Nine Lives(7)

He turned on to Trail Ridge Way, the long, sparsely populated road that culminated in a cul-de-sac anchored by three brand-new mansions, each in distinctly different styles. His was the Italianate one, at least it was Italianate on the outside, although distinctly Palladian, if that was the correct word, on the inside. Thinking of the house, his mind turned to Nancy. Was she better, or worse, lately? He wasn’t even sure anymore, although in the past few weeks her obsessive thoughts had been mostly about Alex, and the latest tests to determine his disorder, and less about Matthew’s “affair” with his new executive assistant. She was wrong about the affair, of course; Matthew, except for an occasional fantasy he allowed himself, usually about Ellen Matthiessen, the head of legal, had been faithful for all fifteen years of his marriage. It was true that he’d gone out for drinks with his team back in July, and had ended up walking Jada Washington back to her apartment in the South End before returning to the Back Bay to get his car, but Jada, who mostly talked that night about her obsession with The Mortal Instruments books, had reminded him more of his own daughter than any potential object of desire. His mistake had been that he told Nancy about the evening, thinking she’d be amused that his “executive assistant” had so much in common with their twelve-year-old daughter. She hadn’t been amused. She’d kept him up all that night accusing him of infidelity. He managed to convince her that nothing had happened, and spent the remainder of the summer trying to convince her that he hadn’t wanted anything to happen. But she’d been quiet about the subject for over a week now, and possibly, just possibly, it was over.

He pulled his Lexus into the four-car garage, then sat for a moment, listening to a few more minutes of his Foo Fighters mix before heading through the vestibule into the kitchen, where Nancy, leaning against the island, was holding up a piece of paper for him to see as he entered.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You tell me,” she said.

He approached her tentatively, just as Alex came racing into the room, wearing the ninja outfit, complete with plastic samurai sword, that he’d already picked out for Halloween. Matthew fended off Alex’s repeated attacks, as he took the sheet of paper from Nancy. It was a list of half a dozen or so names, including his. None of the other names on the list was familiar.

“What is this?” he asked his wife, then, turning to his son, yelled “Alex! Enough!”

“I don’t know what it is. It came for you in the mail today, and I’m sure I wasn’t supposed to see it, and I wish I hadn’t, but now that I have, I’d like to know what it’s all about. Some sort of code.”

“I have no idea. Alex, that’s enough. Go find Joshie, and see if he wants to play. Nance, why are you making that face? What do you mean, some sort of code?”

“Well, I don’t understand what it is, that’s all.”

“I don’t understand it either. It’s probably nothing, just some mistake. What was on the envelope?”

Nancy turned and retrieved the envelope from the pile of mail on the granite countertop. Emma came into the kitchen and hugged Matthew as Alex careened off to look for his younger brother, hiding probably, since Joshua was the only six-year-old in the country who didn’t like play fighting.

“There’s nothing on it. That’s why I was suspicious.”

Emma took the sheet of paper from her father and began to read it.

“Honestly, Nance, I have no idea.”

“There’s an Abby Horne in my school but I don’t think there’s an Alison Horne,” Emma said.

“Never mind,” Nancy said, pouring herself a glass of wine now. “It just looked suspicious. I overanalyzed.”

“What did you think it was, Mom?” Emma asked, her voice verging on disdainful. Matthew had noticed that as Emma had gotten older she’d become more and more critical of her mother, as though she were starting to recognize some of the more erratic nuances of Nancy’s personality. It was not a comforting thought.

Joshua entered the kitchen, crying, a pink welt raising up along his cheek. Matthew went to look for Alex. The samurai sword had been a huge mistake.





8





FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 7:00 A.M.


Early September was the best time of year, by far. It was still summer, the normally cold Atlantic Ocean was at its warmest, and the tourists—the ones with brats, anyway—had gone for good. The stretch of sandy beach that led from the Windward Resort up to the stone jetty was practically unoccupied (one lone figure crouched near the tide pools) as Frank Hopkins took his morning walk about half an hour after sunrise. The sky was the sickly color of fish chowder, and there was mist hovering above the sand. He wore shorts and topsiders but had pulled an old cotton sweater on over his polo shirt. Unless he was mistaken, mornings had been a little bit cold lately. Or maybe his bones were getting cold. Getting old and getting cold, he rhymed to himself, then stopped for a moment to have a coughing fit.

After he was moving again, he nearly stepped on the carcass of a seagull half covered by the shifting sand. There was part of a wing, an exposed spine, what looked like its beak, open slightly as though it were cawing. His stomach flipped a little, which probably had more to do with that glass of brandy he’d drunk in his room last night after closing time. He’d known it was a mistake but couldn’t help himself, propped up in his bed on four or five pillows, trying to remember what it was that Shelly had told him in the lounge, something about her husband wanting to move to Florida. She wasn’t happy about it, that much he knew, but the sound system in the lounge was getting louder and louder these days and he didn’t catch everything she’d said. He hoped that Shelly, who’d been tending bar at the Windward for over a decade, wouldn’t leave, but he supposed it was inevitable. Bartenders come and go. Just like wives, and just like the years. Still, losing Shelly would hurt. Spending every evening with her—even from opposite sides of a bar—was the best part of his day.