The Dollmaker

Eleven

From the shopkeeper next door, Alex learned that the owner of the collectibles store, Mignon Bujold, was attending a doll show in Baton Rouge for the next four days and the shop would be closed until she returned on Tuesday morning. Why she’d left the back door unlocked was anyone’s guess, but the neighbor seemed to think it was just an oversight. The locks on some of the old buildings in the Quarter were tricky, and if Mignon had been in a hurry to leave on Thursday, she might have failed to engage the dead bolt properly.

Alex had a quick look around the alley and the shop, but the entry hadn’t been forced and nothing on the inside appeared to be amiss. In spite of Claire’s contention that she’d seen someone inside earlier, he insisted there was little he could do but alert the neighborhood patrol to keep an eye on the premises until someone could get in touch with Mignon Bujold.

Claire went home after that and spent the remainder of the day intermittently resting and puttering around the house, until her mother showed up late that afternoon with an overnight bag and a determined expression. She’d come to make sure that Claire didn’t overdo her first day out of the hospital, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Claire knew better than to argue, so gave in gratefully and settled on the sofa in the living room, while Lucille went through the house cleaning like a buzz saw.

After a supper of boiled shrimp and dirty rice, they carried glasses of sweet tea out to Claire’s front porch and watched twilight fall like a silky blanket over the city. Trails of pink clouds lingered just above the treetops, and as the color began to fade, the sky softened to gray. It started to mist, and the early evening air smelled of rain and flowers and freshly cut grass.

“We’re in for another downpour later,” Lucille predicted as she rocked back and forth. “See the way those thunderheads are piling up over the Gulf?”

“I don’t mind the rain,” Claire said.

“I know you don’t. Charlotte used to climb the walls when she had to stay cooped up inside, but you’d just sit out on the porch like we are now, and watch it rain all day long. You two girls were as different as night and day when you were little, but you both took after your daddies. William was just like you, Claire. He could sit and watch the rain for hours. I never understood one thing about that man, but I sure did miss him after he was gone. I used to lie in bed at night and ask myself over and over what I might have done that drove him to do such a terrible thing.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Mama. It was just something inside him.”

“I know that now. He was one of those people that couldn’t ever find any peace. When he’d get that far-off look in his eyes, you just knew he was studying on something bad, something that kept eating at him until he couldn’t take it anymore. I used to worry about how much you were like him. Always so quiet and gentle and keeping everything bottled up inside the way you did. But you’re stronger than your daddy ever was. Sometimes I think you’re the strongest person I know.”

“Thanks, Mama, but I don’t feel very strong right now.” A strange mood had gripped Claire ever since she’d left the collectibles shop that morning. She’d felt nervous and edgy all day, and she couldn’t seem to shake the notion that something bad was about to happen.

“You’re just out of sorts because of the accident. A trauma like that can take the wind right out of your sails. Give yourself a couple more days to get over it.”

Claire rested her head on the back of the rocking chair. “I don’t have a couple of days. I’m going back to work tomorrow.”

“Honey, you can’t work with your hand all messed up like that.”

“I can’t blow glass, but there’s still plenty I can do in the gallery. And I need the hours. Especially now that I have a hospital bill to pay.”

Lucille gave her a sidelong glance. “Your divorce isn’t final yet. You could probably file a claim on Alex’s insurance.”

“I can’t do that. It wouldn’t be right. And besides, I’ve always had someone looking after me. You or Dave or Alex. I’m thirty-three years old, Mama. It’s high time I learn to take care of myself.”

“You make it sound like you’ve been freeloading on the rest of us, but that’s just not so. You’re always doing for everyone else, Claire. Look at the way you took care of Maw-Maw before she passed away. I never could have done what you did. I didn’t have the stomach for it.”

“That’s not true. You’re taking care of me right now,” Claire said.

“It’s different when it’s your own kid. Don’t matter how old they get, they’re always going to be your babies.”

