The Ice Cradle Read Online Free PDF Page B

new—you!”
    He looked up at me, then back at the kids streaming up the steps. A burly teenager wearing a Clash T-shirt chose just this moment to put one of his friends into a headlock.
    “They’re going to have so many questions for you,” I said, trying to distract him.
    “Like what?” he asked, eyes glued to the tussling teenagers.
    “Like—about the T. They don’t have subways here! I bet a lot of these kids have never, ever been on a subway! They might want to know all about it.”
    Henry made no response.
    “And—the Freedom Trail! Paul Revere’s house! Think of all the things you have in your hometown! Because even though we live in Cambridge,
you
were born in Boston!”
    “And the Children’s Museum,” he mumbled.
    “Right! And those gondolas down by the science museum! They won’t believe we have gondolas in Boston. Gondolas aren’t anywhere but Venice!”
    “Yeah,” he said quietly as I glanced at my watch. I had to go. Soon.
    I stood up, but Henry didn’t budge. When I looked down, I could tell he was about to cry.
    I scooped him up, crossed the lawn, and walked firmly up the steps as he buried his face in the collar of my coat. There was only one way to do this—fast. That much I had learned, during what had felt like the endless nursery-school years. Long, bargaining good-byes might work for some kids, but they never worked for us. Sending the message that I was reluctant to depart made Henry wonder if there wasn’t a very good reason for that, leaving him feeling even more worried and uncertain than he’d originally felt. The current situation might not improve if I continued to project confidence and excitement, but it would surely deteriorate if I didn’t.
    I checked Henry into his classroom, met his teacher, Michelle, who seemed barely out of her teens, made sure he wason the prepaid list for lunch and snacks, and verified my contact information. I hugged him, stood up, and left. I didn’t turn around—I couldn’t—but at least he didn’t come after me, wailing and clinging to my leg.
    I felt heartsick all the way to the Historical Society. You can console yourself with all kinds of platitudes about kids being resilient and able to adapt. You can remind yourself of how lucky your child is to be spending time like this, whether he realizes it right now or not. But it still feels awful to tear yourself away from an anxious little person who doesn’t want to be left.
    As I strode briskly toward the road, pretending to be a happy, well-adjusted mom looking forward to her day at the office, I wanted nothing more than to turn around, walk back, gather Henry into my arms, phone Caleb Wilder, and call this whole thing off. Instead, I sniffed, dabbed at my watery eyes, and kept on walking.

    Caleb reminded me of a few guys I’d met since I moved to the East Coast, guys with Ivy League educations who’d decided to take a pass on finance and law and work in what were, at least formerly, genteel professions: teaching in prep schools, working in publishing and journalism, running discreet trusts and historical societies. I knew nothing about Caleb’s background, but he wore horn-rimmed, literary-looking glasses, Top-Siders, a starched white shirt, and a now rumpled, though clearly expensive, sports jacket.
    I imagined there was a very large sailboat in the picture.
    The Historical Society was located on the first floor of a sprawling white farmhouse on Old Town Road. A plaquebeside the main entrance informed me that the unassuming structure had been built in 1850, but the house seemed remarkably well maintained, right down to what looked like the original windows: four panes over four on the lower level, and six over six up above. Hydrangea bushes lined the long porch, which ended at an enormous Rose of Sharon hedge. I imagined it was stunning in summer.
    “How’d the drop-off go?” Caleb asked, showing me into his office. “I saw you two there on the bench.”
    “Not so hot,” I