Читать книгу The Wingthorn Rose - Melvyn Chase - Страница 5

1

Pennington

Lucas Murdoch had never heard of Pennington, Connecticut, but as he drove through the town, he began to feel at home.

On the outskirts, he passed a deserted red brick factory, the windows of its eyes nailed shut with weathered boards, its vacant parking lot still protected by a steel-mesh fence, its empty guard-house watching Route Forty-Six, its barren loading docks waiting for phantom shipments.

A little further down the road, in boxy one- or two-story buildings: a real estate agency, an auto repair shop and a mail-order catalog fulfillment center.

A small town, too far from Boston or Hartford or New Haven to become a suburb, too poor to hold onto ambitious young people. A small town like Shelby, Pennsylvania, where Lucas had grown up.

Turning south off the road, he passed a general store that also served as the local post office. He entered a neighborhood dense with shrubbery and massive, centuries-old oak trees crowded together so tightly their branches twisted around each other in awkward, frozen intimacy.

It was mid-morning on a Wednesday, early in May.

He drove at random, eventually circling back to Route Forty-Six and going north across the highway, up a steep hill, until he reached the end of the street at the gate of a hilltop estate. He could see the broad-shouldered, three-story, white house from the road: it looked weary and in need of repair.

Pennington. Hushed, empty streets. Sullen, styleless homes and a tired, old mansion. Shabby stores. A dark-stone, somber church.

A broad street running south off the highway led him to the oak-shaded village green. A concrete-and-brass monument squatted in the grass, remembering an event that history only briefly noticed. And facing each other across the green: the Public Library and Town Hall, built in the late 1800s, dull, undignified, sagging with age.

City people lead private lives, Lucas thought. Their eyes tell you nothing. Cities keep secrets.

Suburbs share that secret life. The nourishment, the spirit, of suburban people flow from the secret heart of the city.

In towns like Pennington or Shelby, Lucas thought, every life intersects every other life. Every life history is woven into all of the others, generation after generation, a tapestry of memory. Everyone knows more about you than they would ever say. You are never a stranger.

For Lucas, Pennington was perfect. He would stop here for a while.

He drove to a brick-and-aluminum diner, Sarge’s Diner, on the south side of Route Forty-Six near the center of town.

When he got out of his car, he hesitated. Without a trace of warmth, his deep-set, frosted gray eyes followed the careless drift of powdery clouds. He listened intently to the faint murmur of insects and distant traffic.

Taking several deep breaths, as if he were at the starting line of a race, he ran his fingers through his thick, gray, close-cropped hair.

The first day. Listen. Watch.

Lucas was fifty-three years old, but his angular, handsome face was surprisingly smooth. Six feet two inches tall, slim and broad-shouldered, he walked toward the diner, his stride relaxed and athletic. By the time he reached the glass-paneled door, his eyes seemed less opaque, more accessible.

Inside, Sarge’s Diner was traditional: behind a counter that ran the length of one wall, a rectangular, glassless window opened onto the kitchen. Booths lined the opposite wall. A blackboard at one end of the counter announced the day’s specials. He could have predicted that.

Near the entrance, a fleshy woman in her early fifties sat behind the cash register, staring out the window in front of her. She didn’t look at Lucas when he entered.

“Sit anywhere you like,” she said, without expression or tone, as if the words were a formula she had memorized.

Two men were in a booth; a third at the counter. A husky, blonde waitress lounged behind the counter, leaning on her elbows, taking deep, hungry drags on a cigarette.

Lucas sat down in the booth behind the two men. Old-fashioned ceiling fans, groaning softly, circulated the pleasant, mingled aromas of coffee, bacon and onions.

The waitress inhaled a heavy dose of smoke. Then, gently, almost reverently, she rested her cigarette in an ashtray and walked over to Lucas’s booth.

“G’morning,” she smiled, and handed him the menu. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

In the next booth, the man facing Lucas was watching him intently. His thick, red hair overpowered the narrow planes of his face.

A crown of fire.

His dark eyes glowed behind thick, steel-rimmed glasses.

Fire and ice.

The red-haired man said to his companion, “There’ll be Hell to pay now,” but he kept watching Lucas.

His companion said, “I’m not so sure, Henry. People like him always get away with things.”

The waitress sighed, “It’s a shame. For all of us,” and brought Lucas a cup of coffee. “Have you decided?”

“The breakfast special. With sausages, please.”

“He’s a coward,” Henry said, “a liar.” He smiled, nodded his red head. “They’ll nail him now.”

The waitress went to the window behind the counter and called out Lucas’s order: “Sarge, the special with sausage.”

Sarge was bald, burly, red-faced.

An ex-prizefighter’s face? Placid, scarred, still dangerous.

Henry looked over at the man who was sitting at the counter and said, “What about it, Joey? How do you feel about our dear President?”

Joey spun around on the stool and smiled, as if Henry had just told a joke.

“Why should he care what I think about him? Shit, I never even vote.”

The waitress repeated, “It’s a shame.”

Joey shrugged. He was handsome and solidly built, neatly dressed in tight-fitting black slacks and a pastel shirt.

At first, Lucas thought he was in his twenties. But then he noticed the cracks in the façade: thin wrinkles across his forehead and around his eyes. The dull, dyed blackness of his slicked-back hair. The quick, furtive glimpses at himself in the mirror on the far wall.

Lucas sipped his coffee.

Henry said, “What is it, Joey? Judge not, lest ye be judged?”

Joey shrugged, glanced at Lucas as if for sympathy, and turned back to the counter.

Henry looked at Lucas again, hesitated for a moment, and then asked, “Do you have an opinion, sir?” (The “sir” sounded like an insult.)

Lucas smiled and shrugged.

He answered, matter-of-factly, “I just try to take care of my own life. That’s enough to keep me busy.”

“Right you are,” Joey replied. “That’s enough to keep anybody busy.”

Henry shook his head. “Busy? That’s all you do: keep busy?”

You want to embarrass me, don’t you, Henry?

Lucas smiled again and looked down at his coffee.

“What a way to live!” Henry said.

Lucas nodded, looked up, shrugged again.

Henry dismissed him with a slight wave of his hand.

No mercy. No compassion.

Henry changed the subject.

“What are you and Billy going to do about the factory?” he said to his companion.

“I don’t know. We’re working on it. Maybe we’ll come up with something at the meeting tomorrow.”

The other man’s voice sounded unpleasant to Lucas: harsh and flat, as if it were being forced through a strainer.

He’s careful about what he says.

The waitress brought Lucas his breakfast and refilled his coffee cup.

Sarge left the kitchen through a double-door behind the counter, poured himself a cup of coffee and came into the dining area. He sat on one of the stools, facing the booths. The waitress returned to her post behind the counter and lit a fresh cigarette from the embers of the one still in the ashtray. She drew in the smoke gratefully, as if it were fresh air.

“Clinton isn’t so bad,” Sarge said. “He’s been a pretty good President.”

Henry made no challenge.

“Could be.”

Henry picks his fights carefully.

“What about Jack Kennedy, for Chrissake?” Sarge asked. ”He wasn’t a saint. But I liked him.”

“Bad men can do good things,” Henry replied. “But I’d rather see good men do them.”

Sarge didn’t agree or disagree.

Good and bad aren’t that simple, huh, Sarge?

The other man in the booth had turned to face Sarge. He had a sullen, fine-boned, passive face that would have been more attractive on a woman.

“Ernie and I were talking about the meeting tomorrow,” Henry said.

Sarge frowned, and sipped his coffee.

“You’re wasting your time. She doesn’t care what you think.”

“Will you be there?” Ernie asked.

Sarge shook his head.

“We could use your advice,” Henry said.

“I just gave you my advice. What’re you going to do? Sign a petition?”

Sarge laughed and added, “Why bother?”

He finished his coffee, turned to the waitress and held out his cup for a refill.

There was a pause in the conversation. Lucas swallowed a forkful of eggs and sausage, and drank some coffee.

He waited.

Then he looked at Henry, who was watching him again, and asked, “I wonder if you could help me out?”

Henry’s eyes scanned Lucas’s face.

Lucas didn’t offer him any clues.

“You need directions?”

“No. I know where I am. This town is a lot like the one I grew up in.”

“Where was that?” Sarge asked.

