True Blue (Hubbard's Point) Page 5

  “His name is Blue,” Rumer said, supporting the baby on the horse's back, his tiny hands holding tight to the mane.

  “Boo,” Michael said, pointing at the sky. “Da-da… boo.”

  “Yes, Daddy's up in the blue sky,” Rumer had said.

  Riding Blue down a bridle path cut through shoulder-high stands of mountain laurel and rhododendrons, Rumer felt her heart beating hard—as if she were running herself, not riding her horse. In spite of the breach between Rumer, Zeb, and Elizabeth, Rumer had forged a relationship with Michael. It was imperfect, filled with many obstacles, but Rumer had adored him.

  Elizabeth had made it big on Broadway, and from there she'd taken the leap to Hollywood, in tandem with Zeb's ascension at UCLA. Michael had gone with them, of course. Never in Rumer's wildest dreams had she imagined that over a decade would pass without her seeing him. Their last time together, he had been seven years old.

  Coming around the bend, they flushed a quail and her brood. Rumer pulled back, slowing Blue down. Sitting tall, her fingers loosely holding Blue's black mane, she rode him through the June twilight. When they climbed the rocky hill behind the barn, she smiled to see Edward waiting for them at the fence.

  He wore khakis tucked into worn old riding boots, a soft green chamois shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses. His eyes were velvet brown, his hair mostly gray. Standing back, he watched Rumer dismount.

  “How was your ride?” he asked.

  “Great, thanks,” she said. “How are you?”

  “Better for seeing you, my dear,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she said, laughing at the flattery. He had been raised by the very wealthy and blue-blooded daughter of a minor robber baron, and she had instilled in her son courtly manners that never failed him.

  “I do have an ulterior motive,” he said. “I've rounded up all the barn cats, and they're ready for their annual shots. Also, the inspector's coming tomorrow, and I want to make sure the dairy herd's immunization records are in order.”

  “Okay, great,” she said. “Let's go to it.”

  They walked into the big red barn, shady and cool. The smell of straw, animals, and raw wood rose around them. Light slanted in through the wallboards, and pollen danced in the air.

  Edward had corralled the cats and kittens in one of the feed bins, and when he lifted the lid, Rumer was greeted by a symphony of meows. These cats went back generations, to the beginnings of Peacedale Farm. All-black cats, tuxedo-black cats, tawny yellow cats, striped tiger cats: They mewed and writhed.

  With Edward acting as her assistant, Rumer went through the annual summer ritual of examining them. The old cats already had cards documenting their names and health. Each new kitten got a card, a shot, and a name.

  “Desdemona, Abigail, T.C….”

  “Listen to this guy,” Edward said, holding up a tiny all-black kitten who was purring so loud, he sounded like rattling machinery. Rumer's heart caught, remembering that she and Zeb had once found a stray kitten on their paper route. His purrs had sounded like growls, like an outboard engine, and Zeb had called him “Evinrude.”

  “Evinrude,” Rumer said now, giving him the shot and then rubbing his back to soothe the stick mark. In spite of the hurt, he just kept purring. “You're all revved up, aren't you?”

  “Uh-oh,” Edward said. “She's getting attached.”

  “Occupational hazard,” Rumer said, her stomach fluttering at the strange, unbidden memory of Zeb. She kissed the baby and put him down in the straw. He scampered up a splintery wooden support into the hayloft to join his brothers and sisters. “Evinrude,” she repeated quietly, feeling suddenly anxious.

  “That's an original name,” Edward said.

  “Not really,” she said. “Someone thought of it a long time ago.”

  He gave her a quizzical look, but she just continued staring into the hayloft.

  “They have the life, don't they?” Edward asked, watching the kittens tumble in the hay. “Naps and milk.”

  “Hmm,” Rumer said, wiping her forehead and heading into the cow barn. Now she became very businesslike, forcing herself to concentrate through the swirl of emotions in her chest. Checking each head of cattle, she made sure all the paperwork was in order. The state inspectors were rigorous, and she considered it her responsibility to make sure all the dairy cows were in fine shape.

