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She turned her head and stared out the window. They were approaching the spot where Lillith had hit the tree. In a minute they would have to cross the East River Bridge, over to the area unofficially known as the “Left Bank.” Over there, the houses were smaller, funkier, just starting to come back from a long economic down-slide.
Tight zoning was a luxury the Left Bank couldn’t afford. Artsy yuppie condos were haphazardly mixed in with coffee shops, antiques mini-marts and New Age candle boutiques. Beyond the Left Bank lay the rural fringes, where your neighbors were mostly trees, or people who owned guns and horses and dogs named Zeke.
It was out there that Kelly had bought her new place, a surprisingly charming run-down cottage with a detached garage that made the perfect studio. So though she definitely lived, in Cathedral Cove parlance, far, far on “the wrong side of the bridge,” she loved it. Most of the time.
Just not tonight.
“Look,” Brian said. “Someone has already put up a marker for Lillith.”
Kelly saw it at the same time. On the side of the road, just a couple of feet from the tree, a waist-high circular sign stood, announcing to all passersby that tragedy had visited this spot.
Through the years, she’d seen a hundred roadside markers just like this one. But they had always seemed comfortably impersonal, just small, circular plaques that said Drive Carefully, sometimes decorated with crosses, sometimes with flowers, depending on how recent the accident had been. She had always driven by without much more than a generic whisper of sympathy.
But this one was different. She wondered who had put it there. It hadn’t been there this morning.
Jacob hadn’t been in any shape to think of such a gesture. Someone had, though. At least four arrangements of flowers clustered on and around it—and an elaborate floral wreath had been hooked over the top of the sign, like a crown or a halo.
And there was something else. Was it a ribbon? There was very little wind tonight, and yet the thing—was it fabric?—was fluttering oddly, so light it seemed to defy gravity.
She squinted. What was that, draped over the left side of the wreath, undulating, as if it were alive and trying to get her attention?
It looked almost like a streamer of fog, or moss…or…
Something cold gathered around her heart. No, it couldn’t be that.
The breeze was playing with it.
“Brian, stop,” she cried.
He sighed even as he put on the brakes.
“Now what? Come on, Kel, I’m tired. Whatever it is, can’t it wait until—”
But she had already opened the car door and climbed out. She couldn’t hear the end of his sentence.
She walked over to the marker and took the soft, fluttering, weightless scrap into her numb hands. She turned it over. She traced its familiar, exquisite pattern with disbelieving fingers.
It wasn’t fog or moss. It was exactly what she had thought it was.
It was a piece of lace from Sophie Mellon’s wedding dress.
MARY JO’S CAFÉ AND SWEET SHOP was charming from the street side, all hanging baskets of red geraniums, green awnings and shiny black wrought-iron tables and chairs.
But from the alley out back, it looked like any other strip retail business, just a no-frills utility door, an over-filled Dumpster, a teetering stack of wet wooden palettes and an empty plastic bag bumping up against the wall, shoved around by the wind.
Kelly pulled into the dead-end alley, did an automatic three-point turn to leave her minivan facing out and then cut the engine. Here under the trees, it was cool and damp and dirty. The twilight was a mournful blue.
She suddenly wished she’d put this chore first on her list today, not last.
But she had to stop this foolishness. She wasn’t by nature a coward, though she certainly had been acting like one ever since Lillith’s death.
Like last night. Asking Brian to stay had been ridiculous. He had sacked out in the guest room, exhausted from his own long day, the minute they got to Kelly’s place. She’d spent another several hours in the studio, working, essentially alone anyhow.
Still, it had been nice to know another human being was nearby.
He’d taken her to get her van as soon as the dealership had called, and then, as pleasantly as ever, they’d gone their separate ways. They’d both had a million things to do.
Now she was tired. But Kelly had promised Mary Jo she’d return all the café trays they’d used for the funeral food, so, in spite of the eerie blue shadows in the alley, she had to do it.
The café was still open—it would be serving dinner till ten—but most of the other stores on the street were already closed. The only two cars in the alley were Mary Jo’s Honda and Kelly’s minivan, which wasn’t glamorous but was convenient for transporting the big sheets of stained glass she needed for special projects.
Kelly had called ahead, so Mary Jo was waiting for her at the utility door. They unloaded the trays efficiently without much chatter and stacked them in the café’s kitchen.
“Thanks for bringing the stuff back,” Mary Jo said as she walked Kelly to the van. “I can use it tonight. You know what weekends are like.”
Kelly nodded. And they walked the rest of the way in silence. Apparently Mary Jo didn’t feel like making small talk any more than she did.
Maybe Mary Jo realized, just as Kelly had, that handling the funeral food had been the last little chore they’d ever do for Lillith.
