Beachcombers. Part 8

Outside, a horn honked.

"There's my taxi," the woman said. She picked up a handsome black leather briefcase and stalked out of the room.

Howell followed her.

Abbie was alone in the kitchen. She sat down on the floor, crossed her legs Indian-style, and faced the little boy. "I'm Abbie. You must be Harry."

He didn't reply. But Abbie could see how tightly he clutched his horse, how white his knuckles were, how fiercely he clenched his jaws, just like an older man would do to keep from crying.

"You know what? You're only four years old. You're allowed to cry when your mother leaves to go off to work."

Harry didn't blink.

Howell returned to the kitchen and sat on the floor next to Abbie. "Well, old boy, it's just you and me now," he said to his son. "Oh, and now we've got Abbie. Abbie, do you ride horses?"

"No, but I've got a friend who does. She's got a stable off Hummock Pond Road. She has three horses." Howell nodded encouragingly at her, so she continued. "One is buckskin with a white mane and tail. And one is an Appaloosa." She could see the tension ease from the child's body as she talked. "Do you know what an Appaloosa is?"

Harry's response was to set his jaw more firmly closed. His father prompted her, "No. What is an Appaloosa?"

"It's an Indian horse with a spotted coat. Some of them are dark with huge white spots here and there and some are spotted like a leopard."

"Maybe you could drive Harry out to see them someday," Howell suggested.

"Um, yeah, sure. I could do that. That would be fun." She peeked at Harry. Still no response.

"I tell you what, Harry," Howell said. "I think we all need a little cheering up now that Mommy's gone back to the city, so let's walk down and get an ice-cream cone." Hurriedly he explained to Abbie, "It's too early in the day for an ice-cream cone, and we have to be careful not to give him too much sugar, at least I do, but sometimes rules have to be bent just a little, right?"

"Right," Abbie agreed.

"Which reminds me, Sydney left some on the table for you."

"Some what?"

"Oh, rules. A list of rules. I think you'll find them very, um, comprehensive." He turned his attention back to his son. "Ice cream? Strawberry or vanilla? Maybe pistachio."

Harry didn't budge.

"You know what? I'd love to see Harry's room."

"You would? Well, but Harry--"

"I'll bet Harry will stay right here. He'll be fine."

Howell opened his mouth, as if to argue, then closed it. "Sure. Come on, I'll show you."

Abbie rose and followed the man out of the kitchen, down the hall, and up the stairs. The first door on the left led to an enchanting child's room decorated in a blue-and-white nautical theme. Along one wall shelves ranged, covered with toys and games, mostly involving pirates, boats, and whales.

"Tell me about Harry," Abbie said.

Howell looked worried. "He's a great little boy. Smart and loving. But sensitive and stubborn. Leaving him alone will not make him come out from under the table."

Abbie ran her hands over the toys, picking up a stuffed octopus, a wooden lighthouse. "He's upset that his mother's going back to the city?"

"Right. He's always been an obstinate child, but recently he's become, well, I suppose you could call him defiant. I mean, he's always liked routine, and recently, I admit, his routine has changed a lot. He had the same nanny for about a year now, but this spring she got married and moved away. And my wife was just made partner at her law firm, and she's got piles more work, and in addition, she's taken on a high-profile divorce case. She is stressed and rushed to the max, and we thought that spending the summer here would be good for Harry."

"Do you stay here all the time?" Abbie asked.

"Oh, sure, I do, of course! Well, I'm fortunate that my company allows me to work at home, although I can't be available every moment, you see. I'm on the staff of environmental health and safety for Franklin Pharmaceuticals. I've got a major research report to put together and my deadline is September first, so this is a do-or-die summer for me. But I can work at home, so I can be with Harry every morning and every night. I mean, I want to be, if you can take over in the afternoons."

"Will you need some housekeeping?"

"I don't think so. We've got a team of cleaners who come in twice a week. What we need, I guess, is someone to buy groceries, take stuff to the cleaners, do laundry, that kind of thing. Again, I think Sydney covered it pretty comprehensibly in her list."

"Good." Abbie wanted to reach across to b.u.t.ton up Howell's shirt properly. Instead, she grabbed a plastic horse off the shelf. "Why don't you go on to work, and I'll sit in the kitchen and read Mrs. Parker's list and keep an eye on Harry. I'll see if I can't cajole him out from under the table and down to the beach."

"Oh, good, well, but, here's the thing, you won't drag him out, will you?"

