Heartbroken (24 page)

“It’s intermittent, apparently,” said Kate. Lulu gave her a blank stare. Kate clarified: “It comes and goes. It might be because of the storms. Or because of the mountains.”

Lulu looked down at her phone. “Oh.”

Chelsea plucked it from her hand and put it on the counter out of reach. “Let it go, Lulu. Help with the salad.”

Lulu gave the phone a longing look, then turned her gaze reluctantly to the tasks at hand. “What do I need to do?” She sounded truly mystified.

Kate heard a too-familiar, high-pitched whistle and looked out the window to see Birdie sitting in the skiff at the dock, exuding, even from a distance, annoyance at being kept waiting. All of Kate’s life, Birdie had used that whistle on the island to call the children from wherever they were. It was maddeningly rude and imperious when they were young; it was insufferable now that Kate was an adult. She
was
an adult, wasn’t she? As soon as she was in Birdie’s thrall, she never felt like one.

“You’re being summoned,” said Chelsea.

“That’s messed up,” said Lulu. She was chopping carrots. “I mean, seriously, who does she think she is?”

How can you stand it, Kate?
Theo had asked.
I hear that godddamn whistle in my nightmares
. Kate should have known after last summer’s visit that he’d never come again.
Maybe when they’re gone
, he’d said.
Maybe I’ll come back then
. He’d said it without a hint of emotion during the conciliatory conversation they’d had right before she left for the island. He would come back to the island after their parents were dead.
How sad
, she’d thought.
How terribly sad
.

Down at the dock, Kate climbed into the skiff. It wobbled beneath her weight, and she felt a familiar flutter of nerves.

“I’ve been waiting,” said Birdie.

“Everyone knows, Mother,” said Kate. “We heard your whistle.”

Birdie gave an annoyed grunt and started the engine.

“Can I see that?” asked Kate. She held out her hand, and Birdie handed her the whistle from around her neck. Kate regarded the slim silver missive; it was warm from Birdie’s skin, gleaming in the waning light. Then, without a thought in her head, she tossed it in the drink. Birdie looked stricken.

“How—” she said. “How could you? That’s for emergencies.”

Kate felt a wave of regret, a kind of fearful feeling she got when
she stood up to her mother. She pushed it down hard, the way she’d promised herself she would. An odd feeling of pleasure took its place.

“If there’s an emergency, Mother,” she said, “try screaming. Otherwise, try politely waiting, as you would expect others to do for you. I had to speak with the girls. They’ve never been alone on the island.”

“There are other whistles,” said Birdie. She hadn’t taken her eyes off of Kate, nor could she seem to lose the look of shock that pulled her features long.

“Well,” said Kate, “don’t use any of them to
summon
me again.”

The water lapped against the side of the boat. Above them, a hawk circled slow and easy on the air.

“I didn’t realize you found it so offensive,” said Birdie.

“Really,” said Kate. She’d meant to say no more. But she couldn’t let Birdie have the last word. “How could you not?”

She turned to face the Crosses’ island and saw John waving from the dock. He knew Sebastian, her mother had said. But Kate didn’t recognize the name or the face from her years with her ex. Publishing was a small business; at a certain level, everyone knew everyone, it seemed. But she didn’t know him.

By the time they reached the shore, Birdie had a bottle of wine tucked under her arm and her game face on. She was all smiles, compliments, and polite conversation.
Well, this is a sturdy dock! Who built it for you? Oh, what a lovely home. I just adore those picture windows. We used to have a weather vane like that. We lost it in a storm a few years back
.

While Birdie was a guest in their home, the Crosses would find her irresistibly charming, impeccably well mannered, and delightfully funny. But when they were out of earshot once again, Birdie would tell Kate in unsparing detail what she really thought. Birdie Burke took merciless measure.

The Cross home
was
lovely: high ceilings, panoramic views, plush surfaces. Kate was thinking that Sean would be impressed,
angling for a tour of the rest of the house. It was quite a bit nicer in some respects than the house on Heart Island. More spacious, more comfortable, newer—facts Birdie was sure to observe. Whether it was a mark for John Cross or against him depended on how he scored elsewhere.

