So I redoubled my efforts. Forced myself to do the things I’d done before. I started running along the Charles again, though now with pepper spray and a rape whistle and a big dog—Boomer grew fast. I went out with Doctors Without Spouses, threw Roseline a bridal shower, served as bridesmaid at her wedding. Did some pro bono work at a clinic in Dorchester, though I had a taxi bring me right to the door, and called Bobby as I walked in. I was so scared of seeing him or someone of his kind, of being followed, of being attacked, of another Big Bad Event...one that didn’t end so well this time.
I did get better. At least, I seemed better from the outside. But those rays of sunshine that used to glow from my skin, that sense of happy wonder with my life...I had to fake that. Everything that had gotten me to where I was seemed gone. The woman who’d won the Perez Scholarship, who’d graduated in the top quarter of her medical school, who’d gotten a fellowship at one of the best hospitals in the world...the woman who’d won Bobby’s love was something of a memory now, and in her place was someone who was just going through the motions.
As for Bobby, he still said he loved me. It just didn’t seem as heartfelt as it once had.
The grayness stayed, right up until I was hit by the van with the giant bug on the roof.
11
“You’re hired, darling. And aren’t you adorable!”
I blinked. “Uh...thanks. Good. That’s great.” My interview had lasted four minutes.
Dr. Amelia Ames, medical director emeritus of the Ames Clinic, stood, swaying, and shook my hand. “See you...tomorrow? Did we say tomorrow?”
“Yes, we did. See you tomorrow.”
I was fairly sure Dr. Ames’s coffee mug did not contain coffee.
Three days after I’d moved into the houseboat, I shed my sling, found my arm to be in working condition with just a little soreness and emailed the director of the Scupper Island Urgent Care Clinic. I attached my CV and necessary paperwork. She called me last night, and here I was now. Hired.
“Ta-ta!” said Dr. Ames now, wobbling to the office door and ushering me out. “Lovely to see you again.”
“We’ve never met be—”
“Ciao!” The door closed.
No tour of the facility, no questions on my experience.
“Hey,” said a woman about my age. “I’m Gloria Rodriguez. Are you Dr. Stuart?”
“I am. Nora. Nice to meet you. I’m pretty sure I’ve just been hired.”
Gloria laughed. “You have been. You’re a doctor, you’re licensed in Maine, and that’s good enough. Honestly, the clinic can’t get anyone out here except the interns from Portland. No one likes the quiet. Pink eye and sprained ankles aren’t exactly sexy medicine, and that’s 90 percent of what we do. Come on, I’ll give you a tour.”
Gloria was a nurse practitioner. There were four nurses on staff, a semiretired doc who took calls at night, the occasional intern and Dr. Ames. “Her family put up the money for the clinic about twelve years ago, so she’s the director,” Gloria said, making quote marks with her fingers as we walked down the hall. “She doesn’t practice.”
“Glad to hear that,” I said. Gloria was wicked pretty, with sleek, impossibly smooth dark hair and a body like a ’40s pinup girl. She was younger than I was—just a year out of her graduate degree, and I liked her already.
The clinic was fairly standard, though nicer than most I’d seen, thanks to the Ames money. There were six rooms for overnight care, six urgent care bays. Once in a while, there’d be a case bad enough to require the LifeFlight helicopter to land and take the patient to Portland.
“Mostly,” Gloria said, “it’s the basic stuff. Strep throat in the winter, bee stings in the summer, the occasional case of hypothermia when someone stays in the water too long. Once in a while, we get a fisherman who’s cut himself pretty bad. Nothing that compares to Boston City, I’m sure.”
“It sounds perfect.”
“Mind if I ask why you’re here?” she said.
The hit-by-the-bug story could wait. “My niece is spending the summer with my mom, and I don’t get to see them enough. Do you know my mother? Sharon Stuart?”
“Oh, sure, I’ve met her.”
“Yeah. So here I am. I took a leave from Boston City, but I’ll be going back in August.”
