Hawkes Harbor

  "Guess so."

  Rick still insisted no one else take care of his boat. This care included Jamie taking the boat for a sail on his days off. Rick, in reality, didn't have much time to sail anymore but made sure Jamie had a legitimate excuse to use the boat.

  The Hawkeses had a kind streak but seemed terrified that someone would find out.

  "Were you at the shelter this morning?" Rick handed the apple pie around.

  "Just for a couple of hours. Christmas, Thanksgiving, we get a lot of volunteers," Jamie answered. "Wish they'd remember people are homeless other days of the year."

  "You know, you never have been able to get Grenville down there." Trisha slyly caught Rick's eye. Jamie's inability to tolerate the least criticism of Grenville had been a family joke for years.

  Once Rick tried to laugh about it to Grenville. Grenville had gazed at him with eyes of winter midnight and said, "Jamie's loyalty has always been one of his most estimable qualities. One we would all do well to emulate." Rick was uncomfortable enough with the look, the tone, the words, to never bring it up again.

  As if cued, Jamie said, "Grenville writes us some nice-size checks. That's hard enough for him. People help in different ways."

  He took a bite of pie. "It's not like I see your young smart asses down there helping, either."

  They ate in silence for a moment. Then Mrs. Pivens cleared her throat.

  "We enjoyed the Christmas pageant this year."

  "Nobody fell off the stage and broke their arm. That's all I ever ask."

  Jamie still couldn't figure out how the job of making scenery had turned into the job of assistant stage manager for the school plays. The job mainly consisted of helping Miss Maples herd kids on and off the stage, hissing lines to terrified performers.

  "Mickey was a darling angel," Mrs. Pivens said.

  Jamie laughed. "He's a little hell-raiser."

  "Must get it from Katie," Trisha said.

  "Wait till two years from now, when you get the twins," Mrs. Pivens said. "Katie and Mitch are bringing them all by a little later."

  "I guess you know, Katie's started on her fourth," Jamie said. "Says she can already tell it's another boy."

  Mrs. Pivens gave him a sympathetic look, but before anyone could say anything, Jamie got up, searched the fridge, and held up an icy bottle of champagne.

  "Some Christmas cheer."

  "This looks like good stuff." Rick eyed the foil label. "One of my chores this week was picking up the Christmas liquor," Jamie said. "I thought a tip was in order." Grenville had agreed. The cork made a satisfying explosion. "Merry Christmas."

  When Jamie pulled the car around to the front entrance of the Manor, Grenville and Louisa were already down the steps. Lydia and Richard waved from the doorway, then the ponderous door swung shut.

  Jamie opened the back door of the black Mercedes sedan.

  "Do you think you are capable of driving us home?"

  "More capable than you are," Jamie said. Grenville could drink anyone in town under the table, but his driving skills left much to be desired.

  "Hop in."

  "Honestly, Jamie, have you ever seen Grenville hop?" Louisa asked in all seriousness.

  Jamie thought it better not to answer. He stopped at the Lodge.

  "Jamie," Louisa said, "if you ever get that firewood, you are under no circumstances to help unload it."

  "I concur." Grenville opened the door for Louisa. "You are no longer five and twenty, and with your bad back..."

  Jamie remained silent as they went into the Lodge. If Grenville did not return in ten minutes, Jamie knew to drive home alone. They should have gotten married a long time ago, Jamie thought. Then we'd have a little Hawkes running around the Hall I could teach to sail....

  After a short time, Grenville joined Jamie in the front seat.

  Jamie had made the drive between the Manor, the Lodge, and Hawkes Hall so many times he could have done it far drunker than he was now. He parked in front of the Hall and went around to open the door for Grenville—it was habit, Grenville no longer required servantlike behavior from him.

  "Jamie." Grenville frowned at him.

  Once that frown could make him cringe, but now Jamie realized Grenville just had too much port and was trying to think. No longer monster. No longer God.

  "What?"

  Jamie gave him a hand out of the car.

  "Look in the trunk."

  "The trunk?"

  "I ordered you a Christmas present and forgot to give it to you this morning."

