Читать книгу Map of the Heart - Сьюзен Виггс - Страница 8

Every time he came back to the States from his teaching post overseas, Finn made a stop at Arlington Cemetery. He walked between the endless white rows of alabaster markers etched with black lettering, nearly a half million of them, aligned with such flawless precision that they outlined the undulations of the grassy terrain. Somewhere in the distance, a set of unseen pipes was playing—one of the thirty or so funerals that took place here each week.

He paused at a headstone upon which was perched a small rubber bathtub duck. On the back of the toy, someone had written Hi, Grandpa in childish scrawl.

Finn paused before taking out his camera. The messages from little kids always got to him. He shut his eyes and murmured a thank-you to the soldier. Then he photographed the marker and added the memento to his bag. As a volunteer for the Military History Center, he visited Arlington whenever he was in town, recovering items that had been left on headstones. With his fellow volunteers, he helped catalog the items for a database so each remembrance, no matter how small, would be preserved.

Moving on, he made a detour to view the markers of his first bittersweet accomplishment. Working with a group of villagers in the highlands of Vietnam, he’d discovered the crash site of four U.S. soldiers who had gone missing fifty years before. The soldiers—an aircraft commander, a pilot, a door gunner, and a gunner—had been hit with enemy fire, and their chopper had crashed into a mountainside. For decades, the men had been lost. Finn had talked to their families, hearing echoes of his own family’s story. With no way of knowing what had become of their loved ones, there was no place for the grief to go, no closure. It lingered like a fog, impenetrable on some days, lifting on others, but it was always present.

The remains had been interred in a group burial service with horse-drawn caissons and a white-gloved honor guard, while their families looked on, clinging together like survivors from a storm. One of the daughters had written Finn a note of gratitude, telling him that despite the revived grief, there was also a sense of relief that she was finally able to lay her father to rest.

More than a thousand veterans still remained unaccounted for, and his father, Richard Arthur Finnemore, was one of them. For years, Finn had searched for his father’s likeness in the faces of panhandlers outside veterans’ halls, wondering if torture had left him impaired and unable to make his way back to his family.

Finn picked up a small scrap of paper from a marker in Section 60, where the recently fallen were laid to rest. The handwritten note said, I have to leave you here. You should be home playing with our kids and laughing with us. But this is where you’ll stay. Forever. I guess in that sense, I’ll never lose you. Despite the summer heat, Finn felt a chill as he dutifully photographed the marker and added the note to his collection.

Finally, he consulted an app on his phone and located the new marker of a very old casualty—army air forces first lieutenant Robert McClintock. Finn had scoured the countryside around Aix-en-Provence, where he was living and teaching. His research had led him to the crash site of a single-seat P-38 aircraft, piloted by McClintock on a strafing mission against an enemy airfield in 1944. Combing through archives, Finn had discovered that on the day in question, poor weather conditions had impaired visibility. A scrap of news on a microfiche had reported that McClintock’s aircraft had dived through the clouds and seemingly disappeared.

With a group of private citizens, Finn had worked with a recovery team, finding teeth and bone fragments, all that was left of the twenty-one-year-old airman. The Armed Forces DNA Identification Laboratory matched three sisters from Bethesda, and last year, Lieutenant McClintock had been repatriated here at Arlington. Finn had not attended the burial, but now he stood looking at the freshly etched marker. Again, there had been letters of gratitude from the family.

He appreciated the kind words, but that wasn’t the reason he did what he did. He let people think he was looking for accolades and recognition in his academic work, because it was easier to explain than admitting that he was really looking for his father.

Standing amid the sea of alabaster headstones, Finn felt a breeze on his neck, redolent of fresh-cut grass and newly turned earth. Where’d you go, Dad? he wondered. We’d all love to know.

The roll of film his sister had found, with his father’s initials on the small yellow can, was the best hope of finding out. The film expert, Camille Adams, was finally going to reveal his father’s last images, taken somewhere in Cambodia decades before.

The thought made him lengthen his strides as he headed for his rental car. Maybe the courier charged with picking up the processed film would be back already. Finn got in and grabbed his mobile phone from the console. It indicated multiple voice mails from the courier company. As he tapped the phone to play the messages, Finn thought, Please, Camille Adams. Don’t let me down.

“You don’t sound happy,” said Margaret Ann Finnemore, her voice coming through the speakers of the rental car.

