Luanne Rice (27 page)

Sitting
back, Lily just kept needlepointing. She let her fatherless daughter and this
daughterless man continue their conversation, and she tried to imagine what
would happen next.

Anne Neill
stood in the garden between the inn and the parking lot, clipping flowers to
put on the dining room tables. She wore a wide straw hat and carried a flat
basket, which she was filling with freshly cut zinnias, snapdragons, larkspur,
and cosmos. She was well aware that Camille was stationed on a porch rocker,
watching every move; these gardens were showpieces because of Camille’s many
years creating and tending them. As impatient as Anne sometimes felt with her
mother-in-law, she never had any doubt about whose domain the flowers were.

Glancing
up, she saw a hotel guest heading down the brick path. He had unruly red hair,
glinting in the sun—it was curly and wild hair, the kind that must have driven
his mother crazy when he was a kid. Anne smiled as he approached.

“Whew,” he
said, before she had a chance to speak. “I drove all night, and thought I’d
never get here.”

“Hello,”
she said. “Welcome.”

“Thanks,”
he said. “So—this is the Cape Hawk Inn?”

“Yes, it
is.”

“Huh,” he
said, swiveling his head to look around. A slice of the harbor was visible
between the trees. “So, that’s where all the whale boats are?” he asked.

“Yes,” she
said. “Did you book a whale-watch package?
Because I’ll be
happy to go inside with you and schedule you on a cruise.”
She slipped
off her garden gloves, aware of Camille watching every move—at least Camille
had stopped, after all these years, suspecting Anne of flirting with every
unattached male guest. Her own marital tragedy had colored the way she looked
at everyone else’s marriage—including Anne’s very happy one to Jude. Anne
hitched the basket over her arm and began to walk with him up the front steps.

“Um, I
didn’t book a package,” he said. “In fact, I don’t have a reservation.”

Anne
grimaced. “Oh dear,” she said. “We’re completely booked.”

“Really?”
he asked, his blue eyes sharp with surprise. “You’re so far away from
civilization,
I didn’t think I’d have a problem.”

“Well, many
people come here for that exact reason,” she said.
“Especially
during the summer.
If you’d come in December, you could have had the
place to yourself. I’m so sorry.”

He sighed,
leaning against the doorjamb and looking around the lobby. Because the day was
so clear and fine, hardly anyone was around. An older couple sat on the sofa,
gazing out at the blue bay. Chambermaids crisscrossed the wide space, on their
way to clean rooms. The huge fireplaces at either end of the lobby were swept
clean, stacked with fresh wood. Bouquets of flowers graced nearly every table.

“Would you
like to have lunch in our dining room?” Anne said. “That might be a good idea,
if you really drove all night.”

“I did,” he
said, but he didn’t look a bit tired. He had fire in his eyes, as if resting or
eating was the last thing on his mind.

“Well, if
you came up for whale-watching, I might be able to get you onto the afternoon
boat. I actually have quite a bit of pull—my husband is the captain.”

The man chuckled,
his freckled face creasing into a wonderful smile. Anne found herself checking
his left hand—wedding ring alert for her Nanouk friends. Not married, she
noticed.

“Do you see
any beluga whales around here?” he asked.

“Absolutely,”
she said.

“The same
belugas that sometimes wind up in aquariums? Like the one in Mystic,
Connecticut?”

“Yes,” Anne
said. “Although we think they belong in the wild.”

“Right,”
the man said.

“I might be
able to help you find a different place to stay,” Anne said. “Some locals take
boarders—and there’s a motel a few miles up the road that might have a vacancy.
It has a good view too.”

“I might
not stay,” he said. “I’ve just come for some information.” He seemed to be
studying her face—as if trying to see if he knew her, or maybe she just
reminded him of someone. “Are you from here? Cape Hawk, I mean? Have you lived
here long?”

“My whole
life,” she said.

“So you
know the people who come and go, I imagine.”

“Yes,” she
said cautiously. “I married into the Neill family, which owns the inn and
whale-watch boats. We sort of keep an eye on things.”

“The Neill
family?” he asked, reaching into his pocket, patting it madly, searching for
something. “Are you related to Camille Neill?”

“Yes,” Anne
said. She glanced out the screen door, but Camille had left her porch rocking
chair—probably to lie down for her nap.

