The Seacrest Page 19

  He listened to me with his big head cocked to the side and uttered a low woof.

  En route again, we passed a classic white colonial with black shutters, probably dating from the late 1700s. A stately home, it featured a widow’s walk and cupola on the top of its flat roof, and I pictured many a wife walking and watching, waiting and hoping for the return of her sailor. Its windows gleamed in the early morning light, and with a sudden start of decision, I realized I wanted my home to look like this—well-tended, clean windows, mowed yard. I decided to throw myself into fixing up the property when I got back, and I’d start with the windows.

  The land narrowed, hugging Route 6 on either side. We passed the sign for a campground, and I remembered the summer my parents, Jax, and I had camped there. We’d had a ball. Pleasant memories flooded my brain, pushing away the bad.

  At North Truro, the shore road, Route 6A, separated from the main route again, and I swung onto it to get away from the busier traffic on Route 6. The shore glistened on my left as we rolled along the sandy-sided narrower street. Hotels and motels began to crop up in earnest now, and more and more people on bikes filled the roads as we approached Provincetown.

  I wound my way down narrow lanes until I found a public parking area. I paid my five bucks for the privilege, and walked with Ace toward Commercial Street, past the wharf, weaving in and out among the throng of flamboyant pedestrians. I loved that people here didn’t have to hide who they were, could be their own colorful selves in all facets of the rainbow. I also enjoyed stopping along the way to let children pat Ace. We reached the quaint shop Hi Ho Silver just before ten o’clock and turned to go inside.

  Chapter 54

  June 4th, 2003

  10:30 A.M.

  In June of my second year of graduate school, I landed a job at the university as an assistant teacher for the summer session. The class was called “Structural Drawing,” and today I would meet up with the new students for the second time, taking over the class for the professor, who was notorious for leaving the instruction to his assistants. Rumor had it he hung out at the local coffee shop to pick up women instead of teaching, but I didn’t mind. I loved working with the undergraduates.

  Our classroom was not a city street, however, where buildings abounded, but the Roger Williams Park, which had been enjoyed by the public since the 1890s. The park boasted over one hundred acres of ponds on its expanse of four hundred and thirty-five rolling acres, in addition to specimen trees, a rose garden, the zoo, a Museum of Natural History, a Planetarium, and the Botanical Center. Add that to tennis courts and baseball fields, and the place was a draw to families and students from all over Rhode Island and beyond.

  I met the class at the Temple of Music structure, a gorgeous stone pavilion with Corinthian columns and steps set in front of a tree-encircled pond.

  Today the medium was pen and ink, and when I reached the location I found several students already assembled on the steps of the building. They were early, as was I, and I was glad to see at least a few members of the class had found it and were ready to get to work.

  Two young men and a slim brunette waved from the steps.

  “Morning, Prof,” the tallest boy said.

  “Um, Peter, right?” I called. “Good morning to you, too.” I turned to shake hands with the freckled boy and the girl. “Freddie. Cora. Ready to draw?”

  Freddie chuckled. “I love this place. I kissed my first girlfriend right here on these steps.”

  Cora laughed with a high-pitched giggle, shoving Freddie’s shoulder. “No, you dufus. It was at the bandstand, over there.”

  I watched them. “You two an item, then?”

  Cora shrugged with a smile, patting Freddie’s arm. “We used to date. But he dumped me for a tall blond Amazon, didn’t you, Freddie dear?”

  Freddie grinned. “Yup. And then she dropped me for a skinny little rich guy.”

  “What goes around, comes around,” Cora said, but it seemed she really didn’t care.

  With her pixie hair cut, Cora reminded me of Audrey Hepburn. Her big, dark eyes, cute twisty smile, and manner of speaking all supported her attitude of laissez faire. But it was the way she moved that most reminded me of the film star—graceful and with economy of movement; she seemed to have been schooled with princesses and every motion was filled with understated elegance.

  I liked these three kids, and set them up around the pavilion at various angles. “Cora, why don’t you tackle the drawing from up on that hill?”

