Part 27 (2/2)

”Said?”

”Just before Cash cut her, Irene leaned over and whispered into Catherine's ear. 'It won't hurt.' That's what she said.” Mother Pauline smiled quietly. ”She had no malice in her heart, Mr. Chase. That was why she flourished here.”

I glanced about the garden, imagined how, if Dora had remained a continent away from the rocky cliffs of Maine, I would still be with my wh.o.r.es and my brother would still be dreaming of his one true love.

”When did she leave?” I asked.

”Just over a year ago,” Mother Pauline answered. She watched me a moment, as if trying to determine some issue in her mind. Then she said, ”She loved you both, you know.” She looked at me pointedly. ”You and your brother, William.”

I stared at her, astonished. ”You've talked to her since...”

”Yes.”

”Do you know where she is?”

Mother Pauline rose, nodded toward the archway to my right. ”There,” she said, then turned and walked away.

She stood beneath the archway, clothed in a plain white dress, her blond hair cut short, a pair of gold-rimmed gla.s.ses cradled in her hand.

”h.e.l.lo, Cal,” she said, then stepped out of the shadows and came toward me.

My lips parted silently as I watched her move down the colonnade until she reached me.

”I didn't want to leave Port Alma the way I did, Cal,” she said. She sat down beside me. ”Without speaking to you. I mean, face-to-face.” For a moment she seemed at a loss as to where she should begin. ”But I was afraid.”

”Of what?”

”Everything,” she said.

”Me?”

”You, yes. And William.” She shook her head. ”But myself more than anyone.”

”What happened, Dora?”

The question seemed to release a tide in her. ”I couldn't think of any way out, Cal. It's as simple as that. I didn't want to hurt anyone. Not you or William. I couldn't be with either one of you. All I could do was leave.”

I saw the golden ring on the floor of her cottage, the blood-drenched roses, imagined Billy flinging them to the ground in a sudden surge of bitter disappointment. ”He asked you to marry him.”

”He was going to. That's why I couldn't face him.”

”Face him? You didn't see William at all the day you left?”

”No,” she answered. ”The night before, he'd told me that he wanted us to go to Fox Creek together in a day or so. Then suddenly he said, 'Tomorrow. I'll come for you tomorrow.' I knew then that he was going to--And I couldn't, Cal. Like I said in the letter, I just--”

”What letter?”

”The one I left.”

Her empty cottage swam into my mind. ”Where did you leave this letter?”

”With Mr. Mason,” Dora said. ”I saw him in the office when I pa.s.sed by on the way to the bus station.”

”Henry was in the office on a Sunday afternoon?”

”Yes, he was. He was going over the ledgers.”

A dark shape gathered in my mind.

”Did you tell him you were leaving Port Alma?” I asked.

”Yes,” Dora said. ”And that William would be going over to my house that afternoon. That's when I gave him the letter. So that he could give it to William.”

I saw Henry Mason's hand reach for Dora's letter, hold it silently as she turned, made her way toward the door.

”It was raining,” she added. ”He offered to take me to the station.”

”Did you tell Henry what was in the letter?” I asked.

”No.” She looked at me, puzzled. ”He never gave William my letter?”

”No,” I answered quietly, the shape rising now, dark and sinister, like something from the murky depths. ”No, he never did.”

At that instant, it broke the surface. I saw Henry in his car, watching though the rain-black trees as Billy arrived at Dora's cottage with roses and the ring, knowing that she was already gone and that, without the letter she had left with him, my brother would never know why or where she'd gone, nor have any way to find her. By then he'd no doubt composed a lie he thought Billy surely would believe, that Dora had betrayed him, stolen from him, fled from him, that she had never, ever loved him, a tale to which Billy could have responded only with the words Betty Gaines had heard as she'd pa.s.sed Dora's house.

Don't say that.

I don't believe it.

It's not true.

Then the moment of shattering recognition.

It's you!

I could feel the anguish that must have broken over my brother, then the rage that seized him, drove him forward, fierce and wrathful, Henry, stricken that his plan could have gone so desperately awry, now stumbling backward, through the kitchen, hands flailing, finding in their panicked flight a long kitchen knife, breathless, wheezing, begging my brother to please, please, believe him, determined to do what must be done if he did not.

”Billy,” I said, now lost in memory, rus.h.i.+ng toward Dora's cottage, driving through the rain, listening to the heavy thump of the winds.h.i.+eld wipers, loud and rhythmic, as if the car itself had sprung to life, its metal heart beating as urgently as mine.

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