Later, Bobbie was unable to pinpoint the exact time when he noticed the change in Karen. It was so gradual—little things here and there, things most people wouldn’t have thought about even if they’d been paying attention. And, he was able to rationalize, I was too busy thinking about David, why our relationship had suddenly gone south, to be paying as much attention to her as maybe I should have.
But there was no question that Karen had changed. She’d stopped complaining about both Philip and Jessie. Even more unusual, she stopped talking about her writing. She stopped giving him updates about what was happening in Lettie Hatch’s diary. She stopped talking about her dreams of glory and success, but Bobbie didn’t notice right away. His mind was on autopilot while she was talking, just waiting until it was his turn to talk about David.
So when she dropped the bomb on him about the cooking class he couldn’t do anything more than just stare at her, his mouth open. A cooking class? What on earth is going on here? He stared at her, watching her face, trying to detect some clue as to what was going on in her head, but there was nothing he could latch on to definitively. And it was in that moment that he started wondering what was going on with her writing, what happened to her dreams, and what was going on in that house.
“Don’t look so shocked!” Karen smiled at him, smearing butter on a toasted poppy seed bagel. “Sheesh—the look on your face! It’s not like I’m going to the moon or anything like that, Bobbie.” Her eyes lit up. “Here’s a crazy thought—why don’t you sign up with me? It’ll be fun! We could try out recipes on each other…” She continued on in this vein for a while, about cookbooks she’d ordered, the new pots and pans she’d bought at the Cape Cod Mall in Hyannis, as she ate her bagel and took sips from her coffee.
Oh…my…God, Bobbie thought, narrowing his eyes and really looking at her, as though for the first time in months. The dark circles under her eyes that he’d been so worried about were almost gone, and she’d lost a little weight. Her face was thinner, the little pudge of baby fat under her chin gone completely, and he had to admit it looked better on her. Her shoulder-length light brown hair was longer, too, hanging down her back now. Her bangs were pulled back from her face and tied up in a ribbon at the back of her head. She had transformed right in front of his eyes.
When he first met Karen, she usually wore just a little lipstick and maybe the tiniest bit of mascara. But now her entire face was completely made up, rouge and mascara and eye shadow and liner. Her skin was practically glowing. In fact, now that he thought about, all of her hair was in place and shone more than it had when he’d first met her. Back then, there were always stray strands in disarray; she was always pushing her hair out of her face. He’d kind of liked the way she always looked a little disheveled, in a way that seemed to tell anyone who looked at her that her appearance wasn’t the most important thing she had on her mind.
“I’m—just a little surprised, is all,” he finally managed to say, putting a weak smile on his face. “I mean, cooking? I thought you hated to cook—and what about your writing? Won’t the class take up a lot of your time? I mean if you’re going to experiment and all.”
“Pish. I have plenty of time for that.” She rolled her eyes and patted his hand. Her nails were longer than he remembered and perfectly manicured. Didn’t she used to bite her nails? Karen shrugged. “Trust me—I have plenty of time. Besides, I need to fill up my days. I think that was part of my problem—why I was so obsessive. I mean, I just didn’t have enough to do.” She searched his face, her brows furrowed together as she gave him a slight, concerned frown. “Is everything okay with you, Bobbie? I know your friend’s death was hard on you….”
Yeah, it was hard all right. Sophie’s death was an emotional sucker punch right to the solar plexis. Bobbie’s only prior experience with the death of someone that close to him had been his father. His father had died of cancer, but his death had been a lingering one, lasting several years, with many operations, chemotherapy, and the endless emotional roller coaster of hope and despair. By the time Dad finally died, he’d wasted away to a shell of his former self, no longer the man Bobbie had loved so much.
For weeks after his father’s funeral, Bobbie still found himself expecting to see Dad in his usual haunts—the barbershop, the corner diner, the bench in front of the town hall—but Bobbie had been thankful his suffering was over. Sophie’s death had been a completely different story. He hadn’t been prepared for it. She was only in her midthirties, and despite her being overweight, her smoking and other bad habits—like the scotch she was overly fond of—Bobbie still figured she had a lot of time left. Her grisly end, charred to a crisp on her living room floor, made death suddenly very real and personal for him.
It could happen to me, too—in a car or a fire or anything. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Lives are suddenly over without warning. Bobbie had cried staring out the window of the train coming back from Sophie’s funeral in New York City. And what a terrible way to die.
