The Sweetest Summer: A Bayberry Island Novel

  Amanda arrived breathless at the motel room door just as Evie slipped into place at her side. They counted to three and Evie opened the door. Their mom and dad were waiting for them.

  “You’re thirty seconds early,” their father said. “But where the hell are your shirts?”

  Chapter Ten

  Just as Richard suspected, Charlie was in the barn. It was a particularly warm morning for Maine, well into the eighties. When Charlie heard him approach and glanced up in surprise, Richard could see his frayed work shirt was soaked with sweat.

  “Good morning, Mr. McGuinness. I was wondering if you’d have a minute to talk.”

  Charlie blinked, turned away, and continued what he was doing—tossing fresh hay into a barn stall. It was as if no one had spoken to him.

  Richard never spent much time in the country until he was forced to campaign in the rural reaches of his adopted state. He grew up in Hartford and then transitioned immediately to Manhattan, getting his undergraduate at Columbia. Then it was on to Boston, law school, and Tamara. So as he looked around this quaint Maine barn, he couldn’t even guess what kind of farming, if any, might be done on a property like this, or what kind of animals might be roaming about. Charlie disappeared into the stall without a word.

  “So, do you have horses? Do you ride?” Richard made this inquiry as he stepped into the shade of the two-hundred-year-old barn, aware that he hadn’t been invited to do so. He hoped casual conversation might loosen up the farmer, since Charlie McGuinness was about as stoic and cantankerous as any New Englander he’d ever run across. Richard heard Charlie clanging around with water and a bucket but he didn’t answer his question. He decided to try again. “Perhaps you have cows. I think I hear chickens, too, is that right?”

  Nothing.

  Well, this was awkward. Suddenly, Richard realized he must look out of place standing on a dirt floor in six-hundred-dollar Italian leather shoes and his custom-tailored, triple-pleated pants. But he’d come straight from the station in Boston. Changing his clothes hadn’t even occurred to him.

  He had come to Maine to have a chat with Charlie. So far, he’d made no progress. Richard decided to step outside the barn and wait until the old guy felt like talking, because he didn’t want to piss him off any more than he already had.

  As he turned to leave, Charlie exited the stall. “Why are you asking about this farm, Congressman?”

  Richard was about to respond when Charlie’s laughter cut him off—apparently that had been a rhetorical question.

  “Have you come to steal poor old Tussy now? Has ‘the child’ not been enough and now you want all our critters? How many chickens are you planning to take? We got four goats, too, and a cranky old mare. Do you want to ride her out of here? Should I tack her up for ya, Congressman?”

  Richard had never heard Charlie McGuinness speak so many words at one time. And every one of them was dripping with sarcasm and disgust. He tried to soften the tone of the conversation. “Now, Charlie—”

  “You want it all, you say?” McGuinness laughed again, resting his dirty hands on the hips of his cotton work pants. “You’ve come to grab the whole place out from under us? The house, the barn, the hay crop, the tractor?”

  “I believe we should move on from the sarcasm,” Richard said. “I’ve simply come to talk. Can I take you into town and maybe we could have a cold beer? You look like you could use a break.”

  “It isn’t even noon yet and I don’t drink, but if I did, you’d be the last soul on Earth I’d want to imbibe with.”

  Richard nearly laughed. Could this have started off any worse? He sincerely doubted it. “Iced tea, then? Lemonade?”

  Charlie peered around Richard toward the open barn door and the yard beyond. He craned his neck. “Where are your minions? I only see one car out there, though I know my FBI friends are where they always are, parked at the end of my lane.”

  “I came alone.”

  “What, no driver? No lawyers and aides and press people? Tell me you didn’t leave the house without your royal ass-wiper!”

  Richard shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at his shoes. This little get-together was going nowhere, and if he couldn’t find a way to defuse the old guy’s rage, then the trip would have been a waste of time. It might even make things worse.

