16
Dear Lily,
I forgot how pretty May is on the island. All the leaves have popped, and the birds are awake at 4:47 a.m. every morning. I saw three baby rabbits this morning, and they were so cute. The other night, Poe came over to do homework, and I made her grilled cheese and tomato. We always used to eat that on the first day of winter, remember?
Love,
Nora
The weekend before Memorial Day, I took the ferry to Boston to retrieve my dog. I was ridiculously excited to have him back, to tug his silky ears, gaze into his pretty brown eyes and feel his reassuring bulk on the bottom of my bed. Bobby loved Boomer, sure, but the Dog of Dogs was mine. My soul mate.
It had been my decision to get a dog two months after the Big Bad Event. Bobby and I went to the animal shelter, and there he was, twelve weeks old, the result of a Bernese mountain dog and a Rottweiler love affair. He’d grow too big for most Bostonians and their apartments. One look in his worried eyes and the deal was done. And you know what they say about adopted pets—they never forget that they were rescued.
Turns out, Boomer rescued me. He got me outside (armed with pepper spray and rape whistle). If a stranger approached, Boomer’s tail let me know if the person was okay, because I was scared of everyone.
At home, when my heart turned on me in a panic attack, fluttering like a hummingbird, and I couldn’t breathe or remember where I was, Boomer would sense it and nudge my hand with his velvety snout, whining his love and concern. When Bobby worked nights, the dog stayed glued to me, and the truth was, he made me feel safer than Bobby.
So yes, I was glad to have him back. That was an understatement.
And I was eager to see Bobby again, too. He’d been perfectly lovely over these two weeks, sending me pictures, checking up on me via text and even a nice long phone call one night, when I sat on the top deck of my houseboat and watched the sunset. I almost felt like my Perez self.
I wondered what would happen in August, after Lily and Poe reunited and left for Seattle again, as was the plan. When I’d go back to Boston—hopefully with Mom dating someone, because for all her independence, she had to be lonely—what would be in store? I’d need a new apartment. Maybe I’d love it as much as I’d loved my old place. Maybe I’d feel safe there.
Maybe I should give Bobby another chance. I shouldn’t have been indulging in thoughts about Sully—I was only temporary here.
And Bobby wanted to get back together. If I was past the grayness, maybe it would be like old times. I almost couldn’t blame him for fondling Jabrielle’s hair. She was beautiful, if bitchy, condescending and without morals.
Those three months of perfection when Bobby and I were new together...maybe they were worth another try.
So that morning, while I didn’t go crazy with makeup and staring into my closet, I did take a little time to look put together. Traded in the jean jacket for a light brocade coat, and instead of the L.L.Bean muck boots that were required wearing in springtime up here, put on some cowboy boots instead. Added a scarf and dangly earrings.
On the ferry ride over, I decided to quiz Jake on my father. I was the only one on the boat, which was skipping and dipping across the swells, the salt spray undoing my hair ironing. Frizz it would be. I’d come prepared with a hair elastic.
I went into the pilothouse. “Jake, remember I was asking about my dad the other night?”
“Huh? I think I was in the bathroom, maybe.”
“Yeah, and speaking of that, if you want a free GI consult, I’m here for you. Or you could just try some Imodium next time.”
“What about your father?”
I tugged my coat closer. “Well, you’ve been the ferry captain since forever. Do you remember him leaving the island that time? He would’ve had a suitcase or two. Might’ve been upset.”
Jake lit his pipe, and a sweet, smoky smell filled the air. “Ayuh, I remember.”
My heart leaped. “You do? So...can you tell me about it?”
He drew on the pipe, clenching it between his yellow teeth. “Well, you’re right. He had a suitcase or two. He was aflutter. Talking to himself. Talking to me, talking to what’s-his-name...the Fletcher boy and his mother.”
“Which Fletcher boy? Sullivan?”
“The one who played all the sports.”
“Luke?”
“I guess so. The one who wasn’t at your party the other night. Anyway, your father was a regular rig that day.” Mainespeak for over-the-top. “Guess your mother kicked him out. He wasn’t happy about it. Said she’d get what she wanted, kept yappin’ on and on about what was fair and what wasn’t and how no one could tell him what to do.”
So they had been fighting. Mom never copped to it, but Lily had known somehow.
“Do you remember if you were going to Portland or Boston?”
“Portland.”
I looked out at the gray sea, the lobster buoys bouncing on the whitecaps. “Anything else, Jake? Anything else you remember?”