Finn stared at the road ahead as he drove across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, heading for the Delmarva Peninsula. Delaware-Maryland-Virginia. He had to cross state lines just to find Camille Adams.

“That’s because I’m not happy,” he said to his sister. “The film was supposed to be ready today, and the courier company can’t even locate the woman responsible for developing it. She totally flaked out on us.

Stopped answering her phone, isn’t reading text messages or checking e-mail.”

“Maybe something came up,” Margaret Ann suggested reasonably. In the Finnemore family, she was known as the reasonable sister.

“Yeah, she blew me off. That’s what came up.”

“She came so highly recommended. Billy Church—the guy at the National Archives—gave her such a strong recommendation. Didn’t he say she’s done work for the Smithsonian and the FBI?”

“He did. But he didn’t say we’d need the FBI to find her. I should’ve called her references instead of just checking her website.” The site for Adams Photographic Services had featured dramatic examples of photos she’d rescued or restored. It had also displayed a picture of Camille Adams, which had caught his attention. She was a beauty, with dark curly hair and faraway eyes—but apparently, no sense of responsibility.

“I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

“I don’t need an explanation. I need to see what was on that roll of film, and I need to see it before the ceremony.”

“You couldn’t have sent someone else all the way out there?”

“The courier bailed after waiting around for an hour. Everybody else in the family has a job to do, so I decided to track her down myself.”

“Wouldn’t it be great if there were pictures of Dad?” Margaret Ann sounded wistful. As the eldest of the Finnemore siblings, she had the most vivid memories of their father. Finn had none of his own, which was probably why each surviving photo meant so much to him. “If there are any shots of him, they’d be the last ever taken. We could add them to the display at the White House.”

Finn tempered his expectations. “He shot that roll long before selfies were a thing.”

“Maybe one of his fellow officers or men took a picture of him.”

Finn had about a dozen things he could be doing instead of driving out to the edge of the known world, but he wanted to get his hands on those pictures. He hated the idea of letting his family down. The tightly knit clan consisted of steps and halves in every combination, and somehow it all worked. The somehow was his mom. They all revolved around her wellspring of strength and love.

Tomorrow would have been his father’s seventieth birthday. On the night before Richard Arthur Finnemore had been deployed on a mission to Cambodia, he had kissed his children good night, and then made love to his wife one last time. Nine months to the day after that, Finn was born to a woman who had recently been informed that her husband was missing in action. Sergeant Major Richard Arthur Finnemore had performed an act of heroism, surrendering his position to the enemy in order to protect a group of men involved in a covert operation.

And he had never been seen again.

Tavia Finnemore had managed to put her life back together. In time, she fell in love with a guy who was completely unfazed by the fact that she had three kids. In fact, he had two of his own. They went on to have two more boys together. It was an unwieldy tribe of a family, filled with noise and chaos, pathos and laughter, and most of all, love. Yet all his life, Finn had felt the absence of his father, a man who had died before Finn had drawn his first breath of air. It was entirely possible to miss someone you’d never met. He was walking, breathing proof of that.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” he said, “assuming the film expert didn’t abscond with the goods.”

“She didn’t abscond. Why on earth would she abscond with an old roll of film? And besides, who says ‘abscond’ anymore, except maybe my overeducated history-professor brother?”

“I hope like hell she didn’t.” Finn had no patience for people who didn’t keep their commitments. If he found the woman—and he fully intended to, even though it meant a two-hour drive from Annapolis—he was going to have some choice words for her.

“Promise you’ll call the minute you find out if she was able to salvage any of the pictures. Oh my gosh, Finn, I can’t believe what’s happening. A presidential Medal of Honor ceremony at the White House. For our dad.” Margaret Ann’s excitement bubbled through his phone’s speaker.

“Pretty surreal.” The whole Finnemore-Stephens clan would be in attendance—the family his father had before he was reported MIA, and the family his mother had started when she married Rudy Stephens. More than four decades after the shocking telegram had reached a young woman with two little girls and a babe in arms, his mom was finally getting closure.

Then a thought occurred to him. “Shit. I’m supposed to pick up my dress uniform at the cleaners this afternoon, and here I am driving across the Chesapeake.”

“If you were married again, you’d have a wife to help you out with stuff like that.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “Seriously? That’s your rationale for wanting me to remarry? You just set the women’s movement back fifty years.”

