I wasn’t sure what was driving me. Was this a sign of trauma? Part of the shock reaction? I kept moving, squinting through the rain and walking faster, breathing hard. I’m miserable, but at least I’m alive. I could feel the sting of the icy rain, the cold air biting my lungs. I could see the trees and hear the wind and smell the sea. What could Hugh and Helene experience anymore? Nothing.
“Hugh and Helene. Hugh and Helene.” What happened to “Hugh and Nora?” How did it all go so wrong? Had our brief marriage meant anything to him? We wed a few months after Hugh recovered from the surgery. But it wasn’t simply so I’d be empowered in a health crisis to save him from the care of his zealot brother. We could’ve signed a health care proxy for that. We’d always talked about marriage in relation to having children, and after Hugh’s brush with mortality, he turned to me in bed one morning, misty-eyed.
“Nora, let’s do it. Let’s get married and have a kid,” he’d said.
I’d gladly accepted on both counts.
At last the scrub oaks thinned out and the view opened up. Down the slope at the end of the trail, thick, wheat-colored seagrass and reeds lined a ragged coastline. Beyond the grass, a channel of dark, windswept water churned. And because I knew exactly where to look amid all the vegetation, I spied the brown corner of the small wooden duck blind a few yards from the water’s edge. Grace and I had spotted it on one of our hikes after a punishing nor’easter flattened the seagrass enough to expose the roofline.
I kept my head bent and tried to prevent the rain from pelting my eyes as I ran down the hill, tripping on roots and slipping on mud. I lost control and stumbled off the trail, careening through the high grass, finally stopping by shoving my hands out as I crashed into the back of the shelter. I caught my breath and checked myself; I wasn’t hurt, just sore and winded. I pushed on the door. Sopping wet and shivering, I stepped inside the tiny wooden room and stood there, dripping puddles on the floor. This is insane. Leave. But I couldn’t. I had to set eyes on the murder scene. As if it would prove to the disbelieving part of my brain that this had actually happened.
The dark interior of the blind smelled of wet cedar and sweet grass. Three walls had no windows. The fourth faced the water and was completely open except for the roof’s extended overhang, which shrouded the inside in shadow. It rendered any hunter who sat there invisible to his prey. Friends or relatives of Mr. and Mrs. Duck might be coasting across the sky, feeling the warmth of the sun, enjoying a lift on a thermal when . . . Boom! Someone playing God would decide to end a life.
The blind had no furniture, no lighting. No heating device. Only a roughhewn wooden bench with an old army blanket folded on top. Removing Aunt Lada’s glasses from my pocket, I stripped off my wet coat and wrapped the scratchy wool blanket around my shoulders. I sat down on the bench and tried to stop my teeth from chattering by clenching my jaw. Finally, I lifted the glasses to my eyes and peered across the inlet, missing the mark at first, getting lost in the choppy water before moving up into the trees. There it was on the opposite shore, perched on high ground in the wetlands of Pequod Point, glass walls and wooden beams soaring up through the pines. Hugh’s house.
I’d never seen it in daylight before.
I’ve never told anyone that I spied on Hugh and Helene. Not even Grace.
I spied on them the same day I found out they’d moved here, when Lizzie walked into the office with the town clerk’s real estate list.
“Pequod Point sold for two point five million,” Lizzie said, unwrapping a black-and-white Palestinian scarf from around her neck and setting down her backpack.
“The Miami developer who built the house last year as his summer escape couldn’t pay off his construction loan. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Walker’ bought it from the bank. I bet you it’s that famous artist Hugh Walker.”
“What?” I gasped. “Can I see that list?” I couldn’t fathom that Hugh would be cruel enough to add that much insult to injury by moving here.
“The property is great for a painter. There’s a gigantic art studio—the developer’s wife made pottery. I took those photos of her with her weird, misshapen urns. Remember? We ran them in Lifestyles? I call dibs on the feature story if I’m right,” Lizzie said.
“I don’t fucking believe this,” I said, gawking at his name.
After I told her and Ben about my marriage and how it ended, Lizzie looked distressed and began fingering a tassel on her scarf.
“God, Nora, that’s a terrible story. I mean, where was the birth control?” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, Lizzie. Believe me, you’re not the first person to ask about that.”
She looked at me dolefully. “How long were you married?”
“We lived together for years. But we’d only been married thirteen months.”
“Do you think getting married freaked him out? Is that why he messed around?”
I wanted to say, Don’t worry, your fiancé is not Hugh. But I was embarrassed to be sharing any of this, especially in front of Ben, who was at his desk listening intently, rubbing his chin and frowning.
I shrugged. “I’d really appreciate it if both of you would keep this information to yourselves. Please, don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t say a word,” Lizzie said, crossing her heart.
Ben had an unusually emotional reaction. He apologized vehemently on behalf of his gender. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Nora. Men who behave like that make me ashamed of my sex.” Given Ben’s usual terse self, I was even more astonished he made it a point to say something nice again before the day’s end: “You deserved a lot better, Nora. A whole lot better.”
I could barely concentrate the rest of the afternoon. I was supposed to be working on my feature, “Canines for Heroes,” about a pet adoption program designed to help Iraq War veterans recover from PTSD. Struggling to formulate questions for an interview with one of the vets, all I could come up with was a preliminary, “Have you ever owned a dog before?” Instead, I began playing the virtual slot machines on slotsofvegas.com, scoring $63,235. My highest total yet. I wished the games were real and legal, because my nest egg was gone. A small-town reporter’s salary wasn’t going to replenish it.
By six o’clock, everyone else in the Courier office had left for the day. It was a quiet time, good for taking another crack at the interview questions. Just as I reopened the work file, I heard the door to the street close. Seconds later, Al Rudinsky appeared. A sweet bear of a man with a buzz cut, Al was wearing his royal-blue Tidy Pools coveralls, and they were caked with mud. He stood in the office doorway wiping his dirty work boots on the mat. His meaty neck and broad forehead were streaked with grime and sweat.
“Am I too late? Did I miss the deadline? I brought cash.” He gave me an anxious smile.