“Of course you do.” Louis dropped the fork into his apron pocket and crossed his arms over his chest. “Now what’s wrong? Really?”
I brought one hand to my face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s October. You should be curled up in your fancy brownstone, reading fancy books in preparation for your fancy college.” He glanced around the kitchen, then stepped closer to me and lowered his voice. “It’s Betty, isn’t it?”
My heart skipped.
“You’re worried about her,” he continued. “We all are. She hasn’t been here in weeks, and anytime that guy of hers comes in—what’s his name? Mortimer? Lucifer?”
“Oliver.”
“Right. Anytime he comes in, he’s white as a ghost and shaking like he’s just seen one. And as soon as we ask how Betty is and if she’s coming by soon, he clams up and leaves.”
“Why?”
“If I knew that, honey, I’d trade in the spatula for a crystal ball. Lord knows the money I could make telling rich tourists about the few things they can’t control.”
“Well,” I said, making a mental note to talk to Paige about Oliver later, “when I see Betty, I’ll let her know the restaurant misses her.”
After Louis filled me in on the staff (including Garrett, who was back at college but apparently still talked about me whenever he e-mailed) and loaded me up with bagels and fresh orange juice, I took a deep breath and asked the one question I’d come there to ask.
“Hey, Louis? Speaking of fancy books… do you remember a small bookstore that used to be on the outskirts of town?”
He didn’t look up from the pot he stirred. “You mean Cather Country?”
“Maybe?” Betty hadn’t mentioned a name.
“That’s the only bookstore I’ve heard of. I didn’t live in Winter Harbor when it was open, and I only know about it because locals still talk about it. People were so upset when it burned down they didn’t read for weeks.”
When it burned down? Betty had left out that important detail, too. She’d lived in Winter Harbor for more than sixty years so she had to know. And if she’d somehow missed it when it happened, she would’ve heard about it from the locals—or from Oliver, who was the town’s resident historian.
So why hadn’t she told me? Why hadn’t Oliver, who’d been in the room when she brought it up?
“Any idea what happened to the owner?” I asked.
“She was supposedly filing papers in the basement when the fire started and couldn’t get out. The store was so far away from town, no one knew until it was too late. By the time they did, there was no longer a body to find.”
I started to ask if he knew when this happened, but then the dining room door swung open and a disgruntled waiter burst through. As Louis became engrossed in a debate over that morning’s special, I waved and ducked outside.
The air was even colder now. I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets and lowered my head against the wind. Hurrying toward the car, I struggled to process everything I’d just learned and thought of who else I could talk to in order to learn more.
If Betty knew more than she’d claimed, she clearly didn’t want to share. That meant Paige probably couldn’t help. Oliver wouldn’t tell me anything Betty didn’t want me to know. Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael might be able to fill in a few holes, but I didn’t feel comfortable talking to them now. The same went for Caleb, who’d probably slam the door in my face as soon as he saw me. Simon would research until he could tell me whatever I wanted to know, but I couldn’t ask him to without explaining why—and apologizing until I could no longer speak.
Or maybe he wouldn’t. A quick check of my phone showed that he still hadn’t answered my text, so he might not want to talk about anything yet.
I’d just slid the phone back into my pocket when two car doors slammed nearby.
“Are you kidding me?” a male voice demanded. “Please tell me this is your twisted idea of a practical joke—a Halloween gag to jump-start your old man’s ticker.”
Reaching the car, I took the door handle and peered over the roof. A middle-aged man in khakis, a brown suede coat, and a Red Sox hat stood behind a gleaming black Land Rover a few spots down, waving his arms around like the SUV was an airplane preparing to land. Whoever he was upset with stood on the passenger’s side, out of sight.
“Well, congratulations. You just blew your old stupidity record out of the water.”
The man spun around. I yanked open the door and dropped into the driver’s seat. In the rearview mirror, I watched him bark into a cell phone as he headed toward the restaurant’s entrance. A teenage boy followed several feet behind, his head down, his ears plugged with small white earbuds. My eyes followed the iPod cord to a familiar leather messenger bag.
“Parker?”
His head snapped up. I shot down my seat. Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited and wondered what he was doing here. Summer was over and half the harbor was still frozen; the only tourists who visited Winter Harbor now were leaf peepers checking out the foliage, and Parker didn’t seem like the type.
