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Tucker decided to drop off the items that belonged to Cathryn McGrath first, since they took up most of the back seat. He was also a little curious to know how she was feeling.
With an up-to-date map of the island on the seat beside him and West Shore Road highlighted with yellow marker, he set off toward what should have been a setting sun. Unfortunately a gloomy gray blanket of mist continued to muffle the island, and the only evidence he saw of the sun existed in a paler shade of gray to the west.
Still, the landscape wasn’t without its beauty, in a stark and empty way. Tucker turned off the radio and cracked open a window to better enjoy the mellow two-note bellowing of Harmony’s competing foghorns and the screeching of its gulls. The cold brine-scented air blowing in invigorated his body. The long vistas, both seaward and skyward, invigorated his soul.
He used to loathe this time of year when he was a kid. There was a stillness to February, a nothing-happening hush as nature hung idle between winter and spring, that used to drive him crazy. Funny, how time could alter a person’s perspective.
Tucker found Cathryn’s address with minimal trouble. She lived in an area of new midpriced homes, each set on at least two acres, with SUVs in the driveways and swing sets in the yards. The McGraths lived in an extended Cape Cod house with white shutters, natural cedar shingles, and well-tended shrubs out front. Kid-made paper hearts, framed by ruffled curtains, decked the windows. Cupids lined the walk, and a red-and-pink Valentine flag hung by the front door. There were window boxes stuffed with pine and holly, flower beds waiting for spring, and tucked here and there, stone squirrels and bunnies and ducks. It was picture-perfect. And perfectly Cathryn.
Tucker was standing at the door before he realized he should’ve called before coming over. Although it was nearly dinnertime, the house was eerily still. He heard no children’s voices within, no TV gabble, no clatter of pots or plates. He didn’t even see any lights.
He stepped back, peering toward the attached garage. The double door was raised, revealing only one vehicle. Maybe the family had gone visiting. Or maybe to a restaurant…although Tuesday was an odd night to go out to eat, and Cathryn had been feeling sick.
For a brief moment, Tucker worried about Cathryn. Something wasn’t right with her. She’d claimed to be fighting off flu symptoms all morning, but he’d seen her eating and nothing had been wrong with her appetite. He’d also noticed the abrupt change in her expression while the Anderson woman talked with her.
With a shake of his head, he tossed aside his suspicions. He was an inveterate cynic, seeing trouble where none existed, and that was all there was to it. Tucker set down the urn on the doormat where it couldn’t be missed, then returned to the car for the rest of Cathryn’s things.
With everything piled on the stoop, Tucker was ready to leave and head over to his next stop. But on a whim, he picked his way across the sodden mulch in front of the house, squeezed himself between two pungent evergreens and peered through one of the living room windows.
The room was dark, steeped in shadow, but he found an occupant anyway. She was curled into a fetal position on the sofa, as still as a shadow herself. Cathryn.
CHAPTER THREE
ALARM RIPPED THROUGH Tucker like a bullet, sending his heart racing. Don’t jump to conclusions, he told himself. Maybe she really is sick. You’ve played dead yourself a few times when you were under the weather and people knocked at your door.
Despite what common sense was telling him, Tucker scrambled back to the stoop and tried the door. It was unlocked. “Cathryn?” he called, stepping inside and peering into the living room. She didn’t move. With his heart caught in his throat and his imagination in overdrive, he crossed the room, dread in every step, and forced himself to touch her. “Cathryn?” he repeated, shaking her gently by the shoulder. It was warm, he realized with tremendous relief.
Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head and looked up at him. Her eyes were glazed and unfocused, like those of a person in shock. For a moment she simply stared without recognition. Then, “Oh, Tucker,” she said in a soft, faraway voice. “I didn’t hear…I must’ve fallen asleep.” She made an effort to sit up, then sagged again.
Tucker wanted to accept that she’d been sleeping, but his cynical twin refused to let him. “What’s the matter? Not feeling well?”
She swallowed. “No. Not very.” Tucker did detect the faint odor of vomit drifting from her clothes. Not a pretty smell, especially when combined with the apple-cinnamon scent that pervaded the room.
The first strokes of embarrassment began to lash at him. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about walking in the way I did, uninvited. I hope I didn’t scare you.”
“No.” She lay so still, as if moving might shatter her.
“I brought back your things, your coffee urn and stuff.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Mmm. I was planning to leave it all on the front step, but then, just for the hell of it, I tried the door.”
As if he’d strung together too many thoughts for her to process, she frowned and slowly massaged her skull, her fingers buried in her tangled hair.
With feigned nonchalance, Tucker cast his glance about the dusky living room. “Where’s Dylan?”
“Out,” she whispered hoarsely. “He’s…out.”
“And the kids?”
“With my parents.”
“Can I…do anything for you? Get you anything?”
“No. Thank you. I’m sorry I can’t be more…” She lifted the hand that had been massaging her head and held it limply poised, palm up, as if it contained the rest of her thought.
“I’ll just bring in those things then.” He backed up a step, turned toward the door when he heard her sniff. Damn! He retraced his steps. “Cath, where did Dylan go? Maybe I should call him or something.”
