by Jill Winters
“No, no, you don't understand,” Nicole insisted. “I didn't 'have company' last night. I was attacked—right out there on the beach.” She was pissed off now, and she didn't get pissed off that easily.
“But...I...Well, that man is still out there.” Hazel jutted her chin in the direction of the water. “I have to assume...well, I just assumed he was a friend of yours—of some sort.”
Nicole ignored the innuendo embedded in the phrase “of some sort.” “No, that's incorrect,” she said firmly. Thrown off her game, Hazel appeared momentarily flummoxed. “Out on the water is the man who saved me. I never met him before last night. His name is Michael King. And if he hadn't come along...” Nicole didn't bother finishing the sentence, because she didn't want to contemplate the idea herself.
“I see...but...”
“Luckily the police got a lead on the man who grabbed me, heading south, and they are on the lookout for him.”
“Well...that's certainly good to hear,” Hazel agreed, choking on a bit of humble pie. Then she seemed to spit it up. “But nevertheless, I really think you ought to ask that man to stay in a hotel.”
“Michael?” Nicole said incredulously. “I can't do that! I mean, I think he wants to stay with his boat until it's fixed. I certainly have no problem with that.” More than that, she kind of liked the idea of him being nearby.
Dramatically, Hazel's stark black eyebrows arched beyond their illustrated intentions. “Perhaps it's not my place, but I urge you to do what's right. It is highly inappropriate for a strange man to be camped out there in our backyard.” Well, Nicole didn't want to be obvious and point out that Hazel Baker didn't own the ocean any more than Nicole did. Unless Michael was doing something to disturb them in some way, he was allowed to be on the ocean.
Still, Nicole swallowed down her burgeoning irritation. She reminded herself that Hazel Baker was a life-long resident of Chatham, understandably ruffled by the police siren last night and possibly concerned that this was the beginning of other such nuisances. “There's nothing I can do about him being out there,” Nicole explained calmly. “But as I mentioned, he will be on his way very soon, once he gets the part he needs for his boat.”
“This is all terribly distressing,” Hazel insisted. “When Ginger and I heard the commotion outside, we were out of our wits. It would be the right thing to do for this man to stay in a hotel for the duration. He could be courting more trouble out there, for all we know! This is not fair to good people here, like me. And my sister, of course. Oh, and you.”
Just as perhaps Nicole thanked too much, perhaps she didn't roll her eyes enough. Here, too, she held herself back. “Were you the one who called the police last night?” she asked then.
“I called,” Ginger said. “I’m so glad everything worked out.”
Her soft sincerity was endearing. Again, Nicole found herself thanking the woman.
Meanwhile, she acted oblivious to Hazel's lingering disdain. A long moment stretched between them. Calling it a “Mexican Standoff” would probably be too dramatic—but it was the New England librarians' muted, repressed equivalent, she supposed. Finally Hazel muttered. “Well! We actually came over to discuss something else.”
“Oh?”
Hazel's straightened her boxy shoulders. Her voice was still sharp and unforgiving when she said, “Perhaps I'm wasting my time. However I will do what's right anyway and do my part. Are you familiar with our Harvest Parade?”
“No...”
“This year it will be held on October 18th, which will only give you two weeks.”
Confused, Nicole said, “Two weeks to do what?”
“To finish what your aunt started.”
***
BOSTON
“I'm sorry, Mr. Kelling. Your account appears to be overdrawn.”
“What do you mean it ‘appears’ to be overdrawn?” he demanded anxiously.
“Your account is overdrawn.”
God, this was not Lauren Warner's morning. If there was anything she hated most about her job, it was telling desperate older people that they had no money. Whether they had frittered it away themselves without paying attention or their spouses stole it, it was never pleasant to watch their faces fall. To see the terror of the words as it sank in. She didn't know why she still bothered with that “appears” crap. She supposed she still believed that it might help soften the news.