I waited a few more seconds before looking around. Relieved to find no one standing next to the driver’s-side door—or anywhere else around the car—I sat up, started the engine, and hit the gas.
The Winter Harbor library was on the other side of town. As I drove the familiar route, I thought of the last time I’d been there—and why. Simon, Caleb, and I had gone to talk to Oliver, who was a regular patron, the day I’d learned that he was the love of Betty’s life. We’d hoped he’d be able to provide insight into the rest of the Marchands, including Raina and Zara, whom we’d suspected were involved in Justine’s death and the other mysterious drownings. He’d answered many of our questions and prompted countless more we never would’ve thought to ask when he revealed that theirs was a family of sirens.
Given Oliver’s recent odd behavior, I was reluctant to initiate another face-to-face conversation. But what I was wary of trying to learn from him directly, I hoped to find in his multivolume The Complete History of Winter Harbor.
There was only one other car in the library parking lot, which I assumed belonged to Mary the librarian. I pulled into an empty space near the front door, put my phone on vibrate, pushed it into my jeans pocket, and headed inside. After waving to Mary, who didn’t seem to recognize me from my summer visits, I found the small local-interest section—and four books by Oliver Savage. Mary had once kept them up front so Oliver would stop asking why no one was borrowing them, but apparently he had bigger things to worry about now.
I took the books to the reading area by the old stone fireplace. I’d spent quite a bit of time with them over the summer when looking for information about fleeting storms and related deaths, and I didn’t recall reading anything about Cather Country. But that could’ve been because I hadn’t known to look for it.
There was nothing in the first three volumes. In the fourth, I discovered one small paragraph in a chapter about successful local businesses—the same chapter in which Betty’s Chowder House was mentioned. The bookstore’s paragraph, however, was even less revealing than the restaurant’s had been.
Cather Country, a cozy book nook located off Lawlor Trail, opened in May 1990 to rave reviews. Owner and Winter Harbor newcomer Charlotte Bleu offered customers new, used, and rare works in a warm, inviting setting. The store, which quickly became a regular must-stop shop for residents and vacationers alike, burned down in November 1993. The fire’s cause was never determined, and Cather Country was never rebuilt.
My eyes lingered on the second-to-last sentence. Something else happened in November 1993.
I was born.
“Hey, stranger.” I slammed the book shut. “Caleb. Hi.”
He came over from the DVD section. As he neared I prepared for a barrage of questions about the breakup, but he simply smiled and kissed my cheek.
“Simon didn’t tell me you were going to be here this weekend.”
That obviously wasn
’t the only thing Simon hadn’t told him. Caleb’s greeting would’ve been much different had he known his brother and I were no longer together.
“It was an impromptu trip,” I said. “Paige wanted to see Betty, and I tagged along.” “Nice.” He nodded to my lap. “Couldn’t you write your own Winter Harbor book by now?” “Not one that anybody would want to read,” I joked.
He looked down, his smile faltering.
“What about you?” I asked. “Why the library on a sunny fall day?”
“Movie night with the guys. The DVD collection’s surprisingly good here.”
I nodded, unsure what to say next. I knew Caleb and I would always be connected because of his connection to Justine, but because things with Simon were different, talking to Caleb felt different, too.
“How long are you around?” he asked after a long pause. “Want to grab breakfast tomorrow?”
“I think we’re leaving pretty early. But next time?”
“Absolutely.” He checked his watch. “I hate to chat and run, but I was supposed to be at the marina ten minutes ago. Now that the harbor’s totally thawed, customers are anxious to get their boats back in the water.”
“Of course.” As I stood to give him a hug good-bye, I registered what he’d just said. Seeing my body freeze and face flush, he stepped toward me.
“You didn’t hear?” he asked quietly.
I tried to shake my head, but it wouldn’t move.
“We had a crazy heat wave last weekend. It melted the last of the ice.”
“Have you—” I whispered. “Have they—”
“No one’s seen anything. Because there’s nothing to see.”
“Right.” I managed to nod. “I know.”
“Vanessa, you know how Zara felt about me. If she’d somehow survived… don’t you think I’d be the first one she’d try to find?”
My eyes watered—partially because he was right, but also because he sounded so calm, so quietly confident, that he reminded me of Simon.
He held out his arms, and I stepped into them. We hugged for several seconds before I pulled back. As he walked away, he shot me a quick smile and called over his shoulder.
