For My Daughters Read online

  The flutter inside her gained strength, even more so when he raised his head and looked around. She hadn’t moved, but, incredibly, he sensed her presence. Toweling his arms now, he slowly approached.

  “Is someone there?” he asked quietly.

  “Just me,” she said, drawing the afghan close. “Leah.”

  He came to where she sat and hunkered down. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “It’s okay. I was just sitting. It’s a beautiful spot.”

  He ran the towel over his chest. She tried her best not to look there.

  “Do you swim every night?” she asked.

  “In season. The pool isn’t heated. It can be cold.” He looked over his shoulder. “It’s different at night. More intense, in some ways. When you can’t see, you hear more and smell more.”

  That was just what she had been experiencing, sitting there with her eyes closed. “It fills you up.”

  “Pretty much,” he said, looking at her again.

  The towel hung from his hands. His hair was slicked back, his shoulders glistened. She imagined that he might be feeling a chill if he were out by the pool. In her sheltered spot, there was no chill at all.

  “Do you swim?” he asked.

  “I know how. I’ve never done much of it, though. Where I come from, pools are more decorative than not. Wasteful, huh?”

  “I can’t imagine a pool no one uses.”

  “Oh, they use it, just not for swimming. It serves a social purpose, a place for people to sit near to talk and be seen, but when it comes to getting wet, forget it. The men might dive in, but the women wouldn’t risk ruining their makeup.”

  He brushed her cheek. “You’re not wearing makeup.”

  For an instant she couldn’t breathe, absolutely couldn’t breathe. Then she forced her lungs to function. “I was in bed. Upstairs. I couldn’t sleep. So I came down.”

  He touched the collar of her nightgown, a pretty lace strip, white, almost luminescent in the night, above the amber drape of her makeshift shawl. He drew the afghan a little higher before dropping his hand.

  Leah thought she would die. The gentleness of him boggled her mind, right along with his size and his shape. And his Adam’s apple. So very male.

  “Any more word on when your mother is coming?”

  Her mother? Her mother. “Umm, no. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  Her legs felt boneless. She couldn’t possibly stand, much less make it back into the house. “Another few minutes.”

  He chuckled. She tried to see a smile, but it was too dark. “At Star’s End, I meant,” he said.

  She laughed. She couldn’t help it—and it wasn’t that she was embarrassed at having misunderstood him—it was the suddenly light-headed way she felt. “Two weeks.”

  He nodded, and for an instant she felt the touch of his gaze, warm and intent, in the dark. Then, in the same smooth motion with which he had pulled himself from the pool, he stood. “I’ll be heading home. Morning comes early.”

  She looked up, swallowed a vague disappointment. “What time?”

  “Five, give or take. I like to water the beds before the sun rises high. Sleep well.” He moved off.

  Leah watched him meld into the darkness beyond the pool, and even then she held her breath. The darkness was dense. Wide-eyed, she watched it for another minute, but he was gone.

  She exhaled a whispered, “Jesus,” and hugged her knees to her chest. Then she smiled against the inside of her elbow and waited for the trembling inside her to still.

  seven

  WENDELL COOMBS SHUFFLED ACROSS THE porch of the general store and lowered himself onto the left end of the long wooden bench. He always sat on the left end, which was nearest to the east end of town, where he lived. The west end of town was represented by Clarence Hart, his friend of seventy-odd years, who occupied the right end of the bench.

  Four feet separated them. Four feet always separated them. Wendell didn’t like the smell of Clarence’s pipe; Clarence didn’t like the smell of Wendell’s coffee. No one ever filled the empty space between them, with the exception of the occasional child who didn’t know better. Those four feet were the channel along which town gossip passed, east to west and back.

  “Clarence,” Wendell said by way of greeting.

  Clarence nodded. “Wendell.”

  “Good wethah comin’.”

  “Ayuh.”

  Wendell sipped his coffee and made a face. It was too sweet again. What had that sign said? If it wasn’t vanilla something, it was nutty-putty something else. Mavis never served coffee like that in her diner. A sad day it was when she’d closed the place down. No one knew how to brew a cup of good old-fashioned coffee anymore.

