Книга - Forgive Me

Forgive Me
Amanda Eyre Ward


A stunning and compelling novel of love and ambition.Nadine is a 35-year-old journalist at a crossroads in her life. She longs for Pulitzer-prize winning success but her career seems to be going nowhere until the story of a lifetime comes up. Faced with the choice of following the story and leaving behind her boyfriend, who has just proposed, she leaves America for Capetown. There she meets war photographer George, whose rage at the death of his lover during apartheid seems bottomless. As events unfold, Nadine discovers she is pregnant and is forced to choose whether to return home to a secure married life with her boyfriend or pursue a life of independence and adventure – a life like George's…Set partly in Mandela's South Africa, where individuals must weigh the cost of following their dreams against the high price of truth, ‘Forgive Me’ is the unputdownable story of a woman who has to decide between security and adventure in life and love.







FORGIVE ME

Amanda Eyre Ward










Contents


Epigragh

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Fourty-One

Chapter Fourty-Two

Acknowledgements

Literary Corner

Also by Amanda Eyre Ward

Copyright

About the Publisher




Epigraph


The real beauty and power of forgiveness

is that it can deliver the future to us.

RICHARD HOLLOWAY, On Forgiveness




Dedication


For Liza

Who made me climb Table Mountain




One







Nadine hears the parrots. So picturesque in the evening, floating over the courtyard while she sips tequila and deciphers the day’s notes, the birds make the hot dawn intolerable. Two thin pillows cannot block the cacophony. Nadine’s sheets press against her body. She remembers the warm lips of a local journalist, but wakes alone.

A room at La Hacienda Solita includes breakfast. Slowly, Nadine makes her way to the wooden table outside the kitchen. She orders eggs, beans, coffee, and juice from the girl. The juice arrives in a ceramic glass filled with ice cubes, and Nadine drinks it, though she should not. The girl–no more than ten–stands next to the table, her bare feet callused. She watches Nadine.

There is a communal shower. Nadine uses Pert Plus shampoo, bought in an American Rite Aid on her way back over the border: she was in a Laredo police station when the news of the twelve dead boys came in.

Nadine travels light: a comb, shampoo, lotion, lipstick. Two T-shirts, two pairs of pants, lace underwear–her one indulgence. She has an apartment in the Associated Press compound in Mexico City, but hasn’t been there in a month.

On the dashboard of her rental car, Nadine finds a rubber band. She pulls her black hair back with both hands, affixes the band, and puts on sunglasses. She opens her topographic map. Today, she will find and interview the boys’ families. The mother of one boy told a local TV reporter that her son had worked in a seafood restaurant. Her large, two-story home and expensive clothes told a different story.

The cars air-conditioning is broken. Nadine punches the radio on and begins to drive. Her Spanish is good; languages have always come easily to her. She plays the music loudly and hums along. It’s a song about a man who wronged a woman. “If you come back to me,” the man sings, “I will never stray again.” She thinks of the journalist’s spicy cologne, his breath against her ear as they swayed to jukebox melodies at the cantina. She smiles. It took half a bottle of Herradura and a few kisses to get directions to the boys’ tiny village.

Nadine drives slowly down the narrow streets. Men unlock metal doors and heave them upward, exposing bright fruits and vegetables, rows of shirts, videocassettes. Women sweep the sidewalk and children walk to school, holding hands. A donkey cart blocks Nadine’s way, then lurches down a side alley.

Finally, she reaches the outskirts. Passing squat homes protected by latticework concrete, Nadine accelerates. The air blazing through her open window is little comfort. She heads toward the mountains. Ian made her promise to wear the bulletproof vest, but Nadine reasons that having it in the backseat is good enough. It’s heavy and bulky, and for Christ’s sake it’s got to be a hundred degrees.

Nadine reaches the place she’s marked on her map with an X and pulls off the road. At a gas station, she fills the car and takes out her list of names. The man behind the counter, old and overweight, looks at Nadine without expression. He sells her a warm Coke. When she asks to use the bathroom, the man gestures with his hand. She walks behind the store, positioning her feet on either side of the fetid hole.

The village does not have paved roads, and Nadine’s head begins to hurt as she drives over uneven ground. She sees a group of men gathered outside one thatched-roof home. The men stare as Nadine approaches. Nadine slows the car and tries a smile. She is met with stone faces.

The thoughts flood her–Something is wrong. You should have told Ian where you were going. You should not have come alone. Back away, put on the vest–but the thoughts will fade. Nadine sets her jaw and keeps driving.

The men look at one another, at the approaching Honda. By some consensus, they rush the car, and Nadine tries to stop, to reach the locks. It is too late, but she grabs the gearshift, smoothly putting the car in reverse.

As she presses the gas, a tall man wearing a Cookie Monster T-shirt opens the passenger-side door. His sweat smells metallic as he climbs in the car. He unlocks the driver’s-side door, reaching across Nadine. The door is opened from outside. Two men drag Nadine out of the car and into the street. She fights–clawing at the men with her fingernails, screaming that she is periodista, a journalist. Their fists hit her stomach, and then her rib cage.




Two







Nadine woke in a blue-and-white hotel room. There was a mini fridge by the bed, a painting of a sailboat on the wall, and a telephone with instructions in English. The window framed a familiar ocean. Nadine closed her eyes, then opened them. Her body ached. Her left arm was bandaged, so she lifted the phone with her right and dialed 0. A woman’s voice answered, saying, “Oh my Lord!”

“Hello?” said Nadine. “Where am I?”

She heard footsteps on a staircase, and then the door opened. “Oh, honey,” said a stout woman with a mushroom cap of blonde hair.

“I’m sorry,” said Nadine. “Who are you?”

“Oh dear,” said the woman. “Didn’t your daddy tell you?”

Nadine had not spoken to her father in months, maybe a year.

“Where am I?” said Nadine.

“Why, honey,” said the woman, “you’re at the Sandy Toes Bed and Breakfast.”

Nadine touched her temple. The last thing she could remember was a man who smelled like rust. “You’ve been in a terrible accident,” the woman said, putting a fat hand on Nadine’s wrist. “Thank goodness you had your daddy’s card in your wallet.”

Nadine stared at the hand.

“He’ll be here any minute,” said the woman. “By the way, my name is Gwen.” Nadine did not answer. Gwen bit her lip and then released it, leaving a bright pink spot on her tooth. “Your daddy and I are in love,” she informed Nadine.

“Is there room service?” asked Nadine.

“What?”

“Is there room service,” said Nadine, “at the Sandy Toes Bed and Breakfast?”

“Well,” said Gwen, “of course there is.”

“I’d like a tequila on the rocks, please.”

“It’s the middle of the day, dear,” said Gwen.

“A ham sandwich, as well,” said Nadine.

Nadine had not seen her father, Jim, since her journalism school graduation a decade before. After the ceremony, Nadine had taken him to the Oyster Bar for dinner. It was her favorite restaurant: dark, smoky, and, to Nadine, glamorous. She ordered oysters and an expensive bottle of wine.

“I think you’ll like this,” said Nadine when the waiter began to pour.

“I’ll have a Coors,” said Nadine’s father, covering his wineglass with his palm. He looked around at the businessmen and well-heeled New Yorkers. Jim wore jeans, a green windbreaker, a cap that said FALMOUTH FISH.

“So I’ve decided,” said Nadine. “I’m going to Cape Town.”

“Cape Town?”

“I’ll be freelancing, of course, but maybe it’ll lead to a job with the AP, or the Times. People are fighting the pass laws, standing up to the government. Remember that kid from Nantucket? Jason Irving? He was killed outside Cape Town last month. Everything is changing in South Africa. There’s so much to write about.”

Jim sighed. “That kid from Nantucket,” he said. “Poor kid comes home in a coffin. This is your role model?”

“Dad,” said Nadine, leaning toward him, “I could be in South Africa for the fall of apartheid!”

“Nadine,” said her father, “for all I know, you’re speaking Chinese.”

“Come on, Dad,” said Nadine. “Don’t you get The New York Times? I renewed your subscription, I thought.”

“I’m busy, honey,” said Jim. “I get home late. It’s just so much paper.”

“So much paper.”

The waiter returned with a tray of oysters and horseradish sauce. “Flown in this morning,” he said, “from Buzzards Bay.” He stepped back with a smile and a nod.

“If oysters is what you want,” said Jim, “I’ve got a rake and a pair of waders for you in the garage.”

Nadine looked down at her napkin. “I wish you could try,” she said. She swallowed. “It’s not that Woods Hole isn’t great. I just–”

“What about working for the Cape Cod Times?” said Jim. “Your mom used to read the Cape Cod Times. ”

Nadine sighed. She drained her wine and poured another glass. For forty minutes, they talked about housing prices on the Cape, the new pizzeria on Main Street, and the traffic problem at the Bourne Rotary. Declining dessert, Nadine gave her father a quick embrace, walked him to his Midtown hotel, and took the six train downtown. At McSorley’s, she argued passionately about the future of Romania with a grad student who smoked unfiltered cigarettes. They agreed that Ceauşescu’s regime was on the verge of collapse, and then pressed against each other in a dim corner, the boy’s tongue hot in Nadine’s mouth.

She moved to Cape Town the following week.

Ten years later, her father stood before her, his hands in what could have been the same jeans. “Hey, now, Deanie,” he said, reaching out to touch Nadine’s hair.

“What am I doing here?” said Nadine.

“You were in some Mexican hospital,” said Jim. “You were beaten real bad. Your wrist and ribs got bunged up, you’ve got a nasty concussion.”

