Woman in Red (15 page)

Now, as William guided his Packard over the rutted dirt road leading to the cove, he wondered how Martha would feel about his aiding in the concealment of a Japanese boy who in her eyes might well be an enemy agent. He didn’t regret his impulse—how could he? It was the only decent thing to do—but there was no getting around the fact that it wasn’t just himself he was putting at risk.

She deserves to know
. But somehow he couldn’t imagine telling Martha about Eleanor Styles and the strange scene at her house. Martha wouldn’t understand why he hadn’t immediately reported it to the authorities. And if he couldn’t confide in his own wife, what did that say about their marriage?

Not that Martha wasn’t a good wife in other ways. She was lively and intelligent, and seldom refused him in bed. Only lately he could tell her heart wasn’t in it. She was so involved in the war effort, selling bonds and organizing drives, it occupied her thoughts to the exclusion of all else, except Danny, as if with each fresh display of patriotism she was compensating for the very visible presence of her husband in wartime. In this new, khaki-colored world, the only uniform William wore was his paint-spattered shirts, and his only contribution to the war effort so far was the posters he’d done for the State Department, advertising war bonds.

For several minutes after he’d pulled into his yard and shut off the engine, he remained in his car, gazing out at the cove below. The tide had gone out, leaving a glistening gray flat marked with pylons where Deets had staked out his oyster beds. They’d lain fallow for some months now, a reminder that his neighbor, like so many others, was off fighting overseas. Other than that, in this peaceful spot, the war might have been a distant rumor. Farther out at sea, a fishing boat was pulling in its net, gulls swooping overhead, diving for scraps. If the weather held, he thought, he’d set up his easel outdoors. In winter, when the sun’s path was low, their house lay almost perpetually in the shadow of the neighboring hills, but this time of year, on nice days, the morning sun poured over the landscape, allowing him to capture its richly varied hues.

He got out of the car and started toward the house. He could see Martha through the front window, polishing the breakfront where the good china was kept. Her pale yellow hair was pinned up in back, the curls on her forehead bobbing with each vigorous circular swipe of her arm. She was frowning, as she often did when intent on some task, as if no amount of elbow grease would amount to an end result that would meet with her satisfaction.

But something else was on her mind at the moment, he could see as soon as he walked in. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. She smelled of lemon oil and the perfume she wore, something flowery that made him think of the sachets she tucked into drawers. “I stopped to ask about a puppy.”

She seemed too preoccupied to comment, though earlier they’d argued about whether or not Danny was old enough for the responsibility of owning a dog. “Have you seen the paper?” she asked, straightening, using the back of her wrist to push a wisp of hair from her forehead.

“No, why?” he asked.

She snatched up that morning’s edition of the Bell Harbor
Sentinel,
which must have been delivered while he was out, and brandished it at him. “General Wainwright surrendered!”

“God help us.” He stared morosely at the headlines announcing the fall of Corregidor.

“Do you know what this
means
?”

“It means that thousands more of our boys are now prisoners of war,” William said, with a sinking heart, as he scanned the fine print.

“Well, yes, of course,” she said, with an impatient sweep of her hand. “But it also means the Japs could
win
this thing. There’ll be no stopping them now. We’re barely hanging on
in Midway as it is. Honestly, anyone would think MacArthur was asleep at the wheel!”

“I’m sure he’s doing all he can.”

She glared at him, as though he and MacArthur were in cahoots somehow, before conceding with a sigh, “I suppose you’re right. It’s just that I feel so helpless sometimes.” She looked anything but. She was fully made up, wearing a dress that showed off her neat curves. No housecoat and slippers for Martha McGinty. If she were all alone in the house, she would be as perfectly turned out as if expecting company. He had to admire her for it. At the same time, he found himself thinking of Eleanor Styles, the silken brush of her slippered feet as they’d moved over the worn linoleum in her kitchen and the way her sleep-scrambled hair that was the color of autumn leaves had caught the sunlight slanting in through the window.

“You’re doing your part,” he reminded her.

“What good does it do to peddle war bonds and organize scrap metal drives when the whole world is going up in flames?” she demanded, her pretty face flushed with indignation. “I swear, if I were a man . . .” She caught herself before she could complete the sentence. “Never mind, you must be hungry. You’ve been gone for
hours
. Let me fix you some breakfast.”

“I’ve eaten, thanks,” he told her.

“I thought you were only dropping Danny off,” she said, frowning in puzzlement.

William wrestled once more with his conscience, wondering if he dared trust her with Eleanor’s, and now his, secret. Once upon a time they’d talked about everything.

But all he said was, “I told you, I stopped to ask about a dog. You know the house down the road from the old
Pritchard place, the one with the sign out front? The woman invited me in for coffee and ended up feeding me. She sent me home with these.” He held up the sack of eggs. “Anyway, she said she’d let us know in a couple of weeks.”

“Know what?” Martha asked distractedly, bent once more to her polishing.

“About the puppy.” A note of impatience crept into his voice. “I told her we were hoping to have it in time for Danny’s birthday.”

Martha shook her head, her lips pursed. “I swear, Will, you and that boy will be the death of me one day. As if I don’t have enough to do as it is without a puppy to clean up after. No, don’t give me that look. You know perfectly well whose shoulders it will fall on.”

“I’ll make sure Danny knows it’s his responsibility,” William said.

“All right. I’ll think about it,” she said, in the tone that meant she’d already made up her mind.

“He’s a good boy. He doesn’t ask for much.” William remained firm. Usually he let her have her way, it was easier than getting into a fight, but this time he wasn’t going to give in.

