Читать книгу Map of the Heart - Сьюзен Виггс - Страница 9

Julie stepped out onto the ledge of the Bethany Point Light. The lighthouse was still in use, though it was all automated now.

Every few seconds, the beam at the top swung in an arc to encompass the entrance to the bay. Most folks assumed the lighthouse interior was locked up tight, but Julie knew how to climb to the top. She and her friends—back when she had friends—had found an access panel under the stairs at the base of the tower.

Once inside, it was a matter of climbing the winding brick steps to the rim that surrounded the old Fresnel lens. Most kids were too creeped out to climb the cobweb-infested steps, but Julie had persevered, using a broom to clear the way. This was her special place. She came here to be alone, to think, to dream.

As far as she knew, she was the only one who still came here. Her friends had all dumped her, moving on to hang out with the cooler kids. The popular kids. The thin kids. The kids whose moms were not dating the school principal.

With one hand on the railing behind her, Julie leaned over and studied the rocky shoals a hundred feet below. She wondered what it would be like to fall that far. Would there be time to feel scared, or would it all be over in the blink of an eye?

From her vantage point, she could see the beach where this morning’s drama had occurred. In the deep sunset colors of the evening, she could pick out the eddies of the riptide, the one that had nearly carried her away to see her father.

Although it could be nothing but a fantasy, Julie held a vision in her head of where her father was now. He lived in a place that was parallel to the world she knew. It was right next door, yet invisible until she crossed the threshold, leaving the here and now behind and stepping into the new place.

There, Julie would be perfect. She would have friends rather than mean kids making fun of her. She would have boobs, not fat rolls. She would be everyone’s favorite, not some chubby loser.

It worked like this in her mind, anyway. She was probably wrong, but a girl could dream. Sometimes she felt like talking to her mom about it, but she never did. Mom worried about every little thing and she’d find a way to worry about Julie’s dream of paradise.

Plus she would start digging around and she might find out the real reason Julie kept getting in fights with other kids. Above all else, Julie could not allow her mother to find out what had provoked the fights. Because the only thing worse than having kids say her mother had caused her father’s death was having to tell her mother what the kids were saying.

She heaved a lonely sigh, and then watched the colors of the water change as the sun went down behind the east-facing lighthouse. The colors were so rich, they made her heart ache. Maybe that was where her father lived, in a world so beautiful that mere mortals couldn’t bear it.

She stooped and picked up a stray bird feather and held it out in front of her. It looked like the feather of an eastern shorebird, maybe a piping plover. When you grew up at the shore, you learned these things. She opened her fingers and let the feather drift downward, watching it dance on an updraft of wind, then swirl as it made its way to earth. Down, down, down.

She used to be light as a feather. When she looked at old pictures of herself—and there were hundreds, because her mom was a photographer—she was amazed at how cute she had been, like a little fairy. Not anymore. These days she was a fat blob. A fat blob nobody wanted to talk to, except to talk shit about her and tell lies about her mom.

She stooped and picked up a loose brick from the rim of the structure and sent it hurtling to earth. Then she picked up another and did the same, waiting for it to smash on the rocks below.

“Hey!”

The loud voice startled Julie so much she nearly let go of the railing. Her heart pounding, she jumped over the rail to safety.

“What the hell?” yelled the voice in a funny accent. “You almost hit me.”

Oh, good God. She had nearly hit someone with a brick. Then everybody would be calling her a killer, too.

Horrified, she yanked open the door and clattered down the dark, dank-smelling stairs. Maybe she could run away before the someone saw her. Maybe if she ran really fast, the victim of her falling bricks wouldn’t see her.

She pushed at the door at the base of the lighthouse and burst outside. It was nearly dark now. She sprinted over to the break in the fence, threw herself on the ground to crawl under. Before she could escape, she came face-to-face with a worn-out sneaker.

“You almost hit me,” the kid repeated.

She recoiled, scrambling backward and leaping to her feet. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know you were there.” She brushed off her jeans, studying him until recognition struck. “You’re Tarek,” she said. He had enrolled in school fairly recently, along with several of his brothers and sisters. They were a family of refugees, being sponsored by some people in town.

