Read Summer Light: A Novel Online
Authors: Luanne Rice
Summer Light: A Novel (6 page)
“Natalie?”
“My daughter.”
“Kylie’s very imaginative,” May said, not wanting him to have the wrong idea. “She’s extremely sensitive; she picks up on things. Maybe she overheard you talking about Natalie.”
“I don’t talk about her.”
“Or maybe she saw you looking at a picture…”
Martin pulled out his wallet. He placed a photo on the table between them, a color snapshot of a bright, smiling little girl with curly hair and one tooth missing in front.
“Did you have it out on the plane?” May asked. “Even for a second?”
“Someone gave me a business card,” Martin said, frowning. “I might have put it in my wallet.”
“Kylie probably saw Natalie’s picture.” May gazed at the girl’s face. “She’s beautiful.”
“Merci bien
.
”
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” May said. “If you’ve been thinking Kylie has some connection to your daughter. She’s very sensitive—she sees things other people don’t. I’ve been taking her to some psychologists in Toronto. See, we had this traumatic thing happen once. We found a body on a nature hike.”
“A body?”
“A man who had hanged himself. She’s very curious about death,” May added.
“She knew the plane was going down,” Martin said. “She asked me to help you.”
The waitress came over to clear their plates away. May’s heart was beating so loud she was afraid Martin and the waitress would hear. For reasons no one understood, her daughter saw angels. How could she give him the alternate explanation: that Kylie hadn’t known about the crash, that she had just been looking for a suitable father-figure, that she’d wanted a father her whole life, that May had never quite managed to provide her with one?
“I think she just liked the way you looked,” May said. “She probably wanted you to help us with our bags.”
Martin laughed. He stared at his daughter’s picture for a moment longer, then replaced it in his wallet. “Carrying your bags would have been easier,” he said. “Would you still have given me those rose petals?”
“Yes, I probably would have,” May said, glad to stop talking about Kylie.
“They brought me luck, those petals. I want to thank you, but I also want to ask you for a favor.” He grinned, as if he wanted May to think he was kidding, but she could see he was completely serious. May kept her expression steady. She felt shaken up by their time together—by a million strange emotions racing inside. She was close to the edge, and she didn’t know what she’d see if she leaned a little closer.
“What would you like?” she asked calmly.
“A few more,” he said. “Don’t tell my teammates; they’d have me on the bench so fast…but I’m an old man in the NHL, and this might be my last real shot at the Stanley Cup. It’s crazy, I know.”
“Crazy?” May laughed. “I work in a world where standard operating procedure is something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. I meet with doctors who study the supernatural. A few rose petals don’t seem weird to me at all.”
“So you’ll give me some?”
“Yes,” she said. “I have some back at the barn. I’ll give them to you when you drop me off.”
“D’accord,”
he said. “That’s a deal.”
An hour later, after taking the long way back, Martin followed her into the old barn. He felt intoxicated by the smells of hay, lavender, honeysuckle, and roses. He had thought the scent was coming from the countryside, but when May stopped short, he realized it was coming from her neck. She led him through the darkness with owls and nighthawks calling from the rafters above.
“Do the owls scare the brides?” he asked.
“The birds are quiet during the day,” May said. “And the brides almost never look up. Sometimes I find piles of fur, shells, and bones on the floor, and I make them into little wedding amulets to bring the brides luck.”
“Owl throw-up,” Martin said. “Very romantic,
non
?”
“I’ll give you one.” May opened a heavy glass door and led him into a dark, humid greenhouse. Grow-lights glowed darkly over rows of new shoots. “For luck.”
Martin tried to control his breathing. He wasn’t known for the sensitivity he showed to people, especially women, but in talking about his mother and grandfather earlier, he had felt something ancient awakening in him, the part of him that knew and cared how people felt. Then the conversation had started veering too close to Natalie, and Martin had felt the ice come sliding down.
But this time, he felt something different: He wanted to tell May more. He had the feeling he could trust her, that he would be telling her things for a long time to come. Walking beside her, he wondered whether she could read his mind. Maybe clairvoyance—or whatever she wanted to call it—ran in her family.
“Here are our off-season roses,” May said, standing among the pots. “We have a beautiful garden outside, but it doesn’t bloom till June. My grandmother was a great gardener. She experimented with different varieties, and we all have our favorites.” Crouching down, she took shears and snipped off a very full and perfect bud.
“ ‘We all’?” Martin asked.
“My grandmother, mother, great-aunt, Kylie, and I.”
“Whose favorite is that one?”
“Kylie’s,” May said.
