I sit on the lopsided plastic chair where I sit most afternoons—still covered in flour and frosting, but now there’s something else—confusion. Did he recognize me? The way he held on to my wrist. He wouldn’t have done that if he knew who I was.

And there’s something deeper too. Far beyond confusion. Fear. Fear that winds as thick as it did when I was a child.

I was beginning to feel safe. Secure in this little town that knows my history but was finally starting to look past it. Sure that the memories weren’t going to come back to strangle me. To drag me back to things forgotten and pushed aside.

He can’t be here. Not the son. Not the father. And not that boat sitting in the dock.

They just can’t be here.

An illusion. They have to be an illusion. Like ants in olive bread or the way his fingers felt around my wrist. Something made up and far away that can’t touch me.

I smooth a finger over the black screen of my phone. I’d spent the last hour searching for things I shouldn’t be searching for. Charles Archer wasn’t that hard to find. His wife, Rosemary Archer, died twelve years ago. Some kind of cancer, and she had a funeral in Upper Bay. Which is only an hour’s drive north of here. This whole time, Charles Archer has been less than an hour away.

The sons were harder to find. Dean and Sebastian. Sebastian attends a college in Colorado. Which would mean the one in the harbor is Dean. It was almost impossible to find anything about him—as if he was born and ceased to exist until he blinked into existence in front of me. Even though I know that can’t be true, it almost feels like it.

I bounce my phone and hum a lullaby, as soft as the breeze that slips through the little shared backyard. It plays with the long trails of the willow tree that takes up half the yard. It cuts against the broken swing set that will never see a child again. A fat tabby cat named Millie wanders across from my neighbor’s square of cement. I tuck my phone in my lap and reach down so she can rub against my fingers. I glance toward the boats rocking in their slips far below. And the one at the end of the harbor—silent and dark from here. Edged in red that’s highlighted by the falling sun.

What is his life like? Is he haunted in the same way I am? Tied down by the things that happened so long ago?

It would be so easy to keep watching him. Maybe walk halfway down to the harbor…

“Millie!” Eveline calls from her sliding door, and she pops her head out.

“She’s out here.” The cat keeps rubbing against my fingers.

Eveline steps out and, when she sees us, sighs at the cat. She’s always decked out in one of those bright floral dresses. Today, green and bright orange that makes me feel like I should squint when I look at her.

“Oh, hello, dear.” She clips across the yard—always moving in those quick, short steps. “Home from the bakery already?”

I stand and brush flour off my jeans, and the cat gives me a lazy look before strolling toward her owner.

“Yes.” I smile, wondering why Eveline’s still walking toward me. Then it clicks. “Oh, I was supposed to bring you a tray of croissants, wasn’t I? You have guests coming this afternoon.”

She bends down to pick up the cat. “Did you forget? I suppose it’s not that big of a deal.” But her bottom lip pushes out a little. Knowing Eveline, it is a very big deal.

“I’ll run back and get them for you—”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

“It’s really not a problem, Eveline. I baked them this morning. They’ll just go to waste otherwise.” I’m already crossing toward the gate and through it before I hear her answer. Although, it doesn’t matter what that answer is. I’m still going back to fetch them. A goal. Something I can do that doesn’t involve staring down my past.

I set my feet toward the bakery, ignoring the harbor below. I must walk faster than usual because it takes me ten minutes instead of the usual fifteen. When I push open the door, I find Laura sitting at one of the tables, writing in a notebook. She looks up and smiles when I come in, and I pause on my way to help Benny—who’s got a line at the counter. A walker is set up next to her and a huge glass of lemonade before her with a little sprig of something tucked in it. Thyme or another herb that she no doubt brought from home. But I’m a little taken back by how frail and tired she looks.

I cross to her, and she holds out a hand toward me, which I squeeze and then let fall.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m fine.” She gives me an easy wave. “Go help your father.”

I nod, duck behind the counter, and ring up Mr. Fullerton from the Idea Center and Ms. Jengry, the local seamstress. It feels good—purposeful. Like I didn’t just get sideswiped by a sailboat and ocean-blue eyes.

When the line dies down, I step into the back and retrieve a box for Eveline’s croissants. Benny follows a minute later.

“What’s Laura doing here?” I speak softly, so she can’t hear us. I set the buttery croissants in a long box, careful not to squish them. Artistry is important. Pastries should look as good as they taste.

“Renee got called in for a shift, and Laura wouldn’t hear of her not taking it.” He glances toward the front. I can’t see Laura, but she must be doing fine since he turns back to me. Renee and Benny do the trading-work-shifts game—trying to make sure that one of them is around when Laura’s feeling poorly. I guess I do it too, since it’s the reason I open the bakery in the morning and Benny comes in the afternoons.

“You should have called me.” I move to the second box. “I would have been more than happy to come in. In fact, here I am. Why don’t you take the afternoon off?”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Benny says. “You were here early for Eveline and…” He gestures toward the tidy rows of croissants.

I look up at him, shaking my head. “Honestly, I’d rather be here, Benny.”

He nods, glancing toward the front again. “Did you see the Heroine?” he asks with uncharacteristic directness.

“It’s pretty hard to miss.” I close the second box, but the cardboard edge gets caught. I fidget with it, my fingers trembling and making it harder.

Especially because Benny keeps looking at me like he expects me to say something else.

I finally get the lid closed. “How many people know about Charles?”

“You mean what Mira did to him?” Benny keeps his voice low.

I tense at my mother’s name. “You’ve told me not to tell Renee.” Which hasn’t been hard since it’s never been something I’m eager to talk about. Besides, Charles was somewhere else—far away where I didn’t have to think about him. “Does Laura know?”

Benny crosses his arms over his apron. “Laura doesn’t need to be bothered with stuff like this,” he whispers. “I don’t know how many people know. Not many. He didn’t live in Portage when… everything happened. It’s not like your mother was forthcoming. And everything that came out at her trial was bad enough.”

“Yes, it was.” I pick up the box. Bad enough that it hit all the news stations. Meaning that most everyone in Portage knows what she did—just not how far it went.

“I’m not even really sure how you know, Ella.” He tilts his head, looking down at the boxes.

“Because I was there,” I say quietly. “She didn’t keep us away from it.”

Benny’s arms release, and his fingers rattle against the table. He nods, but he doesn’t look at me.

I swallow and clutch the box. “Do you think his sons know?”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I doubt it.”

“Why do you say that?”

He finally looks up at me. “Some things are really hard to tell your children. Why do you think I don’t want Renee to know?”

I stack the boxes and reach around Benny to get a long, yellow ribbon. One of the staples of Laura’s Bakery. Every box that goes out is tied up in a yellow ribbon. I wrap the boxes and push them toward him.

“Can you drop this off at Eveline’s? I’ll stay until close.” I glance at the clock next to the oven. Close is only a few hours from now. The bakery doesn’t stay open much past lunch, and those last hours are usually mostly cleaning anyway.

Benny slips his apron over the top of his head. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver. But, um, you know what the Heroine being back means, right? For the Harborwalk Festival?”

I put on the easy-smile. The festival’s been my focus over the past year. An annual event to hopefully bring more tourists into Portage. The last few years, the season has been more and more sparse, to the point where the bakery actually lost money last year. So I’ve been talking to all the business owners and trying to get together a festival for this summer. Hopefully to change things.

“The Heroine has to be part of it.” I push the boxes toward him. If all the Harborwalk businesses are supporting the festival, then the Heroine can’t be left out.

It’s no big deal, I tell myself. Just a quick conversation. Then I’ll stay as far away from those blue eyes as possible.