Chapter Thirty-two
Jane pulled the orange Volvo she called Old Reliable out of her driveway and made her way to the Mass Turnpike entrance in Brighton. It would be a long trip to Stockbridge, practically at the other end of the state. Jane settled back to enjoy the ride.
The Berkshires in general, and Stockbridge in particular, were favorites of hers. Phyllis’s daughter had a summer house in Lenox, near Tanglewood, where the Boston Symphony Orchestra spent its summers. The bridge club had borrowed it for extended weekends they called retreats, but which tended to be more boisterous than contemplative. Jane loved their visits to the Norman Rockwell Museum and to Edith Wharton’s brilliant house, The Mount; drinks on the porch of the Red Lion Inn; and picnics on the lawn at Tanglewood.
The symphony season was over, but it still felt like summer as Jane made the turn onto Main Street in Stockbridge. Soon the leaves would be red and gold, the summer visitors replaced with the leaf peepers. The crowds were healthy, and Jane drove slowly, searching for a parking space. Finally she spotted one, about two blocks beyond her target, and pulled in.
Jane walked quickly, head down, to the Gallery of Glass, intent on her mission. But when she stepped through the door, the tinkling of a bell broke her concentration and she looked up and around.
In her many trips to Stockbridge, Jane had never been in the shop before. To the extent that she’d pictured it, which wasn’t much, she’d anticipated a store full of souvenirs, maybe some vases, dusty and dank. Instead the space was huge, with white walls leading two stories to a skylight. Enormous glass sculptures were everywhere resting on stands or secured to the walls. The colors dazzled, and the pieces danced and swayed even when they stood still. In addition to the glass pieces there were knitted scarves, shawls, and throws draped throughout the shop. Jane reached out to touch one. It was a beautiful rich Mediterranean blue shot through with green fibers, made from delicate wool with tiny regular stitches. The soft goods contrasted with and heightened the beauty of the glass. “Oh, my.” It came out of her mouth as she thought it.
“May I help you?”
The young woman behind the counter was slim and angular. Waves of brown hair cascaded down her back, and her sleeveless top showed off her tattoos. She couldn’t have looked less like a real estate attorney, and yet Jane caught a glimpse of Megan in her wide mouth.
“I’m Jane Darrowfield. I called yesterday. Are you Maggie Reeve?”
“Oh.” The well-practiced customer-is-always-right smile disappeared.
“I’ve come to see your aunt.” Jane didn’t leave room for argument.
The tanned brow creased over her hazel eyes. She chewed her lower lip, not obsessively, but once, and then drew a long breath. “My aunt, she’s good. She’s doing really well, sober for three years now. It’s the longest she’s ever achieved.” Maggie paused. “But she’s fragile, or at least we treat her like she is. My dad was the one who looked after her for years, confronted her when it was time to go back to rehab, picked her up when she was released. But my dad’s not up to being her surrogate parent anymore and I’m left . . . not knowing what to do.”
Jane reached across the counter and put a hand on the young woman’s slender arm. She felt bone through the sheaf of muscle. “Perhaps you’ve got some tea, in the back?”
Maggie nodded and led Jane through a curtain behind the counter into a small but pleasantly furnished kitchenette office. She turned on an electric kettle and got two glass mugs down off a shelf, evidently taking Jane’s suggestion literally. Jane approved. The poor young woman was stressed, and tea was exactly what was needed.
Jane watched as Maggie put real, old-fashioned, caffeinated tea bags into the mugs. She kept her back to Jane, as if reluctant to begin the conversation without the tea in front of them. Finally, the electric kettle shuddered and burbled, indicating there was water boiling inside. Maggie Reeve poured the tea, offered milk, and fetched it from a small refrigerator. Then she sat down across from Jane at the round white table.
“This is all so new to me,” Maggie started. “I don’t know what to do, and I don’t have anyone I can talk to.” She smiled. “You’re the first person who’s asked. So here goes.”
Jane smiled back.
“My dad is Aunt Laura’s older brother. He always looked after her, both before and after she was married to Edwin. Dad’s family was kind of fractured. His father, my grandfather, was a tyrant. Their mother died when he and Aunt Laura were small. It left a big hole in their lives. Their mother was named Margaret, called Meg. Both Megan and I are named for her. Aunt Laura was never a strong person mentally or emotionally.