“Holy
shit,” the man said.

“Excuse
me?”

“I’d like
to talk to her,” he said.
“If she’s still here.
Is she
still … alive?”

“Very much
so,” Anne said, chuckling. “I think she’s just resting right now. I can check
on that, if you’ll wait for just a minute,”

Anne
straightened out the display of “Bring Rose Home” pillows and began to lift the
phone, when the man took a picture out of his pocket. He cleared his throat and
showed Anne a badge.

“I’m
Detective Patrick Murphy,” he said.
“Actually, retired
detective, from the Connecticut State Police.
Major Crime Squad. I’ve
just recently gotten a lead on an old case, and it’s led me here—to Cape Hawk.
I’m looking for a woman who disappeared nine years ago.
Mara
Jameson, from Black Hall, Connecticut.
She was pregnant at the time, so
she would have a nine-year-old child. I’m going to show you her picture—”

Anne took
the photo from his hand, and her heart stopped. There was her friend, eyes
bright and shining, beaming for the camera as if she were the happiest woman on
earth.

“Where did
you get this?” she asked.

“You know
her?” Patrick Murphy asked.

“I didn’t
say that,” Anne said. She tried to keep anything from showing on her face. She
swallowed hard, buying time. The picture itself might have been taken just
yesterday—not nine years ago. Her fellow Nanouk Girl had hardly changed at all
… .

Just then,
she happened to look out the window and saw Marisa and Jessica Taylor walking
up the hill from the harbor. Jessica was laden down with a big bag—obviously
more pine pillows. Anne tried to catch Marisa’s eye, to steer her around
back—but she couldn’t. Marisa was beaming—all those dark fears she’d arrived
with seemed to have evaporated during the last weeks.

Very
casually, Anne came around the desk, took the retired detective by the arm, and
led him back onto the garden porch—opposite the entrance Marisa was about to
use. Her heart was racing. She knew she had to check with her fellow Nanouk
before deciding to tell the detective anything.

“I can help
you,” she said. “You say you want to talk to Camille? Well, that can definitely
be arranged.”

“But the
picture,” he pressed. “Have you seen Mara Jameson?”

“She looked
a little familiar at first,” Anne said. “But I really don’t think I’ve seen
her.”

“I could
have sworn …” the retired cop said, suddenly crestfallen. He looked pale, every
freckle standing out.

Anne patted
his arm. She had to get him out of here—now—to a place where he couldn’t ask
any questions that mattered.

“Look,” she
said. “You’re tired—you’ve driven all this way. I know just the perfect spot
for you to go and rest and wait for me to get hold of Camille.” As she talked,
she started walking him to the car.
Not a moment too
soon—because there was Camille, not napping at all, but right back on the
porch, settling into her rocking chair with a cup of tea, this time with the
old suspicion back in her eyes as she watched Anne walking this stranger to his
car.

“Maybe I’ll
try your restaurant,” he said.
“For lunch.”

“Of
course,” Anne said, cursing inwardly. “But why don’t you drop your bag at the
guesthouse first? It’s absolutely lovely—just up the road, half a mile. It’s
called Rose Gables. It’s run by a friend of mine, Marlena Talbot, and I know
she would love to have you. Perhaps you can show her the picture—she might have
seen this Mara Jameson.”

Jessica
opened the inn door and yelled out, “Hi, Anne! We brought more pillows for
Rose!”

“Lovely,
dear,” Anne called back, flashing a smile at the detective, heart tumbling as
she prayed he wouldn’t turn around to see the nine-year-old girl standing
there. He didn’t. “Pillows,” she said. “I really must go attend to the pillows.
But you go to Marlena’s and check in, and we’ll see you back here for lunch in
a short time. I’ll round up Camille for you.”

“Hey,
thanks,” Patrick Murphy said, stifling a yawn. “That drive really did me in. I
drove straight through—it’s a long way from the Connecticut shoreline.”

“Yes, no
wonder you’re tired. By the way,” Anne said, hoping she sounded cool. “What did
this Mara Jameson do?”

“She
disappeared,” Patrick said. “At the very least, she married the wrong guy, and
he beat her up. At the very worst, he killed her. But lately something
happened, to make me think she might have come up here, to hide out.”

“Hide out?
Is she in trouble?”

