It was this image of her mother as a courageous, creative, and intrepid person that had gotten Evie through some of the more difficult moments of life alone on the road. Like the night it had started to rain really hard and she had no choice but to crawl under a picnic table in the local park, terrified of being raped by the gang of drunken teenage boys she had seen earlier that evening. Like the night she had taken what shelter she could in a heavily wooded area and had sat up until dawn, listening to the awful screeching of owls and the unfamiliar sounds of nocturnal animals in the undergrowth. True, there had been a few moments when she had encountered kindness—like the time that truck driver had approached her in the little store at a gas station and given her ten dollars. “I can’t take this,” Evie had said, assuming he wanted something in return. “I have two girls about your age,” the man had replied. “I can’t imagine how I would feel if they were on the road.” The man had turned away then, not before saying, “I’ve seen it all too many times before.” And in those moments, too, Evie thought of her mother and believed that she was watching out for her.
Absentmindedly, Evie ran a finger along the back of one of the armchairs. If only she could lie low until she turned eighteen and could be legally declared an adult, she would be all right, no longer in need of a stranger’s kindness. What “all right” meant exactly, she didn’t really know. She hadn’t finished high school, she had no real job skills other than taking orders and working a cash register, she had no money to speak of.... But she would think of all that later; like Scarlett O’Hara, the heroine of her favorite book, she would set her face forward. “After all . . . Tomorrow is another day,” Scarlett had said. “It has to be,” Evie added to Nico’s living room.
Evie wandered into the hall between the living room and dining room and scanned the titles of the books on two small shelves. There was nothing much of interest to Evie—a biography of Andy Warhol, a history of the art colonies in Ogunquit, a paperback crime novel by a popular writer—and nothing in any language other than English. Evie was good with languages; she had been studying French in school since she was nine and had taught herself enough Spanish and Italian to hold a decent conversation, which she had often done with the Spanish teacher and a neighbor who was a native of Milan. She was looking forward to learning German in college. Well, she thought, turning away from the shelves. It was her own fault for forgetting to bring any books with her the night she had left her aunt and uncle’s house. She had tried to prepare, to consider what she might need for the journey, to figure out how much she could carry, but in the end she had made a lot of mistakes. Like not bringing extra batteries for the flashlight she had taken from her uncle’s workshop in the garage. Like not bringing a roll of toilet paper. At least she had found a pair of good sharp scissors in Nico’s kitchen and had managed to trim her hair without drastic mishaps.
With a sigh, Evie turned away from the bookshelves and trudged up to her bedroom. At least, she thought, she hadn’t forgotten to bring Ben. She had had the little plush bear for as long as she could remember; he was in almost every picture taken of her as a toddler. His fur had once been the color of heavy cream, but now it was a light brown and he was missing one button eye. Evie could easily have replaced the eye, but she loved Ben the way he was. Where was he, anyway? She thought she had left him on the dresser, propped against her backpack. But Ben wasn’t on the dresser. Evie felt the panic rise fast in her. She threw back the covers on the bed. He wasn’t there. She dropped to the floor and checked under the bed. No. Please, oh, please, Evie prayed. Let him be here! Evie climbed to her feet. There, on the armchair in the corner, where she had tossed her hoodie . . . Evie yanked the hoodie aside and there he was. Ben.
The sense of relief she felt was massive. She just couldn’t stand to lose anything or anyone else. There was a limit to the pain a person could bear, she knew that there was, and she didn’t want her courage or her sanity to be tested further. Clutching Ben tightly to her chest, she crawled into bed, ears pricked for the sound of an intruder.
Chapter 11
The garden was brimming with the most beautiful green and white flowers in the most fantastical shapes she had ever seen. Some were as tiny as blueberries. Others were as large as pumpkins. Fuzzy black-and-yellow bees hung heavily in the air, buzzing mildly, as if exhausted from the making of honey. From somewhere unseen came the sound of water trickling over stones. Violet felt dizzy with the sweet, spicy, and slightly rancid smell of fecund life.
She bent down and picked a flower with a profusion of mottled green and white petals in the shape of a pinwheel. She thought that she had never seen anything so lovely. She stood up to see her mother walking toward her. Annabelle was smiling. She was wearing a bright white hospital gown that came to her knees. Her feet were bare. Violet held the flower out to her mother. Annabelle stuffed it into her mouth, chewed vigorously, and swallowed.
“No!” Violet shrieked. “It’s poisonous!” But her mother was already shriveling to dust before her eyes.
“Annabelle! Annabelle, where are you?” It was her father, his voice drowning out the buzzing of the bees and the trickling of the water.
She was frantic with guilt. She hadn’t meant to kill her mother. She had only wanted her to have the pretty flower. She grabbed the flimsy hospital gown from the ground and began to run, pursued now by heavy footsteps. “Annabelle!” Her father’s voice had become a throaty roar, like that of an angry animal. There, ahead . . . She ran toward the stone well. She could hide the telltale gown there. She looked over her shoulder, her father’s footsteps thundering in her ear though she couldn’t yet see him, then turned back and raised the bunched gown over the black hole of the well when up from the depths shot a demon, a beast snarling and red, with burning eyes and as he grabbed for her with shimmering claws—
Violet woke, gasping. Grimace was pawing her face and meowing demandingly. “Demons down under the sea,” she whispered. Grimace removed his paw from her cheek and stared down at her. “Yes,” she told him. “I know it’s breakfast time.”