Tarek was in ninth grade, and he was even less popular than Julie. She took a perverse comfort in that. Some of the kids said rotten things about him, like he was a terrorist and stuff. He didn’t seem bothered by the insults; maybe because he didn’t understand.

Or maybe it was because the things he had seen in his homeland were a million times worse than a bunch of dumb kids teasing.

“And you are Julie Adams,” he said.

“That’s me. I didn’t mean to drop anything on you.”

“It is A-OK.”

“The sign says no trespassing,” she pointed out.

“And yet here you are.”

“I’ve been coming here all my life,” she said.

“Does that make you legit?”

“Makes me a native.”

“Makes you a trespasser.”

She shrugged. “Only if I get caught.” She grabbed the chain-link fence and crawled under it, then stood up and turned back to look at him. She felt self-conscious as she brushed herself off again. He was probably staring at her giant fat butt.

He was paying no attention to her at all. He simply opened the gate and stepped outside.

“Hey,” she said, “how did you get that unlocked?”

He turned and snapped the padlock in place. “Very simple. It’s a four-digit combination. I guessed the combination.”

“How’d you do that?”

He gestured at the lighthouse itself. Over the door were the numbers 1824—the year it was established. “Sometimes it is best to start with the obvious.”

Tarek was cool. She liked him. It surprised her that she liked him, because lately she hated everyone. And everyone hated her right back.

“The first time I climbed the lighthouse, I was nine years old,” she said. “One of my mom’s friends told me my dad was up in heaven, so I thought if I climbed to a high place I might be close enough to see him.” After she said this, she felt foolish.

He didn’t seem as if he found her ridiculous. He thought for a moment, then said, “My father is also gone. He was arrested, taken away right in the middle of a class he was teaching, and we never saw him again.”

“That’s terrible.”

He nodded.

“So your father was a teacher.”

“He taught English.”

They sat on a big rock, looking out at the water. The colors of twilight pooled on the surface and melded with the sky. Tarek watched a gull take flight. “I saw what happened to you in surf rescue class.”

Her stomach clenched. “It was an accident.”

“I don’t think so. Unless you would call Vanessa Larson chasing you an accident.”

“It’s a free-for-all during drills,” she insisted, cringing at the memory. Once Vanessa’s dad started dating Julie’s mom, Vanessa had turned everyone against her. At first the teasing had been subtle—digs about Julie’s weight, her braces, her glasses. Then it had caught on, and before long, other kids piled on. Finally, after Julie’s mom broke up with Vanessa’s dad, it became an all-out campaign against Julie.

“You’re a good swimmer,” she said, trying to change the subject. “Where did you learn?”

He was quiet for a moment. “While on my way to Turkey. It was sink or swim.”

She suspected there was a lot more to the story.

“You are a good swimmer, too,” he stated. “That is how I know you didn’t have an accident.”

“Just drop it, okay?” She tried to divert him again. “So are you staying in Bethany Bay for the summer?” Maybe, just maybe, they would hang out.

“No. We are leaving as soon as the school year ends. We are going to Canada to see my grandparents. Their sponsor family is in Toronto.”

Thus killing off her one shot at making a friend.

“What about you?” he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. Summers used to mean endless beach days, bike riding with her friends, staying up late, bonfires and campouts. She had no idea what she’d do with herself this coming summer, other than look at the Internet and wish she had a different life.

“I have to go,” Tarek said abruptly. “See you tomorrow in school, yes?”

“Sure,” she said, the back of her neck prickling at the idea of school. “See you around.”

She took her time walking back home. The house was lonely and empty. There was a note on the counter: Went to pick up Billy at the ferry. We’re going to First Thursday. Want to come?

No, Julie didn’t want to come to the First Thursday walkabout. She might run into the very kids she was trying to avoid. Frustrated, she yanked open the pantry door, looking for something to eat.

Her mom never had chips and cookies in the house anymore. Julie knew it was because she was fat. She didn’t use to be. She poured a bowl of cereal—whole grain, sugar-free—and added plenty of sugar and milk. Then she took it up to her room and stared at her phone while she was eating, looking up kids from her school. Vanessa Larson had the most followers. She immediately attracted attention because she was not only the daughter of the school principal, she was drop-dead gorgeous and had giant boobs.