“No. Hide
out from her husband. She was afraid for her life.”

“The poor
woman,” Anne murmured. Then she gave Patrick directions to Marlena’s, pointed
him on the way, and ran back into the inn. Camille tried to call her over as
she rushed by, but Anne didn’t even stop or say a word. She just tore into the
lobby.

Jessica and
Marisa had piled the pine pillows behind the front desk. Anne’s pulse was
speeding as she picked up the phone, looking left and right for Marisa. Where
had she gone? Anne had to find her. But first, she dialed Marlena’s number and
prayed she would be home.

“Hello?”
Marlena said.

“Thank God
you’re there!” Anne said. “I’ve just sent a guest over, to stay at your house.”

“A guest?
What are you talking about? I don’t take
guests!”

“You do
now. It’s a Nanouk imperative—it’s for the sisterhood. Listen, Mar, you have to
give him a room, and then force him to stay for lunch. I don’t care what you
give him, but don’t let him come back to the inn until I tell you
it’s
okay.”

“Who is
he?”

“A retired cop.
Working on an old case—a missing-persons case,
Marlena. He’s going to show you a picture, and just try not to drop your teeth
when you look at it. Just tell him she looks vaguely familiar—keep him
interested enough talking to you, so he doesn’t come back here till I’ve had
the chance to talk to our girl. Marisa, where are you? She was just here, two
seconds ago—”

“How should
I keep him occupied? Should I bed him?”

“If you have to.”

“Mata Hari
used to do that for the cause,” Marlena said. And then she gasped, and through
the phone wire
came
the sound of a car door slamming.
“He’s here,” she said. “And he’s a redhead.
Very
cute—although I was only joking
about bedding him.
I think.”

“Just give
him something good for lunch,” Anne said, trying to get her breath. “Remember
now—for the Nanouks.”

“For the
Nanouks,” Marlena said, and hung up.

Chapter 23

W
hen the time came for Rose to be discharged from
the hospital, all the nurses lined up, wearing the gold-and-silver-painted
hemlock pinecone earrings Jessica had made for them, her second batch, after
Melbourne. They all wished Rose a good summer, telling her they would miss her,
but not to hurry back too soon.

Rose
thanked them all for everything, and so did Liam and Lily, and they
climbed
into the taxi for the airport. Rose
kept wanting
to reach up with her left hand—trying to keep
her heart safe—but Dr. Neill kept gently touching her hand to remind her not
to. She thought of his arm, knew that if he had gotten used to something so
foreign to his body, she could get used to new habits too.

On the way
to the airport, she couldn’t help noticing that her mother and Dr. Neill kept
looking at each other. Rose had seen Anne and Jude doing that before. It made
her happy, but at the same time, scared. What if Dr. Neill was just being nice
because Rose had been so sick? What if now that she was getting well, he went
back to hiding out in his boat and office and house on the hill, far from
everyone, including Rose?

And what if
Rose’s mother got busy at her shop again, frowning at everyone except Rose and
the Nanouk Girls of the Frozen North? Sometimes Rose wanted to remind her
mother that the club was supposed to be for escaping the Frozen North—
not
for building up icebergs, snow
walls, and igloos as a fortress all around them.

So this new
way of looking at each other—Rose’s mother and Dr. Neill—was making her very
nervous. Suddenly, she remembered something.

“Is Nanny
going home too?” she asked.

“I don’t
know,” Dr. Neill said. “It will be really interesting to observe, after you
head back to Cape Hawk.”

“Have you
checked her on the computer today?” Rose asked.

“No, not
yet,” he said. “We can do that now
… .”

As he was
opening his computer case, trying not to jostle Rose, Rose held her breath. She
didn’t know why, but she felt scared and worried. What if Dr. Neill couldn’t
locate Nanny on the screen? What if she didn’t return home? Rose thought of all
the dangers in Boston Harbor—all those ships with their big propellers.

“Hmm,” Dr.
Neill said after a minute.

“What’s
wrong?” Rose asked, feeling cold inside.

“I don’t
see her,” he said.

“Liam?” her
mother asked.

He was
silent a few more seconds, tapping keys. Rose gazed at the screen, and she saw
all the purple lights. Suddenly she felt terrified, as if she knew for sure
that Nanny had been eaten by a shark.

