“I’m not much for parties, Nora.”
“Please come, Mother.” I stared at her.
“Well, what about Poe?”
“Poe can come, or she can stay by herself. She’s almost sixteen.”
“I have work to do.” She turned back to her computer.
“You always have work to do.”
“That’s right. So thanks all the same.”
“Mom. Come to my house for dinner. Please. For me.”
She sighed.
“Otherwise, I’ll be forced to show up at hug therapy and—”
“Fine, fine. I’ll come. What time? Don’t make it too late. I like to be in bed before nine-thirty.”
Victory. “Seven?”
“Are we in France or somethin’? Fine.”
Yoga breath, yoga breath. “Thanks, Mom. It’ll be nice.”
“Who else is coming?”
“Just a few friends.” Every unmarried man under the age of eighty I could find. I’d ask Mr. Dobbins (Bawb), our hug-hungry first selectman, and, uh...well, I’d find one or two more. I could think of three. I’d ask Xiaowen to come, and Gloria, too. My place could fit ten, I thought—Collier Rhodes hadn’t skimped on size.
A party would be fun. I did like to cook, and let’s face it, without Boomer, I was lonely.
Mission accomplished for the moment, I left the hotel and walked back to the clinic. The dogwoods along Main Street were blooming, their flowers seeming to float on the air in a way that never failed to charm me. I stopped in The Cracked Spine, bought the latest Stephen King novel (against my will, but the man had a hold on me). I added a few postcards of scenic Scupper Island to send to my Boston buddies.
“Where are you from?” the woman behind the desk asked as she rang me up. She looked familiar. Penny, that was her name. Penny Walters. She’d gone to the same church as we did. No kids, if I recalled.
“I’m from here, actually,” I said. “I’m Sharon Stuart’s daughter.”
“Oh, sure! I just love your daughter,” she said. “So nice to see a teenager who reads.”
“Poe is my niece,” I said. “I’m Nora, the other daughter.” At her blank stare, I added, “The doctor who lives in Boston. My mother has two daughters.”
“No, I remember. It’s just that you look very...young.”
“Thank you.”
It wasn’t that I looked young, I knew. It was that I wasn’t a fat kid with acne and bad hair anymore.
And I hadn’t been back in fifteen years. And my mother didn’t talk about me much, apparently.
Penny busied herself behind the counter.
The door opened, and in came Xiaowen. “Hey!” I said, brightening.
“Hey yourself. What did you buy? Oh, Stephen King. I hate that man.”
“I know. He’s crack. What are you looking for?”
“I made the sad mistake of loaning out Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets to my nephew, and guess who dropped it in the bathtub? He’s out of the will, let me tell you.”
“You loan out your Harry Potters?” I asked in horror.
“Not anymore. The little bastard owes me twenty-five bucks. Do you have it in stock?” she asked Penny. “Hardcover, of course.”
“I’ll order it for you,” Penny said.
Xiaowen sighed. “Well, there goes my weekend.”
“Listen,” I said, “just this once, I’ll loan you mine. But I expect you to treat it like the Book of Kells, okay?”
“I’ll wear gloves when reading it.”
“No food, water or fire near it.”
“I understand.” She smiled.
“What are you doing Friday night?” I asked. “I’m having a dinner party.”
“Like a real grown-up?”
“Exactly. Want to come?”
“Shit, yes! What time? And are you inviting men? Because I do have to warn you, I am not on the market, but they’ll all make a pass. My cross to bear—all straight men and half the gays want me.”
“Who can blame them?” I said, smiling.
“Are you girl-crushing on me? Who can blame you? I’d love to come! Any old classmates we can torture with how well we’ve aged?”
“Do you have anyone specific in mind?”
“Georgie Frank. God, I had the worst crush on him in high school. He still lives here, right?”
I grimaced. “Um...I don’t know. I can’t say I remember him.”
