Summer Light: A Novel (11 page)

Catching themselves at it, they began to laugh.

“We sound like two people in one of those language classes,” he said.

“Yes, where you learn how to speak more stiffly than anyone ever does in real life,” May laughed, remembering high school French. “ ‘At what time does the large department store close tonight?’ ”

“ ‘It has closed already, madame.’ ” Martin played along. “ ‘Owing to an infestation of mosquitos.’ ”

“Quelle horreur!”
she said.

“Ah, you speak French!” he exclaimed, grabbing her hand to kiss it.

“Not much, though,” she said, glowing as he refused to release her hand.

They strolled down the docks, past the fishing and scallop boats, past the weathered shacks, their gray shingles covered with old lobster buoys. Stopping in the stores, they said hello to May’s friend Hathaway Lambert at the Cowgirl Rodeo. They ate clam rolls at Ollie’s Fish House, sitting at tables covered with red-and-white-checked vinyl tablecloths.

People began to recognize Martin. Drifting over from the bar, they asked him to sign their cocktail napkins. He signed a few, then asked that he and May be allowed to finish their dinner in peace.

“Does that happen all the time?” she asked.

“Pretty often,” he said. “Sometimes they tell me what I did wrong in the last game. We’re far enough from Boston to not be getting too much grief over the Cup. But it comes, believe me.”

May listened while he talked about the Stanley Cup. How his father had been one of Canada’s greatest players, how he had taught Martin and Ray how to play. May waited for him to talk about how he felt about his father, what he thought about everything that had happened, but Martin veered into another area.

“We learned to play on Lac Vert,” he told her.

“What’s that?” May asked.

“Oh, the most beautiful place on earth,” he said. “Wait till you see it, May…”

He described the deep water, reflecting tall mountains and green woods. “It’s incredible. We call it Lac Vert, ‘Green Lake,’ because of the color. It’s as if another world lay below, filled with pines, oaks, maples, trees of every shade of green. In winter, when the lake freezes, the colors darken almost to black.”

“You love it there.” She was struck by the look on his face.

“More than anywhere else,” he said. “It’s my home, and I’m going to take you there. You’ll love it, too.”

Sitting at Ollie’s, May had a vision of the lake. Just as if Martin had taken her hand, led her to the water’s edge, she saw the vista spreading out before her. The mountains, the crisp northern sky, the clear green water.

“I’m sure I will.”

“When can we go?” he asked.

But before she could answer, the waitress brought the bill, Martin paid it, and it was time to go. They had ice-cream cones at the Sandbar, then climbed into Martin’s car for a ride through the hills behind Silver Bay, past the big old abbey, down Old Farm Road toward the Connecticut River and Black Hall.

Holding his hand, May found herself telling him about herself. She had him drive through town, and she pointed out the stone elementary school she had attended long ago and Kylie did now, her high school, the white church famously painted by Black Hall artists, and from which had been married many Bridal Barn brides.

“Dating back a long time,” he commented.

“The church? Actually, it burned in a fire and was rebuilt about a hundred years ago,” she said.

“No, the Bridal Barn,” he said. “Your family business. You come from a long line of strong women, no?”

“I do,” she agreed. “My grandmother was a real visionary. It wasn’t easy to sell people on the idea of planning weddings. But she had a gift, and she said if we don’t use what’s given to us, it dries up and blows away.” May paused, thinking of other men she had known. “Does the idea of strong women bother you?”

Martin laughed. “Not at all, and I know what I’m talking about. You should have known my mother. Lac Vert is beautiful, but winter doesn’t get any tougher than we have it there. My mother kept us going on no money, hauling wood by herself to keep me warm while I slept, getting me to school no matter how bad the ice or snow. We were broke half the time, but that never stopped her from buying me new boots or jackets—”

“But your father,” May began, thinking of Serge playing professional hockey. Certainly he must have provided well for his family.

“One thing you’ll learn about me,” Martin said, “is that I take more after my mother than my father—thank God. We don’t need to talk about him. This night is too special.”

May wanted to talk about him, but she let the subject drop. It was time for Martin to drive her home. Aunt Enid didn’t like to stay up too late, and May wanted to get home to Kylie. But they stopped on their way, beneath the Holden Bridge.

The big bridge spanned the Connecticut River, and its lights sparkled like a sunken city in the slowly moving water. May pointed up, showing Martin the catwalk two hundred feet overhead, which she and Tobin had crossed the night of their high school graduation.

“Strong
and
brave,” he said.

“And stupid,” she added. “I’d die if Kylie ever did something like that.”

“You probably came down here with your boyfriends.” Martin slid his arms around her, kissing her in the shadow of the bridge. Melting into his arms, she let him kiss her long and tenderly, and when they stopped she was glad that he seemed to have forgotten, that she didn’t have to tell him no, she had never done this before, never parked down here with anyone else besides him.

