Home body, p.37
Home Body, page 37
“He can take the stern in the canoe,” I said.
“Been there, done that,” Sandy said. “You do white water?”
“No,” I said. “Mostly I drift around marshes and look at birds.”
“Lots of bids on the bay,” he said, ever helpful, like a true courtesan, a guy whose social skills had been honed in his service to the very wealthy. “I’ll take you out.”
We turned to the two younger women, sitting in a window seat. Ten years ago they were in grade school. Now they were perched with their knees up to their chins, wearing shorts and tops with spaghetti straps. One was very pretty, one was not. The not-so-pretty one was wearing soccer sandals that had the Adidas logo across the top, and her toenails were painted dark blue. There was a gold ring on her left little toe.
“This is Monica Vitale,” Connelly said, less easily than with the others, like he’d had to think about it. She had a mop of black hair that she pulled back and tucked into an elastic scrunchy, and when she raised her arms behind her head to fuss with her hair, she showed a gold stud in her bared navel. She looked bored, like the bus was late, and at first she didn’t respond. When her hair was arranged she finally said, “Hi,” and I did, too. Connelly said she worked for Sky Blue, one of the behind-the-scenes people who kept the place running. I began to get the picture that this was some sort of office outing.
“And this is Angel Moretti, last but not least,” Connelly said.
She looked up at me. She had deep dark eyes, skin so fine it seemed to have no texture at all, a faint rosiness in her cheeks, and a thick shock of dark hair hanging loose. The rest of her was perfectly proportioned, and I felt that heart skip that men get, that tongue-tied moment. But then I said hello and she said, “Very nice to meet you,” like a little kid, but there was something in her expression that said she knew the effect she had, and it was her magic weapon: She may have been twenty, but she made rich men swoon.
She smiled at me, and then turned her attention to Connelly. Her smile changed into something more knowing, and there was a boldness in her gaze, like they were accomplices and she didn’t care who knew. Connelly flinched and looked away.
“David,” she said, her voice faintly provocative like her big, unblinking eyes. “Do you think we’ll get out on the water?”
He looked back at her and smiled, but it was the kind of smile that fends someone off.
“I hope so,” he said. “Just hang tight.”
“Sandy said I could, what did you call it, ‘Take the helm’?”
She looked at Sandy and he seemed to squirm.
“In open water, of course,” he said.
“Preferably halfway to Portugal,” Connelly said, and Angel faked a pout and said, “David, don’t you trust me?”
I looked around at the group. Dalton was staring at Angel like she was a Siren and he was shipwrecked. Kathleen had her smile fixed but her stare was icy. Monica looked more obviously annoyed. Angel’s sandal dropped to the carpet and she fished for it with her bare foot.
“We were all headed out on the bay when”—Connelly paused, forcing a smile as he turned to me—
“when plans changed.”
As if on cue, a door rattled somewhere deeper in the house. I heard footsteps and then Roxanne’s voice and the voice of another woman, and Connelly said, “Sounds like they’re done. Come on and meet Maddie.”
They all smiled and nodded and Connelly headed out of the room. I followed. We walked down a corridor lined with photographs of Connellys on big boats, on horses, on tops of mountains. At the end of the corridor we took a right and moved into a paneled study. Roxanne was standing in the middle of the room; there was another woman with her. They both turned. The other woman smiled, but in a weary way. Roxanne smiled, too, masking her surprise.
“Maddie,” Connelly said. “Somebody I want you to meet. This is Jack. He’s Ms. Masterson’s friend. I went for a walk and ran into him and told him he should come in and see that the Connellys don’t have horns and fangs.”
He caught himself, looked at Roxanne.
“Not to belittle what you do,” Connelly said, backpedaling. “That wasn’t intended the way it sounded. I’m glad you’re looking out for Maeve. And other kids. I really am. I mean, at the foundation it’s a priority, protecting children. Nurturing them.”
“It’s okay,” Roxanne said.
“I just wanted Jack to know we’re not monsters.”
“No one is saying you are, Mr. Connelly,” Roxanne said.
“David, please. And I understand. But you know what people think when they hear ‘child abuse.’ And this family, well, things tend to get—”
He paused, turned back to his wife.
“Maddie, this is Jack McMorrow.”
Maddie Connelly smiled a bit wanly and said, “Hi, there.” She held out her hand and I took it in mine. It was small but her handshake was very firm and her gaze was direct. She was attractive but in an arresting, intriguing sort of way, not like bowl-you-over Angel. Her blonde-streaked hair was cut practically short, and she had a dash of freckles across the tops of her cheeks. It was a squarish but very pretty face, and she’d probably seemed tomboyish until one day some guy looked across the boat, the ski slope, the tennis court, and thought, My god. She’s sort of beautiful.
But today she looked weary and red-eyed.
“I don’t want to intrude,” I said. “I really didn’t intend to come in or—”
“This really is confidential,” Roxanne said. “Don’t feel you have to share this with—”
“Oh, we won’t,” David Connelly said. “But I just felt that Jack should get the whole picture. I told him about the au pair and what happened and how we sent her home. I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.”