“How long–”

“You’ll be in Woods Hole awhile,” said Jim.

“Woods Hole?” said Nadine.

Jim put his arm around Gwen. “You can stay here as long as you need. Gwen and I own this hotel. We open for business in May, soon as the summer folks get here.”

“The Sandy Toes,” said Gwen. “I thought of the name.”

“So the closest airport is Hyannis?” said Nadine.

“What?” said Gwen. She looked nervously at Jim.

“Nadine,” said Jim, “you likely can’t feel it, but your wrist is still very weak. Not to mention head trauma. You were attacked, Nadine, by Mexican thugs. ”

“Mm-hmm,” said Nadine. She reached for the phone, murmuring, “So Logan would probably be just as easy, or Providence–”

“You can’t go anywhere!” said Gwen. “You’re very ill, dear!”

“What the hell was she doing down next to Guat-e-amala, is what I’d like to know,” said Jim.

“May I make a long-distance call, please? In private?”

“Deanie,” said Jim. “Can’t you give it a rest?”

“I’ll pay you back, of course,” said Nadine.

“No, it’s fine,” said Gwen, flustered.

“Thanks,” said Nadine. She picked up the receiver.

“Maybe we can visit later,” said Gwen. Jim snorted.

“Okay,” said Nadine, dialing quickly. Her father and Gwen exited the room, and Jim pulled the door shut with a thud that shook the Nantucket basket on the windowsill.

“You are on mandatory vacation,” Ian said when Nadine finally reached him. In the background, Nadine heard the sounds of the New York office: typing, shouting, televisions tuned to CNN.

Nadine sighed into the phone. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she said.

“You’ve been beaten within an inch of your life by Mexican drug traffickers. I talked to your doctor. You can’t even use your left arm for two weeks.”

“You think they were traffickers?”

“Whoever they were, they didn’t want you nosing around,” said Ian. “Some shopkeeper called the embassy. You were found in a ditch. They could have killed you.”

Nadine looked out her window, at the placid sea. A large vessel, the Atlantis, was docked in the harbor. “How long?” she said.

“Six months.”

“Ian!”

“Three months. You need to rest.”

“I know you don’t believe me,” said Nadine, “but I feel fine. I do, really.”

“Wander along the beach. Have an affair with a lifeguard. Whatever it takes, Nadine. Don’t call me until March.”

“I can’t believe this.”

Ian was silent. Nadine could picture him stroking his snow-colored moustache. “I’ve known you a long time,” he said, finally. “And I’ve told you this before. You let the wall come down, you can never go back.”

“I didn’t let the wall down,” said Nadine.

“Nadine, I’m trusting my gut on this one.”

“What am I supposed to do all winter on Cape Cod?”

“Write a novel,” said Ian. “Write a memoir about your hair-raising adventures around the world. If all else fails, watch TV.”

“Lord help me,” said Nadine.

“Talk to you soon,” said Ian. “Not that soon,” he added.

Dr. Duarte had olive skin and a rich voice. Nadine hit MUTE but continued to watch Law & Order as he listed her many bruises and lacerations. “When can I get out of here?” she asked when he stopped talking.

“Out of bed? A week, maybe ten days. I’m most concerned about the head trauma, and we’ll just have to keep an eye on that.”

Nadine lay back and sighed.

“Can you turn off the television, please?” said Dr. Duarte.

Nadine hit the POWER button as Dr. Duarte told her how lucky she was to be alive, how her body needed time to heal. She nodded, eyes on her intertwined hands. There was a pause, and then Dr. Duarte said, “What’s it like?”

Nadine looked up, into his brown eyes. “Sorry?”

“What’s it like?” he said. “What does it feel like, being a reporter, putting yourself in danger? I guess I’ve always wondered what that feels like.”

“You just think about what you need to do,” said Nadine. “Warnings, they come into your head, but they go away. You do your job.” Nadine’s voice sounded confident. She did not say that some evenings, after her story was filed and she was safe in a hotel room, taking a shower, her legs shook so hard she had to sit down, letting the water rain over her until she calmed.

“You get used to being terrified, basically?”

Nadine looked out the window. She still remembered the dark winter days of her childhood, the sense that life was happening elsewhere. The thought of staying on Cape Cod was unbearable. “When’s the last time you were terrified?” she asked.

“Senior year,” said Dr. Duarte. “Right before I called to ask Suze Phillips to the prom. No, wait, my boards.” He paused. “No, Suze was scarier.”

“What did she say?”

“She said yes,” said Dr. Duarte. “I hung up the phone and almost cried with happiness.”

“That’s it exactly,” said Nadine.

“So being a globe-trotting journalist is like asking Suze Phillips to the prom,” said Dr. Duarte.

“It’s like asking her, and having her say yes.”

He nodded, pleased. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be back tomorrow. I can bring you some books, if you want. Might help pass the time.”

“Thanks,” said Nadine. “But I’m fine, really.”

“How many Law & Orders do you think you can watch?”

“Seven?” said Nadine. “Maybe eight.”

“Wow,” said Dr. Duarte. “My limit would probably be six.”

Gwen ministered to Nadine as if she were a child home from school. She made chicken soup and lasagna. She brought gossip magazines and crossword books. She went to Wal-Mart and returned with a nightshirt featuring a grinning cat. “I’m thirty-five,” said Nadine when she opened the bag.

“No one’s too old for Garfield,” said Gwen.

Nadine slept and watched television. Fellow journalists and off-again lovers sent flowers. Nobody called, however: what had happened to Nadine was the thing you didn’t allow yourself to think about. All of them were playing a game of chance, and even the best luck ran out eventually. There was a point at which many took a desk job, for love or family. But Nadine, with the exception of Jim, had no family.

As for love, there had been Maxim, shot by a stray bullet in Cape Flats. One love, one bullet. Nadine learned her lesson.




Three







Woods Hole, Massachusetts, where Nadine had grown up, was a small and strange town. It was located in the armpit of Cape Cod, an old fishing village now populated by drunks and scientists. In the winter, most of the shingled houses stood empty, barbecue grills sheathed in plastic, porch steps hidden by dull snow. Buttery summer gave way to lead skies by November, skies that barely brightened before June. Winter on the Cape was a time of resting, reflection, and deep depression. After two days in bed, Nadine defied Dr. Duarte’s orders and walked to School Street to visit her oldest friend, Lily.

“Holy guacamole,” said Lily, opening her front door with her shirt unbuttoned. Nadine tried not to wince at the sound of children shrieking over a loud television.

“It’s me,” said Nadine.

“Hm,” said Lily.

“Can I come in?”

Lily folded her arms across her giant breasts, but nodded.

“I’m sorry,” said Nadine, when she was settled into a couch that smelled like pancake syrup and diapers.

“So you said,” said Lily, “on your postcard.” Lily’s newest baby–a girl, by the looks of her pink pajamas–was asleep in the crook of Lily’s arm, and her two-year-old twin boys were watching a video called Hooray for Dirt. On the screen, a fat man in a construction helmet drove a bulldozer.

“It was a year ago,” said Nadine. “Can’t we forgive and forget?”

“Nadine,” said Lily, “I have three children under three years old. There’s nothing else to fixate on. Breast milk, crayons, and how much I hate you.”

“But didn’t you have fun in London?”

“Fun?” said Lily. “I took a boat ride down the Times. I had half a gross warm beer in some pub. The sun never came out. I went to the Tate museum by myself and I was late for the changing of the guard. I was three months’ pregnant, Nadine. I missed Bo and Babe–I came home a day early.”

“Thames,” said Nadine.

“What?”

“It’s pronounced Thames.’’

Lily bit her cheek and glared at Nadine. The baby had to be six months old, but Lily still looked pregnant. Her hair was pulled into a French braid, and her roots were showing.

“Have you lost weight?” said Nadine.

“Go to hell,” said Lily.

“Listen,” said Nadine. “Please. It was an important story. I didn’t have a choice. It’s impossible to get an interview with Marcos. It’s funny, Lily, actually. He wears this black ski mask…”

Lily widened her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know what to say,” she said.

“I didn’t plan on it,” said Nadine. “I got us show tickets.”

“Mommy!” said one of the boys–Bo? Babe? Lily ignored him.

“Do you know what I had to go through to get my mom to take the twins?” said Lily. “I left my babies with a senile witch to fly over and see my best friend–”

“Let’s have lunch. On me, Lily. We can go up to Boston. I want to tell you all about it. I had to go to this jungle hideout. Marcos comes out wearing a freaking Kalashnikov–”

“Mom-eeee!” said a twin.

“I need watch Big Bird!” said the other.

“I need watch Fraggle Rock” said the first. “Please, Mommy, pleeeease!”

“I’m sorry you got hurt, Nadine,” said Lily, “but I don’t give a flick about Marcos and his kala-whatever.”

“It’s a gun.”

Lily expertly changed the tape in the VCR, the baby still asleep in her arm. The boys settled down with their hands in their laps. “I don’t know who you’re trying to impress, Nadine,” she said. “I’m busy, if you don’t mind.”

“What’s gun, Mommy?” asked one boy politely.

“I need watch Thomas Train!” repeated the other.

“I need watch Big Bird!”

“I need gun!”

The din was getting to be a bit much. Nadine stood. “Lily,” she said, “my interview was on the front page of The Washington Post.”