“After Laura’s marriage broke up, it was my dad who took her to the first place she was institutionalized. She was in a bad way. Every time she got out, he would help her set up a home, visit her, do errands, and help around the house. It would last for months, or a couple of years at the outside, and then the cycle would begin again.”
Maggie blew on her tea and took a sip. “Over the years, she and Dad decided they would remove the things from her life that tended to send her spiraling. He managed her funds and paid her bills. He picked up her mail and intercepted any communications from lawyers or Edwin. Aunt Laura lives . . .” Megan hesitated. “Not far from here. She has a life. She sells her knitted goods here in the shop.”
“Laura made those?” Jane was impressed. “They are beautiful.”
“They are. And they sell well. They’re perfect for the shop, a luxurious but lower priced item for those who like to come in and look but can’t afford the glass pieces.” Maggie shifted in the plastic chair. “Aunt Laura goes to book club and yoga. A group of women friends support her. But she lives in a pretty insular world. She doesn’t own a TV or radio or a computer. She doesn’t have a cell phone. She has a landline, but only a few people have the number.”
“So you don’t think she knows her daughter is missing?”
“I’m sure she doesn’t. After you called I visited her at her house. She didn’t say a word about it, and I’m sure she would have if she knew.” Maggie drained her cup in two big gulps. “I don’t know whether to tell her. I can’t talk to my dad about it. On his bad days he wouldn’t understand a word I was saying, and on his good days it would only upset him—about his sister and her daughter—and emphasize how powerless he is to help.”
Jane leaned forward and took the woman’s thin hand. “You really are alone in this, aren’t you?”
She nodded, on the verge of tears. “My parents have been divorced for years. The amount of time and attention Aunt Laura took up was one of many items on my mother’s long list of grievances about my father. I can’t talk to her. She’d only be incensed that the responsibility she resented my dad having has now fallen on me.
“I’m so torn. Do I keep the news about Megan from my aunt? That seems mean. And what if she finds out in some random way, like when she’s here in town, glances at the newsstand, whatever? It would devastate her. It would devastate me, and I’m not a mother and recovering alcoholic with a history of breakdowns.”
“Can you talk to one of the book group or yoga people, a particular friend, and get their take?” Jane suggested.
Maggie shook her head. “They’re not that kind of friend. I think Laura would be mortified if I gave any of them as much information as would be required to have that conversation. I think she likes them because they don’t know her history. She can relax and be the person she is today.”
Jane shifted in her seat. Maggie was so alone with so much to deal with. “Do you think your aunt wants to know about her daughter? Not this terrible thing, but in general, does she care, or has she put her marriage and child in the past?”
“No, no, no. She cares, she cares. She tried to reconcile with Megan so many times, and then every time she fell apart, and fell off the wagon, she knew she hurt Megan again. So she’s given up contacting her. I think she’s waiting for some sort of sign that she’ll stay clean for good, or something. A sign that may never come. But she loves Megan. My dad used to say that every time Aunt Laura hit bottom it was the thought of Megan that brought her around and got her to fight. She loves Megan. And the pain she has caused Megan is the source of most of her pain.”
“Is your aunt in active recovery? Does she have a sponsor?”
“If you’re asking if she goes to AA meetings, she does. I think she has a sponsor. What do you think I should do?”
This young woman had asked for her advice, and Jane had to give it. She had walked into this delicate, tragic situation voluntarily. She sat up straight. “I think, and I say this as a mother, you need to tell your aunt what’s going on. Keeping it from her will be worse. As you say, she could find out on her own. And if the worst happens”—now it was Jane who faltered, her voice thick—“you will have to tell her, and the whole story will come out. It’s better to tell her now.”
Maggie’s bony shoulders relaxed. “I think so too. I know it’s the right thing to do, I just haven’t had the courage.” She cleared her throat. A delicate hut-hem. “My dad was the one who told her about his illness, back while he still could. It was a blow to her. They’ve always been so close, but she survived it. It didn’t send her off the rails, still hasn’t even now when he’s so much worse.”
“She may be stronger than you realize.”
Maggie looked directly at her. “Will you come with me?”
Jane tried not to look surprised. “Do you think, from all you’ve said about your aunt, she would want a stranger present for this conversation?”
“I know her well enough to know she’s going to have questions. Lots and lots of questions. I can’t answer any of them. Not about the investigation or about Megan and her life. My telling her about Megan’s disappearance is going to turn Aunt Laura into an anxious mess. You can at least make sure she has accurate information.”
Jane could see her logic. “If you think so, I’ll come, of course.”