The Law of Bound Hearts (3 page)

In the car she had no destination in mind, but she was aware of Richard watching from the kitchen window and so backed out of the drive like a woman with a mission. Once away from the house, she drove aimlessly through town, away from the lake, up Deerpath, past the library, onto Western, up Illinois. She was so edgy that for a moment, as she drove by the Deer Path Inn, she actually considered going in and ordering a glass of wine. One wouldn't kill her, but it wasn't one glass she wanted. It was five. Ten. Oblivion. She thought next of heading north on 94 toward Wisconsin—maybe stop at Gurnee Mills, pick up a sweater for Mercedes, something for Matt. Not too long ago she would have spent an afternoon like this in a frenzy of shopping. She would have bought a pair of new leather boots for herself, high-heeled ones to show off her legs. Shopping, like slim ankles, was one more pleasure that had been taken from her.

She looped around town again and then, without conscious intent, pulled the Volvo into the parking area for the Open Lands. The lot was empty, unusual for a midday in October, and she was surprised to find herself here. This was Richard's spot, not hers. He was the one who loved the prairie, volunteered each fall for the seed collecting, knew its history like he knew his own. Imagine, he had said to her, imagine the first time white settlers laid eyes on this place, coming from the east, the land of forest and trees, and seeing this expanse, this sea of grasses. Imagine how it was back then, grassland that was unending. It would be unlike anything they had ever experienced, no matter the country from which they had immigrated. An ocean of grass. The opening edge of a new world. Imagine.

Richard saw poetry in the prairie, in its history and botany, and he was familiar with the works of the poets and writers and naturalists who had sung its song. He could recite word-perfect Sandburg's lines. All she could remember was the beginning, the part about “The prairie sings to me in the forenoon,” and she's wasn't absolutely certain she had that right. Richard knew the names of the grasses: big bluestem, switchgrass, Indian grass, the prairie sedges, prairie dropseed. He knew the grasses by season and height, just as he did the scores of flowering plants—purple meadow rue, drooping coneflower, swamp milkweed, wild bergamot, prairie dock—and he had informed her that the roots on some grasses reached a depth of eighteen feet. In spite of his patient tutelage, Libby still couldn't tell them apart. In truth, the prairie made her nervous. It was too untamed. She didn't like the idea of what might be hiding in the tall grass, where there were always rustlings. Mice and voles and rabbits, and that was the least of it. There were foxes, too, she knew. And coyotes and snakes. If she had been a pioneer, on that first sight of the tall grass she would have turned right around and fled to the security of forested land, which, while wilderness, didn't threaten her in the way the prairie did. She couldn't explain what impulse had brought her here this afternoon.

She sat for a minute, gathering energy, then opened the car door. The ground gave underfoot—it had rained on and off for weeks— and she went to the trunk and retrieved her gardening boots. She had not hosed them off after her last walk with Richard and soil caked the soles. As she leaned against the fender for balance, the warmth of sun-heated metal radiated through her slacks, spreading across her thighs. Robbed of so much this past year, she was surprised at the rush of pleasure that simple sensation brought. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, then after a minute bent to replace her shoes with the boots.

She took the path leading directly through the center of the prairie, walking between the fall-dried stalks and frost-blighted seed heads, the desiccated blossoms of goldenrod and milkweed and other plants she couldn't identify. Grasshoppers flitted around her ankles. Dragonflies fed in grasses turned autumn gold, wine russet. At least today the path was deserted and she didn't have to contend with the usual horde of dog walkers. Dopey-grinned retrievers straining at their tethers, desperate to be freed and pawing at you, slobbering drool. Jittery Irish setters. Mr. Bagley and that nasty little cocker spaniel.

She had walked only a mile when she grew winded. Her stamina faded quicker these days. As recently as July she was able to make the three-mile loop without problems. Carlotta had warned her about this, but still Libby was surprised at how quickly she was losing ground. She sat on a bench beneath the gnarled limbs of a firestunted bur oak. A brass plaque on the wooden back proclaimed it had been given in memory of “Buddy Who Loved This Land.” Man or animal? she wondered. Half the benches erected along the paths had been given in honor of dogs. Overhead, two crows dove at a red-tailed hawk. She sat for a minute, felt her chest rise and fall with the beating of her heart.

