Last Day (30 page)

“What would she and you do?”

Sam shrugged. “Sketch, mainly. Or she’d tell me stories about how the Black Hall artists would come here over a hundred years ago, set up their easels, and paint the view. You know, there weren’t enough women.”

“Really?” Kate asked.

“Yep. Matilda Browne and Mary Cassatt were the only women who really made it as American Impressionists. I mean, Miss Florence ran the boarding house for artists, but she wasn’t one herself. Willard Metcalf was my favorite, but he looked down on girls who came for art lessons, so now I’m not sure how I feel about him. Did you know he called girls
blots
, as in blots on the landscape?”

“I’ve heard that,” Kate said, picturing the panel at the museum,
Poor Little Bloticelli
—a fifteen-year-old girl in her straw hat and white dress, painting at her easel. Kate had gone through the same thing at Sam’s age, being disillusioned by the artists’ lives and wondering if it was okay to still love their art.

They walked toward a stand of weeping willow trees, and Kate set down the canvas bag. She shook out a plaid picnic blanket, handed Sam her sandwich, and opened her own. They sat by the river, eating lunch, watching kayakers paddle along the Essex side. A fifty-five-foot boat with a catamaran hull headed slowly south, carrying tourists on a nature cruise. She glanced at Sam. If Sam had spent lots of time here with her mother, how big of a letdown must it be to come here now with her aunt?

“See that island?” Sam asked, pointing.

“Yes,” Kate said. She knew it well. Growing up at her grandmother’s, she’d heard all about the granite quarries worked in the early twentieth century for stone to pave New York City. Rare indigo hummingbirds were known to nest there every ten years. Most magical were the giant lotus lilies, completely unknown to the United States, that had bloomed on the island.

Mathilda had a botanist friend who had determined they had sprouted from seeds stored in the pyramids of Egypt, a thousand years BC. In the early 1800s, traders had looted the pyramids and stolen ancient racks of linen, to which the seeds had stuck. They had used the fabric to wrap ivory tusks to keep them from breaking on the voyage across the Atlantic. The ivory had been headed to a piano key manufacturer in Deep River, Connecticut. The seeds had blown off the linen, drifted downriver, and taken root on the island’s shore.

“Sometimes Mom and I would paddle out to it.”

“You’d bring kayaks?”

“Nope,” Sam said, giving her a sly smile. “Come on.”

They headed down to the water’s edge, and Sam parted rushes and invasive phragmites to reveal a ten-foot wooden dinghy covered by a tattered canvas. Oars were stored beneath the peeling varnished seats. Tarnished brass oarlocks were already in their holders.

“Whose boat is this?” Kate asked.

“A friend of Mom’s. We’d head out to the island to look for the flowers. Do you know about them?”

“The giant lilies?”
Flowers, a friend.
The back of Kate’s neck tingled.

“Yep. Everyone said they lived here until a raging storm washed them away in 1927—but Mom thought that was wrong. She was sure a few were left, hidden under other plants or in a secret part of the quarries. We always searched. This was our island of flowers . . .”

“Flowers,” Kate said. “You and your mother searched for them?”

“With her friend,” Sam said.

“What friend?”

“An artist. I don’t think you know him,” Sam said. “He goes to the soup kitchen.”

“That’s where you met him?” Kate asked, trying to sound casual.

“He’s poor, but he’s really nice. I helped him with a couple of art workshops at the shelter. He’s great with pen-and-ink and charcoal. Mom always said I could learn from him, that he kept it simple, like so many great artists.”

“He’d help you search for the lilies?”

“Yeah. Apparently, he somehow met your father, who told him he should draw flowers. And as horrible as your dad was in one way, Mom said no one knew more about art than he did.”

“Where is your mom’s friend now?” Kate asked.

“Jed? He sometimes camps on the island, but he’s obviously not there now, or the dinghy would be on the other side. Come on; let’s row out. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if we used it.”

They pushed the wooden boat off the silty bank, and Sam gestured for Kate to sit in the stern. Sam took the middle seat and, facing Kate, began to row. Popcorn galloped into the shallows and swam alongside. The passage was short, barely two minutes from the shore. Kate was silent, questions running through her mind.

“Was your Mom close to Jed?” Kate asked.

“Eww, the way you say it.”

“Well?”