“You’re kidding! He was so hot. Receding hairline? Those big teeth? Come on! He was basically Neville Longbottom! Wouldn’t give me the time of day back then.”
“Oh, him! Yes, of course. I’ll give him a call.”
“Maybe the Fletcher boys, too. Who was the hot one? He was my lab partner. Mike?”
“Luke. I probably won’t ask him.” Nope, one doesn’t invite an asshole to one’s home.
“Oh, wait. You beat him out for something... What was it? A scholarship! You were the Perez Scholar! I forgot about that!”
“You did? I mean, weren’t you up for it, too?”
She snorted. “I’m sorry to say I didn’t have a tiger mom, Nora. She’s more like a kitten. My GPA was nowhere near yours. I was only good in math and science. I barely passed English and social studies, and not because I’m from China. Because I hated reading until J.K. Rowling showed me the light.”
“I’m closing for lunch,” Penny said. “If you ladies are finished...?”
“Fine, we’re leaving. Order me that book, okay? I’ll come get it next week.” She gave me a quick hug. “The oyster beds await. I’ll see you Friday. Want me to come early and lie around and drink wine and watch you do all the work?”
“I do!” I said. “I’m so glad you can come. This party just got much better.”
“It really did.” She grinned.
We left the shop, and Xiaowen got into her car, a sporty little silver Porsche, and pulled away from the curb.
My phone buzzed. Bobby, texting me a few pictures—Boomer lying in the middle of what was once our bed, his head on the pillow; Boomer at the Commons, sniffing a Chihuahua and looking very handsome. We miss you, read the text. Hope you’re having a good day.
I did not want to get back together with Bobby Byrne, I reminded myself.
Except we’d only had three normal months. If we could go back to how things had been...
But we couldn’t. He’d gotten tired of my woes after the home invasion. He’d fondled Jabrielle’s hair and flirted with her as I lay unconscious and bruised. He wasn’t worthy of me.
Still, it was disturbingly fantastic to know he wanted me back.
* * *
That night, I lay on the couch, nursing a glass of red wine for health, smugly satisfied with my dinner party plans. Guess who wasn’t married, even though he still wore a ring? Mr. Carver, he of the Viagra prescription (may Mrs. Carver rest in peace, but clearly he was ready to get back in the game, so...). And yes, he was free on Friday, if a little confused by my invitation.
Bob Dobbins said yes the second the words my mother left my lips. Also coming was Jake the grumpy ferryman, because he was also single (twice divorced, but I wasn’t judging). Hopefully, he would shower first, because based on the smell of him, it wasn’t a daily (or weekly) habit. So three eligible-ish men for my mother, plus Gloria, Xiaowen and myself.
Georgie Frank owned the hotel where my mother worked. Who knew? And according to his LinkedIn profile, he had grown into his looks, just like the actor who’d played Neville Longbottom. Unfortunately, he had another commitment that night, so I told him we’d have to get together with Xiaowen and catch up on old times. He sounded so nice.
It was funny how my memories were shifting now that I was back home. In high school, I’d felt like the loneliest girl in the world. But Georgie had sounded so happy to hear fr
om me, I wondered if maybe I’d missed out on potential friends, too busy being miserable.
The birds were singing; Lily used to call them their pajama songs. How cute was that? On impulse, I got up and found one of the postcards I’d bought today. It was the gratuitous-sunset-over-the-harbor shot, the sailboats (all belonging to summer folk) reflected in the calm waters, the golden rocks and pine trees of the island behind them like a distant fortress.
Dear Lily,
The birds are singing their pajama songs, and the bats are out. The other day, I brought Poe to Eastman Hill. It was steeper than I remembered. You used to hold your arms out like you were flying, but you never fell. Dad never let you.
Love,
Nora
So what if she hadn’t written back? Or told Poe to say hi to me? Or contacted me in any way in the last five years? My sister was going to hear from me, damn it. I scrawled on the prison’s address, peeled off a stamp and shoved it in my purse so I could mail it tomorrow at Teeny Fletcher’s stupid little post office. I took a defiant sip of my wine. No one puts Nora in the corner.
