“I don’t know.” Maggy’s lower lip trembled.
“It’s okay either way.” Diane’s voice was gentle. She looked over Maggy’s head at Riley and nodded, then took a step backward. Riley released her daughter’s hand, then did the same.
Slowly, hesitantly, Maggy reached out. Her hand was shaking, but her fingertips brushed Wendell’s cheek. “Daddy,” she whispered. Her shoulders shuddered as a sob escaped. “Oh, Daddy.”
Maggy turned and Riley wrapped both arms around her weeping child. “He’s really dead,” Maggy said, lifting a tearstained face toward her mother’s.
“I know,” Riley said. “I know, baby.”
* * *
In the car, on the way back to the Southpoint ferry dock, Maggy sat as far from her mother as she could, staring out the window at scenery she’d seen dozens of times before.
“You hungry?” Riley asked.
“No!” Maggy exploded. “What is wrong with you? You expect me to eat now? God! I wanna puke, just thinking about food.”
The violence of the child’s reaction took Riley aback for a moment. Was this how it was going to be between them? Anger and hostility?
She would have to deal with this the only way she knew how. With the lightest touch possible.
“Me, too,” Riley admitted. “But we can’t let your blood sugar get out of whack, or I’ll have to turn around and go right back to that hospital. Mimi’s already pissed at me, you know. That would really put her over the edge.” She managed a shaky laugh. “If something happened to you, she’d kill me, and then you’d be an orphan, and you’d have to live with her until you go away to college.”
“No way,” Maggy shot back. “If anything ever happens to you, I’m going to live with Bebo and Uncle Scott.”
“Good luck with that,” Riley said.
Maggy’s posture relaxed a little. “Okay. I’ll eat. Can I just get a burger on the ferry?”
“Sure,” Riley said.
“Mom? Mimi really is pissed at you. How come?”
“Oh, honey. That’s just her way. Sometimes I get pissed at you too, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s a mother-daughter thing. Doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
“No, seriously. Tell me.”
Riley glanced sideways. Maggy had pivoted in the seat and she was searching her face for the truth.
“Okay,” she said, sighing. “She’s mad at me because I told her—before we knew about your dad—that we were getting a divorce.”
Maggy closed her eyes and looked away. “So it really was true? You guys were breaking up?”
“Afraid so. The plan was that we’d tell you together, this weekend. That’s why I was so upset when he wasn’t on the ferry Friday. I just thought he was ditching his responsibility.”
“That is so lame that you would think that,” Maggy said angrily. “He promised me he was coming. I knew he wouldn’t break his promise. I knew something was wrong.”
Something has been very wrong for a very long time, Riley thought.
“Why did you want a divorce?” Maggy asked. “I know Dad didn’t want one. He told me.”
“He told you that? When?”
Maggy shrugged. “Awhile ago. He picked me up after school, right after Easter, and we went out for tacos, because he knew I was mad that he didn’t come to the beach with us.”
How like Wendell, Riley thought. Letting their daughter believe the divorce was all my fault.
She chose her words carefully. “Your dad and I hadn’t been happy together in a long time. We went to marriage counseling, but it didn’t do much good, partly because he didn’t make it to half the sessions.”
“He said the marriage counselor was on your side,” Maggy offered. “That she said it was all his fault. So that’s why he quit going.”
Damn Wendell Griggs. He was sabotaging her from the grave.
“That was his point of view. My point of view was that he was never home. But neither of us was without fault. There was other stuff too, stuff that I don’t feel comfortable talking about to you right now, especially since your dad is gone. Okay? Can we leave it at that?”
“Whatever.” Now Maggy was wearing her all-too-familiar stone-faced mask. Incredible that she’d perfected it at such a young age. But then, her daughter had always been precocious. She turned back toward the window. “You’re probably glad Dad’s dead.”
“Hey!” Riley said. She made a sharp right-hand turn into the parking lot of a strip shopping center and put the car in Park.
“Look at me, please.”
Maggy turned to her with dead eyes. “What?”
“That was a horrible thing you just said to me. I certainly am not glad about your dad. I was in that room back at the hospital, too. Remember? Wendell wasn’t just your dad. He was my husband. For almost twenty years. Things between us were complicated, it’s true. But I cared about him. I’m hurting, too. Don’t make this harder on us than it has to be. Please? I know you don’t believe me, but I’m on your side, Maggy. A hundred percent.”
“You’re on my side?” Her arms were crossed, hands locked to elbows, over her chest.
“Of course. Now more than ever.”
“Great,” Maggy said. “Will you do something for me?”
“If I can. If it’s possible.” Riley was instantly wary. Was this some kind of a trap? Since she’d been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, Maggy had become expert at emotional manipulation.
“The sheriff said it wasn’t an accident. So I want to know who killed Dad,” Maggy said. “Promise me you’ll find out who did this to him.”
“Me? Maggy, you don’t know what you’re asking. I’m no detective. This isn’t CSI: Belle Isle. Anyway, we don’t even know yet whether it was an accident. We won’t know until the autopsy.”
“Promise me,” Maggy said, her voice steely. “If you ever really loved Dad, then you’ll do it. Promise?”
“I promise,” Riley said wearily. “I promise to do whatever I can.”
“And you’ll tell me the truth? Even if Mimi gets pissed at you? Even if you think it will upset me?”
“Can we just take this a day at a time?” Riley pleaded.
“No. Do you promise?”
“God help me, I do.”
16
Scott stood on the bottom stair of the firehouse, the strap of his battered Louis Vuitton carry-on dangling over his right shoulder, his laptop bag hanging over his left.
He’d been upstairs packing when he heard the first soft notes wafting upward. Now, as he stood in the open-plan living room in the high-ceilinged old brick structure, he looked over at Billy, his back to the stairs, hunched over the gleaming baby grand piano, his long, tapered fingers drifting over the keys.
When had he last heard his partner play? There was no room for the piano in their small West Village co-op, which was why this rather grand instrument stood in the middle of the living room of their not-so-grand converted 1920s brick firehouse.
He set the bags on the polished concrete floor and walked over to the piano. For a moment, Billy seemed lost in the music. He kept playing, finally nodding to acknowledge Scott’s presence.