Lily laughed and sank back down on the couch. Both boys climbed on top of her. The baby slept on. “Meanwhile,” said Lily, “how are the kids, Lily? Do you miss the library? You’re staying home with your children. That’s really wonderful.” As she spoke, her eyes filled with tears. She spit out the words. “Do you still love Dennis? How do you breast-feed twins? I’m interested. Tell me about your life. You’re my best friend, Lily. I care.”

“Right,” said Nadine. “I do care, Lily. Your new baby, she’s so beautiful.”

“What’s her name?” said Lily, staring at Nadine.

Nadine looked at the sleeping child, her mouth a tiny gum-drop. “Jesus, Lily…”

“How old is she?” said Lily. Her boys moved around her like squirrels, burrowing into her skin. All hell would break loose, Nadine realized, if Lily had an injured wrist.

“Lily,” said Nadine.

“Flick you,” said Lily, cutting her eyes toward her boys, to make sure they hadn’t heard her swear. “Come on, sweetie peeties, let’s make some peanut butter and jelly.”

“Flick me?” said Nadine.

“You heard me,” said Lily. She placed the baby in her bassinet and took one boy in each hand. In the kitchen, she bent over the counter. Nadine watched Lily’s back for a while, then turned and walked slowly out the door. Her head ached, and she felt weak. The wind whipped and tangled her long hair. Nadine stood on the snow-covered lawn and gazed at the line where the ocean met the slate-gray sky.

Clearly, it was time to start smoking again.




Four







On Water Street, Nadine headed for the Woods Hole Market. She walked across the drawbridge, her right hand wrapped in the long sleeve of her father’s coat, left arm bound to her chest. The coat would be perfect for work, she thought. It was warm and had enough pockets for a notebook, pen, and plastic bag. Nadine kept her passport and plane tickets in a ziplock and close at hand. Until the year before, Lily, who had been the reference librarian for the Woods Hole Public Library, had sent a small Moleskine notebook with information about every place Nadine was headed: a hand-drawn map of Ciudad Vieja with a history of the Guatemalan National Revolutionary Unity, tips on finding the best cheeseburger in Tulum.

Nadine and Lily had grown up like sisters, as they had no siblings of their own. Jim worked late at Falmouth Fish, so Lily’s mother would take Nadine in after school, feeding her Chips Ahoy cookies and strawberry milk. On Sunday, his day off, Jim took Nadine and Lily hiking along Sandy Neck Beach. Though both girls dreamed of being detectives like Nancy Drew, Lily fell for Dennis and went to Cape Cod Community College. Nadine went to Harvard and then traveled four continents before NYU journalism school.

Until the twins were born, Nadine and Lily still wrote and called constantly, reveling in the differences between their lives. But something changed after Lily’s frightening childbirth. The babies were early and sickly, and Nadine–traveling with the Zapatistas–couldn’t make it home in time to help out. By the time Nadine visited, Lily had already become someone else. She wasn’t interested in Nadine’s stories or the La Reliquia mezcal Nadine had brought from Mexico. Nadine spent the weekend cold and miserable, trying to feign interest in Bo and Babes sleeping patterns and weight percentiles. There was a new alliance between Lily and Dennis, too. Where once Lily had laughed about his dream of a McMansion and six kids, now she seemed to have bought in hook, line, and sinker, showing off her mini van and giant TV. Was Lily happy? Nadine couldn’t bear to believe it. She drank the mezcal herself on the bus back to Logan and made out with the man next to her on the flight to Mexico City, fondling him under the thin polyester blanket.

Nadine missed the Moleskine notebooks.

She bought a pack of Merits and made her way back to the Sandy Toes, jumping when she heard a loud rapping sound. It was someone inside The Captain Kidd, pounding at the window to get her attention: Dr. Duarte. He came outside wearing a yellow T-shirt with a salmon printed on it, his arms folded across his broad chest. “Nadine,” he said, “what are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same.”

He nodded quickly, his cheeks turning red from the cold. When he spoke, his words were frosted. “Left my coat inside,” he said. “Nadine, I’m serious. You need to be in bed.”

“You’d have to buy me dinner first.”

He looked bewildered. “It’s a joke,” said Nadine. “I’m sorry. I’m going back right now. I just needed–”

“Some cigarettes?”

Nadine looked down at the pack, visible through the plastic bag.

“Anyway,” said Dr. Duarte. “Please go home, Nadine. I don’t need a dead woman on my conscience.”

“Jesus,” said Nadine. “I’m not that bad off. I’m headed back to Mexico next week.”

“The hell you are,” said Dr. Duarte.

“I want a second opinion.”

“All right,” said Dr. Duarte. “You need to lie down and eat. Go home and get in bed. I’ll bring you some fried clams in an hour.”

Nadine blinked.

“Onion rings or fries?” said Dr. Duarte.

“I don’t–”

“Its freezing, Nadine. Give me an answer.”

“Onion rings.”

“Fine,” said Dr. Duarte. “See you soon.” He raised his bushy eyebrows and smiled, then darted back into The Captain Kidd.

At the front desk, a package from La Hacienda Solita waited. Inside, Nadine found her dirty backpack. She sat on the floor and emptied the pack with her right hand: rubber sandals; Pepto-Bismol and antibiotic tablets; three tamarind candies; a roll of toilet paper; condoms; a jar of Nescafé (when coffee was hard to find, she stuck her finger in the jar and sucked the crystals off); a Nalgene bottle; a headlamp; a Swiss Army knife; three lined notebooks; two Bic pens; an envelope of tobacco; and a tin of rolling papers.

And taped inside a composition notebook, the photograph of her mother, Ann, sitting on Nobska Beach. Even when she was sick, Ann had loved hiking to the lighthouse with a picnic dinner. She wrapped a warm blanket around her diminishing frame, a Red Sox cap covering her bald head. They would walk at sunset, the sky rippled with color. “I’ve never been outside New England,” Ann told six-year-old Nadine, “but there can’t be anywhere more beautiful than this.”

In the photo, Ann was young and healthy. Her black hair was tucked behind her ears, and her hand shaded her violet eyes. She wore a green bikini and smiled at Jim, who was taking the picture. Ann’s stomach was slightly rounded with baby Nadine.

“Knock, knock,” said Dr. Duarte, rapping on the door to Room 9.

“Oh, hi,” said Nadine.

“Why’s there trash in the middle of your room?”

“That’s not trash,” said Nadine. “It’s all my worldly possessions.”

“Oh,” said Dr. Duarte, “wow. I’m sorry.”

“It’s a reasonable mistake,” said Nadine, easing into bed.

“It really looks like trash,” said Dr. Duarte, taking a Styrofoam container from a paper bag. The smell of onion rings filled the room. “They were out of clams, so I got you a scrod sandwich.”

“Fried seafood. What kind of a doctor are you?”

“Believe me,” said Dr. Duarte. “Fried seafood is nothing compared with an amputated arm.”

“Come on,” said Nadine. “It doesn’t even hurt that much.”

“You’re on Demerol.”

“Right.”

“Eat your sandwich,” said Dr. Duarte.

“Speaking of Demerol,” said Nadine, biting into the soft Portuguese roll, savoring the hot fish, the melted cheddar cheese.

“No,” said Dr. Duarte. He sat on a chair in the corner of the room and turned on the television with the remote control.

“You don’t even–” said Nadine, wiping her lips with a napkin.

“Yes I do,” said Dr. Duarte. “You want some extra Demerol to add to your–” He gestured to the backpack. “–your worldly possessions.”

“But what if my wrist starts to hurt in the middle of the Sierra Madres?”

“Stop showing off,” said Dr. Duarte. “We’ll talk about it when you’ve sat in that bed for a while longer.”

“Right,” said Nadine. “By the way, this is fantastic.”

Dr. Duarte cracked open a bottle of beer. “You think I’m kidding,” he said. “Next time I come, Nadine, I’m bringing an X-ray of your arm. Haven’t you ever read A Separate Peace?”

“The boarding school book?”

“Phinneas dies,” said Dr. Duarte, pouring into a glass. “He dies of a broken bone.”

Nadine dipped an onion ring in ketchup. “Dr. Duarte, how about a beer?”

“You can call me Hank. And no, no beer for you. I got you an iced tea.” Hank handed Nadine the bottle, then settled back into his chair.

“What kind of beer is that, anyway?” said Nadine. “Looks delicious.”

“It’s my favorite, Whale’s Tail. They make it on Nantucket. Ever been to Nantucket?”

“No,” said Nadine. She thought for a moment of Jason Irving, who had grown up on the island. Then she forced Jason–and his sad story–from her mind.

“Too bad,” said Dr. Duarte. “The fast ferry only takes an hour. It always surprises me how many Cape Codders have never been. Ah, fourth quarter,” he said, finding a Patriots game on television.

“I hate football,” said Nadine.

“Well,” said Hank, stepping from his boots and propping his stocking feet on the ottoman, “it seems I have the remote.”

“To tell you the truth,” said Nadine, “I don’t get football.”

“You want me to teach you?”

“No,” said Nadine, “I have some research to do anyway.”

“Suit yourself,” said Hank.

Nadine opened the newspaper and scanned the headlines. “Damn!” she exclaimed.

“Beg pardon?”

“Damn Kit Henderson! He got my story.” Hank hit MUTE, came over to the bed, and leaned in. Nadine pointed to a picture of three men in handcuffs. “These guys, they shot twelve little boys. That’s why I was in Mexico, looking for them. They were drug traffickers, like I thought. Cleaning up their boy smugglers.” She scanned the story. “Kits a stringer. He must have followed up with my contacts. Goddamn it.”

