Paullina Simons - Red Leaves

Harper

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First published in Great Britain by Flamingo an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1997

Copyright © Paullina Simons 1996

Paullina Simons asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780006550570

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2015 ISBN: 9780007396689

Version: 2015-03-09

For my Kevin,

and for Bob Tavetian, you’re in our hearts

Cover Page

Title Page PAULLINA SIMONS RED LEAVES

Copyright

PROLOGUE

I THE GIRL IN THE BLACK BOOTS

CHAPTER ONE: Sunday

CHAPTER TWO: Monday

CHAPTER THREE: Tuesday

II SPENCER PATRICK O’MALLEY

CHAPTER FOUR: In the Woods and on the Wall

CHAPTER FIVE: Close Friends

CHAPTER SIX: Disposition of the Estate

CHAPTER SEVEN: Constance Tobias

CHAPTER EIGHT: Once Upon a Time in Greenwich, Connecticut

CHAPTER NINE: Red Leaves

EPILOGUE

Keep Reading

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by the Author

Tully

Eleven Hours

Road to Paradise

Paullina’s Website

About the Publisher

At Greenwich Point Park, where the saltwater air from Long Island Sound fused with the earthy smell of fallen leaves, two children climbed stairs leading to what once was a castle. They were alone.

Earlier they had walked past the parking attendant, who seemed to know them well and waved them on with a smile. The park was large and it was a long walk to where they wanted to be, but the sun shone and it was still warm. The girl carried a white-and-red paper bag, while the boy carried his baseball cap and a kite. They walked around the western end of the bay and found a picnic table near the beach. The girl immediately wanted to take off her shoes and feel the smooth stones under her feet, but the boy said no. He wanted to eat first. She sighed and sat down. They ate. The girl didn’t sulk for long; she was happy to be here.

Afterward, she kicked off her white canvas shoes, stood, and happily headed for the water. Many of the stones were covered with slimy moss, but she didn’t mind. She picked up some of the scattered mussels around the beach and inspected them. She threw down the open ones, remembering what her father had told her: ‘If they are open, it means they are dead and no good.’ She put the closed black shells in her bag. The boy brought over some crabs, and she put them in her bag also.

For fifteen minutes, they tried to figure out if the moving ripples in the bay about fifty yards away were waves or otters. The girl said they were otters, but the boy laughed. Waves, he told her, just waves. She wasn’t convinced. From a distance, they looked like they had black backs and were diving in and out of the water. They dove in place, so maybe he was right, though she didn’t want him to be right. He thought he was always right. Besides, it would be fun to think they saw otters in their park.

The girl headed back up to the path. He ran past her, pulling her hair along the way. She moved her head away from him but hastened her step, trying to skip on the stones.

She was a pretty girl. Her short hair clung neatly to her head. Her impeccably tailored white blouse was starched, and her jeans were ironed and creased. Her white jacket didn’t have any grime on the sleeves as is common for children her age. Her canvas shoes were bleached white and the laces looked new. Taking off her shoes and walking on the slimy moss was the only sloppy childlike luxury the girl would allow herself.

The girl liked the picnic part and the kite-flying part on the other side of the sprawling park. It was the in-between part that made her slightly weepy. She wished they could be at the green field already, unwinding the kite string. When the kite was high in the air, the girl would let go the string and run after the boy, yelling, ‘Higher, higher, higher…’

Fall was her favorite time of year, especially here, where the fierce salt wind blew over the red leaves of the white oaks.

‘You wanna head right on to the field?’ she called breathlessly to the boy, her voice catching. She stopped to put on her shoes, and he stopped, too, turned around, and walked back to her.

‘We are. Instead of what?’

‘Instead of going up to the castle,’ she said.

He stared at her.

‘Okay,’ he said, shrugging. ‘I thought you liked the castle.’

She didn’t answer him at first and then said apologetically, ‘I do like it. I’m just tired, that’s all.’

He motioned her to come. ‘Come on, don’t be such a baby.’

She tried not to be.

They walked on the path between the tall, straight oaks, around to the little boathouse, to the wall.

The boy hopped up onto it. The wall was only three feet off the ground on one side, but it separated the walkway from the water on the other. Every time the girl climbed onto the wall, she feared that she would fall into the water. And if she did, who would save her? Not he, certainly. He couldn’t swim. Holding hands was impossible. The wall was only twenty inches wide. No, she had to get up on that wall to show him she wasn’t afraid.

But she was afraid, and she was exhilarated. She already felt moist under her arms. ‘I don’t want to do this,’ she whispered, but he didn’t hear, for he was already far ahead of her on his way to the castle. She told herself to stop trembling this minute, and, sighing, got up on the wall after him.

Little more than the high-hilled view of Long Island Sound remained of the ruined castle grounds; the view and the tangled walls of forsythia spoke softly of the castle’s once glorious splendor.