Tess Gerritsen - Bloodstream

“I rented the cottage through the end of this month. But with the weather turning so cold, I might as well cut it short and go back to Boston. To central heating. I have enough data already. Samples from a dozen different Maine lakes.” He looked at the window, at the snow falling outside, thick as a curtain. “I leave this place to hardier souls like you.”

The flames were dying. She stood up, took a birch log from the pile, and threw it onto the fire. The papery bark caught instantly, snapping and sparkling. She watched it for a moment, savoring the heat, feeling it flush her cheeks. “I’m not such a hardy soul,” she said softly. “I’m not sure I belong here, either.”

He poured more brandy into his glass. “There’s a lot about this place that takes getting used to. The isolation. The people. They’re not easy to get to know. In the month I’ve been here, you’re the only one who’s invited me to dinner.”

She sat down and regarded him with a new measure of sympathy. She recalled her own introduction to Tranquility. After eight months, how many people here did she really know? She’d been warned it would be this way, that the locals were wary of outsiders. People from away drift to Maine like loose bits of fluff, linger for a season or two, and then scatter to the four winds. They have no roots here, no memories. No permanence. Mainers know this, and they greet each new resident with suspicion.

They wonder what has driven this stranger into their midst, what secrets lie hidden in some past life. They wonder if the stranger has somehow carried with him the very contagion he is trying to escape. Lives that fall apart in one city often fall apart yet again in another.

Mainers can see the progression. First the new house, enthusiastically purchased, the garden with freshly tamped-down daffodil beds, the snow boots and L.L. Bean jackets. A winter or two goes by. The daffodils bloom, fade, bloom untended. The heating bill astounds. The storm windows linger months past thaw.

The stranger begins to shuffle pale-faced around town, to talk longingly of Florida, to recall beaches he has lolled upon, and to dream of towns that have neither mud season nor snowplows. And the house, so lovingly restored, soon collects one more decoration: a For Sale sign.

People from away have no permanence. Even she was not sure she would stay here.

“Why did you want to move here, then?” he asked.

She settled back in her chair and watched the flames engulf the birch log. “I didn’t move here because of me. It was because of Noah.” She looked up toward the second floor, toward her son’s bedroom. It was silent upstairs, just as Noah had been silent all evening. At dinner he had scarcely said a word to their guest. And afterwards, he had gone straight to his room and shut the door.

“He’s a handsome boy” said Max.

“His father was very good-looking.”

“And his mother isn’t?” Max’s glass of brandy was almost empty and he seemed flushed in the firelight. “Because you are?’

She smiled. “I think you’re drunk.”

“No, what I’m feeling right now is… comfortable.” He set his glass on the table. “It was Noah who wanted to move?”

“Oh, no. He had to be dragged, kicking and screaming. He didn’t want to leave his old school or his friends. But that’s exactly why we had to leave.”

“The wrong crowd?”

She nodded. “He got into trouble. The whole group of them did. I was taken completely by surprise when it happened. I couldn’t control him, couldn’t discipline him. Sometimes She sighed. “Sometimes I think I’ve lost him entirely”

The birch log slid, sizzling into the embers. Sparks leaped up and drifted gently down into the ashes.

“I had to take some sort of drastic action,” she said. “It was my last chance to exert control. In another year or two, he would have been too old. Too strong.”

“Did it work?”

“You mean, did all our troubles go away? Of course not. Instead, I’ve taken on a whole new slew of troubles. This creaky old house. A medical practice that I seem to be slowly killing.”

“Don’t they need a doctor here?”

“They had a town doctor. Old Dr. Pomeroy, who died last winter. They can’t seem to accept me as even a pale substitute.”

“It takes time, Claire.”

“It’s been eight months, and I can’t even turn a profit. Someone with a grudge has been sending anonymous letters to my patients. Warning them off.” She looked at the bottle of brandy, thought: What the hell, and poured herself another glass. “Out of the frying pan, into the fire.”

“Then why do you stay?”

“Because I keep hoping it’ll get better. That winter will pass, it’ll be summer again, and we’ll both be happy. That’s the dream, anyway. It’s the dreams that keep us going.” She sipped her brandy noticing that the flames were now pleasantly out of focus.

“And what is your dream?”

“That my son will love me the way he used to.”

“You sound as if you have doubts.”

She sighed, and raised the glass to her lips. “Parenthood,” she said, “is nothing but doubts.”

Lying in bed, Amelia could hear the sound of slapping in her mother’s room, could hear the stifled sobs and whimpers and the angry grunts that punctuated each blow.

Dumb bitch. Don’t you ever go against me. You bear? You hear?

Amelia thought of all the things she could do about it-all the things she’d already done in the past. None of them had worked. Twice she’d called the police; twice they’d taken Jack away to jail, but within days he’d returned, welcomed back by her mother. It was no use. Grace was weak. Grace was afraid of being alone.

I will never, ever, let a man hurt me and get away with it.

She covered her ears and buried her head under the sheets.

J.D. listened to the sound of blows and could feel himself getting excited.

Yeah, that’s the way to treat ‘em, Dad. It’s what you always told me. A firm hand keeps ‘em in line. He rolled up close to the wall, placing his ear against the plaster. His dad’s bed was right on the other side. As he had on so many other nights, J.D. would press up close, listening to the rhythmic squeak of his father’s bed, knowing exactly what was going on in the next room. His dad was something else, a man like no other, and although J.D. was a little afraid of him, he also admired him. He admired the way ol’ Jack took control of his household and never let the females get high and mighty. It’s the way the Good Book meant it to be, Jack always said, the man as master and protector of his house. It made sense. The man was larger, stronger; of course he was meant to be in charge.

The slapping had stopped, and now it was just the bed squeaking up and down.

That’s how it always ended. A little discipline and then some good old-fashioned making up. J.D. was getting more and more excited, and the ache down there got to be unbearable.

He got up and felt his way past Eddie’s bed, toward the door. Eddie was sound asleep, the dumb cluck. It was embarrassing to have such a weak wuss for a brother. He went into the hall and headed toward the bathroom.

Halfway there, he paused outside his stepsister’s closed door. He pressed his ear to it, wondering if Amelia was awake, if she too was listening to the squeaking of their parents’ bed. Juicy little Amelia, the untouchable. Right under the same roof. So close he could almost hear the sound of her breathing, could smell her girl-scent wafting out from under the door. He tried the knob and found it was locked. She always kept it locked, ever since that night he’d sneaked into her room to watch her sleep, and she’d awakened to find him unbuttoning her pajama top.