“But David,” Maddie began, trying to remain gracious, but now a little puzzled.
“We were outside looking at the bay, and Jack was telling me what he does,” David said. “Jack cuts wood. You know, in the woods, with a chain saw? But that’s not all. He’s one of those Renaissance Mainers.”
He paused and looked at his wife.
“When he’s not cutting wood, Jack’s a newspaper reporter, honey. He writes for the Times.”
Maddie Connelly’s face went gray. She actually caught her breath, then tried to smile, but it was pained. I could see her searching for the right thing to say, but finally she gave up.
“You’re shitting me,” she said.
6
k
Roxanne went out to tell Tara she might as well head back to the office, that I’d stopped to pick her up and we’d go back home together. When Roxanne returned to the study, I was still trying to convince Maddie Connelly that every word she’d uttered in Roxanne’s presence wouldn’t appear in the Times the next morning.
“But how can you not, if you know something?” Maddie said, leaning against the end of a couch.
“Reporters don’t print everything they hear,” I said.
“And this involves me,” Roxanne said. “Jack wouldn’t hurt me.”
“But he knows why you would come here. It’s what you do.”
Roxanne didn’t answer.
“And then David confirmed it,” Maddie said to me.
“That was unexpected,” I said. “But it doesn’t change anything. I don’t even think it’s news. Maine has hundreds of reports like this every month. This one just happened to be—”
“Us,” Maddie said.
I glanced at the wall behind her. There were more photographs: Connellys shaking hands with Bill Clinton, Connellys outside the White House.
“They can’t help that,” David said. “They have to look into these things. What if Devlin were still here and it was still going on? Or what if it was us doing it?”
“But they don’t usually bring the media, do they?” Maddie said. “Is it just a coincidence that the case involving this family gets a reporter from the New York Times tagging along?”
“Yes,” I said. “I came along for the ride, see if there was anything in town that might lead to a story.”
“Well, you hit the jackpot, didn’t you?” Maddie said, arms folded across her chest.
“No,” I said. “I didn’t intend to talk to David. I didn’t intend to get involved at all. I just ran out of places to go and I was waiting for Roxanne. Got out of the car to stretch my legs and look at the water and—”
“But you’d talk about it when she got home, right? ‘How’d it go in Blue Harbor? What’d they have to say for themselves?’ ”
“We generally don’t discuss my cases,” Roxanne said.
“But this is different?”
“Not really.”
“And it won’t amount to anything,” David said. “We told you what happened. You can talk to Maeve—”
“David,” Maddie said.
“She’ll have to,” he said. “She can’t just take our word for all of this.”
“I don’t want Maeve upset. I don’t want her to think this is a bigger deal than it is.”
“I’ll do my best to not upset her,” Roxanne said.
“And that will be the end of it?” Maddie said.
“In all likelihood, from what I’ve heard, yes,” Roxanne said. “But I can’t promise at this point.”
Maddie looked to David and their eyes met and held and some sort of invisible, almost telepathic communication went on, the kind you see in couples who are very close.
“Okay,” David said.
“Then let’s get her home,” Maddie said. “I’ll call. She’ll be here in an hour.”
“Then I have more questions for you,” Roxanne said.
“I’ll stay,” David said. I looked to Roxanne and moved to the door, and I had my hand on it when he said, “Jack, you go. You’ll love it out there. But could you tell Sandy he’d better go without me? Tell him to just take them around so they can see Cadillac Mountain, but probably skip Somes Sound. Getting too late if they’re going to make dinner in town.”
A cruise around Mount Desert Island? Cadillac Mountain from the water? A chance to get out of Roxanne’s way.
So I left them, Maddie sitting on the couch, David moving to take his place beside her, Roxanne taking a legal pad from her bag. I closed the door behind me and, when I turned into the hallway, almost walked into the pretty girl, Angel. She was standing in front of the photographs as though the house were a museum and she’d rented headphones.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hello,” I said.
“Look at this. Look at that boat.”
It was an immense racing sailboat, like something from an old America’s Cup. It was under sail, heeled over with one rail practically in the waves.
“You think they owned that?” Angel said, a trace of North End Boston in her accent.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Must be worth a large fortune,” she said, and she stepped to the next photo.
“Who’s this old guy?” she said.
Another boat picture, this time Connellys in the cockpit, David Connelly at a wheel the size of a hula hoop, an older man beside him.
“That’s Walter Cronkite,” I said.
“Wasn’t he some news announcer?” Angel said.
“Yeah.”
“You know him?”
I shook my head.
“You interview a lot of famous and influential people?”
“Some,” I said. “Not as much anymore. I work mostly Maine and New Hampshire now.”
“Who have you interviewed who’s famous?”
She had moved to the next set of photos and was peering at them as though she were looking for lost relatives.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Jimmy Carter. Rudy Giuliani, but he wasn’t famous then. David Dinkins and Ed Koch.”
