Tides of the Heart by Jean Stone Read Free Book Online Page A

for herself, she was an unhappy old maid, or at least that’s what the girls at Larchwood Hall had presumed until the night Bud Wilson emerged from her bedroom, zipping his pants, hair all askew. The night that had turned so … hideous.
    But Jess could not allow herself to remember that night now. She needed to stay focused on her mission.
    After a night of broken sleep, she dressed warmly and left a brief note for Maura saying only that she’d gone out of town. She hoped to return before Maura went back to Skidmore: maybe there would be news to tell her—news that would settle this once and for all.
    The four-hour ride helped Jess put things into perspective, or at least into a perspective that she could accept. She decided that Charles could not have done this; he would not be this inventive. If he needed money, he would find a more direct route. Even more important was Jess’s realization that Chuck would not do this. He might take afterCharles, but he was her son, too. And though they weren’t terribly close, they rarely argued; they rarely took the time.
    No
, she reasoned as she steered the car off Route 28, neither Charles nor Chuck could be behind this. Then she wondered if Maura would call this denial.
    Winding her way through narrow side streets lined with Cape Cod-style houses and canvas-covered boats in snow-crusted yards, Jess finally located the driveway of the cottage Miss Taylor shared year-round with her sister, Loretta. She turned off the engine and studied the small house in front of her: the cozy, many-paned bungalow that her old housemother called home. The shingles were grayer than Jess remembered, weathered in the salt air to a soft, faded silver; the white picket fence, which had been dotted with beach roses when she was last here, now stood unsteadily in the late afternoon light, decidedly in need of a coat of fresh paint. Edging the lawn were clusters of withered hydrangea bushes, whose once fat blue blossoms were brown now, brittle-looking and barren. But even more disturbing was the stillness—the vacant feel of the tourist-free street, the ghost-town numbness of desolation, the wintertime loneliness of a summertime haven.
    She wondered if it was the same way on Martha’s Vineyard.
    Uncertain what she would say to Miss Taylor, suddenly weighted with dread, Jess reluctantly emerged from the car and stepped into the stillness.
    She took a deep breath of damp sea air and tried to convince herself that Miss Taylor would know if the letter and the phone call were anything more than a prank—or if there was a chance there had been some mix-up, that Amy had not been hers, that her baby was still alive.
    Jess walked along the ice-dotted flagstone path, regretting not having worn boots.
    At the front door, she rubbed her hands together, then rang the bell. “Please be home,” she whispered at the wooden door.
    After a moment, she heard the shuffle of feet from within. Jess wondered how old Miss Taylor would be now—nearly eighty, perhaps. Loretta would be even older from what she remembered about the only time she’d seen the woman five years before.
    At last the door opened. It was Loretta, a bit more bent over, her bluish skin more translucent than before.
    “Loretta Taylor?” Jess asked.
    The woman scowled. “What is it? What do you want?”
    Jess cleared her throat. “I met you several years ago,” she said loudly, as if the woman were deaf as well as old. “My name is Jessica Randall. I’ve come to see your sister?” She wondered why the last sentence had come out like a question.
    “You’re wasting your time,” Loretta Taylor grumbled. “My sister is dead.”
    The door started to close. Jess raised her hand to stop it from shutting. Quickly, she said, “Wait. Tell me what happened.”
    “Last summer. The damn cigarettes finally got her.”
    Jess closed her eyes and pictured Miss Taylor, a bright slash of red painted on her lips, a nonfilter cigarette dangling from her hand,