THE GROUNDS APPEARED as fussy as ever to Matt Connell. Clipped lawns, dressed gardens, manicured shrubs—the place looked as if it had just got the full treatment at the local beauty parlor. A fence cut its way along the perimeter—a whimsical halfmoon fence, pickets a dazzling white. At the center of this fussbudgetry stood a house like a chamber of commerce postcard—the abode of Matt's grandmother, one Bea Connell.
Ignoring the pain in his knees, lower back and right shoulder, Matt walked up the bright brick pathway to his grandmother's front door, wondering, not for the first time today, what the hell he was doing here. Sure, he had received a telegram from the old gal, imploring him to “forgo his selfimposed exile long enough to help her put her affairs in order.” Grandma Connell, it seemed, was preparing to call it quits at the tender age of eightyone—not an entirely unsympathetic situation, unless you considered that she had been threatening such a demise as regularly as clockwork for the last decade and a half.
Bea, Bea, busy as a bee. Growing up, Matt had spent many a summer here along the gulf helping “Busy-as-a-bee Connell” tend her ostentatious grounds. Looking back reluctantly, Matt supposed he had not been the easiest of teenagers to raise, and it had, no doubt, been a respite for his parents to ship him off to Florida for the hot months of summer. To Matt, they had been months from hell, toiling away under the callused green thumb of Grandma Connell.
Then, however, Matt had discovered the girls of Hurricane Beach. And one of the girls he'd discovered had been Lisa Hardaway.
As a teenager, Lisa had been pretty but tentative. She'd seemed uncertain about everything she did, as if waiting for someone to give her permission to enjoy herself. Yet there'd been nothing tentative about her in the drugstore this morning. She'd been cool and very much in control. Her vague prettiness had deepened into genuine beauty. She reminded him of a pale, irresolute sketch that had gained contour and color over the years, resulting in a vivid portrait. The new confidence in her eyes made them seem a darker brown. Her hair had turned from flaxen to gold, her girl's body had become a woman's.
Matt felt a stirring of some long-ago emotion, but he kept it at a distance. His summers in Hurricane Beach belonged to another life. Lisa Hardaway belonged to another life. The stirring of emotion inside him flickered, then died, just as it should.
Ignoring his grandmother's doorbell, Matt rapped twice on the brass knocker—an elaborate affair depicting two lovers kissing.
“Bea,” he called. “Bea, it's me.” Without waiting for a response, he opened the door, which was never kept locked, and stepped inside. The house was as hot as ever…stiflingly hot. For some reason, Grandma Connell preferred to take her fresh air only out in her gardens. In her house, windows were never opened, air conditioners never switched on, and over the long Florida summers the place built up heat like a furnace, baking the furniture and people inside.
“Bea… it's only Matt. No need to relinquish your deathbed just to answer the door.”
He walked across the living room and down a short hall. By the time he reached the kitchen, he already had beads of perspiration on his forehead, and he could feel his shirt begin to liquify.
“Lord, it's hot in here,” he grumbled as he headed straight for the refrigerator, popped open the door and leaned his head and shoulders inside.
“Mathias T. Connell. You'll foul the ricotta!”
Matt turned his head enough to observe Grandma Connell striding into the kitchen. For a woman threatening death, she had the gait of an Olympic distance walker. “It's good to see you, too, Bea,” he said. “Oh, and by the way, you're welcome.”
Despite her trademark scowl, Grandma Connell almost gave Matt a little smile. “Butterscotch?”
He held the bag of candy out to her.
“Now, Matt,” she said as she snatched the bag from his hand, “you shouldn't have. You know I won't eat them. They'll just go stale in the cupboard.”
Matt didn't bother answering this. Grandma Connell's penchant for butterscotch, was almost legendary. “So,” he said, opening the freezer compartment and fishing out a handful of ice. “What's got into you this time, Bea? All this talk about putting your affairs in order… Did old lady Waverly's roses outshine yours again? Or did Mr. Potts neglect to be first on your dance card?”
Busy-as-a-bee Connell had already busied a butterscotch out of its wrapper and into her mouth.
“Mathias, don't be rude. Janet Waverly is over three years younger than me. If she's an ‘old lady,’ then I'm a dinosaur.”
Matt put the ice on the back of his neck and closed the refrigerator. “Tyrannosaurus…Tyrannosaurus Connell. Except you're too stubborn to be extinct.”
Grandma Connell did smile this time, although Matt thought there was something vacant in her usually bright eyes.