“Maybe
expand the field?” her mother asked, leaning over Rose, as if she cared just as
much as Rose did about Nanny—and
no one
cared as much as Rose did about Nanny.

“That’s
it,” he said, sounding excited at first. “There she is—” He touched her green
dot with his finger. “But … she’s going in the wrong direction.”

“What do
you mean?” Rose asked, still unable to make sense of all the blinking lights,
the curvy shape of the shoreline.

“She’s
going south,” Liam said. “She’s already far from Boston—
see
?
She’s rounded Cape Cod, and she’s swimming toward Martha’s Vineyard.”

“But
belugas need cold water,” Rose said, remembering from her birthday cruise.
“They live in the Arctic, and never go past Cape Hawk in the summer!”

“It’s very
rare,” Liam said.

“I thought
she came to Boston for me,” Rose said, her eyes filling. Suddenly her heart
ached—but not her real heart, the one that was just operated on, but the other
heart, the one inside, the one no one could ever really see.

“She did,”
Liam said. “I’m so sure of it, Rose, I’d bet anything.”

“Then why
is she going the other way, away from home?
Away from us?”

“I don’t
know,” he said, hugging her. “Maybe she’s confused. Sometimes a change in
temperature can cause disorientation. We’ll watch her for the rest of the
day—I’ll bet she turns herself around.”

“She has
to,” Rose said, hot tears running down her cheeks. “If she gets lost because
she came to find me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Honey,”
her mother said. “Haven’t we convinced you to stop blaming yourself about such
big things? Please, Rose—”

“I think
it’s time,” Dr. Neill said, “to tell you that story.”

“The
story,” she said out loud. When her mother looked confused, she said, “The sea
hawk and the black cat! You were going to tell me that story,” she said.
“Two days ago, when the PT lady walked in.”

“Yes, you
were,” her mother said, remembering.

“It was
after you asked me how such different creatures can be friends.
A little girl and a white whale.
Or a sea hawk and a black
cat.”

“Tell us,”
Rose said.

“In the
world of biology,” he said. “Some animals are compatible, and others are
natural enemies. Others might just be neutral—living in close proximity, with
basic respect.
Which, in the animal world, means that they
don’t eat or attack each other.
”

“Easier
said than done,” her mother murmured, staring out the window.

“Well,
there was this sea hawk. He was an old guy, with tattered old feathers, and a
fishhook caught in his left wing. He had once flown into a school of herring,
and one of the fishermen accidentally caught him. The line was so taut and
hard, and the tug broke the hawk’s wing.

“All the
young hawks used to laugh at him. They ignored him, didn’t make him a part of
their crowd. So he flew away, all by himself, up to the low, dark cliffs—you
know, the ones at the top of the fjord, where the trees grow so thick, the
light hardly ever shines.

“He was a
pretty good sea hawk, though. He figured out how to fish, even with his broken
wing. He let things heal—his bones and tendons, his feathers. And he’d sit on
the banks of the fjord, and his timing got so good, he could just grab silver
herring and salmon out of the water without even having to spread his wings.

“None of
the other hawks ever went up there. The fjord was terrible and beautiful, but
it was his alone. He had no competition for the fish that swam by. Until one
day he noticed a black cat, sitting on the opposite bank.

“She was so
glossy—at first he thought she was a seal. Her fur was black and smooth, and
she had green eyes brighter than any star. But they weren’t happy eyes. They
were eyes that had seen danger—cruelty and brutality and starvation. She was a
skinny cat, but she caught enough fish to feed an army of cats.

“So one
day, the sea hawk watched her. Sea hawks have good eyes, even when they have
broken wings. He saw her stalk through the brush, carrying a huge fish. When foxes
and badgers tried to take it from her, she would fight them off. No animal was
going to get her fish—and the sea hawk discovered why.”

“Why?” Rose
asked. The cab went into the tunnel beneath Boston Harbor.

“Because she had a kitten.
This tiny, skinny black
kitten with green eyes just as bright as her mother’s.”
Dr. Neill looked
across Rose’s head at her mother, and Rose could see him swallow before
continuing his story. “The sea hawk wasn’t used to seeing any other animal fish
his stretch of the fjord. He had gotten used to his independence, and to being
on his own.

