Annie studied them. “You’re wet. And it’s freezing. Do you want to come inside?” she added, but Kit could hear the reluctance in her voice.
He imagined the three of them in their sodden, steaming clothes, crammed awkwardly into the
But—”
“You could come tomorrow. The weather is supposed to clear.
I’ll be here, or up at Barbridge. I’ve some things to . . . to take care of.” She sounded as if that surprised her.
“Okay, right.” Kit raised his hand in an awkward wave. “See you then.” Grabbing Lally’s sleeve, he pulled her hurriedly back down the path the way they had come, figuring that Leo could bloody well take care of himself.
But after a moment, he heard the unmistakable rustle of movement behind them, and felt an arm draped across his shoulder.
“Did you have a date, then?” Leo whispered, his breath warm in Kit’s ear. “A little old for you, isn’t she? Or does that make it more fun?” When Kit tried to shrug loose, he gripped harder. “I think you’d better tell us all about it.”
The phone rang, sounding tinny and distant in the mobile held to Annie’s ear. She imagined the house at the other end of the electronic connection, pictured Roger swearing as he got up from his laptop and searched for the handset he’d misplaced. But perhaps he’d changed, become more organized, less obsessed with his work, without her there as a foil.
After a moment, however, the answering machine kicked in and she hung up. She didn’t want to leave a message—Roger would see her number on the caller ID, and saying “Call me” seemed stupidly redundant. He would ring her back, he always did, although she was no longer quite sure why.
The dark day had faded imperceptibly to night, and Annie had found herself unable to settle to anything constructive. She’d had an unexpected urge to talk to her husband, as if that might help her sort through her jumbled emotions, but now she realized she hadn’t any idea what she’d meant to say. She’d never been very good at sharing—that was one of the reasons they’d separated. Why did she think this would be any different?
Wandering from the salon into the galley, she pulled an open bottle of Aussie Chardonnay from the fridge. But as she reached for a glass, she felt the slightest movement of the boat and stopped, puzzled. She knew every creak and quirk of the boat, as if it were an extension of her body, and only registered movement when it was something out of the ordinary. This hadn’t been backwash—she’d
have heard another boat going by—and she’d checked the mooring lines carefully for slack. Perhaps one of the mooring pins had pulled a bit loose in the wet soil. She would check it, she decided, next time she went out for wood.
The brief interruption, however, added to the uneasiness that had been nagging her all afternoon, and she decided against the wine.
She didn’t want to feel fuzzy, or to sound muddled if Roger rang her back. Instead, she put on the kettle, sliced half a lemon and a bit of fresh ginger into a mug, then filled the cup with boiling water. The smell of this homemade concoction was always better than the taste, and she held the steaming mug under her nose as she went back into the salon.
The fire burned brightly in the stove and the Tom Rolt volume that Roger had given her lay open on the end table, but even as she curled up on the sofa and lifted the book, her mind wandered.
Although she’d never had children of her own, she’d worked with kids for years and had a well-developed radar for trouble. She’d been drawn to Kit the previous day, although even through his friendliness she’d sensed a reserve that seemed more adult than his years.
But today she’d sensed something off, an unhealthy dynamic between the three of them. Was it just an overabundance of adolescent testosterone? The girl—Kit’s cousin, he’d said—was far too pretty, and she’d had the haunted look of children who lived with emotional trauma. Perhaps the boys were vying to protect her, and that, she was sure, was a recipe for disaster.
But whatever it was, she told herself, it was not her problem—
she’d got herself embroiled in enough of a mess as it was. She’d done as much as she could for the Wains— she had to let it go.
“Are you sure she’s dying?” she’d asked Althea Elsworthy when they’d reached the car park at Barbridge.
“As sure as I can be without running diagnostics,” the doctor had snapped. “You asked my opinion and now you don’t want to take it?”
“No, I—”
Elsworthy shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t like it any better than you do. There is a remote possibility that she could survive a heart transplant. That’s assuming that she could get on the transplant list, with the MSBP strike on her medical records, and that she’d last until a heart became available. And all that would depend, of course, on her being willing to subject herself, and her family, to the system.
We can’t force someone to seek medical care, Ms. Lebow.”
No, but should she at least try once more, Annie wondered now, to convince Rowan and Gabriel Wain to seek medical help? She’d tried to tell herself that she could disengage, that isolation would insulate her from pain, but she had not found the peace she sought.
Maybe she’d needed to discover that no such thing existed. And if she stopped striving for perfection, could she ease a toe back into the water, so to speak?
The thought made her smile. Roger, journalist to the core, would tell her that metaphors weren’t for amateurs. She sipped her cooling drink, puckering a little at the lemon’s bite, and when her phone rang, she answered it with unexpected anticipation.
“Two calls in two days?” Roger sounded amused. “What did I do to deserve such largesse?”
“I just . . . wanted to talk.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, the amusement shifting instantly to concern.
“Yes, I think so,” Annie said, then laughed at the sound of surprise in her own voice. “Yes. Truly.”
“How about dinner, then? I could drive over, pick you up.”
She glanced at the clock, then peered out through the half-closed blind covering the cabin window. The fog pressed against the glass, swirling like a sinuous white beast. “The mist has come down. I don’t think I dare move the boat, and I’m halfway between Barbridge and the Hurleston Junction. There’s no way for you to get to me easily, and besides, the roads may ice.” Even as she set out the practical s
objections, she felt a stab of disappointment. She hadn’t expected such an instant response, hadn’t realized, until that moment, how much she looked forward to the prospect of sharing her concerns.
“Tomorrow, then?” he asked, and she heard the hope beneath the caution.
“Tomorrow,” she said, with certainty.
Kit gasped awake, sucking great gulps of air into his lungs, the hammering of his heart still sounding in his ears. Sitting up, he saw that he’d thrown the covers off and pushed poor Tess to the foot of the bed again. The room was quiet, except for the sound of the younger boys’ breathing, and the light coming through the curtain gap was the pearly gray of early morning.
Reassured, Kit reached down to pull up the duvet and scooped Tess to him. The little dog licked his chin with enthusiasm, and he hugged her, rubbing his cheek against the rough, springy hair on the top of her head. He settled back into the pillows, the dog now nestled in the crook of his arm, and made himself examine the nightmare. This one had been different.
He had been walking along the river, behind the cottage in Cambridge where he had spent the first eleven years of his life with his mother, and all except for the last year with the man he had known as his father, Ian McClellan. It was dusk, and he could smell the cold, damp air rising from the river . . . except that in the dream he had suddenly realized that it wasn’t the river at all, but a canal.
Then light had spilled out from the cottage window and he had moved toward it, gliding across the familiar lawn as if he were a ghost. All the while the window seemed to recede, but when he reached it at last and looked in, it was not his mother he saw, but Lally. She turned towards him, but her face was pale and featureless, and blood ran from her hands and splashed onto the white floor—