  “Well, that's about it,” Edward said when she'd closed up her vet bag and walked out into the farmyard.

  “I'll be back tomorrow,” she said. “In case we missed any kittens.”

  “If all the kittens suddenly found homes,” he said, a deep yet playful look in his warm brown eyes, “would you still come back?”

  “Of course I would,” she said.

  “I know,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders, caressing her back. “To see Blue… you'll never go too far away from Blue, would you? That's my one sure way to keep you coming back.”

  “I love Blue,” she said, her voice low as she took his hand, “but you're my friend, Edward. I come here to see you.”

  “If you say so, Dr. Larkin,” he said. “If you say so.”

  “I helped you read the essays for your mother's scholarship, didn't I?”

  Their relationship had been moving forward lately. Rumer liked him a lot, but she felt a little guilty because she knew Edward liked her more. Over the years she had dated many men in Black Hall; she had always had the sense of him patiently waiting.

  “How about if I invite you to a wedding on Saturday? Will that prove it to you?” she asked.

  “It might,” Edward said, grinning.

  “Okay, then,” she said, and told him the details.

  The declining sun spread yellow light across the fields and stone walls, covering the land with golden threads, filling Rumer with deep longing for something she couldn't name. Blue stood in the tall grass, flicking his black tail. From there she could almost think he was a young horse, ready to run until the earth ran out and the sky began.

  Like a boy she had once known…

  Climbing into her truck, she waved at Edward and drove away. As soon as she turned onto the shore road, her heart began to beat harder. She didn't know what she would find when she got home. Or, more accurately, whom. It was like living with some kind of countdown, the seconds ticking away until she had to confront the man she had grown to hate more than anyone in the world.

  SOMETIME LATE WEDNESDAY morning, the sound of an engine woke him up. Startled, Michael Mayhew looked around. A locomotive was bearing down on them. No, they were racing a train. They were on some back road, driving parallel to the railroad tracks, past a salt marsh and a bunch of small houses. Glancing over, he saw his father was wearing sunglasses, bright sun flashing from behind a line of trees.

  “Where are we?” Michael asked.

  “We're there,” his father said.

  “There?” Michael asked, rubbing his eyes, taking in the nowhere of their surroundings, hoping his father was kidding. “This is it?”

  Without responding, his father clicked on the blinker and turned right under a trestle while the train roared overhead. Michael saw the carved wooden sign: HUBBARD'S POINT. It had a simple, weathered look, and had probably been hanging there forever. He saw his father draw a deep breath, his eyes open wide, as if he had seen a ghost and wasn't sure what to do.

  “We can turn around,” Michael said. “It's okay with me if we go back to California.”

  “I'm not driving five more minutes with you, let alone five days,” his father said. “That's more than you've spoken the whole trip.”

  Michael looked out the window. He knew argument was futile. He and his father were in an eternal standoff—-his father only wanted to think they were going to start liking each other someday. It made him feel better. Fine, Michael thought as they drove up a hill along a winding road past a cemetery hidden in the trees.

  “This is where we're staying?” he asked, noticing the size of the cottages: tiny. They were someone'
s idea of cute: brightly colored paint, little shutters on the little windows, kids’ beach toys piled outside screen porches, signs over the front door with names like “Teacher's Pet,” “Highover,” “Glenwood.”

  “It's where we're staying.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don't know why we had to come. I don't even know those people who're getting married.”

  “Dana Underhill and Sam Trevor.”

  “Whoever they are,” Michael mumbled. He looked around—little Fords and Toyotas in all the yards. This was the famous Hubbard's Point, where his parents grew up? He had come here years before, when he was small, and he had dim memories of crabbing, fishing, riding a horse, playing hearts with his aunt, getting brushed underwater by a school of bluefish—the kind of strangely happy childhood stuff that becomes embarrassing to give much thought to as the years go by.

