him. He taught us to maintain the boat. We helped with the catch. I want him back. She was wild, wanting Omar, too. Wanting someone else even more, despite everything the wanting made her feel. Those months that she’d traveled, searching for the right father for Omar’s child, were friendless months. Finally, she’d made one friend.
She wanted that friend now, more than she wanted her dead husband, whose wishes had confused her. Who had wished her to make love with another man, who had hit upon that method for them, for her and Omar, to have a child.
Oceania contemplated a tiny watercolor on the wall, a fisherman hauling in a net of squirming fish, no long lines or drift nets. With her tablet and photo, Dru stepped around to meet her eyes. “Good night.”
Outside the door, she trembled, nearly certain.
The man with Oceania had been her father.
THE CARETAKER CALLED before eight o’clock the next morning. Sergio told her gently about the grave, and she nodded, hugging herself, and retreated to her bedroom. Knowing Sergio must have given him the suit.
He was on island.
She stared from her windows, hoping not to see him.
Hating herself for hoping she would.
DANIEL MAYHEW, Keziah’s father, had handled most of Omar’s domestic legal affairs for twenty years. He was the executor of the will, and he phoned Dru in the morning two days after the funeral. “Would it be possible for you to come down to my office at, say, eleven?”
She blinked at her gray reflection in the gilded bedroom mirror. “You can’t come here?” Never, never, had they gone to Daniel’s office. Reasons for the change occurred to her. None made sense. Even if Omar had given everything he owned to charity, except for a box of tissues for her, why should…? There was no need for a dramatic reading of the will. Did people even do that anymore? Executors simply notified the beneficiaries. And Omar’s will was in a trust. No probate, no courts, no publicity.
“If another time would be better…” Daniel cleared his throat.
The police chief, who had liked Omar, had finally dispersed the paparazzi, escorting them off-island. Nantucket was quiet, its aim to still the passing of time. Its cobblestone streets and gaslight street lamps clung to a bygone civility. Paparazzi were unwelcome.
Still, Mitch should drive her. It was one thing she’d loved about being married to Omar. That she was always guarded. In some way. Even when she’d thought no one was there. Can’t think about it, can’t. Only think about Oceania and her baby. Not just get them the things they need. Must follow her when she leaves, can hire someone to do it, in case that man really is…
“I’ll be there.” Her voice dragged, and she heard in it not only the grief of a widow but the assurance of an heiress.
THE OFFICE WAS on Main Street, with a bicycle locked to a gaslight-style street lamp outside. As Mitch pulled the Mercedes to the curb, Dru rubbed Ehder’s silky fur and kissed his face. Femi next.
When Mitch came around to get her door, she took the dogs’ leads, braced their bodies to keep them from leaping out first.
Her driver smiled. “Want me to walk them?”
She’d planned to take them inside, a response to being asked to come to the office. But it really was rude. And presumptuous. What had happened to her? “Thank you.” Fingers wrapped around each dog’s collar, Dru stepped out, then let them follow. “Ehder, sit.” Lifting her hand, signalling him. “Sit. Femi.” She worked the dogs, ignoring her watch, before handing the leads to Mitch.
Ornate iron railings flanked the steps of the law office. She wore low heels and a dark gray suit designed for her. The silk lining slid against her thighs, smooth as the light makeup on her skin. Soon she’d return home and wear the face she wanted. At home, she’d make sure Oceania and the baby had everything they needed for the birth and afterward. Nice things. She would care for the mother, then lie in bed and gaze into her soul at what she’d done and decide how bad it was.
The door chime tinkled as she entered.
The receptionist had already reached Daniel’s walnut door. She knocked discreetly before opening it. “Mrs. Hall is here.”
He’s with someone.
Her stomach jumped. What now?
Daniel guided her inside and closed the door after her. And there they were. Three. Tabloids would give tens of thousands for this picture, as they had for photos of Dru Haverford Hall in Gloucester, leaning toward, submitting to, so obviously wanting this man.
Her husband’s nephew and her own cousin.
His presence could only be some retribution beyond her ken. Her heart began the stages of breaking. Exactly what she deserved. “Hi, Ben.”
CHAPTER TWO
From 1978 to 1981, my father and I lived in the Sudan, between the ‘Atbara and Gash rivers, with a group of Rashaida, nomadic Bedouins whose ancestors had crossed the Red Sea from Arabia in the nineteenth century. With our guests, our cousins, we set out in our Land Cruiser to rejoin them. The vehicle had no mirrors and no left rear window. Desert sand, which is dust, had collected several inches thick in parts of the back. The wind and rain came in and moulded a small desert. Skye had brought her own mirror—two—but she didn’t like the sand or wind or wearing long pants and long sleeves in the heat. “What do you mean this isn’t hot? Was that a joke?” As the sun fell on the primitive track leading southwest from Kassala, I saw the dust rise, as it does in the desert, back-lit by sun, like steam swirling off a hot pool. Minutes passed before we met the other vehicle, a faded green Land Rover, and stopped to converse with the Americans inside, one of whom took out an Egyptian-made assault rifle and aimed it at my father. “A fall cannot occur without potential energy.”
—Ben, recollections of an early fall
Gloucester, Massachusetts
One week earlier
October 16
SOMETIMES, WHEN SHE was waiting—for food or visa stamps or bureaucracy at border crossings—Dru counted days. She had left her husband in Nantucket to fly to New York, then Paris, and on to Bamako, Mali, 218 days earlier. Between that day and this, she and Omar had spent thirteen days and eight nights together.
She had decided to tell someone.
Everything.
Tristan. She could only tell her twin. She couldn’t tell Keziah. Keziah would have an opinion about what Dru had agreed to do for Omar, for both of them. Tristan might have an opinion, too, but it would be like hers, as though they owned the same head.
In their language, he might say, Surfside, which meant the apartment where they’d lived with their mother after the Tobias Haverford House was sold; Surfside meant better than a tent and worse than a boat. Here in Gloucester, Dru would jump on his back like a kid. Here, no one knew the person under the faded blue, almost gray, sweatshirt hood, behind gas station sunglasses, her brother’s cast-off chinos cinched at her waist with a canvas belt.
But the Sarah Lynnda wasn’t in port, nor her captain. Not for another week.
