Jennifer Haigh (28 page)

After her parents died Toussainte continued to farm the land.

Her plot was bordered by fig and mango trees, which she had planted herself. Fruit trees were rare in the village; they would not grow in its poor soil, thin and ashy from Montagne-Marie. Only Toussainte Victoire could make them flourish. The village women wondered why. The land she farmed was no different from their own, the soil so meager that even breadfruit was difficult to grow. Toussainte, born as the volcan erupted; a fierce, tiny woman with reddish hair—"like you," Rico said. Her son's deafness had saved him from the war; if he had been born normal, his mother would now be alone. All this was considered evidence of sorcery. The villagers kept their distance. All except for Toussainte's sister-in-law, Mignonne Dollet, who every few days appeared at her front door, demanding her share of Toussainte's fruit. If she had been a stranger (Rico was insistent on this point), his grandmother would have given her an armload, but her whole life she'd had nothing but grief from Mignonne Dollet, who'd convinced her brother Toussainte was beneath him. Too ugly. Too black.

When she refused to hand over the fruit, Mignonne was
furieuse.

And the next day Thibault drove up in his wagon. He had been told about the fruit.

To his surprise Toussainte had a basketful waiting, and handed it over graciously. But later that day, enjoying a ripe mango on his porch, Thibault had collapsed to the floor clutching his chest. The half-eaten mango had rolled to the ground where it was soon covered with ants.

Thibault's wife refused to touch it."Let them have it, the dirty thing," she said."At least we will be rid of our ants."

Gwen frowned."I don't get it."

"A cardiac," said Rico."He suffered a fatal cardiac."

She regarded him with amusement. "The fruit gave him a heart attack?"

"Yes, the fruit. What else could it be?"

Gwen laughed."My brother is a cardiologist. He could give you ten reasons."

"If he were a cardiologist in the Caribbean," said Rico, "he would know of such things."

The wind kicked up. Gwen adjusted the beach towel, shivering a little."What happened to your grandmother? Is she still living?"

"Oh yes. She is always living." Rico looked at Gwen. "You look cold. Come here."

He said it simply, naturally, as though they had known each other for years.

Gwen rose. Her body felt loose and warm. Rico parted his legs and she sat between them, as a child might. She leaned back against his chest. His skin surprised hers with its warmth. She hadn't been so close to another human being in ten years. And probably never would be again.

"What's that?" said Rico."Just now. Something made you shiver."

He wrapped an arm around her rib cage and reached around to hand her the cup of wine. They sat this way for a moment, or several years, who could tell? Gwen drained the cup.

"It's getting late," he said finally. "I should get you back to land.

Come." He squeezed her shoulder and got to his feet.

Don't go
, she thought.

Touch me
, she thought.

It was as if he had heard her. He lowered his mouth to her neck.

A liquid thrill ran through her, from his lips downward. It spread over her chest and dropped clean through her stomach, pooling sweetly between her legs. She wished for cover, the safety of darkness. This full-mooned night she could not hide herself.

Thrill and fear wrestled inside her. They tore at each other like two dogs fighting.

He slid the strap of her swimsuit over her shoulder.

What are you doing?
she asked, or maybe she only thought it.

Your bathing suit is wet
, he said, or didn't.
That is why you are cold.

Gwen saw the logic in this.

He slipped the suit from her shoulders, down to her waist. The cool breeze thrilled her skin. She looked down at herself, the white skin of her belly, her small spreading breasts.

She turned to face him.

chapter 5

Halfway through a wet April, Massachusetts went to war.

The morning had been cool and foggy. A damp rain soaked the town green. Down the road, in Lexington, eight militiamen had fallen beneath a cloud of musket smoke. Then the murderous column of British regulars had arrived in Concord, looking for weapons. The local militia had stockpiled cannon and muskets, which the regulars had been ordered to destroy.

In Concord the colonists were ready. Had been readying for months, in fact, gathering supplies—a dozen cords of wood, six hundred bales of straw; a hundred and forty portable toilets, discreetly placed in strategic locations around Minuteman National Park. Troops had been mobilized and bivouacked—at the Best Western on Route 2A, the Comfort Inn in Woburn. By hand and machine, uniforms had been sewn.

Properly outfitted, the soldiers massed around North Bridge.

The minutemen were stationed on the far side, over the Concord River; three companies of his majesty's troops held the low ground.

The regulars had uncovered, and burned, small stockpiles of weapons.

The British had come to set fire to the town! The order was given, the muskets loaded. As it did every wet April, the American Revolution began.

