She’d been working at the back of the shop. Now she stepped to the window. Sure enough, the music was coming from the barn. She could barely believe it.
She went out the back door and walked across the yard. Her hands were trembling as she pushed open the barn door. The scattered notes stopped. Could she be imagining this? Had she finally lost her mind?
At the back of the long, dark space she saw the shadowy outline of a girl, her head bowed. She couldn’t see her face, but the slight build and long dark hair, falling across her cheek, looked so much like Julie. . . .
Grace tried to walk forward, then felt blood pounding in her head, the space around her spinning.
The girl looked up, a guilty, surprised expression on her face.
Grace took a full breath. It wasn’t Julie. Of course not. She would never see Julie again. Not in this lifetime.
It was Lauren Willoughby, Sam Morgan’s niece. And for some uncontrollable, unaccountable reason Grace felt the anger well up inside of her. This child was not, and could never be, her Julie.
“What are you doing in here?” Grace scolded her. “You’re not allowed in here, touching things.” Grace’s eyes narrowed. “Did Carolyn Lewis tell you to come in here and play this piano?” she demanded.
“Mrs. Lewis?” The girl looked confused. She flinched and stepped away from the piano. “No . . . Mrs. Lewis never said anything about it. Not at all.”
“You’re sure?” Grace pressed her.
“I’m sorry . . . I mean, nobody said I could. I was waiting for my uncle and the door was open, so I thought I could come in.”
“You’re not allowed in here, touching everything, breaking things. You have no business in here,” Grace added roughly.
She reached out and shut the cover on the piano keys. It slammed down with a harsh sound. “Especially this piano. Didn’t you see the sign here? It says, ‘Do Not Touch.’ Didn’t you see it? Can’t you read?”
The girl backed up against the wall. Grace could see her eyes large with fear, her lip trembling. She could see that the girl wanted to run but was afraid to pass her.
“Yes . . . I saw it. I told you I was sorry. I didn’t break anything,” she insisted, nearly crying now.
“Grace?” Sam’s deep voice called from the doorway. “What’s going on? Lauren? Is something wrong?”
“Uncle Sam . . . I was just looking around. I didn’t do anything, honest,” she called back to him.
The girl glanced at Grace, then dashed past her with a quick motion. Grace didn’t turn around right away. She felt an awful ache in the pit of her stomach and pressed her hands to the spot.
When she turned, she saw that Lauren had run into Sam’s arms and buried her head in his chest, against his shop apron. She was crying, and Sam was patting her back. Grace’s father stood there as well, next to Sam, puffing silently on his pipe.
Sam looked over Lauren’s head at Grace. “Did she break something? I’ll pay you for it.”
“I caught her fooling with the piano.”
Grace walked to the other side of the piano and snapped down the heavy green canvas cover again, then she picked up the cardboard sign and placed it back on top.
“I don’t mind your nieces coming to visit here, Sam. But I don’t want them playing in this barn, getting into everything.”
Sam looked at her for a long moment. “All right, I understand. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
He leaned down and put his arm around Lauren. “I think you need to apologize to Ms. Hegman, honey,” he instructed softly.
Grace noticed the stubborn set of the girl’s chin, tucked against her chest. But under her uncle’s gaze, she finally gave in. She turned just her head toward Grace.
“I’m sorry. I won’t come in here again. I promise.”
From the tone of her quavering voice, Grace suspected the girl would cross the street to avoid her from now on. Just as well, Grace reflected with a deep sigh.
“All right. That’s that, then,” she said to Sam.
Sam led Lauren away, and Grace was left alone with her father. When she came to the doorway, Digger looked at her a long time but didn’t say anything.
“What? The girl shouldn’t have been in here. She ought to know that by now.”
“And she’s not likely to forget it now. No, sir.” Digger nodded and shifted the pipe stem in his mouth. He glanced at Grace, the smoke curling out of his mouth as he considered the situation.