“Nice.” Gloria glanced at her watch. “You want to have lunch? It’s really quiet this time of year, and if anyone comes in, the receptionist will let us know. We can go to the Red Fox. It’s just around the corner.”
The receptionist hadn’t been in when I’d come in an hour earlier. It was Mrs. Behring, mother of Joey, who’d been in Luke Fletcher’s circle of friends.
“Hello, hello,” she said warmly. “I’m Ellen Behring, so nice to meet you! I heard a new doctor was interviewing today! What brings you to Scupper Island? Will you be staying here long?”
Another local who didn’t recognize me.
“Hi, Mrs. Behring. Nora Stuart. I went to school with Joey.”
Her face flickered. “Oh! So you did. I...I didn’t recognize you, Nora. You look so...different. Are you a doctor?”
“I am. I’m here for the summer,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. Confusion was written all over her face.
“We’re going to the Red Fox,” Gloria said. “Give us a shout if you need us, okay? Can we bring you something?”
“I brought my lunch from home,” she said, still puzzling over me. I was pretty used to it by now.
It was a beautiful day for May—the blackflies were kept at bay by a stiff wind off the water, and the sky was blue and pure. In two more weeks, the summer season would officially begin.
“How did you end up on Scupper, Gloria?” I asked.
“My family’s from Boston,” she said, “and we used to come to Maine for vacations once in a while. Kennebunkport, Camden, Bar Harbor. I always loved it here. And I had this romantic vision of me coming out and falling in love with a lobsterman—”
“Every woman’s dream,” I murmured.
“Exactly. Which hasn’t happened just yet by the way. But still. It’s really pretty, the people are nice, the money’s not bad. I’ve been here for about a year.”
“Where do you live?” I asked.
“I rent a house on Rock Ledge Street. A little two-family place, a peek at the water.”
The Red Fox was new (to me). We got a seat by the window, since there was hardly anyone else here.
“Welcome to the Red Fox,” said the server. “How are you—oh. You. I heard you were back.”
It was Amy Beckman, Queen of the Cheetos, once the nemesis to anyone bigger than a size 2, and, all through high school, Sullivan Fletcher’s girlfriend.
She looked almost exactly the same—bright blue eyes and sharp cheekbones, athletic build. She seemed to have dropped her addiction to tanning, since her skin was no longer orange. Age had given her some gravitas, too, and pretty had become beautiful.
Still a little scary, too. How many times had she made me cry? Mocked my clothes? Snickered as I walked past in the cafeteria with a salad, knowing I’d binge-eat cheese when I was home?
“Amy,” I said with all the enthusiasm of a dead squirrel on the side of the road. “How are you?”
“So you guys know each other, obviously,” Gloria said. “Amy’s in my book club. Hey, you should join, Nora! It’s more of a drinking club, but we’d love to have you.”
“Maybe I will.” I wouldn’t. “Thank you for the invitation.”
Amy was still staring at me. “What can I get you?”
As ever, the old instincts to choose my food based on potential judgment flared up. A salad? No, that would be too much of a throwback. A cheeseburger to prove I could handle calories now (if I did an hour of Pilates back home, which my scapula and knee didn’t want me to try just yet)?
“I�
�ll have the lobster salad over arugula,” Gloria said with a smile. “Seltzer water with lemon, please. Thanks, Amy.”
“Same for me,” I said.
“Great,” Amy said, snapping her leather-bound notebook shut. “Be right back.”
“I’m getting a vibe,” Gloria said. “Did you spread typhoid? Are you a serial killer? Sleep with everyone’s husband?”
“Have you been reading my diary?” I paused. Gloria seemed great, but...well, I’d known her for half an hour. “Sometimes I think it’s hard when a person leaves a close-knit place, you know?”
“Oh, God, yes,” she said. “My family, they’re Mexican, right? You would’ve thought I’d chewed off my baby nephew’s leg when I said I was leaving Newton. My mother cried, made a shrine in the living room, lit candles to the Virgin so I’d change my mind, my father didn’t talk to me for a month. You’d think I was going to Mars.”
“That’s kind of sweet, though. That they were so sad to see you go.” Unlike my own mother, who’d barely seemed to notice.