Chapter 12
“What did you think of our Jon Gascoyne?”
“Our?” Poppy asked. She was with Freddie in her home on Howard Lane; more specifically, they were in the study, a room that looked like it had been plucked from a novel by Agatha Christie—high-backed leather armchairs, walls lined with bookshelves that reached to the ceiling, a massive stone fireplace, a mahogany desk fit for a famously brilliant detective. Poppy thought she wouldn’t be surprised if one day Hercule Poirot himself minced into the room. Jon would like this room, she thought now. With his addiction to British mysteries. Our Jon Gascoyne.
“By which I mean Yorktide’s,” Freddie explained. “A true son of the land. And of the sea, I suppose.”
“Oh. I thought he was very nice. I somehow can’t see him as a lobsterman, though.”
“Why not?”
Poppy shrugged. “I guess I’m guilty of stereotyping. I didn’t expect a guy who makes a living hauling lobster pots out of the ocean to be at an art exhibit.”
“You should be ashamed,” Freddie said mildly. “Where did you get such prejudices?”
“Sorry. It was stupid. Anyway, he’s very good-looking. Not that I’m in the market for a boyfriend.”
“Not that he would choose you. Necessarily.”
“I know that! I’m not entirely vain,” Poppy protested.
“Well, a young woman with your looks almost has to be vain. The world won’t let her be otherwise, I’m afraid.”
“And look where my appearance has gotten me. Nowhere in particular.”
“Good,” Freddie said firmly. “Looks should be irrelevant. In a perfect world they would be.”
Poppy couldn’t argue that. Ever since she was small people had openly stared at her, whether she was on her own or with her parents. Total strangers had come right up to her and said things like, “You’re gorgeous, do you know that?” She had always found the attention a bit puzzling
as well as a bit annoying. Really, what did you say to questions like that? “Yes, I know I’m gorgeous.” Then you sounded as if you were stuck-up. “Oh, no I’m not.” Then you might be accused of false modesty.
There had been that man at the mall in Kittery. He had approached her as she was coming out of the Coach shop with some girlfriends (a mom of one friend had driven them as they were all only fifteen). He had politely introduced himself as a scout for a major New York–based modeling agency and handed Poppy his card. Her friends had squealed in excitement. Poppy stuck the card in her back pocket and forgot about it for three days until her mother unearthed it as she was putting a load of laundry in the washing machine. Her father had checked out the man’s credentials (they were all mildly curious) and had found that he was indeed a legitimate scout. Still, Annabelle and Oliver had adamantly refused to let their daughter pursue a career in modeling. Poppy didn’t care. At that point in her life she had never paid much attention to fashion and found the idea of modeling boring. Besides, the thought of having to leave her close-knit family was a bit terrifying.
And now . . . Now that close-knit family had been partly but irreparably unraveled . . .
“Why didn’t you sue for legal guardianship of Daisy and Violet?” Poppy asked Freddie. “Why didn’t Dad choose you? He’d known you forever and you are the family lawyer.”
“If I had wanted children I would have had my own,” Freddie said firmly. “Besides, I’m almost eighty years old. I’m far too tired to raise teenagers, even ones as lovely and interesting as your sisters.”
“You forgot headstrong and difficult.”
“Be that as it may, Oliver would never have burdened me—sorry to be blunt—with the care and feeding of his children.”
Poppy smiled feebly. “You make them sound like pets. Cats and dogs.”
“Cats, dogs, and human young ones need to be watered, sheltered, and fed. I see little difference. Cats and dogs and babies don’t go on expensive spring breaks and they don’t demand exorbitantly priced weddings. Not that all human children behave badly. You never did, from what I could tell.”
Unless you count running off to Boston after Mom died. Abandoning my father and sisters, Poppy thought. What she said was: “There never seemed to be any reason to act badly.”
“It was a happy home,” Freddie stated.
“It was.”
“It can be again, you know. Not in the same way, of course.”
“And it’s up to me to make us a happy family again.” Poppy wasn’t sure if she meant that as a question or a statement of fact.
“Not only you,” Freddie argued. “Daisy and Violet will also have to choose to make an effort. But yes, you are in the position of guiding spirit.”
“Whether I’m up to the challenge or not.”
“Exactly. But I think that you are up to the challenge, Poppy. The problem is you don’t yet believe that. Now, enough talk. I’ve got to keep this old body moving. Use it or lose it. Do you want to walk down to the marshes with me or do you have somewhere you need to be? It’s high tide and you know how beautiful the marsh is at high tide.”
“Nowhere to be,” Poppy said. “Unless I’m forgetting something. Like paying the electric bill or—”
Freddie took hold of her elbow. “Then come on.”