  Richard raised his gaze to Charlie’s reddened face. “I chose Christina over my career and reputation. Her safety was so important to me that I went public with my paternity, though it might very well cost me my political future and my marriage.”

  Charlie tipped his chin, frowning. “Is that why you’re here? To tell me how inconvenient it’s been for you since you stole my granddaughter?”

  “I was alluding to the fact that the media exposure has been tremendous already, and I am optimistic we’re close to finding her.”

  “Ayuh, I have a TV, Wahlman. I saw how they’re tracking down Evelyn like some kind of terrorist, and I caught your little dog and pony show, too.”

  “Please, Mr. McGuinness.” Richard made his voice as soothing and understanding as he could. “I only came to check on you.”

  “Check on me?”

  “Yes, I was concerned about how you’re holding up. I know you must be worried sick about her. I know I am. I can barely sleep.”

  It happened fast—Charlie planted a left to his gut and right cross to his cheekbone. Richard hit the hard-packed dirt with a thud. He lay there stunned, mute, trying to get his lungs to work again.

  “I’ve had the idea of doing that since the day we got served with your paternity claim, you slimy bastard!”

  Richard opened one eye to see the old farmer staring down, nostrils flaring. He looked as if he were about to kick him just for the hell of it.

  “You come up here from away, pushin’ your case through like you did, runnin’ us over before we knew what hit us, with your high-priced lawyers and your demands, just like you were king of the hill! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  Richard tried to speak but he couldn’t get enough air.

  Charlie pointed down at him. “How am I holding up? Are you joking, man? Look at me!” He waved his arm around the barn. “I have lost every single member of my family! I am by myself in this world and my heart has broken! My neighbors and friends feel so sorry for me that my house is stacked to the rafters with floral arrangements and casseroles!” Charlie’s face twisted with pain and his chin bunched up. The old man began to cry. “All my girls are gone.”

  “I—”

  “By God, man, shut up and listen for once!” He rubbed his eyes, trying to pull himself together. “Losing Ginny nearly killed me, but I had my two daughters to live for, and we made a happy life. And then four years ago, I was blessed enough to become a grandfather. Do you know Christina looks just like my wife?”

  “No. I—”

  “Of course you don’t! You don’t know anything about my beautiful family, and that’s the worst part of it all. You are just some stranger who’s walked in and destroyed our lives—first you hurt my dear Amanda, and now you’ve put Evelyn and Christina in a horrible, unfair position. Damn ya!”

  Charlie spun on his work boots and marched off, leaving Richard on his back in the dirt. He turned his face enough to watch Charlie disappear down the slope of the hill, and tried to assess the damage. That crusty old lobster had the strength of a man half his age. Richard brushed his fingertips along his cheekbone and pulled back with a gasp. It hurt like hell, and might even be broken. As for the rest of his body, he was most worried about the stitches from his bypass surgery. He was essentially healed, but his doctor hadn’t yet given him clearance to play squash, let alone engage in hand-to-hand combat.

  With a loud groan, Richard pushed up to a sitting position, then managed to pull himself up off the dirt floor of the barn. On the opposite wall was an old mirror framed in leather, so he sta
ggered over and pulled up on the hem of his polo shirt. He froze at what he saw.

  Who the hell was that? A used-up senior citizen looked back at Richard. The stranger was a geezer with a gut, gray hair, and a swelling red welt under his left eye. The stitches seemed fine, if you didn’t mind having a chest sewn together like leather on a baseball. Honestly, Richard didn’t like what he saw in that reflection. He didn’t like what he’d become.

  His salvation was his daughter. Christina would keep his memory alive. Because of her, Richard Wahlman would leave a legacy bigger than Ways and Means, his philanthropy, and his party leadership. He would have a flesh and blood monument to the vital man he once had been.