After the accident, the first day or two had brought a mercifully numb shock. After that, the details of the funeral had been hectic and distracting.
But now it was over. Life went on. And they had to face that it went on without Lillith.
When they got to the van, Mary Jo hugged her. “Did you get that starter looked at?”
Kelly smiled. “Yeah. Transmission needed work, too. Two thousand dollars altogether. But at least it starts right up.”
“Ouch.” Mary Jo grimaced. “Well. Take care.”
“I will.” Kelly watched as Mary Jo turned and walked slowly back to the store. She didn’t look as if she had enough energy to get to the door, much less shepherd her café through the dinner rush. Tragedy had so many repercussions, big and small.
“Oh—wait—” Kelly said suddenly. “I meant to ask you. Have you heard anything about Sophie being back in town?”
Mary Jo turned. She shook her head. “No. Dale over at the Texaco came in for lunch today, and he said he’d seen Sebastian, which surprised me. It’s been a couple of years since the Mellon heir graced us with his presence, hasn’t it? But Sophie? No. As far as I know she’s still an inpatient.”
Kelly thought about mentioning what Lily had said, but decided against it. And there wasn’t any point asking Mary Jo about the scrap of lace. Mary Jo hadn’t been a member of the wedding party, so she would never have seen Sophie’s dress anyhow.
So Kelly just said goodbye again and watched Mary Jo go back inside. Then she opened the door of her van, eager to get out of this alley now that she was alone. Something was rummaging behind the Dumpster, but Kelly couldn’t see what. The limp blue twilight had lost its struggle with darkness. Only small patches of light lay between long, black stretches of shadow.
Definitely time to go. Besides, if she went straight home now, she could put in a good four hours on the wine-shop project, which was falling seriously behind.
But darn it. Down at the front end of the alley, a large refrigeration truck had pulled in, blocking the exit. Behind her, the alley came to a dead end, so she’d have to wait.
Maybe the driver would make his delivery quickly. In the meantime, she could at least check on the glass in the back. With her keys still in her hand, she circled the van and opened the hatch doors.
She’d had special slots installed in the cargo area so that she could transport sheets of glass safely. Today, all the slots were filled.
The wine-shop project was the most challenging commission she’d ever landed—a tunnellike entryway for the upscale establishment, with lush stained-glass grapevines winding on both sides, and even on the ceiling.
This afternoon she’d picked out half a dozen sheets of the most beautiful green full-antique glass. It had cost a fortune, virtually eliminating any hope that this project would turn a profit. But the glass had such extraordinary linear striations, which would produce grape leaves so textured and real no customer would walk through that entryway without reaching out to touch them.
She hadn’t been able to resist. Anyhow, if this project turned out to look as spectacular as she hoped, it would be worth its weight in permanent advertising.
She adjusted a couple of boxes so that everything was wedged in snugly, and then, hearing an odd noise behind her, she turned.
Trig Boccardi was standing only about four feet behind the truck, a glower on his heavy face, erasing what little good looks he had left from his high-school glory.
Unnerved, Kelly glanced around. Mary Jo’s café was the last store at the dead end. Unless he had climbed over the alley fence, or come out of the café kitchen, he had pretty much materialized out of thin air.
“Hi, Trig,” she said neutrally. She whisked shut the van’s cargo doors. She didn’t like to have those pricy sheets of glass exposed to anyone as unpredictable as Trig. “Where’d you come from? You startled me.”
“You took it.” Trig’s brows hung low over his eyes. “Didn’t you?”
She didn’t like his tone, which was strangely aggressive. And, as usual, he wasn’t making sense. “I don’t know what you mean. Took what?”
“The lace. You took the lace from the wreath. Don’t pretend you didn’t. I saw you do it.”
Kelly’s stomach tightened. He had seen her? He had been watching her? From where? No wonder she’d had such a creepy feeling about spending the night alone.
How often did he do that?
“Yes,” she said. “I took it.”
“You shouldn’t have. It’s not yours.”
She glanced toward the front of the alley. The refrigeration truck was still there. But that wasn’t all bad. It meant that somewhere nearby was a truck driver, too. Just in case.
And Mary Jo was just inside the café. She’d come out if she had any idea something was wrong. Kelly began to move around the van a little, toward the driver’s side. Toward the horn.
“You shouldn’t have taken it,” he repeated. He had followed her all the way around, still staring intently.
“Why not?” She paused by the door, wishing she’d left the window open so she could just reach in and touch the horn. She tried to read his expression, unsure whether he was very sad, or very angry—or maybe even a little frightened himself. “Did you put the lace there, Trig?”
He recoiled. “Of course not. She put it there.”
“She? Who?”