“Everyone needs a partner. That’s all I’m saying. You were so happy when you were with Emily.”

“Until I wasn’t.”

“Finn—”

“You’re still ticked off at me for not liking the last one you set me up with.”

“Angie Latella was perfect for you.”

He winced, remembering the painfully awkward setup his sisters had organized. “I don’t get why you and Shannon Rose—and Mom, for that matter—are on a mission to get me married off again. Because the last time turned out so well for me?”

The women in his family were endlessly preoccupied with his love life. They were convinced that his life would never be complete until he found true love, settled down, and started a family. He wasn’t afraid to talk about it. He was afraid because they were probably right.

He wanted the kind of love his siblings had found. He wanted kids. Yet he had no desire to see if his luck would change the second time around. These days, he wasn’t even sure he knew how love happened, and how it felt.

“It’s been three years. You’re ready. And Angie—”

“She was a half hour late, and she had an annoying laugh.”

“That’s code for she didn’t have big boobs and an obsession with extreme sports.”

“Come on. I’m not that shallow.” Christ, he hoped not. His sister loved him, but when she tried to boss him around, he always pushed back.

“Then what about Carla? Now, she has boobs, and she’s a worldclass mountain biker.”

“Daddy issues. And you’re the one who told me a woman with a bad history with her father is a problem waiting to happen. Besides, I live overseas now, remember? Not interested in a long-distance gig.”

“That’s temporary. You’ll be back in the States soon enough.”

He decided now was not the time to tell her his visiting professorship in Aix-en-Provence had been extended. “Can one of your kids pick up my stuff at the cleaners? It’s the one on Annapolis Road.”

“I’ll have Rory pick it up on her way home from work. She goes right by there.”

“Thanks. Tell her there’s a good bottle of wine in it for her.”

“You’re going to turn your niece into a wine snob like you. Remind me again when you have to go back,” Margaret Ann said.

“A week from Saturday. Summer term starts on Monday.”

“Teaching in Provence in summer, you lucky dog.”

“Living the dream.” He said this with a touch of irony. He had once believed he could find the kind of happiness his mom and other members of his family had found. But finding that would mean opening himself up to a new relationship, and he wasn’t so sure he was up for that. Casual sex and no commitment made life simpler. More empty, yes. But simpler.

“What topics?” asked his sister.

“Advanced studies in historical inquiry, and it’s awesome, not boring.”

“And working on your next book?”

“Always.” He was researching a work on World War II resistance fighters. And he was always looking for long-lost soldiers, searching out crash sites and battlefields for remains to restore to families yearning for closure.

She sighed. “Such a tough life.”

“You should come for a visit and see how tough it is.”

“Right. Dragging along my three reluctant teenagers and workaholic husband. I’m sure your archivist girlfriend—what’s her name?”

“Vivi,” Finn said. “And she’s not my girlfriend. Hey, coming up on a tollbooth,” he said, suddenly tired of the conversation. “Gotta go. I’ll call you about the pictures, if there’s anything to report.” He ended the call and drove past the nonexistent tollbooth.

The bridge led him into a whole new world. Refocusing his mind on finding the AWOL film expert, he made his way across to the low, teardrop-shaped peninsula. He’d never actually explored the region, which was odd, since he’d spent so much of his life in and around Annapolis. He’d attended the U.S. Naval Academy, and after five years of service, attained his Ph.D. and became a professor there. Yet this area had always been a mystery to him.

The remote lowlands traversed a place of watery isolation, and the vibe felt entirely different from the pricey suburbs that clung to the western side of the Chesapeake. The road and town names reflected the region’s varied colonial heritage—Native American, Dutch, and English: Choptank, Accomack, Swanniken, Claverack, Newcastle, Sussex.

A series of winding, ever-narrowing roads took him past courthouse towns, fishing villages, and long marshy areas alive with shorebirds. Finally, crossing a narrow neck of land dividing the ocean and the bay, he reached the township of Bethany Bay.

The colonial-era town, with its painted cottages and old-fashioned buildings, had the lived-in look of a seaside village, the landscape and structures battered by wind and weather. Nearly every house had a boat in the yard, a stack of crab pots, and a web of netting hung out for drying or repair. The main street was lined with charming shops and cafés. He passed a waterway labeled EASTERLY CANAL, and a marina filled with pleasure boats and a fishing fleet. Then he followed the beach road along a three-mile crescent clinging to the Atlantic shore.