He nodded, but she wasn’t looking. He watched her peel the petals from the rose one by one. She laid them on a rough wood table, and then she took two small silver trays from a pile on a high shelf. Uncorking a blue bottle, she poured a small amount of oil onto one tray. Martin smelled the oil, and it made him think of being lost in a deep forest. It reminded him of being a child, of hiking dense mountain trails, of mulched leaves, new grass, life, and death. The bones around his eye sockets ached and the arthritis in his ankle throbbed, and he could hear May breathing.
She worked in the dark, in the purple glow of the grow-lights and the sparkle of starlight coming through the glass hothouse roof. He took a step closer, standing nearer to her body, but she gave a sharp look over her shoulder.
“Pardon,”
he said.
“I have to concentrate,” she said. “I want my hands to be steady.”
Using an instrument that looked like ivory forceps, May lifted each rose petal, carefully rolled it in the oil, then set it on the second silver tray to dry. Martin’s mother was a good photographer, and watching May reminded Martin of the darkroom, how his mother would use tongs to move the negatives from the vat to the drying rack.
A clock chimed ten, and Martin checked his watch: In nine hours, he would be on a plane to Edmonton. The Porsche would get him to Boston in less than two hours, but he should already be home, if not in bed then watching training tapes of the Oilers. What was he doing in this woman’s greenhouse, watching her dip rose petals in oil? What did any of this have to do with hockey, with the Stanley Cup?
“What do they do?” he asked. “You said you give them to people for luck. How do they work?”
“They just do,” she said, continuing the ritual.
“It’s late,” he said, feeling increasingly nervous, wondering what he’d gotten himself into. “I believe they work, they did already, but—”
“But how?” she asked.
“Yes. That’s what I want to know. I should get going. I have a plane to catch—”
May opened a creaky drawer and removed a small leather pouch. In it she inserted the white rose petals, along with a small ball of fur, claws, and a tiny backbone. “Owl throw-up,” she said, grinning as she used his phrase.
“Merci.”
His heart was racing, as if he were already late.
“How it works…” she said. “Well, it’s simple. My grandmother grew this rose, I picked it, and it’s Kylie’s favorite. The owl pellet is to remind you that life is very short, that you must shoot for the stars every chance you get. The leather pouch is…more masculine than lace. So the guys won’t laugh at you.” She smiled, and Martin tried to laugh.
They stood close together, the grow-lights under the tables casting shadows upward into their faces. Martin’s heart was pounding, and he forgot about the roses, the greenhouse, tomorrow’s game, the guys on his team. He took May into his arms, and kissed her hard. He saw stars as he held her body close, feeling her respond as she kissed him back.
“What were you saying?” he asked after a long time, when she stood holding him tight and gazing up with eyes that made him feel he was melting at his core. He felt like a teenager, someone who hadn’t kissed a thousand women, who had never before fallen in love.
“I have no idea,” she said.
“Do you mind if I kiss you again?”
“Not very much at all.”
This time he leaned against the rough wood bench, pulling her into his body. He felt passion unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, and he heard the words come out of his mouth: “You know how I asked you if you believe certain things are meant to be?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “How could we know?”
“Because I have proof.”
“Proof?”
“Yes.” Martin said, holding her closer. “It’s happening right now, to us.”
“We’re meant to be?” May asked.
“We’re supposed to get to know each other. I’m supposed to court you, and we’re supposed to figure out what we have in common.”
“Looking at it that way, it doesn’t make sense,” May said. “I hardly know anything about hockey, and you don’t seem like the flower garden type. I’m raising my daughter on a farm in Connecticut, and you’re a jet-setting sports star in Boston.”
Martin held her tighter, shaking his head. “None of that makes any difference,” he said.
“How can you say that?”
“Because this is meant to be. I took one look at you on the plane, and I knew.”
“Knew what?” she asked softly, as if her mouth were too dry to quite say the words.
“That you’re the one.”
“But how can you know?”
“The same way you do,” he said. “Because it’s true.”
Chapter 4
W
ITH GAME
1
OF THE
Stanley Cup finals about to be played on the fast ice of Edmonton, Martin sat in the locker room of Northlands Coliseum. The trainer had just finished taping Martin’s ankles, knees, and wrists, and he was distractedly thinking about May and when he’d see her again when Coach Dafoe walked over. Hands in his pockets, he stood by the bench.
The coach had an easygoing demeanor, calling the team “his boys,” inviting some of them home for Sunday dinners with his wife and kids, but he was also the most focused coach in the NHL. He had known both of Martin’s parents, having played with Serge Cartier on the Montreal Canadiens when they were both young men. Balding and paunchy now, Coach Dafoe had dark eyes that reminded Martin of a shark’s—they never blinked, and they missed nothing.
Clearing his throat, he looked Martin straight in the eye.
“This is it, Martin.”