“Shelby, Pennsylvania.”

Henry looked around suspiciously.

“Anybody ever hear of Shelby, Pennsylvania?”

“No.”

“No.”

Lucas smiled. “I guess it’s as famous as Pennington, Connecticut.”

Sarge was the only one who smiled back.

Lucas spoke slowly, deliberately pausing between the sentences: “I’ve traveled a lot. I was in sales, working out of New York City. My job kept me on the road most of the time. I retired a while back. Now I’m thinking about settling down.”

“Why not go home?” Henry asked. “To Pennsylvania?”

“I don’t like going backwards. This town will probably do just fine.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Sarge said. “Towns like this don’t welcome strangers with open arms. You should know that. I’m from New York, too. We’ve been here ten years and they still call us The New Yorkers.”

Joey laughed. “Goddamn New Yorkers!”

“And I’m a special case,” Sarge said. “My father grew up here.”

“I don’t mind being an outsider. You can start calling me The New Yorker, if you want to. Anyway, it would be the same for me in Shelby. My mother and father died years ago. I have no brothers or sisters. And I never got married. I’m an outsider everywhere. So I can put down roots wherever.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed.

“You make up your mind awfully quick.”

Lucas nodded and smiled.

The waitress came out from behind the counter. “You got to be kidding. Jesus Christ. Go someplace where there’s something to do.”

Sarge put a large, gentle hand on her arm. “Lucille, relax. Please.”

She turned away from Lucas. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“That’s all right.”

Dad. He came here from New York City. Why?

“Money’s not a problem,” Lucas said. “I’ve got a pension. It’s not a fortune, but it’s enough to pay the freight. I might even look for a job here. But first I have to find a place to live.”

“What did you have in mind?” Ernie asked. “You want to buy a house?”

Sarge aimed a warning finger at Ernie.

“You’d better be careful. Ernie’s double poison: he’s not only a lawyer, he’s a real estate agent.”

Everyone laughed, even Henry.

“I don’t think I can afford a house. Anyway, it’s more than I need. I’m just looking to rent. Is there a boarding house in town?”

Ernie shook his head. “No. No apartments. No condos. Except . . .”

He looked at Joey and asked, “What do you think, Joey?”

“It’s fine with me. But Fay’s the one you have to talk to.”

“It sounds like you’ve got a room available.”

“Maybe. My sister Fay and I have a house with a separate apartment, a small one my mother lived in for a while, after she got sick. She died a couple of years ago. The place is furnished, has a stove and a refrigerator. A separate bathroom. It’s not bad.”

“Sounds promising. I’d like to take a look at it.” He slowed the pace of the conversation by sipping his coffee for a moment. “Of course, I don’t expect you to trust me, just like that. I’ll give you the name of the company that handles my pension. They can tell you I’m on the level. You can get their number from the phone company, so you’re sure it’s not a set-up. I’ll call them first and tell them to give you whatever information you need.”

“I’ll take care of that, Joey.”

“Okay, Ernie. But first, we’ve got to talk to Fay.”

“Why don’t you take . . . What’s your name, Mister?”

“Lucas Murdoch.”

“Why don’t you take Mr. Murdoch over to see Fay?” Ernie suggested. “While you’re doing that, I’ll check him out.”

“Okay,” Joey replied.

Henry commented to no one in particular, “He’s been here for half an hour and he’s ready to settle down. He’s got all the answers. ‘Here’s the name of my banker. Give him a call. Rent me a room. And I’ll unpack my bags.’ He’s a salesman, all right.”

“I’m not rushing things,” Lucas said. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time—a couple of years. I guess I’ve been looking for Pennington, and I didn’t know it. I found it today, and I want to stay.”

“Henry gave me a hard time, too,” Sarge said. “He gives everyone a hard time.”

“Is there a phone I can use?” Lucas asked.

Sarge pointed to a door at the far end of the counter. “Yeah. There’s an extension in the office in back of the kitchen. It’s private. Go ahead. Dial nine to get an outside line, and one for long distance.”

“What’s your last name, Ernie? So I can tell them who’s going to call.”

“Hynes.”

“Thanks.”

The office was small, windowless. Several photographs hung on the wall opposite the cluttered desk. One showed Sarge in a policeman’s uniform, posing with another policeman in front of a patrol car on a New York City street. There were family shots of him, his wife (the cashier in the diner) and his daughter, Lucille, all looking much younger. On the desk was a more recent photo of Lucille and a five- or six-year-old boy.

Lucas called his financial advisor, gave him detailed instructions, and returned to the dining room.

Henry stopped speaking in mid-sentence.

Joey seemed uncomfortable, but he said, “Let’s go see Fay.”

“Ernie, you’ll want to get in touch with Archer and Fitzgerald in Manhattan,” Lucas said. “They’re on East Fifty-Eighth Street. Tell them you want to speak to my financial advisor.”

“I’ll do that right now.”

Joey walked toward the door and waved his hand. “Come on, Mr. Murdoch. We’re going to the library.”

In the parking lot, Joey said, “We’ll take my car,” and pointed to a shiny, spotless, new station wagon with simulated wood panels and a Dealer’s license plate.

“If you’re in the market for a car, let me know. I work for the Ford dealer in Fulton—that’s a few miles east of here. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Joey handed Lucas a business card:

Fulton Ford

For the Deal of A Lifetime!

Joey Geneen, Sales Manager

As they drove east on Route Forty-Six, Lucas was organizing what he had seen and heard. The hard work would begin later. The patterns were still only dimly outlined, but he was already energized, enjoying every new moment, every new fragment of information.

“Your sister, Fay. She owns the house?”

Joey nodded.

“Yeah. I left town when I was eighteen. Joined the navy. I was in Nam for a while. On a carrier. I was a mechanic. It was toward the end of the war, and I didn’t really see much action. But it was more than enough for me. After the war, I figured I would stay in the service. It wasn’t a bad life. I traveled a lot. I retired a few years ago. Fay went to UConn. She came back home right after college and became a librarian. She never got married. And when our Mom got sick—Dad died a long time ago—she moved into Mom’s house, set up the apartment there on the ground floor, so Mom wouldn’t have to walk up stairs. She took care of Mom for years.”

And loved every minute of it?

Joey made a right turn off the road and followed a tree-lined street to the village green, parking in a lot behind the Pennington Free Library.

Lucas followed him inside.

The walls were paneled with dark wood. Bookshelves and massive tables and chairs were carved from a lighter shade of wood. A thick, deeply worn maroon carpet covered the floor.

Lucas sniffed the warm, silent, sluggish air.

Old leather bindings, old wood, old times.

They walked through the virtually empty reading room to the reference desk in the rear. A wooden name-plate was centered on the desk: F. Geneen.

The woman behind the desk was thumbing through a book, making occasional notes on a yellow legal pad. Probably in her early forties, her dark hair was short and thick and streaked with gray, and she was wearing a brown shirtwaist dress that made her blend into the background.

Lucas thought, It’s as if she’s saying, “I’m not really here. I’m not anywhere.”

She looked up, ready to be helpful, and saw Joey. Helpfulness melted away. Frown lines in the corners of her mouth deepened.

Joey smiled at her. No smile in return.

Her eyes drifted to Lucas. A rimless pair of glasses framed her dark brown eyes and long, thick lashes.

“Can we talk to you for a minute?” Joey asked.

“Let’s go to the lounge.”

She stood up. She was tall—taller than Joey—narrow-hipped and long-legged, and she moved easily and economically.

An athlete. A runner, maybe.

She turned, leading them to a door marked Employees Only. Opening it, she motioned them inside.

The librarians’ lounge was a smaller version of the reading room, somber and dark. Two huge, leather-covered couches stood catty-corner on one side of the room. On the other side, three bulky leather chairs surrounded a small, round table. No one was there.

Fay sat in one of the chairs. Joey and Lucas sat opposite her.

She wears very little makeup. Her skin is clear, the color of outdoors.

“What do we want to talk about?” Fay asked.

She’s watching Joey like a frog watching a dragonfly.

“First, Fay, this is Lucas Murdoch.”

Lucas smiled and nodded, but Fay took no notice.

“Mr. Murdoch is retired. He used to live in New York City. He’s thinking of settling down here. He’s looking for a place to stay.”

No response.

