Refreshed by the 6:45 AA meeting in Vineyard Haven, Carla emerged into the slanting sunlight of a crisp, cool morning, the first harbinger of fall. At this hour, the streets were still empty, and no one would notice her. A good time to take stock of herself with others who understood.
This morning, her sponsor—a formerly popular singer—had celebrated five years of sobriety. Carla felt pleased for her, and buoyed by the example she set. Standing by her car, she paused a moment, reflective, then drove to the Catholic Church in Oak Bluffs.
Carla had left the church years before, and she still did not know if anyone heard her prayers. But a central tenet at Betty Ford was to seek help outside herself, and the rituals of Catholicism were familiar to her. Our Lady Star of the Sea, the most modest church on the island, was set amidst gingerbread houses on a tree-lined street, away from the bustle of a resort town where tourists thronged. The white wooden structure was plain in design, with a clapboard steeple topped by a simple cross. Its lack of pretense pleased Carla, and its parishioners—many of whom were immigrants whose first language was Brazilian Portuguese—had more pressing concerns than the travails of a fading celebrity. So Carla had begun attending the 8:00 a.m. mass on Sundays, slipping into the back just before services began.
Today, a Monday, Carla considered her choices. The grassy park across from the church offered benches beneath the shelter of venerable oaks, and often Carla would sit there to pray and reflect. But this morning she decided to enter the church itself.
The interior was hushed. Its stained glass windows cast a serene dappling of light and shadow on the pews, and the carved image of Jesus behind the altar portrayed a man in prayer instead of a tormented martyr. No one else was there. Sitting near the front, Carla began renewing her connection with the rituals of her youth.
As a child, such a place had been her refuge from the fear she had felt in her parents’ home. Now, when the enemy might be herself, she sought a sense of peace and order, and Christ’s divinity meant less to her than his compassion. Eyes closed, she recited the Hail Mary, the Our Father, and the Act of Contrition, seeking the strength to achieve the life she now envisioned. Then she prayed for the safety of her unborn child and, at last, for Adam Blaine.
When Carla returned, Adam was sitting on the porch of the guesthouse. Seemingly surprised, she told him lightly, “Funny you should be here. I was thinking about you a while ago.”
Adam stood, hands jammed in his pockets. “In what context?”
“The other night. I still owe you money for soup, candles, and a flashlight.”
“Then let that be on your conscience, Carla. I’m just here to say goodbye.”
Carla nodded, looking down. After a moment, she said, “Actually, I was wishing we had more time, just to talk. It feels like we’ve been interrupted.”
The same feeling of regret made Adam wordless for a moment. Wondering if they would ever see each other again, he felt the loss of something precious. “I know,” he acknowledged. “But there’s no help for that right now.”
She looked up at him again. “Can you at least write letters? Back in the Victorian age, I’m told, men and women used to do that.”
Adam smiled. “The postal service on the Afghan–Pakistani frontier leaves something to be desired. But I can send e-mails. They just can’t be about my day at the office.”
A shadow of worry crossed Carla’s face. “I was hoping you could tell me more about yourself. Anything, really—memories of being young, your greatest sports heroics. Maybe even what you think and feel.”
If only it were that easy, Adam thought. “As long as you reciprocate,” he answered. “I already know about my own life, for better or worse. But I’d like to hear more about how you got from there to here.”
“Fair enough,” Carla answered, and smiled a little. “Anyhow, my new incarnation seems to require that. Something about a ‘fearless moral inventory.’”
“One more thing, then. Please keep me posted on how you and the baby are doing. Otherwise, I’ll wonder.”
Her eyes grew serious again. “I’ll be fine. But if you want me to, I will.”
Though Adam did not wish to go, he could think of nothing more to say. Instead, he reached out to cradle the side of her face, his own face moving closer. With a questioning look, he asked, “I get to do this, yes?”
Her expression was grave and, he thought, a little sad. “Yes,” she answered softly. “Later on, maybe we can figure out what it means.”