Paulette stood in her assigned spot, shivering despite the two wool petticoats she wore beneath her cloak. She hadn't missed a Battle Road in years; it was her third time as a costumed interpreter, and still as the first shot rang out, a thrill ran through her. Long ago, back when schoolchildren still memorized poetry, young Paulette Drew had learned the words to Emerson's "Concord Hymn." They returned to her like a prayer:
Here once the embattled farmers stood /

And fired the shot heard round the world.

She waited for her cue to speak. Some of the other interpreters gave the same address year after year, but Paulette was not complacent.

Every year she made an effort to add something new. It wasn't easy to do. The battle at North Bridge had lasted only a few minutes. Just one colonist and one British soldier had been killed. Only later, when colonists from the bridge met up with another group of minutemen at Meriam's Corner, did the real fighting begin.

A bit nervously, she delivered her remarks. Later, after she'd finished, she was approached by a man in leather breeches.
You're Paulette.

I've been working next door for Barbara Marsh. She says you need help with your kitchen floor.

Now, ten months later, she remembered everything about that moment: the blond man handsome in his uniform, his serious gaze, the surprising gravity of his voice. She recalled it as she sat drinking weak coffee in the town library, waiting for the rest of the committee to arrive. Waiting, if she were to be honest, for Gil Pyle, who must surely be back from Florida. She kept her eyes on the door, waiting.

Then, just as the meeting started, she felt a hand on her shoulder "Hi there," Pyle whispered. "Do you have a minute afterward? I need to talk to you."

The meeting seemed to go on forever. Minutes were read. Selectmen got up to speak. Paulette watched Gil Pyle from across the room, her view partially obscured by another of the reenactors, an aged gent named Harry Good. Perhaps it was fortunate that she couldn't see Pyle's face, that she was spared the embarrassment of meeting his eyes.

From this vantage point she saw only his left shoulder, his plaid shirt rolled up to the elbow, his forearm tanned from the Florida sun.

Finally the meeting ended. Pyle made his way across the room.

Paulette rehearsed a greeting in her head.
How lovely to see you.

How was your trip?
He would offer his hand to shake, and she would take it in both of hers. It seemed appropriate. They hadn't seen each other in five and a half months.

Head ducked, he approached her. His face was deeply tanned, white around the eyes from wearing sunglasses. The beard was gone, but he seemed to be growing a new one. She imagined touching the stubble at his chin.

"Listen," he said."I'm kind of in a hurry, but I wanted to let you know that I haven't forgotten. I have a couple of jobs lined up. I should be able to pay you back in three weeks. Four at the most."

She blinked, taken aback. Money? He wanted to talk about money?

"That's fine," she said in a low voice. She'd spotted Barbara Marsh a few feet away, refilling her Styrofoam coffee cup. The woman could hear like a dog."Not to worry. Four weeks is fine."

An awkward pause.

"Are you driving back to New Hampshire tonight?" she asked.

"To your brother's house?"

"Providence, actually. I've got a friend there." He nodded to someone over Paulette's shoulder. She turned to see a girl, a young woman, coming toward them.

"All set?" the girl said to Pyle. She was short legged and a little heavy through the thighs, or maybe it was the way she was dressed: as Pyle was, in faded jeans and a plaid shirt. But her face was lovely, her skin radiant, her hair long and wavy and streaked by the sun.

Paulette thought,
She is half my age.

"Oh, hey," Pyle called to her."This is someone you should meet.

Paulette, this is my friend Melissa."

After the meeting Paulette drove around town, feeling restless. The loan had been her own idea. Pyle hadn't asked for it, or expected it. It seemed now that she had ruined everything, though this possibility hadn't occurred to her that afternoon last fall, when Gil Pyle was gathering up his tools. She'd been driven by fear and need, her desperation to have him back.

Florida will be lovely this time of year,
she'd said, remembering with a sudden pang October in Palm Beach, the cool mornings, the blinding sun. Her father had died in the fall.

I haven't spent a winter in New Hampshire in ten years. I'm not sure I could handle it anymore.
He chuckled.
I might never come back.

He must have sensed her alarm. Briefly he touched her shoulder.

I'm kidding. There's nothing down there worth fixing. Plenty of work, but nothing interesting.
He glanced around the dining room, the hallway.

He gave the door frame a smack, like the shoulder of an old friend.

I'll miss this place.

Paulette thought, I will miss you.

When do you come back?
she asked, busying herself with a plant at the window.

March, usually. But this year I don't know. Depends on how fast I can dig myself out.

Paulette looked at him quizzically.