Lucas studied her features. Her nose was a little too long, her mouth too full, her chin too strong—but the sum of the imperfect parts was attractive.

“He’s got money,” Joey said. “A pension. Ernie’s checking that out.”

She looked down at the table-top for a moment, then looked back at Joey, waiting.

“We were talking—over at Sarge’s—about whether you might want to rent the apartment to Mr. Murdoch.”

“What did you decide?”

Joey shook his head. “It’s not up to me.”

She turned to Lucas and asked, “Why do you want to live in Pennington? There isn’t much going on here. But I’m sure you know that.”

“I guess I’m tired of big cities. I grew up in a small town. I’d like to be back in the kind of place I remember.”

He smiled, his expression a mixture of hopefulness and concern.

“I don’t know if I want a stranger living in my house.”

“I’m very quiet. I won’t play any loud music. Or invite anyone to the apartment.”

“How do I know that’s true?”

“Ernie’s checking on him,” Joey said.

“Can he find out whether Mr. Murdoch drinks? Or plays the drums?”

“He’s just checking on whether he has money.”

She repeated the word “money” softly, and frowned.

She needs the money.

“I have a decent pension, and simple tastes,” Lucas said. “The apartment would be my one luxury.”

“I don’t know,” she said, without much energy.

“We could do it on a trial basis—for a month, say.”

“You would have to pay part of my electric bill in your rent, and part of the fuel bill in winter time. And you’d have to have your own phone.”

“That’s okay.”

She looked down at the table-top. “I don’t know.”

“What would you consider a fair price?”

She frowned.

“It’s really just two and a half rooms and they’re not big: a bedroom, a combination living room-dining room, and a kitchenette. It’s furnished. And I keep it clean. I’m not sure why.”

Lucas nodded.

“I could take you over to see it,” Joey said.

“Three hundred dollars a month. That’s fair, I think.”

“It sounds fair to me. And, if you change your mind, I’ll leave. I don’t need a lease. We can keep it on a month-to-month basis, if you like.”

Joey was nodding.

“I don’t know,” she said. “You’d have to supply your own linens and towels. But there are dishes and pots and pans you could use.”

“Why don’t we give it a try?” Lucas said.

“I’d need a few days to get things in shape.”

“He could stay at the motel in Fulton,” Joey said.

“If you mention Joey’s name, they’ll probably give you the room for half price.”

Joey smiled nervously.

“Show him the apartment. If Ernie says he’s okay, I’ll try it—for a month.”

Lucas extended his hand. “Thank you.”

Fay hesitated, then grasped his hand. She had a strong, aggressive grip. Her skin was cool and dry.

It begins.

Again, the rose garden. Thousands of rose bushes all around him, packed tightly against each other. The blood-red blossoms were thick-petaled and heavy, but all the branches stood up stiff and straight, stretching high above his head. He was running on a narrow, twisting, dirt path. He was naked and barefoot. His bare arms brushed against the bushes on each side of him. Every bush he touched pierced his flesh with its thorns and then withered and blackened and died. His blood, thin and pink and watery, streamed down his arms and dripped off his fingertips. He looked behind him as he ran. He was leaving a clear trail: withered, dead rose bushes and, on the dirt path, two muddy streams of blood. He smiled. Whatever was hunting him could track him easily, no matter how long he ran, or how far he traveled. That was a comforting thought.

As Lucas opened his eyes in the darkness, the motel room came into focus around him. He was breathing heavily, sweating. He felt the throbbing of his heartbeat deep inside his head.

Yes, it had begun.

2

The Cascades

Six-thirty a.m. Sunday morning.

It was still cool, surprisingly cool for May. Lucas had been awake for almost an hour, lying in bed on his back, watching the shadows on the white ceiling, listening to the small sounds that floated through the silence.

If he was alone, early morning was his best time. He remembered, sometimes he planned.

If he wasn’t alone, early morning was when he tried to forget.

He sat up and looked around him at the apartment in Fay Geneen’s house. The furniture was functional and bland. There were two dark prints on the living room/dining room walls. A faded still-life painting hung over the bed. The living room carpet was a half-hearted imitation of an Oriental rug, and even less thought had been given to the dark braided rug that covered the bedroom floor. The bathroom was equipped with the chrome bars that ease the movements of elderly people.

A generic apartment.

He wondered if the rooms had been as barren when Fay’s mother had lived here. Or had Fay stripped it of its humanity when her mother died?

For Lucas, the apartment was ideal. It was temporary. It gave him nothing.

He got out of bed, smoothed out the blanket as he always did. He was naked. He went to the bathroom, showered, and brushed his hair with a few quick strokes of his fingers.

His breakfast was a glass of orange juice, a blueberry muffin and a multivitamin pill.

Lucas went into the backyard through the door that opened onto the concrete patio, furnished with a dark green wrought iron table and chairs.

He stretched his arms over his head, bent over and, keeping his knees locked, touched his toes ten times, then went around to the front of the house.

Fay Geneen was walking up the street, a few yards ahead of him. He ran to catch up to her.

She was wearing a gray sweat suit and sneakers. She walked quickly, fluidly.

At her side, he fell into the rhythm of her stride.

“Would you mind if I tag along?”

“It’s more than two miles.”

He acknowledged the challenge: “I’ll do my best.”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

“We don’t have to talk, do we?” she asked.

“No.”

She nodded.

They followed the street uphill, for almost ten minutes, passing a few other houses, until they came to a wider, winding street that formed a “T” in front of them. Lucas recognized the cross-street. To the left it led up to the mansion on the hill. She turned right.

“This is called Schuyler’s Trace,” she said. “It was the first street in town, before there was a town.”

He didn’t respond.

A cool, soft breeze stroked his face. The sky was a clear, brittle, early-morning blue.

“In the seventeen hundreds, before the Revolutionary War, Hans Schuyler cut the Trace—just a path through the woods—built a farmhouse on the hill and cleared the land around it. Then he plowed and planted his crops.”

“You’re talking.”

She looked at him, but he continued to look straight ahead, unsmiling, keeping pace with her.

“We’ll cross here and take that street to the Cascades.”

“The Cascades?”

“It’s a preserve that belongs to the town. There’s a stream running through it and a waterfall—the Cascades—at the eastern end. We can follow a path that winds around through the woods. Lots of hills. It’s a good workout.”

They continued to walk uphill for a few more minutes and then came to a second “T.” Beyond was a broad stretch of forest. Tucked into the western end of the woods, just across the street to the left, was “Smythe’s Garden Center.”

Fay led Lucas to the right of the center, onto a well-worn dirt path leading into the preserve.

Under the trees, it was almost cold. Lucas shivered.

She picked up the pace.

“If Schuyler started this town, why isn’t it named after him?” he asked.

“He was Dutch, and the English weren’t about to let him give the place a Dutch name. Schuyler didn’t care. The Dutch are very good businessmen. And very tight with their money.”

“Murdoch is a Scottish name. I understand perfectly.”

She smiled.

“Pennington was an English settler with a small farm, and he took great pride in his name. Hans Schuyler is supposed to have said, ‘Never mind about pride. I’d rather have property.’ He got what he wanted. Eventually, Schuyler bought the whole town. Even the Pennington farm. This was always his town. Most of it still belongs to his family.”

“Is that their house on the hill?”

“Yes. The Grange. But there’s not much left of the Schuylers. An old woman and her granddaughter.”

They walked silently through the shaded woods, into a clearing now and then, and back into the cool shadows.

At first, the sound of flowing water was distant and vague. Then it began to gain volume and clarity, until it became a steady rumble. Then, through a stand of trees, he saw a narrow, twenty-foot-high waterfall cascading over rough boulders, scattering the morning light.

The path led up a hill, across a stone bridge over a stream, down to the other side of the waterfall and back toward the entrance to the preserve.

“Have you settled in?” she asked.

“Yes. I’ve opened a checking account at People’s Bank. I guess I’lI need a new driver’s license and registration, but there’s no hurry. I found Appleby’s and bought all the basics. I’ve already cooked a few meals. And I’ve bought an electric coffee maker. And an electric frying pan, which I use for practically everything.”

A long pause.

“My drums were in storage, but they should be here by Tuesday,” Lucas said.

“I can hardly wait.”

“The only thing I need now is a library card.”

