The Tale of Halcyon Crane (7 page)

I took her palm in mine. “Hallie James.” I managed a smile.

“So, Hallie,” she began, “what brings you to Grand Manitou in the off-season?”

These are exactly the people Mr. Archer was warning me against,
I thought,
those who might have some objection to me being—well, me
. “I’m here on business. I’ll be here all week, actually.”

“Wonderful.” She was still smiling. “We’ll see you around town, then.”

I was sure she would. I got the distinct feeling that she and her cronies would be watching me closely, and not with a neighborly eye. As the door shut behind her, it was as though a burst of fresh air entered in her stead.

Jonah busied himself wiping down tables, saying, over his shoulder, “I’m sorry about that. It’s the curse of living in a small town, I’m afraid.”

“A small
island
town. After tourist season.”

“Everybody’s got to know your business.”

Funny. Just because he’d said that, I wanted to tell him mine. “I’m here for a meeting with William Archer this
morning. After that, I might have some further business to attend to, here on the island.”

Jonah stopped wiping the tables. “How come Archer always finagles the meetings with pretty women? I don’t get it.”

My cheeks flushed. Was he actually flirting with me? It had been a long time since anyone had. He poured himself a cup of coffee and walked up to my table. “Mind if I join you?”

I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to join me or not. But without waiting for my answer, he sat down in the chair opposite. “So,” I said, trying to think of small talk. “I gather now’s your downtime here.”

Jonah nodded. “Now and through the winter. People don’t like to be out on the lake when there are twenty-foot waves.”

“Sissies.” I took a sip of coffee. “Have you had your shop long?”

“I opened it about ten years ago,” he told me. “I thought about leaving the island, finding a job on the mainland. But there’s something about this place, for the right kind of person. It grabs you and won’t let go.”

A tingling climbed up my spine just then and I, too, felt caught. Maybe it was the way his blue eyes were shining, like steel. Maybe it was the cloud that seemed to drape itself over his sunny disposition when he said it. Was he trying to tell me something?

I didn’t have time to find out, because I saw it was nearly nine o’clock. “Oh,” I said. “Time for my meeting.”

“I hope you’ll be back soon, Hallie James,” he said. All
traces of whatever had clouded his face were erased by his smile, which looked familiar and safe.

“I’m sure I will.” I smiled back at him, warmth flowing through me.

I pushed the door open and walked out onto Main Street, fishing the address of William Archer’s office out of my purse, and began making my way down the empty street, looking into the windows of the businesses I passed. Each one was dark and closed up tight. It was like a ghost town.

And then I heard it: a whispering on the wind. A faint noise, a child’s voice, singing softly, deep within my ear and yet all around me at the same time.

Say, say, oh, playmate, come out and play with me.

I whirled around to look behind me: There was nothing but the empty street.

And bring your dollies three. Climb up my apple tree.

I knew this song. I remembered it from my childhood. I could almost see myself sitting on the ground facing a playmate, playing patty-cake, singing, clapping hands in rhythm to the words. But this wasn’t the happy childhood tune I remembered. It was the same melody but morphed into a minor key. And the singing was slow and deliberate.

Slide down my rain barrel. Into my cellar door.

The cold wind was inside me now, holding fast to my throat, almost as if it were pulling the words out of my mouth. I sang along in a whisper.

And we’ll be jolly friends, forevermore.

Suddenly, the song was over. I looked up and down the street, but nobody was there. I was alone. I hurried along to
William Archer’s office. I wanted very much to be inside with someone.

On the next block, I saw the shingle swaying back and forth in the stiff wind: archer & son, attorneys at law. The slight creaking noise, coupled with what had just happened in the complete emptiness of the street, suddenly made me think I was the only person alive on the island. Everyone else here—the people in the coffee shop, Jonah, even Mira—were ghosts from another time. But of course that was a silly notion. I pushed it out of my mind as I opened the door.

The office was empty: a reception desk, several chairs, a bookshelf, but no receptionist, no other clients, and no William Archer. This constant emptiness was really beginning to unnerve me.

“Hello?” I called out. A man came walking out of a back office, carrying a cup of coffee. All of a sudden, the eerie feeling that had gripped me vanished, dissipated by the warmth of the man standing before me.

“Hallie James?”

I extended my hand. “You must be William Archer.”

He took my hand and smiled. “You’re right on time.”

William Archer was not at all what I had expected. When I had spoken to him on the phone, the conversation was so formal that I got the impression of a buttoned-down conservative lawyer much older than myself. But in front of me stood a man in jeans and a soft plaid flannel shirt worn open over a T-shirt. He had the trim build of an athlete and seemed to be about my age. His dark wavy hair hung to his shoulders; his blue eyes were deep and bright and were, in a way,
familiar to me. He looked more like an artist or an environmental activist than a lawyer.

We stood there for a minute, taking each other in, each reconciling the image we had in our minds with the reality before us.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you at the ferry yesterday,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Quite all right,” I said quickly. I could feel myself blush.
What am I, thirteen years old? Get it together, Hallie.

“Why don’t we go in here?” he gestured toward his office.

I felt the need to fill the silence that hung in the room between us—an annoying habit I wish I could break—so I resorted to meaningless small talk. “Are you the Archer or the Son?” I asked him, referring to his shingle.

“This was my dad’s law practice,” he explained. “I came to work with him one summer when I was just out of law school and never left. He’s been retired for several years, but I haven’t wanted to change the name on the door, even though it’s just one Archer now.”