“I'm dying,” she said. It was the first time she had spoken the words aloud.

Sam

Tea for two. Two for tea.
Me for you and you for me alone.

Flap, flap, flap, ball change.
Sam relies on Libby's feet for directions and thus
is a half beat behind. They are dancing too close, nearly touching, but Sam ignores Miss Nickels's instructions, hissed from the wings, telling them to
space it out.
In dress rehearsal Sam knew the steps
perfectly,
but now they have van
ished from memory. She is one breath away from damp humiliation, though they
were told to visit the girls' room just before they went on, because, “We don't
want an accident, now, do we.” Their parents promised they'd be in the front row,
but Sam can't look out. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, and although
their teacher has told them they must count only in their heads, she thinks it
might help if she says the beats aloud.
One and two and three and four.
The
joy she usually finds in the metallic clicking of her tap shoes is eclipsed by fear.

Flap, flap, flap, ball change, ball change.
They're dressed in identical
outfits, bear costumes their mother stayed up all night to finish. Brown terry-cloth ears perch on their heads and are anchored by elastic straps beneath their
chins. Libby hates these costumes and has begged Miss Nickels to let them wear
leotards like the older girls, but is told, “No, this number is always performed by
dancing bears.”

Adorable, a woman in the audience says.A happy voice. Not their mother's.
The chinstrap cuts into Sam's flesh. Inside the costume she is sweaty. Her stomach prickles. Offstage, two older boys begin to argue. She stares desperately at
Libby's feet. Finally,
finally,
Mrs. Bowman strikes the last notes on the piano
keys—
how happy we will be
—hitting the “be” with a thud. Sam keeps
going a few steps after the music ends. Libby stands center stage. They have practiced the bowing part at rehearsals, but now Sam is too bashful. Independent of
her, Libby bends forward, her bow so deep her hand sweeps the floor. Their
mother will say Libby is showing o f.Above the applause, Sam hears their father
calling their names and dares to look out at the upturned faces. He is standing,
making a loud whistle with two fingers in his mouth. Their mother remains
seated. Sam can almost hear her whisper to their father, For heaven's sake, Peter,
don't encourage the child. Their mother is always scolding Libby, telling her to
behave like a lady. Libby waves at the audience and then bows again, defying
both their mother and Miss Nickels, who at the dress rehearsal yesterday warned
everyone that they were to take just one bow each.

With an impatient swoosh, the curtain cuts off the audience.A group of toy
soldiers push and stumble onstage while Mrs. Bowman makes a production of
switching sheet music. Miss Nickels motions to them, urging them to hurry, to
get out of the way, but Libby takes her time leaving the stage. In the wings, she
pulls off Sam's bear ears, as if she knows how much the strap is hurting, the
way she always knows what Sam is feeling. “You were great, Sam-I-Am,” Libby
says, swooping Sam up in a big hug. A bear hug. A bear hug from a bear. Sam
smiles to herself at the joke. The welt beneath her chin, the hot suit, the way she
couldn't remember the dance steps and didn't bow at the end, all is forgotten in
the comfort of Libby's embrace. She loves Libby best in the world.

Yesterday can't be undone. And eventually all things—even things you don't want to remember—come to the surface. Sam leaned against the table, as if bracing herself against a past she could not bear and a future she could not know. Her throat closed, so tight she feared she would never be able to swallow again, and heaviness settled in her chest, as if she had swallowed stones.

Libby. The sister who had taught her how to play hopscotch and French-braid her hair, who had thought up names for her PlaySkool people and protected her. Words from a bumper sticker she had recently seen sprang to mind:
Embrace the Past.
As if that were possible. Well, screw that. The past was just that, past. Today was what mattered.

Across the room, the oven timer dinged. Resolutely, Sam tuned out memory—the
unembraceable
past—and turned on automatic pilot. She set the final batch of cakes out on the baker's rack. Steam wafted up, and she inhaled the scent of cocoa, let it bathe her, as if its sweet moisture contained power to heal.
Automatic pilot.
While the chocolate rounds were cooling, she returned to the sugar shells and finished up the last of them.
The Sanderson order,
she remembered, and got up to check the supply of pearl dust, which was low, after all. She needed glycerin and almond paste, too.