“Stop in tomorrow and I’ll take care of it,” she said as they reached the edge of the preserve.

When they arrived at the house, she asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee? It’s already brewed.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She led him through the living room into the dining room. Motioning to the table, she asked him if he wanted cream or sugar.

“Black.”

She went into the kitchen.

He sat at the table and examined the dining room furniture. It was antique, but graceless. Family hand-me-downs, no doubt. An enormous breakfront dominated one wall, displaying a delicate set of china dinnerware. The chair he was sitting in was cushionless and uncomfortable. The table was a dark, clumsy slab of wood, fringed with carved chains of flowers and supported by bulbous floral columns.

Fay returned with two cups of black coffee, gave him one and sat down opposite him. She sipped hers, looking down into the cup, then glanced up at him.

“I guess Joey won’t be joining us?”

She shook her head. Frown lines appeared at the corners of her mouth.

“You’re not likely to see my brother on Sunday morning. Not around here, anyway.”

“I hope you didn’t mind me tagging along this morning.”

“No.”

“I’ve been thinking about getting a job. Any suggestions?”

She shrugged. “What can you do?”

“I’ve been a salesman most of my life. But I’m adaptable. And I don’t need to be challenged. I wouldn’t mind putting stuff on shelves or unloading trucks. I have my pension to keep me warm. I just want to make a few extra dollars. Pocket money.”

She watched him over the rim of her cup.

“That’s all you want?”

“That’s all I want.”

“I’ll ask around.”

He had finished his coffee.

“Would you like another cup?”

“No, thanks.”

He stood up and added, “Do you walk every morning?”

She nodded.

“Would it be okay if I came along once in a while?”

She nodded.

“Just don’t bring your drums.”

He smiled.

On Tuesday afternoon, Lucas sat in the sun out on the patio, reading a library book. It was a warm, comfortable day.

Joey Geneen came out of the house through a sliding door that connected Fay’s kitchen to the patio. Lucas watched him over the rims of his reading glasses.

Joey was wearing threadbare jeans, a wrinkled tee-shirt and sandals. His hair was combed but he hadn’t shaved. A cigarette drooped between his lips.

Lucas read the cigarette’s smoke signal, echoed by Joey’s eyes: “Don’t make too much noise. I’m hung over.”

He was carrying a coffee pot and two cups, which he carefully set down on the table.

He sat down opposite Lucas and asked, “Y’ want a cup?”

Lucas closed the book and put it on the table.

“Yes. Thanks,” Lucas said softly. “Black is fine.”

Joey laughed. “Black is mandatory.”

“Day off?”

“Yeah. I worked this weekend.”

Lucas sipped his coffee and waited.

Joey stared at the sky as if he was trying to remember something. He looked down at Lucas’s book.

“What’re you reading?”

“It’s about Eisenhower and Montgomery during the Second World War.”

Joey looked at the sky again.

“Military shit. You been in the service?”

“The Army.” He added, casually, “Vietnam.”

“Like I told you, I was in the Navy over there. But the war was almost over by then.”

“You didn’t miss anything.”

“It must have been pretty bad.”

“It could have been worse. I could have been killed.”

“I was in the Gulf War, too. Just ferrying troops in.”

“When did you retire?”

“Five years ago. Maybe I should have re-upped. Maybe I should have been a thirty-year man.”

“What made you decide not to?”

“Don’ know. Some things I do very carefully. Like buying a pair of slacks, or a shirt. I can look around for weeks ‘til I find the right one. But if it’s something important, I usually make up my mind just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “My first wife—we were having breakfast and she said something that really pissed me off. So I told her I wanted a divorce.” He snapped his fingers again. “Just like that.”

Joey stretched and yawned. His face was pale and deeply lined, a wintry counterpoint to a Spring day.

He laughed. “My second wife did the same thing to me.”

Lucas nodded.

“You ever been married?” Joey asked.

Lucas shook his head.

“You ever been close?”

“No.”

“Well, twice is enough for me. Shit, that’s enough for anybody.”

Lucas waited.

“I don’t like women,” Joey said. “I love to fuck them, but I don’t like anything else about them. I never did. It’s like they’re all working from the same plan but they never tell us what it is. Know what I mean?”

Lucas just smiled.

“Like my mother. No matter how I screwed up, my mother always thought I was hot shit. My father died when I was a kid. I hardly remember him. And Mom just let me do whatever the hell I wanted to do. She never complained. Never got mad at me. She didn’t want me to join the Navy, but she never told me that. She told Fay, but she never told me.”

Lucas nodded.

“Fay’s another fucking mystery. She went away to college and I figured she’d stay away. Like I did. She got an education. She had no ties here. She and Mom weren’t exactly buddies. But she came back. I don’t know why. She’s been here all these fucking years. Took care of Mom.”

“Did you ever ask her why?”

“We don’t talk much. She wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

“Did she ever ask you why you came back?”

“Yeah. I told her: it’s home.”

Joey poured them both another cup of coffee. He picked up the library book and looked at the cover, upside down, and returned it to the table.

“I don’t read much. A mystery or a spy story once in a while.”

“I like true stories.”

“Y’know, you can’t believe everything you read.”

“You’re right, Joey. That’s the fun of it. When you read what’s supposed to be history, some of it’s true and some of it isn’t.” He tapped the book on the table. “Eisenhower thought he knew how to win the war. And so did Montgomery. If you read Eisenhower’s book, Montgomery was wrong. If you read Montgomery’s book, Ike was wrong. And there are all kinds of opinions in between.”

“So how do you know who was right?”

“You dig. You peel away the lies. You keep digging. If you’re patient enough, you can usually find the truth.”

“Too much work,” Joey said.

“Maybe.”

“Too deep for me.”

Lucas downed the last mouthful of his coffee. “It’s just a game.”

“Just a game,” Joey repeated.

Later that afternoon, Lucas walked to the waterfall by himself.

Insect voices hummed in the air. A Babel of mismatched, dissonant birdsongs joined them.

Squirrels rushed through the branches overhead, leaping from tree to tree. Lucas could hear the hollow hoof-falls of deer, hiding in shadows.

The sounds heightened the stillness.

He watched the waterfall leap into the air and crash into the stream below, an endless watery suicide.

His gray eyes mirrored the sun-and-shade patterns of the forest around him. He felt completely alone. Completely at ease.

This would be a place to die. To disappear.

He turned and walked off the pathway, deeper into the woods. He changed direction constantly, finding open spaces between the tree-trunks, the bushes, the undergrowth. He stopped abruptly, listening. He had heard a faint new sound, the sound of bells.

He stood still, waiting for that sound again.

Only the insect voices, the dissonant birdsongs, but not the bells. After a few minutes, he began to walk again, and then he heard the bells again.

He looked up. There, like ripe silver fruit, hanging from a branch of a nearby tree, twenty feet from the ground, was a cluster of wind chimes. A squirrel running up the bole of the tree and back down again must have shaken the branch, sounding the chimes.

Wind chimes in the middle of a forest.

Who climbed that tree?

Who left behind that quiet music?

Does it mark a place to remember? A secret place?

He looked around on the ground and found a small stone. He aimed it carefully, threw it and hit them—too hard. The slim tubes crashed together, jangling harshly.

Lucas nodded and smiled, as if a question had just been answered.

On Thursday morning, Lucas went back to the waterfall. This time with Fay.

She was quiet as they approached the preserve.

There was a trace of coolness in the air as they entered the grassless, leaf-shaded areas in the woods that the sun couldn’t touch.

“There’s a side road—a loop that goes into the forest and then comes back again onto the main pathway—near the Cascades. Are you in the mood for a longer walk?” she asked.

“Sure.”

They surprised a trio of deer grazing in a small clearing. Three tapered heads swiveled toward them, three pairs of cautious, dark brown eyes watched for a moment. Then, in graceful arcs, the three leaped away from the clearing, tawny streaks disappearing into the shadows.

After a long pause, Fay said, “You asked me about where you might look for a job. I’ve heard that someone’s leaving the nursery—the one we pass on the way here. It’s the kind of thing you said you wouldn’t mind doing: fetch and carry, that kind of thing.”

“Sounds good.”

“It won’t be available for a week or so. But Henry Smythe said you should come in and talk to him.”

“Henry Smythe? Red-headed guy?”

“Yes.”

