She’d known how hard it was for Ellie to be alone at night. And she had let her go without even saying she forgave her, that there was nothing to forgive. Ellie was one cog in a wheel she had no chance of turning. And now Julie was another.
Depot stirred beside her, disturbed by her fractured shards of dreams, or his own. Julie dozed in brief snatches so as not to be clobbered by recollection as soon as she returned to consciousness. She had already experienced that once in her life, the forgetting that only sleep afforded, what it felt like when the gift was stolen back.
A knock shook the front door as Julie lay awake in the predawn dullness, a new tree ring of grief forming around her heart. She got out of bed on feet that felt like blocks of wood, and went down to open the door. Callum stood on the porch.
“You already heard,” Julie said, peering around him to the lightless, gray morning.
“Scherer,” Callum said. “He’s a friend of mine.”
“Oh,” Julie replied. “Right.” A tear drizzled down her face. Mercy Island felt less alive without Ellie on it, as if more lives than one had been snuffed out.
“I’m sorry,” Callum said. “I know how close you two had gotten.”
Julie looked at him. “Did Ellie have a dog as a child?”
But she could already anticipate Callum’s answer, given how effortlessly Ellie breathed life into a pretend father. Smarmy wasn’t real either. The lies she had told, everything she had done, had been at the grandmother’s behest. Ellie had never been free, not since her mother instructed her to don the same shackles she herself wore every day.
“No,” Callum said. “No dog and no da. Must have been a lonely life.”
Julie stepped forward, placing her cheek against Callum’s, bristly with a growth of beard. The tears she’d been crying mingled with a coating of salt on his face.
“I think it was lonelier than anybody knew,” she told him.
* * *
Over coffee, Julie asked Callum where Duck Harbor was.
Callum crossed to the wall of windows, stepping over Depot, who was breakfasting in his usual spot. “There,” he said, pointing. “With a telescope, you might even be able to see it. A promontory that sticks out to sea from the mainland.”
“The ferry would get me there?” Julie asked.
“The ferry doesn’t go there. It’s an out-of-the-way port. But you could get a cab.”
But Julie couldn’t be on the ferry anyway. Though part of her was inclined to cancel school for the day, tack up a sign that read Closed due to death on the island, Julie didn’t want to leave Peter unattended—or worse, in his mother’s care—all day. And taking the afternoon boat would mean getting stuck for the night on the mainland. Her absence might be noted. For all she knew, the grandmother would hear about it as soon as Julie left. Paranoia prickled her skin. For the first time, it occurred to her how few ways there were off this island, how little ability she had to leave. Mercy could close on its people like a fanged trap.
“Could you take me?” Julie asked. “On your boat? Today after school?”
Callum raised his steamy cup for a sip. “Sure.”
Julie felt her face flush with thanks. “There’s just one thing.”
Callum refilled Julie’s cup, nodding her on.
“I need you to tie up the Mary Martin near the schoolhouse cove instead of by the dock. And row your dinghy over to pick me up there.”
She hoped it would seem as if she were going for efficiency—spare her the walk to the pier—but Callum was too smart for the dodge.
“Trying to sneak off the island?” he asked.
Julie kept quiet.
He took the cup from her suddenly shaky hand. “What’s in Duck Harbor?”
Julie raised her gaze to his. “That’s what I have to find out.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Callum offered to keep Depot with him till he came to get Julie.
The school day progressed as if encased in cement. Every assignment, each question, seemed to take ten times as long as normal to administer or answer, and Julie had to remind herself that the students’ boisterous chatter wasn’t insensitive. Most of them probably didn’t even know Ellie was gone.
Only Peter seemed somberly aware, unless it was yesterday’s revelation in the loft that explained his mood. On stage for the run-through of tomorrow’s sneak peek, Peter didn’t speak above a rasp when he delivered his lines, and his moves looked gluey, lacking the untethered lift the boy had shown when he’d danced in his hideout.