I should have been a lifeguard, she thought. Those were the days. Lifeguarding in college, the sun baking her skin, her squiggly little ponytail at the top of her head, full of curlicues and flyaways. Her butt was cute and round then—not the uninspired pancake it had become sitting in an office nine hours a day for the past five years. Her hair went flat, too—compliments of the flat iron she used each day to “look professional.” What a different feeling, too, when she was a lifeguard, to be the one who might, on occasion, save a life. Rather than the one to deliver the news that life sucked at the moment.
“How could this be?” Abel Kelling demanded now. “It's not possible. I had a shitload of money!” Angry and exasperated, he was clearly on the verge of yelling.
“I'm sorry,” she said evenly.
“What about my other accounts?”
Lauren furrowed her brow and consulted her computer screen. She hit a few buttons and then said, “Your checking account is the only account you show with us.”
“Oh...” He rapped his thumb on her desktop and looked down for a second, obviously absorbing all of this.
“Perhaps another bank...?”
“That's right, that's right...” he mumbled.
Lauren waited. She didn't have much choice. It wasn't like she had a button to press and his chair would eject him out of the building.
At the moment, Abel Kelling did not look in the frame of mind to be consoled. Honestly, he looked shocked to the point of disbelief. “There must be some mistake,” he argued, his thumb rapping anxiously on the top of her desk, shifting her nameplate by inches.
“I'm sorry,” she repeated. “There is no mistake.” Again Lauren consulted her computer screen. “The last check you wrote was to a...Lea Kelling?” she said, reading off the screen. “It bounced.”
He shook his head, scrunched the flesh of his forehead in his fingers. “Leo,” he corrected. “My brother.”
After a moment's pause, Lauren folded her hands on the desk. “Customarily there is a $35 fee for bounced checks, but we're going to waive that for you.” Waiving a fee at a bank? Forget lifeguard; was there already a “Saint Lauren”? she wondered.
But she felt sorry for the guy. Normally there was a veneer of shock that peeled away quickly. People usually knew they were in trouble and sinking. With Mr. Kelling, however, he was so obviously disappointed and disbelieving that Lauren was half expecting him to ask for an investigation into his account. In fact, she steeled herself for that possibility.
After several moments, Mr. Kelling's thumb stopped rapping. He inhaled deeply and stood. “Thanks for your time,” he mumbled and left her office. Lauren watched him through the plate glass walls that constructed the bank like a voyeuristic maze, until he disappeared into the revolving door. She sighed and took stock. Sure she'd had better mornings, but things could be worse—she could be in Abel Kelling's place.
Chapter Nine
“Explain why you're doing this again.”
Wedging her phone in her shoulder, Nicole used both hands to spread a freshly laundered afghan over the bed. Again she recapped what Hazel Baker had explained:
The Preservation League of Ladies, which was a women's group dedicated to the history and prosperity of the town, was contributing a time line collage to this year's Harvest Parade. Apparently each woman helping with the collage was responsible for a different aspect of the time line. Before she had died, Aunt Nina had been working on her part, which centered around the Chatham Lighthouse.
“What's the big deal?” she said now to her friend, Cameron Dwyer. “It's just a collage; it might be
fun.”
Cameron gave a brief, sardonic laugh. “Only you would find that fun.”
Originally, the two had dated. They'd met a few years ago when Nicole was interning at Schlesinger Library at Harvard University and Cameron was working toward his master's in engineering. During their brief relationship, Nicole had also become good friends with Cameron's childhood friend, Trevor Cook.
“Anyway, I have to do it,” she added.
“No, you don't have to,” Cameron scoffed, “stop feeling so indebted.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ever since you found out about this inheritance, it's like you're on some big guilt trip about your aunt.”
The words stung. Indicating there might be truth in them, which was annoying. “That's not true,” Nicole protested. “I just thought...why not? You know, I am an archivist and a librarian, research is what I do—it's my shtick.”
“That's fine, do your thing if you want. But don't feel like you owe it to someone—or something, some cosmic force. I know you, Nicole.”
