The Ice Cradle Read Free

angry lips.
    I heard a shrill squawk, and a nearby seagull hopped into flight. I glanced over.
    “Henry?”
    “What?” He looked guilty. I saw him drop a couple of pebbles onto the sand.
    “Did you hit that bird?” I called.
    “No,” he said.
    I set down our duffel bag and shifted the weight of my backpack. I said nothing.
    “I didn’t
mean
to,” he finally conceded.
    “So you
did
throw a stone at it.”
    “I just wanted to scare him,” my son explained.
    I sighed and shook my head. “He was only looking for food, honey. How would you like it if you had to fly around all day in the freezing cold trying to find old French fries and pizza crusts and—pieces of dead fish.”
    His face grew progressively glummer, but he didn’t say anything. I persisted.
    “Would you like that?”
    Henry shook his head.
    “Then leave them alone. They aren’t hurting you.”
    Henry kicked at the sand, then turned and sprinted to the side of the road.
    “Wait!” I called reflexively, though there wasn’t a car in sight.

    The Grand View wasn’t the largest hotel on Water Street. That honor apparently belonged to the National, an enormous white edifice with a porch that could comfortably seat dozens of sunset-gazing cocktail sippers. The National didn’t appear to be open for the season yet, but judging from the sound of power saws and the sight of sheer white curtains blowing out of open windows, the owners were getting it ready.
    If the National was the diamond of Water Street, then the Grand View was its pearl. Perched back from the road, it was a quarter of the National’s size, and so perfect in proportion and scale that it reminded me of a doll’s house.
    Some of its weathered shingles had recently been replaced and stood out like too-white teeth, but a few years of seasonal exposure would take care of that. Wide chimneys at either end of the house suggested fireplaces inside, and a cupola just big enough for a person or two rose above the parapet. In Cambridge, “widow’s walks” topped plenty of landlocked mansions miles away from the sea. Here, I was sure, the structures were more than ornamental.
    Henry flew up the Grand View’s front steps and stood on tiptoe, pressed against the front door, straining to reach for the brass knocker. He looked up at me.
    “Go ahead,” I said.
    He clacked it as hard as he could, three, four times. He was gearing up for a fifth when I grabbed his hand.
    “Hold on!” I said. “Give them a chance to get here!” I would clearly have to take him for a long, long walk, or something inside was going to get broken.
    The door was opened by a voluptuous woman with a cheerful look on her face. Just beyond her, I saw a creature far less full of life and good spirits: the ghost of a girl about six.
    “Can I help you?” the woman inquired.
    “I’m Anza O’Malley,” I said. “Caleb Wilder said I should just—”
    “Oh, yes, of course! Sorry! Come in!”
    She stepped back to let Henry and me into the foyer, and I realized that she wasn’t just curvy, she was pregnant. Seven months or so was my guess.
    “I knew you were coming today,” she said. “It just slipped my mind.”
    “That’s okay. This is my son, Henry.”
    “I’m Lauren Riegler,” said the woman, closing the door behind us. When she smiled, I noticed a prominent gap between her two front teeth, and for some reason, this made me like her immediately.
    “Thanks for having us,” I said.
    She nodded, then looked down at Henry and smiled. “Hi, Henry. Nice to meet you.”
    Lately, I had been all over him about his manners, particularly his habit of mumbling and staring at the floor when an adult spoke to him. So you can imagine my happy surprise when he looked Lauren straight in the eye and quietly said, “Nice to meet you, too.”
    I barely had time to enjoy this little triumph, though, because I became aware of Henry’s gaze wandering toward the stairs. I felt that swoopy feeling you get in your stomach when