“If Dak stops paying the taxes there’s no way I can keep the house.”
“Well, you’ll be very rich. Dak said it would be worth millions.”
He watched her closely to see how she reacted to this.
Alex just stared off. “My dad probably won’t live to see the new year, will he?”
Devine was startled by the segue. “No, it’s doubtful that he will. Have you spoken to your mother about it?”
“I know everyone hates her because they think she abandoned Dad, but I don’t think that.”
“What do you think?”
“How about some hot tea? And I can light a fire in my dad’s old study. I’m chilled to the bone now, and not just with the weather.”
“Sounds good. I can help.”
They entered through the back door, where Alex stopped and said, “You mentioned you were on the widow’s walk?”
He looked embarrassed. “I was worried about you. I saw your bike and when you didn’t answer — the door was unlocked.”
“I get it, Travis.”
As he watched her in the kitchen prepare the tea he was struck by her vulnerability and, more important, how she was dealing with it. The woman had personal courage that was admirable. He imagined she took each day as it came, not attempting to go any further than that. And one day at a time was probably difficult enough for her.
He carried the tray while she opened the door to the study. Devine looked around at the worm-eaten walnut floorboards and darkened ceiling beams. In the middle of the room was an old partner’s desk with a well-worn green leatherback chair and a small wooden holder with a large fountain pen in it, and another stand that held two old smoking pipes. Bookshelves lined two walls. On the third wall was a large window looking out to the water. On the fourth was a brick-faced fireplace with a wooden mantel that held framed pictures. There was an old red leather couch and a couple of armchairs set around an industrial-style coffee table constructed of chunky, weathered wood with metal straps across the top and rusty metal wheels. He set the tray down on the coffee table.
“This place looks full of memories.”
Alex smiled as she poured out the teas and set some banana bread out on plates. “Good ones. At least for me.”
Devine handled the kindling and stacked the wood in a particular way in the fireplace. He thinned out an old page of newspaper, lit it, and held it up near the flue opening to draw the flames.
“You look like you’ve done that before,” she commented.
“Army and the Boy Scouts. Some of the training is the same.”
As the fire picked up they drew closer to it. Devine took a bite of the banana bread and exclaimed, “Damn, that is good.”
“I make it myself. It was a recipe Bertie shared.”
“A woman of many talents.”
“Yes, Bertie was.”
“I wasn’t talking about Bertie,” he said.
They stared awkwardly at one another before Devine broke off his gaze.
She said in a halting voice, “I loved coming in here as a child. This was originally Hiram Silkwell’s study, and all the Silkwell men have used it as their inner sanctum over the generations. Those pipes belonged to my grandfather, Tobias Silkwell. My father would be at the desk writing with the fat fountain pen that’s still in the holder over there. He had monogrammed stationery and his penmanship was perfect. I always tried to form my letters like he did. He wrote his own speeches and he liked to do it in here. He would read them to Jenny and she would critique them. He usually agreed with her comments. At least that’s what she told me.”
“One of yours?” said Devine, pointing at the painting hanging next to the window. It depicted four people in a sailboat.
“Yes. That was us, Dad and the three kids. Mom didn’t like to sail. She got seasick. But Jenny would race her little boat out on the gulf all the time. She was fearless.”
The way she said it made Devine a bit sad. Jenny had clearly intimidated her younger sister, but it seemed her death had also left a void in Alex’s life.
She rose and plucked a framed photo off the mantel and held it out to him. “I used this as the model for the painting.”
He looked at the picture and saw a sleek blue-and-white sailboat with twin sails and a cabin below. At the helm was Curtis Silkwell with a far younger Jenny next to him, one of her hands on the wheel next to her father’s. Off to the side were Alex and Dak.
“Someone took the picture from shore and gave it to us.”
“He obviously liked the painting, if it’s hanging in here.”
“I did that two years after... it happened. It was therapy.”
“I’m sure it was. It took you back to a safe time and a safe place.”
She smiled. “My dad was a daredevil sailor, too, even more than Jenny.”
Devine smiled. “How’d you all handle it?”
“Jenny pretended not to be scared. Dak was terrified and screamed bloody murder the first few times we went out, especially if the seas were rough, but then he got the hang of it.”
“And you?”
“I trusted my dad,” she said simply. She looked up at Devine as she handed him a cup of tea. “I knew he would never do anything to hurt us. And he was always in control even when he seemed not to be. He could do anything.”
“Sounds like you really love him,” said Devine.
“I knew he was this brave war hero from way back. But I never saw that side of him. He never had any of that stuff here. No medals or anything, and he never talked about it, even when we asked him. Well, Jenny and Dak did. I wasn’t interested.”
“It’s been my experience that the people who did the most in war talked about it the least, and the reverse is also true.”
She nodded and looked out the window, where the wind had intensified. It pushed against the glass with the firm pressure of a leviathan’s hand. Then there was a loud smack as possibly a tree limb hit the house; Devine felt his hand dart to his gun.
Get a grip, you idiot.
Alex said, “He was a good congressman and senator. He worked a lot with the state’s governors, especially Angus King, who is now a senator, too, and John Baldacci when he was the governor. My dad really cared about the people who live here.”
“Will you go down to see him?” he asked. “And your mother? She said she tried to call and got no answer. And she hasn’t seen or talked to you since the divorce.”
“It’s complicated, Travis,” she said, her expression tightening. “I’m a different person than I used to be. I don’t want to be different. I want to be happy and I am, sometimes. But sometimes things hit me and wipe the smile right off my face. My anxiety goes through the roof. I can barely breathe. The world feels like it’s closing in on me. It’s not Mom, really, it’s... me. And I don’t want her to see me... like that.”
She seemed to grip the teacup harder, and glanced at the fire. He could see her taking deep, moderating breaths and saying something under her breath. A calming phrase or chant, like she had mentioned.
“You’re safe with me, Alex. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
She gave him a sad smile. “But one day you won’t be here, and I will. ”
Of course, and what a stupid thing for me to say.
He stared at the flames, and couldn’t think of any suitable reply to her honest from-the-gut words.
Chapter 39
He left her there by the fire.
Devine looked back at the house as he sat in the SUV, his spirits as bleak as the weather.
The case had its difficulties, but so did every other challenge he’d confronted. No, it wasn’t the case that bothered him so much. It was knowing that no matter what he did he could not make people who were not whole, whole. Not Alex. Not Curtis Silkwell. Not his ex-wife. Not Earl or Annie Palmer. Not anyone whose life had been touched by Jenny Silkwell.