  "Yeah?" Jamie was astonished. He hadn't expected anything; Grenville wasn't in the habit of giving him presents, unless it was clothes—Grenville didn't think Jamie's wardrobe suitable to his station a lot of times—but Jamie couldn't remember a Christmas present other than a bonus.

  "B-b-but I didn't get you anything." He hated it when his old stammer reappeared.

  "Don't be absurd. Open the trunk."

  Absurd; hell, Jamie thought. He'd go out and get Grenville a present tomorrow. He'd show him—

  He looked uncomprehendingly at the bundle in the trunk. Grenville lifted it out.

  "It's a goose-down quilt."

  "Yeah?"

  Geez, Jamie thought. We're both drunk. He took the bulky blanket. It was surprisingly lightweight.

  "Last month, when that insufferable woman from the historical society was going through the house, I noticed what a draft comes through your chimney. Your fire goes out before morning, doesn't it?"

  "Yeah," Jamie said. He was dumbfounded. He always did wake up cold, no matter how carefully he made up his fire. He couldn't remember a warm night at Hawkes Hall. Even in summer it held a chill. Too many trees. Too many secrets.

  "Well, this should help."

  "Yeah." Jamie hugged the quilt.

  "Shall we go in before we freeze?" Grenville said.

  Like he ever felt the cold, Jamie thought. The sharp wind made his eyes water, and he wiped them on the quilt.

  Hawkes Hall, Hawkes Harbor, Delaware December 26, 1978

  Jamie woke and dozed. A good morning. No bad dreams. Not the good one, either, but maybe tonight... No dread of the day. Not too much of a hangover. No freezing chills.

  Damn quilt works like insulation, he thought, and as always, thanked God he knew who he was, where he was, why he was.

  He never took that for granted. Always grateful for the gift of memory, flawed as it was.

  And this morning, he was grateful for a lot of things, this quilt being at the top of the list. He rolled over to look at his clock and as usual, got distracted by pictures. His nightstand was crowded with photos these days, not pill bottles.

  The group shot of the Christmas-pageant cast—the entire elementary school, Miss Maples on the top row, Jamie at the bottom. He changed that one every year, putting the old one in an album.

  The one Rick took, of Jamie and Michelle and Diane clowning around on the sailboat. That one always made him smile.

  Dr. McDevitt and his wife, taken on his around-the-world retirement cruise.

  Katie—at her wedding. It had been the first formal occasion Jamie had ever attended, and he was as nervous as Mitch, and surprisingly, for Mitch.

  In the reception line, he'd shook the lawman's hand, muttered, "Congratulations." Gave Katie a chaste peck on the cheek but couldn't speak—

  She'd cried, "Oh Jamie!" and thrown her arms around his neck in a fierce embrace—

  The photographer caught the moment.

  The look on Mitch's face was priceless.

  And Katie was so radiant—

  One of his favorites was the black-and-white shot of Grenville that Michelle took, her first visit.

  Copies hung in the library at the Manor, in Louisa's office at the Lodge. Michelle wanted it in her published collection, but Jamie'd asked her to leave it out.

  Grenville in the great hall of Hawkes Hall, in his black silk smoking jacket, reading by candle- and firelight. It caught the essence of the man,
was a stunning piece of art, but what caused the greatest controversy was behind him, in the shadows of the corner, you could see if you looked carefully, the transparent figure of Sophia Marie.

  Richard Hawkes always declared he saw nothing—yet refused to hang one in the office gallery.

  Everyone else was awed by it....

  Jamie was so warm it would be hard to get up ... then he saw his clock. "Holy shit!" Ten o'clock! He was normally up at seven a.m.

  "I'm sorry," he stammered, rushing past Grenville, who sat sipping coffee in the kitchen. "I musta forgot to turn on the alarm."

  "Don't worry, Jamie," Grenville said, without a trace of malice. "You'll be sorrier when you taste what I've concocted for coffee."

  Jamie found no sign of breakfast in the kitchen, except for a pot of coffee. He poured himself a cup and sat down. Grenville turned the page of the newspaper.

  "If that quilt is going to become a problem with your rising on time, I might take it back," Grenville said.