“Nadine,” said Hank, “you’re lucky you made it home.”

“Home,” said Nadine, bitterly. “Kit Henderson got the front page.”

“The front page,” said Hank. “That’s what it’s all about?”

“Now you’re a therapist?”

“No,” said Hank. “I’m a generalist.”

“Teach me about football,” said Nadine. She folded the paper and put it in the trash.

“Well, to begin with, that’s the tight end,” said Hank.

“You’re telling me,” said Nadine.




Five







“Please,” said Nadine. “I’m going. Send me to Lima. I can get in with the Shining Path.” Nadine’s hand rested on the newspaper spread across her lap. Her room was filled with papers, and news blared on the television. She had pulled the gingham curtains closed, and she fought to ignore the searing pain between her temples.

“It’s a standoff, Nadine,” said Ian. “Nobody’s coming in or out. And I’m not sending you anywhere until you get your doctor to give the good word. Nadine, honestly. Are you listening?”

“Ian…,” said Nadine. She drained her soda and stacked it on top of the other Diet Coke cans on her bedside table.

“We’ve already sent Clay anyway. By the time it’s in the paper, we have someone there. You know that.”

“Well where, then? Where do you need someone?” Nadine opened another soda.

“Where do we need a nutcase with a broken wrist?” said Ian. “We’ll talk next year, okay? I’ve got to run.”

“Next year?”

“It’s Christmas,” said Ian. “It’s Kwanzaa. Hanukkah. The holiday season. Kiss someone under the mistletoe. Recover, Nadine. I’ll be in touch.”

“You can’t–” said Nadine.

“Happy holidays,” said Ian.

Tucking the phone under her chin, Nadine clamped a cigarette between her lips and lit it with her right hand. She swallowed, and decided to play her final card. “How about sending me back to South Africa? When I took the Mexico City job, you made me a promise.” She tapped her cigarette on the scallop shell she was using as an ashtray.

“And I intend to keep it. I know your heart’s in Cape Town, Nadine, but you’re not strong enough to go anywhere yet.”

“My heart? Ian, please.”

“Do you have any idea how much you talk about it?” said Ian.

Nadine laughed, blowing smoke. “What?”

“Will Mandela bring peace to South Africa, what about the townships, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission… and on and on.”

“Really?”

“Everyone has a story that sticks in their craw,” said Ian.

There was silence, and then Nadine said, “But seriously, Ian? I need to get back to work.”

“Dear?” Gwen’s voice was tentative from the hallway.

“One second!” said Nadine.

Ian’s tone was kind. “Talk soon, Nadine.”

“But–”

“Good-bye,” said Ian.

“Wait,” said Nadine, but Ian had hung up.

“Nadine?” said Gwen.

“Come in.”

“Are you still on the phone?” said Gwen, opening the door. She came into view wearing a sweatshirt with a reindeer appliqué. In her ears were tiny ornaments, and she held an old shoe box.

“No,” said Nadine. “I’ll pay you back for the long distance,” she added.

“Don’t worry about that, dear,” said Gwen. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“I brought you something,” said Gwen.

“For the love of God,” said Nadine. “Please, no more crossword puzzles.”

“Well,” said Gwen. She stood in the doorway for a moment, and then she said, “There’s no need to be nasty.”

“I know,” said Nadine. “I don’t mean to be. It’s just… Gwen, I don’t need mothering. I’m happy for you and my dad, and I’m just ready to get back to Mexico.”

“Speaking of lovebirds…,” said Gwen, settling on the corner of Nadine’s bed, tracing a circle on the coverlet.

“Hm?” Nadine put down The New York Times and opened the Boston Tribune.

“What about you settling down? Getting married? Babies?”

“Don’t think babies are in the cards for me.”

“You still have time,” said Gwen. “Well, a little.”

“I guess I’m missing the mommy gene,” said Nadine.

“You’re so pretty,” said Gwen. “And you have lovely panties. Are they French? You could get a man, Nadine.”

“I don’t want a man,” said Nadine. “I want to get back to work.”

“What about that nice Dr. Duarte?” said Gwen. “Everyone has a past, you can’t fault him for that.”

“What?”

“Poor Dr. Duarte,” said Gwen, leaning in. “I really shouldn’t gossip.”

Nadine was silent.

“Okay,” said Gwen. “Twist my arm. His wife ran off with a Greek man she met on a cruise ship!”

“Jesus,” said Nadine.

“A Carnival Cruise,” said Gwen in wonderment. “Now she lives on Mykonos and has two children. Both Greek. So Dr. Duarte moved here.”

“I’m missing something,” said Nadine.

“Oh, he used to work in the city. Some terrible emergency room. He worked all day and night.” Gwen warmed to her story. “So Maryjane finally convinces him to take a break. They go on a Caribbean cruise. A Carnival Cruise, did I mention?”

“Yes, Gwen, you did.”

“So who knows? I heard she met the Greek in the buffet line. I keep telling your father: they have really good food on those cruises. Everybody says so. And things like Tex Mex night, sushi night, what have you.”

“I am really tired,” said Nadine.

“Tex Mex night with margaritas. He’d like it, don’t you think?”

“Gwen,” said Nadine, “I’m going to take a nap now.”

“Oh.” Gwen was quiet for a moment, and then said, “Well, I just had to show you what I found in your daddy’s things.” She held out the shoe box.

“Sneakers?”

“No, silly,” said Gwen. “It’s all your articles.” She lifted newspaper clippings. “He saved every one,” she said.

One of the clippings fell from her hand, and Nadine held it up. It was a story she’d reported from South Africa: EVELINA MALE-FANE: MURDERER OR MARTYR? Nadine’s stomach clenched.

“That is the most terrifying story,” said Gwen. “That little African girl! How could she have killed an American? And a boy from Nantucket, no less.”

“Jason Irving,” said Nadine.

“Right. What a sicko. Did she get executed? I certainly hope so.”

“She’s in jail,” said Nadine.

“I would have voted for execution, myself,” said Gwen.

“She was fifteen,” said Nadine.

“A bad apple,” said Gwen, standing, “is a bad apple, any way you slice it.”

“Actually, she’s getting out of jail, if you really want to know,” said Nadine.

“Out?” said Gwen, sitting back down.

“The Truth and Reconciliation Commission. TRC, for short.”

“You have lost me, Nadine,” said Gwen.

“Under apartheid–” Nadine began.

“Oh Lord,” said Gwen, holding up her palm to stop Nadine.

“What?”

“Well, to be honest, sweetheart,” said Gwen, “I’m just not interested in history.”

Nadine sighed.

“What? A bunch of people over in Africa killed each other. I mean, what can you do?” She lifted her hands, a gesture of helplessness. “ Anyhoo, I just wanted you to know about this shoe box. Your daddy’s cut out every article you’ve ever written. He cares, Nadine, is what I’m saying.”

“Evelinas appearing before the TRC,” said Nadine. “She could be given amnesty.”

“You’re like an onion,” said Gwen. “Lots of layers. I mean that.”

“Okay,” said Nadine.

“An onion,” said Gwen. “Seems all rough, but then it’s tender underneath. Makes you cry. Best when softened up a little…”

“I get the picture,” said Nadine.

“Anyhoo,” said Gwen, “I’m real glad we had this little chat.”

When she was alone, Nadine stared at the article, which she had written almost ten years before.




Six







The summer she flew from JFK to Cape Town International Airport, Nadine was twenty-five, her hair in a long braid down her back. On her face, Nadine wore only sunscreen and ChapStick, and she was often mistaken for a student. But the lines in her forehead and the coldness in her eyes, her angry cynicism, betrayed her experience. By twenty-five, Nadine had been to Bhopal, India, where she had seen and reported on hundreds of dead bodies, victims of a slow, lethal leak in a Liberty Union methyl-isocyanate plant. She had comforted dying children in an emergency feeding center on the edge of Ethiopia’s Danakil Desert, filing detailed accounts for the Boston Tribune. Her articles about the torture wrought in Haiti by the Tonton Macoutes won her a five-hundred-dollar award, which she put toward credit card bills. She didn’t shy away from the gruesome details. In fact, as her Tribune editor, Eugenia, said, Nadine was “hot for gore.”

Nadine was ready to stare the worst in the face. But a steady paycheck still eluded her. It was part of the job: stringers paid their own way, hoping to sell enough stories to cover plane tickets, hotels (or crummy apartments), meals. Sometimes Nadine was forced to share a room with a more established reporter. Eugenia often bought Nadine’s stories, but Nadine dreamed of a steady position. Or the ultimate prize: paid expenses.

Eugenia called Nadine first when something unimaginable happened in a far corner of the world. “I don’t know how she handles it,” Nadine once overheard Eugenia telling another editor, “but she handles it. For now, anyway.” Eugenia had a foul mouth and a nose for ratings. “Nadine, babe,” she’d say, “I’m FedExing tickets to Haiti. Can you smell the blood?”

In Port-au-Prince, Nadine met Padget Thompson, the bureau chief for The New York Times. One night, as they drank whiskey at the Hotel Oloffson, Padget fixed her with a stare. “May I give you some advice, my dear?” he said.

“Of course,” said Nadine. She sipped her drink quickly, trying to pry her mind away from the boy she had seen that morning, killed in a voodoo ceremony.

“Your work is shocking. It’s fresh and energetic.”

“Thanks,” mumbled Nadine.

“But there will come a day when shocking people will grow tiresome. You’ll want to teach, to change things.”