Claire stared out at the street, where the mist swirled like ghosts under a streetlight. “Can I ask you something, Mama?”

“What is it?”

“Why don’t you like Alex?”

Lucille stopped rocking and stared at her in the gathering darkness. “What in the world brought that on?”

“I don’t know. It’s just been something I’ve always wondered about.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Maybe I didn’t want to know before. But it bothered me that you couldn’t warm up to him.”

Lucille went back to rocking as she gazed out over the street. “What difference does it make now?”

“It doesn’t. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

Her mother was silent for a moment. “I never thought it was my place to say anything, but since you’re asking, I guess I don’t need to hold back. He had his eyes set on you from the get-go, Claire, you just couldn’t see it. And he wasn’t above manipulating a tragic situation to get what he wanted. From the moment he found out Dave was out of the picture, he didn’t let the shirttail touch his back before he made his move.”

“But he didn’t take advantage of me, Mama. He was a good friend to me. Someone I could lean on during the worst time of my life.”

“He made sure of that, didn’t he?”

“What do you mean?”

“He spent more time consoling you than he did out looking for Ruby.”

“He was just trying to help.”

“Help himself, you mean.”

“He’s a good man, Mama, and he was a good husband to me.”

“Then why are you divorcing him?”

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s what people always say when they can’t face the truth. Or don’t want to. But you and I both know why that marriage fell apart.” Her gaze met Claire’s. “You’re divorcing him because he’s not Dave Creasy.”

“That’s crazy, Mama.”

“You can lie to yourself, honey, but you can’t lie to me. I know you wanted things to work out with Alex, but it just wasn’t meant to be. You tried your best, but you can’t help how you feel. And no matter how much Alex loved you, he couldn’t take being second best. No man could. Sooner or later things were bound to go south.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Claire said. “Alex and I were happy for a while. We just drifted apart.”

But even as she denied it, she felt something that might have been the truth tearing at her heart, and the weight of an old loneliness pressing down on her. Sometimes she thought that crushing loneliness must be a little like being buried alive.

A couple walked by on the sidewalk, their forms not much more than shifting silhouettes in the misty darkness. Their hands were linked, their bodies pressed closely together, and as Claire watched them pass beneath a streetlight, moments from her past flashed in her mind like photographs. She thought it strange how memories could lie dormant for years, and then when they came back suddenly, it was as if they’d been there all along. Not forgotten or lost, but lingering on the edges of consciousness, the pain softened by time and experience, but never extinguished. Never completely gone.

“Only one man’s ever made you happy, Claire.”

“Let it be, Mama. I don’t feel much like resurrecting old ghosts tonight.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“We were talking about Alex, not Dave.”

“Dave is your past, Claire. Alex is just a mistake.”

Claire watched the couple on the street until they were out of sight. The mist turned into a drizzle and the temperature started to drop as the rain clouds moved in from the Gulf.

They sat in silence, and after a while Lucille began to doze off. In the dim light from the streetlamp, her face looked soft and peaceful, until her elbow slipped off the arm of the chair and she woke with a start.

“Why don’t you go on to bed, Mama? You couldn’t have gotten much rest last night. You must be all worn out today.”

“I’m a little tired, I guess, but what about you? You’re not ready to turn in?”

“Not just yet. I think I’ll sit out here and watch the rain for a while. If the weather gets bad, I’ll move inside.”

Lucille got up and came over to drop a kiss on the top of Claire’s head. “Don’t stay out here all night, now. You need to get some rest, too.”

“I won’t. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Claire.”

“Good night, Mama.”

The door closed softly behind Lucille, and Claire turned back to the street. A few cars went by, their tires sloshing on the wet pavement, but the pedestrians had all scurried inside. The sidewalks were empty and glistening as raindrops pattered against banana leaves, and a cooling breeze whispered through the oak and pecan trees. A dog barked excitedly in a neighbor’s backyard and then fell silent.

The hair at the back of Claire’s neck lifted suddenly; she didn’t know why. She saw nothing unusual, heard only sounds she’d listened to on countless other rainy nights.