Julie decided that if she didn’t have to go to school, her life wouldn’t suck so much. Last year, some kid had gotten himself expelled for bringing a Colt .45 to school. Boom—he was gone in a matter of minutes.

Julie didn’t have a firearm to bring to school. She wouldn’t dream of it, even if she did have one. But if she could find a way to never go back to that school again she would grab on to it.

There was homework. She flipped open her binder. She looked at the top page of the binder and recoiled. Someone had drawn a caricature of her, making her look like a hippo in a tutu. The caption read Hungry Hungry Julie.

Julie ripped the page from the binder and crumpled it into a tiny hard ball.

“Screw homework,” she muttered. “Screw everything.”

She had to get away from school. Away from the living hell she endured every single day. She hated school. And school hated her. She had to do something.

“I blew it,” Camille said to Billy Church, stopping on the porch to pick up her mail. She stepped back, holding the door open to let him in. Professor Finnemore’s film lay neglected on the counter. Her head was still spinning from his visit.

“Let me guess,” Billy said, his open, friendly face verging on a smile. “You fixed me a soufflé for dinner and it fell.”

“I only wish it were that simple.”

She poured two glasses of wine—a dry rosé that was the perfect pairing for a summer evening and the end of a rotten day.

“The negatives I was working on are ruined,” she told Billy. “I’m sorry.”

“It happens,” he said. “I told the client not to expect a miracle.”

“No. You don’t understand. I blew it. The film was salvageable. But I dropped everything when the hospital called. I didn’t even think of it.”

“No one’s going to blame you for dropping everything when you get a call to say your kid’s in the ER.”

She smiled. It might have been her first smile of the day. And it was already evening. “He didn’t seem too interested in an explanation.”

“Oh. So he was a dick.”

“Pretty much, yeah. I still feel terrible,” she said.

Billy picked up a handmade holder with sunglasses in it. “You’ve taken up arts and crafts?”

“No. The guy left that behind.” She’d found it after he’d gone, and now she was trying to figure out what to do about it. Offer to mail it, probably. Which meant she’d have to get in touch with him again. Great.

Billy checked the tag on the glasses holder. “Says ‘handmade by Mom.’ Very cute. His mommy still makes him presents.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“Come here, you.” Billy folded her into a hug.

“Thanks,” she said, her words muffled against his shoulder. “I needed this.”

“You need more than a hug, my friend,” said Billy.

“Are you hitting on my mother again?” Julie asked, coming into the kitchen. She put a cereal bowl and spoon into the dishwasher.

Billy stepped back, palms up and out. “Guilty as charged. She’s been rejecting me ever since she turned me down for the eighth-grade dance.”

“Did not,” Camille said. “You were too scared to ask me.”

“Because I knew you’d turn me down. And I did ask you in ninth, tenth, and eleventh grades. Guess I’m a slow learner.”

“I’m sure I had my reasons.” Camille caught his eye, and he winked at her. She knew what he was up to. He had a knack for lightening the mood, not just for her, but for Julie. After the rotten day they’d both had, he was a ray of sunshine. He was the best kind of friend, even when he was teasing her.

“Yes. They were Aaron Twisp, Mike Hurley, and Cat Palumbo.”

“You dated a guy named Cat?” Julie asked.

“I did,” said Camille. “And yes, he was that cool. He was so cool he couldn’t have a normal name. He had long hair, skinny jeans, combat boots, played the bass like a rock god. Whatever happened to him, anyway?”

“Easy enough to find out.” Billy took out his phone and tapped the screen. “Here’s your rock god now.” He showed them a picture of a pale-faced, slightly pudgy man in an ill-fitting shirt and tie. “He works in D.C. for the bread lobby. And his actual name is Caspar.”

That drew a giggle from Julie.

“See?” said Billy. “Somebody in this family likes me.”

“For what it’s worth,” Julie said, “I think she’s crazy to reject you. You’re funny, smart, and you know all the words to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’”

“Keep going.”

“You’re totally Hemsworthy.”

Billy frowned. “Is that a good thing?”

“As in the Hemsworth brothers. So, yeah.”

