12
Starla sat in the middle of the queen-sized bed in her room at the Tidal Beach Inn, photographs and newspaper clippings scattered all around her. The room felt damp and smelled just like everything else in Maine: briny and stale. Warm air had been blowing steadily out of the furnace for over an hour, but she was still cold. She spoke softly into her cell phone with a tenderness not afforded most people in her life . . .
“I know how hard this has been on you, honey. But it hasn’t been a bed of roses for me, either. Your mother just needed some time away, some time just for me, that’s all . . . No, I’m not with your daddy . . . It doesn’t matter where I am. The only thing that matters is that I’m not there, and I won’t be gone long. Haven’t you ever needed some ‘me time’? . . . I’m not sure when, just yet . . . Stop worrying about me and get on with your own life. That’s all I’m trying to do . . . ”
She got up from the bed after the call, walked into the small bathroom, and found the mirror. She pulled her hair back from her face and stared long and hard at the woman in the glass. Forty-seven didn’t look good. But back in the day, she had been something else. Her body had never curved like a supermodel’s, but there had been a fierceness to her beauty, an unrefined allure that had served her well. Her taut, athletic frame accented by the wildness in her eyes had been quite the package. Now, there were only hints of beauty, faint whispers of allure. It was just as well. It no longer mattered to her; she no longer needed allure. Three husbands in one lifetime were enough to disabuse a person of romantic inclinations.
Starla walked back over to the bed and glanced down at the pictures. She reached for a graduation photo, her two boys on either side of their sister, the sunlight gleaming off their royal-blue gowns. She traced her finger over Robert’s smiling face. Then she picked up another of Robert, this face sullen and vacant. My beautiful boy, she sighed heavily. God rest your soul. She walked the photograph across the room and taped it to the large mirror over the chest of drawers.
* * *
Liz burst into tears at the sight of her father—the very thing Jack had feared. Even though she had sounded excited and bubbly on the phone, he’d expected this. Liz was an open book, incapable of pretense. So when she saw him, she had melted into a pool of tears, apologizing but unable to hold them back.
“It’s ok, Lizzy girl . . . everything is ok.” He guided her to the sofa and held her long enough for her to regain her composure.
“Wow,” she said. “That’s not how I planned this little reunion.”
“Is that what this is? A reunion?” Jack hadn’t intended for his words to come out so irritably, but it was too late now.
“Well, I guess it is a reunion,” Liz retorted, picking up on her father’s surprising tone. “I haven’t seen you since Christmas, you never call, it takes you forever to return my calls, and now you’re up here by yourself for the first time in your life . . . in April! So, yeah—I suppose this is a reunion!”
Jack was surprised at the anger in her voice and suddenly anxious to de-escalate. “Listen, I’m sorry. Let’s start over. I’m glad you’re here, Liz. I really am. I was just surprised to get your call . . . and now, here you are.”
“What have you been doing up here, Dad? Why are you at Loon Magic in April by yourself? This isn’t like you. Talk to me . . . ”
These were the types of conversations that Jack Rigsby hated more than anything in the world. Evelyn had always pleaded with him to open up about everything, as if fitting any problem with words would set it to flight. All you had to do was talk about your feelings and things would magically get better. Unhappiness breeds in silence, she would say. And now her daughter had taken up the mantle, demanding a discussion.
“Honestly, honey . . . if I knew the answer to that question, I would tell you. I don’t know why I’m up here, to tell the truth. I suppose I felt that it would comfort me somehow. It hasn’t, really, but it hasn’t been terrible either.”
Liz sat in silence, unable to respond, not sure what direction she wanted the conversation to turn.
“The weather’s been nuts,” he continued. “Snowed the day I got here, then today it was damn near seventy!”
No. She hadn’t flown all this way to talk about the weather. No.
“Dad, did you know that Robert Deloplane was a triplet? He had an identical twin brother and a sister.”
Jack was startled by the question. Where was this going? “Yes, I did know that. Why do you ask?”
“How long have you known, Dad? How did you find out?” Liz seemed angry again, perturbed somehow that Jack had kept this information from her.
“A few weeks after . . . I went up to Lynchburg and met with the detective. I can’t remember his name . . . but he told me.”
“And you didn’t think to tell us??”
