The Blackstone Chronicles

Chapter 7

Elizabeth McGuire stayed in the hospital for three days, and on the afternoon that Bill finally brought her home, the weather was every bit as bleak as her mood. A steel-gray sky hung low overhead, and the first true chill of winter was in the air. Elizabeth, though, hardly noticed the cold as she walked from the garage to the back door of the big house, for her body was almost as numb as her emotions.
The moment she entered the house, she sensed that something had changed, and though Bill suggested she go right up to their room and rest for a while, she refused, instead moving from room to room, unsure what she was looking for, but certain that she would know it when she found it. Each room she entered seemed exactly as it had been before. Every piece of furniture was in place. The pictures still hung in their accustomed spots. Even the mahogany case in the library was back where it belonged—screwed to the wall with much heavier hardware this time, so the accident could never be repeated—and even most of the objects it contained had been repaired and put neatly back in their places. Only the doll was gone. Elizabeth shuddered as she gazed up at the empty shelf where she’d placed it. Apart from the doll, all was as it should have been.
The photographs were back in their silver frames; the shattered glass all replaced.
Fleetingly, Elizabeth wondered if her spirit could be repaired as easily as the damage to the pictures, but even as the question came to mind, so also did the answer.
The pictures might have been made right again; she would never be.
Finally she went upstairs, retreating wordlessly to her room.
Later that night, when Bill had come to bed, she remained silent. Though she could feel the warmth of his body lying next to hers, and his strong arms holding her, she still felt more alone than she ever had before. When finally he drifted into sleep, she lay awake gazing up at the shadows that stretched across the ceiling, and began to imagine them as black fingers reaching out to squeeze her sanity from her mind as her own body had squeezed her son from her womb. Elizabeth realized then that it wasn’t the house that had changed. It was she who was different now. Long minutes ticked away the night while she wondered if she could ever be whole again.
Finally she left the bed, slipping out from beneath the comforter so quietly that Bill didn’t stir at all. Clad only in her thin silk nightgown, but oblivious to the damp chill that had seeped into the room through the open window, she walked on bare feet through the bathroom that connected the master bedroom to the nursery next door. In the dim illumination from the street lamps outside, the bright patterned wallpaper had lost its color, and the animals that appeared to gambol playfully across the walls when she had hung the paper a few short months ago now seemed to Elizabeth to be stalking her in the night. In the crib, lying in wait on a satin comforter, lay a forlorn and lonely-looking teddy bear.
Alone in the darkness, Elizabeth silently began to weep.
“Maybe I should just stay home today,” Bill suggested the next morning as the family was finishing breakfast.
Elizabeth, sitting across from him at one end of the huge dining table that could seat twenty people if the need should ever arise, shook her head. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted, though the pallor in her face and her trembling hands belied the words. “You have a lot to do. If I need anything, Mrs. Goodrich and Megan can take care of me. Can’t you, darling?” she added, reaching out to put her arm around Megan, who was perched on the chair next to her.
The little girl bobbed her head. “I can take care of Mommy. Just like I can take care of Sam.”
“Sam?” Bill asked.
“That’s what I named my doll,” Megan explained.
Bill frowned. “But Sam’s a boy’s name, honey.”
Megan gave her father a look that declared she thought he was being deliberately dense. “It’s short for Samantha,” she informed him. “Everybody knows that.”
“Except me,” Bill said.
“That’s because you’re a boy, Daddy. Boys don’t know anything at all!”
“Boys aren’t so bad,” Bill said quickly, his eyes flicking toward Elizabeth.
“I hate them,” Megan declared. “I wish they were all d—”
“You wish they were all girls like you, right?” Bill interjected quickly, cutting off his daughter before she could quite finish the last word.
“That’s not what I was going to say,” Megan protested, but by now her father was on his feet and had come around the end of the table to lift her out of her chair.
He held her high up over his head.
“I don’t care what you were going to say,” he said, swinging her low, toward the floor, then lifting her up once again. “All I care about is that you take as good care of your mommy as you do of your dolly. Can you do that?” Megan, overcome by giggling, nodded, and Bill set her down on the floor. “Good. Now run along and let me talk to your mother for a minute.” When she was gone, Bill dropped down next to Elizabeth. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine,” Elizabeth assured him. “You do what you have to do. Megan and Mrs. Goodrich will take care of me.”
Rising from her chair, she walked with him to the door, kissed him good-bye, then stood watching until his car had disappeared around the corner. But when he was finally gone and she’d shut the door, she slumped against the wall for a moment, afraid she might collapse to the floor without its support. A moment later she heard Mrs. Goodrich behind her, clucking worriedly.
“Now you get yourself back upstairs and into bed, young lady,” the housekeeper said, reverting to the same no-nonsense tone she’d used years ago, when she felt Elizabeth wasn’t behaving in a manner she considered quite proper. “The best thing for you is a good long rest, and there’s nothing in this house I can’t take care of.”