"Of course not!"

"I mean, Sydney sometimes gets impatient--Christ, I don't mean she ever hurts the boy! But I mean, if we have to be somewhere ... but she's his mother."

"I won't drag him out, I promise," she rea.s.sured him. "I'll sit there all day, if I have to."

"Good. That's good." Howell walked out into the hall. "That room down there I've taken for my office. I work in there. But if you need anything, anything at all, just knock on the door, okay? I won't mind if you interrupt."

"Got it," Abbie said. She smiled at him. "Okay, I'm off to the kitchen floor."

"And I'm off to work." But Howell didn't move. Instead, he stood staring at Abbie, as if he had something else to say to her.

It was a moment, Abbie thought, like others she'd known, when she and a man looked at each other and were caught in the exhilarating grip of mutual attraction.

Wow.

Wait. Was she nuts? He was married. She'd just met his wife.

Flushing, Abbie ripped herself away and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen. "See you later!"

Harry had changed positions. He now lay on his stomach beneath the kitchen table. He was rocking his horse back and forth in a galloping movement. When Abbie sat down, he froze.

Abbie lay down on her stomach, parallel to the boy. She placed her horse parallel to Harry's horse, just a few inches away. Harry whipped his head around so that he faced the other way.

Abbie rocked her horse back and forth on the floor and made clicking, horse-walking noises with her mouth. "Okay, Licorice. It's time for lunch. Here's some hay."

"Thunder. His name is Thunder."

Abbie smiled to herself. "Okay, Thunder," she said, "come over here and I'll give you a nice pile of fresh hay."

For the next hour, she sat and lay on the floor, clopping the plastic horse around, talking to him, speaking for the horse in a series of whinnies and neighs. Harry didn't speak to Abbie, but gradually he began to walk his own horse over the floor, winding in and out through the table legs. Abbie developed a cramp in her neck and turned over, lying flat on her back. She drew her knees up and made Thunder slowly, with much huffing and puffing, ascend the mountain her legs made.

"This mountain is so high!" she huffed in the best baritone she could muster--she thought Thunder should have a masculine voice. "But I know I can reach the top. I just have to keep trying." She could sense that Harry had turned on his back and was watching her. Slowly she walked the horse up her leg and brought him to rest on top of her knee. "Wheeeee!" she whinnied. "I made it!" She brought the horse into a triumphant pose, rearing to stand on just two back legs. "Wheeee! I'm Thunder, the king of horses!"

Howell walked into the kitchen. He smiled down at Abbie, who felt ridiculous, lying there on her back.

"I just want to get a soda from the refrigerator." Howell squatted down to his son's level. "How're you doing?"

Harry turned on his side with his back to his father.

"It's a hot sunny day, Harry. Wouldn't you like to go down to the beach with Abbie?"

"We could bring the horses," Abbie said. "We could make an awesome corral for the horses out of sand. A barn, too."

Harry shook his head.

"Maybe tomorrow," Abbie said easily. "Anyway, it's going to take Thunder a long time to get down this mountain."

"Thunder looks kind of lonely up there," Howell said.

"I know," Abbie agreed. "It sure would be nice if Thunder had a friend to do things with."

Howell said, "Harry, what do you think? Would Storm like to climb the mountain with Thunder?"

Harry didn't respond.

"Well," Howell said. "I guess I'll get my drink and get back to work."

Abbie waited until Howell left to begin the dramatic progression of Thunder down the leg mountain. "Thunder is exhausted, he's going to take a nap. And I'm going to get a drink. I'm thirsty." She stood up, brushed off her shorts, and opened the refrigerator. It was fairly empty, although there were plenty of juices and soft drinks.

"Would you like some juice, Harry?"

No answer.

She grabbed a soda for herself and poured a cranberry drink for Harry.

"Here you are!" she said, leaning over to put the drink near him.

He didn't respond.

She leaned against the counter as she drank, staring out at the sunny day. She wondered if she could somehow persuade Harry as far as the backyard.

"I've got to pee," she said. "I'll be right back."

She found a half bathroom off the kitchen and was in and out in minutes. When she sat down on the floor again, she saw that Harry's juice gla.s.s was empty. Harry was on his side, eyes closed, sound asleep.

15.

Emma Good," Sandra Bracebridge said, "you're on time."

They were standing on the brick sidewalk outside the Bracebridge mansion, a towering white Greek Revival with a broad front porch and columns. The Bracebridge property was protected from the riffraff by a wrought iron fence with spiked railings.