She filled the sink with soapy water and started scrubbing the beaters and mixing bowls. It took a good thirty minutes to clean up. Upstairs, her living space was totally cyclone headquarters, but here, on the first floor, she was disciplined about order and cleanliness. By the time she had finished, it was after seven, later than she expected, but Lee would still be at the boatyard. She sectioned two limes and grabbed a six-pack of Beck's from the walk-in. They could order out for pizza.

She was nearly out the door when she realized she had forgotten to leave a note for Stacy. She scrawled the list—pearl dust, glycerin, almond paste—and added a reminder to order from Beryl's, the most dependable of the suppliers, and a notation to add extra for overnight express. She'd need a double order of the dust, since she'd be using it for the Weaver cake as well. (Her favorite trick: pearl dust mixed with lemon extract painted on a cake to make it come to life.) As she finished the memo, her eyes fell on the message light, which was blinking obsessively. She reached to press ERASE, hesitated a second, then surprised herself by punching MESSAGES.

“Sam? Sam, are you there?” Six years since she'd heard her sister's voice. She swallowed, reminded herself to breathe. “It's Libby. I need to talk to you. It's important. Will you call me? Please.”

She sank down onto the desk chair, stared at the phone as if there were more.
Please,
Libby had said. Her voice sounded soft, but something else, too. If it had been anyone but Libby, Sam would have called it vulnerable. She hardened herself to this thought.

She reached over and jabbed ERASE. This time she didn't hesitate.

A half block away from the boatyard, Sam saw shafts of light shining up through skylights, beckoning her. From the parking lot, she smelled wood smoke and was cheered by the idea of the stove—and Lee—waiting inside. Okay, here was one for the gratitude list. Alice Hardwin. Sam was deeply, eternally grateful for Alice Hardwin.

When she relocated from Mattapoisett to Sippican a year before, Sam had chosen Alice to help her find a place for her business. The other agents in the realty office—all women—were slender and well turned out, but Sam felt immediately comfortable with Alice, a middle-aged widow, overweight, careless with grooming, but radiating good intentions and kindness. At that moment, Sam needed kindness more than slick professionalism.

They weren't in Alice's Mazda more than a half hour—one property seen and rejected—when Alice got to the point. Are you single? she asked. Sam answered yes, not bothering to fill in the sorry details of her marital history. Alice beamed. “I have a son,” she'd said. Don't they all, Sam thought, barely suppressing an eye-roll.

His name was Hurley. Hurley Hardwin. That alone told Sam all she needed to know. She pictured a sad sack of a man, stoop-shouldered and doughy, like Alice. Hurley, burley, pudding and pie, she thought. God. She might be thirty-seven and divorced, with no prospects in sight, but she had
standards.
Single but not desperate, that was her motto. She shut out the rest of the Realtor's ramblings.

On the third day, when Sam had given up all hope of finding a place, Alice said there was one more property she could show her, a Victorian located three streets west of Front Street in a block zoned for business. Although it was more than she could afford, Sam thought what the heck and agreed to drive by.

She laughed when she saw it. The house, boasting a fresh coat of lavender,
was
a cake, in the way gingerbread-trimmed Victorians were. Inside, everything was perfect. There was a spacious kitchen running the length of the back that would be large enough for commercial equipment, a paneled dining room that could be transformed into an office, and a sunlit parlor with an oversize bay window where, once she stripped the truly atrocious wallpaper, she could meet with prospective brides. On the second floor were three large bedrooms where she could live. It was too perfect, but what made Sam decide on it, despite the price, were the foundation plantings on both sides of the central entrance. According to Alice, the shrubs were a spirea called bridal wreath. Some signs were too obvious to ignore. Sam made an offer that afternoon and by five, barely time for regrets or second thoughts, it was accepted.

To celebrate, Alice insisted on having her to dinner. They settled on six thirty, and when it was too late for Sam to back out gracefully, Alice mentioned that Hurley would be joining them. Sandbagged, Sam thought.