“I’m hardly a tabloid reporter.”

“Oh?” said Padget. He ran a hand over thinning hair. “I don’t have a daughter,” he said. “Indulge me my fatherly tendencies.”

Nadine sighed, but revolved her hand to say go on.

“What you do is good. You rush in, detail the facts. You’re courageous. But to get better, to become a great reporter, you’re going to have to learn what it is you’re doing. You need to take it apart and put it back together with thought. You need to go to graduate school, and then stay in one place for a while. Your work needs perspective. Yes, horrible things are happening, and thank you for telling us. But why, Nadine? And what can we do about it?”

Nadine ordered another drink. She was quiet.

“For example,” said Padget. “When Duvalier flees the country, which he will, what’s going to happen? He’s a vicious asshole, yes. But who’s going to replace him? And what will become of Haiti then?”

Nadine looked up. “Whatever comes,” she said, “it will be better than Baby Doc.”

“Are you sure?” said Padget. “In ‘57, Baby Doc was the great hope.”

Nadine sipped her drink. “I never…,” she said. “I guess I hadn’t thought.”

“Thanks for listening,” said Padget. “Just a few words from an old man.”

“You’re not old,” said Nadine.

“Got to pass the torch sometime.”

In the morning, Nadine called the NYU School of Journalism, Padget’s alma mater.

Nadine studied writing, photography, and history at NYU. One of her professors was South African, and she urged Nadine to head to Johannesburg or Cape Town for the summer. “I’d give my arm to go back,” said Renata. “The Young Lions are changing the world. They’re braver–and dumber–than we were.”

Nelson Mandela’s struggle for a nonviolent takeover had come to nothing, Renata explained. Mandela was in prison, and many of his ardent supporters–including Renata, a white journalist who had questioned the mysterious deaths of jailed activists–were dead, missing, or exiled. Black youth, born and bred in the townships that surrounded South Africa’s cities, stripped of rights, material pleasures, and education, had grown up angry. “Their parents were too scared to fight. They had jobs, and they didn’t want to lose them,” said Renata. “But these kids? They’ve got nothing. They don’t have one thing to lose.”

They called themselves the Young Lions, and they were coming of age, embracing violence as a way to take back their county, which had been ruled by whites since 1948. South Africa was going to ignite, Renata said, “like a fucking bomb.

“For God’s sake, they just beat that American boy to death for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I don’t get it,” said Nadine. “I mean, why did they kill him? How could that help anything?”

“It’s the mind-set,” said Renata. “These kids feel like violence is the only way. Maybe they’re right. If they kill people, blow things up, the government will have to take notice. Everyone will stop ignoring apartheid. Jason Irving’s face was on the front page of every paper in the world.”

“But Jason Irving was American. He was teaching in the townships–”

“This isn’t subtle, Nadine. It’s not about thinking actions through. If you see a white person, kill them. If you announce a strike–nobody go to work for the white man–and some people take the train to work, blow up the train. It’s cut-and-dried, desperate. The kids who killed Jason, they had just left a rally. They’d been told to kill. One settler equals one bullet. A simple equation, in a country where there’s no room for nuance.”

“It’s insanity,” said Nadine.

“It’s news” said Renata.

Nadine went to Boston to meet with Eugenia, who was skeptical. “First you ditch me for graduate school,” she said disdainfully, lighting a cigarette in her cluttered office, “and now South Africa? I don’t know, babe. What about Sudan? Starving orphans, Nadine. Hundreds of ‘em. We’ve got Bill there, but you’re better at the misery and death stuff. Hell, Nadine, orphans are your specialty.”

“But I know I could do great work in South Africa,” said Nadine. “My professor, Renata Jorgensen, she fled the country with her notes on Steve Biko–”

“Spare me,” said Eugenia. She touched her springy red curls and then stubbed out her cigarette. “I’ll advance you the plane ticket and one month’s rent. Find something cheap.”

“Thanks, Eugenia. I promise, you’ll be glad.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Eugenia. “Let’s go pig out on pizza.”

From the moment she stepped outside the airport, Nadine was entranced by Cape Town. She loved the way the city wrapped itself around majestic Table Mountain, embracing the peak on three sides and spilling out to Table Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. Sundrenched vineyards climbed the eastern slopes of the mountain, their picturesque wineries wreathed in oak and pine trees.

Nadine took a rare day to herself, heading south of the city, to the Cape of Good Hope, and hiking out to its craggy point. High above two oceans, she breathed deeply. In the nature reserve, she saw a zebra and ostriches. Small but fierce baboons grabbed at the remains of her picnic lunch.

For the first time on assignment, Nadine looked just like the locals around her: black Cape Townians were not allowed in white areas after dark, and Nadine blended in with the white South Africans as she wandered among the Dutch and British colonial buildings, the cathedrals, shops, and the old slave market, now a shady square lined with upscale restaurants. Only Nadine’s American accent gave her away.

Nadine studied guidebooks and maps of the city. A blank section on most maps between the peninsula and the African mainland was designated CAPE FLATS. Nadine knew this bleak place plagued by wind-driven sand was where the city’s millions of non-whites lived. She visited District Six, once a thriving mixed-race neighborhood in one of the most beautiful parts of Cape Town. It had been “bleached” by the government, its buildings bulldozed, its residents sent to the Flats. Now it was a wasteland of rubble, plans for its revival mired in red tape.

Nadine stayed at a hostel on raucous Long Street for a week, examining the classified ads in the white edition of the Cape Argus. She’d heard there was a “native edition,” but no one was selling it on Long Street. Finally, Nadine called the number on an index card tacked to the hallway bulletin board: OBS HOUSE NEEDS ROOMIE. 17 NUTTHALL ROAD. CALL MAXIM AT 448-6363.

She spoke with Maxim, who was short on the phone. “Come see the place,” he said in a strong Afrikaans accent. “Then we can talk,” he said.

Nadine tried to take a bus to Observatory, but all the buses were labeled NON-WHITES ONLY, and the drivers wouldn’t let her on. Finally, she took a taxi to 17 Nutthall Road, a ramshackle house with a sagging front porch. Nadine climbed the steps and pressed the buzzer. Nothing happened. She wiped perspiration from her brow: the southeast wind the guidebooks called “the Cape Doctor” was hot as hell and she was tired. She carried a bulging backpack. Finally, she banged on the door, and it opened. A guy her age stood in front of her, wearing only a towel.

“Uh,” said Nadine, “are you Maxim?”

“No, darling,” said the guy. “I’m George.” He was lean and muscled, his shoulder-length dark hair combed back from his boyish face. Even his accent was charming–almost British, but not quite. Nadine would later learn that he was American: the accent was complete artifice. He held a cigarette. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed one leg over the other. He watched Nadine, a smirk playing across his face.

“Can I have a cigarette?” she asked.

“That depends,” said George.

“On what?”

“Well, who are you?” said George. “And why are you wearing an enormous bag on your shoulders?”

“I’m Nadine Morgan. I’m a journalist, and I need a place to live. I saw the ad and spoke with Maxim.”

“Good enough,” said George, holding his towel while he turned. “Come in,” he called, and Nadine followed him. The floor was cracked linoleum, and the apartment reeked of pot and beer.

“Three bedrooms off the hallway,” said George. “Shared bathroom and kitchen. And one common room.” The apartment was filled with photographs: chilling scenes of beatings and people lying in the street, dead or dying. Peaceful pictures of rolling South African farmland–Maxim’s home, George explained– and a beautiful blonde woman: Maxim’s mother. There were photos of dancers. One girl had her head thrown back in ecstasy, her muscled leg kicking high. The power of her body brought her joy, it was clear. Nadine was unnerved to see a similar facial expression in another photograph: a woman in an angry mob, beating a man to his death.

George walked briskly and turned a doorknob. “My love,” he called, “can you bring a cigarette for my new roommate?”

“Of course,” came a voice from inside the bedroom.

“Um,” said Nadine, “is Maxim here?”

“He’s at work,” said George. “Taking pictures in Cape Flats.”

“And you…”

“Oh, me,” said George, still holding his towel. “I’m waiting tables and writing a novel. It’s terrible. I’m also trying to convince this woman to marry me.” He extended his arm, and a stunning black woman in a gray dress came into the hallway. Her hair was cut short. Unsmiling, she handed a pack of Marlboros to Nadine. With her perfect posture, she seemed six feet tall, though her lips only reached George’s bare shoulder, which she kissed. “Nadine,” said George, “this is Tholakele.”

“Put on some clothing, George,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you, Nadine.”

“Your wish,” said George, touching her hair, “is my command.”

“Do you live here as well?” Nadine asked. Tholakele laughed. “I could go to jail for spending the night,” she said angrily. “Or for loving that boy.”

“Aren’t I worth the price?” said George, coming back into the hallway wearing a terry-cloth robe, his hair in a red rubber band at the nape of his neck.

Tholakele rolled her eyes. “I must get back to work,” she said.

“Thola is a dancer,” said George.

“I am a maid,” said Thola.

“And a maid,” said George, his face darkening.

“Good-bye, new roommate,” said Thola to Nadine, and she walked hand in hand with George to the door, where they kissed chastely. Then Thola opened the door, looking both ways nervously.

“There are men who watch us,” said George simply. Nadine was to find that this was not a paranoid delusion: the government employed security police to keep an eye on questionable liaisons.

“Good-bye, Prince Charming,” said Thola. She slipped into the warm evening, shutting the door behind her.

