June (14 page)

Diane seemed to have tuned them all out; she was absorbed in removing her gloves, tugging at each of the fingers, one at a time. Once one of her bare hands was available, Clyde took it in his own, kissed it, and offered a sweeping bow. “I’ll make sure Thomas sets up your place as per your contract,” he told her, and here he tapped the sheaf of papers sticking out of his breast pocket, then stuck his thumb toward the unlit house beside Jack’s. “You’re right next door.” He winked at Jack. To the girls he said, “Want a ride home? That’s a long way for two little girlies through the dark night.”

“No thank you,” Lindie said. “We’ve got my bike.”

“And we were just about to leave,” June added, a tremor in her voice.

Clyde watched them for a moment. “Suit yourself,” he replied, then made his way back to the car and picked up what Thomas couldn’t manage. Then it was just Jack and Diane standing before the girls, like a movie sprung to life. Just like in a movie, they ignored those watching them.

“If you don’t mind, darling,” Diane said, leaning into Jack, “I’m terribly weary from all that flying.” She stuck out her bottom lip in a mock frown. “I need a hot toddy and a good foot rub. And I must hear all the ins and outs of this charming little ville.” Her fingers walked up his chest and cupped his chin. “We’ve got some catching up to do.”

Without a backward glance at Lindie or June, Jack led his leading lady and her entourage to her door. The girls didn’t stick around long enough to watch them go inside.

Cassie dreamed of the girls again. One stood outside the window that lay at the very foot of Cassie’s bed. She was bathed in moonlight, perched precariously on the roof. The other girl was already in her nightgown, and she stood inside, at the very lip of the house, looking out at the night. June, inside, was crying (but Cassie didn’t know her yet). Lindie, outside, wanted to help June—no, it was more than want, it was need—but all she could do was let her friend weep, let her feel as terrible, as abandoned as she felt. And then June suddenly brightened and hardened, grew strong somehow, stronger than Cassie had given the girl credit for, as though she’d clenched some invisible muscle inside her, and the night grew elastic in its possibility, and Cassie understood that something tremendous was about to happen.

Cassie woke up. She lay in her bed, listening to a creaking sound she’d never heard before, which was coming down through the ceiling above her. She hoped it wasn’t an imminent sign of roof collapse.

She got out of bed and went to the window that had been so vital to her dream. She stood where the sad girl had stood, only the world outside was visible now, illumined by daylight. Out across the weedy, unmowed lawn, Cassie could see the small wooden house where the nosy old woman lived, one of the houses Nick said had been built for Lemon Neely’s builders. She wondered if the old woman in residence was peering at her right now, and she stuck her tongue out just in case.

Cassie dressed. She listened for signs of life, but all she could hear was that constant, strange lament of the floorboards from the ballroom on the third floor. She hadn’t climbed up there since being dive-bombed by a family of bats one drunken night in the early spring. But curiosity had gotten the better of her. Before she went, she lifted her dust-covered camera from the mantelpiece, where she’d set it the very day she moved in. It had film in it, and a few shots left. She tried not to think about what the early part of the roll had captured: Jim, New York, a life that was no longer hers. She loved using film, loved how it limited your eye, made you careful; loved the long process between making a picture and getting to hold it in your hands. Digital was fine if you simply wanted a record of things, but film had been made for something more complicated. She felt an itchy desire to see again through her old eyes. She hoped the dust hadn’t caused any damage. She blew the camera off all over, then removed the lens and held it up to the light.

Something funny had happened on a few occasions over the course of the past two days, something Cassie hadn’t felt in more than a year: she’d wished she had her camera. She’d witnessed specific moments she wanted to capture on film, and the fact that she’d lost them still clung to her with sticky regret. There was the instant before she’d called Nick’s name on the path, and that quick spot of time when Tate rediscovered her birth announcement. Things were definitely over with Jim, but she could see now, with the benefit of distance, that he’d given her the guts to trust her instincts when it came to making pictures. Yes, June’s reaction to Cassie’s art show had eroded that a bit, but Cassie pushed her mind away from her grandmother’s doubt as she looped the camera strap around her neck and headed toward the stairs. Who could this hurt? Everyone was dead.