“You are okay, aren't you, Bea?”
“Mathias. My sweet Mathias.” Grandma Connell moved to the counter and dumped her butterscotch candy into a tulip-shaped dish. The sly old gal had had a bowl out and waiting. ”You know, Matt, your Grandpa Mathias was always so very proud. ‘Such a fine namesake,’ he was fond of saying. ‘Such a fine boy.’”
“You must be joking,” Matt said. “Grandpa Connell hardly ever said two words to me besides telling me what a slacker I was down at the foundry. ‘Pick up your feet, Matt. I never saw anyone move so slow in my life. Are you sure you're alive in there, Matt? Pick up your feet.’”
Grandma Connell turned to give him a stern look. “That was just his way, Matt. Being hard on the ones he loved most was just his way. First your father…and then you. He loved you both dearly.”
At the mention of his father, Matt felt a stillness inside. It was dangerous, for into the stillness the memories could come. If he started thinking about his father, then he'd think about the rest of them, too. He couldn't allow that.
He did what he always did at such times—with a force of will, he took himself from the past and centered himself firmly in the present. He didn't look back, he didn't look forward. He was here in his grandmother's house, that was all.
Despite the ice at the back of his neck, despite having just extracted himself from the fridge, Matt was sweating profusely now. Grandma Connell's skin, on the other hand, was as dry as sunbaked leather—except for around her eyes. Matt thought he detected some beads of moisture around Bea Connell's eyes.
“What's happened, Bea?” Matt stepped closer and placed his non-iced hand on his grandmother's shoulder. “Everything is all right, isn't it?”
But the only answer Matt received was a hug— a frail and tender hug from his grandma Connell.
LISA WATCHED as Helene dumped the pasta into the pot of boiling water. Helene didn't speak, just hummed a little under her breath. Lisa realized that was a sound she'd heard often while growing up— her mother's quiet humming. It had seemed comforting, something you could count on, like the whisper of the wind or the lapping of waves against the shore. Now Lisa wondered if her mother's humming wasn't just a way to avoid uncomfortable conversations.
Lisa began slicing mushrooms. “You know, Mom,” she said in a casual tone, “it isn't very often that all of us have a chance to get together.”
“I realize that, believe me,” Helene said, looking genuinely wistful. “I've wished so many times to have all three of you here. You and Amy and Meg.”
“Meg will be flying in next week,” Lisa reminded her. “You'll have your wish.”
“Not really. It would be so much better if all three of you could live nearby. We could be a family again.”
“I guess that's what we all want,” Lisa said. “To be a family again.” She hoped that she sounded sincere. Truth was, she'd spent the last decade trying to get as far away from her family as possible. That, however, was not germane to the discussion.
“I think about it a lot,” Helene murmured, absentmindedly stirring the spaghetti. “How the three of you came along when I'd just about given up hope. You were my lovely, unexpected gifts. First one happy surprise, then later another…and another. I couldn't get over how lucky I was. Not just one beautiful little girl, but three, as if to make up for all the years without.”
Lisa had heard these words often; they were part of the Hardaway lore, as familiar as the bedtime stories Helene had once read to her three young children. But usually Helene said, “You were our gifts,” making clear that both she and Dad had been delighted with such an unexpected bounty of daughters. Today, however, any reference to Merrick Hardaway seemed pointedly left out.
Lisa scattered the sliced mushrooms on top of the lettuce. “Mom,” she said. “You know what I meant. We can't be a family again without him. Without Dad.” There. She'd actually broached the subject No more pretending that her father had simply disappeared.
“I think we could use some olives in that salad, don't you?” Helene said, completely ignoring Lisa's remark. She poked her head in the refrigerator. “I saw a jar of olives in here the other day. Yes…here we are. Why don't you slice a few of them, dear? It's a nice touch, olives in a salad.”
Lisa tried again. “Mom,” she said. “If you'd just talk about it, maybe it would help.”
Helene paused. “There's nothing to talk about,” she said. “Except for the fact that we're all starving, I'm sure.” She checked the spaghetti sauce. “Mmm…almost done. Why don't you taste it?” She smiled too brightly.
Helene had lost none of her soft beauty over the years. Her skin, despite the fine wrinkles, had a pretty rose color. Lisa remembered so well being a child, climbing into her mother's lap and touching her face. Helene had always been one for hugging and kissing her children. If the words had never come easily between her and Lisa, there had always been the hugs and kisses.
