including the famous Nantwich cheeses, across the Cheshire Plain from Nantwich to Chester. After years of decline, the basin had been resurrected in the nineties by an industrious couple, becoming an important center for boatbuilding and boat repair, as well as providing everyday services for boaters.

Annie needed some work done on the
Horizon
—the electrical system had developed a glitch—and Nantwich had seemed the obvious choice. Or so she had told herself, disregarding the fact that she was unlikely to find anyone to do the necessary repairs during Christmas week. The truth was that she found herself more and more often drawn back to the scenes of her working life, the very places she had once so desperately wanted to put behind her.

How odd that today she had seen the very family who had been primarily responsible for her leaving her job, and who had also inspired her to take up the boating life. She’d been tempted to tell Gabriel Wain that she owed him a debt of gratitude, but suspected he’d think her daft.

No matter how competent or how experienced she’d become, she’d never really belong to the world of the traditional boat people. Not that there were many like the Wains left on the canals. She’d wondered, in the years since she’d handled their case, if she’d let her fascination with their way of life affect her judgment.

The sight of the children today, so obviously happy and healthy, had relieved any nagging doubts. The mother, however, had looked wan and ill—and frightened. Annie had known better than to comment—she understood the reason for the Wains’ distrust all too well. She’d told herself it was none of her business, but it seemed that once a social worker, always a social worker, like it or not, and she found it hard to let go of her concern for Rowan Wain.

With the boat safely moored in the quiet marina, she’d used her torch to pick her way along the towpath and onto the aqueduct that carried the Shropshire Union over the Chester Road. The Shroppie, as the boaters affectionately called it, was actually a connected system of canals built at different times by different canal companies. It was here at Nantwich that the old Chester Canal met the narrow Liverpool to Birmingham Junction Canal, built by the Scottish engineer Thomas Telford in the late 1820s. While the iron aqueduct was not as impressive as Telford’s stone aqueduct at Pontcysyllte, in Wales, Annie had always loved its soaring lines. This aqueduct and the Birmingham Junction Canal had been Telford’s last projects—he had, in fact, died before their completion—and that somehow added a bittersweet touch to their beauty.

It had been Rowan Wain who had told Annie about the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, which carried the Llangollen Canal across the entire span of the Dee Valley. The first time Annie had taken the
Horizon
down the Llangollen and worked up the nerve to cross the aqueduct, she’d been terrified and exhilarated. The boat seemed to float in midair like a spirit, high above the valley, and it was like nothing else Annie had ever experienced. Afterwards, she felt she was a true boater.

From where she stood now, she could see the snow dusting the rooftops of Nantwich, and she thought she could just make out the dark shadow that was the tower of St. Mary’s Church. Even as a child, visiting from her home near Malpas, in southern Cheshire, she’d been fascinated by Nantwich. The black-and-white-timbered shops facing the green had made her think of a picture on a chocolate
box, and she’d liked the way the massive red stone bulk of St. Mary’s had balanced the prettiness of the surrounding buildings.

Once, she’d asked her parents to take her to Christmas Eve mass at St. Mary’s. Her mother had refused, with her usual scorn, saying there was a perfectly good church in Malpas that they were expected to attend and it would be idiotic to consider driving twenty miles through darkness and bad weather to go somewhere else.

It had been no less than Annie had expected, but to her surprise, her father had agreed, and they had gone, just the two of them. Annie had known, even then, that her father would suffer the consequences of her mother’s anger for days, but her guilt had not been able to dampen her pleasure. It had been one of the few times she’d spent alone with her busy father. They hadn’t talked much, but there had been a shared sense of adventure between them, spiced by the rebelliousness of defying her mother. She couldn’t remember another occasion when she had felt so close to him.

Years later, living with her husband in the house she’d inherited from her parents, she’d thought of asking him to go with her to midnight mass at St. Mary’s. Roger, cheerful atheist that he was, would have indulged her, but it was that very indulgence that had made her decide against it. Roger had viewed all her passions with an air of affectionate but slightly amused condescension, and that particular memory had been too precious to taint with ridicule.

Still, after five years of separation, and knowing Roger as well as she did, the temptation to confide in him was strong. She’d wanted to tell him about her encounter with the Wains, about her fears for Rowan Wain’s health. She’d even gone so far as to punch his number into her mobile phone, but at the last minute had disconnected.

It was Christmas Eve. Roger would interpret a phone call as an admission of loneliness, perhaps even an admission of defeat.

Loneliness, yes, but she’d been lonely when they were together, sometimes more than she was now. Defeat, no, not yet, even if she hadn’t found the peace she’d sought in her roving life on the Cut.

The muted throb of a diesel engine signaled the progress of a narrowboat. Looking back towards the basin, Annie saw a light moving low on the water. As the boat entered the aqueduct and glided past her, close enough to touch, the muffled figure at the tiller nodded a silent greeting. Annie watched the boat’s light until it disappeared, then turned back to the glimmering rooftops of Nantwich. She no longer felt so alone.

There was nothing stopping her, she realized, other than a brisk and solitary walk through the streets of the town. She would go to midnight mass at St. Mary’s, and she would celebrate in her own way those things for which she was thankful.