Cassie clambered up to the third floor, past the landing with its large stained-glass window, complementary to the ones on the landing one story below. The sound got louder and changed, then stopped altogether. Up at the lip of the third floor, she discovered Hank and Tate limberly bent into downward dog. The great, open room unfurled behind them, across the front, back, and western sides of the house; its wide, dark floorboards glowed in the morning light. The women’s bodies were lean and muscular, their yoga clothing hugging every glute and ab. Every muscle was flawlessly formed. Cassie resisted the urge to scowl.

She glanced toward the dreaded closet, wondering about the state of the roof in there. She felt a curdle of worry in her gut. She forced herself to turn away, to pretend, for the moment, that the problem wasn’t there. Instead, she lifted the camera to her eye and framed the shot. The light was tremendous up here, ricocheting off the floor. She could have stolen the picture, but she knew, from experience, that that wasn’t sustainable if you wanted to gain trust.

“Can I?” she asked in a voice that she knew didn’t match their Zen-like state. “The light’s great.”

Their heads jerked up. Hank wrinkled her nose. Tate said, “Of course.”

Cassie didn’t miss Hank’s apprehensive glance back at Tate, or the way Tate’s eyes batted Hank off. Cassie took the shot, messed with the aperture, got another one.

“Obviously I’d ask before I did anything with them,” Cassie explained, framing another shot, clicking the button. “But I probably won’t. They’re for me.”

“She’s an artist,” Tate explained, as though Hank was being overly protective, even though she hadn’t said a word. Tate ascended out of downward dog and swiped a towel across her forehead.

“Hope we didn’t wake you.” Hank stood reluctantly.

“That’s fine,” Cassie said.

“We made ourselves at home”—Tate shrugged apologetically—“but we should have asked first.” She was pretty much the most gorgeous thing Cassie’d ever seen. Cassie felt her insides go gooey.

But then she caught Hank’s side eye, and it was impossible not to say something snarky. “I just hope the bats who live up here are actually nocturnal.”

Cassie took pleasure in the involuntary twitch of Hank’s whole body. “Bats?” she squeaked.

“Okay if we find someone to relocate them?” Tate asked calmly.

Cassie couldn’t help but feel benevolent toward Tate. “That’d be great, actually.”

“Be sure whoever takes the job won’t be disposing of them,” Tate instructed. “Bats are vital to the ecosystem. I saw something on Animal Planet.” Cassie nodded along, as if she’d read a dozen books about bats.

Hank wrinkled her nose distastefully for a split second, but then a smile bloomed across her face, and she nodded exuberantly and said, “I’ll find someone today!” To Tate, she asked, “Continue?” Her eyes cut a swath across Cassie’s disarray. “Do you want to join us?” Cassie had to give her points for sounding genuinely hopeful.

Tate came toward Cassie then. She seemed somehow lit from within, smelling nothing like Cassie’s putrid funk after she exercised, although Cassie couldn’t quite recall when that had last been. Tate led Cassie down the stairs without a backward glance at Hank, who mumbled, “But we’re not even halfway through.”

On the landing, they heard Nick’s voice. “There you are.” He stood below them, at the center of the wide upstairs hall. He had his phone out, of course. Cassie was suddenly aware of the parts of her body exposed to the air: the dip in her V-neck, her bare calves sticking out below her shorts. She took out her camera and snapped a picture of him.

Nick reared up in alarm.

Tate rolled her eyes and put her arm around Cassie. “I said it was fine.”

Cassie focused her lens on Nick again. She liked how directly she could look at him, how close she could get, how his eyes glanced up at her, then squirmed away under the camera’s eye. She thought of how he’d spoken of her father, of his drinking, of her art show, and felt a triumphant wave of revenge as she clicked another shot.

“Could you please not?” he asked, hand nervously fluttering at his hair.

“Relax.” Tate giggled. “This is what an artist does. She takes her environment and makes sense of it by using her god-given talent.” Tate continued down to the open hall and handed Nick her sweaty towel and empty water bottle. “I’d like ice water,” she said.

He nodded and looked up at Cassie. “We’ve got to go.”

