I said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hunter, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Oh, God.” Eyeblinks, several of them. A palpable shudder. And then she was herself again, the eyes focusing, some of the terror retreating. “Who are you?” she said in a stronger voice. “What do you want?”
“I called to you twice from outside, but you—”
“Who are you?”
I told her my name, that I represented Intercoastal Insurance. I had one of my cards in hand, but I was afraid of setting her off again by approaching her with it. Instead I reached over and laid it on the clay-stained bench.
“Jesus,” she said, “that fucking insurance policy.” Then she said, “You scared the hell out of me, coming in here like that. You’re trespassing.”
“I’m sorry.” I was tired of apologizing, but she was right on both counts. “Would you like me to come back at some other time?”
“Why? Why are you bothering me? I told Rich Twining I don’t want to file a claim.”
“Why not, Mrs. Hunter?”
“That’s my business. Who sent you here? What do you do for Intercoastal Insurance?”
“I’m an independent investigator. I was hired to—”
“For God’s sake!” The fear was back, a lurking presence that made her pale gray-green eyes almost luminous. She raised her hands to cup both elbows, pulling in tight against herself as if she were cold. “Investigating what? Me?”
“Not exactly. If you’ll just let me explain—”
“I’m not going to file a damn claim. How much clearer do I have to make it to you people?”
“Would you turn down the fifty thousand dollars if it was given to you?”
“Given? What’re you talking about?”
“Intercoastal deeply regrets your loss.” Company line; I didn’t believe it any more than she did. “As a gesture of goodwill to you and your daughter, they’re willing to honor your husband’s policy without the usual paperwork.”
Incredulity crowded the fear aside. Twining had called her “drop-dead gorgeous,” and there was justification for that assessment. Flawless complexion as luminous as her eyes, perfect features, that dark silken hair, a long-legged, high-breasted figure. But there was also a worn, haggard quality that diminished and roughened the edges of her beauty. Part of it was grief, no doubt, but it seemed more ingrained than that. The fear, maybe, a physical corrosive if you live with it long enough.
Pretty soon she said, “Why would they do a thing like that?”
“A gesture of goodwill, as I—”
“Oh, bullshit. Insurance companies don’t give a damn about people. They don’t do anything unless there’s something in it for them.”
“All right, Mrs. Hunter, I’ll be candid. In return Intercoastal would ask the right to publicize their gesture, use your name in a promotional campaign.”
“So that’s it. My photograph, too, I suppose. And my daughter’s name and photograph.”
“With your permission, of course.”
“I won’t consent to anything like that. Never. What’s the matter with them? I just lost my husband, Emily lost her father, our lives are in a shambles. We’re not about to become shills for a fucking insurance company.”
“That’s not what—”
“That’s exactly what it is.” She was angry now. The anger was genuine, but I had the impression she was working it up, using it to hold the fear at bay. “They hired you to poke around in my life, my husband’s life, make sure we’re not ax murderers or sexual deviants or something else that would make them look bad if it got out. Isn’t that right?”
“There’s nothing in your background you’re ashamed of, is there?”
“Of course not!” She spat the words at me; the gray-green eyes flashed and sparked. “How dare you!”
“I didn’t mean that to be insulting.”
“I don’t care what you meant. It is insulting, this whole ploy is insulting. You get out of here right now. You leave my daughter and me alone, stay out of our lives. And you tell your bosses if they bother me again in any way I’ll sue them for harassment. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand.”
“Now get off my property. And don’t come back.”
I didn’t argue with her; it would have been an indefensible argument even if I’d had the inclination. All I did was nod and walk out into the sunlight and tree shadows. She followed me as far as the studio entrance. When I glanced back after a time she was still standing there, still hugging herself as if there was no more warmth in the day and little enough in her body.
As I came around the nearest of the big oaks into the parking circle, I saw that my car had a visitor. A slender little girl of nine or ten stood on its near side, peering at it the way you would at a giant and unfamiliar bug.
She turned her head when she heard me approaching, and her posture changed into a kind of poised wariness like a cat’s when it sees a stranger — not startled, not afraid, but ready to run if the situation called for it. I smiled and slowed my pace, but if that reassured her any, she didn’t show it. Even though she was motionless, facing me as I came up, she still gave the impression of being on the verge of flight. No, not flight exactly. Up close, it seemed more like a readiness to retreat, to take refuge within herself. A defense mechanism of the shy, the vulnerable, the lonely.
“Hello,” she said. She made eye contact all right and her voice was cordial, but she seemed uncomfortable, as if she wished one of us wasn’t there. “Who are you?”
“Nobody special. Insurance man, I guess you could say.”
“Oh.”
“You’re Emily?”
She nodded. “Is my mom in her studio?”
“Yes. I tried to talk to her, but she told me to go away.”
A little silence. Then, “She doesn’t like it that Daddy took out a policy.”
“Why is that, Emily?”
“I don’t know. Did you know my father?”
“No, I never met him.”
“I miss him,” she said.
It might have been an awkward moment. What do you say to a ten-year-old who has suddenly and tragically lost her father? But her words were a simple, solemn declaration that required nothing of me, least of all pity. Emily Hunter had to be hurting inside, but her pain was a private thing to be shared with no one except her mother. She resembled Sheila Hunter physically — the same fine, dark hair and luminous eyes and willowy body — but I sensed an emotional stability in her that was lacking in her mother. Self-contained, better equipped to handle a crisis, mature beyond her years.
“What will you and your mom do now?” I asked. “Will you stay here, do you think?”
“It’s our home. We don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“No relatives back in Pennsylvania?”
“Where?”
“Pennsylvania. Harrisburg. Your folks are from there, aren’t they?”
“There’s just us,” Emily said, and I couldn’t tell if it was an evasion or not. “Except for Aunt Karen, but she—”
She broke off abruptly, as if she’d been about to say something she wasn’t supposed to. It prompted me to ask. “Where does your aunt Karen live?”
Emily shook her head: closed subject. “We have enough money so we’ll never have to worry. We don’t need the money from Dad’s insurance policy.”
Parroting words of her mother’s, I thought. “I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “But people can always use a little extra, in case of emergency.”
“No. Mom said—”
“Emily!”
We both turned. Sheila Hunter was striding toward us, almost running. Even at a distance I could see the tenseness in her body, the anger that put splotches of dark blood in her face.
She came up fast, her breath rattling a little, and said, “Emily, go into the house,” without looking at her daughter. The glaring hostility was all for me.