Try as he might, he couldn’t get the memory out of his mind for days afterward, reliving the sirens in his head, the billowing black smoke just a few blocks away. Somehow, he had known it was going to be Sophie’s house. He ran over there, and then seeing the reality, he’d felt a burning sensation of his own, the terrible knowledge in his gut that Sophie was inside, burning to death, her skin melting from the heat. He watched the firefighters desperately trying to douse the flames, the whole time praying that he was wrong, that Sophie wasn’t in there, that she’d gone for a walk or to the store—anything that would mean she wasn’t in there. He kept watching the faces of the crowd, hoping that he’d see her. He didn’t, of course. She was inside, and her last call had been to him.
He’d liked Sophie almost from the first time he’d met her. She’d hired him to do some work on the house when she’d bought it, tearing out a wall and making the cramped little living room bigger. It hadn’t seemed to help much. She just crowded so much furniture back in there it still seemed cramped, with piles of books and magazines everywhere. She was such a lousy housekeeper that he’d teased her about it.
“You don’t need to buy spray-on cobwebs and dust to get a spooky ambience for your clients,” he’d say, laughingly dodging whatever she threw at him. “You actually live like an old witch!”
“Take it up the wazoo, Noble!”
He liked Sophie’s blunt way of talking, without regard to hurting anyone’s feelings. There was nothing phony about Sophie—she wouldn’t say polite things that people just wanted to hear. She spoke her mind, and if that hurt your feelings, well, she was sorry but she wasn’t about to lie.
“As it is,” she’d say, “I have to tailor my damned readings to just saying only good things, so I’ll be damned if I’ll tailor the rest of my life just to make other people feel better. Besides—” She’d shrug in that way she had. “Nobody ever seems to try to spare my fucking feelings.”
Bobbie liked that Sophie called him on his bullshit, whenever he’d come by to whine about his latest relationship going down the drain. And even though he’d go weeks sometimes without seeing her or talking to her, he knew he’d get a smile on her face whenever he’d show up without warning with a box of glazed donuts, her favorite sugar high. She’d offered to do readings for him, gratis, more than once, but he’d always declined. “I like not knowing what the future holds,” he’d insist. “I like being surprised. That would just take all the suspense out of life, and who needs or wants that?”
“You’d be surprised,” she’d say grimly, reaching for the scotch bottle and another cigarette, “at how many people are afraid of the uncertainty.”
He wondered if she’d seen her own death, if she had known it was coming, known it was inevitable and there was nothing she could do about it. That would be horrible, he thought with a shiver.
Just what was she calling him about in those last few agonizing moments? What was she trying to say?
“Yoo-hoo, Bobbie.” Karen’s singsongy voice cut through his reverie. “Are you listening to me?”
“Oh, sure, sweetums. You were talking about your class….”
“Yes. Talking about getting you to come. It might help take your mind off all those unpleasant things.” She grinned from ear to ear. “Come on, Bobbie—it’ll be fun.”
He looked at her again. She’s changed, he thought. She’s not the same person she was during the summer—and it’s not just the superficial things like the hair and makeup. It’s other things too—like her voice and her facial expressions, the way she holds her head—it’s all different.
“No, thanks, Karen,” he said slowly, “it’s not for me. I appreciate the thought though. But why are you doing it? Just a few months ago you had no interest in cooking.”
She shrugged. “Well, it’s really not fair to Alice to make her feed us all the time, you know? Her job is to be Jessie’s teacher, not our housekeeper, and I’ve been taking advantage of her all this time—because she doesn’t seem to mind, but it’s still not cool.” She gave him a sly wink. “I’ve even started doing some of the housework, if you can imagine that.”
“A regular Stepford wife.” For a brief moment, he had an image of her, in a skirt and blouse and high heels, pearls at her throat and an apron tied around her waist as she vacuumed. Rather than making him laugh, it seemed, well, kind of scary.
“Bobbie!” She laughingly slapped his hand. “That’s so unfair!” She popped the last bit of her bagel in her mouth. “I just finally realized one morning that I was being a spoiled brat, you know? So Jessie wouldn’t talk to me, so my marriage wasn’t everything I dreamed it would be—what marriage ever is? And I just kept expecting everyone else to change, to adapt, without making any effort myself to change or compromise—and that’s a sure trip to the divorce attorney, don’t you think?”
“You’ve been watching Dr. Phil, haven’t you?” He was sorry the instant he said the words without thinking, and she didn’t miss the sarcastic, joking tone. Her face immediately darkened into a frown.
“Don’t make fun of me, Bobbie.” Her lower lip quivered. “Please. My marriage is important to me—and I want to make it work.”
My God, who is this woman, prattling on about her husband and her marriage like June Cleaver or some stupid soap opera heroine who spends most of her time crying?
