The Shadow Box(72)

40





CLAIRE


Maybe I had just made the biggest mistake of my life—agreeing to meet a woman from the internet claiming to have information that seemed almost impossible to believe. But I knew I couldn’t stay in my cabin forever, and if I wanted to save myself, I had to hear her story.

A few more people had arrived at the beach, set up their chairs and umbrellas, but I’d borrowed one of Tom’s USCG caps and a big towel from Jackie’s cupboard, and I walked along the seawall at the top of the sand with my head down and the towel draped around my shoulders. I made it to the path without being noticed.

There were so many better places to meet a stranger, but without a car, my choices were limited. I didn’t want to lead Fenwick388 toward my cabin, so I’d directed her to veer right toward the granite bench at the edge of the marsh, instead of into the woods.

I waited in a pine glade so thick and shadowed that the morning sun couldn’t pierce the boughs. I was invisible, yet I had a perfect view of the bench overlooking the salt pond and narrow creeks winding through the wide green marsh. This was the site of many joyful crabbing expeditions—from my own childhood and that of most Hubbard’s Point kids. We’d tie a fish head to a string and pull out buckets of blue shells.

Birders also loved this spot. It was a great place to view shorebirds. During fall and spring migration, warblers passed through in great numbers, and it was common to see people with spotting scopes on tripods dotted throughout the reeds. Right now, the coast was clear.

I remembered one spring with Nate. I had always loved the work of Roger Tory Peterson, the great artist and ornithologist who had lived just a few miles north. When Nate and I were first married, he gave me a pair of vintage Zeiss 7 × 42s—the same binoculars Peterson had used. They weighed a ton compared to more modern optics, but they were razor sharp, bright, with a wide field of view.

We had settled in right here, among the pines, watching a pair of common loons. Brilliant black-and-white birds with red eyes and the ability to dive and stay under for long stretches, they lived up to twenty-five years.

“They mate for life, you know,” Nate said.

“People say that about all avian species,” I said. “Swans, cardinals, egrets . . .”

“Because it’s true,” he said, letting his binoculars hang from the strap around his neck, pulling me close.

“You just want it to be,” I said. “Because you’re such a romantic.”

“You’re not?” he asked.

I didn’t answer, and he kissed me, eased me down onto the blanket of pine needles. The trees were so thick we knew no one would see us, so we undressed each other and made love, and as I was holding him tight, I closed my eyes and knew I wanted more than anything to believe that love lasted forever.

Sometimes I asked myself why I’d left Nate. He was so good, so kind, and so right for me, and I think that was the problem. Losing my parents had set me adrift in ways my mind couldn’t comprehend; I had stopped believing things, especially those that mattered most, could endure.

Now, waiting for Fenwick388, whatever that stood for, I was on high alert. Ever since the attack, I had felt as if I’d been turned inside out, as if all my nerve endings were on the outside. I watched the beach—the direction from which she would come—and saw it was filling up with people. It was a bright, warm June day, and a lot of kids were already out of school. Their whoops and cries of happiness as they ran in and out of the water made a type of background music.

When I looked back, toward the path, I saw a woman hurrying along in my direction. She had shoulder-length blonde hair and killer cheekbones, and she wore wide-legged pants reminiscent of a ’40s movie star. I didn’t recognize her—but given the timing, I knew she had to be Fenwick388. As she got closer, I felt my body tense and shrank deeper into the pine shadows. This was it, make or break: once she saw me, someone would know my secret—that I was alive, that I was right here.

She arrived at the stone bench, just fifteen yards away from me. She turned in a full circle, alert and obviously looking for someone. I could see that we were about the same age. My heart was beating so fast that I felt the pulse pounding in my neck as if I had sprinted a mile. My mouth was dry.

“Anne?” she called. Then louder: “Anne!”

I almost didn’t move. What made me think I could trust this stranger from Facebook more than I could Jackie or Conor? Even now, thinking it could be a trap, I stepped out of the pines, into the bright sunlight.

“Fenwick388?” I asked.

Her mouth dropped open, and she took two slow steps toward me.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Claire.”





41





CONOR


Wade Lockwood had called Conor to say that he wanted to meet—not at his Catamount Bluff home but at his office in Easterly. When Conor had asked what it was about, Lockwood had said only “Claire,” preferring to save the rest until their meeting.

Conor was early, so he went through the Dunkin’ drive-through and drove along the Easterly semirugged waterfront. He passed brick buildings dating to the 1800s. The ground floors of some housed bars and cafés, with apartments on the second and third floors. Others were abandoned. The sign on a long-shuttered stereo store was faded from sun and salt air. An old vaudeville theater with ornate columns and cornices had been boarded up as long as Conor could remember.