He took a sip of wine. “Cool. Now, how about you today? Getting yourself swept out to sea was quite a feat.”

She shrugged. “It happens.”

“Well, just make sure it doesn’t happen again. Except maybe to the douche bag who was rude to your mom today.”

“You got it.”

“Seriously, Jules, you scared the crap out of everyone.” He indicated the picture of Jace and Julie on the mantel. Taken on the beach about five years before, it depicted the two of them posed with their surfboards, squinting into the sun and laughing. “That guy—I bet he’d ground you for life if he knew you got caught in a riptide and let yourself float out to sea.”

“Maybe then I’d finally get to see him again,” Julie stated.

Camille’s blood turned to ice. “Don’t ever say that, Julie. Oh my God, do you hear yourself?”

Julie’s chin came up. “According to you, he’s the greatest thing that ever walked the earth. But he seems so far away, like I never really knew the guy.”

The comment worried Camille. How could she keep his memory alive for her daughter? Julie had been so young when she’d lost her dad.

“Well, I knew him,” Billy said, going to the bar cart and taking out a bottle of Don Julio, “and even though I begged your mom to wait for me during college, do you think she listened? No. She had to go and meet Dr. Dreamboat, and boom. Nobody else had a chance.”

“That’s because he was the love of her life, and when she lost him, the world came to an end,” Julie recited, all too familiar with the story.’

Billy measured out two generous shots. “I was jealous as hell of him, but I never resented the guy, because he gave you to the world, Jules.”

Camille’s heart ached as it always did when the subject of her late husband came up. She’d met him when she’d gone to the ER with a dislocated shoulder from a rock-climbing mishap. A few months later, she was married to the doctor who had helped her that day. She had every expectation of a lifetime of adventure with Jace. No one had counted on the spectacular manner of his demise, or its far-reaching effects. Since the accident, she wanted nothing to do with adventure. She wanted—she needed a safe, predictable existence.

“Lecture over?” Julie asked.

“Sure, why not?” Billy said. “Who’s your mom seeing these days?”

Camille was in the middle of swigging down the tequila, and she nearly choked on it. “Hey,” she objected.

“Mom never talks about the guys she dates,” Julie said.

“That’s because she broke so many hearts,” Billy said. “Mine included.”

“Knock it off.” Camille gave him a friendly slug. “I’ve dated, what—three guys? Four?—since Jace. It’s not like I haven’t tried. But it never works.”

He shot her a wounded look. “So is there another old flame in the picture?”

“All my flames are old. It’s the only kind I have. Is there such a thing as a new flame?”

“She’s not seeing anybody,” Julie chimed in. “She stopped seeing my school principal, thank God.”

“Why thank God?”

“Because it was so awkward. It messed with my head, you know?”

“No. But I’ll take your word for it. What about the dogcatcher?”

“Duane. And he’s not a dogcatcher.” Camille bristled. “He’s an animal control officer. We only went out once. Turned out he was not as loyal as the dogs he rescues.”

“And the one before that? Peter? The super-handsome one.”

Another one-date wonder. “He got all weird and Catholicky on me.”

“Catholicky? Is that even a word?”

“He took some of the doctrines a bit too literally.” Privately, Camille believed he simply didn’t like using a condom. Reason enough to show him the door.

“And what about that guy who Tindered you?”

“Mom. Please tell me you’re not on Tinder,” Julie begged.

“I’m not on Tinder.”

“Your grandmother signed her up,” Billy said.

“Your grandmother is still in trouble for pulling that stunt,” Camille said.

He poured a shot of club soda for Julie, then added a squeeze of lime. “My mom still thinks tinder is something you take camping.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Camille suggested. “Tell us about your week so far. Have you whipped your department into shape at the National Archives?”

“Not even close. The budget gets slashed every time somebody in Congress cuts a fart. When it comes to funding historical treasures, it’s a mummy-eat-mummy world.” He slammed back his tequila shot. “I laid a nasty rumor about Rutherford B. Hayes to rest. And I sent Gerald Ford’s college senior thesis and his football helmet back to Michigan, his home state.”

“What was the ugly rumor about President Hayes?” asked Julie.