If he hadn’t been so annoyed at having to drive all the way out here, he might have appreciated the sable-colored sand and rolling surf, the smooth expanse of beach, where pipers rushed along in skinny-legged haste. A few surfers were out, bobbing on the horizon as they waited for a wave. A lone kiteboarder skimmed across the shallows under the colorful arch of his kite. A towering red-capped lighthouse punctuated the end of the beach like an exclamation point.

He was in no mood to savor the small-town charm of the remote spot. He had other things on his mind. Checking the business address on his phone, he came to a clapboard cottage about a block from the lighthouse. Gray with white trim around the small-paned windows, the cozy house had a front and back porch and a chimney on one end. It was surrounded by a picket fence and climbing roses, and a martin house on a tall pole.

He got out of the car, let himself in through the front gate, and promptly stubbed his toe on a garden stone carved with the words J.A. Always in my heart. Grabbing his foot, he let loose with a stream of cusswords he saved only for special occasions. Nothing said “You’re having a bad day” quite like a freshly stubbed toe.

He took a moment to compose himself before approaching the house. Under the brass mailbox was a logo that matched the one on her website—a line drawing of a vintage camera, with the name of her company—Adams Photographic Services.

He saw no car in the driveway. Maybe it was in the garage, an elderly structure with a sliding door on iron rails. He walked up to the front porch and knocked sharply. The air smelled of the sea and blooming roses, and was filled with the sounds of the waves and crying gulls. Two pairs of gardening boots stood on the mat.

He rang the bell. Knocked again. Called her number for about the fourth time and got no answer. Leaning toward the door, he thought he heard a ringtone inside.

“Do not do this to me,” he said to the voice mail. “It’s Finn—Malcolm Finnemore. Call me as soon as you get this message.”

He shoved a hand through his hair as if it would keep him from building up a head of steam. Maybe he could find a neighbor who would know how to get in touch with her.

Damn.

As she turned down the beach road toward home, Camille felt exhausted, her nerves worn thin after the ordeal in the ER. Julie was staring straight ahead, her face expressionless.

“Mom,” Julie said. “You can stop checking me out. They said I’m okay.”

“You’re right, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying. You have a contusion. You’ve never had a contusion.”

“It’s a fancy name for a bump on the head. Jeez.” Julie pointed at the house. “Who’s that guy?”

“What guy? Oh.” Camille turned into the driveway and parked. The guy Julie was referring to stood on her front porch, a phone clapped to his ear as he paced back and forth. He was tall, with a ponytail and aviator shades. His lived-in shorts and dark T-shirt revealed a physique of tanned skin and sinewy muscles. Shoot. Was this the courier sent by Professor Finnemore?

She got out and slammed the car door, and he turned to face her, taking off the glasses. And something unexpected happened—her heart nearly jumped out of her chest, yet she had no idea why. He was a complete stranger. But she couldn’t take her eyes off him. There was something about his stance and the way he held himself. He was just a guy, she thought. A stranger on her porch. There were a few glints of blond hair at his temples, framing gumball-blue eyes and a face that belonged in a Marvel Comics movie—he was that good-looking.

Well, hello, Mr. Courier Guy.

As she came up the walk, his eyes narrowed into a hostile squint. Clearly, he hadn’t felt a similar jolt of attraction.

“Can I help you?” she asked, stepping onto the porch.

He put his phone away. “Camille Adams?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Finn.” He hesitated. His eyes were now cold and flinty. “Malcolm Finnemore.”

Whoa. She took a second to regroup. This was not how she had pictured the nerdy history teacher. “Oh, uh, Professor Finnemore.”

“I go by ‘Finn.’”

She knew instantly the reason he was here, and why he looked so annoyed. “I missed the courier pickup,” she said. “I had a personal emergency, and—”

“You couldn’t have called? Sent a message?”

Julie came up behind her and mounted the porch steps, a surly expression on her face. “Hey,” she said.

“My daughter, Julie,” Camille said, her face turning bright red. “Julie, this is Professor Finnemore.”

“Glad to meet you.” Julie looked anything but glad. “Excuse me.” She edged past them, pressed the door code, and went inside.

“My personal emergency,” said Camille. Her stomach pounded. She had some explaining to do. “Please, come on in.”