Not prepared to debate it, she let it drop. Anyway, it wasn't like the collage was going to be an overwhelming task. From what she understood, Aunt Nina had completed a lot of the work already. Nicole would just be rounding it out and adding text. According to Hazel Baker, over the summer Nina had mentioned that she was planning to ask her niece, Nicole, to come for a visit and perhaps they would work on the collage together. Nicole supposed that her aunt had not yet had a chance to invite her down, then died unexpectedly several weeks ago.
On the phone, Nicole had intended to tell Cameron what had happened last night, but then thought better of it. He would only freak out, and tell her that she should come back home. After she hung up with Cameron, she grabbed her jacket and headed out the back door.
There was nothing translucent about the sky today. It was a bright abiding blue, like it had been painted, layer by layer. Once she got down to the water, she saw that Michael was on the deck of his boat, buffing one of the windows with a cloth.
He smiled, waved at her.
“Are you busy now?” she called to him.
“Hang on, I'll come over,” he called back and tossed the rag to the side. Within three minutes, his dinghy was driving up to shore.
She smiled at him. “Hi...any luck with your boat?”
“Yeah, the part I need is getting shipped here. I used your address. I hope that's okay.”
“That’s fine. Listen, I wanted to take you to lunch to thank you for what you did.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Fine, it’s not. So, are you hungry?”
Michael's mouth curved. “Always,” he said.
Chapter Ten
The Squire on Main Street was dark and cozy with a faint aroma of funnel cake.
“Let's just sit at the bar,” Nicole said.
“Sure. I'll follow you.”
When they got to the corner end, he pulled out a chair for her. It wasn't a careful or gallant gesture; rather, he did it very casually, dragging the chair out in a quick motion. Still, it was charming. Michael seemed to have this rough-around-the-edges realness to him—an unpracticed kind of chivalry.
The only other patrons at the bar were the man and woman sitting diagonally across from them. The woman had a mass of curly red hair piled on her head. She whispered in the ear of her companion, who chuckled in response. Every time the man smiled, he exposed a set of pointy, feral-looking teeth. The woman clutched the sleeve of his black shirt with long nails that were painted silver.
“Want something to drink?” Michael asked her.
Once they both had Cokes in front of them, Michael said, “So tell me, Nicole, what's your story? Is it just you in that house?”
“Yes, just me.”
“You look way too young to be retired.”
“I inherited the house,” she explained, skirting the employment topic. “Recently, in fact. From my aunt—she was also my Godmother. I'm staying here to take care of a few things. Normally I live in Boston.”
“Oh, I see. You're from Boston originally?”
“Lexington, Mass. It's about half an hour outside the city.”
“I know where it is. Pretty upscale place.”
She shrugged vaguely. “My parents still live there. Well, not together, but...I also lived in Chicago for a few years, too.”
At this point, Nicole gave Michael the brief rundown: that she majored in English at the University of Chicago, received a degree in Comparative Lit, and then moved back to Boston for her MLS.
“MLS?” he asked.
“Master's of Library Science,” she explained. Tilting her head, she added, “Yes, it's true. Don't let my 20-20 vision and aversion to low ponytails fool you. I am—in fact—a librarian.”
With a quiet laugh, Michael nodded approvingly. “Wow—a whole new twist on my librarian fantasy.” Nicole faltered for a second, felt herself blush. Michael seemed to catch himself. He took two menus from across the bar and passed her one. “So where do you work, BPL?”
“No—well, nowhere right now,” she answered. As always, she felt a little self-conscious about being laid off. “Before I lost my job, I had been working at Hill House Collections—that's a small library specializing in Boston history—”
“Oh, Bunker Hill and all that?”
“Exactly...and all that,” she said dryly. (Call it librarian's intuition, but she had a feeling that Michael King wasn't exactly her bookish history-loving male counterpart.) “Anyway, Hill House lost funding, so the staff was cut in half last month.” In trite summary, she said, “It's just one of those things. But enough about me. What about you? Where did you go to school?”
