or have her committed . . . or worse, been trying to make her discard items that were emotionally dependent on her for their survival . . . had it come down to a choice between them—or him?
A S I DROVE home, I cast about for someone besides Colin I could take to the concert. The thought of my bookseller friends made me laugh. Marty would show up in his red Cadillac T-shirt, Susie Pevney in her Mets baseball gear. For a fleeting moment I considered Colin’s colleague, Bruce Adair, a critical presence in the poetry world. Bianca would be happy enough with Bruce. But in our latest encounters, he had started propositioning me, and I didn’t want to give him any hope. No, I would have to ask Colin. He even had a tux.
When I got home and checked my messages, I saw Marty had called wanting to know what I had decided to do about the Old Frigate, a message I ignored. Instead I dialed Colin’s cell phone.
Four rings, then “Hey-lo.”
“Hi, it’s me. Do you want to go to a benefit concert at Guild Hall Saturday night? It’s formal, but I have two tickets. It’s honoring the Eriksons.”
“Delhi, what are you talking about?”
I slowed down and explained.
“Of course I’ll go,” he said when I finished talking. He made it sound as if he were doing me a favor, like going to a wake or picking someone up at the train station.
“In a tux.”
“I get that. The question is, what are you wearing?”
“Oh, I’ll find something.”
“Delhi, do me a favor. At least go to a department store.”
“Um.”
“No thrift shop getup! Promise me.”
“Not even a tiara?”
“ Delhi. ”
“Okay, okay.”
“We’ll eat out first,” he decided. “We need to talk.”
We need to talk. The words I least liked to hear, no matter who was saying them to me. Coming from a husband, you knew the conversation would not be how to best celebrate Valentine’s Day.
On the other hand, the food would probably be good.
C HA PTER E LEVEN
W HEN I O PENED the studio door on Wednesday morning, I smelled burnt paper.
Not the books! Dear God, not the books!
Without putting down my coffee or computer case, I rushed to the center of the room and looked around. It seemed exactly as I’d left it, down to the pad I used for notes still open on the table. Gradually I realized the smell seemed stronger in the direction of the fireplace. But why would someone have made a fire? Last night had been a typical September evening, brisk, but not cool enough to need any heat. Summer clung frantically to Long Island like an aging crone, unable to admit her heyday had passed, until one morning the trees were all vivid oranges and golds and rimmed by frost.
But that day was far away.
Puzzled, I moved over to the hearth and looked in. A blackened page curled like a cringing hand on top of the bed of ancient ashes. I didn’t need the glossy white corner and darkened faces to tell me it was the photograph of Morgan and Nate that had been on the worktable. I touched the edge with one finger and the darkness it gave off coated my throat and nostrils.
My God. Someone had come in, seen the photo, and struck a match to the edge. They had deliberately set fire to the photograph of Nate and his squirming granddaughter and left the evidence in plain view. Wicked. That is what my parents would have called it and for once I agreed with them. Who could be so cruel? The smoky air made my eyes tear and I stumbled back to the worktable. The destruction made me even more certain that the drownings had been no accident.
Shaken, I sat down in the metal chair and scrolled through my e-mail messages without reading them. Finally I stood up.
I needed to breathe. Nobody had told me I couldn’t walk around the grounds. I padlocked the door and set off.
That was how I found the pool.
I had just passed Rosa’s chalet on my right when I noticed a rectangular group of cedars. The shrubs were the upright variety planted as windbreaks. As I drew closer, I saw
A S I DROVE home, I cast about for someone besides Colin I could take to the concert. The thought of my bookseller friends made me laugh. Marty would show up in his red Cadillac T-shirt, Susie Pevney in her Mets baseball gear. For a fleeting moment I considered Colin’s colleague, Bruce Adair, a critical presence in the poetry world. Bianca would be happy enough with Bruce. But in our latest encounters, he had started propositioning me, and I didn’t want to give him any hope. No, I would have to ask Colin. He even had a tux.
When I got home and checked my messages, I saw Marty had called wanting to know what I had decided to do about the Old Frigate, a message I ignored. Instead I dialed Colin’s cell phone.
Four rings, then “Hey-lo.”
“Hi, it’s me. Do you want to go to a benefit concert at Guild Hall Saturday night? It’s formal, but I have two tickets. It’s honoring the Eriksons.”
“Delhi, what are you talking about?”
I slowed down and explained.
“Of course I’ll go,” he said when I finished talking. He made it sound as if he were doing me a favor, like going to a wake or picking someone up at the train station.
“In a tux.”
“I get that. The question is, what are you wearing?”
“Oh, I’ll find something.”
“Delhi, do me a favor. At least go to a department store.”
“Um.”
“No thrift shop getup! Promise me.”
“Not even a tiara?”
“ Delhi. ”
“Okay, okay.”
“We’ll eat out first,” he decided. “We need to talk.”
We need to talk. The words I least liked to hear, no matter who was saying them to me. Coming from a husband, you knew the conversation would not be how to best celebrate Valentine’s Day.
On the other hand, the food would probably be good.
C HA PTER E LEVEN
W HEN I O PENED the studio door on Wednesday morning, I smelled burnt paper.
Not the books! Dear God, not the books!
Without putting down my coffee or computer case, I rushed to the center of the room and looked around. It seemed exactly as I’d left it, down to the pad I used for notes still open on the table. Gradually I realized the smell seemed stronger in the direction of the fireplace. But why would someone have made a fire? Last night had been a typical September evening, brisk, but not cool enough to need any heat. Summer clung frantically to Long Island like an aging crone, unable to admit her heyday had passed, until one morning the trees were all vivid oranges and golds and rimmed by frost.
But that day was far away.
Puzzled, I moved over to the hearth and looked in. A blackened page curled like a cringing hand on top of the bed of ancient ashes. I didn’t need the glossy white corner and darkened faces to tell me it was the photograph of Morgan and Nate that had been on the worktable. I touched the edge with one finger and the darkness it gave off coated my throat and nostrils.
My God. Someone had come in, seen the photo, and struck a match to the edge. They had deliberately set fire to the photograph of Nate and his squirming granddaughter and left the evidence in plain view. Wicked. That is what my parents would have called it and for once I agreed with them. Who could be so cruel? The smoky air made my eyes tear and I stumbled back to the worktable. The destruction made me even more certain that the drownings had been no accident.
Shaken, I sat down in the metal chair and scrolled through my e-mail messages without reading them. Finally I stood up.
I needed to breathe. Nobody had told me I couldn’t walk around the grounds. I padlocked the door and set off.
That was how I found the pool.
I had just passed Rosa’s chalet on my right when I noticed a rectangular group of cedars. The shrubs were the upright variety planted as windbreaks. As I drew closer, I saw
Similar Books
