After Nick’s phone call about the dead girl and the pandemonium at Tiger House, Hughes had been unable to think of anything else. He had gone over and over the situation all the way down to Woods Hole and then as he sat on the ferry, cupping his hot coffee in the ghostly illumination of the upper deck. He had barely managed to make the last boat, and the Island Queen had pulled out of dock just as the sun flashed and then winked out of sight, leaving ocean and sky in darkness.
Nick had charged him with getting Avery to come east to deal with Ed and Helena. But Hughes hadn’t wanted him to come. He had hoped, when he telephoned him, to persuade Avery instead to send for his wife and son. As usual, Avery had been cryptic and unhelpful.
“It’s character-building,” he had said, after Hughes had told him about the dead body.
“I’m not sure that it is character-building,” Hughes said. “I think you’re missing the point here. Helena is very upset and we think it would be best if they were with you.”
“And you think you know what’s best for my family.”
“I’m not suggesting that.” Hughes felt like banging the receiver against the library table. He had to force himself to remain calm. “But the fact is, you’re far away and maybe don’t understand the situation as well as you could.”
“What are you saying? That I don’t take care of my family? I am far away, as you put it, because I am working for my family. Everything I do is for Helena and for my son, so they can know a life that isn’t bound by the stricture of convention and servitude. Of course, I don’t expect you to understand that.”
“Oh Jesus, Avery, stop being such a prick. Nick is worried. If you don’t want them back in L.A., then why don’t you come down to the Island, just for a week or so, if you can’t get away for longer.” He prayed to God the man wouldn’t accept.
“That’s not possible at the moment. I am at a critical point in my work.”
Hughes was silent.
“But,” Avery said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “if you want to send the money for a plane ticket …”
“Go to hell,” Hughes said, and slammed down the phone.
Nick had been right about Avery from the first. The man was a charlatan and had been trying to squeeze them for money from the minute he had married Helena. One of the things Hughes loved about Nick was that he knew there was no way in hell she would ever give that man one red cent. She was a force to be reckoned with, his wife, and at times like this he thanked God for that.
With Avery washing his hands of the situation, Ed was Hughes’s problem. But by the time the Vineyard Haven lighthouse came into view, he had a plan, or at least the beginnings of one. He had to find something that would keep Ed out of the house as much as possible. Hughes had been in the Boy Scouts and remembered it as absorbing and exhausting: At best, it would be a good influence on the kid, and at worst, a distraction, at least until the summer was over. Meanwhile, Hughes decided he would stay on at Tiger House and keep an eye on things.
He couldn’t be sure how involved Ed was in the murder of that girl. He might know something or he might not. Hughes didn’t want to contemplate anything more than that. But he realized that the scene earlier that summer hadn’t just been Ed acting out. The boy was dangerous.
As he walked down the gangplank, he spotted Nick waiting for him. She was leaning against the station wagon, the wind off the harbor blowing her green dress between her legs. She was lovely. In fact, she had only gotten more beautiful with age, as her bone structure became more pronounced. He wondered how he could have failed to notice that, and a sadness came over him, as if something had been wasted.
Nick was smoking a cigarette and had one arm folded across her chest, her hand cupping her shoulder as if she were cold. When he reached the car, he set his suitcase down and took her in his arms.
“You’re freezing,” he said, feeling the freshness of her skin.
“It’s cold,” she said into his neck.
“You get in. I’ll drive.” Hughes put his case into the trunk and walked around to the driver’s side.
“You’re staying,” Nick said.
“Yes.”
“Good,” she said and lit another cigarette.
She was quiet as he navigated the car out of Vineyard Haven.
“How’s Daisy?” Hughes finally asked.
“How do you think she is?” Nick snapped. She stubbed out her cigarette. “I’m sorry. It’s been an awful day. Actually, she seems less shaken up than I am, frankly.”
“I’m sorry. It must have been terrible for you.”
“A dead body, Hughes. And not just some peaceful great-aunt, either. The poor thing was strangled and god knows what else.”
“Jesus.” Hughes took a cigarette out of the pack on the dashboard. He had a vision of Frank Wilcox pushing the girl’s head down to one side as he took her from behind. “Have you talked to her? Daisy, I mean.”
“She … well, you know how she is with me. I’m the ogre, aren’t I?”
“Don’t say that. She loves you. She looks up to you.”
“She talks to you.”