“I met him at Sarge’s Diner, the day I came to town.”

“He’s not exactly a charmer.”

“He sounded like a preacher.”

“He almost became one. He holds Bible study classes—unofficial ones—at his house.”

“How does your minister feel about that?”

“I don’t have a minister. But I know that Reverend Stokes doesn’t like the competition.”

“I’m not a churchgoer, either.”

She didn’t respond to his confession.

“Henry doesn’t pay much attention to the nursery. Six or seven years ago, he hired a manager: a black man named Leo Sage. From Chicago. Smart guy. Leo runs the whole operation.”

“I haven’t seen any blacks in town.”

“Leo’s the only one. There’s a black neighborhood in Fulton, but Leo doesn’t hang out there, as far as I know. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t gamble. He’s a loner. Very quiet. Keeps to himself. I guess in a town like this, that’s not surprising.”

They followed the loop deeper into the forest, then made a wide turn and started back toward the main pathway. A few paces on, he could hear the rumble of the Cascades.

“The trees have the right idea,” Fay said. “They don’t get old.”

He didn’t respond. He let her words float in the air.

She’s so accustomed to walking here by herself. She may have forgotten that I’m here.

“They live a lifetime every year. Dying every winter. But there’s always another spring. Another chance to be young. Hundreds of chances.”

She turned and looked at him.

He wasn’t ready to agree or disagree. Not yet.

He smiled at her: a neutral, passive smile.

Now she was sorry she had shared her thoughts with him. Her dark brown eyes reminded him of the deers’ eyes: alert, always anticipating flight.

She turned away.

They walked back in silence.

The next day, Lucas went to talk to Henry Smythe. When he entered the main building, a stocky black man was behind the counter speaking on the telephone, adding up a nearby customer’s bill, using sign language to tell a young man in coveralls how to line up flowerpots in a display, and smiling a greeting to Lucas.

The first three tasks completed, the man looked at Lucas and asked, “Can I help you?”

“From what I’ve heard, you must be Leo Sage.”

The man nodded and smiled slyly. “Now, how in the world did you know that?”

Lucas returned the same kind of smile. “Fay Geneen said you were in charge of everything at the nursery.”

Leo laughed. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Lucas Murdoch. I’m here to see Henry Smythe about a job.”

“Yeah. Henry told me you’d be in. He’s not here right now, and I’m not sure when he’ll be back. But hiring and firing is my responsibility.”

“It figures.”

“Why don’t we go to the office and talk.” He called to the young man who was eyeing the display of flowerpots with pride, “Tom! Take over the counter. I’ll be back in a little while.”

Lucas followed Leo down a corridor to an airy, high-ceilinged room. Sunlight poured through three huge windows that looked out on several greenhouses, racks of well-watered flowering plants in clusters of purple, yellow, white and pink, and rows of saplings thrusting out of burlap-wrapped globes of earth.

Leo sat down behind a large, oak work table and motioned for Lucas to sit across from him.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“No, thanks.”

Leo looked out the window for a moment. Lucas studied his face. It was a strong face, broad-boned and confident. His hair was sprinkled with gray. But his eyes didn’t tell you anything.

“I’m not sure you’ll really be interested in this job.”

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t pay much. It’s part-time, afternoons and half a day on Saturday. And it’s really just grunt work.”

“Sounds like the ideal job for me.”

Leo watched him for a moment.

He’s looking for signals. He’s used to looking for signals. And he’s used to hiding his own.

“I’m retired. I’ve got a pension. This isn’t a second career. Just a way to make a few extra dollars.”

“Henry told me about you. He says that you’re living at Fay’s place.”

“She’s the one who told me about the job.”

“You plan to stay in Pennington for a while?”

“Maybe for good.”

“Really?”

He’s not comfortable with me.

“Why not? I grew up in a small town. And you’re living here, aren’t you? Fay said you’re from Chicago. If you can be happy here, why can’t I?”

“How do you know I’m happy?”

He’s probing.

“I don’t. But I think I can be.”

Leo looked out the window again, then back at Lucas.

“You’d be doing the kind of things Tom does—that kid you saw setting up the flowerpots: stocking shelves, watering plants, loading customers’ cars, cleaning up, and whatever else I can think of. I’ll give you five dollars an hour. You work every weekday afternoon from one o’clock to five. Every other Saturday morning, from eight to noon. And it won’t start for another week—a week from next Monday.”

“Sounds fine. By the way, I don’t know anything about flowers.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t be giving anyone gardening tips. You can leave that to me. And we’ll try to educate you as we go along.”

Leo stood up and extended his hand.

A friendly gesture, but he still isn’t comfortable with me. Good.

Lucas shook his hand.

“I’ll see you in a week,” Leo said. “The first day you come in, you can fill out your tax forms and any other paperwork.”

“Thanks. I’m looking forward to it.”

“See you then.”

3

Memory Lane

That evening Joey knocked on Lucas’s door and asked him for a favor.

“What do you need?”

“I made this date for tomorrow night. With a girl I met at a place I hang out in. In Fulton.”

Joey was leaning against the door frame. He seemed uneasy.

“You can come in if you like.”

“That’s okay. Anyway, this girl said she would meet me on Saturday night—if I got a date for her friend. I guess she thinks she’s safer on a double.”

He added, with obvious pride, “I got a reputation.”

Lucas smiled.

“My friend Stan said he would go. He works with me. But he told me today he couldn’t make it. And I’ve got to show up with a date for her friend or I’m up shit’s creek.”

“You want me to go with you?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m a little old for that sort of thing.”

“It’s not a big deal. All you’ve got to do is talk to the other girl. Dance with her a few times, if you feel like it. You and I won’t be leaving together: I’m sure of that.”

“I guess you deserve your reputation, huh?”

Joey basked in the thought: “I guess I do.”

“How old are these girls?”

“Well, they’re not teenagers. Shit, no. Early thirties. How about it?”

Lucas said, “Yes,” but he wasn’t sure why.

I suppose I can learn more about Joey. But there isn’t really much to know about him. Do I just want a night out?

“Thanks,” Joey said. “I appreciate it.”

He turned away, then back. “You better take your own car, right?”

“Right.”

On Saturday night, following Joey’s shiny Ford, Lucas drove east on Route Forty-Six to the next town, Fulton, which was bigger, newer, and flashier than Pennington. In the crowded town center, branches of major chain stores invited shoppers to come in. Past the shopping district, on the eastern edge, restaurants and bars flanked the highway. They stopped at a dimly lit place called Memory Lane.

Lucas parked his car next to Joey’s.

Live music swirled into the parking lot. Amplified guitars twanged a monotonous rock melody while a bass guitar pounded out a throbbing, bone-deep rhythm.

“Thanks, again,” Joey said.

Memory Lane was divided into three sections. To the left, a long bar ran along the wall. In the middle, there were ten or twelve tables. To the right was a huge dance floor, with the bandstand—a raised platform—against the far wall.

The bar, the tables and the dance floor were crowded. Joey pointed to one of the tables, where two women were sitting. One of them, a plump blonde in a red dress, was watching the door. She waved at Joey. He smiled and waved back.

The women stood up as they approached the table.

Joey put his arm around the blonde and kissed her on the cheek.

“Jill, this is my friend, Lucas Murdoch.”

Jill smiled at Lucas. “Nice to meet you.”

The other woman introduced herself to Lucas, “I’m Margot Sinclair.”

Her voice was so soft the music almost obliterated it.

Jill added, “That’s Margot with a ‘t’ at the end. French Canadian.”

Margot extended her hand.

Lucas shook it.

“Hi. I promise not to pronounce the ‘t’.”

Margot smiled and whispered a polite “Thanks.”

They sat down. Joey moved his chair closer to Jill and put his arm around her waist. She didn’t seem to mind.

Margot was a slender, petite brunette with a face he would have turned to look at even if she were a stranger he saw at a restaurant or a cocktail party.

She has a beautiful mouth, beautiful eyes.

From her already weary expression, Lucas sensed she was there for the same reason that he was.

He leaned toward her so he could be heard, and asked, “Do you live in Fulton?”

“Yes. Not far from here.”

“Margot and I work together,” Jill said.

He could hear her voice easily over the music.

“What do you do?”

“We’re executive assistants at a law firm in town.”

Executive assistants. We used to call them secretaries.