“That he took up with a saloon gal named Mary Chestnut. His political enemies made it up.” Billy put the glasses in the sink. “What say we go to the village and grab a bite, then walk around and look at First Thursday.”

“I don’t really feel like it,” Julie said. “But thanks.”

“I should stay home with Julie,” Camille said.

“Wrong answer. You should both come with me.”

“No, thanks,” Julie said. “I’d rather hang out here.”

“You used to love First Thursday. You can see all your friends, let them know you’re okay.”

“Mom,” Julie cut in. “I said no thank you.”

Camille stepped back, stunned by her daughter’s vehemence. “Ah. The queen has spoken.” She turned to Billy. “We’ll just hang out here.”

“No,” he said. “I’m taking charge. You’re coming with me. And Julie can stay home and Snapchat or Instagram with her friends, or whatever it is they’re all doing.”

“Good plan,” Julie said, sending him a grateful look.

Camille felt torn. She really, really wanted to get out for a bit. She really, really wanted a cocktail at the Skipjack Tavern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Positive. I’ll be even more okay once you quit worrying.”

“I’ll never quit worrying.”

“We’re leaving.” Billy handed Camille her bag. Then he ushered her out the door. “Let’s walk to the village,” he said. “The weather is fantastic.”

The promise of summer filled the evening air. The lingering warmth of the day emanated from the brick sidewalks, and sunset colors glinted off the canal and the bay. The air smelled of the coming season—blooming honeysuckle, cut grass, and the rich, lively odor of bounty from the sea. The sky was beautifully clear, and the laughter and conversation that bubbled from the crowd in the village were filled with energy.

Founded by Dutch and English settlers three centuries before, Bethany Bay combined the old-world charm of both cultures. The squared-off, gabled rooflines and old colonial homes blended with the seascape surrounding the town. It was an authentic snapshot of a place that had been treated kindly by time, retaining the character of the past in its very soul.

First Thursday was a bustling event, with locals coming out to socialize, and the come-heres taking in the small-town charm. Visitors from the cities—D.C., Dover, Bethesda, even New York and north Jersey—had escaped early for the weekend. Bethany Bay was not as popular as Rehoboth and Annacock, an unfortunate name for a lovely town, but for those who made the extra effort to reach the remote spot, the rewards were many. Development was held at bay by the fact that the entire region was surrounded by a wildlife preserve, and the inner core of the village consisted of listed and registered structures.

The sound of an ensemble playing under the gazebo on the village green added a festive touch to the evening. Fairy lights surrounding the gazebo and hanging from the cherry and liquidambar trees created an irresistible atmosphere.

The seaside town was the backdrop of her childhood, a cocoon where she felt safe. A refuge. The place where she had made her life in the wake of an unspeakable tragedy.

Yet sometimes it felt like a walled fortress with her stuck inside, unable to escape.

Just for a short while, the small-town festivities took her mind off Julie. She and Billy dropped into various shops and galleries that lined the main street. The art ranged from borderline kitsch to sophisticated originals to purely magical. At the Beholder, owned by her mother’s best friend, Queenie, they munched on almond toffee and checked out the latest offerings—nature scenes printed on copper or aluminum. The gallery occupied what had once been a customs house, dating back to the eighteenth century. The light-flooded hall and grand hearth created the perfect setting for displaying art.

“They’re mesmerizing,” Camille said to Queenie. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Queenie’s young assistant shamelessly flirting with Billy, which was no surprise. He was the kind of good-looking that made a bow tie and horn-rimmed glasses sexy, and women went nuts for him. “I’m not the only one being mesmerized.”

“He’s quite a catch. Your mother and I often wonder why the two of you never—”

“I’d like to meet the artist,” Camille broke in.

“Of course,” said Queenie. “I was hoping you’d stop by tonight. You and Gaston have something in common.”

“Gaston. He’s French?”

“From Saint-Malo. You’re going to love him.” Taking Camille by the hand, she towed her through the milling crowd to a slender, sandy-haired guy in a striped T-shirt and thin neck scarf. “Gaston,” said Queenie. “This is Camille, my best friend’s daughter.”