In Woods Hole, Massachusetts, Nadine closed her eyes and saw her friend Thola. Perhaps she was alive and well, married to George at last. It was possible.




Seven







Another gloomy day dwindled into brittle night. Nadine watched scientists exit the Marine Biological Laboratory from her hotel window, willing herself to get out of her pajamas, wrap herself into a parka, and walk down Water Street to get the paper. Her father and Gwen had decided it would be best for her mental health to avoid the news. Gwen had taken away her television while she slept, replacing it with a ceramic whale.

“Sweetheart?” said Gwen, rapping on the door.

“I’m asleep,” said Nadine.

The door nudged open anyway. “Nadine,” said Gwen, “I wanted to see if you’d join us tonight for the Christmas tree lighting at the library.”

Nadine sat up.

“You’re not asleep,” said Gwen accusingly.

“I’m in my nightgown,” said Nadine, pointing to Garfield’s smiling mouth.

“And it suits you,” said Gwen. She nodded, and the holiday bells on her headband jingled.

“Thanks for inviting me,” said Nadine. “I appreciate it. But I’m a little tired.” She did not add, I’m a little tired of you trying to make a daughter out of me.

Gwen pursed her lips and blew air from her nose.

“Gwen, I’m sorry,” said Nadine. “I guess I’m just not a holiday person. I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Its not fair,” said Gwen. “She took Christmas right away from you both.”

“What?” said Nadine sharply.

“Of course she couldn’t help it,” said Gwen. “But dying the week before Christmas… I cried when Jim told me about your mother.”

Nadine bit her tongue.

“And I’ve been wanting to be a mother to you ever since,” continued Gwen. “I never had a baby of my own, but God sent me you, Nadine.”

“Please stop,” said Nadine.

“She was beautiful,” said Gwen. “I’ve seen the pictures of your mom. That long dark hair, just like yours. And she was smart, all those books.”

“I said please stop,” said Nadine, raising her voice. She avoided meeting Gwen’s eyes, staring out the window instead. It was snowing, fat wet drops. Nadine had not seen snowflakes in a long time.

“This isn’t the way I had planned–”

“I’m sorry you had a whole scene laid out for yourself,” said Nadine, turning back to Gwen. She tried, and failed, to keep the bitterness from her voice. “A big hug and a brand-new daughter to love. I suppose you wanted me to be in the wedding, right? Maybe wanted to get married on Christmas, make up for my mother’s death?”

“Nadine.”

“I’m sorry,” said Nadine, stopping her tirade with effort. “I just… I don’t think you have any right–”

“I thought we could go to the tree lighting,” said Gwen. “I thought, maybe, eggnog…” Her voice trailed off.

“Everyone has a fantasy,” said Nadine. “Sorry, Gwen. No offense. Mine doesn’t include a new mother. Or eggnog, for that matter.”

“We could sit by the fire–”

“Gwen–”

“Nadine,” said Gwen. “I’m reaching out. Honey, I’m here.”

Nadine was overwhelmed with fury and unhappiness. “You know what,” she said, “I’ve got to go.” She pulled her father’s overcoat off the floor, awkwardly draped it over her nightgown. She tugged on jeans and took her prescription bottles from the bedside table. With her good hand, she stuffed her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. Gwen watched silently. Then, with little aplomb, Nadine walked out the door.

“Oh, honey,” said Gwen, but Nadine was down the stairs already, feeling stronger with each step.

Under a full-moon sky, Nadine walked toward Surf Drive. The wind was painful on her face and her wrist ached. Cold burrowed inside her coat, chilling Nadine to the bone. After about fifteen minutes, she saw the familiar outline of her childhood home.

The house had been built for a whaling captain, and had a turret with dizzying views of the sea. Jim and Ann had bought it in complete disrepair as newlyweds, spent every weekend working on the foundation, the floors, the nursery.

Ann died when Nadine was six, but Jim and Nadine stayed put. The house was miserably quiet without Ann’s noisy cooking, the records of Broadway shows she’d played day and night. Ann had filled the freezer with home-cooked dinners when she still felt well, but they eventually ran out. On the night they ate the last dinner, a turkey potpie, Jim finished his meal and then stood. “Going to have to work late from now on,” he said, his eyes red and his voice unsteady.

“Can we play Chutes and Ladders?” Nadine asked.

“Hannahs going to stay and have dinner with you,” said Jim. “She’ll put you to bed, et cetera.” Hannah was the first nanny, a young Irish woman who gazed at Nadine and said “You poor wee one” all the time.

“Daddy,” said Nadine, “can we play Chutes and Ladders?” “One round,” said Jim, “then it’s the bathtub for you.” Jim and Nadine rarely ate together on weeknights after that potpie. Hannah was followed by Hillary, Clare, and then Laura. Sometimes Nadine heard her father come home after she had gone to bed. He would open a can of beer–Nadine could hear the pop of the tab–and sit in front of the television. Many mornings, Nadine found him asleep in his easy chair, still dressed. She would climb into his lap, and he would let himself hold her. She rested her head on his shoulder and made her hair spread across his face. He breathed deeply, and Nadine knew that he still loved her, though when he woke, he pushed her away, saying, “Off me now, monkey.”

Nadine loved Sunday, when Jim brought her to dinner at The Captain Kidd. They walked into town and ate scallops by the fireplace or at a table overlooking Eel Pond. The walks from their house to town were Nadine’s favorite times. Jim would ask her about her homework, offer suggestions. All week, she thought of funny stories to tell him. And when the sidewalk narrowed, he took her hand.

Nadine stood in front of the house for a moment, then drew a breath and walked across the lawn, her boots making footprints in the snow. She treaded gingerly up the front steps, felt the icy doorknob. She tried the handle: the house was locked. Now that Jim had found Gwen, 310 Surf Drive was empty. Gwen had tried to convince Jim to sell it, she told Nadine, but he had resisted, saying he wanted to wait for the market to pick up.

Snow crunched as Nadine made her way to the back sliding glass door. As always, it was unlocked. Nadine flipped the light and looked around the kitchen. The fireplace was clean, the cabinets empty. She moved through the high-ceilinged dining room to the staircase. The house smelled familiar, a faded fragrance of talcum powder and wood smoke.

In the second-floor foyer, Nadine fumbled in the dark for the cord that would bring down the steps. She found it and yanked. The ceiling door protested with a rusty groan. Nadine climbed the steps to the turret.

The circular room was lit with a soft glow. This had once been the place where a woman would sit and watch the horizon for her husband’s–or son’s–ship to sail home after years at sea. As a child, Nadine dreamed of being the one on a boat, heading toward adventure and away from her lonely house.

She sat in the rocking chair by the bookcase, where Ann had loved to spend evenings reading. Outside the window, waves crashed to shore. Nadine knelt on the floor and ran her fingers over her mother’s books until she came to The Lying Days by Nadine Gordimer. On the back of the book was a picture of an elegant woman with gold hoop earrings and twinkling eyes. Ann had named Nadine for the author of her favorite book, a story of a South African girl trying to find her place in the world.

The book was scribbled in, a few pages folded down. Nadine opened it. On page 366, her mother had underlined, “I’m so happy where I am.” Nadine was surprised to find, when she read the book herself, that the narrator speaks this line on the eve of her departure to Europe. The narrator accepts “disillusion as a beginning rather than an end: the last and most enduring illusion.” But Ann had not underlined that realization.

“I guess I won’t get to see the whole world,” Ann had said in the hospital, her violet eyes luminous in her sunken face. “But you’ll see it for me, won’t you? Send postcards to me in heaven.” Nadine accompanied her mother to all the chemotherapy treatments, and grew to hate the chicken soup stench of the hospital, the sickly people, the useless fight against death.

“Is Mommy going to be okay?” Nadine asked her father the last, long night.

“Don’t ask questions,” said Jim hoarsely, “and I won’t have to lie to you.”

Nadine rubbed her tender wrist. She heard footsteps coming up the turret stairs, and dropped the book. A voice rose: “Nadine?” It was Lily, walking up with effort. When she appeared, she smiled. “I knew it,” she said.

“Hey,” said Nadine.

“Your dad called me,” said Lily. “He thought I might know where to find you.”

Nadine shoved the book back in its place, but Lily sat down heavily on the floor and said, “Nadine Gordimer?”

“Don’t make fun of me,” said Nadine.

“I’m not,” said Lily. “It’s freezing.”

Nadine sighed. “Fucking Gwen,” she said.

“She’s all right,” said Lily.

“Please,” said Nadine. “Have you seen the holiday outfits?”

“She means well,” said Lily.

“I just don’t belong here,” said Nadine. “I never have.”

“I’m here, though,” said Lily.

Nadine put her head on Lily’s shoulder. When Lily reached for her hand, their fingers laced together. They sat in silence, watching Vineyard Sound.




Eight







Nadine spent a sleepless night on Lily’s couch. Dennis, flushed from cans of Budweiser, had sat with his giant hands covering his knees and told Nadine which septic systems in town his company had installed. “And underneath the coffee shop?” he said. “Wait till you hear this, Nadine.”

One baby or another screamed all night long. By morning, Nadine was on the edge of a nervous breakdown. In a bathroom covered with celebrity magazines and plastic bath toys, she combed her hair with her fingers and tried to make a plan. She had to get back to her quiet apartment in Mexico City. Bo burst in and screamed, “Nadine going peep in the potty!”

“I’m going to need some time by myself,” said Nadine. “Okay, honey?”

“Nadine going poop in the potty!” cried Bo, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Without thinking, Nadine tried to push the door closed, but Bo’s fingers were in the way. He looked at his hand, stunned, and then began to wail.