“She doesn’t talk to anyone our age. She’s twelve.” Hughes smiled at the thought of his daughter. Such an intense little thing. Always worried about winning. He remembered taking her once to the West Tisbury fair, where she’d fallen in love with one of the plush prizes. She had spent over an hour and all her pocket money trying to knock down the four bottles to win it. Hughes had known the game was rigged. In the end, he had paid for the damn thing outright, and it was a bargain. He knew Daisy would have stayed there all night until she succeeded.
“Well,” Nick said, “she talks to Ed. Those two have been thick as thieves. He’s been sneaking off and she’s been covering for him. They even disappeared today, after everything that’s happened.”
“Where did they go?”
“I don’t know. They told me they’d been down at the Quarterdeck, cool as could be. As if Helena and I don’t have enough to worry about.” Nick pushed her head back against the car seat. “God, I sound like a shrew.”
“You sound like a mother,” Hughes said, putting his hand on Nick’s thigh.
“I wonder sometimes if there’s a difference,” Nick said and moved her leg out of his reach.
It was ten o’clock when they reached Tiger House, but the children weren’t in bed.
“Daddy.” Daisy raced down the stairs and leaped into Hughes’s arms.
“I’m going to fix a drink,” Nick said.
Over Daisy’s head, Hughes watched his wife disappear into the blue sitting room. Her back was straight and she moved with her usual ease, but her grace was tinged with a sort of sorrow.
Hughes looked down at his daughter.
“How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m starving,” Daisy said. “We missed lunch. Ed bought me a cheeseburger, but that was ages ago.”
“Hmm. Well, let’s see if we can rustle something up.”
He followed his daughter into the summer kitchen, watching her blond head bobbing along in front of him. It hurt his heart.
Hughes looked in the icebox. There wasn’t much there and it made him feel guilty about leaving them on their own so much. Whenever Nick sank into one of her moods, the shopping didn’t get done.
“How about some warm milk? It’s not good to eat right before bed.”
“All right,” Daisy said, seating herself at the table.
Hughes pulled the milk bottle out and poured some into one of the copper pans that hung above the stove.
“How’s your mother been?”
“Fine,” Daisy said.
Hughes stirred the milk with a wooden spoon and poured in a little vanilla extract, something his cook had done for him when he was a child.
“Ed helped the sheriff and he paid him two dollars.”
“Is that so? How did Ed help the sheriff?”
“I don’t know. He was with the policeman when he reported it to the sheriff, I guess.”
“Didn’t he come back here with you?” Hughes turned to his daughter.
“Hello, Uncle Hughes.”
Hughes looked up to see Ed standing in the doorway.
“Hello, Ed,” Hughes said evenly. “I hear you’ve been helping the sheriff.”
“Yes,” Ed said.
“That’s very good of you.”
Hughes poured the milk into a mug and handed it to Daisy.
“You two should really be in bed now. It’s late.” He put his hand on Daisy’s shoulder and looked at Ed. The boy blinked first.
Nick was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She handed Hughes a gin and tonic.
“Say good night to your mother.”
“Goodnight, Mummy.”
“Goodnight, Daisy.”
Daisy started up, but Ed stayed where he was.
“You go on, too, Ed,” Hughes said.
“Good night, Aunt Nick,” Ed said, but his eyes were on Hughes.
Hughes moved fractionally in front of his wife, feeling the hairs on his arm prickling a little.
“Goodnight,” Nick said.
Hughes watched until Ed disappeared around the landing before turning back to Nick. “Where’s Helena?”
“Asleep,” Nick said, nodding toward the sitting room. “What did Avery say?”
“I tried, but he won’t do it, Nick,” Hughes said. “Frankly, he didn’t seem all that concerned. He said something odd about it being character-building.”
“Damn man,” Nick said, pressing her tumbler against her forehead.
They both turned at the sound of a sigh from the doorway. Helena stood there, watching them, a scotch clutched in her hand.
“I’m sorry, darling,” Nick said, following Helena into the sitting room.
Helena walked over to the decanter and refilled her glass. “He’s very busy,” Helena said.
Nick looked at Hughes. He shrugged. Avery was Helena’s problem. If she wanted to delude herself, that was her choice. He had other things to worry about.
Hughes settled himself in the wing chair, pushing aside a needlepoint pillow with a fierce tiger on its front. “So, ladies,” he said, crossing his legs, “aside from a dead body here and there, how’s the summer been going?” He smiled at them, but he felt exhausted already.
Helena looked at him as if she didn’t understand the question.
“You can be so glib sometimes, darling,” Nick said.
Her voice was light, but beneath her pretty green dress and her cocktails, Hughes saw a new fragility, like something splintering. He wanted to go to her, hold her, the way he’d held Daisy when she’d had nightmares as a small child, pressing her flushed little body to him.