“You needn’t look at me that way. I don’t feel the least bit sorry.” Grace sniffed and wrapped her arms around her middle. “The girl has no respect for other people’s property. She needed to be taught a lesson.”
“That you did. Put a real scare into her, I’d say. That’s one way to do it, I guess.” Digger briefly met her gaze, then looked away. “She might even have a nightmare tonight. But don’t worry, kids get over these things in time.”
“A nightmare? I wasn’t that horrible,” she insisted. “The sign was right there. ‘Do Not Touch.’ Why didn’t she pay attention?”
“Oh, yes. The sign. She just ignored that sign, didn’t she,” Digger agreed. He paused. “Never expected that old piano to make such a nice sound. I would have thought it was rotted out by now, you know, with the dampness back in there. I figured the days when anyone could make nice music on it were gone. But I guess you’ll have to wait a few more years before it’s that far gone. Then you won’t have to worry anymore,” he added.
“Why would I want the piano to rot? I never said that,” Grace insisted.
“You didn’t?” He took the pipe out of his mouth, looked at her, then tapped it on the side of his flat palm. “Well, excuse me. I guess I misunderstood. I thought that was the point of leaving it out here all this time.”
“Of course not,” Grace said quietly. “Of course that wasn’t the point.”
Her father could be so difficult sometimes. He got everything twisted around, so that she didn’t know what she thought anymore about anything. It was talking in circles, that’s what it was. She felt her head begin to pound again.
“I just want to . . . to save it. That’s all.”
“Oh, I see.” He nodded and put the pipe stem back in his mouth, holding it there, unlit. “Well, it’s saved, then.” He looked up at Grace, his gaze softening. “You save your piano, if that’s what you need to do. It’s really okay, dear.”
Grace stared at him. “I know that, Dad,” she said a bit more sharply than she intended.
She turned and pulled the big doors of the barn closed, then fastened the padlock. “Supper will be ready in half an hour. Don’t go gallivanting on me,” she warned.
“I’m not going any place,” he insisted, shaking his head. “But maybe you ought to take Daisy here for a walk down to the harbor, clear your head.”
Grace glanced at him, then at Daisy, who appeared to understand Digger’s suggestion completely and now fixed Grace with a hopeful stare.
“Oh . . . all right. I suppose she could use a walk,” Grace said quietly, gazing down at the dog.
“You go along now.” Digger nodded at her. “I won’t get into any trouble. I dug us up some little necks this morning and thought I’d cook up a little chowder tonight. How does that sound?”
“Fine, Dad,” Grace replied in a tired voice. “Just . . . fine. Come, Daisy.” She turned away, and the dog immediately fell into step beside her.
Then, without looking back at him again, she walked down the drive out to the street.
EMILY AVOIDED THE CLAM BOX FOR THE NEXT FEW days. She didn’t need to be drawn into the same debate daily. What else was there to say? Instead, she stopped at the Beanery for a large cup of their French roast and a fluffy brioche or some banana bread baked by the town’s own Molly Willoughby.
Felicity and Jonathan Bean were charming people and doing well with their new business, she thought. It wasn’t an atmosphere that suited everyone in Cape Light, but she found the café a welcome, refreshing c
hange, and the Beans a valuable addition to the village.
On Friday morning she was especially relieved to be anywhere but the Clam Box when she opened the Messenger and saw a full-page editorial, supporting her side of the argument.
Dan Forbes seemed to agree that citizens had the right to privacy and to carry on their private business matters without interference from their neighbors or the mayor’s office.
Emily could easily imagine the look on Charlie’s face when he read this and his reaction. He’d probably ignore the rush of breakfast orders and immediately sit down to write an outraged letter to the editor. Dan would print it, too, she had no doubt. Not only was he amazingly fair-minded, but he knew controversy sold newspapers, and this one was just starting to heat up.
