Woman in Red (4 page)

Anyway, there was no point in discussing his future when it was all he could do right now to put one foot in front of the other. He gazed out the window at the twilit landscape skimming past. Houses and barns and pastures had given way to the deep, fathomless green of firs and hemlocks, amid which pale-skinned alders glowed ghostlike and the occasional flash of a white tail signaled a deer. Then they rounded a bend, coming suddenly upon the stretch of pebbled shoreline that curved around the bay, where the last fiery rays of the setting sun had broken through the clouds to cast a shimmering path over the water. If this were a movie, Colin thought, he might have dismissed it as cheap theatrics, but now it brought tears to his eyes. He’d forgotten how beautiful it was.

Within minutes they were turning onto a dirt road that led up a steep, wooded incline before dipping down into a clearing, in the middle of which stood his grandfather’s house, facing out on the cove below. Colin climbed out of the SUV when it came to a stop and for a long moment just stood there, taking it all in. The shingled Craftsman cottage, with its square porch columns festooned in vines, and quarter-sawn oak door set with a beveled pane, was almost exactly as he remembered, if slightly more weathered. Out back was the artist’s studio where his grandfather had spent so many hours at his easel, and the raised beds, fenced in to
keep out the deer, where a kitchen garden had once flourished. His grandfather, when he wasn’t painting, had enjoyed gardening, he recalled. He smiled, remembering William telling him once that a seed planted was the simplest way to get results in life as well as a reminder that the best things are often the least complicated.

Below, a path sloped downhill through wind-flattened grass and scrub to the cove. Protected by tall bluffs on either side it was inaccessible by any other approach except boat, the only creatures populating its driftwood-strewn beach the seabirds presently foraging for supper.

Colin pointed out the glistening flat where the tide had receded. “When I was a kid, a man from up the road used to farm oysters there,” he recalled. His grandfather had leased the use of the land in exchange for a small share of each harvest.

The memory provoked another, sensory one, so keen he could almost see Mr. Deets crouched there on the beach, shucking an oyster still dripping with seawater for Colin to sample. He’d eaten it more out of bravado than anything, thinking it would be something to brag about to Patrick when he got home. But as it slid over his tongue he’d been pleasantly surprised. It was like nothing else he’d ever tasted, the essence of the sea itself.

“That would have been Frank Deets,” Findlay commented. “He passed away a few years back. Lung cancer.” He tapped his chest. “I handled the estate for his niece.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Colin told him. The few times in recent years that they’d spoken over the phone, his grandfather hadn’t mentioned it and now Colin felt a genuine sense of loss. Mr. Deets had been an eccentric old guy, but Colin had liked him.

Now he stood gazing reflectively out at the view, as it dissolved into darkness, until Findlay at last prompted, “Would you like to see the inside?” As if Colin didn’t know his own way around.

What he would have liked was to be left alone, but not wanting to appear rude, he shrugged and fell into step with Findlay as he led the way up the path to the house.

Inside, the place was tidy, but a distinct air of disuse hung over it. Wandering from room to room, Colin was struck by the silence; every creak of the floorboards seemed amplified. The hearth where a fire would blaze in the cool of summer evenings was swept clean, newspapers yellow with age stacked on the hearth beside a basket of kindling. The kitchen, too, was bare except for the handful of provisions stocked in anticipation of his arrival.

Elsewhere in the house, bleached oblongs stood out on the walls where paintings had hung. The only one of his grandfather’s works that hadn’t been sold off was the portrait over the fireplace.
Woman in Red
was perhaps his grandfather’s best-known piece and the most sought after, yet though he’d occasionally loan it out to museums, William had rejected all offers that had come his way over the years.

Colin could understand why it had been so difficult to part with. The nameless woman in the portrait, seated on a sofa wearing a red print dress, shoeless with her legs tucked under her, was beautiful in a way that had captured his imagination as a boy and stirred him even now. There was something both innocent and sensual in those bare feet, that dress pulled demurely down over her knees and the glossy chestnut hair, rolled up in back and pinned into loose curls on top of her head, tendrils spilling down her neck. The light from the window at her back made her flesh appear
to glow and her eyes—deep green and shot full of gold, the color of turning leaves—translucent in a way that was almost unearthly. Even her expression, contemplative, with a hint of a smile on her lips, suggested hidden depths.

Once, a long time ago, Colin had asked his grandfather about her. The old man’s gaze had turned inward, and after a long pause he’d answered cryptically, “That’s a story for another day, son. Why don’t we save it for when you’re old enough to have me tell it to you over a bottle of that good cognac your folks send for Christmas every year.”

Sadly, that day never came.

He’d have asked his father, but Daniel’s mood always darkened whenever the subject of his old man came up, so Colin had learned early on that it was best not mentioned. He’d never understood why his father had felt so much animosity toward William, only that it had something to do with his grandparents’ divorce. Colin was nine before he’d even met the grandfather he’d known until then only from the cards his grandfather sent on his and Patrick’s birthdays and at Christmas, always with a twenty dollar bill tucked inside. His mom, who believed that family was family no matter what, had finally persuaded Daniel to let Colin and Patrick fly out for a week-long visit. In the end, though, it had been just Colin. His brother, who’d been thirteen at the time and the star of his Little League team, had refused to go. From then on, it became the pattern, Colin going off every summer for longer and longer visits, while Patrick stayed behind to indulge in his favorite activities: sports, girls, and later on, cars.

Now, as Colin studied the portrait, he thought about the story William had never gotten around to telling him . . . and the one Colin had never gotten around to telling his
grandfather: The story of how he’d lost everything and come undone.