He was struck by a memory of when they were first married, while he was waiting to be called up. He was in law school and he’d been having a particularly bad time with one of his professors, who thought he would never amount to much, let alone a good lawyer. He was walking home one evening, his mind heavy with potential failure, and as he arrived at their front gate, he felt a sudden rush of freezing water. Stunned and furious, he looked up to see Nick standing on the front lawn holding the hose, splitting her sides.
“I’m sorry, really,” she said, obviously rejoicing in her own hilarity. “You just looked altogether too serious for your own good.”
Hughes had looked down at his soaked trousers and shoes.
“Oh no, darling. Now you’re even more forlorn.”
“I’m going to remember this,” Hughes had said. “One day when you’re least expecting it.”
But he’d gone and sat on the steps, still drenched, and held Nick’s hand until the sky turned dark and then, together, they’d gone inside and shut the door against the world.
“Well”—Nick’s voice brought him back into the room—“there’s the party. But I haven’t done a goddamn thing about it, yet.”
“Yes, I noticed from the icebox.” Hughes smiled at her, but gently, in case she took it the wrong way.
“Oh, that.” Nick waved her hand in the air. “We’ve been drifting a bit, haven’t we, darling?” She looked at Helena. “Playing Robinson Crusoe.”
“Yes,” Helena said, her words slurred and drowsy. “Drifting.”
“I certainly know how that feels.” Hughes wiped his damp palms on his trousers and finished his drink.
Later, after making sure Helena made it upstairs, Hughes went into their room to find Nick readying herself for bed. He watched, arrested, as she pulled the earring off her lobe and placed it gently on a small velvet pad in front of her. She had always been very deliberate when she was getting dressed, but he could remember when she would throw her things around, clothes, jewelry, shoes, at the end of an evening together, in a sort of frenzied joy of being free of them. When had she gotten so careful? he wondered. He had the urge to go to her, to beg her forgiveness and make her swear not to leave him. But she wouldn’t understand. She would think he’d gone mad. So, instead, he lightly touched her shoulder before heading back downstairs to his office, jingling the small desk key in his pocket.
Southampton, July, 1945
Dear Hughes,
What can I say? I could say, Please, please, please don’t do this. I could tell you what a false choice this is, making me choose between you and myself. How can I?
I can’t, I won’t marry again. I could tell you how definite this decision is, because, my love, it is. This has nothing to do with you. It’s not that I don’t want you for my husband, or that I have any doubts that you are the only man I could truly love with every fibre of my being. It has to do with me, with who I am. I know it’s not a choice a woman is supposed to make. I know I should be thrilled that you would leave your wife and want to marry me, throw it all in for our love. But I don’t want to be somebody’s wife. I want you to come to me because you want to be with me, not as some harbor or safe haven from the rest of the bloody world. But honestly and purely, as we have always been, you and I.
You told me that if you were to hurt your wife (why can’t I even write her name?), it would have to be for everything. That you needed to know I would always be there for you. That marriage was your version of honesty. But darling, why can’t you see: We have everything, what difference will a piece of paper make?
I will always love you, Hughes, no matter what comes our way. I will always be yours, richer, poorer, in sickness, in health. I swear it.
But I cannot live inside some false boundary to please someone else. It would kill me.
Please come back to me. Please.
Love,
Eva
Hughes put the letter down and ran his hand through his hair. He stared at the pile. He should just burn them. He had always known he shouldn’t hold on to the letters, that reading them and rereading them wasn’t going to change anything. And after a while, he had stopped reading them. But he knew they were there, that was the important thing. When the days seemed to stretch before him like an interminable forced march, their existence had been a reminder that once, the whole world had opened up and offered itself to him.
Now, something had changed; he was afraid now. He wasn’t sure if it was him or everything around him, the telephone ringing in the house, Nick waiting, cold and alone at the ferry. And the strange feeling this evening that Eva’s letters were written to someone unconnected to him. It was like being awoken by the whistle of a departing train, and only then realizing you were supposed to be on it.
Hughes heard the creak of a floorboard out in the hall. His breathing quickened. He rose and went to the door of the study and peered into the darkness of the house. He thought he saw a shadow moving away toward the kitchen, but when he followed there was no one there. He latched the back door, which was swinging slightly on its hinge, and returned to his study.
The next morning Hughes and Nick walked into town together. Nick wanted to check the mailbox and Hughes needed to refresh his supply of scotch, severely dented by Helena’s ability to down the stuff. The day was going to be beautiful, clear and hot, but with enough of a breeze to keep the mosquitoes away.