Macy came up to Julie when the day had finally ground to a sluggish end, speaking in an undertone. “Should we assign an understudy for Rapunzel, Ms. W?”
Julie gazed out over the schoolroom. The children were closing the lids on their desks, stuffing belongings into backpacks. “I don’t think so. I’ll talk to Peter.”
Macy nodded soberly. “Okay. And I’m sorry, Ms. W.”
Julie gave her a little frown, not understanding.
“Something bad happened, didn’t it?” Macy said. “My mom was upset this morning, but she wouldn’t tell me why. And you look like you did when you were talking about finding the truth in a play. Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry.”
In a small community, news traveled like electrical impulses amongst a web of nerves. But the desire to protect one’s children from tragedy was universal, unconstrained by geography.
“Thank you,” Julie replied, feeling tears swell her throat. “And Macy?”
The girl turned on her way toward the doors.
“You’re going to do an amazing job as Rapunzel’s mother tomorrow,” Julie told her. “You put the truth in Peter’s song, and found it for yourself as well.”
A grin took hold of Macy’s face, then vanished, like water running off a plane. “Our play is about being who you are, getting what you want. No matter what it takes, or how high the price. Right?” she asked, and Julie nodded. Macy gave a nod in return, then said, “I realized that can be a good thing, or a bad, depending. And that’s the truth.”
Julie summoned Peter back at the barn doors. He had to be able to perform tomorrow—it was the one thing in his life that truly seemed to imbue him with joy—and he also needed to know that Ellie’s death hadn’t deterred Julie from trying to help him. If anything, it had strengthened her resolve.
“Remember how on the first day of school I brought Depot? You seemed surprised. And upset. You looked like you’d just learned”—Julie tried to think of something that might totally throw a preadolescent boy—“that girls were actually cool.”
Peter made a blech face, and Julie felt an unexpected smile rise. “Exactly. Can you tell me why you felt that way?”
Peter glowered as though the same thing were happening right now. “I thought Depot was my special dog! I didn’t think you would share him with just everybody!”
Julie had come to suspect as much, although it hadn’t appeared that way then. “And Gully, Peter? Were you trying to hurt the bird when you squeezed it in your hand?”
The boy shook his head wildly. “I wasn’t squeezing him, I was warming him up! I knew he might get alive again if I could just make him warm!”
As indeed the bird had. Julie had misjudged Peter from the start, attributed malice to actions that could be interpreted as plaintive pleas, if not heroics.
She pulled at the barn door, and Peter started to edge his way through.
“I need you to do a good job in the scene we put on tomorrow,” Julie told him. “Really show them what you’ve got inside. Can you do that?”
Peter nodded.
“Nobody can ever take away what you do on stage,” Julie said. “It’s yours no matter what happens.”
Peter nodded again. Then he said, “Is something going to happen?”
Julie held his blistering blue gaze. “It will if I have an
ything to do about it.”
* * *
The shock of reaching the mainland was like an electric jolt. Even before the Mary Martin had docked, the noise of engines, a crush of people that despite numbering only in the dozens was still a great horde by Mercy Island standards, and the sight of clustered buildings posed a stark contrast to Julie’s last few weeks. A car looked like an alien being, a parking lot full of them seemed like an invasion.
There was an ocean adventures outfitter, an old factory that had been converted to luxury lofts, and the pier that was huge in contrast to the one on Mercy. Callum was able to tie up his boat alongside, no dinghy required. He offered Julie a hand as she jumped out, then leaned over and helped with Depot.
“How long do you think you’ll need?” Callum asked.
“I’m honestly not sure,” Julie replied. “Do you have things you can do?”
Callum gave a nod. “Never any shortage of that on the mainland. And you should have signal. Text me when it’s time to meet.”
They entered each other’s number in their phones for the first time.