Joey grabbed a waitress going by and ordered beer for the table.

“I haven’t finished the one I got,” Jill said.

Joey kissed her again. He whispered something to her. She laughed.

Lucas asked Margot, “When did you come here from Canada?”

She shook her head.

“I’m American born. My father was French Canadian.”

“Sinclair is English, isn’t it?”

“His real name was St. Claire. But he anglicized it.”

“Anglicize.” Nice word.

The beer arrived.

Joey kept nuzzling Jill as he drank his beer. Kept whispering to her.

“How long have you known Joey?” Margot asked.

“About a week.”

She seemed surprised.

Lucas explained, “I’m a substitute for the original double date. It was supposed to be a younger man.”

She looked at the dance floor, at the band, at Lucas, but not at Joey and Jill.

“I haven’t had much practice at this for a long time,” Lucas said.

“Neither have I.”

She raised her glass in a toast to him, but the gesture was more resigned than friendly, as if she were saying, “We’d both rather be somewhere else.”

He returned the gesture.

“See you later,” Joey said, and led Jill onto the dance floor.

“Are you a car salesman, too?”

“No. I’m renting a room at Joey’s house. That’s how he knows me.”

“What do you do?”

“Actually, I’m retired.”

“What did you do?”

“I worked for a big company. Did what I was told. Made a living. Left with a pension. An early retirement package.”

“And settled down in Pennington, Connecticut?”

“Why not? I was born and raised in a small town.”

“You don’t look small-town to me.”

“I guess this is what they mean by a second childhood.”

“You still haven’t told me what kind of work you did.”

“I was a salesman, but I didn’t sell cars. I traveled a lot.”

“A traveling salesman? Sounds like the set-up for a dirty joke.”

“Right.”

“You don’t like talking about yourself, do you?”

“I’m not a very interesting subject.”

She smiled and asked, “What did you sell?”

“Computer software. For business information systems. Accounts payable, inventory, et cetera.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifty-three.”

“How long have you been retired?”

“A few years.”

“What’s a few? Three? Five? Twenty?”

“More than three, less than twenty.”

That’s not exactly what I told people in Pennington. That was careless.

“Retired so young? You must have a hell of a pension.”

“Enough to pay for an apartment in Pennington. This isn’t Hilton Head.”

Margot shook her head.

“You sound like someone who’s been practicing his answers,” she said.

For a moment, Lucas was off-balance.

“I’m not sure I understand you,” he said.

She sipped her beer, gesturing toward the dance floor, where Joey was pressed tightly to Jill.

“I didn’t want to go out tonight. Knowing Jill, I could imagine the kind of guy I’d end up with. Someone like him.”

She paused, then said, “You’re not like him. So far.”

She stretched and hunched her shoulders.

“I’m tired of dating,” she said. “I never thought sex was all that great and I’m tired of the song and dance leading up to it.”

She emptied the beer glass and poured a refill.

“I was married when I was twenty. I was s-o-o-o in love. After a few years, I got tired of him. He was too predictable. I decided to go back to school and get my degree. He didn’t want me to. I was already too smart for him. He was an accountant who couldn’t pass the CPA exam. I got my degree. And he left me for a much dumber woman. Prettier, but dumber.”

“You have no children?”

“I can’t have children.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not the mother type. I may not be the wife type, either.”

“When did you get your divorce?”

“I didn’t. Catholics don’t get divorces. Besides, I’m enjoying the fact that he’s living in sin.”

“That’s not very Christian of you.”

“Granted.”

“If you didn’t want to go out tonight, why are you here?”

“Jill wouldn’t leave me alone. I work a few feet from her every day. It wasn’t worth arguing about.”

Joey and Jill returned to the table briefly, drank some beer, whispered to each other and returned to the dance floor.

“I’m not sorry I met you tonight,” Margot said. “So far. It’s too noisy in here. My ears hurt. Do you want to go for a walk, or something?”

“We came in separate cars. Joey insisted.”

She laughed.

“We can drive someplace, if you like,” Lucas said. “Someplace quiet. Or I can take you home.”

She thought about it for a minute.

“There’s a coffee house a few minutes from here. It’s not very fancy, but there’s no music. In fact, there are fake tapestries on the wall that absorb sound.”

“Let’s go.”

“After that, you can take me home.”

They waved to Joey and Jill on the way out. Joey smiled conspiratorially. Jill just smiled.

The coffee house was a tired relic of the Sixties. The pony-tailed proprietor and his wife were gray-haired Flower Children whose petals had faded long ago. But the place was quiet and they could talk without shouting, while they drank their espressos.

Lucas tried to relax, but he felt uneasy.

“You’re a college graduate. And you’re working as an executive assistant. Are you looking for something better?”

“Not at the moment,” she replied.

“What did you major in?”

“Economics.”

He grunted. “Difficult and boring. You’re a better man than I.”

Margot nodded, as if she agreed with him. Her eyes were dark blue and opaque, like the tinted windows of a limousine: a guarantee of privacy.

“Now back to questions,” she said. “So you retired early, but you said you didn’t make a fortune?”

“I don’t need much to get along.”

“That’s another packaged answer.”

Lucas tried to read her expression.

Aggressive, but not unpleasant. She’s playing with me. I should reciprocate.

“Lucas, would it be all right if I called you Luke?”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Luke, I guess you’d rather not tell me much about yourself. But I’d like to see you again, anyway, even if you get to know all about me and you still remain a man of mystery.” She paused a moment and looked at him earnestly. “Since my marriage broke up, I’ve met a lot of men. I’m not the answer to anyone’s prayer. I’m not beautiful or sexy. Like I said, I’m not even that interested in sex. But most of the guys I’ve gone out with aren’t good enough for me. I suppose all the good ones go to Boston or New York.”

“Could be.”

“I used to be bitter about my marriage, but what’s the point of that? It doesn’t do you any good. So I let it go. I stopped thinking about it. I started enjoying things: a glass of wine, a good meal, a movie, a book, sleeping late on Sunday morning. Pleasures that are easy to come by.”

“What about family?”

“My folks live in Hartford now and I call them every week. I see them once in a while. My brother moved out to the west coast a few years ago, met someone out there and got married. They have a little girl. I go out to visit them every year, in the winter.”

“Friends?”

“I have one very close friend. I’ve known her since high school. She moved to Boston, but we see each other every couple of weeks. We’ve gone on vacation together a few times. Once in a while, I have dinner with Jill and a couple of the other women at the office.”

“And, now and then, you go out on a terrible date.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“And you don’t consider this one of those terrible dates.”

“I don’t. Do you?”

He knew that he should back away from her. She didn’t fit into his plans.

Be careful.

“No, I don’t either.”

“You know,” she said, in a reassuring voice, “I’m not looking for anything permanent, if there is such a thing. So I’m not dangerous.”

“So far.”

She smiled and echoed, “So far.”

She opened her handbag and took out a small note pad and a ballpoint pen. She wrote her name, address and phone number on a sheet of paper, tore it off the pad and handed it to him.

“For your Rolodex.”

Later, he drove her to her home on a quiet street about a mile north of Route Forty-Six. It was a small, old-fashioned New England saltbox. A wrought iron bench, painted white, stood on the lawn a few feet from the front steps.

At her door, she shook hands with him and said, “I had a nice time tonight.”

“For a change?”

She laughed. “For a change.”

“So did I.”

“Call me.”

Her voice was very soft and her hand was small and fragile.

“I will.”

When he was driving back to Pennington, he shook his head a couple of times, as if he were disagreeing with someone.

I shouldn’t call her. No reason to call her.

He thought of the wind chimes, hanging from a branch in the forest.

Music where no one can hear it. What a waste.

He remembered the harsh jangling when he hit the chimes with a stone.

He decided to call her anyway.

Although he walked through the Cascades at the usual time on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday morning, he didn’t meet Fay again.

I’ve known her for only a few days and she’s already trying to avoid me. That’s encouraging.

On Wednesday morning, it was warm and summery, so he wore shorts and a tee-shirt. Halfway to the waterfall, he started to run. His stride was smooth and practiced.

He drew the heavy, tree-scented air into his lungs, and felt the gentle fingers of a self-created breeze. He moved through variegated patterns of sun and shadow, from light to darkness and back again.