  Richard tucked in his shirt, wiped off his trousers, and was headed across the yard toward the rental car when he had an epiphany. For the first time in nearly thirty years of corporate law practice and serving Boston in state and national elected offices, he had nowhere in particular to go and no one who was expecting his arrival. He had no meetings. No dinners. No cocktail parties for the sole purpose of sweet-talking donors and flattering lobbyists. In fact, it was possible that he’d never return to that life. Polls conducted after his television appearance had shown an instant decline in voter support, and within hours, Washington had decided he was an embarrassment. Contagious. An unpleasant reminder to his colleagues of just how easily the game could go awry, how close they all were to disgrace. Already, some of his longtime colleagues had turned on him.

  And “home” was no longer an option, of course. Tamara had made it clear that she was done. He was on his own.

  He would catch a flight to Reagan National this afternoon and hunker down at the Jefferson for a while. He could set up shop and avoid the media. His cardiologist could stop by. He could meet with his broker and his attorney. They would discuss establishing a trust for his daughter, ensuring that she would have everything she would ever need. And, while he was in town, he’d find a discreet real estate agent to help him locate a perfect house. He wanted something with a yard for Christina, and perhaps a pool. Maybe there would be enough land that she could have a pony if she wanted. Where would they live? Massachusetts? Northern Virginia? Connecticut? Of course, the house would need extra rooms for housekeeping staff and the nanny.

  “I’m not usually a violent man.”

  Richard jumped. He had been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn’t noticed Charlie. But there he sat, about twenty feet away on a front-porch rocking chair, his hands gripping the armrests.

  Richard collected himself. “You were upset. I happened to be the sucker standing in front of you. I’ll survive.” He cautiously moved closer to the porch.

  Charlie nodded in time with the rocking chair, obviously giving careful consideration to his next words. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, Wahlman. You do seem very protective of Christina, worried about her welfare.”

  Richard breathed in relief. Charlie had turned the corner. He was finally willing to have the conversation they desperately needed to have.

  “Yes, Mr. McGuinness. Of course I’m protective. She’s my daughter. I only want her to be happy and safe and have the best life possible.”

  “Ayuh, see what I mean? Now that’s a protective parent speakin’.”

  “Absolutely!” Richard propped a foot on the lowest porch step and tried to smile, but his face hurt too much. “I think about whether she’s warm and what she’s eating and if she’s in a place that frightens her. I wish I could see her, just to know she’s all right. Or even hear her voice on the phone. I may not have known her for very long but she has become precious to me.”

  Charlie smiled faintly, then leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “I think I understand.”

  “I so hoped you would.”

  “Ayuh, I really do. So here’s what I want you to do. Are you followin’ me?”

  Yes. Charlie McGuinness was ready to give in—thank God this difficulty was over. The old man would ask for a boatload of money, of course—these kinds of things were always about money in the end. Richard was sure they could find a mutually agreeable settlement. And if Charlie wanted to spend time with Christina, or even take her to visit Evelyn in prison, that might be workable as well. Richard was no scrooge. He nodded enthusiastically. “I’m listening, Charlie.”

  “Good. So what I want is for you to take all that worry you have for ‘the child,’ all those protective feelings, and the concern for her safety and comfort and happiness, and then multiply it a million times over and add love and family. Then, you might have a hint of how I feel about Christina Ginnifer McGuinness, you ass!”

  Richard’s mouth hung open. He took his foot off the step and backed away.

  Charlie wasn’t finished. “You know, before Amanda died she made her sister swear that if anything should ever happen to her you were not to come within a hundred miles of Chrissy. My girl was smart. Ayuh, it might look like you have a right to be in her life somehow, some way, because you’re her biological father, but you know what, Wahlman?” Charlie pushed himself to a stand on the porch. “You don’t deserve her. You aren’t a good enough man to be a father to her. Do you realize that you’ve twisted this around to make it all about you? Well, by God it’s not! It’s about a little girl who has just lost her mother! How can you be such a selfish bastard that you can’t even see that?”

  It took a full ten seconds for Richard to find his voice. In all the years he’d been debating on the House floor, no one—not even the most outrageously wrongheaded and belligerent elected official—had left him speechless the way this farmer just had.