“Never heard of the last two.”
“New York mayors. How ’bout Bruce Springsteen?” I said.
Angel turned to me, big eyes wide. She reached out and put her hand on my upper arm and held it there. She was one of those women who like men the way some people like chocolate.
“Really? What was he like?”
“Very nice,” I said. “A very regular guy.”
“I don’t want famous people to be regular,” Angel said. “I want them to be mysterious and different. I can meet all the regular people I want.”
The hand fell away.
“Where are you from, Angel?”
“Boston. My whole life. I love the city.”
“Some people in Boston would say the Connellys are famous, and they seem pretty regular.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Angel said. “They’re nice, but they carry a lot with them.”
“The family baggage?”
“The history. I mean, just being a Connelly. Having everybody looking at you like you’re some sort of royalty.”
“They are, in a way. American royalty.”
“You know somebody else told me that?”
“Who?”
“Barbara Walters. I went to this benefit dinner with David and Maddie, at the Ritz. She sat at our table, Barbara Walters, and she said to me, once she knew what I did, ‘What is it like working with royalty?’ I said, ‘They try so hard not to show it.’ Too hard, I think.”
“Too hard?”
“Yeah. Like this thing with their little girl; I would have tossed those people right out and called my lawyer. I mean, this woman with the hair? And she comes in here bossing people around? I mean, who the hell does she think she’s talking to?”
“To just another parent who might be mistreating a kid,” I said.
“Oh, who are you kidding, Jack?” she said, turning to me and cocking her head. “This family isn’t ‘just another’ anything.”
“Then what are they?”
“They’re amazing people who do amazing things. Yesterday we gave this outfit five hundred thousand to train foster parents who take crack babies. Just like that. Last year David and Sandy flew to South Africa and picked up this huge sailboat and sailed around the end of Africa, that point. It has a name.”
“The Cape of Good Hope.”
“Whatever. But they just do it.”
“Like the Nike ad?”
“Yeah. There’s no blabbing on about things.”
“You like that?”
She turned to me.
“Yeah, I do. They live large. Maddie takes Maeve to France and Italy. A month ago it was those Indian cliff-dwelling places in Arizona. If they decide it’s important, it gets done. Most people just talk.”
“What’s your background, Angel?” I said.
She turned back to a photograph of David on top of some snow-covered mountain.
“Nothing special. Boston. North End. Regular family.”
“Must be something special about them. Lots of brothers and sisters?”
“Oh, yeah. A whole bunch of them, tied down by their roots like plants.”
“You’re not?’
“I don’t spend my whole life looking back, Jack,” she said. “I’m looking forward, every minute.”
She turned and leaned toward me, like she was going to tell me a secret. I could smell her shampoo, her perfume, felt my pulse quicken in spite of me.
“And another thing,” Angel said, her voice husky. “That’s all off the record.”
“I’m not working,” I said.
“Jack,” she said, touching her fingers to the top of my hand. “Come off it.”
And then Dalton appeared at the end of the hallway, a sweater draped over his shoulders. Angel pulled her fingers away and said, “Timmy. We were talking. Jack’s interviewed Bruce Springsteen.”
She started toward him, a runway swivel to her walk, and he gave her a quick look that said she was his and he was proud, and then that vanished and he said to me, “Springsteen. No kidding,” but he was distracted and turned with her as she passed. It occurred to me that Angel’s problem wouldn’t be hooking up with men, but setting the hook so deep they couldn’t be released.
7
k
Sandy rowed with me out to the big boat in a dinghy that was all glass-varnished wood and polished brass. The water was blue-green and the air smelled of salt and seaweed and the bottom disappeared quickly as the dinghy skipped over the chop. Sandy eased the dinghy alongside the Escape, while I stood gingerly and then stepped over the gunwale of the big boat and held the dinghy against the plastic fenders that kept the hulls from bumping. Sandy came aboard and tied the dinghy to a cleat on the stern. The dinghy drifted away on its painter as Sandy started for the cockpit. He started the motors and backed them into a rumbling idle and then climbed out on the narrow deck beside the cabin. At the bow he crouched, slackened the mooring line, and unwound it from its cleat.
Sandy clambered back into the cockpit, took the stick, and feathered the boat to the float. They came aboard one by one, like animals loaded on a circus train. Kathleen Kind settled onto the cushioned bench across from the helm, crossed her legs carefully, and took a copy of The New Yorker from her bag. Monica, unmindful of the cool breeze off the water, went to a stern seat and slipped out of her top, revealing a bikini top filled to bursting. On her right breast was a tattoo of a rose. She turned to the sun, beginning to drop from its crest in the gleaming blue Maine sky, and closed her eyes like a lizard on a rock.
Angel and Dalton began to climb the ladder to the second story of the boat, above the cabin, Angel in the lead, Dalton staring up at her buttocks.
“She’s gorgeous, don’t you think?” Sandy said.
I looked at him, startled.
“The very first Talaria 44 built with the flybridge.”
“Really. And a flybridge is—”