He remembered the fierce joy of running beyond his endurance, beyond thought, beyond feeling, running until there was nothing but running—no earth, no sky, no sun, just the painful rhythm of step after step after step.

What was chasing him then?

And now?

4

Let’s Get Lost

On Wednesday afternoon, he went to the library.

A poster on a bulletin board near the entrance announced a screening of Eisenstein’s film, Alexander Nevsky, at a community college a few towns away. He had seen the film when he was an undergraduate. He couldn’t remember anything about it.

Fay saw him approaching her desk and tried to look friendly.

“Good morning. Do you have a minute?” Lucas asked.

“Sure.”

“Thanks for your help. I got that job at the nursery. I start next Monday.”

“For some reason, Henry seemed very interested in hiring you.”

Lucas smiled.

“He’s looking forward to sticking it to me.”

“Why? He doesn’t even know you.”

“We met once, remember? He thinks I don’t care enough about good and evil.”

“But he hired you anyway.”

“Actually, Leo Sage did. Henry wasn’t there.”

“I guess you’re Henry’s latest project.”

“He wants to save my soul?”

“No doubt about it.”

“Maybe I’ll go to one of his Bible classes.”

Fay just shook her head.

“I haven’t seen you on your morning walk lately,” Lucas said.

“I guess I’ve been a little lazy.”

“I miss the company. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Probably.”

She looked around the library, as if she was hoping for an interruption, but all she saw was the clerk on duty, and an elderly woman reading the Hartford Courant at a corner table.

“Joey told me about Saturday night,” she said. “I can’t believe you let him fix you up.”

“His friend had cancelled and he needed a replacement. I just went along for the ride.”

She responded too quickly. “Joey said you and your date skipped out on him,” and then she tried to look unconcerned.

“The place was too noisy. So we left. Went to a coffee house for a while.”

“It doesn’t sound like a total disaster.”

“It wasn’t.”

She began to ask another question, but stopped herself.

Lucas waited for a moment.

Then he asked, “Are you busy a week from Sunday?”

She reacted slowly, as if she couldn’t make the transition to a new subject.

“Sunday?”

“Yes. A week from this coming Sunday.”

“Why?”

“They’re showing Alexander Nevsky at Exeter Community College. At two in the afternoon. Would you like to go?”

“Well . . .”

“I can pick up the tickets. We could have dinner afterward.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“All right. Yes.”

“Good.”

“The last time I saw that movie, I was in college.”

“Me, too.”

He smiled at her, said, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and walked to the shelves.

After a few minutes, he found what he was looking for: The New Bible Companion: a Guide to Understanding the Scriptures.

An hour later, Lucas was sitting at the table on the patio, reading and drinking beer straight from the bottle. His eyes scanned the pages of the book he’d checked out, picking a paragraph here, a phrase there.

After a few minutes, he realized he couldn’t concentrate. He put the open book face down on the table, shut his eyes and pressed the cold bottle against his forehead.

Then, reaching for his cell phone, he pushed a quick-dial button and raised the phone to his ear.

After two rings, a woman’s voice said, “Spector’s. Can I help you?”

“This is Murdoch.”

“Just a minute, please, Mr. Murdoch.”

Music on hold for a few seconds, then: “Hello, Mr. Murdoch.”

“Bernie. How’s she doing?”

“Very well. She just got a promotion and a raise. And now they’re mentioning her name on the program, as the news writer.”

“What else?”

“She’s still going out with the same guy.”

“Vincent.”

“Vincent. They usually end up at her apartment, and he stays late. But he never sleeps over. And she never stays at his place over night, either.”

Lucas didn’t comment.

Bernie said, with obvious reluctance, “And she goes to Grassmere every Friday. Never misses.”

“Is the Grassmere story the same?”

“Nothing has changed.”

“Anything else I should know about?”

“No, sir.”

Lucas pushed the End button.

He lowered the phone and rested his hand on the table, cradling the receiver in his fingers.

Grassmere every Friday. Never misses.

He put the phone back into his pocket. He picked up the book and began to skim again, then stopped at a passage from Genesis:

“Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven;

“And he overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.

“But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt.”

Fay walked with Lucas on Thursday morning, silently at first. She took the longer route through the Cascades and kept increasing the pace, as if she was trying to tire him out.

He matched her silence and her pace.

When they were circling back, he said, “Yesterday morning, I ran most of the way. Did you ever do that?”

”No.”

“You’re in good shape. You should try it. Running really clears your head.”

“My head is clear enough.”

She turned to look at him and he smiled at her. “We can build up to it, a little at a time.”

She nodded once, acknowledging that he had just reversed their roles: now he was challenging her.

“I assume you’ve run the Boston Marathon several times,” she said.

“I never even tried.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t win.”

“That’s not the answer I expected.”

He ignored her comment and asked, “How about it? We don’t have to run full out: just trot. From here to the big oak tree” (he pointed) “up on that hill.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

She began tentatively, at a slow trot, staying alongside him. She started to pick up speed running downhill and he followed suit. He could hear the quickened rhythm of her breath. They hit the lowest point at the base of the first hill and started up the slope of the second. Her breath became more labored, but she didn’t slow down. She was straining to move ahead of him, but couldn’t.

She groaned softly, but kept running.

They reached the oak tree and kept running.

Now they were on the downhill side. She was gasping for breath but kept running.

There was a long straightaway at the base of the hill.

He stayed at her side.

She began to slow down and then stopped, suddenly, leaving the path and dropping down on the dewy grass.

Her face was flushed as he joined her. She was breathing hard. And he thought that this was the first time he had seen her at ease.

She hunched forward, hooking her elbows over her knees.

She said, without resentment, “You’re not even out of breath.”

“Give it a couple of weeks and you’ll be running circles around me.”

She groaned: “Sure.”

He stroked the damp blades of grass with his fingertips, letting the warm silence of the woods embrace him. He closed his eyes and listened for the wind chimes, but the air was still and all he could hear was bird and insect noise.

He almost forgot that Fay was there. Almost forgot he was there, as well.

“I enjoyed that. Thanks,” she said.

He opened his eyes. She was watching him intently. And, for the moment, she was too comfortable to hide her interest.

“You’re welcome.”

“Tomorrow, maybe we’ll do this again.”

“You’re on.”

She stood up.

“When we get back, I’m making scrambled eggs and sausage,” she said. “After I take a shower, of course. Would you like that?”

“You bet.”

On the way back, he could feel a new intimacy and a new tension between them.

They had breakfast in the dining room, her hair still damp from the shower. She was wearing a pastel-flowered summer dress and sandals. Her dark eyes seemed a little softer behind the austere, rimless glasses. She was still reserved, but in a different way. He waited for her to take the lead.

“Do you really want to work at the nursery? You can do better than that.”

“It’ll be fine. It’s only a few hours a day.”

“Wouldn’t you rather do something more interesting? I’m sure you could find a better job around here: in Fulton, maybe. Or at Exeter College.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“What will you do the rest of the day? What do you do the rest of the day?”

He answered her only with a smile.

“I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.”

“That’s all right. When my drums arrive, you won’t have to ask again.”

“Ah, those fabled drums!”

He laughed, paused a moment and said, “I spent most of my life working very hard. Long hours. Weekends. I’m trying to depressurize. I read. Drive around. Find a little lake somewhere and watch the water. As you know, I stop in at the library, now and then. I go to Sarge’s Diner for lunch or dinner and I eavesdrop. Ernie Hynes is usually there with—what’s his name? Billy Miles?”

“He owns the liquor store. And he’s been the First Selectman for as long as I can remember. Nobody else wants the job.”

“They’re always talking about the old factory.”

“They’re trying to persuade Emily Grant—Emily Schuyler Grant, who lives at the Grange—to sell the property to a client of theirs. A developer who wants to build a shopping mall. Emily’s not interested. She doesn’t need the money. She’d rather leave things the way they are.”

“And I’d rather have a job I can do on automatic pilot.”

She shrugged. “As you say, it’ll be fine.”

He nodded.

“Now that we’ve settled my future, what about yours?”

“I’m doing work that I enjoy. Living in my home town, in the house I grew up in. I’m healthy. And I don’t have to see that much of Joey.”

She smiled and added, “I’m even in training to become a long-distance runner. What more could I ask for?”