Too tired to do anything but agree with Mrs. Goodrich’s command, Elizabeth mounted the stairs. But when she reached the door of the master bedroom, instead of going inside, she paused, gazing down the hall toward Megan’s room, whose door stood slightly ajar. Though she heard no sound coming from her daughter’s room, something seemed to be drawing her to it. A moment later she was standing in the doorway gazing at the doll, which sat on Megan’s bed, propped up against the pillows.
It seemed to be gazing back at her. Something in its eyes—eyes that now seemed so lifelike she could hardly believe they were only glass set in a porcelain head—reached out to her, touched a nerve deep inside her, took hold of her. Elizabeth picked the doll up, cradled it in her arms, and walked slowly back to her own room, closing and locking the door behind her.
Sitting down in front of the mirror above her vanity table, she put the doll in her lap and began, brushing its hair, humming softly. As the brush moved gently through the doll’s hair in a soothing rhythm, the numbness within Elizabeth began to lift and the pain began to ease. When the brushing was finally done, Elizabeth moved to the chaise, stretching out on it, the doll resting on her breast, almost as if it were nursing. Warmed by the morning sun streaming though the window, and comforted by the doll resting against her chest, Elizabeth drifted into the first peaceful sleep she’d had since losing the baby.
Bill McGuire was starting to wonder if anything was ever going to go right again. Since the day Jules Hartwick had told him the Blackstone Center loan was on hold, it seemed as if everything that could go wrong, had. Worst of all, of course, had been Elizabeth’s miscarriage. After Megan’s birth they’d been told it was unlikely that Elizabeth would be able to conceive again, and they had all but given up hope of a second child when Elizabeth discovered back in April that she was pregnant. “But it’s going to be tricky,” Dr. Margolis told them. “And this will definitely be the last.” So now it was over, and though Bill still felt a terrible sense of emptiness and loss, the agony of that first night when he’d come back to Blackstone to find that his son had been born dead had already begun to dull.
He knew he was going to survive it, and that somehow he would carry Elizabeth through the loss as well.
As if the loss of his son were not enough, it seemed the gods were somehow conspiring against him. He had raced home from Port Arbello thinking he’d won the condo project. But yesterday he’d received a call from the developer to tell him that the contract—the contract he’d counted on to carry him through until the Blackstone Center project came back to life—had gone to an outfit from Boston, which came in with a late bid that Bill knew he couldn’t possibly undercut. In fact, he was certain the Boston firm had no intention of staying within the bid they’d submitted, and planned to make up their losses on change orders. He’d argued with the developer, but the man would not be convinced. So now he was back at the bank on the slim hope that Jules Hartwick might have some good news for him. As he pulled his car into a parking slot, however, he saw Ed Becker going into the bank. A preoccupied scowl on the lawyer’s face was enough to tell him that whatever news might be coming out of Jules Hartwick’s office would not be good.
Instead of entering the bank, Bill veered off the other way and walked down the street to the offices of the Blackstone Chronicle. An old-fashioned bell tinkled as he pushed the door open, and all three people in the office looked up.
Angela Corelli, the young woman who served as receptionist and secretary, and Lois Martin, who had been Oliver Metcalf’s assistant editor and layout artist for fifteen years, greeted him with embarrassed smiles and quickly downcast eyes. Only Oliver immediately got up, came around from behind his desk, and took his hand. “I’m so sorry about what happened,” he said. “I know how much you and Elizabeth were looking forward to the new baby.”
“Thanks, Oliver,” Bill said. “I’m just starting to think maybe I’m going to make it, but Elizabeth’s taking it pretty hard.”
The older of the two women in the office finally seemed to recover her wits. “I was thinking I should call her,” Lois Martin offered. “But it’s just so hard to know what to say.”
“I’m sure she’d appreciate hearing from you,” Bill told her. “But you might want to wait a couple of days.”
“If there’s anything any of us can do, just let us know,” Oliver said. He gestured to the wooden chair in front of his desk. “Got time for a chat?”
“Actually, I was hoping I might be able to pick up some news,” Bill said. “About the bank.”
Oliver shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. I keep calling Jules Hartwick, but I always get steered to Melissa Holloway instead.”
Bill sighed. “Well, at least I no longer feel like I’m the only one. How can someone who looks that sweet be that efficient? And how’d she get to be second in command at her age?”
“Takes after her father,” Oliver replied. “One of the smartest men I ever met, except when it came to picking a wife. Charles Holloway’s a terrific lawyer, but his second wife was a terror. Hated Melissa. Melissa got through it, though.”