“Thanks,” Julie said, hearing the meagerness of the word. “Would you mind—”
“Keeping Depot? Not at all. Be nice to have company on my errands.” He gave her a wave. “I’d wish you luck, but I don’t know if that’s what’s called for.”
“It can’t hurt,” Julie said.
She crouched to deliver a smooch to Depot on his glistening snout, then watched as Callum walked to the road, where he stuck out his thumb. Depot sat down on his haunches, camouflaging his size. The two snagged a ride in a pickup, and then the only companions Julie had left in the world drove away.
Julie entered the ferry station, figuring she would ask if anyone knew the local she was looking for. As it turned out, she didn’t have to. A group of men stood around, chuffing and gabbing, slouched against a long counter. Much of Duck Harbor’s business seemed to be conducted behind this counter—mail, money orders, notarizing, and general gossip. One person was in charge, and his nameplate read Robert Croft Jr.
* * *
The name had been in the ledger. Julie couldn’t remember the details the grandmother had included in the entry, but that was why it had rung a bell when Peter said it. It had been one of the older entries, dating years in the past, so this must be the son.
“Mr. Croft?” Julie said.
He was tall and skinny with a reddish mustache and an open, friendly gaze.
The other men regarded Julie with that age-old look insiders reserved for everyone else. It was the one true equalizer, shared across color barriers and gender lines and socioeconomic strata. Cavemen and members of primitive tribes probably wore the same expression that blue bloods gave to immigrants, that residents of small villages offered the stranger who came to town. Back home, Julie was part of the clan that delivered this look. Here, she was its recipient.
“Bobby’d be fine,” the man said.
Julie ventured a smile. “Would you mind if I asked you something in private?”
To their credit, his buddies suppressed any jeers.
She and Bobby Croft walked out to the dock, wooden boards under foot, seawater sloshing against posts, gulls observing with interested, beady gazes.
“What’s this all about?” Bobby asked.
Julie hesitated. “This may come a little out of left field. But do you happen to know a family named Hempstead? Two grandparents, Martha, and the boy is Peter?”
Julie had thought she might get a head shake, a look of confusion. Or possibly a small-town Sure, I know them, and then not be able to determine a good place to go from there. What she didn’t expect was the total rigidifying of this man’s body, the way his hand shot up to his face to tug at his mustache, while his eyes briefly closed.
A particularly large wave broke, spattering the dock with glassy green droplets and froth, making the seagulls skitter from their perches.
Bobby Croft said, “I think you’d better talk to my wife.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Bobby Croft clacked a metal door down from the ceiling, sealing off the counter behind which he worked. He turned a key in a stubby lock and tacked up a Sorry, we’re closed sign. His friends had dispersed to the rear of the station where there was a self-serve coffee stand, presumably so they could observe Julie without being as obvious.
Bobby opened the passenger side door of an old hatchback, waiting until Julie had buckled her seat belt before driving off. They didn’t speak during the ride. Bobby looked nervous, tugging on the hair above his lip, and he didn’t seem the talkative type anyway. Julie stared out the window, watching the streets of Duck Harbor go by.
The house Bobby drove to sat at the end of a line of spare two-story structures. Bobby got the car door again for Julie and let her go first up the walk.
He opened the front door, gesturing Julie inside to a low-ceilinged hallway with small, neatly kept rooms visible off to each side. Not many decorative touches, but pleasant in their unassumingness and lack of pretense.
A woman came out from the rear of the house, twisting a dishrag around her hands. She had silky black hair, cropped short, and wore jeans and what looked to be a hand-knit sweater. “You’re home early, hon—” she began on a pleased note, then stopped when she saw Julie, although she continued to smile. “Oh, hello.”
Bobby Croft spoke up. “Mellie, why don’t you go and put the kettle on? This lady has come to talk about the Hempsteads.”
His wife’s face shed all color, though her smile remained shakily in place.