“That’s a good question. But I can’t answer it.”

She looked at her watch. “There’s no doubt about my immediate future: it’s almost time to open the library. I’d better get going.”

“See you tomorrow morning,” he said. “Ready to run.”

She groaned, “I can hardly wait!”

That evening, after dinner alone, Lucas sat in the stiff armchair in the living room of his apartment, drinking coffee and staring at one of the dark prints on the wall behind the sofa. It was a sepia-toned portrait of a slender young woman walking through a gloomy, deep-shadowed forest. She was looking back over her shoulder fearfully, as if she saw something following her, beyond the frame of the image. Or was it only fear itself that she saw?

The cellular phone was on an end table beside the chair. Lucas looked at it for a moment. Then back at the picture on the wall, expectantly, as if he thought that the frozen drama would continue—that the young girl’s pursuer would have moved forward into view.

He picked up the phone and pressed a quick-dial button.

“Hello.”

“Margot?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Lucas Murdoch. How are you?”

“Fine, Luke. How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“I’m glad you called. And surprised.”

“I said I’d call you.”

“I know. But I thought you were just being polite.”

“Being polite is not one of my virtues.”

“Are there any other virtues I should cross off the list?”

“I’ll leave that up to you.”

“Okay. By the way, how’s your good friend, Joey?”

“As charming as ever.”

“I can believe that.”

They both laughed.

She said, “I’m not busy Saturday night.”

“No blind date?”

“Not yet. How about you?”

“I think I’ve got a date. Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Anything special you’d like to do?” he asked.

“We could fly to Paris and stay at the Ritz.”

“My passport just expired.”

“In that case, how’d you like to go to a jazz club? Do you like jazz?”

“I did. Years ago.”

“There’s a place just outside of Fulton called Babe’s. Nothing fancy, like you’d find in New York City. It’s owned by a lady in her seventies—Babe, of course—who says she sang with Chick Webb’s band long, long ago. Maybe she did. Anyway, she thinks she did. She gives young musicians a chance to play there. She doesn’t pay them much, but they have an audience. Sometimes you can see some real talent.”

“What about dinner?”

“Do you like Italian food?”

“Yes.”

“I know a nice place in town. I’ll take you there.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

He started to answer, but didn’t.

She said, more softly, “I’ll see you on Saturday.”

“On Saturday.”

He looked back at the print on the wall. Nothing had changed.

Saturday night was warm and dry.

When he drove up to Margot Sinclair’s house, she was sitting outside on the white wrought iron bench near the front steps. She was wearing a simple beige dress, a string of pearls and small pearl earrings.

She stood up to greet him. Her two-inch heels lifted her closer to his eye level, but she was still so small and slender that, at first, she looked like a child pretending to be a woman. As she came closer to him, she held out her hand and watched him approach, that illusion dissolving into the early-summer air.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

“I guess so,” he replied.

She laughed. “I can’t even pin you down on that?”

“It is definitely a beautiful night. No question about it.”

“The restaurant isn’t far from here, so we have plenty of time. Would you like a glass of wine before we go?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got a Pinot Grigio and a Merlot. At the moment, that’s my entire wine cellar. What’s your pleasure?”

“Merlot.”

She made a quick trip into the house and returned with the wine and two glasses on a round wooden tray. She gestured for him to sit at one end of the bench. She sat at the other end, placing the tray down between them, and poured the wine.

“To the future,” she toasted, touching his glass with hers.

He sampled the wine. “This is pretty good for a two-wine cellar.”

“Anything exciting happening in your life?”

“Not really. What about your life?”

She sipped her wine, savored it.

“I’ve been thinking about making a change,” she said.

“What kind of change? What are you smiling about?”

“You looked very suspicious when I said that. The change has nothing to do with you. Not directly, anyway. On Saturday night, you asked me why I was working as an executive assistant when I had a degree in Economics. The answer is: I just wanted to drift for a while. To do something that wouldn’t demand much of me.”

“And now you’re tired of drifting?”

“Yes. I’m afraid of what I might become.”

He wondered if he was what she was afraid of becoming.

“What kind of job are you looking for? Secretary of the Treasury?”

“I doubt Clinton needs another woman to worry about right now.”

Lucas laughed. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask him.”

“When I graduated from college, I worked at the headquarters of a regional bank for a while—as an economist. The job didn’t pay much, but I had a chance to do what I enjoy most: play with numbers. Modeling, forecasting, regression analysis. Music to my ears.”

“I never paid much attention to forecasts. I could never get the experts to agree.”

“Be careful. You almost told me something about yourself.”

“We were talking about you.”

“You remind me of a guy I dated last year. He was in the N.S.A. I don’t know what his job was, but practically nobody knows what they do, right? Every time I asked him a question, he would stop and think for a few seconds before he answered. It was like talking to someone on one of those old satellite phones: there was always a delay between my questions and his answers. Finally, after two dates, I asked him what the hell was going on. Of course, he didn’t answer me right away. He stopped, thought for a minute and told me that, when you do the kind of work he does—top secret stuff—you’re always editing what you say to other people, even the people you work with. If they don’t have a need to know, you don’t tell them. So that’s what this poor guy was doing all the time. Making sure that he didn’t tell me something that was Top Secret.”

Lucas smiled.

“You do the same thing to me all the time. You’re not a master spy, are you?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t tell you, would I?”

“I give up.”

“Don’t,” he said quickly, and just as quickly regretted saying it.

She put her hand on his arm. “Giving up is not one of my virtues.”

She watched his eyes, waiting for another signal.

He said, as casually as he could, “Why not just take me as I am? Right now, tonight.”

“I wish I could. You’re a very attractive man and I don’t want to chase you away. But I can’t help it: I want to know you better. I’ve spent the last few days thinking about you. Hoping you would call. Hoping you were thinking about me. But I doubted it. You always seem to have something else on your mind.”

“I’ve thought about you, too.”

He felt awkward, uncertain, as if he were an actor at the first, tentative run-through of a new play.

He put his wine glass down on the tray, leaned forward and took her hand.

“I didn’t plan on meeting you,” he said.

“You’re kind of a surprise to me, too. But who cares about plans?”

She smiled and added, “When I was a kid, I didn’t plan to be this short, but I can live with it.”

“So we’ll go slow. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He leaned back, slipping his hand from hers.

They sipped their wine thoughtfully for a few minutes.

Then she put her empty glass next to his, lifted the tray and said, “I’ll be back in a minute. We’ll go to dinner.”

He watched her go back into the house, smiled at her when she came out.

At the Italian restaurant, the Chianti was hearty, and the veal and pasta delicious.

The place was jammed with tables set too close together, with extra chairs added to accommodate an overflow crowd, primarily Italian families, each with several children, as well as assorted grandparents, uncles and cousins. A continuous wave of laughter, shouting and recorded music washed over them. The noise was overpowering.

After a few minutes of trying to communicate, Lucas said, loudly, “I’m glad you picked such an intimate spot.”

“Sorry. I usually come here for lunch. It’s a lot quieter in the afternoon. A business crowd.”

He shrugged, she smiled, as they enjoyed their dinner silently.

Lucas welcomed the break in the conversation. Things were moving too quickly for him.

He shouldn’t have called her. She was a distraction. And he wasn’t careful enough about what he said.

But why should it make any difference? He enjoyed being with her. And it had been a long time since he enjoyed being with anyone.

As long as he didn’t lose his focus.

As long as he was careful.

As long as he remembered that Pennington was the only thing that mattered.

And that Pennington wasn’t the end of it.

He began to feel more at ease.

Then Margot leaned across the table, put her hand on his and asked, “Are you angry at me for bringing you here?”

He shook his head, smiled, and looked down at her hand. And all he could think about was how much he wanted to kiss it.

When they arrived at Babe’s Place, it was only nine-thirty. Recorded jazz was playing over the sound system.

Babe herself greeted them at the door. She was a tall, black woman in her seventies, with deep-set gray eyes and a friendly smile.

The small club was almost empty. She led them to a table near the bandstand.

“I’ve got a real treat for you tonight,” she said. “A young man named Marvin Connor. Blows tenor sax. Keep your eye on him. He’s gonna be big someday. Soon. And he’s startin’ out right here at Babe’s. Not in New York City, or New Orleans or Chicago, but right here. You remember that.”