Sam didn't dress to impress, barely bothered with makeup. The wine she picked out was a cheap Chablis. (Surely Alice stuck to the whites.) Sam would eat, claim exhaustion, make an early escape. She was late arriving and as she headed up the walk, the aroma of brewed coffee and cooked meat wafted toward her. She could picture the entire meal: pot roast, mashed potatoes, canned vegetables, homemade relish. Packaged rolls.

Alice opened the door before Sam had even raised a hand to knock. “I can't wait for you two to meet,” she said.

Save me, Sam thought.

Hurley was in the kitchen. He stood when she entered, then smiled. He was just shy of six feet, his body compact, muscular. His eyes were brown and calm. She had to catch her breath.

“Samantha,” Alice said, “meet Hurley.”

“Lee,” Hurley corrected. “Most everyone calls me Lee.” He took the wine from her. She smelled the citrus scent of his aftershave. He wore a blue work shirt, freshly ironed, and Levi's, just the right side of snug. She wanted to sink through the floor. She wanted to start over, wanted to take a shower, shampoo and blow-dry her hair, put on her black jeans, the ones that made her look thinner, and her good gray cashmere turtleneck. And earrings. Jazzy dangling ones. And makeup. At the very least, lipstick and eyeliner. She wanted to have chosen a good merlot. Her stomach was heavy with that pulsing heat she hadn't felt in a long time.

He smiled again and she actually felt her knees weaken. Not a good sign. Jesus, she thought. A guy says hello and you're ready to start ordering the monogrammed towels. If she knew what was good for her, she'd get out of there so fast there would be burn marks down the center of the drive. Instead she accepted a glass of wine.

And that was the beginning.

Later, Alice said it was inevitable that Sam and Lee should fall in love. She maintained it was because of all the good karma Sam had accumulated creating wedding cakes for brides while she herself remained single. Alice believed in things like karma, or her understanding of it, which was pretty much gleaned from daytime TV. The Gospel According to Oprah governed Alice's life. Although Sam wasn't about to make light of Alice's beliefs (she had her own rites and rituals that saw her through), she was banking on there being no such thing as karma. She didn't even want to think about all she might have to answer for.

By moonlight Sam made out the hulks of two boats resting in yard cradles. They had been delivered the week before and were, she knew, rotted and worm-eaten. One had been vandalized.

It always amazed Sam that these wrecks could be salvaged. It seemed it would be easier to start from scratch with a new boat than to go to the labor and expense of attempting to restore these disasters. To the average viewer, to her, they looked beyond reclamation, but not to Lee. He saw in them the possibility of new life, or, more precisely, a return to their former glory, a careful restoration, every step undertaken with the integrity of the original vessel in mind. “Boats have feeling and personality,” he had told her. “Start screwing around with that and who knows what's going to happen to you.” He worked on these projects with a patience that astonished her. He talked about antiquated tools the way another man might talk about a perfectly executed double play or about Elle Macpherson. He claimed he could tell if a hull was wood or fiberglass not with his eyes but with his ears. Wooden boats were smoother under way, he said. And the sound of water hitting a wooden hull was much more real and pure than the slapping of water against plastic. He was truly saddened that there were entire generations who would never learn the tradition of wooden boats. He was a rescuer. A rescuer of boats and cats. And her, although, before Lee, she hadn't even known she needed rescuing.

She stood in the lot a moment inhaling the salt-heavy air that blew in off the harbor. She had grown up in the western part of the state, in the shadow of the Berkshires, but she had never felt a connection to the mountains like the one she felt to the sea. After a week in Sippican she'd vowed that for the rest of her life she would never live more than an hour's drive from the ocean. She took one more deep breath and then she slipped in through the office door, holding it open so the two yard cats could sweep in. A Phish CD was on. At least he wasn't playing Ricky Martin. A string hammock holding rolled cylinders of boat designs hung over the drafting table. A bracketed shelf on one wall sagged beneath the weight of books, empty champagne bottles. Stacks of WoodenBoat magazines were piled on the floor beneath.