Jake looked at me, his craggy face unexpectedly kind. “Yep. He had a picture of you two girls in his hand. Kept starin’ at it. Might’ve been cryin’ just a dite.”
My throat clamped tight. “Thanks, Jake,” I whispered.
“Nawt a bothah.”
I went back onto the deck and sat in the hard-molded plastic chair.
The image of my father, distressed and angry, holding a hastily packed suitcase and a photo of Lily and me...that made me want to put my head down and cry.
It seemed I’d have to talk to Teeny and Luke if I wanted to find out any more.
* * *
When we pulled into the landing an hour later, Bobby was already there waiting for me, checking his phone. Boomer, on the other hand, went nuts the second he saw me.
“Boomer!” I said, kneeling down and hugging my wriggling dog. “My buddy! I missed you!” He whined with joy and licked my face, then tried to hug me, putting his big paws on my shoulders. “Who’s a good boy? You are, Boomer! Everyone says so!” I smooched his head, then stood up, still petting my doggy. “Hi, Bobby.”
“Hey,” he said, pocketing his phone and handing me the leash. “How’s it going?”
“Great. How are you?”
“Good. Listen, I can’t stay. I’m really sorry. Work stuff.”
Oh. My heart dropped a few inches. “No problem. Everything good with you?”
“Yeah. Excellent. I’m gonna miss the big guy, but I guess I can deal with it.” He bent down and rubbed Boomer’s head. “See you in two weeks, Boomer. Love you.”
Those last two words were definitely for the dog. Bobby lifted his hand and, just like that, strode away.
Okay.
So. Cross lunch with Bobby off my mental list of things to do today. It sure was different from two weeks ago, when he had the whole day for me.
This was good. This was reinforcement that our breakup had been for the best. This was exactly the kind of classic Bobby nonchalance that I’d grown to hate.
Even so, it threw me a little.
Still, it was a beautiful day in Boston. I called Roseline, told her I was free earlier than I expected, and she said she’d be on Newbury Street in ten minutes so we could power-shop and eat.
“Oh, my God, I miss you so much!” she said when she saw me, throwing her arms around me. “And you, too, Boomer!” she added, bending down to get a sloppy kiss. “I actually miss you more, puppy. Don’t tell Nora.” She held me at arm’s length. “You, my friend, look fantastic.” We hugged again and started walking, arm in arm.
The brownstones of Newbury Street were beautiful, and Roseline chattered nonstop, giving me all the gossip about our friends and acquaintances. She and Amir were going to Haiti for a delayed honeymoon to see the family, most of whom I’d met over the years. We went in and out of shops, tying Boomer’s leash around a signpost so he could woo the sun-deprived Bostonians, and did our usual thing—fondled purses and tried on shoes. It was great to be together again.
But had Boston always been so loud? Did every driver have to scream curse words out their window? (Yes, of course, it was Boston.) The f-bombs rained down in a nearly benign fashion, so common in this city that the impact was almost nil.
“You should hear how quiet it is on the island,” I told her as we ate lunch, Boomer at our feet, the sunshine warming our hair. “At night, I sit on the deck and watch the sunset and swat the blackflies, and it’s beautiful. Please tell me you’ll come visit.”
“Do you love it there?” she asked.
I didn’t answer right away, taking a slurp of my clam chowder. “Sometimes, I do,” I said. “On the one hand, everyone knows me there and...” I shrugged. “It’s like I’m the same person I was at fifteen, rather than an actual adult.”
“It’s the same for me when I go back to Haiti,” she said. “Harvard, Yale, they mean nothing. I’m still the little girl who peed in church on Easter Sunday.”
“Exactly. This week at the clinic, I was called ‘the fat one’ and ‘Sharon’s other daughter, not the pretty one.’”
“That’s so sweet,” Rosie said, rolling her eyes. “First of all, you’re very pretty. And fat? Come on! Don’t they have eyes?” She took a bite of her burger. “How’s your sister, by the way?”
Roseline knew Lily was in prison; I’d told her when it happened, and now I felt a wave of shame at how I’d done it, making it seem like no big deal. After all, Lily’s sentence wasn’t long, and her crimes weren’t terrible, but she was in prison nonetheless. Then again, a few months ago, I’d been desperate to talk about anything that made me feel better, and somehow my sister going to State did that. I mean, I might’ve been beaten within an inch of death, but at least I wasn’t Lily.
Yes. Shame.
