Part 12 (2/2)

”I've never been there.”

She sipped her tea. ”I haven't met your father.”

It was a clear attempt to change the subject. I knew I'd gotten as far as I could, that the door into her past, like the one to her bedroom, was now firmly shut.

”Well, since my mother left him he's taken on a few aristocratic pretensions,” I told her. ”You've visited my mother a few times, I understand. With Billy, I mean.”

”Yes.”

”He goes almost every day now,” I said. ”You don't?”

”No,” I said. ”I'd visit her more often, but I'm not sure I'm always a welcome sight.”

”What gives you that idea?”

I smiled, trying to make light of it. ”Well, sometimes, when I come into her room, she looks like a cold blast hit her. Dad's the one who's always happy to see me. He reads a lot, and we talk about what he's been reading. He was more or less my tutor when I was a boy. My mother tutored Billy.” I felt a sudden, curious ache that my family had been divided so starkly, like a body flayed open, the wound unhealed. Again I retreated to a less disturbing subject. ”So tell me, are you glad you came to Port Alma?”

”I like it here. It's remote.”

”Do you plan to stay?”

”No,” she said resolutely. ”I'm only pa.s.sing through.” Only pa.s.sing through.

Something in the certainty of her tone told me that this was true, that for reasons I would probably never know, Dora was one of life's pariahs. I felt something stir in me, something small, a tiny tremor of feeling for all who were like Dora, inexplicably driven from place to place, rootless, solitary, invisible whips forever at their backs.

”I'm sorry to hear it,” I said. ”That you're just pa.s.sing through.”

Our eyes locked briefly, then she glanced toward the window. ”A fog is coming in,” she murmured.

”Yes, it is,” I said. I took a final sip from the cup and set it down. ”We'd better go while we can still see the road.”

We drove back through the town, then out along the coastal road, a wall of evergreen rising on one side, the sea cras.h.i.+ng on the other. The road turned inland less than a mile beyond town, wound through a series of rocky hills, and ended in my father's driveway.

He was already standing at the door as we came up the steps, dressed to the nines in a dark suit and bow tie, a sure sign of how special he considered the evening to be.

”Ah, you must be Dora,” he said brightly. ”Come in. Come in.”

She stepped into the foyer, her attention lighting briefly on a portrait of one of my forebears, his severe likeness trapped in a heavy wooden frame, a man with silver hair and stern features, utterly proper in his black coat and starched white collar.

”Obadiah Grier,” my father told her, pleased by her interest. ”William's grandfather. Looks like he's just condemned a witch, doesn't he?” He laughed. ”Actually, he was quite a nice old man. Used to bounce William on his knee. Cal too.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. ”Of course, Cal never enjoyed that sort of thing, did you, Cal?”

He waited for me to respond, engage him in our usual badinage. When I didn't, he turned to Dora. ”May I take your coat, Miss March?”

She gave it to him, but he only pa.s.sed it over to me. ”Hang it in the front closet, Cal,” he said as he escorted Dora into the sitting room.

Cradled in my hands, Dora's coat felt even lighter than it appeared, designed for a climate where the seasons changed far less radically than in the north. A label had been crudely stenciled inside the coat: Lobo City Thrift.

Lobo, I thought, recalling the origins of her hand-picked name. Spanish for wolf.

My brother arrived an hour later, plunging hurriedly through the front door, gay and energetic as ever. He walked directly to the fire and warmed his hands, greeting each of us in turn before his eyes settled fondly on Dora. ”I see Cal got you here safely.”

”Yes,” Dora said with a smile that rose with an unexpected brightness from the dark net of her face.

Billy's eyes swept over to me, and I could feel the great affection he had for me. I knew it was the love of the righteous for the prodigal, but I also knew that at that moment his greatest wish was that I someday find what he now seemed unshakably certain he had found.

But there was no mention of such things that evening. Instead, we chatted about his day, the legislative debate currently raging, what might ultimately come of it. For a while we even discussed the weather, how soon summer would be upon us, how quickly it would pa.s.s.

As the clock chimed eight, we took our seats at the long cherry wood dining table my father had set with a pretentious formality, everything in its proper place, little silver salad forks and Bordeaux gla.s.ses for the wine.

My father took his customary place at the head of the table, the chair at the other end of it left vacant, as if in reverence for my mother. Billy and Dora were placed side by side, Dora directly across from me, my brother facing the empty chair to my left, the one that would have been taken by my wife or lover.

Dora sat erect, her hands in her lap, like a child at table in a boarding school. I felt her eyes drift toward me, then slip away.

”Well, has my father given you the family history yet?” Billy asked her, smiling happily.

She shook her head.

”Well, the Griers are a lively group,” he said.

”But the Chases are a criminal clan,” I added.

Dora glanced toward me. ”Crime interests you?”

”Not really, no,” I said.

”A certain kind of crime would,” Billy said.

”Really, and what kind of crime would that be?” I asked him.

”One that was philosophical in some way. Abstract.”

I shook my head. ”I don't think so.”

”What kind of case would interest you, then, Cal?” my father asked.

Before I could reply, my brother offered an answer of his own. ”A murder case. Some horrible murder case.”

”No, not a murder case,” I told them. ”Most murder cases are quite ordinary. The motivations are usually predictable. Love or money, for the most part.” I shrugged. ”Nothing that would make for a great case.”

”So what would make a case great?” Billy asked. ”For you, I mean.”

”I've never really thought about it. But I suppose it would have to involve something important, some idea or--” I stopped, unable to put my finger on it. ”Some principle that would make me--” Again I stopped, still searching for the right answer.

Then, out of nowhere, Dora found it.

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