His gaze assessed her, from her unkempt hair to her grubby work garb—stained shirt, cutoffs, flip-flops. Spilled developer staining one ankle. She held the door, feeling utterly self-conscious. Not only had she ruined his film, but she was totally unprepared to meet a client. She was dressed like a slob in her darkroom clothes, hair piled into a messy bun. No makeup. Not showered.

He gave a nod, passing close to her as he stepped through the door. Oh God, she thought, he even smelled good-looking. Ocean air and fresh laundry. And he exuded the kind of effortless grace she observed in the wealthy “come-heres,” as the locals called the summer people and power brokers from D.C. who came for the sand and sea. They tooled around the peninsula in their foreign cars, bringing their friends from the city for sailing trips and shore dinners, or cruising with the skipjack watermen to dredge for oysters while under sail.

Camille knew the type—arrogant, entitled, treating the locals like servants. She suspected he might be one of them.

Her house wasn’t ready for company either. Particularly not for a come-here whose film she’d destroyed.

Everything was just as she’d left it when the phone rang. Her morning mess was everywhere—yesterday’s mail, library books, towels that had yet to be folded, her bikini hung on a doorknob to dry, sand-crusted flip-flops kicked to the side, dishes waiting to be loaded into the dishwasher. Her now-scummy coffee cup sat abandoned on the counter next to her forgotten mobile phone, its screen indicating multiple missed calls.

“So … can I offer you something to drink?” she asked. Lame. She was always so tongue-tied around good-looking men. It was silly. She didn’t even like good-looking men. Probably because they made her uncomfortable. Particularly when she was about to deliver some bad news.

“Thanks, but I’m in a hurry,” he said. “Wondering how the film turned out.”

Of course he was.

Camille placed her keys on the hook by the door. She could hear Julie upstairs in her room, the old floorboards creaking. Julie spent so much time alone lately—or alone with her smartphone and laptop. Her punishment for forging the permission slip was going to be a severe restriction on screen time.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I feel terrible that you had to drive all the way out here.”

“The courier service said no one was here at the pickup time.”

“I got called away.” The sinking feeling dragged her lower and lower. “The film is ruined. And I’m sorry I didn’t have my phone on me and I didn’t get in touch with you.”

He was very quiet. His face was stony, like a gorgeous sculpture. “You mean the film wasn’t viable. It had sat in the can too long?”

Her mouth went dry. He was offering her an out, and for a split second, she considered taking the coward’s route. It would be so simple—she could explain that his film had been spoiled by age and environment, and couldn’t be developed. But that would be a lie. She had rescued film far older than his. Camille was not a liar. She never had been, even when it was more convenient to lie.

Excusing herself, she went down the hall, ducked into her workroom, and found the spooling canister she’d dropped when the hospital called. The film was now a dark ribbon of nothing with tractor perforations on the sides. She paused and looked down the hall, studying her angry visitor. As he stood there in profile, staring out the window at the beach in the distance, she felt that powerful beat of pure, unadulterated attraction again. It was such a singular feeling that she scarcely recognized what it was. It’s nothing, she thought. Nothing but a momentary blip of feeling. A guy with looks like that could inspire even someone whose heart had been broken beyond repair.

Too bad she’d ruined his day for him. With grim fatality, she brought the long black failure back to the kitchen.

“I blew it,” she said, hating the admission as she showed him the dark nothingness. “It was entirely my fault.”

“Seriously?” A tic of irritation tightened his jaw as he eyed the blank film. “I don’t understand. Was the film—”

“It was probably salvageable. But I accidentally let light into the darkroom at a crucial moment, and the light ruined the film.” She considered a longer explanation, but didn’t feel like dragging this stranger through her whole hellish day.

“Damn. Damn it to hell.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

He glared at the film again, and then at her. “Jesus Christ, I needed those pictures.”

She nodded. “I realize that. I feel terrible.”

“Shit. Shit. You’re supposed to be an expert at this. I trusted you—”

“You did, and I’m so sorry.” God, she hated letting people down. He had every right to be pissed.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded, glaring at the empty length of film. “Do you just take people’s irreplaceable film and … what? Destroy it? Damn, I could have done that myself.”

