Woman in Red (11 page)

“I’m not sure I have one, unless it’s that this just happens to be the last stop on the line.” Colin zipped up his jacket against a sudden gust of chill, and sat gazing out vacantly over the green. “If you know so much about me, you probably also know that I lost my wife. Things kind of went downhill after that.”

“I’m sorry.” He could tell from the way she said it that she was no stranger to that kind of loss.

“She died on 9/11. She was in the North Tower when it went down,” he went on, finding it strangely cathartic to be talking about it with someone who wouldn’t wrinkle her brow in an attempt to understand the unfathomable, who wouldn’t be looking for a graceful way of segueing to a less painful topic. “After that, I started hitting the bottle, until it dawned on me one day that the problem wasn’t what was eating me, it was
me
.” He gave in to a bleak smile. “You’d think that’s when I would have known it was time to quit, but it actually took a little longer than that before I finally decided to get sober. I had to lose my job first, and pretty much every friend I ever had. That was six months ago. I haven’t touched a drop since.”

They exchanged a look that communicated more than any words. She wasn’t like most people he met outside of AA meetings, those for whom a life crisis meant getting laid off from their jobs or having their mother-in-law
move in with them. Alice Kessler knew what real suffering was.

Now her mouth hooked up in a mirthless little smile. “We’re a fine pair, aren’t we? They say misery loves company, but right now I wouldn’t wish either of us on anyone.”

“It must be some comfort, at least, to know you’re not the only one being talked about,” he said, with a laugh.

“Fortunately that’s not the only thing we have in common,” she replied, her expression sobering. “I don’t know if you were aware of this or not, but apparently your grandfather was a friend of grandmother’s. In fact, he painted her portrait. The famous one, of the woman in the red dress. I was wondering if you knew what became of it.”

Colin jerked upright, nearly spilling his coffee. “You’re Eleanor’s granddaughter?” He could see the resemblance now, and he wondered if perhaps that was why he’d been drawn to her from the beginning. Alice’s coloring was darker than Eleanor’s, her eyes more gray than green, but it was the same face: fine boned yet strong as tempered steel. The face of someone who didn’t tread lightly through life. “What an amazing coincidence. Now I know why you looked familiar. You’re the spitting image of her.”

Alice looked pleased. “So you’re familiar with the portrait.”

“I ought to be. I own it.”

Now it was her turn to look surprised. “Really? Would you mind . . . I mean, I’d love to see it sometime.” She seemed hesitant to impose.

“Anytime you like,” he told her. “I’m usually home. Just give me a call whenever you feel like stopping by. Here’s my number.” He scribbled it on the back of his napkin.

She carefully folded the napkin and tucked it into her pocket. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be a bother?”

“Are you kidding? You’d be doing me a favor,” he told her. “It’s so quiet out there, I can hear myself think. Which in my case tends to be dangerous.”

She broke into a smile, a genuine one that for a dazzling instant lit up her whole face, like when the sun made one of its rare appearances from behind the clouds. In the parking area at the other end of the green, music drifted from a car radio, some seventies ballad, and closer by the boy tossing the Frisbee sent it sailing skyward once more, a spinning blue circle that hung aloft for a long moment, seeming to defy gravity. In that brief moment Colin felt his spirits lift as well.

“All right then. I’ll take you up on it,” she said. “But first I have to find a job and a place to live, in that order.”

“What kind of job are you looking for?” he asked.

“You mean what am I good at besides making license plates?” She shook her head. “Not much, I’m afraid. I used to be a pretty good cook, but I’m a little out of practice.”

“There are lots of restaurants on the island,” he said.

“None that are interested in hiring a convicted felon. Believe me, I know. I’ve applied to all the ones advertising for help.”

“Something will turn up, I’m sure,” he said. “In the meantime, don’t give up hope. In AA, we have a saying: ‘Fake it’till you make it.’ I’ve been doing a lot of that myself lately.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” This time her smile seemed forced. She stood up, tossing her empty cup into the trash. “Well, I should get going. It was nice talking to you. I’ll give you a call when I know what my plans are.”

“Good luck with the search,” he said, shaking hands with her as they parted.

“Thanks. See you soon, I hope.”

He felt a quickening inside at the thought. It wasn’t just that he wanted to get to know her better, it was the sense of connection he felt with her. They were kindred spirits, no matter the different circumstances which had landed them both in the same place. Like him, Alice Kessler knew that the world was full of dark corners and jagged edges.

 

Eleanor Styles awoke to the sound of the dogs barking in the kennel outside. Even in her groggy, half-aware state, she could tell from the high pitch of the barking that it wasn’t a deer or raccoon that had gotten them so worked up, more likely a visitor of the two-legged variety. Immediately she was out from under the covers and on her feet. A glance at the clock by the bed told it was half past eight. So late! Usually, she was up while it was still dark, but she’d had trouble sleeping the night before and hadn’t dropped off until well after midnight.

She reached for the chenille robe draped over one of the bed’s four squat posts. Normally it would have been hanging in the closet, but with her husband Joe off fighting in the Pacific, she’d allowed some things to slide. It was enough just keeping the rest of the house tidy and looking after her daughter—not to mention the dogs and chickens and victory garden to tend to. It was only in the bedroom she’d shared with her husband of over ten years that her presence
had gradually begun to assert itself, like the blackberry vines that had swallowed up the fence along the drive in Joe’s absence. Shoes were tucked willy-nilly under the bed and her work overalls, still damp from bathing the dogs yesterday, slung over the padded rocker. Various tubes of ointment and bottles of worming tablets littered the dressing table where powder and perfumes had once stood, and on the nightstand, in place of Joe’s
Reader’s Digest
, sat a war bond pledge booklet leftover from last week’s drive, a book on canine diseases, and an article clipped from the newspaper listing the new blackout rules.