“Just come out and ask!” Sam snapped. “I’m sixteen, not six. I don’t know, but what if she was? After how Dad acted with Nicola? I hope she was. I hope she was happy.”

Sam rowed through a narrow entrance to an inlet surrounded by rocks, and they both jumped out. Sam hauled the boat onto a strip of sand, threw the anchor high on the bank to hold it fast. Tension poured off her.

“Sam!” Kate said, watching her niece stalk away.

“I’m going to the quarry to look for the lilies,” Sam said.

“Wait, I’ll come with you.”

But Kate had upset her, and Sam began to run. Popcorn followed her. Kate started after them, then hung back, suddenly relieved to be left alone. She walked in the opposite direction, following a deer trail through tall grass. Glacier meltwater had torn the island from the mainland, its edges matching just like a puzzle piece.

Good luck to Sam, discovering a lotus. Beth had had a romantic view of life, and Kate wasn’t surprised to hear that she’d believed something rare and extinct survived here. All through their childhoods, and especially after their mother’s death, Beth had lived in her imagination. Kate had chosen reality. And now, strolling across the island, she didn’t believe anything could improve on the real and observable: golden grasses, pale- and dark-pink rose mallows, blue cornflowers, creamy Queen Anne’s lace.
This was our island of flowers,
Sam had said.

A cluster of scrub oaks and white pine trees grew at the top of a hill. Kate followed a winding brook up the rise. She looked out, watching the brook flow past granite boulders toward the sparkling river. A pair of ospreys rode the air currents overhead. Kate used to have dreams of being a bird. She could open her window and soar into the night, winged and powerful, not needing an airplane. She never crashed in those dreams. And she never wanted to land.

The ground was covered in pine needles. She walked farther into the woods, still following the brook. It was shady and cool, and she was glad not to have the sun on her head. She felt tired and sat down, then lay on her back, looking up through branches that filtered the blue sky. She blinked at the glitter of light, lulled by the sound of the brook. Then, as if she had no choice in the matter, as if she already knew what she was going to see, she turned her head. Set ten yards back, deep within the thick trees, was a dark-green tent.

It was well camouflaged, hidden beneath pine boughs. She walked over to it. The nylon had been patched with silver duct tape. The entrance was zipped up, so she couldn’t look inside. For a moment, her blood stopped. Maybe someone was sleeping inside. Not just “someone”—Jed.

“Hello?” she said quietly. “Hello?”

Her heart was racing. She looked down the trail, hoping Sam wouldn’t come. She’d hear Popcorn; that was a good thing. When no one answered, she tugged the zipper upward.

The tent was tidy. A rolled-up sleeping bag was tucked into the corner. A gallon jug of water was half-empty. A tin cup, plate, and utensils had been rinsed and stacked. The small, close space smelled musty, of sweat and pine pitch. She was having a hard time connecting Beth with a guy who lived in a tent. Beth, who seemed to safeguard her comfortable life and position in the community, who dressed the part of Black Hall business owner and Sam’s mom.

Another way Kate had sold her sister short.

Sticking out from beneath the bedroll was a hard-plastic envelope. She pulled it close to her, opened it. There were papers inside, and she paged through them. The shadowy light made it hard to see, but she peered at each sheet, looking for drawings.

Most were newspaper clippings, but there was one business-size white vellum envelope embossed with the Lathrop Gallery seal. It was addressed simply “Jed” in Beth’s handwriting. Kate opened it, intending
to read whatever her sister had written, but saw only a small, murky black-and-white photo.

It took Kate’s breath away. She sat very still, staring at the photo, her hand on her heart.

When she heard voices in the distance, she replaced the plastic file, ducked out of the tent, and closed the zipper. The sounds were coming from the east side of the low hill, so she walked in that direction.

Hanging back in the woods so she wouldn’t be seen, she looked down at the inlet they had rowed across. She heard Sam laughing and Popcorn yelping. “Come on, Jed!” Sam called. “Swim faster!”

“I wouldn’t have to swim if someone didn’t steal my boat!” a man’s voice called.

Sam laughed again. She and Popcorn were hidden by the slant of the brush-covered hill, but Kate could see the man’s head, glossy as a seal’s back, slipping through the water. He held an orange backpack over his head with one hand, sidestroked across the channel with the other. When he reached shallow water, he stood and shook his reddish-brown hair, sending crystal droplets flying. He wore a gray T-shirt with an owl on it and knee-length tan shorts that stuck to his body.