He walked around his desk and sat down, motioning me to sit as well, and I realized it was time to get down to the reason for this meeting. I folded my hands in my lap and took a deep breath. It was like sitting in the doctor’s office after a biopsy, knowing you’re about to hear life-changing news. I managed a shaky smile. “I’m very nervous. You may have already figured that out.”

“I know,” he said, nodding and looking at me with real compassion in his eyes. “This is heavy stuff.”

“Where do we start?”

“Instead of just diving into the will, let me give you a bit of background first,” he began, reaching into his desk drawer. He pulled out a framed photograph. “Madlyn Crane tended to stay behind the camera, so I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a picture of her from her younger days. I brought this from the house.”

She looked nothing like the Jackie Kennedy mother I had imagined. It was not quite my own face but very close to it. Madlyn Crane had long wavy auburn hair like mine, which in this photograph was blowing in an unseen breeze. Her hazel eyes (like mine) sparkled with mischief. She was looking directly at the photographer and smiling, as though she were gazing into the eyes of someone she loved. She held a camera in one hand and had the other on her hip. A long, brightly colored scarf was wound around her neck. She wore a cream-colored sweater and shorts, and long earrings that dangled past her chin.

“You look just like her,” he said softly. “It struck me when you walked in. There’s no doubt in my mind now that this is all true. You’re Halcyon Crane.”

I tried to form a response, but the words caught in my throat. At least it explained why everyone had looked at me so oddly, from the ferry captain, to Mira, to the people in the coffee shop. Even Jonah. I was a dead ringer for a dead woman. It was a lot to take in.

“I wasn’t convinced any of this was true when I got your letter,” I admitted, clearing my throat. “I didn’t buy into this right away. Who would? I wasn’t about to reject everything my father had ever told me about my life on the basis of one letter from a stranger.”

“What convinced you?”

I told him about the photograph my mother had sent along with her letter, and the one of me on her website. I told him about my father saying her name before he died. And now, looking at this photo, there was no denying that I was this woman’s daughter.

“Can you tell me a little bit about her?” I managed to ask.

As he spoke, I sat perfectly still, barely breathing, as though any movement on my part would break the spell he was weaving with his words.

“Everyone on the island knew Madlyn Crane,” Mr. Archer began. “She was our most famous resident. Tourists came here specifically to catch a glimpse of her—although she didn’t often make time for fans, which, I suppose, made her all the more alluring.”

He told me she was a woman with a big personality, a fiery temper, strong opinions, and a generous heart.

“When she wasn’t traveling the world shooting portraits of celebrities, animals in the wild, or nature scenes, she often could be found in her gallery here in town,” he went on. “She displayed her own work, of course, but also the work of other local artists: painters, jewelers, and potters. Fans were delighted on the rare occasions when she worked there as a sales clerk.

“Let me see, what else can I tell you about her? She loved kayaking, rowing, her dogs, and her horses. She was a third-generation islander and lived in a home built more than a century ago by her grandfather. She was proud of that house and even more proud of her heritage here on the island.”

I had been longing for this kind of information all my
life and now, finally hearing it, I had a difficult time gathering the words to respond. He waited quietly, understanding.

“I’m just sick that I didn’t have the chance to know her,” I began. “She wrote me one letter and died before I had a chance to read it. I can’t get over that. What are the odds, finding a child you thought was dead and then dying yourself before . . .” I couldn’t continue.

“The irony is heartbreaking,” he said softly. “It’s a damn shame.”

We sat there awhile, neither of us saying anything.

“So, she had a heart attack? That’s what I read in an obituary I found online. Is that right?” I asked finally.

William nodded. “It was a surprise to everyone on the island. Most of all to her, I imagine.” He looked at me hesitantly, as though he was considering saying more.

“And?” I prodded.

“It happened in the barn. Her neighbors came over and found her when the dogs wouldn’t stop howling. It took several police officers to get them—Madlyn’s dogs—away from her. From her body, I mean. They didn’t want to let her go.”

“Loyal friends,” I said, the words catching in my throat.

“Madlyn loved her animals.”

“How did she find out about me?” I asked him. “She wasn’t searching all these years, was she?”

William shook his head. “Everyone, including Madlyn, thought you were dead, until very recently.” He pulled an envelope from his desk drawer and handed it to me. Inside, I found a newspaper clipping.

THOMAS JAMES HONORED AS TEACHER OF THE DECADE

It was a local award given to my dad by the school district just a few months before he died. Along with a short article, there was a photograph. My dad was smiling broadly for the camera, holding the plaque they’d given him. He was in the grip of the disease at that time, but he knew what was happening and was proud to be honored by his peers. I was standing next to him, also beaming.

As I held the photo in my hands and looked up at William, the question was apparently evident in my eyes.

“One of Madlyn’s friends, a colleague she knew through her work, happens to live in Seattle,” he explained. “She saw this article in the paper and was struck by the resemblance, which is really remarkable. So she called Madlyn and asked about it, saying that the woman in the photo looked enough like her to be her daughter. As soon as Madlyn saw it, she knew.”

“But why didn’t she just get on a plane? Or call me? If only she had . . .”

“She told me she hired a private investigator to do some nosing around first,” he said. “She found out your father was in a nursing home and was concerned about the effect her showing up out of the blue would have on you. She wasn’t quite sure how to handle such a delicate situation and decided a letter was the best approach.”

I sighed and slumped a little lower in my chair. “I know,” he said, in sympathy.

“I wish she had lived long enough to mail it.”

I closed my eyes and covered them with my hands, afraid tears would begin. As if to pull me back from the precipice of grief that I was teetering on, William cleared his throat and
said, “We should really talk about the will, Hallie. Are you ready to do that?”