Chapter 13
Evie glanced over her right shoulder and then her left. The convenience store was almost empty of customers; it wasn’t yet noon when there would likely begin a rush of people wanting sodas and chips to go with the expensive sandwiches they had bought next door at the high-end takeout and café. Good. Hardly any people meant there was hardly anyone to catch her in the act of shoplifting. As if it mattered.
Slowly, Evie walked down the aisle of personal hygiene products, picking up a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap here and there and pretending to read the ingredients. She hadn’t shoplifted often, only twice before, and both times she had been desperate—the first time for sanitary pads and the second for water. And both times she had been sick with anxiety.
Today, though, Evie was feeling reckless. It had happened before since leaving her aunt and uncle’s house, this temptation to throw all caution to the wind, to put herself in the path of exposure. So what if she got caught and sent to foster care or even to jail? How much worse could that be than the life she was living now, always looking over her shoulder for the police, always afraid at night, haunted by memories? Always alone. If nothing could bring her mother back then nothing really mattered. In these moments of recklessness she felt that she had been so stupid to run away from her aunt and uncle’s home. She felt that she deserved to be punished for having acted so idiotically. She felt that she deserved to be caught.
Evie stopped before the shelves of toothpaste. With a final quick and furtive glance toward the front of the store where the cashier was stationed, Evie extended her hand toward the shelf at the height of her thigh. And then she stumbled.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” a girl was saying to her. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“It’s okay,” Evie said quickly. Had the girl seen her hand reaching for the tube of toothpaste? But even if she had, how would she know that Evie was going to steal it? Still, her heart refused to calm to its normal beat.
“I’m always bumping into things,” the girl went on. “And people. Bad coordination. It’s why I’m awful at sports.”
“Oh.”
“Well,” the girl said, turning away, “bye. Sorry again.”
For a moment Evie stood frozen to the spot, her hands dangling at her side. And then she walked hurriedly to the door. The encounter, unsettling as it was, had served to deter her from shoplifting and for that, she was thankful. What would her mother have thought about her daughter being a thief? Surely Evelyn had experienced plenty of minor hardships while she was trekking through the Far East and the highlands of Scotland. And Evie was certain that her mother never would have resorted to stealing. Evie would simply make do without toothpaste for a day or two until she next got paid. Or maybe Nico had left a stray tube in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. She could replace it before he got back at the end of the summer.
None of the store’s employees stopped Evie as she left the convenience store, though she half expected someone to have suspected her criminal intentions from the look of guilt that was probably all over her face. Once out on the sidewalk she put a hand to her heart and willed herself to calm down. And then she saw the girl who had bumped into her standing across the street. She was with another girl with very short hair and wearing a billowy mint-green dress; the second girl was chewing vigorously and holding a small bright yellow paper bag into which the older one now reached. Candy. Evie recognized the bag. The girls must have been to the homemade candy shop on the corner; they were sharing what they had bought.
Evie looked away, and with a powerful loneliness dogging her every step, she walked back to Nico’s house at the end of Nubble Lane.
Chapter 14
“Are you ready? I don’t want to be late to the vet.”
Poppy looked up from the copy of Coastal Home magazine she was idly browsing. Her youngest sister was standing in a shaft of sunlight coming through the kitchen’s skylight. A chunk of crystal quartz on a chain around her neck blared brilliantly. “What do you mean?” she asked.
Violet pointed to the purple plastic animal carrier sitting near her feet. “Grimace has an appointment at the vet this morning. His left ear, remember? It’s been bothering him.”
As if to prove the point, Grimace let out a dreadful yowl from behind the bars of his prison.
“But I made an appointment at the spa in Ogunquit for a hot-stone massage,” Poppy said. “In half an hour.”
“But I told you about Grimace’s appointment days ago.”
Had she? Violet never lied, but Poppy had no recollection of hearing this bit of news. “Can you reschedule Grimace’s appointment?” she asked.
Violet stared solemnly at her. �
��I’ve got him emotionally prepared for the trip. It wouldn’t be fair to change things now.”
Poppy sighed. “Okay,” she said. “Sorry. Just let me grab my keys.”
Really, she thought as they left the house, her sister carrying the loudly protesting cat in his carrier. How can you be so selfish? Does a hot-stone massage really trump the health of your little sister’s beloved pet, the kitty that had helped her survive those first horrible weeks and months after Mom’s death?
“How much is this visit going to cost?” Poppy asked as Violet loaded the carrier in the back seat and got into the front passenger seat.
“I have no idea,” Violet said over Grimace’s screams. “The bill will come to you.”
Julie had called Poppy three times now, inviting her to stop by and see the kids and the farm and catch up on old times. Poppy figured her old friend would continue to pester her with calls until she gave in and paid a visit to Fisk Farm; Julie had always been a persistent sort. Besides, she didn’t really know what was holding her back from seeing her friend. True, they had taken very different paths after high school; Julie hadn’t gone to college and she was married with two children. And maybe that was it, Poppy thought. Maybe she was afraid they would have no common ground. It would still feel like a loss if they faced each other across an abyss, realizing they had absolutely nothing to talk about anymore. And Poppy had had enough of loss.
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