“I was working on it this morning and everything was going fine. I got a call …” She hesitated. She did not want to tell the angry stranger she was a negligent mom. “I dropped everything. Including your film. I feel horrible about it, and … and …”

Something in her voice, a waver of emotion she couldn’t control, seemed to catch his attention. The winter-ice eyes changed. He had a slow, burning way of looking at her. As if his anger might set her on fire.

“You got a call,” he prompted. “You got a fucking call.”

She could barely speak past the lump in her throat, so she nodded. Something melted inside her. She’d just had the most terrifying day. A call from the ER was every mother’s worst nightmare. For Camille, it revived the deep trauma of losing Jace, and now here was this furious stranger. Suddenly the strain of being a widowed single mother overwhelmed her. To go through a day like this without the love, support, and partnership of Julie’s father felt like too much to bear. Julie’s accident, and now this screw-up brought her longburied grief to the surface.

To keep herself from shattering, she went into defense mode. She began to tremble as fear, stress, and then a delayed response of anger swept over her. With shaking hands, she set the film and canister in the sink, struggling to hide her emotions. It was horrifying, this reaction to the stress of the day, and she refused to let a work disaster take her apart.

She braced her hands on the edge of the sink and tried to collect herself. She glanced at her phone. Four missed calls, six new text messages, four new e-mails—all from “M Finnemore.” She whirled around to face him. “I can’t say it enough. I’m sorry about the negatives. I wish you hadn’t wasted your time driving clear out here. And of course there’s no charge for anything.”

She glared at him, trying to hold fast to the anger. Instead, a hot tear slipped out. And then another. The guy stood there, seemingly frozen by anger. Then he spotted some tissues on the counter and handed her the whole box.

“Do you need to call someone?” he asked, indicating her phone. “Your husband …?”

“No husband,” she said through gritted teeth, swiping angrily at her cheeks.

He cut her with a laser glare, as if her lack of a husband inexplicably deepened the offense. “Thanks for nothing, lady.”

Shaken by the encounter, Camille watched him through the window. What an incredible tool. He strode to his car, yanked open the door. Just for a moment, he hesitated, turning back toward the house. His anger seemed to soften into something else—regret, maybe. Could be he realized he was being a tool. Then he swiped at the back of his neck as if something had bitten him there, and climbed into the car.

Julie came down from her room. “That your client?” she asked, watching as he threw the car into reverse and peeled out.

“My client,” Camille said. “My extremely disappointed client.” She used a tissue to give her cheeks another swipe.

“Why disappointed?”

“I ruined his film.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.” A pucker of concern knitted her brow. “You okay?”

“Yes.” Camille took a deep breath. “God, he was pissed.”

“I can tell. Is he single?”

“What? Jules.”

“Just asking. I know how you feel about guys with ponytails.”

Camille felt a flush creeping into her cheeks, because she had already wondered the same thing. Is he single? “I’m done with guys, with or without ponytails.” Maybe she was reading her daughter wrong. “Do you feel bad because Drake and I parted ways?”

Julie’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding? No. Having my mom date the school principal was the worst.”

Camille studied her daughter’s face. Julie was so beautiful to her—curly dark hair, bright brown eyes, a sweet saddle of freckles across her nose. Sometimes she recognized a flicker of Jace in Julie, and it made her heart melt. You’re still here, she thought.

“What?” Julie rubbed her cheek. “Do I have something on my face?”

Camille smiled. “No. How’s your head?” She inspected the bump. It was barely visible now, thank goodness.

“Fine. Really, Mom.” She tucked her phone in her pocket. “I’m going out for a walk.”

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I saw the discharge papers. They said I can resume all normal activities. I’ll just go down to the lighthouse and back.”

“I don’t want to let you out of my sight.”

“Not helpful,” Julie said, a storm gathering in her eyes. “It’s just a walk.”

Camille hesitated. Julie spent way too much time alone in her room, staring at her phone screen. Anything that got her out of the house was a welcome distraction.

“All right.” Camille didn’t have the energy for a big argument. “But be—”

“I know. Careful.” Julie went out the front door. “I won’t be long.”

Camille watched her walking down the road toward the lighthouse. In that moment, she looked so isolated and lonely in her shapeless clothes. It bothered Camille that none of Julie’s friends had called or come by to make sure she was all right. Ninth graders were not noted for their compassion, but when one of their own was taken to the emergency room, she assumed at least one of them would follow up. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen any of Julie’s friends around in a while.