  She eyed it, nodding with mischief in her eyes. “That grassy knoll?”

  I laughed. “You could call it that. But I’d rather think of it as a place to draw than the setting for an assassination.”

  “I know. Just putting you on, Prof.” She collected her supplies and stood.

  “For the record, I’m not a professor,” I said. “Just an assistant for the summer.”

  “You in grad school?” she asked, as we walked toward the hill.

  “Yep. One more year.”

  “Nice.” She cocked her head and gave me a slanted sideways glance. “I’ll graduate in December with a Bachelor of Music. I’m a cellist. My schedule got thrown off. This is the only liberal arts class I could fit in for summer session. But now I’m glad I took it.” She gave me a flirty little smile and settled on the grass, taking out her pad of paper, pen, and ink bottle.

  I wondered if she were flirting with me, but kept it professional. I didn’t want to get canned on the first week of the job for consorting with the students. It was strictly against the rules, in spite of the rumors that flew around campus about the class’s official professor. “Okay, then. Let me know if you need help. I see another bunch of kids arriving down below.”

  “Have fun, Prof,” she said. “Or should we call you something else? What’s your name?”

  I turned over my shoulder. “It’s Finn McGraw. You can call me Finn.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Finn.”

  I headed down to sort out the rest of the class, spreading them out along the grounds and helping them with techniques. Toward the end, I wandered back to the original three students I’d set up to see how they were doing. I ended with Cora, and glanced down at her paper.

  The drawing was awful, more like a child’s scribble than one belonging to an art student. “Oh,” I said, unable to find words to describe it.

  She laughed. “I told you, this was the only class I could fit in. I’m not an artist, as you can see.” She held it up. “I’m a cellist, like I said.”

  “Maybe I can help,” I said, sitting beside her. “Let me give you a few pointers.”

  She took the pad of paper and handed it to me. “Good luck. I think it’s hopeless.”

  “May I?” I reached for her pen and ink bottle, setting them beside me. “Look. You want to practice your strokes, first.”

  “Really?” She batted her eyes at me, chuckling. “Practice my strokes?”

  I flushed and looked down at the paper. Was she really saying what I thought she was? Cripes. How would I get through a whole class with this woman? “Like this,” I said, quickly filling the page with various pressures and lengths. “You can curve them, overlay them, lighten your touch, or make them darker.” I held the page up to her. “See?”

  She took the tablet from me. “Oh. I thought you used the pen sort of like a pencil.”

  “No. It’s completely different.” I stood. “Before you tackle something like the pavilion, why don’t you practice making marks on the paper like mine? Try reproducing those swirls and hash marks. When you feel comfortable with the pen, then we can set you up with the subject. Although I have a feeling you might need a little instruction in drawing, too,” I laughed.

  She made a face at me, sticking out her tongue. “Not all of us can be like Michelangelo, you know.”

  I got up and smiled. “No. But if you want to pass this class, you’re gonna have to do better than that,” I said, pointing to her kindergarten drawing. “Deal?”

/>   She nodded, bit her lower lip, and started to draw, copying my pen marks. “Deal.” She tried a few of them, then looked up at me. “Thanks, Finn.”

  I headed toward the next student. “Don’t mention it, Cora.”

  Chapter 55

  July 22th, 2013

  11:30 A.M.

  Behind the shop, Berra and Jenna had fashioned a private enclosure inside tall white-painted wooden walls dripping with yellow flowers and ivy. Stone tiles covered the ground in a circular design, winding around the white iron tables and chairs scattered about. I pictured the ladies hosting dinner parties with friends late into the summer evenings with wine flowing and laughter bubbling into the air.

  “This is beautiful,” I said, guiding Ace to a spot on the side of the patio where he lay on the grass, panting.

  “He looks thirsty,” Jenna said. “Let’s get him a drink.” She went back inside to get a metal bowl, then filled it at the spigot on the side of the house. “Here you go, buddy.” She laid it on the grass near him.