Then, all of a sudden, the lights went out. I jumped and felt wine slosh on my shirt. Shit.
When I say it was dark, it was more than just the absence of light. It was as if the darkness had a texture and a sinister presence.
Also, I’d had a glass and a half of wine, started a Stephen King book and was slightly buzzed.
Without the hum of the fridge and water heater, without the little lights I took for granted—the laptop charger, the microwave clock, the smoke detector—I felt completely lost. I felt the houseboat move on the water in a way it didn’t seem to when I could see.
There was a thump on the dock. But that was normal, right? The dock and houseboat made noise all the time, thunking, squeaking, creaking. Maybe once in a while, thumping, too.
If only Boomer was here, I’d feel much, much safer.
My heart stuttered and sped. Not quite V-fib, but close.
The power is out, Nora. Get a grip. The electricity went out on a little island like this all the time. Sure it did. Practically everyone had a generator for storms—hurricanes and nor’easters in the fall, blizzards in the winter.
Except there was no storm now.
Had someone cut my power?
Luke Fletcher. Or...or him. Voldemort, he who could not be caught, thanks for nothing, Boston Police Department.
Could he have found me?
It was possible. He could’ve followed me here. If he was really obsessed with me, he could’ve figured it out. This time, there had been something public: the Scupper Island Weekly, which had an online version, had a snippet about me two weeks ago. Dr. Nora Stuart, a graduate of Scupper High, will be practicing medicine at the Ames Medical Clinic four days a week.
I whirled to look for my phone—it had a flashlight feature, God bless Apple—and slammed into the table, which was bolted to the floor. My breath hissed out of me. That’d leave a bruise for sure, but I couldn’t yelp, because if someone was out there, I didn’t want him to know where I was.
Crawl. Yes. That was a great idea. I wasn’t sure why, but everyone crawled in the movies, right? And maybe I wouldn’t crash into the table if I was on the floor.
I dropped to my knees and groped around. Where the hell had I left my phone? Table? Nope. Uh...couch? I crawled, my knee burning with pain. Right, right, I’d dislocated that sucker, hadn’t I? This made me try to crawl without using that knee, kind of humped up but still technically crawling, which made me feel like a werewolf in the throes of changing.
I groped. Groped some more. Nothing.
Shit! I banged my head on the coffee table. Must all the furniture be bolted to the floor? I mean, yes, I guess it did, since this was a houseboat, but it sure was inconvenient when crawling from a potential killer, wasn’t it?
I couldn’t find my phone.
But I knew exactly where my Smith & Wesson was, yessiree.
I crawl-hobbled to the hallway, hit my head on the wall—just call me Audrey Hepburn—and groped my way toward my bedroom, feeling for the door frame.
He dragged me by the legs down the hall. I grabbed onto the bathroom door frame, but my fingers weren’t strong enough.
Shit. Now was not the time for a flashback.
“You’re in Maine,” I whispered. “You’re okay. Get your gun and find your phone.”
There was another thump on the dock. Oh, God, oh, God. Now I was in my room, my knee on fire. I groped for the night table drawer, found it.
I stood up. I knew where I was now; my eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Like a ninja (with a bad knee and an intense case of the shakes and smelling of a plummy merlot with tobacco overtones), I shuffled back down the hall and crouched behind the kitchen counter. You’re a very brave, strong woman, Nora, I told myself. Myself didn’t believe me.
A man was coming down the dock, flashlight aimed at his feet.
Could I shoot a person? Someone who might be trying to kill me? What was the law in Maine about killing trespassers? Was it okay? Probably not. I mean, there were laws about killing moose. People were probably protected, too.
Also, there was that “first, do no harm” thing I’d sworn to. Shooting someone with a gun seemed like harm.
Calm down, Nora. Take a breath.
Before I let myself become Dirty Harry, I should probably know who was there.