“Oh, shit,” said Nadine. “I’m really sorry, Bo. Can this be a secret?”

Lily came upstairs, carrying a basket of clean laundry. She looked at Nadine quizzically, then put down the laundry and gathered Bo in her arms. Bo sobbed, “Nadine go peep in the potty! Nadine hurt me!”

Nadine stood and pulled up her pants. “Time for me to head on out,” she said.

“Sorry,” said Hank, as Nadine sat on an examining table in a borrowed T-shirt and jeans. “Did I hear you correctly? You want money for a bus ticket?”

“I need to get to Logan,” said Nadine, “and they don’t take credit cards at the bus station.”

Hank crossed his arms and leaned back against a counter lined with glass bottles of tongue depressors and Q-tips.

“Anyone going to meet you at the airport?” he asked.

“Sure, yes. I don’t need to remind you, Hank, but I am an adult.”

“I don’t need to remind you, Nadine, but I don’t have to give you bus fare.”

“Fine,” said Nadine, sliding off the table. She turned and banged her left arm, sending pain shooting to her wrist. Nadine gritted her teeth.

“I have a house on Nantucket,” said Hank. “I’m headed there for the holidays. Why don’t you join me?”

“Thank you,” said Nadine. “That’s nice. I’m fine, though. I just need to get back to Mexico City.” She tried to catch her breath and ignore the dizziness, the dark patches at the edges of her vision.

“I love to cook,” said Hank, “and there’s a bar with good burgers downtown. I can push you there in my wheelbarrow.”

Nadine tried to smile, and shook her head.

“You won’t make it to Mexico City,” said Hank. “Nadine, you’re still on some strong painkillers, and your body has undergone a serious trauma. You’ll pass out at the bus station.”

“I have friends who can help me.” Nadine wasn’t sure this was true, and the room did look fuzzy. Oh hell, she thought. She envisioned the long security line at the airport. She thought about her empty apartment, the meaningless flirtations with the fact checker next door. She wanted so desperately to get back to work, but she couldn’t travel, not like this. She had to sit down, just for a little while.

“Okay,” said Hank. “Thought I’d give it a shot. It’s lonely out there. You take care, Nadine. Have a great holiday.”

“All right,” said Nadine. “All right, fine.”

“Let me help you to the door,” said Hank. “Do you want to take your records, or should we fax them to your doctor in Mexico?”

“I said fine,” said Nadine.

“What?”

“Let’s go,” said Nadine. “I don’t… I said, okay. Let’s go to Nantucket. But I’ll need… I need some clothes.”

“They have clothes on Nantucket,” said Hank.

“I shudder to think,” said Nadine.

“You’re my second-to-last appointment. I was planning on catching the four PM ferry.”

“I’ll be in your lobby,” said Nadine.

The receptionist did not appear to notice as Nadine sat down in an orange plastic chair and paged through the Cape Cod Times. She finished the paper, three old People magazines, and one Travel+Leisure before Hank appeared.




Nine







Sun shone on the water as the ferry moved out of Hyannis Harbor and past expensive gray homes. Next to Nadine and Hank, an old woman petted her dog. The dogs collar was printed with tiny lobsters.

“Look,” said Nadine, “a yacht.” She pointed. It was a lovely boat, its sails bound in blue cloth. “Or I guess you’d call that a sailboat.”

“Definitely a sailboat,” said Hank. “Didn’t you grow up here?”

“Sort of,” said Nadine.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t remember it much,” said Nadine. “My life started after I left.”

“Coffee?” said Hank.

“Great.”

Nadine watched his red T-shirt as he walked away. The shirt had an ice cream cone on the back. His jeans were faded, and his hiking boots looked well worn. Hank’s thick black curls needed a trim.

The ferry rocked slowly. Hank returned a few minutes later, balancing a cardboard tray of coffees in one hand. “Cream and sugar?” he said.

“Neither,” said Nadine.

“I figured,” said Hank, handing her a paper cup.

“At what point does a sailboat become a yacht?” said Nadine.

“Hm,” said Hank. “Fifteen feet? Twenty?”

“Oh,” said Nadine. “Well, you learn something every day.”

“Do you?”

Nadine sipped her coffee. “You know,” she said, “I do.”

“I envy you, then.”

“I love my job,” said Nadine.

“Yes,” said Hank, “you’ve said that.”

“Why do you sound as if you don’t believe me?”

“I used to work in an emergency room in Boston,” said Hank. “At first, it was great. You know, it was what I was trained to do. Someone ODs, or comes in with a broken leg, I know how to handle it. At work, I was happy. I guess it was somewhat like you said. I felt alive. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t switch it off. I mean, you walk out the door, you know, you walk outside, but those patients are still… you’re supposed to go on home, have a beer, relax. I’d take the T, twenty minutes, and then my wife would be opening the door, wanting to go see a movie or talk about new paint for the living room… it was strange. It got to me. I felt as if I couldn’t stop, not for a minute. I didn’t like who I turned into. I didn’t like who I was, outside the ER.”

“I could stop,” said Nadine.

“Okay,” said Hank.

A man began to spray bright yellow cleanser on the ferry window, wiping it afterward with a thin blade. He wore a jacket that read STEAMSHIP AUTHORITY. There were two patches on his jacket: an American flag, and his name, JEFF. Jeff was sweaty and had a pimple in the center of his forehead. He sprayed the cleanser and wiped it away.

“Gwen told me your wife, um,” said Nadine.

The old woman began patting her dog and talking to it. “We had a wonderful morning, didn’t we?” she said. “You saw your friend Austin, didn’t you?” The dog, like Hank, did not respond.

“Gwen told me your wife, well, went on a Carnival Cruise ship… this can’t be true…”

“No,” said Hank, “it is true. We went on the cruise together. It was a theme cruise.”

“I don’t want to ask,” said Nadine.

“ ‘Bring Back the Zing,’ “ said Hank, staring at Jeff, who sprayed and wiped.

“Pardon?” said Nadine. “The zing?”

“You heard me,” said Hank. “It was for couples. ‘Bring Back the Zing.’ It was my idea.”

“Oh, Hank,” said Nadine.

“I’d been working around the clock. I knew Maryjane was unhappy. I thought that maybe if I got far enough away, I could shut off. I could… talk about her, pay attention to her.” He rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “I got us tickets on ‘Bring Back the Zing.’ We were supposed to make love from Miami to Bermuda.”

“But Gwen said… and again, this cannot be true–”

“Oh it’s true,” said Hank. “Hercules Kalapoulou.”

“Hercules?”

“You might ask yourself, as I did, why a divorced Greek businessman booked a room on ‘Bring Back the Zing.’ But Maryjane didn’t ask any questions. When the cruise was over, so was our marriage.”

“I don’t know what to say,” said Nadine.

“I went back to the ER for a year, and then decided I wanted a quieter life. A small community. I guess I wanted a home. Falmouth needed a generalist And that’s the story.”

Nadine shook her head. “Wow.”

Hank nodded. “I suppose I can see the humor in it now,” he said, one side of his mouth turning up. He continued to look out the window. Nadine couldn’t tell if he was seeing Jeff or the water beyond Jeff. The glass did not look any clearer.

“I’ve never been on a cruise,” said Nadine.

“So I sold my place in Falmouth after a year,” Hank said, forging ahead. “I rent a condo now. And I bought the house on Nantucket. It has a fireplace. I love it out here.”

“You love Nantucket, too, Mario,” said the woman next to them. She was talking to her dog again. “Don’t you, Mario? Don’t you love Nantucket?”

A man with red hair walked by. There was a comb in his back pocket. “Aren’t you a good boy?” said the woman, scratching her dog’s belly. “Aren’t you a good, good boy?”

“So that’s my saga,” said Hank. “What’s yours?”

“Oh, you know,” said Nadine.

“No,” said Hank. “I don’t.”

“Well,” said Nadine, “what have you heard?”

“Jim Morgan’s daughter,” said Hank, sitting back in his seat. “Difficult as a kid. Crazy in high school. Always looking for trouble. Ran away with a guy who came through town on a Harley-Davidson. Called her dad from Sturgis, wanting money to come home.”

Nadine smiled. She had met Sammy after the Senior Dinner Dance, which had been held on a spring Saturday night under a tent overlooking Old Silver Beach. Tiny white lights twinkled along the edge of the canvas fabric, and the temperature was a perfect seventy-five degrees. The strains of “Wonderful Tonight” played as Nadine’s date, Liam Baker, spun her too fast. Over his shoulder, Nadine saw a girl she barely knew crying by the punch bowl. She saw Lily dancing with Dennis, trying to look happy as Dennis, too drunk, staggered around the parquet floor.

“This is perfect,” whispered Liam in Nadine’s ear. Poor Liam, who thought they would get married and stay on Cape Cod forever. Suddenly Nadine couldn’t bear it: Liam’s overpowering cologne, the crying girl, Lily pretending so fiercely. The sun set, an orange orb, and the gap between the reality of imminent heartbreak all around her and the cheery illusion of a perfect summer night was too wide for Nadine to straddle. She twisted free of Liam’s embrace and ran. She ran until her legs wore out, and then she sat on the back porch of someone’s empty summer house and watched the stars. She fell asleep on a teak lounge chair.

In the morning, walking home, she saw Sammy parked by the side of the road, smoking a cigarette. He was short and ugly. He was real. When he offered to take her for a ride, she accepted. As they sped around the Sagamore Rotary and then over the bridge toward freedom, Nadine pressed her cheek to his leather jacket and held on tight.