She padded barefoot over to the window, peering out through the fog of her breath on the pane at a car pulling to a stop in the yard, a dark green Packard she didn’t recognize. She was unaccustomed to visitors, especially at this hour, and with the new war restrictions, fewer automobiles were out on the road these days. Was it some sort of official business? She grew cold at the thought. But, no, the man getting out of the car—youngish, dark haired, wearing khakis and a shirt rolled up at the sleeves—didn’t look like a messenger. And if it was bad news, he’d have been an odd sort to deliver it, smiling like he was, as if in pleasant thought, his face tilted up to catch the sun. As he made his way up the front path, she noticed that he walked with a limp. From the practiced way he hitched the leg along with scarcely a break in stride, it appeared to be an old injury.

She let out the breath she’d been holding and forked a hand through her hair, which only made it crinkle into a halo about her head, hair the reddish brown of the madrona tree under which the man was now pausing to look around. Then a new thought occurred to her: If it wasn’t bad news about Joe, it might be official business of a
different sort. In a panic, her eyes flew to the barn, which had been converted into a kennel with an outdoor run enclosed in chicken wire, where at the moment all six dogs were barking madly at the stranger’s approach. Catching a movement in the window of the small, furnished room off the dogs’ quarters, she wondered if her visitor had noticed it, too. Was that why he was taking his sweet time? Her heart lurched at the thought as a knock sounded.

Putting on her slippers and tightening the belt on her robe, she went to answer the door.

“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you,” the man apologized, noting her attire. “I saw the smoke from your chimney and thought . . .” He craned his neck to look upward.

“I keep a fire burning at night,” she said. With the wartime ban on oil, even coal was scarce, and the old house Joe’s father had built was so poorly insulated that even in the spring months she had to maintain the fire ’round the clock.

“William McGinty,” he introduced himself, touching his brow in a jaunty two-fingered salute. “And you must be Missus Styles.” She nodded, thinking the name sounded familiar—had they met before? No, she would have remembered that face. He was around her age, thirty or so, tall and whippet-lean, with startlingly blue eyes and a shock of black hair that didn’t seem to want to stay put. He looked harmless enough, but that did nothing to put her mind at ease. He could be one of Sheriff LaPorte’s henchmen, for all she knew. As captain of the home guard, LaPorte had made it his business to mercilessly hound anyone suspected of being an enemy agent. Like poor Otto Haller, the town’s elderly German druggist, who’d been forced to sell his pharmacy and move off the island, his life had become so intolerable.
What would LaPorte do if he were to ever get his
hands on a real fugitive?
she wondered, feeling an icy chill pass over her.

“What can I do for you?” she asked. Her tone was pleasant, but she kept a hand on the doorknob and an eye on the shotgun propped just inside.

“I was driving past and happened to notice your sign. I was wondering if you had any puppies for sale.” The man named William gave her a wide smile that engaged his whole face, a face that might otherwise have seemed austere in its stark angularity.

Some of the tension went out of her shoulders. “Not at the moment, but I have a litter due any day. Was it a male or a female you were looking for?”

“Either one will do. I don’t really have a preference.” He shifted from one foot to the other, favoring his good leg. Glancing past him, she could see the clothesline hung with yesterday’s wash, which she hadn’t gotten around to taking down: a sheet billowing in the breeze, a red-checked tablecloth with a burn mark where she’d gotten a bit too assiduous with the iron one time, a corduroy pinafore of Lucy’s, a flannel nightgown, several slips, a blouse.

And a pair of men’s skivvies.

A jolt went through her. Oh God. How could she have been so careless?

Had he noticed it, too? He might not have thought anything of it, but if he were to learn later on that her husband was off fighting overseas, he’d wonder what she’d been doing with men’s underthings on the line. And if he should happen to make mention of it, and word got around . . .

Her gut clenched at the thought. In an attempt to keep him from noticing anything was amiss, she asked, “What made you decide on a border collie?”

“No particular reason.” He made a vague gesture with his hand. Like I said, I saw your sign and . . . well . . . I just thought . . .” He seemed suddenly unsure of himself, as if it had only been an impulse.

“They’re working dogs,” she informed him, speaking more sharply than she’d intended. “If all you want is a pet, I’d suggest another breed.” She had no patience for people who acquired puppies the way they did toys, often discarding them when they ceased to be amusing or proved difficult to housebreak.

But he took no offense. His smile only broadened, deepening the creases that bracketed his wide, expressive mouth like parentheses. She was struck once more by how blue his eyes were; a shade so deep it was almost purple, the color of the crocuses that had recently begun pushing their way up out of the spring-thawed ground. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Missus Styles, you sure have a funny way of doing business,” he said, in that tone of easy familiarity that made it seem as if he were taking liberties somehow. “If you’ve got something against me buying one of your puppies, just say so, and I’ll be on my way.”

She relented a bit, saying in a less frosty tone, “My dogs aren’t boxes of soap powder for sale. I want to be sure they go to good homes.”

“In that case, why don’t you come have a look at mine. I’ll introduce you to my wife and son. We live out on Cove Road.” So he was married, which surprised her for some reason. “Actually, I wanted the puppy for my son. He has a birthday coming up in a few weeks. He’ll be nine.”

Eleanor gave in to a small smile. “I have a daughter the same age. They must be in the same class at school. I’m surprised we haven’t met before.”

“Usually it’s my wife who picks Danny up from school,” he explained. “Most afternoons, I’m holed up in my studio.”