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That night, as Poe and I were lying in our beds, I decided to go for it. It was dark, and the night was cold and clear. Through the skylight, I could see the thick, brilliant smear of the Milky Way.
“Have you talked to your mom recently?” I asked.
Poe didn’t answer for a minute. “What’s it to you?”
“Just wondering how she is.”
“She’s fine.” Poe rolled over to face the wall.
“If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here, honey.”
She muttered something.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t need to talk to you,” she said, enunciating clearly, her voice loud, as if talking to a room full of slightly deaf simpletons. “Though my circumstances are challenging, I am quite well-adjusted.”
“That’s great,” I said. “I’m glad.” I took a long, slow breath, still staring at the stars. “Your mom and I were really close once.”
“Whatever.”
“I loved her more than I loved anyone.”
“Hooray for her.”
“And I love you, no matter what. I would love to be closer, and I’d—”
“Could you shut up now? I’m trying to sleep.”
I reached down to pet Boomer, who slept next to me, since we both couldn’t fit on the twin bed. His tail thumped, letting me know I was loved. God, grant me the serenity to not tell my niece she’s a royal pain in the ass. “Good night, Poe. Sleep well.”
* * *
The second weekend after I returned to Scupper Island, my mom asked if I wanted anything in town. It was Saturday, her day to do the grocery shopping.
“Can I come with you? Please? Please?”
“Sure, but only if you calm down.” She kissed Tweety on the beak—I suppressed my scream—and went to the bottom of the stairs. “Poe, you need anything?”
“No.”
“Text me if you think of anything.”
There was no answer.
“Give me a few minutes,” I told my mom. “I need to brush my hair.” And change and put on makeup. Without a doubt, I’d run into someone I knew.
Half an hour later, I was shiny and clean and ready to go. “Go see Poe,” I told my dog. Given time, I knew he’d win her over. He obeyed, galumphing up the stairs, the genius.
I’d graduated to a plain old runner’s brace, which made my knee look lumpy but was a vast improvement over the soft cast. My mom was waiting by the front door, puss on her face, arms crossed.
We drove into town, my mom grumbling about the “crowds” that would be at the market, now that it was 10:00 a.m. By crowds, she meant four to six people.
We pulled into the store’s parking lot. “I think I’ll take a hobble around, if that’s okay with you,” I said.
“Suit yourself.”
“Here, let me give you some money for groceries.” I took out my wallet.
“Save it.”
“I make a good living, Mom. Let me help.”
She gave me a dirty look, then threw the car into Park. “I can afford to put food on the table, Nora.”
“Well, I’m an extra mouth to feed, and—”
She got out the car and walked off, her canvas bags flapping indignantly.
“Thank you!” I called. She didn’t look back.
I would definitely be needing that rental place, fast. Otherwise, there’d be blood everywhere, and soon. I hated to use words like killing spree, but between Poe talking on the phone at 3:00 a.m. this morning, then using all the hot water again and my mother’s refusal to have a conversation of more than two sentences, I was getting a little homicidal.
I maneuvered myself out of the car. Sammy’s Grocery was behind Main Street, the heart of our happening downtown, and it was probably time for me to start walking without the crutch.
And you know...I didn’t want to look quite so pathetic. Bad enough that I was still limping.
Slowly and carefully, I wobble-walked up the slight incline. It was the end of April now, and in the years I’d been away, the town had planted crab apple trees along Main Street. They were thinking about blooming—the little pink buds were still clenched, but giving a sweet glow. A restaurant—Stone Cellar—had window boxes of pansies. I peeked inside. Wooden beams, dark floor, nice-looking bar. And looky here—it was open on weekends in the off-season. That was something. Only Red’s, the bar frequented by the hard-core drinkers, had been open year-round when I was a kid.
I stopped at the corner. The gray-shingled building here was, conveniently, a real estate office, pictures of houses in the windows.
Time to be independent and all that.
Suddenly, I missed Bobby. I missed him so much it wrapped around me like a lead blanket, heavy, tugging me down. He had called the other day, at two-fifteen in the afternoon, and his voice had made my eyes well up. We’d talked gently and sweetly to each other, asking about work, what the other was doing. We’d listened to each other breathe, and it was...nice.