Lisa remembered other things, such as the way her mother had always seemed to be listening for something no one else could hear. She would hold her head ever so slightly cocked, as if expecting some private summons. Then Merrick would call out to her from another room in the house, and that seemed to be what she'd been waiting for.
Lisa tried slicing a few of the olives, but they kept skittering away from her on the cutting board. She set down her knife with a clatter. “Mom, it's just not right. I know he wants to be with you. I mean, this whole argument has gotten out of hand! If the property is causing you so much trouble— just sell it. Get rid of it. Then maybe you and Dad could…I don't know, travel together. See a few of the sights you've always talked about.” Even as she spoke, Lisa realized how hollow the words sounded. And now Helene gazed at her almost with haughtiness.
“Lisa,” she said, “do you truly believe this is only about whether or not we're going to sell the property? Is that what you think?”
The question took Lisa by surprise, for she'd expected another evasion. And she really didn't know what to think. Last spring, Amy was the one who'd called her in Connecticut and informed her that their parents were in the midst of a marital crisis. Over the next few months, the crux of the matter had emerged: a land developer from Atlanta by the name of Palmer Boyce wanted to buy the Hardaways' extensive beachfront property, including the home where Helene and Merrick had raised their three daughters. The two senior Hardaways couldn't seem to reach a joint decision on the matter.
Admittedly, Lisa had speculated whether or not this disagreement was the only trouble between her parents. But Helene and Merrick had always seemed so devoted to each other—and they'd been married almost fifty years, after all. What else could be the trouble?
“I'm a good listener,” Lisa said now, purposely keeping her tone nonchalant. “That's what I've been told, anyway. Maybe you could give me a try.”
For a moment she sensed a wavering in her mother, and was certain she even saw a flash of pain in Helene's eyes. But then Helene resolutely shook her head. “I told you. There's nothing to talk about. Now, what else do you think we can do with this salad? I'm positive we can liven it up a bit”
Lisa saw the moment slipping from her, but she didn't know how to reach her mother. There was something new about Helene these days, a certain implacability that showed itself now and then. Always Lisa remembered her mother's softness—but there was no evidence of it today.
Lisa gazed at the salad, wondering what could be more enlivening than mushrooms and olives. She also wondered why she couldn't seem to talk to anyone in her family. Talking—and listening— to people in trouble had become her specialty. Her master's in psychology gave her the credentials she needed, but it was also something intuitive with her, knowing when to prod a reluctant teenager into speech, or when to let silence do its work. She was even adept at mediating between kids and their frantic parents. Why, then, couldn't she talk to a single person in her own family?
“Sure smells good in here,” said Patrick as he strolled into the kitchen. “I'm actually starting to feel hungry again.”
“I knew you'd be better in no time,” Helene said, clearly relieved at the intrusion. “With all this lovely sunshine, no one can feel bad for long. Well, let me go tell Amy and Jon we're almost ready. We'll have a delightful lunch together.” Murmuring these superficial remarks, Helene hurried from the kitchen.
Lisa stared after her in frustration. She felt a completely immature urge to yank at her mother's skirts and demand that she come back here. But then Patrick distracted her, wrapping his arms around her from behind and giving her a squeeze.
“I really do feel better,” he said. “Whatever you got me this morning did the trick.”
Lisa felt engulfed. She slipped away from him and pulled open the refrigerator door. “Mom says the salad needs spicing up, but I don't see anything in here that'll help.”
“Nuts,” Patrick said.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “What's wrong now—”
“Put nuts on the salad,” he said with a grin. “Cashews, walnuts, whatever. That always does the trick.”
Lisa found herself gritting her teeth again. Patrick had a habit of saying that something or other “did the trick.” It had never bothered her until now, and she supposed she was just on edge. It had not been a restful day so far.
She rummaged through a cabinet and found some pecans. “I don't really think so,” she began.
“Sure.” Patrick took the nuts from her, and sprinkled a generous amount on the salad. “Didn't I tell you I worked as a chefs helper once? I was only fifteen, but I was out there slaving away in a restaurant six nights a week.”
Lisa had heard about every one of Patrick's jobs as a boy. He could justifiably gloat over the fact that he'd worked his way all through high school and college, and then gone on to establish his own business. He now had three safe and lock shops in Connecticut, with plans to open a fourth. If he wanted to explain for the hundredth time how he'd been a chefs assistant, or a bag boy, or a hardware clerk, or how he'd once juggled two paper routes— certainly he had a right.