He blinked several times, always a sign that he was agitated. “You know who. It’s hers.” He advanced a step. “She’ll be mad that you took it.”
Behind her back, she began to rearrange her keys in the palm of her hand, so that the metal points stuck out between her fingers. Trig was big and muscular, but his thinking was slow, and she hoped his reflexes were, too.
“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have. I was just surprised when I saw it, and I wasn’t thinking. Maybe I should put it back.”
He thrust out his hand. “I’ll put it back. You shouldn’t have taken it.”
Did he think she carried it with her everywhere she went? “I don’t have it with me,” she said. “Don’t worry about it, Trig. I’ll take care of it later.”
“No,” he said. He took another step, his head ducked low, like an animal who was considering an attack. She’d never appreciated how much like a bull he actually looked, with that bulky body and that triangular head.
The groan and grind of gears just ahead told her the truck was leaving. Taking advantage of the distraction, she pulled open the door and climbed quickly into the driver’s seat. Shutting herself in, she rolled down the window and looked sternly at Trig.
“I want you to go home now, Trig. And I want you to leave me alone.”
He put his hand on the door. “No,” he said harshly.
“Yes,” she said, putting her keys in the ignition and turning over the engine, which, thankfully, started right up. Suddenly the two thousand dollars she’d paid the dealership seemed like a bargain.
“You have to go home now. And listen to me, Trig. I don’t know why you were watching me the other night, but I want you to stop it. You can get in a lot of trouble for things like that.”
He frowned, backing away a couple of inches, as if her stern tone startled him. He shook his head, a jerky and uncoordinated denial.
“I wasn’t watching you,” he said thinly. He blinked several times. “I was watching her.”
CHAPTER SIX
THE NEXT MORNING Kelly sat at her studio’s semicircular work desk, heart-shaped pieces of glimmering green glass littering the countertops. It looked as if, sometime during the night, the ceiling had rained enchanted leaves.
But she wasn’t paying any attention to the freshly cut pieces, which were ready to be burnished with foil. Instead, she was listening to the ringing telephone crooked between her ear and her shoulder, and staring at a photograph she held awkwardly in her newly bandaged fingers.
She hardly noticed the bandages. She always sliced or burned herself while she was cutting and grinding small pieces. If nothing required stitches, she considered it a good day’s work.
Besides, the picture held all her attention. She hadn’t looked at it in years. It had been tucked carefully away in the pages of an old scrapbook. It was a picture of Sophie’s wedding party, taken the night of the rehearsal dinner.
No wonder she’d been reluctant to keep it where she could see it. It was as potent as an uncorked vial of magic smoke. Kelly found that she could remember every moment of that night, as if it had been yesterday.
Such vivid memories… The scratchy seams of her green dress, which had been a little too tight. The way they’d all laughed because the cello player was out of tune. The time Lillith had sprayed champagne through her nose when Kent Snyder told a vulgar joke.
She remembered it all, every emotion, right down to the deep, scraping ache in the hollow of her heart.
While the others had been laughing and drinking and playing silly games, Kelly had been counting the hours until Tom officially belonged to Sophie. Twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two…
By the time the wedding party corralled a waiter and asked him to take this picture with Kelly’s disposable camera, it was one in the morning. Only seventeen hours until the wedding.
Looking down at those faces now, with all the bitter knowledge of hindsight, Kelly thought maybe she could detect the turmoil seething under the surface smiles.
Against her ear, the phone was still ringing. She hung up and dialed a second time, in case she’d made a mistake. As it began to ring again, she tilted the picture, to better catch the light.
Nine young people. It should have been ten, but Samantha, the maid of honor, had been only seventeen, too young to drink and dance and giggle the night away with the others. She’d been sent home with her parents hours before the picture was taken.
Which left just nine. Sophie and Tom, the bride and the groom. Sebastian, who was the best man. Three ushers— Kent Snyder, Bill Gaskins and Alex VanCamp. Three bridesmaids—Dolly, whose last name was now Tammaro, Lillith, and Kelly herself.
All young. All smiling. But how many of them, Kelly wondered, had been hiding something that night?
Kelly’s own sick guilt was fairly obvious, she thought. Her eyes looked shadowed, and she had her hands clasped in front of her, white-knuckled, almost as if the camera were a harsh deity from which she begged forgiveness.
Sebastian’s head was turned away from the camera, but his jaw was set at a stiff angle, and his shoulders were oddly braced. It was impossible to tell whether he was staring at Sophie or Tom.
Sophie looked gorgeous, of course, in her ice-blue party dress. But her smile was too bright, too fake, as if she were dramatically intoxicated, though Kelly remembered that Sophie had hardly touched her wine that night.