If he was dating Jabrielle, he didn’t say so.
Once, I’d imagined marrying Bobby. Before we started dating even, and once we’d started, I couldn’t imagine anyone more perfectly suited to me. We had so much fun together! Life had seemed impossibly wonderful.
Then the Big Bad Event happened, but even that showed me how great he was. About three months after the BBE, he’d said, “When we make it official someday,” just an offhand remark that had made me so embarrassingly happy I almost floated. I’d told Roseline, who was already engaged, and she’d brought me to the posh bridal salon where she’d bought her gown, and we played dress-up for an hour.
Now I was getting a place of my own, back in the hometown I never wanted to return to.
At least I didn’t have to remember our fun times here. Bobby had never been to the island. I’d never let him come. I hadn’t come, always making the case that Mom should come to Boston, which she did, stoically, without a lot of fuss, never staying more than a day.
The man in the real estate office saw me standing there and opened the door. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m looking to rent a place for a couple of months,” I said. Until Lily comes back. Until I make things right again.
“Come on in!” he said with such good cheer that I knew he was an island transplant. “I’m Jim Ivansky. We handle lots of rentals here. What brings you to Scupper?”
I filled him in, mentioned Boomer, and he smiled and smiled as Realtors do. “We have some great places. You’ll be renting during the summer, so the price will go up after Memorial Day, but I’m sure we can find you something.”
The first few houses he showed me were the summer people’s McMansions—five-bedroom, six-bath places on the water, complete with boathouses.
“It’s just me and my dog,” I said. I paused. “Maybe something with two bedrooms, in case my niece wants to stay with me once in a while.”
He scanned his listings. “How about this?” he asked, swinging the computer screen around to show me. It was the Krazinskis’ place, an unremarkable ranch on Route 12, the closest house to Mom’s. I wondered why their house was vacant. The interior pictures showed a pretty bland, somewhat-careworn place and a kitchen last updated in the 1970s, based on the Harvest Gold appliances.
“Got something with a little more...character?” I asked, feeling guilty. Lizzy Krazinski—or Lizzy Krizzy, as she’d been known—had been a year behind me in school. We’d ridden the school bus together. She’d been okay, Lizzy.
“I know what you mean,” Jim said. He scrolled down. It seemed that it was McMansion or meh.
“Oh, hold on, what was that one?” I asked.
“This? It’s a houseboat.”
“In Maine? Isn’t the water a little rough for that?”
“It is, but it’s moored in Oberon Cove,” Jim said. “Some rich tech goober had it built over at WoodenBoat and then bought most of the Cove. Built a nice dock to moor it. To the best of my knowledge, he hasn’t even lived here yet. One of those guys who has houses all over the world.”
“Think he’d rent it?” I asked.
“It’s not for sale; I just have the listing for tax reasons. I’m on the assessment board here in town. But let me give him a call. I think he’s in New Zealand on a spirit quest.”
“Of course.” I smiled. Rich tech goobers did things like that.
Jim punched in a string of numbers, and miraculously, the guy picked up. “Collier, Jim Ivansky from Island Real Estate here. I’ve got a beautiful young lady here who’s absolutely in love with your houseboat.” He put his phone on speaker. “You’re on with Nora Stuart. Nora, meet Collier Rhodes.”
“Hi there!” I said in my Cute Nora voice. “It’s such a pleasure to talk to you! Jim’s right, I’m madly in love. What an amazing place you’ve built!”
“Thank you so much!” he said. “So you’re looking for shelter and inspiration, is that it?”
Not really, but... “You got it.” I told him my story of returning home after an accident, the siren call of the sea, the rugged beauty of Maine. “I wonder if you’d consider renting it to me. It’s so lovely, and I’d take excellent care of it. Something about it just spoke to me.”
“I hear you. Returning to your roots, taking time to breathe in the cosmic power that saved your life. Absolutely get it. I’d be honored to rent it to you. You know what? You don’t even have to pay me.”
Jim winced. There went his commission.
“No, no,” I said. “I’m more than happy to pay.”
“All right. I totally respect that. Okay, then. I’ll let Jim work out the details. Namaste, Nora Stuart.” He hung up.
“Ah, tech geniuses,” I said, and Jim laughed.
