Lies of the Heart (56 page)

In the dream she is clinking glasses with Dana, and then she is hammering a nail into one of the shelves where she stores her canisters of film, the sound growing in volume, until she realizes that the tapping is happening in real time, outside her dream.

“Ma’am?”

Katie blinks into the gray morning light. Not the police, thank God, because what would she tell them?
My husband left me and he wanted to buy this house and now he’s dead and I’m sleeping in my car because I drove all night and fell asleep wondering why I’m here in the first place . . .

The man tapping her windshield is anywhere between fifty-five and seventy—balding and heavy and deeply tanned, with a youthful, stubby nose that looks misplaced on his wrinkled face. His robe is tied tightly over his enormous belly, and he has a paper tucked underneath his arm. An empty coffee cup dangles out of one hand.

“You all right in there, ma’am?” he asks in a deep southern drawl.

Katie pats her hair into place, runs a hand across her face, her skin already sticky from the humid air. “I’m sorry, I fell asleep.”

“Car broke down?”

“No, I drove all night—” Jack scurries onto her lap, and Katie pats him, too. She points to the house. “Do you live here?”

The man turns, surveys the house. Over the swell of the lawn, the ocean is just visible. “Going on forty years,” he says.

“Are you Mr. Barber?”

He eyes her curiously. “Have we met?”

“I’m Katie Burrelli,” she says. “I’m Nick Burrelli’s wife. Or I
was
Nick’s wife.”

Mr. Barber nods, slowly. He watches her for a moment, nods again. “Suppose a cup of coffee might do you some good?”

“I lied to you, Mr. Barber,” Katie says, wrapping her hands around the coffee mug.

Mr. Barber nods, keeps his eyes steady on the ocean. They’re sitting in white rocking chairs in the gazebo, watching the sun peek over the horizon. A boat full of men trolls past them in the distance, their fishing rods pointing high into the sky. The wind carries their laughter across the water, and Mr. Barber throws up a hand in greeting. The men wave back, and Mr. Barber smiles. Jack lies at their feet, dozing softly.

“I couldn’t go through with it,” Mr. Barber says, talking more to himself than to Katie. “Selling this house. Tried a couple of times but there’s too many memories here, I guess. Good and bad, but too many to give away.”

They sit in companionable silence for a moment, taking in the water that is just beginning to sparkle under the sun’s early rays.

“I didn’t lie to
you,
exactly,” Katie says. “I told Mr. Minsky that Nick and I wanted to see the house again. But Nick was already gone.”

Mr. Barber turns to her, raises an eyebrow.

“He died last spring, shortly after you met him. He came here the week after he left me,” Katie says. “And now I’m here, and I have no idea why.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Mr. Barber nod, turn back to the ocean. They watch a string of pelicans fly past, their wings resting on the air. Earlier, while Katie waited in the dining room for Mr. Barber to change and then pour them coffee, she tried to think of at least one good question for him. A reason that she has intruded into this man’s life. She listened to his happy whistling in the kitchen, hoping the wistful melody would work its way into her body and make some sense of this trip that had seemed so important just yesterday.

Mr. Barber points to a fish cresting the water. “Most likely a blue,” he says, rocking in his chair.

“Do you fish often?”

“used to,” he says, watching the water.

“I’m sorry for imposing on you like this,” Katie says. “Thank you for the coffee.”

She’s about to rise when Mr. Barber places a hand on the arm of her chair, his eyes still on the ocean.

“Back when my wife was alive, I used to call her Old Busybody. There was always someone up there in the house with her, talking away, and my wife’d just sit there and soak it all up. I never understood it,” he says, shaking his head.

He tilts his mug back, drinks the last of his coffee.

“I asked her once why she did it, and she said something that didn’t make sense right then. She said when people tell their troubles to someone else, it’s like they’re handing over some of the weight of those burdens. Taking the things that make their shoulders bend and giving them over to someone who can hold on to them for a while. Said that’s the greatest thing we can do for another person, carry around that weight until they’re strong enough to take it back.”

“Did you believe her?”

“Hell no!” Mr. Barber says, facing Katie and grinning for the first time. “I thought she just liked listening to their tales. Old Busybody, that’s what I called her.” His face grows serious, eyes tracking the water again as he looks into the past. “But then she got sick and was gone before I could even think about what being alone was all about. And I had me a neighbor here, right next door, been dead going on about a year now. Charlie. And one night me and old Charlie, we drank us some whiskey and it all came spilling out of me. I couldn’t have stopped myself if I tried. All the good and the bad and the ugly and the sweet. And you know what? The trip back home that night was like walking an inch above the ground. I been grateful to him ever since. Always will be.”

Another boat appears in the distance, a nest of seagulls chasing above it.

“When did you know you were ready to take it back?” Katie asks quietly.

“Don’t know if I have yet,” Mr. Barber says. “But I’m trying.” He turns to Katie, raises his empty mug at her. An invitation.