As Emily headed up Main Street toward the Village Hall, she nearly turned and took a back route to avoid passing the Clam Box altogether. Then she decided she was being silly. She wasn’t afraid of Charlie Bates, though he was at times a gigantic pain in the neck. Still, God had sent Charlie into her life for a reason, she knew. Charlie not only gave her the daily opportunity to practice patience, tolerance, and understanding, but his opposing opinions reminded her why she wanted to be mayor of Cape Light in the first place. Which was, in a strange way, something to be thankful for.
THE VILLAGE HALL WAS DESERTED, ALL THE OFFICES dark and empty except for the light at the end of the hall. The door stood open, but Sara knocked anyway, right below the brass plaque that read Mayor Emily Warwick.
Emily was typing something into her keyboard. “Come in,” she called out. Then she looked up and saw Sara. She smiled. “Hello, Sara. I didn’t know they had you out delivering orders now, too.”
“We all have our turn at the take-out,” Sara explained with a shrug. “It was mine tonight.” She handed Emily her order and the bill.
“Just a second, I need to get my wallet.” Emily rose and walked over to a coat closet. “I’m not sure where I put it. . . .”
Sara looked around. She had been curious to see Emily’s office; when the mayor had called the diner for take-out, Sara had volunteered to bring it over. It was a fairly nondescript office, she thought. There were some plaques and framed certificates on the wall, awards to the village mainly, and some photographs of town events. Emily was in a few of them, Sara noticed. A framed page from the Messenger also caught her eye, a picture of Emily with her arms raised triumphantly as she stood on a podium. “Village Elects First Woman Mayor,” the caption read.
On Emily’s desk, Sara noticed what appeared to be an old family photograph of a mother and father with two little girls, everyone conservatively and expensively dressed. The mother’s smile was strained and forced. The father looked happier, more relaxed, his arm around the older girl, who was all elbows and knees, with long shiny braids and freckles. The younger girl, a toddler, sat on her mother’s lap, a small bow in her curly hair. Emily and her sister, Jessica? Sara wondered. Her own grandparents with her mother and aunt?
“Here you are, Sara,” Emily said, handing her some bills. “I don’t need any change.”
Sara stuffed the money in her pocket, noticing the generous tip. “Thank you,” she said. “Enjoy your dinner.”
“Thanks, I will.” Emily gazed at her. “How have you been? Enjoying your job?”
“It’s okay.” Sara shrugged. “I mean, I’m not exactly going to make a career out of the Clam Box.”
Emily laughed. “What do you want to do for a career, then?”
Sara looked away. She felt self-conscious talking about personal things with Emily. Part of her wanted to, very much. And part of her held back.
“I have a degree in English. I could teach if I wanted to, I suppose. Or maybe go to law school. That’s what my parents think I should do.” She paused and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “All my friends from school have real jobs. I guess I should know by now.”
Emily gazed at her. “Do you want to be a teacher or a lawyer?” she asked gently.
Sara shook her head. “Teaching seems okay. But I really like to write,” she said finally. “I’d like to be a writer if I could earn a living that way.”
Emily leaned back in her chair. “I studied English, too, in college. And I liked to write when I was younger. I pursued it for a while, but I didn’t get very far,” Emily admitted regretfully.
She remembered being hopeful and positive about her talent when she was in high school and later, married to Tim. He had been so encouraging. She remembered writing pages and pages after his death and after giving up their baby. The words had just flowed, along with her tears. But once she returned to New England, she never did that kind of writing again. It seemed as if a giant door had slammed shut on that part of herself.
Sara was surprised at Emily’s wistful expression. “I heard that you were a teacher, before you became mayor, I mean. My parents say I should teach and then write in my spare time.”
“Some people do lots of things in their spare time . . . but it didn’t work for me,” Emily confided. “I think if you want to write, you need to give it a wholehearted effort. You know, when people get older they usually say they don’t regret the things they tried or even failed at. But they do regret not having taken more chances in their lives.”
Sara considered her words for moment. “So you think I should try to write and forget about the other stuff—if that’s what I really want to do?”