Adam felt a thickening in his throat. Then he kissed her, gently, lingeringly, feeling her body move into his, the warm reciprocity of her lips. It was he, finally, who leaned back to look at her. “Take care of yourself, Carla. For both of you.”
He touched her face again and then, turning, walked away. He did not look back. Saying goodbye to Carla Pacelli hurt too much for that.
Before Teddy drove him to the airport, Adam went to see his mother.
Fleetingly, he kissed her on the cheek. Feeling the thinness of her shoulders, he had the first premonition of Clarice Blaine, always trim and beautiful, as an old woman. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Ten years,” she said in an uncharacteristically thick voice, “and I hardly saw you. Now you’re going again, carrying such resentment. And I don’t know what to do.”
“Just give it time, mom. I’ll be back soon enough.”
Her throat worked. “Will you, though? I’m sorry, but I can’t keep myself from worrying.”
Adam tried to smile this away. “I’ll be okay. I always am.”
Clarice shook her head in demurral. For an instant, he imagined her saying, as she had many times before, how much he was like Benjamin Blaine. Instead, she asked, “Have you been to see Jack?”
“No. Please say goodbye for me, all right?”
Her lips parted in an expression of sudden anguish. “Will you ever forgive him? Or us?”
Once more, Adam felt the weight of all that he concealed from her. “This isn’t about forgiveness, Mom. I just have to unlearn some things, and accept others. I’m sure that next year will be different.”
Assuming, Adam thought, that next year ever came.
When Adam climbed into the passenger seat of Ben’s old pickup truck, his brother asked, “How was it?”
“More or less as usual. Like two people looking at each other through glass.”
Pulling away from the house, Teddy glanced at him. “Sometimes it feels like all of us are looking at you through glass.”
Yet again, Adam wished that he could tell his brother all he knew. “I may have my emotional limitations, Ted. But I’m always home to you.”
“I know that,” Teddy answered. “But where is your home?”
Silent, Adam gazed at the road ahead, winding past pristine ponds and old houses sheltered by trees. “I have a favor to ask,” he said at length, “and you’re the only one I can ask.”
Teddy gave him a quick, curious glance. “What is it?”
“Look in on Carla now and then, and make sure she has your phone number. She has no one, really, and I think she may be worried about the baby.”
Teddy looked bemused “What’s this about, exactly?”
“Carla’s a decent person, that’s all. If she hadn’t agreed, I never could’ve reclaimed the estate for you and mom. If you’re not feeling grateful enough, just do it for me.”
“For you, then,” Teddy allowed with a smile. “You’re a mysterious person, bro—in many ways. Am I permitted to guess that your feelings about Ms. Pacelli—however astounding this may be—involve more than humanitarian concern?”
“Guess away,” Adam responded easily. “And when you figure it out, please let me know. I grasp so little about myself.”
Turning into the airport, Teddy stopped in front of the shingled one-story building, speaking with palpable reluctance. “There’s one last thing I need to tell you. Richard Mendelson met with George Hanley yesterday. As Richard suspected, George didn’t ask anything about me, at least not directly. What he did ask put Richard on edge—whether he’d received any investigative files concerning our father’s death.”
At some cost, Adam gave his brother a look of perplexed curiosity. “What did Richard say?”
“He refused to answer. Unfortunately, George also interviewed Richard’s secretary. She told him what she felt compelled to, I guess. That Richard had received what looked to be police files—anonymously, in the mail, and much to his apparent surprise. So George demanded the files themselves.”
Adam mustered a shrug of indifference. “Awkward. But not a problem for Richard—if he didn’t solicit them, he didn’t break any laws. Neither did you.”
“True enough,” Teddy retorted pointedly. “But whoever sent them broke all sorts of laws. Aside from Jack—or me—that’s the guy George is after.”
Adam shrugged. “Good luck to him, then. But do me another favor. If anything happens with this or the medical examiner’s inquest, e-mail me in Afghanistan. I always hate being the last to know.”
Swiftly, Adam embraced his brother, and was off.