At first she stumbles, trying to tell him about Nick, their life together. But Mr. Barber keeps his eyes on the water, calmly nodding his encouragement, and before she knows it, she’s talking about Jerry, her family, the trial. How she’ll never know exactly what part she played in Nick’s death, but how she knows the feelings of guilt will never leave her all the way. She tells him about the Cohens, too, about what they offered her, what she refused to take. And how she always felt she was an outsider in her own life, always on the outside looking in, watching and waiting for other people to give her answers. Mr. Barber keeps nodding like he understands, his eyes squinting at the ocean as he rocks in his chair.

“I think it was the opposite for me, Mr. Barber. I wanted to hear their stories so I could understand myself. What my life was, or was supposed to be,” Katie says. “Who I
should
be.”

Mr. Barber stops his slow rocking. “And now?”

“I guess I’m ready for my own story.”

Mr. Barber looks at her, smiles. “That sounds about right.”

“But I’ve decided to finish the Cohens’ documentary after all. I’m about halfway through. Their son, Ben, is helping me. He’s narrating their life together.”

Mr. Barber pats the arm of her chair. “They’d be real proud of you, your friends.”

They rock side by side for a long time, quiet as the sun continues its journey upward, as the ocean fills with more boats and a few Jet Skiers. Mr. Barber finally stirs beside her, looks her in the eye.

“Nick didn’t mention a wife,” he says. “Just said he needed a break, to breathe a little bit easier and all.”

“I know.”

“But I sure got the feeling he was running from something
.”

“Me.”

“Not exactly, no,” Mr. Barber says. “Not a person, I’d say. Something bigger than that. But then I guess we all have our ghosts, don’t we?”

“I guess so.”

After a few minutes, Mr. Barber stretches his arms out in front of him, like he’s trying to frame the entire ocean inside them. “Nice, isn’t it? Watching the day wake up like this? Makes you feel like you could do anything, don’t it?”

Not yet
,
Katie thinks.

But someday. Eventually.

I am so very thankful to Kendra Harpster at Viking for her all her hard work and insightful feedback, and for making this experience so rewarding every step of the way. It has been such a gift to work with her. Many thanks also go to Geri Thoma and Julia Kenny and everyone at the Markson Thoma Literary Agency. I’m deeply grateful to Maureen Sugden, too, for her careful read and great suggestions.

This book would not be possible without my amazingly supportive and loving family: my dad, who offers help in every possible way, without ever being asked and always with kind words and a smile; my sister Robin, whose friendship and faith in me has helped me endure and whose diagnostic expertise proved invaluable from beginning to end; my sister Kelley, whose friendship and love is tireless and sustaining—she always listens and keeps me sane; my big brother Joe, who has inspired me since we were kids and shared our special language—he is the best person I know, and he still draws the most beautiful pictures I’ve ever seen; and my brother-in-law, John, who gives such great advice, both now and through the years, and who keeps me on track—I’m so happy to have another big brother in my life.

A very special thank you to Evan Kuhlman for his thoughtful criticism and lasting friendship. He read this book from beginning to end more times than I can count and always with good cheer. I don’t know what I’d do without him.

Judi Kolenda graciously read more than once, and is a supportive and encouraging friend and writer in my life. Her passion for storytelling always inspires me, and I would be truly lost without her. Kirsten Bischoff is a fearless friend and reader—I’m so grateful for her honesty, comments, and kicking me in the butt when I needed it.

Many, many thanks to my friends in the creative writing department at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington, especially Philip Gerard, Rebecca Lee, Karen Bender, and Robert Siegel. A very warm thank you goes to Clyde Edgerton for his patient counsel and continuing guidance; I am so lucky to have such a kind mentor and friend.

Geoff Kantoris shared his legal expertise and then proofread the final copy. Jeanne Mullins, MA, CCC-SLP, provided detailed information about speech pathology and working with a challenged population. Dave Monahan from the film studies department at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington gave me great advice about filmmaking, past and present. Nina de Gramont read two drafts and was quite generous with her time after the book was completed. Matthew Hall and Jonathan Smiley read closely and helped with the finishing touches. My warmest thanks to all of them.

It’s nearly impossible to put into words how grateful I am to Christopher Gould from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington, who had faith in me and gave me the opportunity to do what I love. Special thanks also go to Jane Bullock, Donna Carlton, and Emily Matzke for all their support over the years. And to my students who made teaching such a fulfilling experience: I’ve learned so much from all of you.

I want to thank my first readers and friends, Shana Deets, Renee Dixon, Terri Meadowcroft, Rebecca Petruck, Andrea Quarracino, Lorrie Smith, Neil Smith, and Kate Tully for all their encouragement and invaluable criticism.

I’m also deeply appreciative of all my brother’s friends at the Trudeau Center for letting me visit, for their enthusiasm and laughter, and for allowing me to tag along and help out once in a while at the Special Olympics.

And finally, above all, to my beautiful mother, G. Carol Boyajian, my greatest champion, for her true and unconditional love, her wisdom, her humor, and her unwavering belief in me in all things. She was the greatest and most inspirational woman in the world, and I miss her every day.