Jack felt the rising tide of his own anger, suddenly annoyed by the line of questioning and his daughter’s tone. “Why would I tell you? What difference does it make whether your mother’s killer was an only child or a freaking quintuplet? Your mother is dead, and so is the man who killed her. Why are you dredging all of this up again?”
“We all saw his picture in the paper, Dad. You ever think about the possibility of one of us running into his twin one day and being terrified?”
“Liz, that’s ridiculous. No, I never once thought of that possibility. You know why? Because it’s a ludicrous idea, for one thing; and for another, I had far more devastating matters on my mind at the time than the surviving Deloplane kids. I was more concerned with my own chances of surviving. Honestly, I haven’t given that family a second thought in months. What I don’t understand is . . . why have you?”
13
Starla slept fitfully, drifting in and out of consciousness, hearing every gust of wind that blew against the bathroom window from the harbor. Each wakening breeze called her back from a dreamless sleep into the house of mirrors her life had become since September.
That black night had begun with a visit from the Deputy Sheriff . . . I’m sorry, Mrs. Deloplane, but your boy was killed in a shootout with several officers earlier this evening . . . She hadn’t heard much of anything else. She had fallen apart, sinking to the floor and sobbing like a child. Later, after some reflection, her response seemed inappropriate—too much—too extreme even for the grief of losing a child. It was Robert, after all, and she had always known it would come to this. She should have been able to hold it together. She should have shown better control of herself, exhibited more class, more grace under pressure. Isn’t that what respectable people did? Starla wanted so much to be a better person, but it always felt like a butterfly that she couldn’t quite catch, flitting just beyond her grasp.
Just about the time that she had managed to pull herself together, the news published information about the Rigsby woman. Starla read the newspapers, saw the photographs of the beautiful family, and became momentarily obsessed with her son’s victim: the classy and refined Evelyn Rigsby. She was gorgeous—the kind of gorgeous that didn’t come from a beauty parlor. This was a smooth beauty which required no striving.
At first, Starla didn’t even notice him, so dazzled was she by Evelyn. But early in the morning of the third day, right before she was to leave to make the funeral arrangements, she glanced down at the family picture on the cover of the Lynchburg News and Advance and noticed the square jaw, the dark eyes, the handsome smile. The memory rushed over her like a tidal wave. It was him . . . the man from The Hedges.
* * *
Nobody would ever have believed her if she had confessed that Starla Deloplane, destroyer and pillager of three husbands before the age of 40, had only once in her entire life been unfaithful. She could hardly believe it herself. Whenever she felt tempted, she couldn’t get the bright shining faces of her kids out of her head. But with Dee Ray, it was different. In a few short years of marriage, she had grown to despise him, resenting his lack of ambition, his stilted manner, his lack of interest in her body, and his steadfast devotion to beer and Corvettes. She hadn’t planned it. She worked the 5 to midnight shift that night, and some sort of rich-guy convention was booked, which usually meant better-than-average tips. She was hoping to make enough to afford an initial consultation with a divorce lawyer.
She had seen him standing just outside a circle of loud men in the back corner. He was taller than the rest, with a shy, disinterested smile. He didn’t want to be here but was trying to be polite. What can I get you, love? she had asked. He had turned his head toward her and smiled. She had noticed his eyes fall to her breasts, quick and discreet, then back up to her face. He bit his lip, embarrassed. A beer. Whatever you have on draft is fine.
It was an uneventful encounter. Just a few words and a couple of long looks. He only ordered the one beer. They said nothing else to each other. The big crowd kept her busy, but she looked at him as often as she could. She thought him smolderingly handsome but out of her league . . . although once, right before his table got up to head to the ballroom, she had caught him staring at her. He quickly glanced away, then back with another smile. And that was it. He was gone. She had spent the rest of her shift going through the motions, lost in thought about what it would be like to belong to such a man.
Then she had taken a call from her nosy neighbor. Dee Ray had wrecked his car by slamming into three mailboxes down the street after driving home drunk. The cops had cuffed him and taken him to jail. She would probably need to go get him in the morning. Normally, this sort of news would have sent her into a blue rage. But for some reason, she simply walked outside, sat down in a rocking chair on the long wide porch, and lit a cigarette. Her mind went blank as heat lightning lit up the sky on the other side of the mountain.
