off with his friends. Stevie got down on her knees, studying the small crow hidden in shadow. He cringed against the stone foundation, his neck feathers ruffed like a collar.
“Do you need some help?” the man asked.
“I don't think so,” Stevie said coolly. “Are you the father of one of those boys?”
“No—I was just walking by, and I saw a ladder fall over, and I figured someone might be hurt.”
Stevie peered at him. He looked somewhat familiar—like a beach kid from the past. Tall, dark, longish almost-black hair, wearing sunglasses, a white dress shirt, and khaki shorts with too many pockets. One of her complaints about Hubbard's Point was how people seemed concerned with everyone else's business. The community was small and insular. Nothing like the wide-open anonymity of New York City . . . Whoever he was, he'd be spreading the news about kids peeking into her windows, spying on “the witch.”
Stevie lay down on her side, reaching into the vegetation, to try to get the bird. Her fingers brushed feathers.
“Let me,” the man said. “My arms are longer.” Without waiting for a response, he knelt down, closed his hand around the bird, and held it out for Stevie.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You're welcome.”
Stevie's hands enclosed the small crow; she wanted to get inside. She was already thinking of how she could nurse it back to health, keep it safe from Tilly. But the man didn't move. Maybe she
was
a witch: he stared down at her, and suddenly she knew that she knew him. The shape of his face, the curve of his mouth—he had to be Nell's father.
“Jack?” she asked.
“Yes—hi, Stevie.”
“I hear you met my daughter.”
“I did,” she said. “She's wonderful. Jack—I'm so sorry—”
“Emma. I know. Thank you.”
He seemed so uncomfortable, and Stevie felt so awkward. Wearing a robe, feeling disheveled, holding a lost bird, the very picture of a crazy artist. She tried to smile. “Listen, can you come inside? I'd like to talk to you—”
He seemed to hesitate, as if trying to think of an excuse. He checked his watch—a huge chronometer—and then shook his head. “I have an appointment,” he said. “I'm sorry, but I've got to go.”
Chapter 5
JACK RETURNED HOME TO AN EMPTY
house. He walked inside, closed the door behind him, looked around. There was almost nothing more depressing than a rented vacation place when you weren't really sure why you'd come there in the first place. Other people's strange taste in art, furniture, rugs. Was it possible that that orange macramé wall hanging had been seriously chosen? Jack scowled—he was well on his way to becoming a permanent, intractable curmudgeon.
He pulled out his briefcase, portfolio, and cell phone. Checked the time: just before four in Inverness. The North Sea, his next frontier. Francesca had paved the way, unintentionally, during her Scotland trip in April. Romanov had liked her, been impressed by the firm's credentials. Bids were being taken, but Jack wanted this chance to talk one-on-one with the guy who would make the ultimate decision.
Waiting for his phone to ring, he tried to settle down. What had him so keyed up? Was it the idea of Nell down at the beach with a bunch of people he didn't know? No—it wasn't that. Laurel seemed steady and responsible, the Hubbard's Point Recreation Program had been in full force since Jack was a kid, and Nell was fine going to school by herself—at home in Atlanta, in Boston. Once she adjusted, she'd be fine.
The phone rang—five minutes early.
“Jack Kilvert,” he said, exactly as if he was sitting in his office overlooking Boston Harbor.
“Hi there,” came Francesca's throaty voice. “Are you on the beach?”
“Not exactly,” he said, feeling a pang of guilt. No one at the firm—including Francesca—had any idea of what he was about to do.
“At the tennis court, on a sailboat, getting ready to tee off? Just tell me you're out in the sun, and not sitting
“Do you need some help?” the man asked.
“I don't think so,” Stevie said coolly. “Are you the father of one of those boys?”
“No—I was just walking by, and I saw a ladder fall over, and I figured someone might be hurt.”
Stevie peered at him. He looked somewhat familiar—like a beach kid from the past. Tall, dark, longish almost-black hair, wearing sunglasses, a white dress shirt, and khaki shorts with too many pockets. One of her complaints about Hubbard's Point was how people seemed concerned with everyone else's business. The community was small and insular. Nothing like the wide-open anonymity of New York City . . . Whoever he was, he'd be spreading the news about kids peeking into her windows, spying on “the witch.”
Stevie lay down on her side, reaching into the vegetation, to try to get the bird. Her fingers brushed feathers.
“Let me,” the man said. “My arms are longer.” Without waiting for a response, he knelt down, closed his hand around the bird, and held it out for Stevie.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You're welcome.”
Stevie's hands enclosed the small crow; she wanted to get inside. She was already thinking of how she could nurse it back to health, keep it safe from Tilly. But the man didn't move. Maybe she
was
a witch: he stared down at her, and suddenly she knew that she knew him. The shape of his face, the curve of his mouth—he had to be Nell's father.
“Jack?” she asked.
“Yes—hi, Stevie.”
“I hear you met my daughter.”
“I did,” she said. “She's wonderful. Jack—I'm so sorry—”
“Emma. I know. Thank you.”
He seemed so uncomfortable, and Stevie felt so awkward. Wearing a robe, feeling disheveled, holding a lost bird, the very picture of a crazy artist. She tried to smile. “Listen, can you come inside? I'd like to talk to you—”
He seemed to hesitate, as if trying to think of an excuse. He checked his watch—a huge chronometer—and then shook his head. “I have an appointment,” he said. “I'm sorry, but I've got to go.”
Chapter 5
JACK RETURNED HOME TO AN EMPTY
house. He walked inside, closed the door behind him, looked around. There was almost nothing more depressing than a rented vacation place when you weren't really sure why you'd come there in the first place. Other people's strange taste in art, furniture, rugs. Was it possible that that orange macramé wall hanging had been seriously chosen? Jack scowled—he was well on his way to becoming a permanent, intractable curmudgeon.
He pulled out his briefcase, portfolio, and cell phone. Checked the time: just before four in Inverness. The North Sea, his next frontier. Francesca had paved the way, unintentionally, during her Scotland trip in April. Romanov had liked her, been impressed by the firm's credentials. Bids were being taken, but Jack wanted this chance to talk one-on-one with the guy who would make the ultimate decision.
Waiting for his phone to ring, he tried to settle down. What had him so keyed up? Was it the idea of Nell down at the beach with a bunch of people he didn't know? No—it wasn't that. Laurel seemed steady and responsible, the Hubbard's Point Recreation Program had been in full force since Jack was a kid, and Nell was fine going to school by herself—at home in Atlanta, in Boston. Once she adjusted, she'd be fine.
The phone rang—five minutes early.
“Jack Kilvert,” he said, exactly as if he was sitting in his office overlooking Boston Harbor.
“Hi there,” came Francesca's throaty voice. “Are you on the beach?”
“Not exactly,” he said, feeling a pang of guilt. No one at the firm—including Francesca—had any idea of what he was about to do.
“At the tennis court, on a sailboat, getting ready to tee off? Just tell me you're out in the sun, and not sitting
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