“No, it’s okay.” Her face cramped into a mask of anguish underlaid with embarrassment. “Really. He’ll…he’ll be back soon.” Her jaw began to tremble. She tried to steady it, but her lips took up the trembling instead.
“Hey, what’s the matter?” Tucker squatted on his heels to be at eye-level with her.
“Nothing. Please…Nothing.” But two plump tears slipped from her eyes and soaked into the couch pillow.
Every instinct Tucker possessed screamed at him to take flight. He’d walked into a domestic cataclysm. But he listened to the voice of responsibility instead, a voice that had been growing stronger ever since he’d learned he was going to be someone’s dad.
“Cathryn?” he implored, brushing back her hair. It was softer than he’d expected. Her chest hitched and she made a tight hiccuping sound as she tried to suppress a sob. “Cath, at the risk of butting in, are you and Dylan having problems?”
The pain that scored her features answered him better than any words. Cursing under his breath, he gently pulled her to a sitting position and wedged himself into the space beside her.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, wondering when he’d lost his mind.
“No.” She began to tilt in the opposite direction, heading for another pillow. Tucker put his arm around her to keep her upright.
“There’s nothing to say, really.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks as her mortification deepened. “I’m sorry, Tucker. Please, just go. This has nothing to do with you.”
So true. But, masochist that he was, he continued, “Does it have anything to do with that woman who showed up after the funeral?”
Cathryn had been trembling already, but now the potency of her tremors grew until they rattled Tucker, as well. He tightened his grip on her, felt the pressure building, until finally she seemed unable to contain it any longer and cried out, “Dylan’s having an affair.” With that she crumpled forward, covering her face with her hands, and wept with such misery that Tucker found his own throat thickening.
He rubbed her back, a feeble attempt to let her know he was still there. After a while he asked, “Are you sure?”
She nodded, still buried in her hands. “He-e to-o-ld me so-o himself.” At least, those were the words Tucker thought he heard. They were too fractured for him to be really certain.
She steadied her voice long enough to say, “What’s worse is, they’ve been seeing each other for…for over a year.” And then she began to cry again, harder than before.
Tucker didn’t know what else to do but pull her into his arms. “You didn’t suspect anything?”
With her face buried in his leather jacket, she gulped down tears and shook her head. In her sob-broken way she added Dylan and Zoe had apparently been discreet, for which she was extremely thankful.
Overcome with self-consciousness again, she moved away, scraped the sleeve of her sweater across her eyes and inhaled shakily. “This must be so awkward for you.”
“No, no…” he lied.
“Please, why don’t you just go? This isn’t your concern.”
“You made it my concern twenty years ago when you invited me to one of your parties—a clambake on the beach, I believe.”
“What?” She scrunched her nose in puzzlement.
“It didn’t matter that I was an outsider and a punk and the last person anybody would want at a civilized party. You didn’t want me to feel left out.”
A weak smile briefly lifted her tear-wet cheeks. “Yes, but I was also relieved you didn’t show up.”
Tucker clasped his heart and gasped. “And all this time I believed you were a saint.”
Using her sleeve again, she blotted her eyes and cheeks and surreptitiously wiped her nose. No great loss, in his estimation. The sweater, the same one she’d worn to the funeral, was an overly bulky, blah-gray thing better consigned to the ragbag.
He suggested, “How about I make us some coffee?”
She shook her head.
“Tea? Sure. You’d probably prefer tea.” He was reaching to switch on the lamp near him when Cathryn emitted a strangled groan and shot off the couch. In the sudden illumination all he saw was her back disappearing down a darkened hallway. The next moment he heard the sounds of retching.
Whistling tunelessly, he bided his time until he heard the toilet flush. Then he got up, slipped off his jacket and went to help her. She was still hunched over the bowl, clutching her stomach and shivering. He found a washcloth in the undersink vanity, wet it with cool water and pressed it to her cheek. She nodded her gratitude and took it from him. Next he found mouthwash and poured a shot into a paper cup. After rinsing and spitting, she straightened and met her image—and his—in the lighted mirror.
She mewled. “Oh, God!”
He couldn’t refute her. Her cheeks were blotched, her eyes were swollen and her nose was red as a June strawberry. Groaning, she made a futile stab at her hair, most of which had escaped its elastic and now hung in loose, wild tangles. “What a wreck!” she choked out, her gaze grazing Tucker’s. “No wonder Dylan…” She let her sentence trail off, squinched her eyes shut and clutched the rim of the sink with desperate tightness.
Standing behind her, Tucker studied her reflection curiously. She was a woman he hardly knew, a woman he hadn’t thought about in years and expected to forget again soon after he left. Yet, in those emotion-marred features he could still see the pretty little girl she’d once been, with bows in her hair, scabs on her knees, and a heart of pure gold. Although he’d often mocked her klutziness and fuss-budget ways, he really hadn’t minded her all that much. And he’d always appreciated her generosity toward him, her compassion—from the nerdy pom-pom hat she’d knitted for him his first Christmas on the island to the party she’d helped Winnie organize the day he left.