They drove down the dirt road behind Firefly Beach, sat in the sand, and listened to the small waves. May pointed east, toward the labyrinthine marshes of the Lovecraft Wildlife Refuge, and she described the frightening experience of finding the body of Richard Perry—despondent, he had hanged himself from a tree—there with Kylie.

“That’s when her visions started?” he asked.

“Soon afterward,” May said.

“Is that the right word for them? Visions?”

Whenever they talked about Kylie, she felt an extra degree of concern. Her daughter was precious beyond words, and she had already been hurt by others, including her own father. “Yes,” May said carefully. “That’s what they are.”

Martin nodded. “I understand that.”

“It’s unusual,” May went on. “Most people wouldn’t understand. Her teacher called them ‘hallucinations.’ But she’s not schizophrenic….”

“Of course she’s not. What do teachers know?”

“If Kylie hadn’t had one on the plane, if you didn’t already know about it, I’m not sure I’d be talking about it now. We try to keep them secret—”

“If that’s what you want, I won’t say a word. But, May, I’d be proud of them.”

“Why?” she asked, turning toward him.

“Because she’s a great girl. As sensitive as her mother and grandmother and all the rest of your strong magic-women. She’s just another in a long line.”

May let herself smile. She had the blue notebook in her handbag. Sometimes, filling it out, she felt filled with a sense of dread. People feared what they didn’t comprehend, and there was so much about her daughter that she didn’t understand. To have someone to talk to, someone who saw Kylie in the same wonderful light she herself did, made her feel happy and grateful.

“Thank you, Martin.”

“Anytime,” he said, gazing at the water, shaded with currents and ripples. The sun was setting, casting violet light on the breakwater and big rocks. “Now, tell me about this water, eh? Is it the sea? I spend so much time skating I don’t even know my geography. Canada’s one thing, but New England is totally foreign to me. What is it, the Atlantic Ocean?”

“No, it’s Long Island Sound.”

“But it’s salt?” he asked.

“Yes.” She smiled. “It’s like an arm of the sea. The Atlantic’s right over there—” And then she explained how Long Island Sound was more gentle than the open ocean several miles east, that her father had taught her to swim and sail here when she was a little girl. Throwing stones into the water, May described the way her father had held the boat—a Dyer Dhow, a sailing dinghy—steady until she had climbed in.

Then he had pushed them off, stepped over the stern to take the helm and show her how to sail. He had handed her the tiller, shown her how to trim the sheets.

“Every step of the way.” She stared out at Orient Point, a brushstroke on the horizon. “He was always so patient with me.”

“He sounds like a good father,” Martin said.

“Oh, he was. I got scared once, when the wind came up and the boat nearly went over, and I threw the lines at him, screamed for him to take the tiller. He did, just as calm as anything. He never made me feel sorry or embarrassed for needing to take it slow.”

“I hope I never do that.” Martin’s voice was serious and low, and May snapped her head to look into his eyes. She hadn’t realized what she had done, asking him to wait. Her father had been her role model, the man she would always judge all men against.

“I love you,” she heard herself say to Martin Cartier for the first time.

He swept her into his arms, pulling her closer as he kissed her. The breeze was soft. It stirred her hair, moving the tall beach grass in a constant whisper. May felt Martin’s body against hers, and she imagined sailing with him on a calm sea. This would be a perfect time for it: not too rough, not too windy. She would feel as secure as she did on dry land.

May would even feel safe enough to bring Kylie: her truest test for any situation. She could imagine being in a boat with Martin and Kylie, holding the tiller, trimming the sails, heading out into the Sound, wherever life wanted to take them.

The next afternoon, they went for a long, leisurely bike ride. May had packed a picnic lunch, and they had eaten it in a wide meadow overlooking the Connecticut River. Heading home, they rode along country roads, past vast farms dotted with granite boulders, stone walls separating one property from the next. Red barns and dairy cows were everywhere. The houses were Colonial, Georgian, or Federal, painted mainly white or yellow.

“It’s pretty here,” he commented.

“We call that color ‘Black Hall yellow,’ ” she told him, “because so many of the houses around here are painted it.”

“You love this place, no?”

“Yes.”

“Would you ever be able to move from here?” he asked.

She rode in silence for a few seconds. Just last night she had lain awake, thinking the same thing. Her roots were deep here. The history and legends had become part of her own story. She relied on Aunt Enid for so much, and she wanted Kylie to know where she came from, who her people were.

“It would be hard,” she admitted. “But I think I could.”

“I don’t think I’d ever be able to ask you to,” Martin said.

May glanced over. Was he taking back his proposal? He hadn’t mentioned it in the days since he had first asked, and although she still felt relieved not to be pressed, she had almost started to wonder whether she’d imagined it.

“I could commute,” he said.

“Commute?”

“If we could just spend the summer at Lac Vert,” he went on, “I’d give up Boston in a minute. We could live here, in Black Hall. I’d drive to work, straight up three-ninety-five to the Mass Pike…”

“You’re still thinking about…” she began.