“Nora?”
He knew my name, whoever he was. Luke knew my name.
So did the man who tried to kill me.
“Nora? It’s Sullivan Fletcher.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said, slumping to the floor and letting the gun slide from my limp fingers.
“Nora, you home?” he called.
I hauled myself up and hobbled to the door. “Hi,” I said. He was silhouetted against the starry sky, but it was Sullivan, all right.
“Thought I’d check on you. I was at the boatyard.” Just then, the lights came back on, and I blinked. Sully frowned. “You okay?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
His gaze went to the kitchen floor. “That’s a very impressive gun there.”
“Yes. Yep.”
“You sure you’re okay? You look...out of sorts.”
Did I? I glanced at the mirror that hung to the left of the door. Oh, shit, yes, out of sorts was accurate. And generous. My hair had taken on the proportions of an unchecked tumbleweed, and my mascara was smeared under my eyes. My shirt had a splotch of red wine right over the boob. “I’m fine!” I said. “Just a little... Hi! How are you? Come in.”
He did, a bit warily.
“Can you give me a second? I, uh, I have to change.”
“Sure.”
I reached for the gun.
“Why don’t I get that?” he said, neatly intercepting me. He picked it up, took out the magazine, opened the chamber and removed that bullet, too. “I wasn’t planning on being shot today.”
“No. Me, neither.” I drew in a shuddering breath. “Right. Back in a flash.”
I went back into the bedroom and closed the door. Pulled off my clothes and hastily tugged on some yoga pants and a loose T-shirt, then grabbed my hair and gathered it into a ponytail. Ran some moisturizer under my eyes and wiped them clean with a tissue. My hands were still shaking a little.
Sully was sitting on the couch when I came out. Mr. Smith & Wesson was on the counter.
“So,” he said.
“Want a drink, Sully?”
“Sure.”
I grabbed him a beer—he seemed like a beer kind of guy—and got myself a glass of water and sat down in the chair opposite him.
We eyed each other for a minute. He took a sip of beer, then set it on the coffee table where I’d whacked my head. “You always answer the door with a gun?”
“Not a
lways.”
“That thing would do some damage.”
“That’s why I have it.”
He was looking at me intently; right, he had hearing loss, so he probably needed to watch my mouth when I talked.
It was a little unsettling.
“How are your ears?” I asked, then closed my eyes. “I mean your hearing. How is it?” I looked at him, feeling my cheeks blaze.
He didn’t answer. I hoped he hadn’t heard me, then felt guilty for hoping that.
“How’s Audrey? I mean, is she alone? With the power out?”
“She’s with her mother.”
“Oh, good! That’s great, I mean, because you said they didn’t spend a lot of...well! That’s nice! That they’re hanging out.” I took a deep breath, held it and let it out slowly.
There was no threat to me. I could relax. I was fun. I was brave and smart.
“How are you, Sully?”
His eyes crinkled the slightest bit. “I’m fine.”
“Good.”
His smile grew. Not by much, but by enough. That was a good face, especially with the smile. A calm face. A nice face.
“Do you want to have dinner here on Friday?” I asked on impulse. “I’m having a little party.”
“Sure.”
“You don’t have to come, but—oh. Great. Um, seven o’clock.” He said yes. That was... That was really nice.
He looked at me steadily. I guess he had to, what with the hearing loss. I took a breath, trying for normal. “Can I ask you some questions, Sully?”
“Go for it.”
“What’s it like? Not hearing?”
He looked at his beer. “Well, I can hear, obviously. Just...not that well. Not at all on the right. It’s getting worse on the left.” He took a pull of beer. “Some words cut out or get fuzzy. I have to string things together. Sometimes I get it wrong, especially when I’m tired.”
So he had auditory processing disorder in addition to true deafness on the right. Very common for a traumatic brain injury. “Do you lip-read?”
“Ayuh.”
“What about sign language?”
Now That You Mention It: A Novel Page 18
