them.”
Rachel felt a shock to her chest.
“I’m sure, but he can see you tomorrow at ten.”
“Can I speak with him?”
“I’m sorry, he’s out of the office on an emergency and probably won’t be back for the rest of the day. Is ten tomorrow good for you?”
“Yes, ten’s fine,” she gasped and clicked off.
2
It was only three-thirty when Martin Whitman left the office. He had canceled two meetings and let all the calls and e-mails go unanswered because he wanted to buy some flowers on the way home as a prelude to taking Rachel to dinner at the Blue Heron—a chichi restaurant perched majestically on the cliffs overhanging Magnolia Harbor. Wine-dark sea, sunset dinner, candlelight, and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Just the kind of romance-shock they needed.
Because something wasn’t right. Martin couldn’t put his finger on it, but for the last few weeks Rachel had lapsed into a black funk. She was distracted much of the time—moody, as if plagued by a low-level anxiety. She would become petulant when he questioned her and lose patience with Dylan when he misspoke or had trouble doing things. Without warning, she’d tear up, then withdraw. He hadn’t seen her like this since her hysterectomy which, three years ago, had left her in a dark malaise, like a slow-acting poison.
His first thought was that something was wrong with her—that her doctor had discovered a lump in her breast. But, surely, she would have told him. Then he wondered if there was another man—that while he spent up to fourteen hours a day at the office, Rachel had found somebody else. She was attractive, witty, warm, and easy to be with. But there had never been any reason to suspect her of cheating. Not until her recent shutdown—sex, of course, being a foolproof barometer. Overnight she had lost all interest in intimacy, going to bed early and falling asleep by the time he slipped beside her. When he brought it up, she said that it was just a phase she was going through—that it would pass. But so far it hadn’t.
Perhaps it was the move to Hawthorne. But she seemed to have adjusted well, making new friends and joining the Dells. They had a great house, and Dylan was a happy and healthy kid. He had some learning problems, but he was probably a late bloomer as Martin had been.
No, it was something else, he told himself. Maybe she needed to go back to work. For six years she had been an English editor of college textbooks at a Boston publishing house. She enjoyed it and had done well. Now she was housebound. More space was what she needed—and to get back into life.
Martin pulled the black Miata down Massachusetts Avenue and onto Memorial Drive heading north to Route 93, which would connect him to Interstate 95. Across the Charles River, a thick underbelly of clouds made a rolling black canopy over Boston, lightning flickering through it like stroboscopes. The forecast was for afternoon showers that would clear out by evening.
This particular strip of Memorial from Massachusetts Avenue to the Sonesta was his favorite sector of Cambridge—even more than scenic Brattle Street with its august six-generational mansions or funky Central Square, or even Harvard Square which, unfortunately, had lost its renegade soul to mall franchises—the Abercrappies and Au Bon Pain in the Asses. Across the river lay Boston in red brick stacked up against Beacon Hill and surmounted by the gold dome of the State House. On the left were the grand old trophy buildings of MIT—interconnecting classical structures in limestone that emanated from the Great Dome, designed after the Pantheon of Rome, and forged with the names of the greatest minds of history. He loved the area.
By the time he reached 95 North, the rain was heavy and remained so until he reached the Hawthorne exit. Just outside of Barton, a couple towns southwest of Hawthorne, the rain stopped and the clouds gave way to blue. The streets were puddled, but it would be a clear night after all. Dining under the stars.
Barton was a working-class town, the kind of place that tenaciously held on to reminders of its fisher-family heritage. The houses were mostly modest Capes and ranches, a few trailer homes that had intended to move elsewhere but had burrowed in. The center was a strip of fishing-tackle shops, a small used-car dealership, a marine-engine-repair place, doughnut and pizza shops, a dog-clipping service, and Ed’s Lawnmower and TV Repair.
Halfway down Main Street, Martin shot through a puddle that was a lot deeper than it appeared. Instantly, he knew he was in trouble. Water had flashed up under the hood and doused the wires. Thinking fast, he turned into the lot of Angie’s Diner and rolled into a parking space just as the car stalled out. He tried starting it, but the engine didn’t turn over. There was no point calling Triple A since jumping the battery wouldn’t do any good. In half an hour the wires would dry out and he’d be on his way. And a wedge of apple pie and a coffee would go down well.
Angie’s Diner was the epicenter of Barton—a greasy spoon with homemade panache whose brash owner was part of its no-nonsense charm. Martin headed across the lot, which consisted of pickup trucks and some battered SUVs, and a Barton Fire Department car, probably from an off-duty firefighter heading home.
The place was half-full, some people in booths, a few at the counter including the fireman, a middle-aged guy still in uniform. Martin took a seat at the elbow of the counter at the far end, giving him a full view of the booths against the front windows and the staff working the counter. He liked the blue-collar ambiance. The booth radio boxes, red Naugahyde spin-top stools, the gleaming stainless steel and Formica-the place was a 1960 tableau.
In a booth across from him sat a pretty teenage girl and an older guy with bushy hair, talking intensely over cake and coffee. In the next booth, another kid in a baggie black pullover and ponytail thumbed through a book of cartoons while picking on a garden salad. He was probably an art student somewhere.
Martin ordered pie and coffee and opened his copy of Wired. He was partway through an article when he noticed the ponytail kid shift around in his seat. At first Martin thought he was trying to get more comfortable, until it became clear he was craning for a better view of the couple, whose conversation had taken a turn for the worse. The bushy-hair guy was quietly protesting something, while the girl, a cute blonde in a black tank top, coolly pressed her case.
Meanwhile, Ponytail slid left and right for a better view. At one point, he got up to go to the toilet—or pretended to—and walked by them without taking his eyes off the girl. When she looked up expectantly, he marched off. A few minutes later he returned still staring intensely at her. She caught his eye and he scooted into his booth. The girl whispered something to her companion, and they got up and left as Ponytail tracked them through the window to their car.
Martin went back to his magazine, thinking that maybe Ponytail was Blondie’s former suitor. Whatever, a few moments later, a small commotion arose when the boy asked for pancakes and the waitress said that they were no longer doing breakfast.
“Can you m-m-make a special order?”
“I’ll ask Angie,” the girl said and went into the back.
A moment later Angie came out. She was a short blocky woman about forty-five with a wide impassive face and a large head of red frizz held in place by jumbo white clips. She was not smiling. “We stop serving breakfast at eleven,” she declared.
“You can’t m-m-make a s-s-special order?”
“No, we can’t.”
The kid dropped his face into the menu pretending to find an alternative, but it was clear there was nothing else he was interested in.
“You want more time?”
He shook his head. “I r-r-really wanted p-pancakes.”
Martin began to feel bad for the kid. Not only was he getting the cold shoulder from the proprietor, but also he was a stutterer. Martin had stuttered painfully in grade school.
“Then come back in the morning.” She yanked the menu out of his hand. “We open at s-s-six.” She winked at the fireman at the counter and started away.