But something was different. Something had shifted in her quiet little world, and as she sat alone on her front porch, she felt the darkness closing in on her.

Claire opened her eyes. A noise had awakened her, but she didn’t know if it was real or imagined. She lay in that fragile half-sleep state and listened to the night. The wind had risen since she’d gone to bed, and the live oak outside her bedroom raked against the side of the house as rain slashed across the windows.

Even on a calm night, the house was full of sounds. Claire had never minded the creaks and groans of settling wood, but since Alex moved out, she hadn’t been sleeping well. Everything seemed to wake her these days. Maybe it was because she’d never lived alone before.

She’d married Dave right out of high school, and they’d lived in her grandmother’s garage apartment until splitting up after Ruby disappeared. Claire had stayed on in the apartment for a while before moving in with her ailing grandmother. A year later, Maw-Maw was dead and Claire had found herself married to Alex. She was never quite certain how it happened. Her life back then had seemed like a dream she couldn’t wake up from. One moment she’d been married to Dave and they’d had a beautiful little girl they both adored, and then in the blink of an eye, it had all been stolen on a hot, clear afternoon.

Her daughter’s kidnapping had been the defining moment of Claire’s life. Nothing before or after was ever going to be as important. That was the real reason her marriage to Alex had collapsed. There were times when the weight of her memories had pushed her so deeply into sadness that only the past seemed real to her. Alex had been patient up to a point, but Claire couldn’t blame him for his resentment.

She closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep. But it was no use. She was wide-awake now. She fluffed her pillow, tugged up the covers, then sighed in resignation.

Rolling over, she stared at the empty space that was Alex’s side of the bed. She pictured him lying there beside her, his brown hair mussed in sleep, his bare chest rising and falling with each breath. She used to stare at him while he slept, wondering why she couldn’t love him the way he deserved to be loved. He was a good man, a good husband. He was everything she needed, everything she should have wanted…but he hadn’t been able to make her forget.

She put a hand on his pillow, remembering the way his skin had felt beneath her palm. Remembering the way he would open his eyes, his gaze deepening as he reached for her in the dark. Remembering how, in those first months of marriage, she’d thought too many times of Dave’s touch.

And Alex had known. He’d pretended not to, of course, but he knew. How could he not? And in time his jealousy had turned into a festering bitterness.

Claire flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. The lightning created interesting patterns in the plaster. She tried to picture that same delicate design in a piece of glass. It was a trick she used to lull herself to sleep. She imagined herself slowly turning the blowpipe in the furnace, capturing a bit of honey like glass on the end and continuing to work it evenly so that it didn’t drip off. Step by step, she went through the arduous process, keeping the glass centered as she worked, adding layers and colors and using wet newspapers to control the shape.

Claire was so deep into the imagery that the sound of shattering glass almost didn’t register. And then she bolted upright in bed, her heart pounding in terror.

The sound hadn’t been imagined or dreamed this time. Something had been knocked over and broken.

Someone was in her house.

She tried to convince herself that her mother had probably gone downstairs for a glass of water, or even some warm milk, if the storm had awakened her, too. There was nothing to worry about. No need to panic.

Claire listened for a moment, hoping that she would hear Lucille’s footfalls on the stairs. But when no sound came, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge, one ear turned toward the door.

Another sound came to her then, softer than the first and followed by a stealthy, waiting silence, as if someone somewhere in the house stood listening for her.

It was dark in her room, but Claire didn’t turn on the light. Instead, she picked up the phone and lifted it to her ear. Then almost immediately lowered it. Was she really going to call 911? What if her mother had gone downstairs for some reason? What if the police responded to Claire’s call, only to discover Lucille in the kitchen having a midnight snack?

Besides, Claire didn’t want word of a distress call getting back to Alex. He’d rush over, thinking that he had to protect her, and another argument would ensue. She wasn’t up to dealing with that tonight.