But Bill McGuire had stopped listening, his mind already focusing on what to do next, calculating how much money he had in the bank—assuming the bank wasn’t about to collapse—and how long it would last him. The numbers gave him no comfort. The fact of the matter was that the odds of finding a construction job that could carry him through till spring were pretty much zip. If he was going to avoid going broke, he was going to have to get to work on a new line of credit. He rose to his feet. “If you hear anything—anything at all—let me know, okay?”
“You’ll hear it before I even start to write the story,” Oliver promised.
As they walked toward the front door, it opened and Rebecca Morrison stepped inside. Taking in the number of people in the little newspaper office, though, she blushed crimson and turned to leave again.
“Rebecca?” Oliver said. “What is it? Can I help you with something?”
She hesitated, then turned back, her cheeks still flushed red. Her eyes nervously flicked from one face to another, but finally came to rest on Oliver. Taking a tentative step toward him, she held out her hand. “Th-this is for you,” she said. “Just because you’re always so nice to me.” Her flush deepening once again, she turned away and quickly ducked out the door.
Oliver peered into the bag. Inside, wrapped in shiny silver foil, were a dozen chocolate Kisses. When he looked up again, everyone in the office was staring at him.
Staring, and smiling.
Oliver broke into a smile too, wishing Rebecca hadn’t scurried out of the office quite so fast.
“Well, at least some people’s lives are going right,” Bill McGuire said, slapping Oliver on the back as he left the office.
Seeing how happy the little bag of silver-wrapped chocolates had made Oliver, his own troubles no longer seemed quite so grim. Maybe, Bill thought, he’d just stop at the candy store and pick up a bag for Elizabeth. No, make that three bags; no sense in leaving Megan and Mrs. Goodrich out.
Suddenly, Bill McGuire felt better than he had in days.
An hour later Elizabeth came awake again, stretching languorously, savoring the feeling of well-being that had replaced the terrible torpor she’d felt earlier this morning. But as the last vestiges of sleep were sloughed away and she came back to consciousness, she slowly became aware of someone moving around in the next room.
The nursery.
Megan?
But what would Megan be doing in the nursery?
Rising from the chaise and carrying the doll with her, Elizabeth went through the bathroom and into the nursery.
Mrs. Goodrich, her back to Elizabeth, was in the process of emptying the contents of the little dresser, which stood against the opposite wall, into a large cardboard box.
“Who told you to do that?” Elizabeth demanded.
Startled by Elizabeth’s words, Mrs. Goodrich whirled around. “Oh, dear,” she Said. “You frightened me, popping out of the bathroom that way. You go on back to bed, dear. I can take care of all this.”
“All what?” Elizabeth asked, moving out of the bathroom doorway into the middle of the room. “What are you doing?”
Mrs. Goodrich placed the tiny sweater she held in her hands into the box and took another from the dresser drawer. “I just thought I’d get all this packed away for you, and put away in the attic.”
“No,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Goodrich blinked. “Beg pardon?”
Elizabeth’s voice hardened. “I said no, Mrs. Goodrich.” Her voice began to rise. “How dare you come in here and start packing all my baby’s clothes.”
“But I thought you’d want—” Ms. Goodrich began. Elizabeth didn’t let her finish.
“I don’t care what you thought. Go back downstairs and leave me alone. And from now on, stay out of this room!” Mrs. Goodrich hesitated, but before she could argue, Elizabeth spoke again. “Just go! I’ll take care of this.”
Mrs. Goodrich stared at Elizabeth in shock, barely able to believe her ears. Should she try to argue with her? she wondered.
No, she decided. Better not to say anything right now. After all, given what she’d been through, Elizabeth couldn’t be expected to be herself quite yet. It was her own fault, really. She should have given Elizabeth more time before she began packing away the things in the nursery.
Laying the sweater in her hand on the top of the dresser, Mrs. Goodrich quietly left the room.
When she was gone, Elizabeth went to the dresser and began removing the clothes—the little play suits and pajamas, the tiny overalls, bibs, and shirts—from the box, carefully smoothing each one out and refolding it before putting each item back in the drawer from which it had come.
“How could she do that?” she asked the doll, which she’d sat on the dresser so it was leaning up against the wall, exactly as if it were watching what she was doing. “Doesn’t she realize you’re going to need all these things?” Taking a small sweater out of the box, she shook it out, then held it up against the doll. “Still a little big, but in a few months it will fit perfectly, won’t it? What could she have been thinking of?” Still talking to the doll, Elizabeth folded the sweater and put it in the drawer next to the bottom, with all the other sweaters. When the box was empty and all the baby clothes were back where they belonged, she picked up the doll and carried it to the crib, where she carefully tucked it under the comforter and kissed it softly on the cheek.
“Time for a nap,” she whispered. “But don’t you worry. Mommy will be right here.” Settling into the blue rocking chair next to the crib, Elizabeth softly began crooning a lullaby.
From the open doorway to the hall, unnoticed by her mother, Megan watched.