“Do we have an appointment?” she cracked.

He surprised her with a nod. “I didn’t want to wake you. But I called the library at nine, and talked to a lovely woman who works there”—his voice was all business as he scrolled through his phone to find her name—“Mrs. Prange. She gave me the names of three St. Judians who were living here back when
Erie Canal
was made. I called around and made a few appointments. Mrs. Weaver is available starting in”—he checked his phone again; it read 10:19—“eleven minutes.”

“We’re going to ask her if she remembers my grandmother banging Jack Montgomery?” Cassie was showing off now, feeling brassy. Something about Nick’s squeamishness made her eager to press him.

“Best, I think, to simply see what they offer, uh, on their own.”

Below her, Tate sniffed in amusement. “You can’t expect her to go without breakfast, Nick.”

He nodded, still frowning. “I’ll make you a shake. Or you could grab some raw almonds.”

“Raw almonds?” Cassie couldn’t mask her incredulity. “Uh, no, I’d like some real food, like, you know, an egg sandwich.” Cassie didn’t really care what she had for breakfast (well, she wasn’t eating what Nick called a shake, or raw almonds), but something about Nick this morning made her want to tousle his proverbial hair.

“Hank!” Tate called up the stairs. “Make an egg sandwich?”

“Oh,” Cassie said, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut—she’d rankled Hank enough. “No—I’m happy to make it myself.”

But Hank was already barreling past them down the stairs. “I’d love to!” She flashed a smile on her way past.

“And take my towel, Hank,” Tate said. “Really, you should be dealing with that.”

Hank nodded, chastened, and gamely took the towel from Nick as Tate continued to chide her. Cassie felt embarrassed simply witnessing this interaction, but Tate went on as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “And I need water. Ice water. That means cold.” She turned to Cassie. “You thirsty? You want ice water?” Cassie shook her head in a vehement no. But Tate pressed Hank. “Make her ice water. Leave mine just inside the bathroom door while I’m showering, but please, for the millionth time, don’t let the steam escape.”

“Absolutely,” Hank replied brightly, as though her dreams had all come true, and then she disappeared down the stairs.

“Is that an orange shirt?” Tate asked Nick, eyeing him.

Nick looked down at himself. “I thought it was rust.”

She shook her head. “You know I can’t stand orange.”

Nick nodded willingly, as though that was a perfectly reasonable statement. Before he changed it, he just wanted to remind Tate that, while he and Cassie were gone, she should be sure Hank called Jack’s lawyer for any suggestions of others to interview. “We’re looking for anyone he might have confided in, written to, that kind of thing.” He’d arranged for Jack’s papers to be delivered sometime that afternoon, and, in the meantime, if it was all right with Cassie, he thought Hank would be best utilized by going through all the closets to turn up anything of interest beyond the stack of magazines.

Tate clicked her heels together and saluted. “And may I shower first, master?”

Nick bobbed his head. Tate blew Cassie a kiss and slipped into the bathroom.

“There are letters too,” Cassie volunteered, hoping Nick wasn’t really going to change his shirt—he looked good in rust, and it was ridiculous that Tate had suggested he do so. “Letters between June and some girl named Lindie, but I couldn’t find anything useful in them.”

“In the back closet?” Nick was already tapping this latest development into his phone, into a folder he’d labeled “St. Jude, Ohio,” as if he might mistake it for the notes he was keeping on another St. Jude, somewhere else in the world.

“And there was an address—Lindie lived in Chicago—so”—Cassie popped into her room, reemerging with the envelope she’d sealed the night before—“I wrote to her.” She felt triumphant as she waved it before him.

“Great.” Nick plucked it out of her hands and added the address to his database. “We’ll have Hank express it.”

“Poor Hank,” Cassie whispered, and Nick frowned in surprise. “She’s like a slave,” she mouthed.

Nick quickly dismissed it. “It’s her job. It’s her dream job. Trust me—she’s in heaven.”

“Okay,” Cassie said. “But let me mail it.” But he already had the envelope by then, and she mumbled, “I know, I know, it’s her job,” as he went off toward the back bedroom, where he just needed to change his shirt before they took off.