“Mind if I bum a cigarette?”
She had recognized the voice before opening her eyes.
* * *
Starla left the Tidal Beach Inn and walked along the picturesque road that ran parallel to the bay through the center of Camden. The sun shone and the skies were clear, but it was colder than any place should be in April. The breeze was fresh with the smell of the ocean. Starla quickened her pace.
She arrived at the entrance of the Midcoast Café and heard the jingle of the bell as she opened the door. This was the place where she had watched Jack having an animated conversation earlier from the park bench down the hill from the library. The two men had sat at the very back of the place beside a giant window overlooking the harbor—exactly where she sat now with her cup of coffee.
She thought about the call she had placed to her lawyer, the most reviled member of the legal community not just in Richmond but the entire state. He was just starting out when she’d first hired him: unknown, untested, and cheap. But that was three divorces ago. Now Maxwell Johnson was a legend, notorious for his unorthodox style, his penchant for publicity, and his ubiquitous billboards all around the capital city: If You’re in the Fight of Your Life, Send in the Big Dog. The old-money, blue-blooded lawyers were horrified, shunning him at every opportunity. Max laughed all the way to the bank.
“Max? It’s Starla. Listen, I know this sounds crazy, but what would I need to do to be certain that Dee Ray Deloplane is the father of my children?”
The thought had settled in like a heavy blanket of fog, shrouding the rest of the world from view. In the days leading up to Robert’s funeral, she had thought of little else. Was it even possible? Her pregnancy alone had prolonged their marriage after Dee Ray’s drunk driving incident. It had bought him five more years. But now as she reflected on that night at The Hedges, she remembered that it corresponded with Dee Ray’s arrest. When Starla finally made it to the jail the next day, Dee Ray was all tears and apologies, vowing to be a better man, a better husband. He was going to make it up to her. She listened to him plead for over an hour and was astonished at the depth of his contrition, Dee Ray not being known for his depth of feeling. She was moved. They had made love for the first time in months as soon as they returned to the house, not even making it out of the den.
“Well, if you can get a DNA sample from him, I’ve got a guy who can look at it and tell you in a couple of days . . .”
When Dee Ray had fortuitously shown up at the funeral home, Starla determined to get the sample secretly. The last thing in the world she wanted was a big scene leading to a confession of infidelity. She picked up a cup he had sipped from at the visitation, set it aside, and shipped it to Max the next day. As she waited for the results, she allowed her mind to imagine the possibilities. The more she thought, the more she realized how little good could come from finding the answer. How unspeakably shameful would it be to unleash the knowledge that Jack Rigsby’s wife was murdered by his own son? The days leading up to Max’s expected call became unbearable. Everyone assumed she was in the throes of grief. She floated around the house in almost complete silence, listless, looking as fragile as a flower. She found herself staring at her two surviving kids as if seeing them for the first time. Their features offered no clues; they had resembled her from the beginning. What would this knowledge do to them?
When the call finally came, Starla stopped Max in mid sentence. “Stop, Max! Don’t tell me. I’ve decided that I would rather not know. Thanks for going to the trouble and all, and I’m sure I’ll get your ridiculously outrageous bill, but, no . . . I don’t want to know.”
For a while she was able to expel it all from her mind. She settled back into something approximating a routine after people finally stopped bringing over casserole dishes full of comfort food. Christmas had been somber and pointless, but she had soldiered through. Then she got a birthday card in the mail at the end of March . . . from Dee Ray. It was the first time he had sent her anything through the mail that didn’t include a check since the divorce. It was sweet. It made her smile. For reasons that escaped all logic, she had placed the card on the kitchen table and impulsively called Maxwell Johnson. A week later, she found herself in Camden, Maine.
Now she sat alone, staring out at Penobscot Bay, trying to figure out what to do. After finishing her coffee, she decided to go shopping for some new clothes.
* * *
The heated exchange between Jack and Liz ended as quickly as it started, neither of them wishing to escalate the matter. Having words with his daughter was dead-last on Jack’s list of priorities, and Liz was exhausted after a day of travel. They hugged it out and left it for another day.