“She’s okay, I guess,” I said, not that I knew. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Poe and this other girl, my old classmate’s daughter. It’s nice. I forgot I liked teenagers.” Audrey had stopped by this week. Twice, as a matter of fact. We talked about movies, and on Thursday, she was going to come over to watch Naked and Afraid, a show we both loved. I wanted to have another sleepover for both girls, but I wasn’t sure Sullivan would welcome that, since I’d kind of blown him off the night of my party.
“So what’s going on with Dr. Bobby Byrne?” Roseline asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He was being really...attentive. Lots of texts and emails, a few phone calls. Today, though, he pretty much tossed me the leash and left.”
“Are you thinking about getting back together?” Her voice was suspiciously neutral.
“I don’t know,” I said. “We got off to such a great start, and then...”
“Then you got beat up and almost killed and after the thrill of being noble faded, he got bored,” she finished.
“Thanks for reminding me. But I was pretty pathetic. I’d get bored of me, too.”
“Nora! You weren’t pathetic! You were almost murdered!”
The elderly women at the table next to us looked over with obvious interest. “True story,” I said. “How’s your lobster?” They turned back to their meals.
Rosie lowered her voice. “So getting bored because your girlfriend was on shaky ground...that’s kind of shitty.”
“I know, but I didn’t like myself, either. I hate shaky ground.”
“Well, we all have to walk it, girlfriend. Best to have someone who’ll hold your hand while you’re doing it, not run ahead and start flirting with some slutty-ass resident.”
I smiled. “You’re so good for me.”
“I know, I know. And you’re such a slob of a friend to me.”
“Come out next weekend,” I suggested. “It’s Memorial Day, we have a boat parade, and rugged charm is our middle name. Please? You can meet my other friend and everything.”
“You have another friend? I’m devastated!” She grinned. “Okay, I’ll leave Amir home. You know how he is about boats. Titanic ruined him forever.”
“It ruined us all. There was room for two on that door.”
“Preach it, sister. But those last two minutes are worth everything,” she said.
She picked up the tab, and we spent the rest of the afternoon like our old selves, before she got married, before I was attacked.
* * *
On Monday night, after a day at the clinic that consisted of me removing a hook from Jeb Coffin’s palm and closing it with one entire stitch, I went home, changed into jeans and a cute little shirt with cunning little buttons up the back. I fed my beloved, then threw him the tennis ball in the little meadow that spread between the cove and the road.
Then I put my dog inside. Tonight, I was hitting the townie bar to see if I could talk to Luke Fletcher about my dad.
Red’s was the local hangout for serious drinkers and those who hated tourists. The parking lot was full of rusting, dented pickup trucks—beatahs, they were called—and a few cars from the 1970s, not in the classic sense, but in the held-together-with-wire-and-duct-tape sense.
I’d never been here, too young to go to bars when I left the island. Time to see if it was all I’d heard in my youth.
I parked my MINI Cooper at the edge and went in. It was a seedy, dark little place with sticky floors, a few grubby-looking tables and a bar where the serious drunks of Scupper Island sat propped up in a row. This was not a place sought out by flatlanders, that was for sure—it was locals only, and the air itself had a bitter, angry tint to it.
There at the bar was Luke Fletcher, leaning heavily on his elbows. And though he’d been horrible to me, I couldn’t help the pity that ran through my heart. This was a man whose life had not gone as planned, who couldn’t find his way out. There was no victory here for me.
The seat next to him was empty. I slid onto it. Luke didn’t notice.
“Whatcha want, deah?” asked the bartender, a woman who must’ve weighed three hundred pounds, body mass index of at least forty. Hypertension, judging from her weight and flushed face, and diabetes on the horizon if she didn’t have it already.
“Uh...a beer?” I was not about to order a pomegranate martini in this place, that was for sure.
“What kind? Bud, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Light, Genesee, Old Mil.”
“Old Mil,” I said, not that I’d ever had it. I didn’t even like beer.
Luke turned his head toward me, then did a double take. “It’s you.”
“Hey, Luke, how’s it going?”
He seemed pretty wasted; bleary eyes and slow to answer. “Just great.”
“I’m glad you’re here. I was wondering if I could talk to you.”
“You already are.”
The bartender put a beer in front of me. It was the color of urine from a severely dehydrated person—dark yellow and, well, disgusting.
“Luke, I know we have a little history between us about the Perez Scholarship, but I’d like it if we could be friends.”
“A little history? Why don’t you tell me how you got it? You did something, I know that. Some fat little trick up your fat sleeve.”
What a prince. “I worked really hard, Luke. I’m sorry you didn’t get the scholarship, but I’m not sorry I did.”
“Well, that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Anyway, maybe I can buy you a drink.” I paused. “Are you driving home?”