“Hmm...well, I'd like to say ‘The School of Life,’ but then I'd have to stamp ‘Asshole’ on my forehead. Because who’d really say that, right?”
A laugh escaped from her and she nodded, “I guess.” Really, though—she supposed she shouldn't have just assumed he had gone to college. She hoped he wasn't offended. And what if he had wanted to, but couldn't afford it!
Luckily, he didn't seem bothered. Instead, he was looking at her neck. “Is that from what happened on the beach?” he said, speaking more softly.
“Oh...yeah...” She touched her hand to the bruise. “It looks worse than it is.”
Just then a loud, rippling laugh drew their attention. They looked over—it was the redhead across from them, apparently taken with something hilarious. She squeezed her companion's arm, but glanced at Michael. Then she flashed him a smile.
Nicole felt an irrational stab of jealousy.
Abruptly the redhead hopped off her chair and began rounding the bar toward them. Was she kidding? Nicole fought back a surge of annoyance that rose instantly in her chest—jeez, why was this stupid woman coming over to interrupt them?
The woman's gaze was pinned to Michael, as though Nicole were not even there. “Vickie,” she announced, extending an aptly clawed hand. “Vickie Finn. I own the Cape Town Inn, down on Nevers Road.” Appearing almost reluctant, Michael said hello and gave her a brief handshake.
She appeared to be around forty. Freckles poured over her fair skin—face, neck, and even disappearing into the lacy bra that edged out of her blouse. She glanced at Nicole. Gave her a fake smile—it took another woman to recognize not only the falseness of the gesture, but the falsity embedded in the smile itself—but Nicole played along. Smiling back, she said, “Hi, I'm Nicole. Nice to meet you.” And shook her hand.
Vickie's smile was persistent. “And what about you? Your name is...?”
“Michael,” he said.
“And are you two new in town?”
“Yes, sort of,” Nicole replied. “Just visiting really...” Meanwhile, she couldn't help but notice that Vickie's date—the young man with the feral teeth—was leveling them with a hooded glare from across the bar. Maybe he, too, had noticed Vickie edging even closer.
Not to be a jealous control-freak herself, but was it
really necessary for Vickie Finn to shove her speckled cleavage right under Michael's nose like that? Where was a self-righteous prig like Hazel Baker when you needed her?
“Wait a second—I know who you are!” Vickie said suddenly, clasping Michael's forearm enthusiastically. “You're the hero I keep hearing about! Oh shit, why didn't I put that together sooner? Tell me all about what happened! I heard about it through the grapevine, but I didn't get any good details.”
Happily, Nicole noticed that even in the presence of this effusive flirtation, Michael issued his standard modest response.
Out of the corner of her eye, Nicole saw Vickie's date sliding off his chair. He began walking toward them and glowered the whole way over. Lean and wiry, the man had dense black hair and thickets of five o'clock shadow—yet the face of a boy. He was a good ten years younger than Vickie. Technically he wasn't bad looking, but he did have an overbite and facial features that vaguely resembled a ferret. (Typically, Alyssa liked to call this look “rodentine.”)
When he came up beside her, Vickie made brief introductions. “Michael, Nicole—this is Danny Keegan. Danny, you'll never guess, these are the two who—”
“Yeah, yeah, nice to meet you,” Danny Keegan grumbled without even a pretense of indulgence, then said, “Vick, I paid the tab. Let's go.” With that, his hand was on Vickie's elbow and he was leading her away. She went willingly, though she looked back at Michael more than once and waved.
Vickie Finn: determined.
In fact, Nicole had the creeping feeling that she hadn’t seen the last of her.
***
When she got back to the house, Michael returned to his boat and the man she’d met at the coffee shop earlier, Herman MacDonald, came out of nowhere.
“Hello, Nicole.”
Startled, she turned, her keys stuck in the door lock.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you,” he said.
“No, no,” she said, “not at all. I just didn't hear you behind me. Um, what's up?”
“Not too much, can't complain. Got no right to.”
“Okay...well that's a good attitude,” she fumbled.