Sliding open the nightstand drawer, she pulled out the pistol that Dave had given her years ago after she’d been mugged on Canal Street. She’d never liked having a gun in the house, especially after Ruby came along, and she’d always meant to get rid of the thing. But now there it was, loaded and ready, a comforting weight in her hand as she disengaged the safety.

Rising, Claire walked quietly to the door and drew it open. Lightning flashed in the window behind her and a clap of thunder caused her to jump as she slipped into the corridor. She walked down the hall to the spare bedroom and opened the door a crack.

Her mother lay on her back, one arm flung over her face, and Claire could hear her soft snores. Closing the door, she turned and crept toward the stairs, holding the gun in her right hand, barrel pointed upward, as she pressed herself against the wall. Her heart hammered in her chest as she waited at the top of the stairs for an adrenaline rush that would give her enough courage to go downstairs and explore.

It never came. Claire counted to ten, then reached for the banister and slowly descended, certain with every step that someone would jump out of the darkness and grab her.

By the time she reached the bottom, her hand shook so hard she could barely grip the weapon. She couldn’t allow fear to make her careless. If she didn’t get her nerves under control, the gun would be more of a danger to her than to an intruder. He could easily overpower her, take the weapon away from her and use it on her and her mother.

As quietly as she could, Claire began to search the house. The living room was clear, as was the kitchen, dining room and hall closet. That left the small, glassed-in space off the living room that Claire had recently turned into a sunroom. The French doors were closed, but Claire could see into the room through the panels of leaded glass.

As she pulled back one of the doors, a wet draft blew in from an open window. The breeze caught the curtain and dragged it across a nearby table, drawing Claire’s gaze to a shattered vase on the tile floor.

“Claire?”

The light came on in the room behind her and she whirled. “Mama? I thought you were asleep!”

“I was, but the storm woke me up.” Lucille padded across the room. “Why are you prowling around in the dark with a gun?” She sounded more curious than upset.

“It’s nothing. I heard something and came down to investigate. I think the wind must have knocked over a vase.” Claire felt a bit foolish as she dropped the gun to her side. “You were in here smoking earlier. Did you leave the window open?”

Lucille rubbed her arm as she stared at the shattered vase. “I guess I must have. Damn, if I’m not getting forgetful in my old age…”

“No harm done. I’ll clean up the glass in the morning.”

Claire went over to close the window, and stood listening to the rain run off the roof and gutters, and splash against the front porch as she stared into the soggy darkness. A car was parked down the street, and as lightning flared, she saw a man behind the wheel. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but for a moment it seemed that he was sitting there watching her house.

“Claire, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Mama.”

She closed the window and locked it, then turned to follow her mother out of the room.

A moment later, she was back, staring at the table by the window. A picture of Ruby was missing.

The Dollmaker hugged the picture frame to his chest as he listened to the rain drum against the roof of his car. The windows had fogged in the humidity and the interior became as dark as a closet. A familiar fear crept over him and he quickly rolled down the glass, letting the cool rain splash away his panic as he watched the house.

The lights were off, and he wondered if she’d gone back to bed. He was tempted to get out of the car and go find out, but she’d be alert now and he didn’t want to create a situation that might force his hand. It was too soon for her to see him.

In a flash of lightning, he peered lovingly at the photograph. He shouldn’t have taken it. She would miss it sooner or later, but it was so much like the one he’d lost, he hadn’t been able to resist. And when he’d found the open window and crawled through, that photograph was the first thing he saw.

As if it was meant to be.

Even so, he never should have come back here. Not so soon. Someone was bound to remember a strange vehicle in the neighborhood. But that one glimpse of her as she’d stood silhouetted in the window made the risk worthwhile. For a moment, he could have sworn their gazes locked in the rainy darkness, and his heart had raced with excitement. He wondered if she felt it, too. That timeless bond that had drawn him back here almost against his will.

