Mercy Read online

  At least once during her shift she'd look to the Rialto, making a wish as had become her habit. She had asked for money, she had asked for adventure, she had asked for love. She pinned her wishes onto the foot traffic on the bridge, believing that, like a falling star, she had a better chance if someone walking by could carry her desires farther away.

  She never looked at the faces of the people on the bridge to whom she had entrusted her dreams; she figured that they were only messengers, after all.

  She thought that maybe this had been the biggest mistake of her life.

  Mia remembered, with a jolt, the moment days ago that Cam's hand had taken the picture of Carrymuir out of her own. She recalled the shadow that passed over his face when he refused to believe that they might have had a history which began before they'd met. She thought of him standing on the Rialto, his hair as bright as the lire in her apron, and she lifted her chin a fraction. "Prove it," she said again.

  It seemed incomprehensible to Cam that he could have been within a mile of Mia Townsend without knowing it. Proof? He could have told her about the violet tablecloths and the heart-shaped backings of the ironwork chairs, but as Mia had said before, these were things he could have learned from a postcard. "I wanted to go there," he said simply. "I didn't have the time." He shifted his weight to his other side. "What were you doing at a Venetian cafe?"

  Waiting for you. The words were at Mia's lips; she held her hand over her mouth to keep them back. Then, with a brittle smile, she jammed her hands into her coat pockets. "Well," she said brightly. "What a coincidence. We'll have to tell Allie."

  Bringing up Allies name made her feel a little better; she was able to breathe, and her skin didn't feel flushed. Cam nodded, smiling too, and took a step backward. He told her to have a nice day.

  Mia watched him walk in the direction of the station. Then she turned and ran down the street. But instead of going to the flower shop where Allie was expecting her, she flew back to her room at the Wheelock Inn..She rummaged through her knapsack, tossing papers and pencils and small bags of seedlings out of the way until she found what she was looking for.

  Dear Cameron, she wrote on a scrap of paper from the desk, Better late than never. Mia. She addressed a matching envelope to the police station and marked it personal and confidential. Then she picked up the cocktail napkin she'd taken out of her knapsack. It was from The Devil's Hand; it was one of the things she had taken with her--she made it a point to take at least one item from everywhere she'd been, to give her at least the semblance of a history.

  She stuffed the note in the envelope and took one last look at the napkin. It was frayed at the edges and emblazoned with the cafe's logo: two faceless lovers in a circle of fire, which--even in silhouette--seemed to leap and burn and ruin.

  Mia took a deep breath and jammed the napkin into the envelope. She licked it and closed it, sealing her future.

  SEVEN

  In between the bill from the lighting company and a pamphlet from the local mechanic who serviced all the cruisers was an envelope from the Wheelock Inn. Cam sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Probably a complaint about the way Zandy had handled the investigation of the room that Jamie MacDonald had been using; maybe even a mention of some scrap of evidence--his officers were always instructed to ask the parties at the scene of the crime to contact the station if they came up with anything else. He picked up the sterling letter opener on his desk and slit the corner of the envelope.

  He pulled out the napkin first and what he noticed was not the stygian logo of The Devil's Hand, but the scent of Mia Townsend-- cloves and rainwater and sweet grass--that now seemed to fill the room. He picked up the tiny ragged square and held it to his cheek.

  He noticed the note as he went to throw the envelope in the wastebasket. The lettering was done in pencil, neat and precise, and he smiled, knowing that as a third-grader she had never strayed outside the lines. He read the short letter, and then read it again. He held it up to the light to see if there was anything that had been erased.

  He took the note, hid it in the folds of the cocktail napkin, and placed it in his coat breast pocket.

  Then he pulled a piece of stationery out of his desk drawer. Mia, he wrote, staring at her name on the page. He crumpled it up into a ball because the three letters drooped down.

  Mia, he wrote a second time, on a different sheet of paper. Then he wadded the page up and threw it hard into the wastebasket. What the hell was he doing?

  He sat back down at his desk, slicing open the light bill and the other pieces of mail and putting them in piles for Hannah to pay or to type suitable replies. He braced his hands, palms flat, on the desk.

  He closed his eyes and made a bargain with God. If You send someone into this office by the time I count to twenty, he thought, I will not write this note. Then he held his breath and began to count.

  He heard Hannah shuffling through the overstuffed filing cabinets outside, and Zandy picking up his things before going home for the day. He heard the front door open and close again, and an unknown voice muffling through a request at the front desk. He heard footsteps in front of his office.

  Fourteen, fifteen.

  He opened his eyes, picked up the pen and began to write.

  Mia, he said, Now the only thing I need is a cappuccino. I hate drinking alone. Will you meet me?

  He did not sign his name. He sealed it in a Wheelock Police Department envelope and, walking from his office, set it on Hannah's desk with the outgoing mail.

  Allie wiped her hands on the white baker's apron, scattering bright yellow nasturtium petals over the kitchen floor. She had packed a suitcase to take to Jamie's house in Cummington; she had cleaned the bottom half of the house; and now she was preparing dinner for Cam and Mia, a thank-you in advance for taking care of things while she was away.

  She was roasting a chicken, stir-frying asparagus, and making her nasturtium-lettuce salad. It was lovely to look at, all that red and orange and yellow against the greens of spinach and endive. She served it with walnut oil, and when people got over the shock of eating flowers for dinner, they always complimented her on her originality.

  Cam hated it, said it made him feel like Robinson Crusoe, making do with twigs and weeds. But she knew that Mia would appreciate it. She liked the idea of showing Mia something she did not already know how to do.

  "Cam," she yelled, "was that the door?"

  In the living room, Cam was trying to read the evening paper. He had heard the doorbell, had known it was Mia, and tried to stuff the information into the back recesses of his mind. When Allie told him that she had invited Mia for dinner, he'd felt the blood rush from his head. He could not imagine anything more uncomfortable than sitting across a table from both his wife and the woman he could not stop thinking about.

  "I'll get it," he said, pushing to his feet. He walked to the front door and leaned his forehead against it for a moment, considering whether by sheer will he could prevent this evening from taking place.

  She was wearing a huge beige sweater and an ivory turtleneck and skinny little leggings the color of oatmeal, as if her clothing was her way of blending into the background. Cam wished he'd thought of it.

  "Hi," he said.

  She did not meet his eye. "Hello." She reached into her big carpetbag knapsack and pulled out a bottle of blackberry wine. "I brought this. I think it goes with any kind of entree."

  "Allies in the kitchen." Cam stared at Mia. He wondered if she had gotten his letter. Occasionally, letters that were being sent somewhere within Wheelock boundaries were delivered the same day they had been mailed.

  Mia pushed past Cam and walked toward the kitchen. He could hear the two women talking and laughing, high runners of music that reminded him of the conversation of birds.

  He did not know how long he had been standing there staring at nothing when Allie touched her hand to his shoulder. Mia was a few steps behind her. "Cam," Allie said, "can you open the wine? I'm almost don