“I know,” Martin said.
“We’ve asked a lot of you all season, and we’re going to do that again tonight.”
Martin nodded, but he didn’t speak. He had been playing hockey a long time, and it was every player’s dream to make it to the finals. This year he and the Bruins had taken each other all the way. He knew he was their “star,” that expectations were higher for him than anyone. His stomach jolted, and when he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was his father standing before him instead of Coach Dafoe.
“You’ve had a few days off now,” the coach added.
“A chance to rest,” Martin agreed.
And to fall in love with May.
He wouldn’t let the other thought materialize:
to get nervous about the series.
“That’s good.” The coach crouched down, still looking Martin square in the eye. He talked about Martin’s deadly shot, how there wasn’t another player on the ice who could score like him, how tonight Martin should fight the urge to pass the puck to his teammates.
“If Ray’s in the clear—” Martin said.
Coach Dafoe shook his head. Martin’s mother’s early coaching had had one flaw: She had stressed good sportsmanship, and she’d taught her son to pass whenever possible. He passed flawlessly without appearing to cock the stick, fooling his opponents and sometimes his own teammates.
“When in doubt, shoot,” Coach Dafoe said.
“But Ray and Bruno—”
“This could be your year,” Coach Dafoe reminded him. “The Bruins’ year.”
“I know, Coach.”
“We don’t know how good we are yet. That’s what we’re going to find out tonight. During the playoffs, I was watching you hard. You know I was. I didn’t like that critical occasion when you missed practice…”
“I told you—” Martin said, but the coach stopped him.
“Whatever you told me, the fact is you missed practice, and for three games straight you lost your concentration. For us to win, I need you to combine your defense and your offense, and I need you to lead this team. It’s a simple fact—you’re the dominant factor, and when you’re distracted, so is everyone else. Wherever you went, it took you out of your game.”
Martin looked down at the floor. During the play-off series in New York, he had rented a car and driven upstate. The countryside had been white under a springtime ice storm, snow covering branches laden with apple blossoms. Coils of razor wire glistened silver in thin sunlight; the brick prison walls were black under a coating of ice. Deep inside sat Martin’s father, a man who skated like the wind, who had won three Stanley Cups, to whom Martin hadn’t spoken in seven years.
Martin had sat in the car, staring at the prison. He had driven north from Manhattan, wanting to absorb some of his father’s greatness—he’d just sit outside, taking whatever he could through the walls. He had wanted a spark, something extra to bank the fires of competition he had burning inside himself at all times. But that first time up, Martin felt nothing.
Later in the series, with the Rangers having their way against the Bruins, Martin felt dead inside; the fires were out. Down 3–0, Martin had driven back up to the prison in Estonia. This time he was going to go inside, see the old man and lay things to rest. The snow and ice had melted, but Martin just sat in the same spot outside the prison walls, their bricks red now in the sun instead of slick black.
“You got your edge back in Boston,” the coach was saying. “Whatever happened in New York and Toronto, you beat it at home.”
Martin nodded, his face impassive. He had met May, that’s what had happened. He had saved her on the plane, and now he had fallen in love with her. He held the leather pouch in his left hand. Unable to get what he’d been after from his father, he had gotten it from a stranger. Inspiration, connection, divine intervention, love at first sight: the extra edge. His blood pounded just thinking about it.
“Four days’ rest,” the coach said, his hand on Martin’s shoulder, “and fourteen years of restlessness. You want to win the Stanley Cup. It’s time.”
“Yeah.” Martin’s throat felt tight, and he felt the tundra winds building inside him. Not even loving May could stop them.
“Nils Jorgensen wants to nail you.”
“I know.” Martin pictured the Oilers’ goalie, one of his few true enemies in the NHL—the man who had fractured his skull and smashed his left eye socket three years ago.
“He wants to make it personal,” Coach said.
“It
is
personal,” Martin muttered.
“Your father’ll be watching, you know.”
“I figure he probably will.”
“And your mother will, too.”
Martin bowed his head. He wouldn’t let himself admit how much he wanted this win. He had lived and breathed hockey his whole life—it was as much a part of him as his heartbeat. His parents had brought him to this moment, but his father was in prison and his mother was dead. This was a part of him May might not ever understand; he wasn’t even sure he’d want her to.
“I believe in heaven,” Coach Dafoe told him. “They’re up there.”
“They?” Martin asked, looking up.
“They’re up there right now, my mother and yours, rooting for us. Yelling, stamping their feet. Your mother used to make a real racket, watching the games.”
Martin nodded. If his mother was up there, so was Natalie. He felt the leather pouch. Suddenly Coach’s words began to make sense. Maybe May was some sort of angel, a messenger from his mother and daughter.