Suddenly he just wanted to get away from her. He glanced at his watch. “Look at the time!” He stood up, leaning over to give Karen a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve got to hurry to a job. Doing some electrical work.” He pulled on his jacket and stocking cap. “I hope the class works out, Karen, I really do.” He left her there, with a slight hurt look on her face, her lower lip trembling.
He walked out into the cold wind, shivering as he put his collar up. He didn’t really have a job—he just didn’t think he could sit there and listen to it anymore. He hurried back to his house near the corner of Franklin and Bradford, letting himself in and tossing his coat on the couch. It was a raw day, cold and damp, with a chill wind blowing in off the bay. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, he jacked up the heat. For the cold to be bothering Bobbie, it had to be really cold, since he generally liked the winter. He liked wearing sweaters and coats. He liked the snow and the isolation Provincetown developed in the wintertime, the way the snow covered everything and the town was so deserted. It was his town then, no tourists, just him and the few diehards, foraging to make their little nests, huddled around the fire with a good bottle of brandy.
It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the summer, by any means. The summer was fun, with the hordes of gay tourists with whom he could flirt. He enjoyed the way the faces of the town changed every week as a new crop arrived by car or ferry or plane, but he wasn’t sure he could handle the town if life was like that year-round. Winter was necessary. A season of rest, he thought as he checked his answering machine. No messages. He swore under his breath and made himself a cup of hot chocolate.
Things were cooling off with David, as he feared they would once the season ended and David stopped coming up on the weekends. Bobbie had gone up to Boston a few times, but he sensed the distance growing. David had seemed fidgety and nervous, as if he could read the writing on the wall but didn’t have the heart to admit it. Summer fling, don’t mean a thing, Bobbie thought as he sat down on his couch. Why don’t you ever learn? The tourists aren’t a good source of boyfriend material. How many summers are you going to repeat this goddamned pattern? It’s time to forget about him and move on, even if there’s no one around to help me get over him.
That was one of the things so special about Sophie—she’d always been around to listen. He had hoped he’d found a new friend in Karen—he always found women better friends than men—but now he wasn’t sure. He had hoped to talk to her about David, but all she wanted to gab on and on about was her latest facial and her newfound consideration of Botox and—Bobbie still couldn’t get over it—her goddamned cooking class! He’d never had a chance to bring up David.
Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe he will call. Stop being such a clingy fucking high school girl and start thinking like an adult and stop expecting the worst. Maybe David isn’t like the others. Maybe he’ll still turn out to be the one.
They’d met “cute,” as he liked to think of it, one morning at the gym. It was chest and back day for Bobbie, one of his favorite programs—he always felt his chest and his back were his best assets, so he never had to talk himself into getting there on those days, like he did when it was leg day—a workout he loathed. He’d been deep in thought, reaching for the same pair of dumbbells as another guy at the same time—and their hands had touched. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Bobbie said quickly, pulling his hands back. Despite the fact that most of the tourists were gay, you could never be sure—even at the gym.
“I’m not,” the other guy responded with a smile. “David Weston.” He stuck out a strong hand.
David was taller than he was, maybe five eleven, with close-cropped dark hair and big round brown eyes. His nose was strong, and he had deep dimples in both cheeks. He hadn’t shaved that morning, so there was a ghost of a shadow on his chin and cheeks. He was wearing a tight-fitting tank top that hugged every inch of his torso, and a pair of loose-fitting basketball shorts that reached his knees. The calves exposed between the bottom of the shorts and the top of his white ankle socks were equally tanned and smooth.
“Bobbie Noble,” he managed to say, offering his own hand. That was that, but when Bobbie was finally finished, David was waiting for him outside, and invited him to go for a smoothie. And that, as they say, started a beautiful summer together.
Maybe I’m just a lousy boyfriend, Bobbie thought, kicking off his shoes and lying back against the sofa cushions. He picked up the remote and turned on the television, flipping through the channels until he found an old movie he’d seen a thousand times—The Philadelphia Story—and left it there. Maybe that’s why I’m still single, still living alone at thirty-two. He kicked himself for thinking, once again, that David might have been the one.
There had been plenty of Davids in Bobbie’s life, none of them ever lasting more than a few months at best. When Bobbie reached thirty, he’d decided that love just wasn’t in the cards for him anymore—not an option for him. He sighed. His circle of friends, never particularly large, just seemed to be getting smaller. Sophie was dead, Karen acting weird—what to do now? He got up and walked over to his junk drawer and pulled out the tape from his answering machine with Sophie’s final message on it.