  Jamie took a sip of coffee and nearly choked. Grenville couldn't boil water, he thought.

  "You're not getting it back. First time I've ever been warm in the morning. You want me to fix breakfast?"

  "Well, maybe the day after Christmas is still a sort of holiday," Grenville said. "I just rose a short while ago myself. Let's go have breakfast in Hawkes Harbor."

  They ordered ham and eggs and waffles and more coffee at the Coffee Shoppe. Jamie was mildly hungover, but not too hungover to notice some stares they were getting.

  Everyone connected them—Jamie was fully aware that anytime his name was mentioned—Jamie Sommers—"who works for Grenville Hawkes" was added onto it.

  He didn't mind. There were worse things they could have added, he thought, had things gone the way they were going before he met Grenville....

  They were rarely seen in public together though, and Jamie was getting a kick out of the hushed whispers going around the cafe. Grenville was a Hawkes, a well-known business tycoon, with ties to the government, a big man around Hawkes Harbor. It was like being with a celebrity.

  And no matter how well it was known that Jamie worked for Grenville, it would occur to few that Grenville actually talked to him.

  "So, you got anything for me to do today? I was going to wrap the pipes. There's a cold front comin' in." Jamie had awakened thinking about insulation. He didn't want to deal with busted pipes, especially since being in the basement still gave him the creeps.

  "Would you drive me into D.C.? I have an afternoon appointment and frankly don't feel up to the drive."

  "Too much Christmas cheer?" Jamie grinned, liking the way he'd been asked instead of ordered, although of course, it was an order. A pleasant one, too. A long drive in the black Mercedes was hardly a chore. Jamie loved driving the Mercedes. He kept it immaculate. His own car was full of odds and ends of lumber, tools, fast-food wrappers.

  The D.C. traffic made him a little nervous, but he'd deal with that when he got there.

  Grenville scowled slightly.

  "I believe I am much more seasoned than you are."

  "Yeah, and not many people are," Jamie said. "Sure, I'll drive ya."

  Tomorrow would be a better day to wrap pipe, anyway. The cleaning crew was coming, Jamie'd have to be at home to supervise. The basement wasn't so bad if there were people in the house. And surely Davis would show up with that overdue firewood....

  It was a comfortable drive, though silent. Grenville looked over stock reports, shuffled through spreadsheets, rarely glancing at the snow piled high off the sides of the highway. The snow was days old, deep and heavy, but the plows had cleared the roads long ago.

  Jamie had driven this route many times; he let his mind wander. He kept thinking about the goose-down quilt, it was funny that Grenville would realize he needed it.

  He was still determined to get Grenville a Christmas present. A book would be good. God knew Grenville couldn't seem to get enough of them. He should have thought to ask Louisa... hell, he could pick one out himself.

  "Drop me off at the office building on the corner."

  Jamie wove through the downtown traffic. It was a little heavier than the usual Tuesday traffic—people shopping sales, returning Christmas gifts. Grenville took a tablet from the glove compartment and began writing.

  "Could you meet me on the twenty-second floor around five o'clock? I should be through by then. We can go somewhere decent for dinner."

  They had agreed to skip lunch, since breakfast was so late.

  "Okay," Jamie said. Grenville handed him the sheet of paper before he got out—it contained the time and place of their meeting.

  Jamie's short-term memory was vastly improved, but they had both learned to use this backup.

  Jamie found a space in a parking garage and wrote down its address before leaving.

  The Christmas decorations were still up in the stores, Christmas carols still blaring. Jamie strolled the streets, looking for a bookstore.

  He paused in front of the two-story storefront, sighing at the lines of people waiting to return or exchange their presents. But this would be his only chance.

  The history section was easy to find, but Jamie looked hopelessly at all the titles. Then he saw one he knew. He pulled it off the shelf.

  A DAY IN LIFE: HAWKES HARBOR 1770 by Louisa Kahne, Ph.D.

  There was a photo of Louisa on the back flap, her large silver-gray eyes set off by her salt-and-pepper curls. Funny, Jamie rarely noticed what a good-looking woman she was in real life. Jamie turned to the dedication page.

