23. Dane #2
Cabot didn’t turn. A long line of seabirds was working the wake of a fishing boat off the starboard side.
“Good,” he said.
My right hand was palm-down on the bench between us. Farrow rested his hand on top of mine.
He didn’t look at me. He kept his eyes forward and slowly laced his fingers together with mine, settling between my knuckles.
Cabot didn’t turn around. The gull had come back and was standing on the rail next to him, picking at something on the metal. Cabot watched it as though it were the most interesting thing on the boat.
The forty-five minutes of the crossing went faster than I thought it would. When the Cape rose out of the water ahead of us, Cabot turned around.
“Woods Hole in fifteen. Rental’s in the lot. We’ll be at Brattle by eleven-fifteen if the Pike doesn’t do anything stupid.”
“Kohler at noon,” Farrow said.
“I’ll drive,” Cabot said. “Both of you should sleep if you can.”
Farrow squeezed my hand once.
The ferry sailed a long arc into the slip at Woods Hole, and the gulls took flight from the pilings in a single wheeling cloud. The horn sounded once over our heads, and the engines shifted to idle.
***
Cabot pulled into the Brattle drive at eleven-fourteen.
The federal vehicle wasn’t there yet. The only other vehicle was Reed’s SUV.
“Made it,” Cabot said.
He killed the engine. I worked my way out of the passenger seat, and Farrow handed me the crutches. Cabot took the bags out of the trunk.
Wiley was at the side door waiting for us.
He opened the door wide with one hand and was already reaching for Cabot’s bag with the other. He didn’t say hello.
The kitchen smelled of yeast and butter. Samuel was at the counter wrapping something brown and round in parchment paper and tying it with twine. A second loaf cooled on a rack beside him.
Kohler stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the front hall.
He wore Reed’s overcoat, the navy wool one. It was a size too large at the shoulders. The leather bag he’d carried into the field office a week ago sat at his feet. He’d shaved. His eyes were still pale red around the rims, but they were dry.
“You made the ferry,” he said.
“We did.”
“How’s the leg?”
“Sore but manageable. The crutches are doing their job.”
He nodded once.
Vega came up through the hall behind him.
“Federal?” I asked.
“Eight minutes out,” Vega said.
Kohler exhaled.
Wiley reached out and hugged him. Kohler rested his face against the side of Wiley’s neck and closed his eyes. Neither of them spoke. After a beat, Wiley let go and stepped back.
“Eat what Samuel gives you,” Wiley said. “Don’t argue.”
“I won’t argue.”
“And when you can, write to me, wherever you are. A postcard. So I’ll know.”
Kohler nodded.
Samuel came around the counter with the wrapped loaf in both hands.
“Sourdough. The starter came from a friend of Wiley’s in Somerville. I fed it Monday. The bread will hold three days at room temperature, longer in a refrigerator.”
Kohler took the loaf.
“Bertrand,” he said.
“What?”
“Henry kept sourdough starter. He called it Bertrand.”
“Then this one’s a cousin,” Samuel said.
Kohler looked down at the loaf in his hands. He didn’t cry. He held the bread against his chest and breathed in.
“Thank you.”
“Thank me by eating it.”
Kohler turned toward Farrow. He’d been standing two feet inside the kitchen door with his coat still on. He’d let everyone else have their moment first before he stepped forward.
Kohler said, “Christmas?”
“I’ll make sure Henry gets a wreath.”
“Thank you,” Kohler said
Farrow put his hand on Kohler’s shoulder, over the navy wool.
Kohler turned to me.
I shifted my weight on the crutches.
He didn’t come forward. I didn’t either. The space between us held.
“You kept the trust,” he said.
“Henry gave it to us.”
He nodded once. The gate camera beeped on Vega’s phone in the hall.
“Car’s here.”
Kohler set the loaf on the kitchen table. He picked up the leather bag and pulled the lapels of Reed’s overcoat closer at the throat.
“Forgive me,” he said to the room. “I'm not going to draw this out.”
“Good,” Samuel said.
Vega opened the front door.