He looked up, and when he saw her, his eyes flared wide, making her glad she’d decided to shower and put on makeup before coming out tonight. “Hi,” he said, extending his hand. “Very happy to meet you.”

Camille could tell he was struggling with his English, so she answered him in French. “Your pictures are truly beautiful,” she said. “Congratulations on this amazing show.”

A smile lit his face. “You’re French, too?”

“My father is. He raised me to speak his native language.”

“He must be from the south,” Gaston said. “Provence? I can hear it in every word you speak.”

The southern part of France had a dialect and cadence all its own, comparable to the unique sound of people from the Chesapeake region, a blend of accents and archaic terms.

“All right, you two. Stop being so foreign and cliquish,” Queenie said.

“We are foreign,” Gaston said with a wink.

“Camille works in photography, too,” Queenie said. “Did she tell you?”

Camille could smell matchmaking a mile off. Her mom and friends and half sisters abhorred a single woman’s status the way nature abhorred a vacuum. Sometimes it seemed her mother had recruited the whole town to find her a boyfriend. For no reason she could fathom, her thoughts strayed to Malcolm Finnemore. The ticked-off client. Not boyfriend material.

“Sorry,” she told Gaston in French. “She always tries to throw me together with random men.”

“Not to worry,” he said, also in French. “I’m an artist. Everybody knows it’s dangerous to hook up with an artist.” He grinned and reverted to English. “So. You like photography.”

“Yes.”

“She specializes in old film and prints,” Queenie said. “I keep trying to get her to do a show here at the Beholder.”

One of Queenie’s assistants came over. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “We’ve got a buyer for the big landscape.”

Queenie went straight into action. She pressed her hand against Gaston’s elbow and steered him to the large piece that dominated what had once been the mantel over the hearth.

Camille took the opportunity to pull Billy away from the puppyeyed shopgirl, and they went back out into the street.

“Hey,” said Billy. “She was cute.”

“All twenty-year-olds are cute.”

He sent her a fake-resentful look. “Since when are twenty-year-olds too young for me?”

“We’re thirty-six,” she reminded him.

“In that case, you should take me up on my offer to marry you. I’d make an honest woman of you.”

“Where to next?” she asked, ignoring the suggestion. “Ooh-La-La?”

“Lead on,” he said. “I haven’t seen your mom in a while. Plus, Rhonda always serves those little crab croquettes. They taste like an angel farted in your mouth.”

“No wonder I’d never marry you. You’re too obnoxious.”

“Let’s get over there before the angel farts are gone.”

The shop looked bright and twinkly and inviting, as always. Located in a vine-clad brick building that used to be a milliner’s shop a century before, it had twin display windows facing the street. As always, the display was gorgeous, a blend of beach style and continental chic. Despite the kitschy shop name, Camille’s mother had exquisite taste, and her half sister, Britt, had a keen eye for design.

Cherisse filled the place with supremely interesting things—unique home goods, sommelier tools, glass rolling pins, printed toile curtains, Clairefontaine writing paper and pens that felt just right in the hand. Camille had practically grown up in the boutique, listening to Edith Piaf and Serge Gainsbourg while helping her mom display a set of crystal knife rests or a collector’s edition of Mille Bornes or the Dutch bike game of Stap op.

In the 1990s, the first lady was photographed in the shop, buying a fabulous set of Laguiole cutlery, and business kicked into high gear. Socialites from D.C. and even a couple of celebrities became regular customers. There were write-ups in national magazines, travel articles, and shopping blogs touting the treasures of Ooh-La-La, designating it as a must-visit destination.

Camille owed her very existence to the shop. Although she never realized it growing up, her parents had married for reasons of coldblooded commerce. Her father, Henry, was looking for a marriage path to citizenship. Cherisse, who was fifteen years younger, needed a backer for the shop she’d always dreamed of opening. They both wanted a child, desperately. Desperately enough to believe their shared desire for a home and family was a kind of love. What they eventually had to admit—first to themselves privately, then to each other, and finally to Camille—was that no matter how much they loved their daughter, the marriage wasn’t working for them.

When Camille was eight years old, they sat her down and told her just that.