  “Now get off my property.”

  Richard rebounded. “You’re making a mistake, Charlie. It’s my decision how much time—if any—Christina gets to spend with you. You forgot that.”

  McGuinness turned his back to Richard and headed for the door.

  “The FBI is going to find them very soon. We’ve got several solid leads. It’s probably only a matter of hours at this point.” No response. Richard loathed this stubborn rube. “You will regret this little display of physical violence.”

  “Doubt it.” Charlie reached for the screen-door handle. “That was the most satisfying thing I’ve done in years.”

  * * *

  Clancy’s head was inside the hall linen closet, and he found himself regretting that he wasn’t more domestically inclined. So far, he’d located one bottom sheet of unknown size, two mismatched pillowcases, and a partially chewed-up dog blanket. He would have to figure something out, fast.

  He pulled his head from the deep shelves and heard splashing sounds echoing from the bathroom, followed by a high-pitched giggle. It was the little girl, and she sounded happy. The hum of Evie’s lower, gentler voice could be heard as well, though the words were indistinct. Clancy stood in the hallway, mesmerized by the beautiful sound. It had been three years since he’d heard a female voice or felt embraced by female energy in this house. Barbie’s unpleasant tone of voice and vibe had been the last. No, he hadn’t been exactly celibate since then—there were weekends in Boston and an occasional blind date in Nantucket or the Vineyard—but no woman had set foot in this house in the three years since his divorce except for his mother and sister. Even his damn dogs were male. At that moment, Clancy realized he’d missed it, the sense of being balanced out, and maybe even smoothed down, by the softness a female brought to a space.

  But how hilarious was this? He finally found a woman he wanted to bring home but she happened to be a wanted felon with a child in tow, the obsession of every news team, special report, and political blog on the Eastern Seaboard. In fact, because Richard Wahlman had some big-shot assignment in Congress and had even been named as a possible vice president contender, her story had gone nationwide and global. That giggling little girl in his bathtub was Wahlman’s child. Evie had kidnapped her. Countless state, federal, and regional law enforcement pro
fessionals were searching for her.

  Hey, every woman has some kind of baggage, right?

  Clancy leaned his forehead against the painted pine door of the guest room and tried to make peace with the reality of what he’d taken on. Evelyn McGuinness would go to prison if convicted. That was the bottom line. And by deciding to help her, Clancy had changed the course of his life as well.

  He opened the door and did a quick job of straightening up. His last houseguest had been Duncan, almost exactly one year before, and in the fifty-one weeks since, the space had been used as a haphazard storage bin. Clancy opened the window a crack, enough to let in some fresh air without flooding the windowsill with rain, and began taking everything off the bed and piling it against the wall. There were books, law enforcement journals, winter coats and hats, and even a supersized container of Milk-Bones. Then he looked at the bed. Shit! No wonder he couldn’t find the sheets—they were still where Duncan left them a year ago! Clancy ripped the bed apart and headed toward the laundry room off the kitchen. At least the linens would be freshly washed.

  Next he removed the trophies from the mantel and tackled the gigantic mess still dumped in the middle of his living room floor, randomly throwing the jumble into the boxes and depositing them in his bedroom closet. So much for his organization plan. He went on to conduct a search-and-destroy cleanup of the dining room, kitchen, and even his bedroom. He was grateful for the burst of activity, because if he’d had a moment to stand still and second-guess himself, then he’d be in a heap of trouble.

  As he headed toward the refrigerator for pancake ingredients, his cell phone rang. It was Chip.

  “Flynn here.”

  “Chief, what is your ETA at the station? Will you be here for roll call?” Clancy realized he’d neglected to check in with Chip as he usually did. It had been more than two hours since his last contact with his second-in-command. That was a piss-poor example of leadership.

  “Sorry, Chip. The time got away from me. Is there anything I need to be aware of?”