Two agents came up the brick walk. The lead was Special Agent Weber. I’d seen her in Eleanor’s kitchen on Tuesday afternoon, putting cuffs on a sixty-three-year-old housekeeper while Eleanor sat across the room and did not look away. She caught my eye in the doorway and tipped her chin a half-inch.
The second agent was younger and didn’t speak.
Weber took Kohler’s bag. The younger agent picked up the wrapped loaf from the kitchen table and carried it out to the car ahead of him.
Kohler paused at the threshold. He looked back into the kitchen.
“Wiley.”
“Yes?”
“The piece. When you write it, his mother’s name was Catherine. She was a kind woman. Use her name.”
“I will.”
Kohler walked down the brick path. Weber walked at his left shoulder. The younger agent had the rear passenger door open and the loaf already on the back seat. Kohler ducked into the car. Weber walked around to the front passenger side and got in.
I hobbled out to the side of the house on my crutches. Farrow stood at my left shoulder. Wiley came up on my right. Samuel stood behind Wiley with both hands on his shoulders. Cabot was in the doorway behind us, coat still on.
The car cleared the gate.
“He’ll be alright,” Wiley said.
Farrow touched the small of my back briefly and dropped away.
Samuel turned first. He went back to the kitchen. The kettle had started to whistle. I heard him lift it off the burner.
Cabot cleared his throat behind us. “I should go check on a few things upstairs.”
“Stanley,” Farrow said, “stay with us for now.”
“I’ll stay.”
Wiley moved next. He went back toward the kitchen and touched my forearm as he passed.
“There’s bread. Samuel made three loaves. We’re not running out.”
Finally, it was only Farrow and me. “He’s going to be alright,” he said, low.
He turned, and I did the same. He followed me back into the kitchen.
Samuel handed me a mug of tea as I settled into a chair. “English breakfast. Milk’s in the fridge if you want it. There’s bread on the cutting board. Eat some.”
“I will.”
“Wiley and I are going upstairs to lie down for a while. He hasn’t slept properly in a week. Cabot’s in the front parlor on his laptop. Vega’s at the door. Reed’s asleep. The house is quiet.”
Samuel picked up a mug and a small plate with two slices of bread on it and went down the hall toward the stairs. I heard his weight on the treads and then the bedroom door close behind him.
Farrow sat across from me, coat draped over the back of the chair beside him, showing the burnt-orange lining. He’d taken his sidearm off and laid it on the counter beside his phone.
“That’s a strange feeling,” he said.
“What?”
“Putting it down. It takes a while for the muscle to catch up to the change.”
“Stanley wants to know what we’re doing at Christmas,” I said. “He asked me on Wednesday, just before the wedding.”
“Christmas is over two weeks away.”
“I told him I didn’t know yet. He asked if I would tell him when I did.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said I would.”
“Where do you want to go when we’re done?” Farrow asked.
“Home.”
Farrow smiled. “Your place or mine?”
“Yours or mine. As long as it’s home.”
“Yours has better light,” he said.
“I feel like I haven’t spent enough time there to know.”
“I have.”
“You’ve been keeping notes on my light?”
“I’ve been keeping notes on you. The light came with you.”
“Mine then,” I said. “Until you can’t stand the kitchen.”
“What’s wrong with the kitchen?”
“Nothing yet. You’ll see in a week.”
“Do you want to stay at Brattle through Sunday?” he asked. “Or leave sooner.”
“Tomorrow. I want to sleep in my own bed Saturday night.”
“I’ll call Pereira tomorrow morning,” Farrow said. “She can drive us in. I’ll move some things over from my place for the first week.”
“You’re moving in?”
“I’m staying with you while you heal.”
“That’s what we tell Stanley.”
“Agreed, but after you heal, I’m moving in.”
Farrow’s phone buzzed on the counter.
He picked it up, read it, and turned it toward me.
Wiley: Stanley wants to know if you and Dane will come to dinner Sunday. Samuel is making something elaborate. Bring wine.
I read it twice and looked up at Farrow.
“Yes,” he said.
He thumbed a reply and set the phone down.
He stood and moved around to my side of the table. He stopped at my shoulder and placed his hand against the back of my neck. His thumb moved once against my hairline, settled, and stayed.
With the other hand, he turned my chin enough to share a kiss. “I’m already home,” he said.