Their divorce was, as the mediator termed it, freakishly civilized. After a couple of years, Camille adjusted to dividing her time between two households. A few years after the divorce, Cherisse met Bart, and that was when Camille finally learned what true love looked like. It was the light in her mother’s eyes when Bart walked into a room. It was the firm touch of his hand in the small of her back. It was a million little things that simply were not there, had never been there, between her mom and dad.

She was grateful that her parents got along. Bart and her father were cordial whenever they encountered each other. But despite their efforts, the decades-old breakup of her family felt like an old wound that still ached sometimes. When she thought about Julie, she wondered which was harder, to have your family taken apart by divorce, or to lose a parent entirely.

Cherisse, at least, had thrived in her new life. She and Bart had two girls together, Britt and Hilda. Ooh-La-La annexed the building next door, turning it into its sister property, Brew-La-La, the best café in town. All through her high school years, Camille had minded the shop while her two younger half sisters played in the small garden courtyard.

These days, Camille worked behind the scenes with the bookkeeper, Wendell, an insatiable surfer and skateboarder who financed his passion by keeping the books. Despite his shaggy hair and surfer duds, he was smart, intuitive, and meticulous. The sales staff consisted of Rhonda, who was also an amazing cook, and Daphne, a transplant from upstate New York with a mysterious past.

Britt was the resident merchandiser and display designer. Cherisse was in charge of “flying and buying.” Two times a year, she went to Europe to find the lovely offerings that had put the shop on the map. Before losing Jace, Camille used to accompany her on buying trips, soaking in the sights of Paris and Amsterdam, London and Prague. It was a mother-daughter treasure hunt, those unforgettable days.

After Jace died, Cherisse urged Camille to come along on trips the way she used to, but Camille refused. She never flew anywhere. Just the idea of setting foot on a plane sent her into a panic. She never again climbed a mountain or rode a trail, rafted on a river, surfed a wave, or flew on a kiteboard. Other than routine commutes to D.C. for work, she didn’t go anywhere. These days, she regarded the world as a dangerous place, and her job was to stay put and keep Julie safe.

She had failed miserably at that today. She vowed not to make that mistake again.

Rhonda greeted them at the shop entrance with a tray of her legendary crab croquettes.

“I’m never leaving you,” Billy said, helping himself to three of them.

“Promises, promises,” said Rhonda. “Come on in, you two. We’re having a great night. The tourist season is about to kick into high gear.”

Camille’s mother was in her element, greeting visitors, treating even out-of-towners like cherished friends. Billy made a beeline for her. “Hello, gorgeous,” he said, giving her a quick hug.

“Hello yourself,” she said, her face lighting up. Then she noticed Camille. “Glad you came after all. How’s Julie doing?”

“She shooed us both out of the house,” Camille said. “She’s okay, Mom. Thanks for showing up at the hospital. I was a mess.”

“You were not. Or did I miss something?”

You missed me having a meltdown in front of Malcolm Finnemore, Camille thought, but she simply said, “I’m all right now.”

Billy surveyed an antique table displaying a polished punch bowl in the shape of a giant octopus. “The shop looks great, as always.”

“Thanks. Did you see Camille’s new prints? I can’t keep them in stock. I’ve sold four of them already tonight.” She gestured at a display of the three newest prints, matted and framed on a beadboard wall.

The center image was one Camille had rendered from an old daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe. Printed on archival paper, the portrait had a haunting quality, as elusive and scary as his poems. Next to those prints were examples of Camille’s own work. She almost never took pictures anymore, so these were from years before. She’d used a vintage large-format Hasselblad, capturing local scenes with almost hyperrealistic precision.

When Jace was still alive, Camille had been a chaperone on one of Julie’s school trips to the White House. It had been one of those days when shot after shot seemed to be sprinkled with fairy dust, from the dragonfly hovering perfectly over a pond in the Kennedy Garden, to a frozen moment of two girls holding hands as they ran along the east colonnade, framed by sheer white columns.

“I love these,” said a browsing tourist. “That’s such a beautiful shot of the White House Rose Garden.”

“Here’s the artist,” Billy said, nudging Camille forward.

“It’s very intriguing,” the woman said. “It looks as if the picture was taken at some earlier time.”