She relented with a sigh. “I suppose I don’t have a choice, do I? It’s two against one.”

“The beauty of democracy.” He smiled, giving her apron strings a playful tug.

Her scowl melted, and in that instant he caught a hint of the woman he’d married, following a whirlwind courtship in Paris, where at the time he’d been taking classes at the Sorbonne and she was the au pair for the children of a wealthy Parisian couple.

He was heading off to his studio out back when she called after him, “I’m going into town in a little while to pick up those pamphlets for the blood drive. Do you need anything?”

He paused, frowning in thought, then shook his head.

What he needed couldn’t be found in any store. He didn’t even have a name for it, this new restlessness of his. Like when he was a boy and he’d known it was time to leave home. Except he had no desire to leave this place. As he was stepping out the back door, he paused to look around. The snug cottage, with its exposed timbers and wainscoted walls, its stained-glass transom that cast a mosaic of light over the freshly waxed floorboards, was smaller than Martha would’ve liked, but on winter nights with the wind howling in off the bay and rain lashing at the windows, there was no cozier place.

It wasn’t until he was letting himself into his studio that he realized the moment had passed for him to confide in Martha about the Japanese boy holed up at the Styles place.

 

“I made your favorite—pork roast and scalloped potatoes,” Lucy said as she led the way into the kitchen. “We’ve got to fatten you up. You’re much too thin.” She paused, turning to Alice with a look of consternation. “Are you getting enough to eat?”

“You mean, can I afford a decent meal?” Alice replied. She’d arrived on Sunday ahead of the others, so she and her mother were alone for the moment; they could speak frankly. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m not destitute yet.” She still had almost ten thousand dollars of her grandmother’s money left, though even with her watching every cent it wouldn’t last long at this rate.

“Just remember, Rome wasn’t built in a day.” Lucy reached for Alice’s hand and gave it a little squeeze. Ever the optimist. She would have given pep talks to a prisoner on death row.

“Don’t worry,” Alice assured her. “I’m not giving up. I can’t afford to.”

“Well, the important thing is, you’re home. That’s all that really matters.” Lucy ran a thumb under one moist eye, saying with an apologetic laugh. “I’m sorry. I promised myself I wasn’t going to do this. It’s just that it’s so good to have you back. I just wish your father . . .” She let the sentence trail off, her look of bright optimism momentarily fading. In the living room that had been done over in Alice’s absence, with lots of ruffled chintz and pickled pine, devoid now of any masculine touches, she looked small and lost.

“I know, Mom. I miss him, too.” Alice blinked back tears of her own. “It seems so strange not having him here.” She looked around, as if half expecting to see her father.

“Don’t you start, too!” Lucy scolded, shaking a finger at her. “This is supposed to be a celebration. Goodness, I can’t remember the last time we all sat down around the dinner table.” Though of course she knew how long it had been: exactly nine years. “Now why don’t you finish setting the table while I check on the roast. Your sister should be here any minute.”

She didn’t mention Jeremy. When Lucy had called to invite him, he’d said he’d try to make it but that he didn’t think he could; he had a test to study for. Alice hadn’t given up hope, though. Maybe he would decide to come at the last minute. She set an extra place at the table just in case.

When she was done setting the table, she went into the kitchen to see what else she could do to help. She found her mother on her knees, wrestling a casserole dish from the jumble of pots and pans in one of the lower cupboards.

“Need a hand with that?” Alice asked, smiling at the picture her mother made.

“No . . . I’ve got it . . . it’s just that it’s wedged in with all this other—” With a clatter of pots, Lucy straightened,
rocking back on her heels, the casserole dish triumphantly in hand.

Lucy set her to work dicing onions for the ratatouille she was making to go with the pork roast and potatoes. Alice, watching her move about the kitchen, was relieved to see her mother looking so well. The last time Lucy had visited her at Pine River, she’d been little more than a bundle of bones loosely wrapped in skin. She couldn’t even be bothered with her hair, which she’d worn short, in a wash and wear cut that made her look less like a perennial schoolgirl than a very old elf. But last year’s hip replacement had made it easier for her to get around. She’d also regained most of the weight she’d lost after Alice’s father died. Now, with her face filled out and her hair in a shining silver bell, she was her old self again.

“I’ve taken up water aerobics. Doctor’s orders,” Lucy informed her, when Alice commented on her appearance. She paused to shake her head in wonderment. “A year ago if you’d told me that three afternoons a week I’d be paddling around in a pool with a bunch of old ladies, I’d have laughed at the idea. But I should have done this years ago. It’s done me a world of good.” She scooped up the onions and dumped them into the oil sizzling in the frying pan, adding cut up peppers and eggplant. She handed Alice a spatula, saying, “You stir that while I finish making the gravy.”

“Smells good,” Alice said, when her mother pulled the roast, crackling, from the oven. “Do you know, this is the first meal I’ve looked forward to since I got back. At Pine River, the closest thing we had to gourmet was creamed chicken on toast.”

Lucy didn’t respond, except to shoot her a pained look.

Alice, reminded of the scene at Denise’s, felt her back go up. “What? I’m supposed to pretend I was away on a long trip? Mom, I did time. I ate my meals off plastic trays and worked in the prison laundry.” She held up hands that were still chapped and raw. “I had to ask permission for every little thing, to get my hair cut, to have a reading lamp in my cell, even for the luxury of being able to step outside for some fresh air.” After days of having doors slammed in her face, every one a reminder of where she’d been, she wasn’t in the mood to play this game of pretending that chapter in her life was closed. Prison was a fact of her existence; it had changed her in ways that were unalterable. Her family was going to have to accept that if they wanted her back in the fold.