  The problem was computers. The town was being overrun by them. People kept inventory on them; they kept folks’ accounts on them; they ordered all kinds of fancy coffee beans on them. No one did anything the old-fashioned way anymore—except the artsies, and they were another whole can of worms.

  Setting the mug on his thigh, he looked out over Main Street. All seemed well. All looked the same. But he knew not to trust “seemed” and “looked.” He took another grimacing sip of the coffee, returned the mug to his thigh, and said to the morning air and Clarence, “I heea we got company.”

  “Ayuh.”

  He glowered at Clarence. “How’d you know?”

  “Cal. Picked ’em up at Pawtland.”

  “How many?”

  “Two outta three.”

  “Third one’s a’ready in,” Wendell said with relief. He didn’t like it when Clarence knew more than he did. “Came in night b’foa last. Chief had to show’a the road.” He chuckled. “Not too smaht.”

  Clarence pulled out his pipe. “Cal says they don’t want to be heea.”

  “Good. Let ’em leave.”

  “Says they don’t like each othuh.”

  Wendell wasn’t surprised. Rich families always fought. He wasn’t feeling too bad for them. Pity, though, to have civil war up at Star’s End. “Chief says th’ oldest is fawty. Wonda if it’s true. Wonda if she’s fawty-three.”

  Clarence studied his pipe.

  “Chief checked,” Wendell said. “She’s a Chicago lawya. Worked for someone named Baretta.”

  Clarence knew what Wendell was thinking. The whole town was thinking it, leastways everyone who’d talked with Chief yesterday. The last thing Downlee needed was a mob lawyer running around. “Cal says she’s got a boyfriend. Says he’s the one made’a come heea.”

  Wendell chewed on that a while. “He could be mob. Could be a pusha. We don’t want none’a that.”

  Clarence opened his pouch and was nudging tobacco into the bowl of his pipe when Callie Dalton came up the steps. He touched the tip of his hat with the crook of his finger. “Mawnin’, Callie.”

  “Mawnin’, Clarence.”

  Wendell looked the other way. Callie Dalton was married to a traitor. After the whole town had agreed to stick together against unsavory elements, George Dalton had gone and rented good houses to artsies. Artsies were loose people. Everyone knew it. Women lived with women, and men lived with men, and when women lived with men they rarely saw fit to tie the knot in the eyes of the Lord and the State of Maine. Everyone knew they should be kicked out of Downlee.

  The only problem was that there were more of them now, than of the rest, and their money was green. Wendell wondered how long that would last. They’d been changing everything else in town. The color of money might well be next.

  Clarence finished filling his pipe. “Cal says the one from St. Louis got husband trouble.”

  “Don’t want none’a that eithah,” Wendell decided. Artists and city women, the whole lot of them too loose for their own good. “If she thinks she’s gonna play with Downlee men, she got anothuh think comin’.” He raised a hand in greeting when Hackmore Wainwright rolled by in his pickup and turned off toward the dock. “Youngest’ll be the pro
blem, if y’ask me. Chief says she’s got that blond, helpless look.”

  Clarence knew that look. He had fallen for it hard. ’Course, his June was a Maine girl, so it wasn’t too bad. Still, she’d been a surprise. She hadn’t been one bit helpless. In fifty-one years of marriage, he’d had to bargain for every single thing. Take sitting on the steps of the general store. She let him do it, long as he was home by noon to carry the wash to the line.

  “Jesse betta be wawned,” Wendell advised.

  Clarence wondered if it would do any good.

  “Whole town betta be wawned,” Wendell added. “Don’t need fast women, ’specially ones runnin’ drugs.”

  Clarence thought about the drugs. Even with the artists coming in droves, Downlee had stayed pretty clean. “Think Chief knows ’bout the drugs?”

  “He will,” Wendell promised.

  “And the mothuh?”