  As they drove down the lane in their Range Rover, people glanced up. Some were standing outside, washing their cars or watering their gardens. Others were rocking on the porches, glancing up from their newspapers. Passing a DEAD END sign, they drove down a road with the sea on the left, a rock ledge rising on the right. Some kid ambled up the road, grinning, holding up a little fish as if he wanted applause.

  “I have the strangest feeling we're not in L.A. anymore,” Michael said.

  “You made your point,” his father said, parking in front of a one-story gray cottage set right on the water. The sound of opera filled the air—trilling, high, dramatic. Michael winced. He was about to ask, when, turning toward his father, he caught the look in his eyes.

  His father, holding the wheel, looked… happy.

  That was the only word Michael could think of. The tension was gone from his tan face, the anger had left his eyes, and a smile had come to his mouth. For a second, Michael spun back in time, to a father he used to know and had forgotten existed. The strangest thing was, Michael suddenly felt different himself.

  “Dad?” he asked.

  “That's Winnie,” his father said. But the spoken words had broken the mood, and his father's face changed back. He gestured at the small gray house and the even smaller one beside it. “She lives there, and we're staying”—he pointed to the right—”there.”

  Michael stared. He couldn't believe it. There was no way two grown men were going to fit into that—that dollhouse. It was the size of their gardener's shed back home, only not as nicely painted. The weather-beaten shingles were bleached silver from the salt wind— couldn't this Winnie afford the upkeep?

  As his father climbed out to get the bags, the singing stopped. A screen door slammed, and before Michael could turn around, he formed a picture of the woman he expected to see: someone big and fat, like his image of an opera singer, and dressed in a faded housecoat, like a New England person who would own these old houses.

  The woman was tall, as tall as Michael and his father. She had snow-white hair swept up on top of her head, and she wore a long, loose-fitting, emerald silk dress over her strong body. Her eyes were made up as if for the theater—dark liner, green shadow. Dangling from around her neck was a large gold pendant in the shape of a cat—it looked incredibly familiar. She reminded Michael of his mother in a stage production of Antony and Cleopatra—only much, much bigger.

  “My dear boys!” she called, sweeping across the lawn. Her arms were open, as were Michael's dad's, and they met in such a strong embrace, Michael heard the breath forced out of them.

  “Zebulon Mayhew, you darling rascal…” the woman said, pushing back to smooth the hair out of his eyes. “You high-flying, globe-trotting, escape artist— where, where have you been? My God, you look exactly the same as you always have… you look…” Now, stepping back, she grabbed Michael and hugged him so hard, she half choked him to death.

  “And youl Good Lord, Michael! All grown-up! The two of you—grown men! I simply cannot comprehend the truth of this situation. Michael, the last time I saw you, you were crouched down on my rocks with a piece of bacon tied to a string, trying to lure a lobster out from the crevice where he'd gone to molt. You were all of seven…”

  Michael laughed politely.

  “You don't remember me, do you? I'm desolate,”

  she said, stepping back. Even her expression was theatrical, as if she were playing the grande dame on some stage. In spite of himself, she had Michael's attention. “Positively crushed. And even after I wore the Pharaoh's Cat—”

  “That my mother wore—”

  “Yes,” Winnie said, her smile widening. “When she defined Cleopatra at the Winter Garden… her tour de force.”

  “I remember that necklace,” Michael said. He wanted to step closer, to get a better look. There were the ruby eyes that had mesmerized him as a child, the hieroglyphics intended to protect the wearer from the

  sphinx's curse…”It turns into a pin, right? When you take it off the chain?”

  “Right you are. I loaned it to Elizabeth for her performance; she told me you liked it so much, you didn't want her to give it back.”

  “It protected her against the curse,” Michael said. The childish memory made him redden, and he wished they hadn't started talking about any of it. But, in spite of himself, he stared at the cat. His mother had pinned it to her costume.

  “Ah, yes,” Winnie laughed. “The dreaded sphinx— afflicts ninety-nine percent of all actresses who try to step into Cleo's shoes. Laryngitis, sprained ankles, opening-night nerves… but with the pin and your support, she was always fine.”