Ten minutes later, the houseboat was mine until mid-September, though I planned to go back to Boston in August. But maybe Poe and Lily would like to stay there when Lily got out of jail. In the meantime, it was all mine. It was even furnished. I couldn’t wait to see it. Maybe my mom and Poe would like to come with me. Or not.
Boomer, I was sure, would love it.
I went out of the office, keys in hand, and started down the street, feeling rather pleased with myself. No more Tweety giving me the evil eye.
I’d be living alone again. First time since the Big Bad Event.
My heart suddenly went into A-fib, a hummingbird trapped in my chest, buzzing frantically, trying to get out. My mouth was sand, palms sweaty.
I’d be okay. It was fine. I had Boomer now. And it was Scupper Island. A very safe place.
Shit. I couldn’t do it. I’d have to stay with my mom. She wouldn’t kick me out. I turned to go back in the real estate office, then turned around again.
No. Now or never. No more gray, no more fears. Plus, when Lily came back, she could stay with me.
“Time for a donut,” I muttered. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Lala’s was four shops (or shoppes) down the street. I could use a sugar boost, since my mother didn’t believe in dessert, viewing it a moral weakness like her Calvinist ancestors before her. Poor thing. I mean, sure, I was a GI doc and believed in good nutrition, but I also had a beating heart.
There. The thoughts of donuts had helped. I was calmer.
“Let me get the door for you,” said an older gentleman, approaching with a newspaper under his arm. Mr. Carver, who did handyman work for the summer people—opening their houses, clearing their lawns, letting them know if a tree fell during the winter.
My dad used to help him out once in a while.
“Hi, Mr. Carver,” I said.
“Ah...hello there, young lady.”
“Nora Stuart. Bill and Sharon’s daughter.” I glanced at his left hand. Married, and therefore not a contender for Mom.
“Is that right? Jeezum crow, you got big. Have a good day, now.” He smiled and headed off.
Not everyone hated me. That was nice to know. “Hey, Mr. Carver,” I said, gimping out after him. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure thing.” Steam rose from his coffee.
“Um...” It was embarrassing that I had to ask someone I hadn’t seen in almost two decades a deeply personal question. “Do you remember my dad, Mr. Carver?”
“Of course. He was a nice fella.”
“Did you ever hear from him? After he left the island?” Because he never bothered getting in touch with me. My face felt hot.
“Cahn’t say that I did, sweethaht.” He thought another second or two. “No. I don’t think so.” His weathered blue eyes were so kind that I had to look away.
“No, I figured it was a long shot. But thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Nice to see you.”
So. The first stone had been overturned and revealed nothing. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, but...well.
The humid, sweet air of Lala’s was like a much-needed hug.
Standing in line was a mother with three little kids. The older two stood silently, staring down at their phones, their necks curved in that unmistakable posture that said, Don’t bother me, I’m emotionally dead inside. The littlest kid, about six, blond with a puffy winter coat on, pulled on his mother’s hand. “I want a cookie,” he said.
“You’re not getting one. I already told you that.” She adjusted her purse strap and sighed.
The little boy pushed out his lip, then saw me looking. “What happened to you?” he asked, eyeing my sling.
“I didn’t look crossing the street, and I got hit by a car,” I said. “So you make sure you look both ways and always hold a grown-up’s hand.”
The mom looked back at me.
It was Darby Dennings, sidekick of Amy Beckman, Queen of the Cheetos, receiver of hugs. Amazing how I knew everyone instantly, as if I hadn’t been gone for fifteen years.
“Sorry if he’s bothering you,” Darby said with a smile. Her eyes flicked up and down, assessing my injuries, her gaze lingering on my purse. “That’s a great bag,” she said. “Mind if I ask where you got it?”
“Oh, um...I think I got it at—”
I’d bought it at a snooty boutique on Newbury Street after I was hired by Boston Gastroenterology Associates. Roseline, who had a serious shopping addiction, believed that every woman needed to own a purse that was way too expensive. We’d made a day of it, both of us still heady with our salaries, and settled on this one, made of buttery brown leather so smooth and supple I wanted to date it.
It had cost an amount that still embarrassed and thrilled me.
“I got it at T.J. Maxx,” I said.
“You can get great stuff there,” she said. “The one in Portland?”