“Holy shit, is that you, Nora Stuart?”
Gloria and I turned. “Xiaowen?” I said, my mouth dropping. It had to be. She looked exactly the same.
“You gotta be kidding me!” she said. “How are you, bitch?” She came over, extended her arms for a hug, smiling from ear to ear.
“I’m good,” I said, standing up to hug her back. “It’s great to see you! Wow!”
“You look amazing. You’re not fat anymore. You’re fucking beautiful. Okay, not beautiful but, shit, you look great! Look at your hair! I would sell my soul for that shine. Store-bought or what? Spill, or I’ll cut you.”
“An hour with the hair iron,” I said. I gestured to Gloria. “Do you guys know each other?”
“No,” Gloria said. “Gloria Rodriguez. I’m a nurse at the clinic where Nora’s going to be working. Why don’t you join us?”
“Xiaowen Liu. Thanks, I would love to. I usually eat alone when I’m here, which gets pretty fucking boring. I’m on the island for work, but I don’t really know anyone here anymore.”
Xiaowen’s accent had faded a bit, and I sure didn’t remember her having such a colorful vocabulary, but it was so nice to see someone genuinely enthusiastic about my presence.
“So what brings you here, if you have no friends?” I asked with a smile.
“I’m a marine biologist,” she said. “I work out of the Darling Marine Center, but I live in Cape Elizabeth.”
“What do you do, specifically?”
“Well, as the saying goes, I am the shit. New England’s leading expert in the rejuvenation of the mollusk population. Right now, I’m growing oyster beds about a mile off the coast to replace the overfished areas. Cool, right? Saving the world through shellfish.” She looked at me, her eyes smiling. “You always knew I’d be a badass.”
“I did,” I said. “She had badass written all over her, Gloria. A total Gryffindor.”
Xiaowen laughed. “You’re still a Harry Potter geek, I see.”
“Yes. Of course. I would never betray Hogwarts.” I felt it, that flash of my Perez self.
“Are you married, Xiaowen?” Gloria asked. “Did I say that right?”
“You said it fine. Nope, not married. I was engaged, but I dumped him. But that, my friends, is a story best told over martinis. You should come to my house, Stuart. Both of you. Gloria, you’re not a serial killer, right? You can come, too. But, Stuart, you have to tell me. What the hell are you doing back here? To say you left skid marks on the pavement would not have been an exaggeration.”
I gave her the same vague answer I’d given Gloria—family, a minor car accident that left me slightly injured.
Amy brought our food, grunting at Xiaowen before going back to the kitchen. It was clear Xiaowen and she weren’t friends. That made the petty part of me feel good. How many times had Amy and the Cheetos made my life miserable, after all? By the end of lunch, Gloria, Xiaowen and I had a date to get together at the houseboat for wine and cheese later this week.
I picked up the tab, telling the other two they could get it the next time, and left Amy a fifteen percent nothing-was-terrible tip. Twenty percent was my standard. Points off for surly attitude.
We parted ways in the parking lot, and because my knee and shoulder weren’t killing me, I decided to walk the few blocks downtown. My mother had opened a post office box for me, and I had to check it.
Maybe Bobby had sent me something.
I squelched the thought. But next week, I’d see him—it was our first trade-off with Boomer.
Daffodils and tulips bobbed in front of most of the stores on Main Street, and a few businesses had already filled their window boxes with pansies, though a hard frost wasn’t out of the question. I went past the bookstore, which I would hit on the way back... I needed something to read on the quiet nights on my boat (in addition to Harry Potter, of course). Nothing scary, though. Stephen King would have to woo me back in a few months.
Scupper Island General Store was the jewel of the downtown businesses. It was the original general store on the island—wooden floors shiny from a hundred years of footsteps, a woodstove in the center, shelves made of oak. It was laden with things a person might actually need, like laundry detergent and dish towels, but also with old-timey goods—blue-and-white tin mugs, hand cream made from goat’s milk, homemade cookies, cast-iron frying pans and lots and lots of lobster-eating tools—shell crackers and picks and giant white enamel pots, strainers and serving spoons and little tubs for drawn butter. They also sold plenty of postcards, served ice cream out the back window in the summer and carried T-shirts depicting mosquitoes carrying away children. Business had always been good. For townies, the Fletchers were well-off.
