He said it again on his way out the door later.
“You, too,” Kathleen said.
Kathleen was out on the deck, wrapped in a cotton blanket, when Hal got home. It was one in the morning. He stood at the sink and wolfed down a sandwich. He didn’t see her, but Kathleen had a clear view of his face. She watched him rinse his hands and smile. She would have given anything to know what he was thinking.
Hal turned off the light, and Kathleen leaned back in the chaise lounge to look up at the sky and make wishes. After a little while, she got into bed, pressing her arm against her breast. The scar and the skin around it were numb.
In the morning, she found Buddy and Hal in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading the paper. Hal was already dressed, wearing the blue yarmulke again.
“I thought I’d go to Torah study,” he said as Kathleen kissed the top of his head.
Buddy raised his eyebrows. “I hope you’re not becoming a religious fanatic.”
Hal frowned a little and shrugged.
After he left, Kathleen told Buddy about Hal’s meeting with the rabbi in the restaurant and his late return last night. Buddy pumped her for more details but Kathleen had nothing more to add.
“I sure hope they’re not just talking about theology,” Buddy said.
“That might be a good place to start.”
“As long as it doesn’t end there.”
Kathleen put a finger up to her lips. “Shhhh.”
“Oh, I won’t say anything,” Buddy groused. “But I sure am going to cross my fingers.”
Kathleen crossed hers, too.
JOYCE WAS CONVINCED Patrick had seen her spying on him that night through the window. She had no proof, of course, and she knew it was irrational. But as she faced the weekend, she grew more and more certain that he wouldn’t call next week, that she’d never see him again.
Frank called three or four times a day on weekends, to apologize mostly. And weekends were hard, because that’s when Joyce missed Nina most.
She didn’t want to go too far from the phone, just in case Patrick did call (not that he would), but now she couldn’t stand to be inside the house either. All the rooms were painted, and every surface reproached her. The hallway trim had been finished in the afterglow of her first meeting with Patrick. The kitchen windows were completed after her first day of panting and grunting in Patrick’s bed. She finished the bedroom — hers and Frank’s — while plotting ways to peel off Patrick’s shirt.
Joyce called Kathleen a few times, but hung up before the machine clicked into gear. She couldn’t read, couldn’t even watch TV.
She stared out the window at the yard and winced at the mess. The kid they’d hired to mow the lawn had stopped showing up two weeks ago, and he’d never touched the borders and flowerbeds. The space around the untrimmed bushes had turned into a knee-high jungle.
Joyce knocked on her next-door neighbors’ door and borrowed Ben and Eric’s lawn mower and rake. She pulled Frank’s hand tools out of the garage and trimmed the bushes. Then she got down on her knees and started pulling weeds.
Gardening had always been Frank’s exclusive domain, to the point that it was a family joke. “Mom was attacked by a dandelion when she was a baby,” Frank had told Nina. “She’s been afraid of plants ever since.” Frank — who had grown up in apartment buildings — had acquired a shelf full of gardening books since they’d moved to Belmont, and a headful of facts about temperature zones, soil pH, and growing seasons. When they’d closed on the Gloucester house, he’d splurged on a fancy new set of shears that came with a suede holster. Frank probably misses this garden more than he misses me, Joyce thought.
She was surprised at how much she enjoyed yardwork. After paint fumes, the dirt and roots smelled sweet. She caught a tang of mint and chive in one of the overgrown flowerbeds. Did Mary Loquasto grow herbs, or was it someone from long ago? A fisherman’s wife’s kitchen garden? Magnolia’s great-granddaughter, perhaps?
It was the first time she’d thought of Magnolia for weeks, and she let her mind wander in the direction that Kathleen had suggested that time at Good Harbor. What if Magnolia did end up here, in Gloucester? She’d have to kill Jordan in order to provide her heroine with new romantic tension. Poor Jordan. She smiled as she considered whether to finish him off by scurvy, storm, or pirate attack.
On Sunday, she filled two more bags with weeds, dead leaves, and bits of paper. Ben and Eric stopped to admire her progress and offered her some orange lilies from their yard. “They’re totally overgrown and we need to divide them,” Eric said. “You’d be doing us a f
avor.”
Joyce accepted, knowing how Kathleen would get a kick out of her joining the daylily club. She thought a lot about Kathleen as she worked outside: her health, her fears, her sons, her confidences. God bless Kathleen, Joyce thought. It’s strange how effortless friendship seems, especially compared to family. Just showing up qualifies you for a medal. I really need to find something to celebrate the end of her treatment. Maybe I can find a “Duck and Cover” poster somewhere.
For some reason, as she worked outdoors, Joyce didn’t think about Patrick at all.
By Sunday afternoon, only one big cleanup project remained. Joyce squared her shoulders and headed for the bed surrounding the statue of Mary. She felt sheepish about leaving this for last. “You are a superstitious nitwit,” she lectured herself as she grabbed the trowel and an empty bag and headed for the “grotto.” Did she think the Madonna was going to come to life and paint a big red A on her chest? Did she believe Mary even cared about her sorry Jewish sins?
Father Sherry had called and left a few apologetic messages. His mother was ill and had taken several turns for the worse. Someone from the rectory had called yesterday to say the priest was still in Detroit.