“Boston.”
“Is that where you’re from?” There wasn’t so much as a flicker of recognition in her eyes.
“Mommy, I want a cookie!”
She ignored the little guy, smiling at me, and I saw myself through her eyes for one deeply satisfying second. Granted, the sling. But still, my hair was shiny from the straightening iron and the high-end products I used to tame it. Makeup was Chanel. I wore a blue cashmere sweater and Lucky Brand jeans and buttery leather Kate Spade flats.
“I’m from here, actually,” I said. “Nora Stuart. How are you, Darby?”
Her jaw dropped, and her face went from pleasant to flushed, her smile fading. “Well, holy crap.”
“These are your kids?”
“Yeah. Uh, Matthew, Kaylee and Jordan.”
“Hi, kids,” I said. “I went to school with your mother.”
The children didn’t respond or notice or care.
“You lost weight. Christ. I didn’t even recognize you.” Her eyes narrowed as if I’d played a trick on her.
“Whatcha want there, Darby?” asked Lala.
Then the door opened again, bringing a gust of cold air, and in came a good-looking guy.
Darby glanced at him, too. “Hey, Sully.”
Good God. Sullivan Fletcher. Twin brother of Luke Fletcher, god of high school. For a second, I wobbled on my bad knee.
He did a double take when he saw me.
“Nora! Hey. How are you?” He didn’t smile, but he didn’t scowl, either.
“Hi,” I breathed. “Fine, thanks, Sullivan. Um...how are you?”
He looked good, thank God. I never did learn exactly what had happened to him in that car accident senior year...just that he’d had a brain injury. I remember they said he was expected to recover, but you never knew what that truly meant.
But the years had been kind to Sullivan Fletcher. Once, he’d been an ordinary-looking boy, brown hair, brown eyes. Now age had given him character. His face had lost its boyish softness, and his jaw and cheekbones were hard and well-defined. Curling hair, on the shaggy side. He was tall, maybe six-one and rangy and...well, interesting.
And he was normal. My adrenaline burst was followed by relief. Those words—traumatic brain injury—had haunted me. Every time we’d had a TBI case in residency, I’d thought of Sullivan Fletcher.
But here he was, looking completely healthy and...well...good.
Really, really good. My mouth was dry with relief.
“I heard you were back,” he said.
“Yep. I am.” So much for witty repartee.
I wondered if Luke had turned out, as well. Once upon a time, I had loved Sullivan Fletcher’s twin, right up until I hated him.
“Darby, what do you want? I don’t have all day,” said Lala.
“A loaf of rye. Jesus. Do I ever get anything else?”
“I want a cookie, Mommy!” said the little guy. The other two had yet to look up from their phones.
Lala put the bread through the slicer, wrapped it and handed it over, taking Darby’s money at the same time. “Help you?” she said to me.
“Could I please have a donut?”
“Just one?”
“Yes, please.”
“You’re in Boston now?” Sullivan asked.
“That’s right,” I said, nodding. “Here for a little while. Are you getting donuts? I love them. I mean, you know, who doesn’t, right? Donuts should be the universal sign of happiness. We could win wars with donuts. And, hey, no one makes donuts like Lala, right?”
You are a highly trained physician, my brain told me. Snap the fuck out of it.
Sullivan’s eyebrows drew together a little.
“What do you do for work?” Darby asked, making no move to leave.
I dragged my eyes off Sully, trying to regain my cool “Um...I’m a doctor.”
“A doctor?” she said. “A real doctor?”
“Yep. I’m a gastroenterologist.”
“What’s that?”
“Stomach and digestive track.”
“Gross,” Darby said.
I usually had a reply for that, some alleged Mark Twain quote about the joys of pooping, but my mind was blank. Was Sullivan mad at me? What had happened to Luke? Did he still live here? Should I apologize? Maybe I should just get out of here.
Yes. That one.
“Here you go,” Lala said, and I handed over a couple dollars, then hobbled out, my bad leg locked, the other feeling weak.
Sully held the door for me. “See you around,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. Another eloquent answer.
Then, before I made more of an ass of myself than I already had, I stiff-legged it down the street. I kept my head down, the fear that had splashed at me earlier now rising like a fast tide.
Luke Fletcher would definitely know I was back now.
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