its architecture. He read about the great whaling ships, the looting of the island by the British, and the pirate ships that had once prowled these waters. The islanders hanged a few pirates. The Brit ish hanged a few islanders. After that, however, things settled down nicely. Derring-do gave way to farming and then to marking up prices for tourists. High crime, these days, was clamming without a license.
But it was, no question, a beautiful place. Edgartown in particular. Many fine old homes and gardens, brick walks, delicate wrought-iron fences. His book on architecture said there were three principal styles: Federal, Greek Revival, and Early Victorian. He learned to recognize and appreci ate the subtleties of each. It seemed a gentle thing to know. New York, by mid-March, seemed as far away as Pluto.
The pain of losing Bronwyn had begun to ease a bit. No day went by without some thought of her, but her face, in his mind, had begun to blur. That seemed somehow indecent but he had known her, after all, for less than three months. They had had no time to store up memories and there were no snapshots of happy times to torment him. The one photograph he had of her had been stolen for its frame. It was just as well. He needed to let her go.
Jake would take longer. In his case there were too many memories. But day by day, a few of them were starting to bring smiles. What he began to feel worse about was Moon. He missed him and was worried about him, and yet here he'd allowed six weeks to go by without even asking whether he was still alive. People do have multiple strokes. As much as he dreaded it, he would have to call Doyle.
But he kept putting it off. A dozen times he'd picked up the phone and begun to dial. It was disgraceful of him not to call, to let Doyle worry and wonder. He realized that. It's just that it was so peaceful here.
He considered taking the ferry back to the mainland, driving up to Boston, and making the call from there. He would not have to say where he's been living all this time. While there, he could rent a post office box so that Doyle could send him his mail. He could open a bank account so that Doyle could send his money to Boston as well. When he needs it, he'll drive up and get it. All Doyle had to know is that he's safe. He doesn't have to know where.
“Michael . . . call him.”
“ Stay out of this one y Doc.''
“ Tell me that this man is your enemy. If you can`t, there is no decent way of r efusing to give him your address. ”
“ l didn't say he's my enemy. All I said . . . ”
“ ‘Call him, Michael. This minute. ”
Fallon gritted his teeth. He punched out the lawyer's home number. Doyle was shocked into silence at the sound of his voice.
But only for a moment.
A whispered “Where the hell are you?” asked and an swered, was followed by a blowtorch of personal abuse. Boiling Doyle. Michael had been a thoughtless, irresponsi ble, self-pitying son of a bitch. A full minute went by before the lawyer ran out of the more profane modifiers for “son of a bitch” and “little shit.” Sheila Doyle, Fal lon assumed, must be out for the evening.
“Mr. Doyle ... I almost got killed.”
“What you got was a broken wrist. You fell apart over that? That's how Jake and Moon raised you?”
“Have you heard from Moon?”
“You just get your sorry ass back here.”
“I'm not coming back. Now calm down and hear me out.”
Michael told him about the muggers, one with a gun, the other with a knife, and why he wanted no part of the police. He mentioned the car that had almost run him down. He agreed that it might have been nothing, but it was one near-miss too many. He told of getting to the point where he thought his phone had been bugged and people were watching him. Following him.
Silence on the other end.
“Mr. Doyle?”
“Give me a minute.”
Another long silence. He had a sense that- the lawyer was pacing.
“Mike . . . you still should have called,” he said at last.
But it was, no question, a beautiful place. Edgartown in particular. Many fine old homes and gardens, brick walks, delicate wrought-iron fences. His book on architecture said there were three principal styles: Federal, Greek Revival, and Early Victorian. He learned to recognize and appreci ate the subtleties of each. It seemed a gentle thing to know. New York, by mid-March, seemed as far away as Pluto.
The pain of losing Bronwyn had begun to ease a bit. No day went by without some thought of her, but her face, in his mind, had begun to blur. That seemed somehow indecent but he had known her, after all, for less than three months. They had had no time to store up memories and there were no snapshots of happy times to torment him. The one photograph he had of her had been stolen for its frame. It was just as well. He needed to let her go.
Jake would take longer. In his case there were too many memories. But day by day, a few of them were starting to bring smiles. What he began to feel worse about was Moon. He missed him and was worried about him, and yet here he'd allowed six weeks to go by without even asking whether he was still alive. People do have multiple strokes. As much as he dreaded it, he would have to call Doyle.
But he kept putting it off. A dozen times he'd picked up the phone and begun to dial. It was disgraceful of him not to call, to let Doyle worry and wonder. He realized that. It's just that it was so peaceful here.
He considered taking the ferry back to the mainland, driving up to Boston, and making the call from there. He would not have to say where he's been living all this time. While there, he could rent a post office box so that Doyle could send him his mail. He could open a bank account so that Doyle could send his money to Boston as well. When he needs it, he'll drive up and get it. All Doyle had to know is that he's safe. He doesn't have to know where.
“Michael . . . call him.”
“ Stay out of this one y Doc.''
“ Tell me that this man is your enemy. If you can`t, there is no decent way of r efusing to give him your address. ”
“ l didn't say he's my enemy. All I said . . . ”
“ ‘Call him, Michael. This minute. ”
Fallon gritted his teeth. He punched out the lawyer's home number. Doyle was shocked into silence at the sound of his voice.
But only for a moment.
A whispered “Where the hell are you?” asked and an swered, was followed by a blowtorch of personal abuse. Boiling Doyle. Michael had been a thoughtless, irresponsi ble, self-pitying son of a bitch. A full minute went by before the lawyer ran out of the more profane modifiers for “son of a bitch” and “little shit.” Sheila Doyle, Fal lon assumed, must be out for the evening.
“Mr. Doyle ... I almost got killed.”
“What you got was a broken wrist. You fell apart over that? That's how Jake and Moon raised you?”
“Have you heard from Moon?”
“You just get your sorry ass back here.”
“I'm not coming back. Now calm down and hear me out.”
Michael told him about the muggers, one with a gun, the other with a knife, and why he wanted no part of the police. He mentioned the car that had almost run him down. He agreed that it might have been nothing, but it was one near-miss too many. He told of getting to the point where he thought his phone had been bugged and people were watching him. Following him.
Silence on the other end.
“Mr. Doyle?”
“Give me a minute.”
Another long silence. He had a sense that- the lawyer was pacing.
“Mike . . . you still should have called,” he said at last.
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