The horror of the fire had driven everything else from his mind, and the strange message had been too horrific for him to deal with when he got home that afternoon. He’d listened to it, not understanding what she was trying to tell him, listening to the sound of the fire in the background, those poor cats screeching, her own coughs interfering with her words. After getting back from the funeral, he hadn’t really wanted to listen to it, relive that afternoon again. Besides, it didn’t make any sense to him.
Maybe it’s time to figure out what she was talking about, he thought as he put the tape into his system and hit Play. He shivered as Sophie’s final words played back through the speakers.
“Bobbie…Bobbie, I was wrong…wrong about everything…it’s the bloodline…the bloodline…you’ve got to tell them…”
“What did you mean, Sophie?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “What was so damned important, honey?”
Across the room Jimmy Stewart was asking Katharine Hepburn to marry him.
“Tell who? You meant Chris and Jessie, didn’t you, baby? But what bloodline?” He tapped his fingers on the stereo, thinking. Nothing came to him, so he hit Rewind and listened to it again, despite the tears coming to his face as he listened to Sophie’s last moments once again.
The cats’ screaming is the worst. I could handle it if it weren’t for that. I didn’t like that lazy fur ball, but neither one of them deserved to go like that.
The last time he’d seen Sophie was that morning he’d gone by with Chris. He remembered, as he played the tape a third time, the electric charge when she had grabbed Chris’s hand, the energy that had flowed through the room. The memory gave him a sour feeling in his stomach. He hit Stop and ejected the tape, putting it back into the drawer.
If only Karen had gotten over there in time to see her. What might she have told Karen?
Letting out a long sigh, he scuffed into his bedroom and flicked on his computer. Chris had been e-mailing him pretty regularly since that weekend, mostly pleading with him to get Jessie to respond to him. She had shut down again, cutting off communication. He didn’t know what Chris expected him to do. He liked the kid, but getting any further involved in the drama of a teenage romance wasn’t a good idea.
Bobbie knew he should have told Karen what Jessie had been up to while she and Philip were in Boston. The girl needed help. How sweet the two of them had been later that weekend, sitting here together—but then, on Sunday, just as Chris was getting ready to leave, she had turned icy again, and Bobbie could almost swear her voice sounded different. An octave higher. Shrill. Part of him worried that Jessie was well on the same path her mother had taken, and she needed to get to a good therapist.
But another part of him thought—well, he wasn’t sure what he thought. But the weirdness that Chris had been talking about—the weirdness he’d experienced firsthand that day at Sophie’s—well, maybe there was something to it all.
Now talking to Karen seemed impossible. Maybe I should talk to Jessie myself first, and then decide what to do.
“It’s what Sophie was asking me to do,” Bobbie said out loud, realizing the truth.
Sophie was talking about Chris and Jessie in that last message, he reasoned, knowing he’d been dancing around the issue because he didn’t want to deal with it. Sophie knew something was seriously wrong in that house, but what on earth did she mean in her message? Does it have something to do with Karen, maybe—maybe that’s part of the reason why Karen is acting so strange?
But how well did he know Karen? Maybe this was the real Karen. All Bobbie knew was that the Karen he’d met last summer was much more likable than this perky sweet version.
It’s the bloodline…the bloodline…you’ve got to tell them…
“What did you mean, Sophie? What the hell did you mean?”
What bloodline could she have meant? Lettie was the last of the Hatches. There was no bloodline as far as that was concerned. Did she mean Jessie’s bloodline, maybe? Or Chris’s? No, it was that house she was so worried about.
Maybe I should talk to Chris about it, let him know what Sophie said. If she was talking about the two of them—and who else?—then I owe it to all of them to let them know. It was so important to Sophie that she had called me with her house burning down around her ears.
He couldn’t make sense of any of it, though, no matter how hard he tried.
He wondered again what Karen had been reading in Lettie Hatch’s dairy. Had she gotten to the murder yet? How had Lettie accomplished it? Were there any clues that might explain some of the weirdness going on? Why had Karen just stopped talking about it—and her dreams of glory the diary might bring?
Checking his in-box, Bobbie found no e-mail from David. Not that he expected there to be anything, but he couldn’t help feeling a little let down anyway. Oh well, so I’ve become an old irrelevant supporting player in the soap opera of life. Like the old actors on All My Children or Guiding Light who fade into the background, kept on the payroll only to stand around and offer advice to the young upstarts.
“Teenage drama, here I come,” Bobbie said with a sigh, and clicked on a new e-mail to send to Chris Muir.