The sudden paleness of her skin revealed it. The woman’s razored locks of hair were striking enough to pose a distraction—they contained purple hues, like crow wings—but hair could be dyed. What the woman hadn’t chosen to change was the color of her eyes, an all-too-recognizable sunny sky blue.
Julie realized she hadn’t responded to the woman’s greeting. “Hi, Melinda.”
* * *
Peter’s aunt’s face didn’t change, but the way her hand tightened its grip on a side table told Julie she had guessed correctly.
Bobby spoke gruffly. “Let’s go in the kitchen.”
Melinda went ahead down the hallway. Her hand shook as she tried to light the stove, and the burner clicked, a mad, insectile sound, until Bobby walked over to place his own hand gently on top of his wife’s, and a blue flame burst to life.
Melinda began to busy herself, taking out tea bags and mugs, slicing a packaged cake, laying plates on a small table with woven place mats.
“Please,” she told Julie. “Sit.”
Bobby went back out to the dining room and returned with an extra chair.
Melinda took a seat next to her husband, then poured the water for tea. She sipped while the liquid was still piping hot and winced, giving Julie a flicker of a smile. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually such a mess.”
Julie shook her head, contradicting the charge. She liked Melinda—liked both of them—quite a lot actually, even just upon first meeting. Bobby sat, straddling a chair from behind, with his arm hooked around his wife’s waist. The gesture didn’t appear showy or possessive; he hadn’t draped his arm visibly across Melinda’s shoulders. This display of affection seemed to be for her benefit only, an extension of support.
“Who are you?” Melinda asked after a moment.
Julie flushed. “I guess it’s my turn to apologize. My name is Julie Weathers. I’m your nephew’s new teacher.”
Melinda and Bobby exchanged looks.
“You’ve accepted the post on Mercy?” Bobby said.
Julie nodded.
“How’s Peter doing?” Melinda asked. “How does he do in school?”
“Quite well actually,” Julie replied, looking at her across the table. The Hempstead resemblance was remarkable—the tall stature, and those shining blue eyes,
elfin facial bones under a glassine complexion. All she was missing were her sister’s curls. “And he’s a talented performer—dancing and singing both.”
A smile lifted Melinda’s lips, and she looked at her husband again.
“But that isn’t why I came to see you,” Julie went on.
“No,” Melinda replied softly. She slid the platter of cake across the table, gesturing at Julie to take a piece. “I wouldn’t think so.”
“Peter’s been troubled,” Julie said. “Ever since I met him. The other day he told me that he’d overheard a conversation between your parents that upset him very much.”
“What did they say?” Melinda asked.
“I’m not 100 percent sure,” Julie told her. “Peter’s account was a bit… Well, he’s eleven. I don’t think he understood everything he’d heard. But your father mentioned Bobby”—Julie turned to look at the man—“and what sounded like some conflict between them.”
Melinda’s features twisted; the expression didn’t look at home on her pleasant face. “Yes, well, my parents didn’t like Bobby very much, or want us to get married.”
“Oh,” Julie said.
“Bobby’s from away,” she explained. “Vermont. An inland state—can you imagine the horror?” She tried to work up a smile. “And obviously, he doesn’t know anything about lobstering, the work I was supposed to be born to—or my husband was.”
Bobby spoke up, somewhat shamefacedly. “When you think about it, it’s a pretty classic story. Controlling parents. Uptown girl. Boy from the wrong side of everywhere.”
Melinda laid her hand on top of her husband’s.
“Your mother hasn’t made amends, tried to heal your relationship?” Julie asked.
Melinda laughed, a harsh sound devoid of mirth. “My mother’s never made amends to anyone. And in this case, she wouldn’t believe I was owed any. She still hasn’t forgiven me for defying her.” She paused. “I upended the entire family order when I fell in love with Bobby. I haven’t seen my mother in more than eleven years.”
Bobby overturned his wife’s hand and gave it a tight squeeze. Empathic, loving, but the gesture also looked strong enough to serve as a warning.
The Second Mother Page 33