He went to stir the spaghetti sauce, tasting a little from the spoon, and Lisa told herself that she'd better learn how to relax her clenched jaw.
“Your sister's a good cook,” he said. “Too bad you didn't pick up a few tricks from her.”
“Amy has all kinds of talents,” she said. “Maybe you'll find out you picked the wrong sister—except that Amy is most definitely taken.”
Patrick instantly looked penitent. He came over to Lisa and put his arm around her. “Sweetheart, I was only kidding,” he said. “I like doing all the cooking. You have more important things to do.”
Patrick was simultaneously demonstrating several of his best qualities: he was a man who didn't mind taking over in the kitchen; he respected Lisa's immersion in her career; and he never complained about the many hours she put into it. He was also very, very perceptive.
“You know,” he said, “you've been acting funny ever since this morning. Like something's bothering you.”
Patrick's arm felt heavy around her shoulders, but she forced herself to stay motionless. “I warned you this trip wouldn't be pleasant,” she said. “My family and I—let's just say we don't know what to do with each other.”
Patrick gave her a shrewd glance. “Nah…it's more than that. You've been acting strange ever since you got back to the bed-and-breakfast this morning. You resent the fact that I got sick, and made you run errands.”
“Don't be silly,” Lisa said. “You weren't even sick. You just had a touch of indigestion, and—”
“My point exactly. You figured I was making too big a deal about my stomach.”
Was it Lisa's imagination, or had she discerned just a bit of self-righteous innocence in Patrick's voice? One way or another, she was never going to hear the end of his confounded stomach problems.
“Look,” she said. “I know you didn't feel well. And I was more than happy to go out and get you something. I'm glad you're doing better.” She slipped away from him once more and studied the salad. If only she could get rid of all those pecans.
Patrick leaned against the counter, practically taking it over. “Something else is bothering you,” he said. “Fess up.”
There he went again—dissecting her emotions. “It's nothing,” she muttered.
“What happened this morning?” he persisted.
“Don't be ridiculous—”
Patrick had that look on his face, the one that said he was on the trail of discovery. This was when he became his most persistent—when he was probing Lisa's emotions. If he sensed that anything in the least was troubling her, he seemed to consider it his duty to get it out in the open and resolve it. If he made her life miserable in the process, well, he seemed to consider that an unfortunate side effect.
“This is how I see it,” Patrick said. “This morning we were relaxing at the B&B, having a good time. Except for my stomach, of course. Then you went out to get me something at the drugstore. Ever since you got back, you've been…different. Tense. Wound-up.”
“Patrick, would you give it a rest? I just don't like being in this town.”
“Here. I'll show you.” He put his arm around her shoulders again. “Aha,” he said with satisfaction. “Look at that—the minute I touch you, there it is. You stiffen right up. And, if I'm not mistaken, in the next few seconds you'll find an excuse to pull away from me.”
It took quite some effort for Lisa not to pull away. She reminded herself that this was one of the main qualities that had drawn her to Patrick in the first place: his sensitivity to her emotional needs. How many men could claim the same talent?
“You're making too big a deal out of this,” she said.
Patrick appeared thoughtful. “If it was only the town that bothered you, you would've been acting strange since the plane landed yesterday. But you weren't. It only started this morning—”
“For crying out loud!” Too late, Lisa realized she'd raised her voice. The occupants of the living room—Amy, Jon, Helene—all turned their heads to glance curiously toward the kitchen. Lisa took a deep breath, and when she spoke next her voice was almost a whisper. “You know what your problem is, Patrick? You don't understand how to take a vacation. When you're not working, you just don't have enough to occupy your mind.”
“You know there's something you want to tell me,” he whispered back in a conspiratorial manner. “You send out these little signals, and it's up to me to interpret them. For some reason, you can't seem to tell me straight out how you feel. You want me to take the responsibility for worming it out of you. It's an assertiveness problem.”
That did it. Lisa pulled away, then turned to confront him. “I ran into someone at the drugstore, all right? A…friend. From a long time ago. It got me to thinking about a few things. It's that simple, that ordinary.” Only the last part was a lie. Nothing about her memories of Matt Connell was simple or ordinary.
“Male or female?” asked Patrick.
“What are you talking about—”
“This friend of yours,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Man or woman?”
“Man,” she said tightly.
Patrick grinned. “Ah…so now we're at the bottom of it. You, Lisa, ran into an old boyfriend. And it's bugging you no end.”