“So how are you doing after yesterday?” asked John. He wore a concerned frown that Kate felt was not quite sincere, though she couldn’t have said why.

“Oh,” said Birdie. “Fine.”

“What happened?” asked Kate.

“Your mother didn’t tell you?” said John. He was oblivious to the fact that he had misspoken—or maybe not. Birdie turned away, pretended to regard a piece of art. “She thought there was an intruder on the island. The police were out.”

“It was nothing,” said Birdie. “Just an old woman’s mind playing tricks on her.”

“Well,” said John, “there
have
been a number of break-ins in the area, some vandalism. You never know.”

“Yes,” said Birdie. “I suppose. So, is your wife not joining us?”

A deft change of subject. How could Birdie not have told Kate about this? Now the girls were alone on the island. She felt anxiety start to rise.

“She had to pop back into the city,” John said. He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “She’ll return by the weekend.”

“Mother,” asked Kate. “What did you see?”

Birdie reluctantly recounted the events, ending with a shrug. “I haven’t been sleeping well. My blood sugar was low yesterday. I really
don’t
think anyone was there, now that I’m better rested.”

Kate watched her mother uncertainly. Birdie did not seem well rested in the least. She seemed vulnerable and pale, and for a moment, Kate regretted tossing her whistle in the water. It was a little over the top, and not very nice.

“Should the girls be alone?” Kate said.

“Oh, Kate,” said Birdie. She rolled her eyes elaborately at John. “Don’t be such a nervous Nellie.”

John seemed embarrassed for Kate, threw a sympathetic look her way. She felt heat rise to her cheeks. Now she wished she’d held on to the whistle and thrown her mother in the drink.

John put a comforting hand on Kate’s shoulder. “We can see the island from here,” he said. “And we can be there in a flash. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.”

Kate thought about how the landline was down, and about the bad cell phone service. Chelsea knew how to use the radio, but that was inconveniently located in the bunkhouse.

She tried not to think about it as John poured each of them a glass of wine and they came to sit on the plush brown sofas, facing out the window. But she found it hard to take her eyes from the window. Heart Island
was
visible (perfectly centered in the frame) and, beyond it, the vast expanse of the lake and other islands in the distance. The setting sun was painting the water golden, violet, and rose.

Kate could see the roofs of their main house and the guest cabin. The glow from whatever lights were burning lit the darkness between the trees. While John and Birdie chitchatted, Kate’s thoughts remained with the girls.

Kate took a long sip of wine and felt its warming effect almost instantly. They’d stay another fifteen minutes, and then Kate would insist on going back, whether Birdie liked it or not. Kate kept staring at the darkening sky, unable to focus on the conversation. She’d managed to talk briefly with Sean earlier on her cell phone. It seemed to work fairly well from Lookout Rock, which she hadn’t shared with the girls. She didn’t want them racing up there at every opportunity to use their phones.

“The ankle is still bad,” Sean had told her.

“Really?” She had been gripped by guilt. She shouldn’t have left
them. She should have waited until Monday morning, and they all could have come together. Why hadn’t she?

“Don’t worry,” Sean had said, understanding her tone. “I’m sure it’s fine. He’s tough, our guy.”

Brendan hadn’t sounded tough when she’d spoken to him before Sean got on the phone. He’d sounded like a hurt kid who needed his mom but was trying to be brave.

“We shouldn’t have come without you,” she said to Sean. Regret flooded through her. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Sean had said. His voice alone soothed her. She had sighed into the phone. “We’re right behind you. It’s no big deal.”

“The story is that my great-uncle won Heart Island in a poker game,” Birdie was saying. “I don’t know if that’s true or not. But it’s a story Joe loves to tell. My parents gave it the current name, my father’s last name, of course. And from the air, it looks to be in the shape of a heart. So it was quite serendipitous.”

Kate had heard the story many times. She gazed over at the shelves and shelves of books that lined the far wall. Sebastian’s books were face-out on a shelf at eye level. She wondered if John had done that intentionally for her visit.