Emma forced herself to smile. She'd read somewhere that human beings responded in like fashion to stimuli like smiling, yawning, crying, so she was performing a kind of experiment.

But nope, Sandra Bracebridge did not move her lips. It was possible the woman wasn't human. During the brief interview Emma had endured earlier in the day with Sandra Bracebridge, the other woman had remained composed to the point of paralysis. And from everything she'd heard, Millicent Bracebridge, in her eighties and struggling with various infirmities, was going to be even less friendly.

Millicent Bracebridge, her daughter-in-law had told Emma, had fallen this winter and broken her hip, and had never really walked after the operation. At eighty-eight, she had seen her husband and most of her friends into their graves, and pain from arthritis and other minor ailments made her cranky. Now the macular degeneration that had plagued her for years was worsening her eyesight. And she tended to live in the past, which worried Sandra. Sandra's husband, Millicent's son, had died a few years ago, and Sandra was responsible for Millicent. She did not want her mother-in-law getting gaga. Millicent would not tolerate any kind of formal a.s.sisted living and, driven by her pride, she had given her lawyer durable rights of attorney, along with written instructions that if she had to be inst.i.tutionalized, it would be in a nursing home on the Cape or near Boston, not on Nantucket. She had told Sandra that she did not want people who had known her when she was in her majestic prime to see her in her infirmity.

The Bracebridges were one of Nantucket's founding families. Millicent Bracebridge's collection of Nantucket arts and crafts was rumored to be extensive and significant. Emma couldn't believe she was about to work for one of the island's old legends, a wealthy, prominent woman from an important Nantucket family. Of the various jobs Emma had accepted, this one seemed the most interesting.

Now Emma followed Sandra Bracebridge up the wide steps, across the porch, and in through the wide front door. The black-and-white tiled foyer floor was covered with priceless antique Oriental rugs, and a crystal chandelier sparkled from the ceiling. In a polished cherry case a grandfather clock ticked away, its face artistically decorated with the sun, moon, and planets. An oil painting of a whaling ship took up most of one wall.

"Wow," Emma breathed. "What a magnificent room."

Sandra ignored her and swept on into the living room. "Millicent? We're here."

Emma followed her employer into a large room crowded with antiques. Oil paintings in elaborate gilt frames spanned the walls. Elaborate boxes of ivory scrimshaw were set along the mantel. In the window seat, seven lightship baskets of varying sizes were displayed, the darkened cane a testimony to their age. Small tables held Tiffany lamps and cloisonne vases. Obviously no children were allowed to enter this room, where one careless movement could provoke a disaster.

"Millicent? This is Emma Fox. She's come to read to you."

Millicent Bracebridge sat in a wheelchair with a tartan blanket tucked around her legs. Her white hair was styled like a 1940s movie star, finger-waved in strict ridges. She wore a light wool suit with a diamond brooch at the collar, and heavy hose and lace-up, high-heeled shoes.

"Well, let me get a look at you," Millicent said, gesturing impatiently.

Emma stepped close to the wheelchair. Sandra had told her to dress conservatively; her mother-in-law did not approve of the current style of showing off so much skin. Today she wore a white shirt, khaki trousers, and sandals. It was hot outside, but in this room with its high ceilings and heavy draperies drawn against the sun, the heat was moderate, although the air was heavy with humidity.

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Bracebridge," Emma said.

"Lean down so I can see you. I've got macular degeneration. If you come close, I can get bits of you, though."

Emma obediently leaned down. As she did, she caught the scent of the older woman, a mix of talc.u.m powder and a light floral fragrance.

Millicent Bracebridge turned her head slightly, seeming to aim her black eyes away from Emma's face. "You're a very pretty girl. Pick up that book over there and read a few sentences for me."

"Moby-d.i.c.k!" Emma exclaimed. "I loved this book." Opening it to the first page, she began to read.

After a few sentences, Sandra Bracebridge interrupted. "All right, Millicent? Does she read to your satisfaction?"

"She's fine." She waved her hand. "Go on along. Don't worry."

"The bathroom is just down the hall," Sandra Bracebridge told Emma. "And the kitchen's at the back of the house if you need a drink of water, or there might be iced tea in the refrigerator."

"Sandra, the girl is not an imbecile." Millicent's voice was sharp.

"All right, then." Sandra leaned over to kiss the older woman's forehead. "Three hours, right?" she asked Emma.