“No,” he said sullenly. “I lost my license.”
Good. “Well, I wanted to talk to you about something.” I gestured to the bartender. “Another one for my old classmate, please?”
The bartender squinted at me. “Holy crap. I’m Luke’s classmate, too. Who are you?”
“Nora Stuart.”
Her mouth dropped. “Whoa! So you lost all your fat, and I found it and then some.” She laughed. “I’m Carmella Hurley. Long time no see.”
One of the Cheetos back in the day, along with Darby Dennings and Amy Beckman. Except she didn’t seem mean anymore.
“Is it true you’re a doctor?” she asked, pulling a beer for Luke.
“I am,” I said. “I’m working at the clinic this summer.”
“Cool! Good for you! You always were smart. Maybe I’ll stop by. Do you do gastric bypass?” She laughed again. “Just kidding. But seriously, maybe you can put me on a diet. I keep meaning to drop a few pounds, you know? Oops, Froggy there needs another drink. I’m coming, Froggy. Jesus. Don’t wet yourself.” She looked back at me. “Beer’s on the house. I was kind of a bitch to you back in school. In fact, I probably owe you a keg.”
And just like that, a wound closed up. People did change. The thing about mean teenage girls—they were never happy. There was pressure and darkness in being a Popular Girl—I knew, because I’d watched Lily peel away her soul in exchange for hanging with the in crowd.
But from here, it looked like Carmella found her way to happiness, even if it did entail gaining 150 extra pounds.
“So what do you want?” Luke said.
I turned to look at him.
He was still ridiculously handsome, even now, even drunk. The irony was, he had what seemed to be a kind, happy face, always verging on a smile. Even when his eyes were bloodshot and his eyebrows drawn, it was impossible not to want to like him, to see a better version of himself hiding in there somewhere.
Poor Luke. He’d had so much potential.
“I don’t know if you remember,” I said, “but my father left Scupper Island a long time ago. When you and I were in fifth grade.”
He frowned. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Jake Ferriman said you and your mom were on the boat to Portland that day. The day he left.”
“I don’t remember.”
I nodded. “It was a long shot.”
“My mom might, though. Ma! Come here!”
I blinked. I hadn’t seen Teeny Fletcher when I came in, and the truth was, she scared me more than Luke.
When she saw who was sitting with her baby boy, her eyes narrowed. “What do you want?” she asked. “Why are you botherin’ my boy? Rubbin’ your fancy job in his face?”
Lee Harvey Oswald also had had a shitty, overprotective mother, they said.
“Hi, Teeny,” I said. “No, I just had a question about my father.”
Her overplucked eyebrows rose. “What would Luke know about that?”
“I understand you were both on the ferry the day he left. Jake Ferriman said you were going to Portland. My dad talked to you both. He was upset.”
Her lips narrowed in a hateful smile. “Oh, yeah. Ayuh. We were there.”
“We were? I don’t remember,” Luke said, finishing his drink.
“I’m hoping to find out what happened to him,” I said to Teeny.
“And what’s in it for me?”
Sweet woman. “What would you like?” Damn. That was a mistake. I should’ve offered her twenty bucks.
“What would I like?” she screeched. “I’d like my son to go to Tufts University, that’s what I’d like. But you killed his chance, didn’t you? And now you want something from me? I doubt it, flatlander.”
Ooh. The ultimate insult, calling a Mainer a flatlander.
The bar had gone more or less quiet.
“Mrs. Fletcher, I’m sorry you’re still under the delusion that I stole anything from Luke. As you well know, the Perez Scholarship goes to the student with the highest GPA. I was that student. I understand, however, that Luke got a nice scholarship to the University of Maine, which is another fantastic school. Xiaowen Liu got her doctorate there, and look at her now. So whatever happened to Luke since high school isn’t any of my doing, and all of his.”
“Fuck you,” Luke said, draining his drink.
“You’re a snotty little thing, aren’t you?” She rubbed her son’s back in a way that was quite icky, given that he was thirty-five. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Thanks for your time,” I said. “Carmella, nice seeing you again.” That, at least, I meant.
And I went to my car, more angry than shaken.
Teeny Fletcher had said not a damn thing about her other son. The one who was completely innocent. She could’ve said My son had a TBI because of you, and he’s losing more of his hearing every day. While not completely accurate, that sentiment would at least be understandable, a mother grieving her child’s injury and difficulties.
Instead, she was still fixated on a stupid scholarship.
Nope. She hadn’t mentioned Sullivan at all.