Sam splashed him when he scrambled up the riverbank, and she gave him a hug.

“Sam, how’re you doing?” he asked.

“Everything sucks,” she said.

“I know,” he said, still hugging her. “I know, I know. I’m so sorry.”

He was tall and lanky. He pushed his hair behind his ears and ruffled his beard as if to dry it. He was in his early thirties, and Kate realized that although she hadn’t known his name, she’d seen him doing odd jobs around the Academy. She started down the hill, sidestepping her way over and through loose rocks and tangled vines.

“Come look for the lilies with us!” Sam said to Jed.

Jed ignored Sam. Hearing Kate’s footsteps, he turned toward her. His eyes were kind, soft brown, and held her gaze. He looked alarmed,
almost afraid. She found herself wanting to reassure him, not spook him, learn everything she could.

“Hello, Jed,” she said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Kate.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, shaking her hand. His was cool from the swim.

“I’ve seen you at the Academy, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” he said. “Beth helped me get a job there.”

“I thought you were based in New London.”

“I was, till I got the job. I still have meals there sometimes, but living around here is closer to work.”

She nodded. “That makes sense.”

“So now everyone knows each other,” Sam said, sounding impatient. “Can we please search for the lilies?”

Jed glanced at Kate, apprehension in his eyes, as if trying to tell whether she preferred he not join them. She wondered what he’d think if he knew that in the back pocket of her shorts was the blurry black-and-white photo, the sonogram, she had taken from his tent.

“Sure, Sam,” Kate said. “Let’s go.”

“The thing is, I have an appointment later this afternoon,” Jed said. “So I can only look for a little while.”

“No prob,” Sam said.

The three of them headed single file down the path toward the old quarry, Popcorn leading the way, Kate bringing up the rear. She wondered what appointment he had—she was sure Conor wouldn’t let much time pass without interviewing him. Kate walked behind Jed now, stared at his back, never taking her eyes off him for a second.

36

Jed Hilliard didn’t have transportation, so instead of having him come to the Major Crime Squad, Reid arranged to meet him at three o’clock at Black Hall’s Paradise Drive-In. It was a popular ice cream stand, with picnic tables next to a marsh overlooking the mouth of the Connecticut River. Reid ate a mint chocolate chip cone while waiting.

Jed was a few minutes late. It worked out well; Reid was able to finish his cone. He tossed the napkin into the trash as he watched Jed approach, an orange backpack slung over his right shoulder.

He looked disheveled, but in an appealing way: maybe it was the artist in him. Despite what Reid knew about Jed’s beleaguered financial circumstances, he would have a hard time seeing him with the Osprey House crowd: long hair, shaggy beard, tall with a loping stride, alert and intelligent eyes. He had a strong handshake. Reid asked if he wanted something from the snack bar, but Jed said no.

They sat at a picnic table, under a yellow-and-white-striped umbrella. Reid had his back to the sun. Jed had the disadvantage of having it in his eyes, and he squinted at Reid. The sadness in his face was unmistakable.

“I know you want to talk about Beth,” Jed said.

“That’s right,” Reid said, waiting.

Jed seemed comfortable with the silence. He didn’t rush to fill it, and he didn’t fidget.

“She was the best person I ever knew,” he said finally.

“I’ve heard that from a lot of people,” Reid said.

“She loved . . . the world,” Jed said. “She saw the good in people, and she took care of everyone.”

“Including you?” Reid said.

“Oh yes,” Jed said vigorously, as if he wasn’t the least bit ashamed of it. “She believed in me. My art especially. But me as a person too. I was in prison.” He looked Reid straight in the eye when he said it. “That’s where I met her.”

Reid had to respect him for coming right out with that—or maybe Jed had his con down pat, and being forthcoming was part of it.

“I’ve heard that,” Reid said. “But what I’ve been wondering, Jed, is how did you wind up here in Black Hall? I looked up your record, and it says you’re from Warwick, Rhode Island.”

“‘People, places, and things,’” Jed said. “They teach us in AA to avoid slippery places, and the people we used with, and things that remind us of getting high. So I wasn’t going back. Beth helped me decide that. She thought that coming here, working at the Academy, would give me a fresh start.”