“Oh my God,” said Nadine. “Hank, who have you been talking to?”

“Wrote about the biker underworld for the school newspaper. Wins some contest–”

“The Young Writers’ Fellowship,” murmured Nadine.

“Heads to Cambridge, never looks back. Turns out she’s not just crazy, but brilliant.”

Nadine smiled and looked at Hank. “I hang out at The Captain Kidd,” said Hank. “Jan the bartender went to school with you.”

“Jan Hallnet.”

“Yes.”

Nadine looked down. “Did he tell you about my mother?”

Hank didn’t answer. An older man wandered by, leading a sheepdog on a leather leash. The sheepdog stopped next to Mario. “Who’s this?” said the man.

“This is Marlo,” said the woman.

“This is Roady,” said the man. The dogs sniffed each other.

“So,” said the man, “how old is Marlo?”

“We don’t know,” said the woman. “My daughter rescued him from a farm. They were going to shoot him. He ate the eggs and scared the chickens. Maybe around eleven. But he acts like a little puppy.”

“Roady here is five,” said the man. “I got him from a breeder in Wellesley.”

“Don’t you?” said the woman. “Don’t you act just like a little puppy?”

Hank moved close to Nadine. She could smell him, and it was a comforting smell, like butter, like gingerbread. “No,” said Hank finally. “Jan didn’t tell me about your mother.”

“Oh,” said Nadine. A woman made her way to the bathroom, sipping from a bottle of beer. Jeff moved to another window. The sun broke through a bank of clouds and spilled across the waves. Nadine leaned over and kissed Hank. He kissed her back.

“Hey, hey,” said the man with the dog. “What have we here? Somebody falling in love right here on the slow ferry?”




Ten







It was dark by the time they pulled into Nantucket Harbor. From the outdoor deck, Nadine and Hank watched the island come into view: the row of neat houses with windows lit, cargo trucks lining up, readying for the shipments of food and fuel. The wind was fierce, and when Hank put his hands in his pockets Nadine slid her right hand inside the warm wool of his coat, entwining her fingers with his. Hank looked at her and smiled.

“We can grab a burger in town,” he said, “and then take a cab to the house. I’ve got an old Volvo there. Hope it starts.”

“Great,” said Nadine.

“Or there’s the Straight Wharf. A little snazzier. Candlelight, etcetera.”

“No,” said Nadine, “a burger’s fine.”

They lined up above the metal staircase leading off the ferry. Pink-faced passengers wrapped in mink and North Face parkas stood elbow-to-elbow with heavyset women gossiping in Jamaican patois. At the ferry dock, construction workers waited for the last ship out, empty lunchboxes in hand. Nadine and Hank strolled across the gangway, then past a lively taco stand and a bicycle rental shop, closed for the day.

“Come,” said Hank, leading her by a basket museum and a whaling museum, then into town, where the streets were made of cobbled stone and holiday lights twinkled from every lamppost. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” said Nadine, though she felt completely dislocated, even anxious. “This is beautiful. Really. I guess I thought the streets were paved with gold.”

Hank laughed. “Quaint isn’t cheap,” he said.

On Broad Street, after a store specializing in French cookware, Hank stopped. “Here we are,” he said. “The Brotherhood of Thieves.” He opened the door to a warm underground restaurant. “This was a hangout for whalers back in 1840.” In the dim space, a fire blazed and people sat around wooden tables. “Two for dinner,” Hank said to the teenager in a polo sweater and cargo pants who stood behind a wooden reservation stand. The boy’s overgrown hair and burgeoning beard testified to his decision to stay on-island for the winter.

“Forty-five minitos,” said the boy. “Maybe an hour.”

“How about a drink?” said Hank, inclining his head toward a bar where men in knit hats and baseball caps watched television intently.

“Sure,” said Nadine. She took a few steps, then said, “You know, I’m going to go get some fresh air, actually.”

“What?” said Hank. “Are you okay?”

“Just some air,” said Nadine, as she rushed past the host and to the door. Awkwardly, she yanked it open and the cold wind hit her. She started to walk. Something about the dark space, the rumble of voices, the tinny sound of the television. She turned a corner and saw a church, sat down on the steps. Underneath her jeans, the stone was cold. Nadine felt her temples throb. It was something about the fire, the smell of meat. Memories rushed forward, vivid and painful.

During her summer in Cape Town, Nadine often drove from her manicured neighborhood to Sunshine township. With her housemates and fellow reporters, she drank beer at a bar called the Waterfront, listening to the Moonlights and JC Cool on the jukebox. Some nights, the tinny sound of soccer games won out over the music.

Nadine was working on a piece about the parents of boys who had run away from home to join the Mandela United Football Club. The “club” was really a gang that roamed the township streets, using fear and brutality to stamp out resistance to the anti-apartheid cause. Rumors had begun to spread about Winnie Mandela, the wife of jailed leader Nelson Mandela who would later be released and elected president of South Africa. Winnie, it was said, was housing young men in her mansion. The men called her “Mommy” and carried out any orders she gave, no matter how illogical or violent. Nadine was having a hard time finding people willing to speak out against the Football Club, and finding proof of Winnie’s involvement was simply impossible.

Still, Nadine loved talking to her subjects for hours, drinking tea and picking the locks of their minds. She was always amazed at how much people would tell her, a stranger, even as she held a pen in her hand. They seemed so eager to be seen, to be recognized. But Nadine had to listen carefully for the narrative beneath the fa¸ades they constructed for themselves.

Sometimes Nadine felt interviewees pulling back from her, as if they thought she could not understand their reality, or might judge them. She used her own secrets then, handing over personal tidbits like bargaining chips, creating a sense of intimacy that almost always led subjects to reveal deeper truths about themselves.

Nadine relished the drive home with pages of scrawled notes. She would pour a glass of wine, play some jazz, and type on her antique Olivetti–she had bought it in a Station Street pawnshop–finding the arc of the story in the process. The hiss of the fax machine, the thrill of snapping open a paper to see her name, the way people lit up when they realized she had written an article they had read and thought about: Nadine loved it all.

But then there was the night they heard gunfire outside the Waterfront. A large bottle of Castle beer in front of her, the lights in the bar going dark, the music stopping abruptly. There were shots, and then screams. Around her, the murmur of voices speaking in Xhosa.

Nadine didn’t have to go outside. Her work was slow and cunning. But the photographers stood in the dark, wrapped their cameras around their necks, and raced toward the action. Nadine sat in the warm shebeen, her hands pressed to her eyes. The gunfire stopped, and there was an eerie silence from the garbage-strewn streets. Something made her stand up, leave the bar. Notebook tucked in the pocket of her shorts, she ran outside, cutting through dirt alleys. And then the gunfire started again.

It hadn’t been a premonition that had made her run outside. It had been the silence. Now, on an island far from war, she was enveloped by terror.

“Nadine?” Hank sat next to her on the church step. He looked concerned as he bent down to see her face.

“My head,” said Nadine. Her hands were shaking. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m just feeling…”

“Continuing headaches are completely normal after head trauma,” said Hank. “Maybe this trip was too much for you.”

“No,” said Nadine. “I’m fine. Just some air, you know?” She looked into Hank’s eyes, and watched him decide whether or not to believe her.

“How about a burger?” she said, her voice controlled.

“There’s soup at my house,” said Hank.

“Really,” said Nadine. “I’m fine. Maybe I just need some food.” He nodded warily. She smiled, and took his arm as they walked back to the restaurant, wrapping around him tightly. She did not think of Maxim, the way his lips had felt on her skin. She did not think about returning to Nutthall Road the next day, staring at Maxim’s clothes abandoned on the floor.




Eleven







For four days, Nadine woke early in Hanks guest bedroom. The winter sun streamed through the panes of the upstairs windows; even when Nadine closed the white shutters, the light worked its way underneath her eyelids. Besides the hissing of the steam heat, the house was utterly quiet. Nadine’s dreams–which had always been blissfully blank–were filled with images like shrapnel: the clay Madonna on a sick child’s bedside table, the knot of skin where a Haitian boy’s ear had been. Ann’s wedding ring, nestled amid Jim’s spare change in a glass dish on his dresser in the Surf Drive house.

In her pajamas, Nadine made coffee and drank it in on the front porch, looking over the large yard, which led to a dirt road and then the beach. The yard was made for dogs and children, thought Nadine, but there was only Hank and his fragile patient, drinking coffee, wrapped in a scratchy red blanket. By the front door was a row of fishing rods and a green plastic tackle box.

In the afternoons, they would read in the living room. They had visited Nantucket Bookworks and bought each other books for Christmas. Hank was working through War and Peace and Nadine was revisiting Cry the Beloved Country. They sat at opposite ends of the couch, propped up by pillows. Once in a while, Hank would read a sentence to Nadine, or she would look up to find him focused on her, not his reading.

“What?” she said once, catching him staring.

“Oh,” said Hank, “I just hit a boring part. You thought I was gazing at you?”

“No,” said Nadine, smiling.

“Good,” said Hank.

After a lunch of cheese, sliced apples, and bread, they shopped in town and then sat on the beach. They told each other ribbons of stories: Nadine’s summer in South Africa, Hank’s mother in Florida, who was growing forgetful, the young girl he’d just diagnosed with diabetes. “That must have been tough,” said Nadine, when he described telling the girls parents.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/amanda-eyre-ward-3/forgive-me/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.