When the morning came, they took the kayaks out on the still water. It had gotten colder, but the sun was bright, and by the time it rose over the back of the house, the surface of the water was sparkling yellow. They meandered around the lake for over an hour like they had done a thousand times before, drawing strength from the quiet. Their spirits lifted, the decision was made back at the house to head into town for pancakes.
“Have you seen Bobby?” she asked casually as they made the sharp right turn that swept down toward Megunticook Lake and into Camden.
“Are you kidding? He was in the driveway when I pulled up!”
“Of course he was!” Liz laughed out loud, the first unguarded moment since she had arrived. Her eyes brightened and her smile was radiant, reminding Jack so much of Evelyn’s.
“I suppose the State of the Cottage meeting went well?”
“Swimmingly!”
Soon the lake was visible through the pines. Megunticook wrapped itself majestically around a series of small islands, then flowed away in all directions toward the mountains towering in the distance. It was much larger than Quantabacook but infinitely more expensive, home to a couple dozen properties, inside of which Loon Magic could have fit with room to spare. Although the lake was stunning from every vantage point, Evelyn had thought it too big and not nearly as romantic.
Liz was silent for a while as she took it all in, then broke the silence with an almost whispered question. “ . . . Did you tell Bobby about Mom?”
“I hadn’t intended to. I really didn’t want to get into it. But you know Bobby, right? Pretty soon we were playing twenty questions . . . so I just told him what happened.”
They passed the beautiful cemetery just outside of town, with its iron fence, towering headstones, and carefully manicured graves.
“You know, Liz, I always give Bobby a lot of grief, but his response to the news about your Mother surprised me. It crushed him. As infuriating as he can be sometimes, I think there’s more to him than meets the eye.”
“I’ve always like him. He’s sweet. Oh, and speaking of sweet . . . Kevin has a girlfriend.”
“What?! Are you kidding me? Since when?”
“Several months, apparently. He told me last week . . . Angela Wright!” Liz announced conspiratorially.
“Wow . . . ” Jack was experiencing his first taste of happiness since September. “How about that?! Tell me about her.”
“There isn’t much to tell. You know how secretive Kevin can be about this sort of thing. What I can tell you is that he seems so happy. There is a calmness in his voice that I haven’t heard in a long time. He told me that it’s the first time he’s felt like he’s going to be alright since . . . well . . . ”
Jack blinked back surprising tears. “Of course he’s going to be alright. So will you.”
Liz noticed the emotion in her father’s voice. “I’ll be alright as soon as you’re alright, Dad.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Lizzy girl. Let’s eat.”
They walked through the doors of the Café and were greeted again by Emmett, who made a huge fuss over the appearance of Liz, who had been eating pancakes in his establishment for nearly two decades. He came around from behind the cash register and gave her a hug in his filthy looking apron.
Jack noticed that the place was nearly filled. “You got a table for two somewhere in this dive?”
“For this beautiful child, of course I do! But unfortunately, your father will have to eat out back by the dumpster.”
Liz laughed and kissed Emmett on the cheek. He then barked out some indecipherable commands to his waitresses, and within minutes they were seated in a back corner, where, rumor had it, some famous writer wrote a Pulitzer Prize winning novel back in the day. Jack could never remember the guy’s name or the book. Evelyn would have known both.
The breakfast was delicious, and the conversation was light and mostly nostalgic. Old stories of summers on the lake were traded. Then Liz brought up the postscript Jack had added to his recent email, and the mood shattered.
“Dad, that was the first detail you’ve ever shared about that night and what happened. I cried all night after reading it. I felt so bad for you . . . how lonely it must be to carry all of those memories inside of your head . . . by yourself.”
“It’s been no picnic . . .” was all he could think to say to her. Jack had struggled mightily to shove the memories of that night into the furthest corner of his mind in an attempt to isolate them. He was afraid that if he allowed that night out of its corner, he would never be able to wrangle it back. He had made a mistake already, driving to Lynchburg to meet with the detective. The kids had been right. Nothing good could have come from such knowledge; all that did come out of it were fresher images of evil and death. That visit had delayed his recovery, ripping the scab off the wound. He wasn’t about to risk that happening again.
He fiddled with his hash browns. A cheerful waitress topped off his coffee. When she backed away from the table . . . cigarette lady was standing behind her.
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