  “Thanks.” I said, watching Ace lap it up.

  He finished and laid his head on his paws, as if to ask, “What next?”

  Berra emerged with a tray of carrots, celery, radishes, and cucumbers surrounding a dip of tzatziki. “I’ve got the chowder heating up. I made it Friday and it’s really getting good now, all the flavors are melding together nicely. It’s tomato corn, my father’s recipe. Is that okay with you, Finn?”

  I reached for a carrot. “Sounds great. I love corn chowder.”

  Jenna picked up a pitcher from the table near the door. “Fresh made lemonade. Want some?”

  I nodded and held out my hand. “I’d love some. Thanks. But you two are spoiling me here. I feel like I should be doing something.”

  Jenna laughed. “Just sit and let us take care of you. We love having company.”

  We chatted for a while about the old days in high school while Berra busied herself inside. When the chowder was ready, she set up the bowls on the table and we dug in.

  “So,” Berra said, stirring her soup and blowing on the first spoonful. “How are you really doing, Finn?”

  Realizing the small talk was over, I gave her a rueful smile. “I’m okay, I guess.” I took a sip of the aromatic broth. “Delicious.”

  Berra took Jenna’s hand and squeezed it. “We were a little worried about you. What with the Cora and Jax thing.”

  I sighed. So, they knew about it. The whole sordid mess. “Yeah.” It was all I could manage.

  “Was it an awful shock?” Jenna asked, breaking off a piece of bread to dip in her soup. Her eyes didn’t hold any expressions of ignoble delight over my misfortune. She seemed genuinely concerned.

  I set my spoon down and sat back in my chair. “Um. Yeah. I had no idea. They completely fooled me.”

  Berra sighed. “Jax was such a sneak. Even when I had given up on him, he still had girls on the side.”

  I picked up the bread and buttered a chunk. “I didn’t think they knew each other. I hadn’t spoken with him in ten years.”

  Berra grimaced. “He tried many times to contact you. But you were so mad.”

  Jenna looked from Berra to me. “Why?”

  I scowled. “He started the fire that killed my parents and sister. Didn’t you know?”

  Berra laid down her spoon and stared at me.

  Jenna whistled. “What? Really?”

  Berra tapped the table with one finger, glancing up at me. “What makes you think he started the fire?”

  I huffed. “Because. He started smoking that summer. And I heard the firemen talking about it afterwards. They said something about a cigarette in the couch.”

  Berra cleared her throat. “Um…”

  I stared at her. “What?”

  She turned, locking eyes with me. “He told me he was pretty sure the fire was your fault. He said you were supposed to shut the glass doors on the hearth that night. Said you promised to close them, but probably forgot.”

  It had been a surprisingly cool evening, and my mother wanted a little fire in the grate. I stood, pushing back from the table. “That’s bull! I closed the glass doors when I went to bed. I distinctly remember doing it. And I was sleeping when the fire started.”

  She held her hands up as if backing off. “I don’t know. That’s just what he thought. He figured it was you. He thought that’s why you wouldn’t face him, because you blamed yourself.”

  Jenna looked between both of us. “What did the official report say? They don’t figure these things out until they do the analysis afterward, do they?”

  I shrugged. “I never saw any report. I was such a wreck after the funeral. I went to stay with Cora.”

  Jenna looked confused. “So? If he thought you started it and you thought he started it, what really happened?”

  I sat back down again, looking at Berra. “Jax actually thought it was my fault? You don’t think he was just trying to get out of it, to blame me so you wouldn't think of him as a jerk he was?”

  Berra shook her head. “I don’t think so. He seemed sincere about wanting to help you get over it, to help you deal with the truth. He really wanted to reach out to you, Finn.”

  I sat, stunned, stirring my soup, but not eating it. “He wanted to help me?”

  “Well, when I knew him, he did. I guess by the time he stole your wife, he had given up on that idea.”

  I couldn’t process the information; it just went around and around in my mind, making me dizzy. Ace came up to me and snuffled my hand. I absentmindedly handed him a crust of bread. “I just don’t get it,” I whispered.