I went to the other half of the building, to the post office, which held a hundred brass boxes with twist combinations.
I got my mail—an envelope addressed in Roseline’s pretty handwriting, bless her, and, dear God, a note from Bobby! A handwritten note from my ER physician boyfriend?
Check that. Ex-boyfriend.
Still, it gave me a warm tingle. I’d read it on the deck tonight when I could savor it (hopefully it wasn’t just a bill he was forwarding). I’d be a modern-day Lizzie Bennet, with wine instead of tea.
I also had a yellow notice alerting me that there was a package. I went to the counter. Mrs. Fletcher, Luke and Sullivan’s mother, was visible at the other end, fussing with some papers.
She ignored me.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Hi, Mrs. Fletcher.”
Nothing.
I rolled my eyes. “Hello. I have a package?”
Still nothing. There was a bell on the counter, and I dinged it. Hard.
“What do you need?” she snapped.
“How are you, Mrs. Fletcher? I don’t know if you remember me, but I went to school with your sons.” I smiled, not even trying to make it genuine. “Nora Stuart.”
“Oh, I remember you, all right.” Insert the sound of evil music—duh-duh-dunnnn.
“May I please have my package? Box eighty-eight. Thank you so much.”
She snarled, turned and tossed it on the counter. “Such friendly service,” I said, glancing at the thick envelope.
It was from Washington State Women’s Correctional Facility. My mouth opened.
“Your sistah might be in jail, but she’s worth twenny of you,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
I blinked, the words stinging. My sister, the drug dealer. The thief.
Then again, Mrs. Fletcher thought I was a thief, too. “Have a nice day, Teeny,” I said, deliberately using her ridiculous first name.
I pushed her nastiness out of my head. My sister had sent me something, and that was a first. A complete first. Never once, not at college, med school, afterward, had she sent me anything at all. She only—and very occasionally—ans
wered emails and texts, never initiated them. I hadn’t heard from her at all in the past three years.
What would my sister be sending me? It was a small package, the kind lined with bubble wrap. I stared down at it as I walked back to my car.
I’d wait to open this, too.
I stopped at Island Flowers, another new business, and chatted up the owner, a lovely man with dirt on his hands. At my old apartment, I’d had herbs in little pots on the kitchen windowsill. No reason for me not to have them again. I smelled the cilantro and nearly swooned, grabbed some mint, rosemary and oregano. A couple of flowering plants, too. Why not?
“I’ll bring my car around,” I said.
“Perfect!” said the owner. “I’ll box them up for you, so they won’t tip.”
As I walked down to the clinic, where I’d parked, I looked out at the water, which was dark blue today. Full moon tonight, so the tide would be high. I’d sit on the deck and—
I slammed square into someone. My collarbone twinged. “I’m so sorry!” I said. “I didn’t—”
It was Luke Fletcher.
The boy who once—I was almost positive—threatened to rape me because I’d taken something he thought was his.
I straightened up. “Luke,” I said.
“Troll.”
So, like his brother, he’d recognized me.
He was still so beautiful, though I recognized the signs of a hard struggle with alcohol and drugs. He was thinner than I remembered, and a few capillaries were broken in his cheeks. There were a few scars that might’ve been from skin picking on his face, a classic habit of a junkie.
But drugs and booze hadn’t taken away his bone structure or his thick tawny hair or the way he owned the sidewalk.
“Heard we’re neighbors,” he said, looking over my head. “My brother said he’s already been to see you.”
“Your niece, too.”
“You stay away from my family,” he said.
“They visited me,” I said. Then, trying to be friendly—new leaf and all that—I added, “Audrey’s very nice.”
“You think you’re hot shit, don’t you?” he snapped. “Living in that houseboat, swooping in here with your medical degree—”
Now That You Mention It: A Novel Page 14