  “Don’t know if she’s doin’ it. ’Coss, bein’ rich, she prob’ly is. They all do it.” Wendell shuddered to think of that kind of element in Downlee. The artists worked, at least. Well, in their way, they did. He doubted Virginia St. Clair had ever done a stitch of work any way. “Don’t know why she bought Stah’s End. Don’t know who she thinks is gonna come to pahties heea.”

  Clarence clamped his pipe between his teeth and imagined parties at Star’s End. He imagined lights and music and laughter. The place was missing that kind of thing. “What does Elmira say?”

  Wendell reluctantly thought of his wife. He snorted in the next breath. “Elmira says she’s come heea to die, but what does Elmira know. Damn shame, I say. Stah’s End should’a been bought by someone else.” He took another drink of his coffee, a bigger one, now that it had cooled some, but the gulp took him aback. He made a face to match the size of the gulp. “Damned coffee,” he sputtered. “The problem’s computahs, I say, computahs.”

  eight

  CAROLINE’S BODY WAS OPERATING ON Chicago time, which meant that when she awoke at her usual six, it was seven in Maine. Needing tea, she went down to the kitchen to find that Leah had already steeped a pot. She steeled herself for the worst.

  But the tea was good. Better than good, actually. “What kind of tea is this?”

  Leah was reading the newspaper. “Darjeeling? No, Earl Grey. I think. I’m not sure. There were several tins in the cabinet.”

  “Of loose tea leaves?” What she was drinking was rich and full. It couldn’t possibly have come from bags, and Leah didn’t deny it. “I’m impressed.”

  Leah gave a small shrug. “I cook, too. Even we socialites have to live.”

  “You said that, not me,” Caroline warned. “I’m not good at repartee before two cups of tea, at least.” She studied her sister curiously. “Are you always up this early?”

  Leah set down the paper. “I don’t go to parties every night, Caroline. You can only sleep so much. Besides, sunrise here is spectacular.”

  Caroline was startled. “You saw it?”

  “Our bedrooms face east. I left my drapes open.”

  “I closed mine without even thinking. It’s habit.”

  Leah’s mood seemed to warm. “I did the same thing yesterday. Then I realized what I’d missed, so I made up my mind not to make the same mistake twice. The sun is breathtaking skipping over the water, and when it hits the bluff and then the flowers—” She made a sound of pleasure.

  Caroline’s eye fell on the vase that stood at the center of the table. It was filled with brilliant blue stalks. “Delphinium?”

  “Uh-huh. From the yard. I had to cut them shorter than I would have liked—I left them longer in the other rooms—but they were so spectacular that I had to put some here. They’ll be gone before long.”

  Caroline sipped her tea, which remained remarkable even halfway through the cup, which was remarkable in and of itself. She wondered if it had to do with the setting. With the French doors and windows open, the outside came in, creating something as rich as the tea, but also loose, lazy, and free. The feel of it was worlds away from Chicago, and though the details varied, it reminded her of Ben’s place.

  Thinking of Ben made her feel lonely. “I thought I’d go gallery-hopping in Downlee this morning. What are your plans?”

  “I thought I’d read.”

  That was actually fine with Caroline. She would just as soon wander at her own speed and in her own time. But Leah looked small and young, fragile somehow, and Caroline couldn’t help but remember when they had been eleven and five, then twelve and six, and she had taken Leah along with her to play. Then adolescence had widened the gap between them, and by the time adolescence was done, they had taken different roads. Caroline studied; Leah partied. They competed with the other for Ginny’s affection.

  But Caroline didn’t feel competitive now. Star’s End was too peaceful to allow for it. Kindly, she asked, “Do you want to come along with me?”

  Leah smiled but shook her head. “I’ll stay here.”

  Caroline didn’t push. Instead she read the front section of the newspaper over her second cup of tea. It wasn’t the Sun-Times, but it gave her the news. When she was done, she went upstairs and dressed. She came back down in time to find Annette on the phone.