Tucker smoothed her hair and smiled encouragingly. “If you’re feeling better, maybe we can move to the kitchen?” She pulled in a deep breath and nodded.
Cathryn’s kitchen was much like the rest of the house, what little he’d seen of it, anyway—cabinets in light country oak, stenciled walls, ruffled curtains, and handcrafted doodads everywhere. Towels, place mats and chair pads coordinated. Cookbooks spanned the entire top shelf of a hutch. The rest held bric-a-brac, Valentines and photographs. Kids’ art and school papers patchworked the refrigerator, and a bulletin board that resembled command-central apparently kept everyone on track.
“Where do you keep your tea?” Tucker asked her.
“There. The cabinet by the fridge.”
Tucker opened the door and a pantry unfolded. His eyes widened as he took in the well-stocked shelves. He was about to ask her what kind of tea she wanted—she had nine different flavors—when she said, “I really don’t want tea. I’d much prefer brandy.”
He turned, frowning. “Can your stomach handle it?”
“Yes. This nausea is all nerves. The brandy will actually help.” She shuffled toward a cabinet near the hutch. “Sit. I’ll get it. What can I get for you?”
Tucker marveled that, even with her world tumbling around her, she felt obliged to play hostess.
“No. You sit. Just point me in the right direction.”
“No, I insist…”
After going back and forth a few more times, she deferred to him and slipped shakily into one of the Windsor chairs at the kitchen table. Tucker poured her some ginger brandy and got himself a beer—Dylan’s beer, he thought, wanting to kill the bastard.
“Do your parents know about this situation?” he asked, joining her at the table.
Cathryn lifted her brandy snifter with two hands to minimize the trembling, took a careful sip and swallowed. “No. I phoned my mother and asked her to pick up the kids at school and keep them overnight, but I lied about why. I said…” Her jaw quivered. She took another sip. “I said Dylan had surprised me with a belated Valentine gift—dinner and an overnight stay at the Old Harbor Inn. I know the excuse has holes, but it was the only one I could come up with. Dylan and I were in the thick of our…our discussion.”
Tucker nodded understandingly. “Have you called anyone else? A friend maybe? Is anyone coming over?”
Cathryn bowed her head, tears gathering on her lower eyelids. “No.”
Great. So he was IT, the ear for her to pour her troubles into, the shoulder for her to cry on. “Okay, Shortcake,” he said as soothingly as he could. “Tell me all about it.”
Hugging her waist, she slowly tipped forward until her forehead rested on the table’s polished surface. Tucker sighed. The woman could not sit up straight to save her life. It was as if she’d lost all strength in her backbone.
“Cathryn?”
“Mmm.”
“I understand your reluctance. I hate to talk about my personal life, too. But talking helps. At least that’s what they say.”
Cathryn raised her head and reached for her brandy. She was quiet so long, staring at the glass, that Tucker figured she’d decided to disregard his suggestion. But then, in a small, dull voice she began.
“IT ALL STARTED when I found a pair of earrings,” Cathryn said, uncertain if talking to Tucker was a good idea. Who was he, after all? she thought. At best, a distant acquaintance she hadn’t seen in years. At worst, a reprobate who probably endorsed extramarital affairs.
Still, he was here, and nobody else was, and maybe he had a point. Talking would make her feel better, regardless of who was listening.
Oh, but it was hard. She’d never talked about her marital problems before, and until now most of them had been minor. Her relationship with Dylan was sacred territory, not to be betrayed.
Then again, she’d been the only one playing by the rules, hadn’t she? She went on with her story.
“…Finally I simply confronted him with the fact that I’d found the earrings, and since he hadn’t given them to me…”
The brandy she’d sipped between sentences was having its desired effect. She was warming from the inside out, knots of tension releasing.
“I could see he was trying to invent an excuse but couldn’t. He had nothing to say, nowhere to turn, so he admitted the truth, he’s seeing her.”
“And he’s been seeing her for a year?” Tucker said unobtrusively.
“Fourteen months.”
Tucker raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How’d they pull that off on such a small island?”
“Apparently they met off-island, too. Times when I believed he was at a trade show or buying equipment or some such thing.” Despite the effects of the brandy, Cathryn felt a sharp echo of the shock and grief she’d felt upon first learning this. She pressed her fingertips over her lips and waited for the pain to subside, but it didn’t. She was in the van again, sitting beside her husband on the edge of hysteria, while the world as she knew it shifted and slid. She kept hearing Dylan apologize. “I’m sorry, Cath. I’m so sorry.” And then the crucial phrase, “I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”
Unthinkingly she’d snapped, “Oh? How did you want me to find out?”
“Not…this way. I thought we might go away for a few days. Just the two of us.”
She’d stared at him a long incredulous moment. What was Dylan saying? That he did want her to find out? Then, as understanding dawned, her already shifting, sliding world utterly shattered.
“Why?” she’d implored. “What went wrong? I thought we were happy.”
“And did he give you an answer?” Tucker asked.
Cathryn was jolted out of her daze by his voice. Had she been talking all this time?