Four
days of rest and fourteen years of restlessness:
fourteen years of playing pro hockey without winning the Cup. He had won countless trophies, been voted MVP twice during the regular season. He had made it to the play-offs ten times, never before to the finals.
“Remember what I told you,” Coach Dafoe said, his black eyes shark-stern as he backed away.
“When in doubt, shoot,” Martin repeated. “Don’t let Jorgensen win.”
“That, and don’t disappoint our mothers.”
The first night Boston played Edmonton, Tobin’s husband and sons were busy readying a car for the soap box derby, leaving Tobin on her own. So she rode over to the Taylors’ to watch the game with May and Kylie on May’s bed with the television turned up.
“Are you following the puck?” Tobin asked.
“There it is.” Kylie pointed at the screen.
“Everything moves so fast,” May said.
“You can say that again.” Tobin laughed, and May knew she was referring to what she’d been told about dinner with Martin. Her husband and sons were into fishing and car racing, not hockey. So Tobin learned the lingo along with May and Kylie: penalties, right wings, blue line, center ice, the crease. May kept her eyes on number 21—Martin Cartier—and she felt thrilled.
One, two glides, and Martin was in full flight, skating and slamming his way across the neutral zone and into Oilers’ territory. Skates clicking, blades slashing, the tympanic thump of bodies against the boards.
“I wish I was there,” May said.
“I’ll bet you do. Look—the camera’s on him. He’s staring straight into it.”
“Right at us,” Kylie said sleepily.
“I wonder if his father’s watching,” May said.
“His father?” Tobin asked.
“Sounds like they have a complicated relationship,” May said.
Kylie snuggled against her half asleep, as she tried to stay awake long enough to see who would win. But her eyes were so drowsy, they were closing fast.
“In what way?” Tobin asked.
“They don’t speak.”
“That sounds straightforward,” Tobin said. “Not complicated at all.”
“But it’s his father,” May said, watching the TV.
Tobin laughed. “He’d better be careful, what he tells you. Little does he know how you feel about fathers.”
“Oh, now you’re my analyst?”
“Always.” Tobin laughed again, but then the crowd went wild, and she and May turned their full attention to the game.
“What happened?” May asked.
“Something with Martin,” Tobin said, as they watched him skate across the ice with his fists pumping overhead.
“He’s a lightning rod,” one of the announcers exclaimed as Martin scored his first goal of the night.
“The Gold Sledgehammer,” the other said as Martin slammed into one of the Oilers, knocking him to the ice as he nailed the puck with his patented slap shot. “Cartier’s got the body of a heavyweight boxer and the killer instinct to match,” the first announcer added.
“The Gold Sledgehammer,” Tobin said admiringly.
“Killer instinct,” May said, watching him lock eyes with Nils Jorgensen, the Oilers’ star goalie.
The announcers explained their rivalry. In one of hockey’s most famous fights, Martin and Nils had tangled hard, with Nils’s nose being broken and his face needing substantial repairs. In retaliation, three seasons ago, Jorgensen had clocked Cartier, leaving him with a pulverized eye socket requiring surgery to repair a detached retina. Such was hockey, but when May saw the scars on the goalie’s cheeks and chin, she felt chilled to think Martin had done it and had it done back.
Once the TV camera zoomed in on Martin’s face, and May thought she had never seen such intensity in human eyes.
“They hate each other,” Tobin said.
“They do, don’t they?” May was shivering.
“Wow, May.”
“I know.”
“That’s a look we don’t see every day. Martin hates Jorgensen with a passion. Should I be worried about you?”
May had been staring at the two faces on the TV screen, thinking that emotions worked in two directions: that if Martin hated Jorgensen, the feeling was probably mutual.
“Worried about me?” May asked, surprised by her friend’s question.
“A guy who can look like that,” Tobin said. “Who can fight another person, let himself get so wild…”
“To me he’s so gentle, Tobin,” May said, remembering his kiss.
“But he has it in him.” Tobin stared at the screen. “You can see it, can’t you? He’s violent.”
“Not to me,” May insisted.
“I wonder if he can control it,” Tobin said. “When something makes him really angry.”
May thought of the owls in the barn, how they’d narrow their eyes and dive-bomb their prey, and that was how Martin looked to her at that moment. The idea of giving him rose petals seemed ridiculous, embarrassing, but as she slid farther down the bed, she was thinking
it was meant to be
….
“You’re not saying anything,” Tobin prodded.
“Gordon was a lawyer,” May said quietly. “He went to Harvard. He’s a partner at Swopes and Bray, and he belongs to the University Club. There’s no one more in control than Gordon. Is there?”
“No.”
“And no one has ever hurt me more,” May said.
“I know,” Tobin admitted.