“We should take Star out,” Hughes said.
“Oh, not today,” Nick said. “I feel like we should stay home after what’s happened.”
She was probably right, but the freshness of the morning was making him think that maybe his alarm over the recent events was overblown. As they walked down the street, Nick swinging the French woven basket she used for errands, he could almost forget the scene with Ed and Frank Wilcox and the maid.
“Besides,” she said, “all the neighbors within ten miles will be calling up wanting to know all about it.”
“We should take the phone off the hook,” Hughes said.
“Goddamn phone,” Nick said. Then she sighed. “It might just make them come over instead.”
“Good point. We’ll let it ring. I don’t want to listen to Caro or Dolly’s hypotheses on the subject.”
“No,” Nick said.
On impulse, Hughes took her hand. She let him. It was warm.
“You know, darling, I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Maybe we should get something for Ed, something a boy would like.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, he just seems to be running wild. Maybe he needs some fatherly attention.”
“I’m not sure a present is going to help.”
“Yes,” Nick said, “I think he needs you to give him something. So he knows he has someone he can look up to.”
“Jesus, Nick.”
Nick withdrew her hand. “If you won’t, I’ll buy him something and say it’s from you.”
“Fine,” Hughes said.
“I think a Swiss Army knife would be a nice present,” Nick said. “So he can start the Scouts prepared.”
Hughes couldn’t believe it. Now he had to go spend his money on that little piece of work. And he certainly didn’t want Ed to think he was bribing him for his silence.
This was getting ridiculous, he decided. He was going to destroy the letters. It was over and had been over for so damn long; he was the only one who hadn’t been able to see it.
He thought of Eva, the last time he’d seen her, standing in front of Claridge’s, wearing those breeches and not waving as his taxi pulled away. He’d only found the letter she’d slipped in his pocket once he was back aboard the Jones.
There’s nothing more to say, or at least, as you made clear, no more pleading to be done for my case. I am sorry you feel the way you do, but I wish you luck. And happiness.
As you requested, I won’t write again. Be good to Nick. I finally managed to write her name.
Eva
And she had been as good as her word. She hadn’t ever written again. She had known it for what it was, a failed wartime romance, a cliché. While he had remained blind, like a fool.
In the hardware store, Hughes picked out a red knife, fully loaded, with even the tweezers and the small bone toothpick. Maybe Nick was right. Maybe all the boy needed was a little guidance.
He carried this hopeful thought all the way back to the house and it lasted until he actually handed Ed the gift.
Ed turned the knife over and over, fixated on the bright, shiny thing like a rapt magpie.
“Thank you,” he said.
“I’m glad you like it,” Hughes said. “My father gave me one as a boy, before I started Scouts.” This wasn’t strictly true, but it sounded like a good thing to say.
“This is going to be very helpful,” Ed said. Then he turned without another word and headed for the front door.
Hughes watched the boy through the screen as he went down the steps and out the gate. He cursed himself. There was something seriously wrong with that kid and he had just gone and given him a knife. He stepped out onto the porch. Ed had already disappeared from sight, but Nick was standing at the fence, deadheading the roses, her face flushed in the sun.
She was using her rusted clippers to trim the browning blooms from the stalk. She never kept those clippers in their case, and so the sea air had eaten away at the metal. But she was careful with the roses, gently pushing the branches aside with slim brown arms to get at the fading blossoms and errant shoots tucked away inside the bushes.
Behind her, the gardening basket had overturned, spilling pink petals around her feet. Something about the scene was familiar, and he was reminded of the smell of the sea in the small maid’s room upstairs.
Nick wasn’t wearing any gloves and she must have pricked herself because he saw her suddenly pull away from the stem she was holding. Her brow furrowed as she inspected her finger and Hughes thought he saw her eyes tearing up in the bright light. But she didn’t cry out.
He walked over to her and examined the small crimson dot where the thorn had pierced her flesh. He put her finger in his mouth. She looked up at him, squinting into the sun. They stood like that for a moment, not moving, each looking at the other, wordless. Nick put her other hand to his face. Then she slid her finger out and continued to cut away at the dead flowers.
Hughes found the mouse later that afternoon, when he went down to his workbench in the basement to repair a broken picture frame. The little thing had been crudely sliced open, its teeth exposed in a primal scream, the small toothpick sticking out of one eye. Hughes gently removed the toothpick, but his hand shook as he went to pick up the mouse. It was several minutes before he could bring himself to touch it, and even then, he had to look away when he put it in the trash can.