Ever since he’d seen her peering through the window in the collectibles shop earlier that day, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. When he first heard her knock on the door, he’d tried to ignore her, hoping that she would go away and leave him to search for the photograph he’d left behind. But instead she nearly caught him when she came through the back way. He hadn’t expected that. He’d barely had time to hide in the shadows before she stepped through the door.

At first he couldn’t understand why fate had brought her to the shop at such an inopportune moment. But as he watched her move about the crowded space, peering into one display case after another, his apprehension faded and he became mesmerized by her gentle grace.

And then she’d turned in such a way that a shaft of light from the window fell across her face. He saw her eyes clearly for the first time, and the shock had been so great, he’d taken a step toward her without thinking. The beaded curtain stirred between them and he knew that she could sense his presence.

Somehow he’d managed to get out of the shop without being seen, and he’d waited for her in the courtyard. When she walked over to pick up the orchid, she was so near he could have reached through the rungs of the iron fence to touch her. His heart had beaten hard and swift against his chest as his eyes filled with tears, because by then he’d understood.

He told himself to go home, go to work, do whatever he had to do to get his mind off her. But instead he’d followed her home, and as he pulled to the curb a few blocks down from her driveway, he’d experienced an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Because he knew her house. Her street. He’d been there before.

But the other time he’d come for the child.

He ran his thumb across the glass that covered the photograph, stroking the delicate features that were as familiar to him as his own. He could still see that afternoon unfold as if it were yesterday. That sweet, lovely child racing toward him on a shiny new bicycle. A cloud of golden curls streaming behind her. And those turquoise eyes…

Eyes the exact shade of Maddy’s…

And his mother’s…

His heart had raced with excitement that day, too, as he got out of the car and called the child’s name.

She brought the bicycle to a halt as her eyes squinted in the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees. “How do you know my name?”

“I’m a friend of your grandmother’s.”

“You know Maw-Maw?”

“Her name is Lucille, right? She sent you a present. Would you like to see it?”

The child’s face was very expressive, and he could see her natural curiosity warring with her common sense and the warnings she’d surely received all her short life.

He smiled. The child could hardly contain herself. She had a natural exuberance and a mischievous glint in her eyes that he found utterly captivating. He was so enchanted that he could have watched her for hours. But that would have to come later.

She bent to scratch a mosquito bite at the back of her knee. “My birthday was yesterday. Maw-Maw already gave me a present.”

“I bet she made you that pretty dress you’re wearing, didn’t she?”

Her eyes turned suspicious. “How did you know?”

“Because I know lots of interesting things about you, Ruby. Don’t you want to see your other present?”

She hesitated, glancing behind her down the street. Then her gaze came slowly back to his. “Show it to me from there.”

He nodded and opened the back door of his car, lifting the doll with curly blond hair and turquoise eyes from a white box. She resembled the little girl on the bike, but she wasn’t an exact match. Not yet.

“Do you like dolls, Ruby?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I like Maw-Maw’s dolls. She has thousands and thousands. Maybe even more. Sometimes she makes her own dolls.”

“Yes, I know. She and I took some classes together. But even your grandmother doesn’t have a doll like this one.” He straightened and turned so that the child could see what he held in his hands.

She was instantly charmed. “She looks like me!”

“That’s because I made her from a photograph your grandmother gave me. She’s not quite finished, though.” He held the doll out to her. “Do you like her?”

The child nodded, her smile as dazzling as the sunlight.

“Come take a closer look then.”

She was still torn with indecision. She turned again to search the street behind her. “I have to go home and ask Mama first.”

“Why not take the doll with you? I bet your mother would love to see her. Here, let me help you….”

It happened so quickly that no one on the quiet street saw or heard anything. They never did. Not even in this day and age when people told themselves they were on guard for such things. But he was very good at what he did. And the little girls who came to his attention all had one thing in common.

They loved dolls. Almost as much as he did.

The memory drifted away and his eyes misted as he watched the house through the rain. His mother had once loved dolls, too. He wondered if she still did.