  "To my dear friend G. H. with affection and gratitude."

  Yeah, she should have affection and gratitude for Grenville, Jamie thought. He'd practically written the book for her.

  "We have a few copies of that book autographed by the author. She's a professor at Harvard."

  "Yeah." Jamie glanced at the sales clerk.

  "I know, I gotta autographed copy."

  Jamie, who changed history—love, Louisa. That was what she'd written.

  Jamie didn't enjoy reading, and even if he had, after all these years with Grenville, 1770 bored the hell out of him. But his copy of A Day in Life was one of his most treasured possessions.

  "What would you recommend for somebody who liked this book?" he asked.

  The clerk pulled out three others, and Jamie looked through them. He liked books with a lot of pictures. One had pictures of boats, the old sailing rigs, frigates, whalers, battleships, passenger schooners. Jamie sighed. He would love to sail a schooner....

  "I'll take this one," he said. He looked at the lines and sighed again. "You guys do gift wrap?"

  While he was waiting in line, he pulled out his ballpoint pen and wrote on the inside of the cover: Merry Christmas Grenville Thanks for the quilt. Jamie.

  Drawing Room, The Manor Hawkes Harbor, Delaware January 2, 1979

  Lydia Hawkes looked up from addressing the thank-you notes.

  "Who was that at the door, Richard?"

  "Some sort of delivery man, wanting to know where Grenville lived."

  Richard poured himself a brandy.

  "You know, Lydia, it gave me absolute nightmares, thinking he'd ask for a plot in the family cemetery."

  He savored the brandy, as he always did the first taste of the day, as he usually did the twelfth.

  "Though how very odd of Grenville, to choose that old graveyard on the island."

  Washington, D.C. December 26, 1978

  "I'm sure Mr. Hawkes will be out soon," the young secretary told him. The twenty-second floor was a big office. Glass and carpet and wood and plants. "Please take a seat."

  "Okay," Jamie said. He hung his overcoat on the coat rack next to Grenville's. He sank into a sofa and picked up a Forbes magazine but couldn't keep from watching the window, where a cold gray day was going into a darker twilight.

  "Looks like we might get some more snow." The secretary noticed his nervous glances.

  "Yeah," Jamie said.
r />   Sundown was still the worst part of the day for him. The coming of night always made him uneasy. If he were home, back at Hawkes Hall, he'd have something planned to do about now—a tricky piece of carpentry, a huge jigsaw puzzle, a complicated recipe; lately he'd been putting together a ham radio.

  Sometimes Grenville would ask him for a game of chess, and by a strange coincidence, it was always that time of the evening. (Viewing the game as a moving puzzle, Jamie had become surprisingly good—he had never beaten Grenville but often gave him a challenging game.)

  Anything that would require his full concentration, keeping his mind off the twilight.

  But here, there was nothing much to do besides watch it get darker. He noticed the magazine shaking in his hands. He put it down and got up to pace quietly in front of the window. A couple of hours into the night, he'd be okay again. Once he was through the twilight, he could make it through the night.

  He never reached for the tranquilizers anymore. And when his shoulder ached, like it was sure to do tonight, after a long day of driving, he took a couple of aspirins.

  Jamie thought it ironic, that after spending most of his life with easy access to drugs, that it took doctors and hospitals to turn him into an addict....

  Getting off the pills was hard, at first—hell actually—but Jamie was amazed at how much clearer he could think, once his mind was released from the fog. Sometimes he almost felt whole again, sort of like he'd been before the shooting.

  He'd never be the same completely. He still had the occasional nightmare that made him (and sometimes Grenville) wake from his screams; he would always startle easy. He cried much easier than he should have—kindness, and paradoxically, deliberate unkindness especially could cause unexpected tears. He had to be careful of what movies he went to, what headlines he glanced at.

  He had flashbacks as vivid as time travel.

  And even though he knew he could probably burn down the house before Grenville would fire him, he worried too much about losing his job.

  Before the shooting ... he'd been smarter then, but he was wiser now. He wasn't unhappy with the trade.