“That brother of mine better be taking good care of you!”
Which probably would’ve made me break down completely if my cell phone hadn’t buzzed right then. My fingers, slick with perspiration, slid across the phone twice before getting a good enough grip to pull it from my jeans pocket.
V, Grandma B called. She’s upset, wants to have night alone with me to talk. Feel terrible, but do u mind??? xo—P
P. Not S.
Sinking back into my chair, I texted her back.
Course not. Hope she’s OK. Will stay at lake house. Check in later.—V
A second later, the phone buzzed again.
Saw you in town. Am stuck here tonight.
Want to hang out?
CHAPTER 18
I AGREED TO meet Parker for three reasons. The first was simple: I didn’t want to be alone. Paige was with Betty, and even if I went to their house and tried to stay out of the way so they could have time together, I knew Paige would insist on including me.
That meant going out, which led to the second reason: I didn’t affect Parker the way I did other guys. Yes, we’d made out by the river, but only because I’d thought he was Simon, and because as everyone on the New England prep-school circuit knew, he wouldn’t refuse any girl who threw herself at him. As long as I kept my eyes open, we should be able to hang out without another awkward situation, and I shouldn’t have to deal with the kind of unwanted attention I’d get in public.
Of course, that didn’t mean I could simply pretend like our impromptu lip-locking session hadn’t happened. And so, reason three: I’d explain the misunderstanding and ask him to get Prep Setters to take down the picture before more damage was done.
They were good, sound reasons. Unfortunately, as I stood in the Lighthouse Resort parking lot, they didn’t stop me from feeling guilty.
“They’re coming for you.”
I looked up. Parker stood on the top deck of the two-story yacht, holding a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“Seriously,” he said. “You’ve been out there so long security just called and asked if I needed them.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Two men in Lighthouse Resort and Spa jackets eyed me from a nearby golf cart. “I don’t drink,” I said, turning back.
“Neither do I.”
I waited for him to smile or laugh, but he didn’t. Reminding myself that this was the best of all my options, I forced my feet down the dock and up the ramp leading to the main deck. He met me at the top. His hands now empty, he held one toward me.
“This isn’t a date,” I said.
“You have a boyfriend.”
This, too, was said without a hint of a smile. Somewhat reassured—and not about to correct him—I took his hand and stepped onto the deck. The second my feet hit the floor he let go and headed toward the cabin. I followed him—mostly because he didn’t seem to care whether I did.
“Closing up for the winter?” I asked once inside. The cabin, which had multiple rooms and looked more like an apartment, was filled with covered furniture. The only pieces not hidden by white sheets were the bar, two stools, and a TV.
“We never opened.” He removed two water bottles from a refrigerator and gave me one.
“Why the trip now?” I asked.
He reached into a trash can next to the bar and pulled out a red sweatshirt.
“The Annual Live Like a KING Fish-Fest?” I said, reading the front.
“Also known as the two days of the year my dad clears his calendar for some quality one-on-one time. Or at least finagles his calendar so that he can conduct all appointments via e-mail and cell phone. His assistant gets assorted memorabilia made so it seems like more of an event.”
He tossed the sweatshirt back in the trash. It landed on top of several wine bottles.
“Is he outside?” I asked. “Upstairs?”
“Not anymore. He’s at the resort, having dinner. After a gourmet lobster feast, he’ll retire to the beach house and stare at ESPN until slipping into an alcohol-induced slumber.”
“Why aren’t you with him?”
He looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Sorry. That’s none of my business, I don’t know why—”
I was interrupted by a phone ringing. Parker took his cell from his pants pocket, told whoever was calling to come aboard, and hung up. Before I could figure out what to say next, the deck door slid open and a delivery guy entered the room.
“I got half cheese, half pepperoni. Hope that’s okay.” Parker gave the pizza guy cash and me a quick smile. “You can pay for your share, if you want. Since it’s not a date.”
A few minutes ago that smile plus teasing combo would’ve sent me running for the Volvo. But now, it was relaxing. Reassuring. Given the little he’d said about his dad and their weekend, it was clear that he’d just wanted company—not my company, specifically.
We decided to eat outside, and I followed him out of the cabin and down the long main deck. At the deck’s end, he hopped over a white chain and stepped onto the bow. He didn’t offer his hand to help me or even look behind him to make sure I was still there, so I stepped over the chain without hesitation.
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