His eyes shifted to the mirror on the wall to the right of the fireplace, where a somber face looked back at him—a face that, at first glance, didn’t appear much altered from the one in the framed photo on the mantel from his college graduation. The same ink-blue eyes and the Roman nose he’d inherited from his grandfather on his mom’s side. It was only upon closer examination that he saw the lines that hadn’t been there before. His smile that had once been one of expectation was rueful now. He knew what to expect: Not a life filled with promise, but one in which the only thing standing between him and the proverbial abyss was a folding chair in some church rec room or VA hall filled with other people in similar straits.

He turned to find Findlay eyeing him curiously. In this small community, there had to have been a fair amount of speculation concerning the return of Old McGinty’s grandson. Not that Colin cared. It was a welcome change from being talked about for other, less benign reasons, like the gossip that had circulated around the D.A.’s office during his drinking days.

“I’ve always wondered about her,” he said, bringing his gaze back to the portrait. “Was she from around here, do you know?”

Findlay nodded. “Her name was Eleanor Styles.”

Colin flicked him a glance. “You knew her?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. I saw her around, sure, but she didn’t get out much, not with her husband so sick. And then she got sick herself.” He shook his head pityingly, the same look on his face that he’d worn when speaking of Deets’ passing. “My dad, though, he remembers
when she was a sight to behold—hands down the prettiest girl on the island.”

“She
was
beautiful,” Colin agreed.

“The way Dad tells it, half the men in San Juan County were in love with her,” Findlay went on. “No one could believe it when she married Joe Styles. Not that he wasn’t a nice enough fellow, but a little out of her league, if you know what I mean. Then the war broke out . . .” His voice trailed off. “Joe made it home, but he was never the same after that. Some sort of head injury. I’m sure it couldn’t have been easy for her, either, but she stuck with him, right up till the end.”

“How did she and my grandfather know each other?”

“She bred dogs to bring in extra cash. border collies. Your grandpa bought one of the puppies. I guess they became friendly after that.” Color rose in the lawyer’s pale, freckled cheeks. “Not that I’m suggesting there was anything between them,” he was quick to add. “It was just . . . you know . . . the war. And people looked out for each other in those days.”

From the way Findlay spoke, as if those long ago events had occurred just yesterday, Colin almost expected to see a younger and more vibrant William, from the days when he’d sported a full head of coal-black hair, stride into the room, Dickie at his heels. But, of course, it wouldn’t have been Dickie back then. There had been a succession of dogs through the years, all of them border collies. Each had lived to a ripe old age and was buried out back behind the woodshed.

Colin turned now to Findlay. “I’d offer you a drink, but I’m not sure what’s on hand.” He eyed the cherry breakfront where William, not a drinking man himself, had kept a small supply of liquor for when company came.

Just as he’d hoped, the lawyer took the offer as his cue to leave. “Thanks, but I should be heading off. My wife’ll have supper on the table before too long, and if I let it get cold I’ll have some explaining to do. You know how they get.” Findlay winked, one husband to another, before he caught himself and his comradely expression gave way to an embarrassed look.

Colin felt stripped of his defenses, his whole, sad history laid bare. But, of course, everyone must know. In the stunned days after 9/11, it was all people had talked about, who among their circle of friends and acquaintances had been touched by the tragedy—a friend of a friend, the cousin of an old college roommate, the uncle of a former employee. On Grays Island, it would have passed from one person to the next like a found penny.
You know Old McGinty? Terrible about his grandson, isn’t it? He lost his wife. They’re saying she was in the first tower when it was hit. Never had a prayer.

The old pain stirred to life once more, but he put on a smile, saying, as he saw Findlay out the door, “Thanks again for coming to meet me. I really appreciate all your help.”

“My pleasure.” At the door, Findlay handed Colin the keys to his grandfather’s old Volvo. “It’s been mostly sitting in the garage these past few years, what with his eyesight so bad and all. But the engine still runs, and I had Orin gas it up. Anything else you need, just give a shout. I’ll have those papers ready for you to sign, if you want to stop by my office later in the week.”

When he was gone, Colin breathed a sigh of relief. Not that he wasn’t grateful to Findlay, just that the need to be alone had become as persistent as a dog whining at the door to be let out. Which reminded him . . . Had the border collie
at the ferry landing made it home all right? It was a long walk and with night falling he’d have to make his way in the dark over unlit roads where he’d be in danger of being hit by a passing car. But Colin had more pressing problems at the moment than worrying about a dog that had appeared better equipped to care for itself than he was. Like what he was going to do with himself now that he was actually here. Up until this moment, he hadn’t dared think that far ahead.

Well, there was one thing he could do. It wouldn’t solve everything, but it would be a start. He pulled the phone book from the drawer in the old stereo cabinet, on which the phone sat. It had been a while since he’d seen one this thin—it wouldn’t even hold the “A’s” in the Manhattan directory—and it reminded him of just how small a place the island was. In the yellow pages, under the listings for health services, he found what he was looking for and dialed the number for Alcoholics Anonymous.

There were two meetings a week, every Tuesday and Thursday evening at seven, he was informed. If he left now, he could grab a bite to eat in town and still make tonight’s, at the Lutheran Church. As he hung up, he found himself thinking of the woman he’d met earlier. Alice. Suddenly he remembered where he knew her from. It had been in all the papers, and now he did the mental arithmetic. Yes, the timing would be about right.

God help her
, he thought, pausing as he reached for his jacket. She’d have a tough go of it. For if his every movement was going to be scrutinized, he wouldn’t be the only one.