  “Elizabeth never suffered from opening-night nerves,” Zeb said wryly. “Pretty much the opposite. She's always revved and ready—critics beware.”

  Winnie laughed. “I'd like to think she got some of that from me. She's my honorary niece, you know, along with her sister. Rumer, however, communes with animals in a way that no human can take credit for…”

  Michael felt her looking at him, and he backed toward the car, to get away and start unloading.

  “You, young man, must be brilliant. With your parents…”

  “You'd think so,” his father said. “But Michael's decided he's had enough of school. As of April, he's officially dropped out.”

  Michael glanced over, expecting Winnie to look shocked. Instead, she was grinning, as if she had just met Pavarotti. “That explains the earthquake,” she said.

  “You have earthquakes in Connecticut?” Michael asked.

  “Not ordinarily, but I did feel the earth move last spring. I attributed the seismic activity to an aberrant quake, but in fact it must have been shock waves from your parents’ reaction.”

  “You might be right,” his father said. To Michael's relief, seeming to want to change the subject, he turned to look across the street—up the hill at a dark green house nearly obscured by foliage.

  “The old place has been sold again,” he said, a question in his voice.

  “Yes,” Wnnie said. “The sign came down a week ago. I don't know much about the new owners except that they want to make some changes. The realtor told me.”

  “Looks exactly the same as it always has… even the color.”

  “Why fiddle with excellence?” Winnie asked. “When something's been working for many years, only a fool would change it. A lesson all of us have learned the hard way…”

  Her tone was mysterious, and something about it made Michael glance at his father. His dad frowned, looking away, seeming as uncomfortable as Michael had felt a minute earlier.

  “In any case,” Winnie said, looking over both their heads, as if unaware that she'd made both the Mayhew men squirm, “what the new owners must realize is that nothing at Hubbard's Point ever changes. It's why we love it so…”

  “Dad—want me to carry these things in?” Michael asked, wanting to get away

  “Sure, Michael,” he said. “Winnie, I think we'll unpack and take a swim. If that's okay with you.”

  “Okay? It's de rigueur, dear.”

  “And Rume
r…” his father began, referring to his aunt.

  “What about her, dear?” Winnie asked.

  His father didn't reply. But when Michael glanced over at him, his father's face was turning red. He looked upset, or embarrassed, or somehow at a loss for words. Winnie was patient, and after a minute his father said simply, “How is she?”

  “You'll see for yourself,” Winnie said. “She knows you're coming. I'm sure she'll stop by to say hello. Lessons learned the hard way…”

  His father reddened even more deeply. Michael waited for him to say something else, but two girls standing down the road had drawn his attention. He had caught sight of them, turned his head to see them better.

  One was small and cute in a pink and white checked way—totally alien to Michael's L.A. frame of reference, and the other looked like a bizarre warrior: She had wild brown hair, huge sunglasses, big rubber boots, and bright orange oilskin pants. She glared at him, and then tapped the younger girl's shoulder. They both turned without another glance and walked away.

  And Michael and his father began to unload the car as Winnie called over her shoulder, “Should you want to go crabbing after your swim, I'll be happy to supply the bacon for bait. Just stop by…”

  Michael looked at his dad, wondering what lesson they had all learned the hard way, but he decided not to ask.

  “Who are the Range Rover people?” Quinn asked Rumer. It was early afternoon; she had stopped by school to raid her locker, and then she'd ridden her bike down Shore Road to Rumer's veterinary office. The windows overlooked the woods and a small parking lot. Her walls were covered with snapshots of people with their pets, posters for nature organizations, and several children's drawings of animals.

  “The who?” Rumer asked. It was just before afternoon office hours, and she was standing in the exam room, counting the amount of rabies vaccine she had on hand. Down the hall, her assistant was in the kennel— probably playing with the strays or checking on the postsurgery animals. The sound of dogs barking filled the room.