“But
something about her made him glad she was there. He began to look forward to
seeing her fish the water, on the other side. He found himself feeling lonely
on the days she didn’t show up. And when her kitten got big enough and began
coming to the water to fish, well, it made him very happy.”

“The kitten
fished?”

“Yes.
Because the mother taught her so well.”

“Is this a
story about animals who think they shouldn’t be friends being friends?” Rose
asked.

“Yes,” he
said. “Like you and Nanny.”

“It’s not
about me and Nanny,” Rose said, looking at Dr. Neill very hard.

“No?”

Rose shook
her head.

“I think it
is, Rose,” her mother said.

“No,” she
said stubbornly. “The hawk had a broken wing, right?”

“Right,”
Dr. Neill said.

“Did the
kitten have funny, flattened paws?” Rose asked, holding up her hands, wiggling
her clubbed fingers.

“As a
matter of fact, she did.”

Rose
nodded. She glanced up at her mother.

“Black
cat,” Rose said, reaching up to touch her mother’s glossy black hair. Then she
turned to Dr. Neill and touched his prosthesis. She didn’t even bother to say,
“Broken wing.”

Instead, as
the cab pulled up at Logan Airport, Rose just sighed. Dr. Neill had told a nice
story, but it wasn’t going to turn Nanny around. Rose felt so glad to be
feeling better—that the operation was a success, and she was on her way home to
spend the summer. But what did it matter, if Nanny was lost, swimming south?
Couldn’t everything work out, just for once?

Gone were
the days of his youth, Patrick thought. All-night police work, when his mind
stayed alert, and his body stayed strong, and his vision was sharp and didn’t
miss a thing. He remembered twenty-four-hour stakeouts, and long-distance
chases, and investigations that meant visiting jurisdictions in twelve states
and Canada. But last night’s run—from Silver Bay, up I-95 to the Maine
Turnpike, and straight on to Cape Hawk—forget it. He was only forty-six, but he
felt like an old man.

After “checking
in” to Marlena Talbot’s “guesthouse”—Patrick was pretty sure that paying guests
weren’t a regular thing here—he followed Marlena upstairs to a very nice
bedroom, thanked her, and lay down for a quick nap.

Three hours
later, after sleeping through lunch and most of the afternoon, Patrick found
himself in Marlena’s dining room. He rubbed his eyes, reached for the glass of
Coke she’d poured, sipped and looked around. Driving all night had completely
done him in, and now he felt jet-lagged, paying the price.

“Seriously,”
he said. “I can just head down to the inn for dinner.”

“I wouldn’t
hear of it!” she said. “
It’s
part of the charm of my
establishment—you get a home-cooked meal. Can the inn provide that? I think
not!”

“Your
establishment,” he said, taking a bigger slug of Coke, looking around. Never
had he seen a homier place. She had knickknacks everywhere—personal things,
like clay paperweights obviously made by children or grandchildren, needlepoint
covers on every chair seat, samplers on the wall, and a pile of square pillows
that all smelled of pine and said “Bring Rose Home.”

“Yes,” she
said.
“My establishment.
It’s not easy, working in the
shadow of the Cape Hawk Inn. With all their central booking equipment and the
whale-watch boats, it’s not easy to compete with them. All I have is my home
cooking to attract my share of the tourist dollar.”

“I’m sure,”
he said, checking his watch. Why hadn’t that woman from the inn called about
Camille Neill?

Marlena was
in the kitchen, bustling around. Patrick pulled out the newspaper article and
Mara’s picture. Marlena gazed at it, stone-faced. She read the story, took in
the dark hair, the bright smile, the fact that she’d been pregnant when she
went missing. No, she said: she couldn’t recall seeing her here in Cape Hawk.

“Look,”
Patrick said, “I’m sure your cooking is delicious, but I’d better get over to
the inn.
It’s
dinnertime there, and I have to ask some
questions. I hope Camille Neill hasn’t left—”

“Left?
She never leaves. She owns the place, and runs
it with an iron glove. Please don’t go, Detective Murphy. What will Camille
think
,
if you tell her you were staying at Rose Gables
and I didn’t feed you? Speaking of Rose Gables, would you like to know how my
house got its name? Did you notice those white roses growing over the trellis
as you came in? Well, I planted and trained them. Now, I know that this is a
modest, humble little abode…”