  “Yes, Devon, I understand that, but if Thomas has a stomachache, going up the arch isn’t a good idea.” She covered the mouthpiece and murmured to Caroline, “There’s a slight glitch.” She returned to the mouthpiece. “No. Not a riverboat, either You ought to stay on dry ground. Try the St. Louis Hall of Fame.” She looked up. “Are you going downtown, Caroline?—that’s a great idea, Devon. I’m sure he’d love it.”

  “I’m taking the Volvo,” Caroline said. The keys were right where Gwen had said they’d be.

  “Wait! I’m coming! Devon, I have to run now, but I’ll give a call after lunch. Whatever you do, do not let Thomas eat spicy food. I’d put money on the fact that his stomachache is from the chili dogs they had for lunch yesterday. Get him to eat something bland, like bananas, or cheese toast, okay, honey?”

  Caroline waited at the door until Annette joined her. “It must be nice having a doctor for a husband. He isn’t thrown by things like stomachaches.”

  “That’s the problem,” Annette complained. “Stomachaches are so insignificant compared to what he sees every day that he takes them for granted. I might have known someone would get sick while I was gone.”

  “It’s just a stomachache. You don’t have to be there for that.”

  “Maybe not,” Annette said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

  Caroline drove, carefully negotiating the twists and turns of the road. “I wouldn’t want to be driving this on a rainy night with a beer or two under my belt.” She was thinking of the DWIs she often defended, well-to-do Chicagoans with legal woes up to their ears, who tried to dull the worry with drink and ended up making things worse.

  “Remember when we had chicken pox?” Annette asked.

  Chicken pox. Caroline shot her a quizzical look. “Sure. I was nine.”

  “I was six and Leah three. Mother decided that it would be more convenient if we were all sick at the same time, so she drove us over to see a little boy in Leah’s nursery school and get us exposed. Sure enough, within three weeks we all had spots. And where was Ginny?”

  “In and out, doing the same things she always did.”

  “She brought us coloring books—identical ones, even though we were three different kids at three different age levels with three different interests. I remember her sitting in that chair in the corner of her bedroom, holding Leah.”

  “She held you, too,” Caroline said.

  “No. Not me. Only Leah.”

  But Caroline remembered it clearly, remembered the hurt. “You and Leah. I’m sure. When I didn’t take to the coloring book, she gave me one of the National Geographics from the bookshelf in the den. She said I’d enjoy looking through it. And I did. But it wasn’t what I wanted.”

  Annette faced her. “You wanted her, and she wasn�
�t there. Or if she was there, she wasn’t there enough. She’d tuck us in, sit with us for too short a time, give us a pat on the head and a peck on the cheek. She’d say all the right things, but I never truly believed she felt bad that I was sick. She was cavalier about it. She’d say, ‘You aren’t the first to have chicken pox, and you won’t be the last.’ Life was one long methodical string of events. Nothing was extraordinary. Everything was beige.”

  Caroline knew what she meant. Ginny never delved into red, purple, or orange. On occasion things were taupe or ivory, maybe even, once in a great while, pink or pale green, but a solid, neutral beige was the norm.

  “I wanted her to feel for me,” Annette went on. “I wanted her to itch a little, and cry a little, and sweat because I was sweating.”

  “Ginny was never emotional.”

  “She was never involved. It was like she had a list of the things that mothers were supposed to do, so she did each thing because it was what was expected, and checked it off. Her job was then done. Her obligation was fulfilled. She never went above and beyond the call of duty. She certainly never put herself in our skin. But I do it all the time, Caroline. I feel for my kids. So is it wrong for me to be concerned if Thomas doesn’t feel well?”

  Of course not, Caroline thought. Annette was right on the nose in her assessment of Ginny as a mother, even if she herself went overboard in the other direction. “It’s admirable. But it isn’t grounds for flying home. The others can take care of Thomas. He knows you’re thinking of him. You’ve always been there for him. He knows you’d be there now if it weren’t for this business with Ginny. He won’t stop loving you.”

  “I know.”

  “Love for a mother is the most enduring kind. You cannot like your mother and still love her. When I worked for the county, I saw battered children who should have run away from their mothers and never looked back, but they didn’t. They stayed.”