“They’re from six years ago. I was shooting with an antique camera that day,” Camille said.

“My daughter has a great collection of old cameras,” Cherisse said. “She does her own developing and printing.”

“Well, it’s fantastic. I’m going to get this one for a good friend who loves old photographs, too.” She smiled, picking up the Rose Garden print.

Camille was flattered, and she felt a wave of pride. She wished Jace had lived to see this. “Maybe this hobby of yours will turn into something one day,” he used to tell her.

“… on the back,” the woman was saying.

“Sorry,” Camille said. “What was that?”

“I wondered if you could write a message on the back,” she said. “To Tavia.”

“No problem.” The woman seemed a bit quirky, though perfectly nice. Camille found a pen and added a short greeting and her signature to the back of the mat.

“Let’s go drink,” Billy said after she finished. “I can watch you get hit on at the Skipjack.”

“Good plan,” she said, making a face. Guys didn’t hit on her, and he knew it.

She and Billy made their way to the rustic tavern, a nineteenth-century brick building near the fishing pier. The crowd here was friendly and upbeat, spilling out onto the deck overlooking the water.

“Is it just me,” Billy murmured, scanning the crowd, “or do we know at least half the people here?”

“The perks of growing up in a small town,” she said.

“Or the drawbacks. There are at least two women here I’ve slept with. Should I say hi, or pretend I don’t see them?”

“You should order a drink for me, and pick up the tab because I’ve had a rotten day.” Camille stepped up to the bar. “I’ll have a dark-and-stormy,” she said to the bartender.

“Camille, hi,” said a woman, coming up behind her.

Camille tried not to cringe visibly. She knew that voice, with its boarding-school accent and phony friendliness. “Hey, Courtney,” she said.

Drake Larson’s ex-wife wore a formfitting neoprene dress and a stiff smile. Years earlier, she’d been one of the come-heres, the kind that used to make Camille feel self-conscious. Camille was never as cool, as polished, as sophisticated as the kids from the city. One of the reasons she had worked so hard to excel at sports was to find a way to outshine the come-heres.

“I didn’t expect to see you out tonight,” Courtney said. “Vanessa told me your Julie had a terrible accident this morning.”

“She’s fine now,” Camille said, wishing she didn’t feel defensive.

“Well, that’s good to know. I can’t imagine leaving Vanessa after she suffered a head injury.”

“How do you know she hit her head?”

Courtney looked flustered. “That’s just what Vanessa heard. So, Julie’s all right, then, since you’re here drinking with some guy.” She eyed Billy, who was paying for the drinks.

“Julie is fine, and Vanessa is welcome to give her a call,” Camille said.

“I’ll pass that along,” Courtney said. “Vanessa’s busy tonight, though. She and her friends are by the gazebo, listening to the band. Maybe you could text Julie and tell her to join in.”

“Julie decided to stay home,” Camille said.

“You know,” Billy broke in, “just chilling out and being awesome.”

“I see. Well, I suppose she’s reached that awkward stage,” Courtney said, taking a dainty sip of her dirty martini.

Billy regarded her pointedly. “Some people never outgrow it.”

Courtney sniffed, either ignoring or missing the dig. “Kids. They change so quickly at this age, don’t they? Vanessa and Julie used to be such good friends, but lately they don’t seem to have much in common.”

“Is that so?” Billy asked.

“Vanessa is so busy with cheerleader tryouts. Is Julie going out for cheerleading, too?”

Julie would rather have a root canal, thought Camille.

“Julie doesn’t like being on the sidelines,” Billy said.

“She should try cheerleading,” Courtney said. “She has such a pretty face, and the practice is really good exercise. The drills are a great way to get in shape.”

Camille could feel Billy starting to bluster. She gave him a nudge. “Our drinks are ready.”

As they took their cocktails to the deck outside, Camille overheard Courtney boasting to someone else about Vanessa’s latest achievement. She knew she shouldn’t let the woman’s remarks get under her skin, but she couldn’t help it, especially when she looked across the way at the village green and saw a group of kids dancing and having fun. Perky blond Vanessa was the life of the party. Julie didn’t seem to belong anymore. And Camille had no idea how to fix it.