If he had read Sebastian’s most recent book, which she didn’t see there, his so-called memoir, he knew all about Kate—or thought he did. He would know Sebastian’s version of who she was—a doormat, an enabler, and finally, a deserter. He would imagine that he knew the intimate details of her first marriage and its unraveling. This didn’t make her as uncomfortable as she would have imagined. She didn’t think of the woman in that book as herself, just a character Sebastian had created. And if she’d ever been that woman, that girl, she wasn’t anymore. The woman in that book was a ghost, a sad and silly specter.

“Ours is the first structure on this island,” said John. Kate could feel his eyes on her, but she looked down at her glass. “We bought it
from the estate of a man named Richard Cameron. Does that name ring a bell for you, Kate?”

“Of course,” she said. She looked up at him; he was smiling as if he had a secret. The name did more than ring bells. It set off a jangle of alarms. If John noticed, he made no sign.

“Who’s this now?” asked Birdie. She looked over at John with a frown, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off of Kate. She was uneasy, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing that. She held his eyes, offered an easy smile of her own.

“Richard Cameron was a very dark but brilliant writer,” said John. He shifted his gaze to Birdie. “Some people think of him as writing noir fiction. But his books were really just these beautiful, searing character portraits. He never had much success or acclaim while he lived, though he came from tremendous wealth. He died many years ago.” He took a sip of wine. “He has a big cult following now. And a long list of famous fans, including Kate’s ex-husband, who cites him as a major influence.”

“Is that so?” asked Birdie.

Kate met her mother’s inquiring glance. “Yes,” she said. “That’s true.”

Usually, Birdie took a kind of malicious glee in conversations that disconcerted other people, especially Kate. She also lapped up any island lore that came her way for her pet project, a journal about the islands and their histories. But now Birdie was distant. Though Kate was sure her mother would have at least
heard
the name, she seemed honestly in the dark. Birdie was clicking her nail against her wedding ring, which she did when she was angry or impatient.

“His granddaughter claims that he came here to write,” said John. He seemed like the type to go on and on, oblivious to whether people were interested. “He brought a tent and enough supplies to last him the summer. But I wonder if she told me that to drive up the price.”

He gave a hearty chuckle. Birdie wasn’t laughing. She was watching
John with an odd intensity, her eyes shining. Now that Kate was thinking about it, she was sure Birdie knew that much. Hadn’t Sebastian told them about it? It was one of the reasons he was always so keen on coming to Heart Island and kayaking over to Cross Island. Admittedly, they hadn’t talked about it in years. And Birdie
was
getting older.

“How did he die?” Birdie asked.

“He drowned,” he said. The room felt very still.

“Here?”

John offered a somber nod. “That’s the prevailing theory anyway. He disappeared one summer. They found his body after the thaw, when it washed up on one of the neighboring islands.”

He stood up suddenly, startling Kate. “Just a minute,” he said as he left the room. Kate heard him moving heavily down a hallway. Birdie was looking at some indeterminate point across the room.

“Mom,” said Kate. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Birdie said. She rubbed at her temples, as if she were in pain. “I’m fine.”

John returned with a framed photograph that he handed to Birdie. Kate rose and went to stand by her mother. She wanted to leave. She was concerned about the girls, as well as tense and hoping to be on the way before this unwanted conversation continued or another about Sebastian cropped up. John Cross had the look of a fanboy, the kind of man who developed male crushes on successful authors and fawned over them like groupies. For whatever reason, Sebastian had a legion of them, as many as Richard Cameron had. And they turned up everywhere, even here.

“Is that him?” asked Kate, looking over Birdie’s shoulder. She knew it was. She’d seen many pictures of him on the Internet in her research.

John nodded.

“So interesting,” said Birdie. To anyone else, she’d have sounded light and casual. But Kate could hear the strain, and was surprised
to note that her mother’s hands trembled. Kate knew better than to call attention to it.

The man in the photo was long and lean, wearing a black coat. He had a black shock of hair and eyes just as dark; his face was ghostly pale. The shot must have been taken on the island. He stood with his hand on the bark of a tree, the water glittering gray and white behind him. He wore the slightest shade of a smile.

“He supposedly was always alone here,” said John. “This is the last picture of him. It is the only photo on a roll of film in a camera found among his belongings. But no one knows who took it. Murder, suicide, accident—no one will ever know how he died.”