“Not that I have any right to contradict your parents,” Emily said with a small smile, “but teaching is hard work. So is being a lawyer. So is being a writer. Every job takes effort if you want to be good at it. But if you love it, then it will be worth the trouble. If I had a daughter, I think I’d tell her to just find something she loves doing.”
“That makes sense. I do love writing.” Sara liked Emily’s answer. She felt as if Emily took her seriously. While Sara knew her parents loved her, this was something they didn’t seem to understand.
“What kind of writing are you interested in?”
“Fiction, short stories mostly. I had one published in a literary journal when I was in college.”
Emily looked impressed. “That’s wonderful. You must be talented to have your work published already. See, you’re already on your way,” she said encouragingly. “Maybe I could read it sometime?”
Sara felt her pulse quicken. Could she really give Emily her writing? That was too wild to even think about. “Uh . . . sure. I don’t know if I have a copy with me. I’ll look around.” She paused, then said, “Do you like being mayor?”
“Yes,” Emily answered. “I do. Most of the time at least,” she added with a wry smile.
“Not when guys like Charlie Bates are hounding you, though,” Sara observed. “I noticed you haven’t been at the diner much this week. That’s why, right?”
Emily leaned back in her chair and grinned. “The problem with Charlie is that, irritating as he may be, sometimes he actually does have a valid point. So I can’t just totally ignore him. It can be hard at times, trying to see everybody’s point of view and satisfy so many different interests.”
“Everybody’s watching you, all the time,” Sara commented. “That must be hard. I wouldn’t like it.”
“Just part of living in a small town. Worse for me, of course. But my life is so-o-o boring, Sara. You wouldn’t believe it,” she insisted. “There’s not much to gossip about,” she added with a small laugh.
There will be if everyone finds out that I’m your daughter, Sara thought. She took a deep breath. “Well, I don’t want to keep you from your work. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time.”
“Don’t be silly. I was glad for the break,” Emily said with a smile.
Sara smiled back. “I’d better get back to the diner—before Charlie sends Tucker Tulley after me in a squad car.”
Emily grinned. “If it comes to that, let me know. I’ll speak to Officer Tulley for you.”
“Sure, thanks.” Sara laughed. “See you.
”
“See you, Sara,” Emily said warmly.
Sara felt odd as she left the Village Hall, disturbed and definitely confused. It was a balmy, starry night, and she took her time walking back to the diner.
So Emily had wanted to be a writer. I have something important in common with my mother, Sara thought. It made her feel closer to her. She wondered why Emily had given up on writing, but hadn’t had the nerve to ask. Maybe I’ll ask another time, she thought.
It was hard to stay angry at Emily, Sara realized. She was just too nice. She’s been especially nice to me, for no apparent reason, Sara reflected. Still, she couldn’t let Emily off the hook that easily. No amount of pleasant conversation was going to make up for the fact that Emily had abandoned her.
Why should I worry what happens to her once people find out? Why should I even care? Why do I have to be stuck with all these questions and hurtful feelings while she gets to go on living her life? So what if people talk about her? I can’t help that. Aren’t I the one who’s been wronged here?
It makes it harder that Emily’s so nice, Sara realized as she neared the diner’s red and blue neon sign. But that doesn’t change things. I still have to find out why she gave me up. I can’t leave here without her knowing who I am.
“IT’S JUST SAM. I DON’T HAVE TO GO TO ANY TROUBLE,” Jessica kept telling herself as she got ready for their date on Saturday night. Sam did mention that he’d made reservations at a new restaurant, a few towns away in Hamilton, one that Jessica knew was quite expensive and fancy. She would have to dress up, she reasoned. He would probably be wearing a tie and sports jacket.
Jessica had a feeling that dinner out at a formal restaurant was not Sam’s favorite kind of outing, but that he was going the limit to impress her, to give her the type of evening he thought she liked. It was thoughtful of him, she had to admit.
She took out a beige suit, then pushed it aside and pulled out a blue print silk dress with a halter neckline instead. She had a white crocheted shawl that would work if it got cooler out.
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