  Jenna clapped her hands together. “How about some wine? Would that help?”

  I nodded. “Actually, a beer would be really nice, if you have one.”

  She beamed, as if being able to slake my thirst for alcohol made her the happiest woman in the world. “I’ve got Rolling Rock or Blue Moon. Your choice.”

  “Rolling Rock’s good,” I said, leaning down to pat my dog. “Thanks.”

  Berra watched me in silence, then got up and moved closer. “Finn.”

  I lifted my eyes to hers. “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t stay in closer touch with you. I should have reached out. I knew you were alone, and I didn’t try to help. I feel awful about it.”

  I waved away her concern. “No biggie. I felt bad that I didn’t try to contact you and see how you were doing. I figured if you had to endure Jax’s ways you might link me to him and hate me, too.”

  “I didn’t hate him.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, sometimes I did.” She smiled. “He could be a real jerk.”

  I shifted in my seat. “Did you tell him you like women, when you left him?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t think he could take it. His big manly ego, and all that. I just told him I didn’t love him anymore.”

  “I see. Was that before or after he started having affairs?”

  “Oh, I discovered his affairs a few months after we were married. Each time, he’d come back to me, begging for me to forgive him, telling me he was ‘seriously flawed’ and that only I could help him get over that.”

  “What a bunch of bull,” I said.

  She tented her fingers together. “I know, right? After I went through therapy to get over his repeated rejection of me—and by that, I mean his affairs—I realized I’d never been happy with him. Or any man.”

  “I’m glad for you,” I said, reaching for her hand.

  “It took me several years to get it. My therapist is the one who suggested I might have feelings I’d been repressing.”

  I sat back, quiet for a minute, listening to Jenna doing the dishes inside. “I’m glad you found yourself. You deserve to be happy.”

  She got up and hugged me. “Thanks, Finn.” With a change of expression, she gripped my hand. “But what about you? You deserve to be happy, too.”

  I shrugged. “Not necessarily, Berra. I don’t think it’s in
the cards for me.”

  Jenna came out and glanced apologetically at her watch. “I’m sorry, Finn. I have to re-open the shop. There’s actually a line outside.” She grinned. “You can stay back here and hang out if you want. I’d love to take a walk on the beach with you later.”

  “Thanks,” I said, getting up. “But I need to get back. Critters to feed, you know the drill.”

  “Oh, really?” She frowned, but quickly brightened. “Okay. But now that you know where we are, you can come back.” She kissed my cheek. “Frequently. Okay?”

  “Sounds good. And thanks for lunch.”

  The ladies walked Ace and me out to the front of the shop. I kissed them both, and headed home to my house with thoughts of Jax and the night of the fire racing through my mind.

  Chapter 56

  July 24th, 2003

  2:20 A.M.

  I woke to the smell of smoke.

  Jax, who’d been home from college like me for the past week, shook my shoulders roughly. “Finn, get up! For God’s sake, wake up!”

  He dragged me off my bed, where I’d been dreaming of Monet’s gardens in Giverny, floating along in a flat-bottomed boat beneath the Japanese bridge and weeping willows that populate the artist’s famous paintings.

  “What’s happening?” I scrambled to my feet, coughing. Searing smoke and heat laced my throat. “Jax?”

  “Get down, crawl behind me,” he shouted through the tee shirt he held over his mouth and nose. “Here, take this.” He handed me a pillowcase he’d ripped off the pillow seconds earlier.

  “The house is on fire?” I shouted, panicking. “Oh my God. Mom and Dad? Eva!” I tried to turn back to the hall that led to their rooms, but Jax brutally tackled me to the ground.

  “Damn it, Finn. You can’t go that way!” He shook me. “Listen to me! The hall is blocked, it’s on fire. We’ve gotta go this way.”

  I struggled against him, but roaring flames from the hallway began to redden my skin, wailing at me with banshee shrieks through a wall of heat. Panicky now, I followed Jax to the window.