The Summer I Dared: A Novel

by Barbara Delinsky

  “My condolences,” she said. “Again.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for the dinner. I ate it all.”

  “The heating instructions were okay?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t bother to heat it up.”

  She had to smile. “Was that laziness or hunger?”

  “Hunger.”

  “I’m glad it helped.” She looked over as a trio of workers began lowering the coffin into the ground. When she glanced up at Noah, he was watching them, too. His eyes held a whisper of horror. She saw him swallow.

  “This is the hardest part,” he said quietly.

  “Perhaps you’d rather be alone.”

  He shot her a quick glance. “No. Stay.” As they watched, the coffin descended. It landed softly. The workers gently pulled the straps free and out of the hole. “Bet you didn’t think you’d spend your vacation going to funerals,” he murmured.

  “I couldn’t have imagined any of this. It’s ironic, really. I’ve never been a good flyer. When I’m on an airplane, I’m holding the plane up by the arms of my seat, waiting for an accident to happen. But a boat ride? Safe as anything. Shows how much I know.”

  “It usually is safe. For the ferry, at least. Working fishermen always face a weather risk. A big blow can come up in no time. Even the best of fishermen gets caught by surprise. If you have to go, it’s an honorable way. My father would have preferred that to this.”

  Julia could understand it. The men in her life had always been cerebral, whereas men like Noah and his father relied on brawn. To die in a physical duel with nature was one thing; to die at the hands of a runaway boat was far less noble.

  Had Monte been skippering the Amelia Celeste, he would have taken pride not in outrunning but in outwitting Artie Jones. Of course, Monte wouldn’t have been skippering the Amelia Celeste. He wouldn’t have been caught dead doing that kind of work. The son of a man who worked the docks in Boston, he had turned his back on physical labor and those who did it.

  Noah suddenly looked over her head. She glanced back to see the police chief, John Roman, climbing the hill to the cemetery. A Crane cousin, he had the same kind eyes as Matthew, though he was far taller and rounder. That ample body was moving quickly enough now to suggest purpose.

  Julia didn’t think he was coming for her. She had talked with him over the weekend, and hadn’t been able to tell him anything he didn’t already know. He seemed satisfied at the time.

  Now his eyes held Noah’s. When he was near enough, he removed his cap and said a slightly winded, “Sorry, Noah. I wanted to be here. But there was a development ashore. I’m just now coming back.” He regarded Julia. “Did you hear?”

  “Hear?”

  “They brought up some of your things.”

  She wanted to show excitement. Someone had put in extra effort to recover those things. But she felt as distant from her belongings as she continued to feel from her life. The best she could manage was a curious, “They did?”

  “There’s a bag of clothes that’s kinda torn apart, but your pocket-book’s intact.” He turned to Noah again. “I’m coming from the medical examiner’s office. They finished the autopsy on Artie. There’s a twist.”

  “It wasn’t his heart?” Noah asked.

  “Sure was. The heart was gone before he hit the water, but it wasn’t just an ordinary old heart attack. Artie didn’t have a history of heart problems. His wife insisted on that. So the examiner went back and looked closely at some of the wounds to see if they could have caused the heart to give out. He just assumed those wounds were from fragments of debris that came from the explosion.” John Roman shook his head. “Gunshot wound.”

  “Gunshot?” Noah asked.

  Julia, too, felt the force of the word.

  “Gunshot,” the police chief confirmed.

  Noah frowned. “Around here we have spats and grudges. Some of ’em aren’t even so little. But if you’re saying that a man’s heart stopped because of a gunshot wound, that’s murder. We’ve never had anything like that here before.”

  John gave a mirthless laugh. “Don’t have to tell me that. This is a one-man department. Gear war’s the worst it gets.”

  Julia was startled enough by the prospect of murder. She was wondering what “gear war” was—and whether she had totally misjudged the island—when Noah asked, “Are they sure?”

  “It was a shoulder wound. The bullet shattered the bone and passed on out the other side, but there’s no doubt it was there.”

  “A bullet, and not a piece of debris,” Noah specified.

  “A bullet.”

  “Could it have been an old wound?”

  “Not with that kind of shattering. That kind of shattering would have needed repair. No, it was fresh.”

  “Not, like, done the night before?”

  “Nah. He wouldn’t have gone that long without treatment.”

  “Would he have been shot on land and then gone off in The Beast?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Which means,” Noah concluded, “he was on the boat when he was shot. Was someone with him on The Beast?”

  “I was gonna ask you that,” John said, broadening his gaze to include Julia. “Think again. Did you see anything in the fog? Anything during the first pass Artie made around the Amelia Celeste? Anything in the seconds before the collision? Anything at all on The Beast to suggest someone else was aboard?”

  Julia tried to relive those moments and see something she hadn’t seen before, but the only image that came to mind was the one that continued to wake her in the middle of the night. “Just that purple bow shooting out of the fog.”

  “That fog was thick,” Noah reminded John. “Greg was using his instruments, visibility was that poor. The first time around, we only heard him. The second time around—well, you know how those racers are built. They’re all nose. The cockpit was easily fifteen feet back from the bow. Visibility was less than that.”

  “How about noise? Like a gunshot?” John asked.

  “Above those engines?” Julia shook her head.

  “The boat circled around us and went up to the north,” Noah said. “We didn’t hear it at all then. And we were making noise of our own—the motor, the chop against the hull. We wouldn’t have heard a gunshot. What about Artie’s wife? Did you ask if someone was with him?”

  “She says he was alone. Divers are going down again to look for a weapon. And for another body, in case someone else was aboard.”

  Noah ran a hand around the back of his neck. “If it wasn’t for the fog, he might have been shot from another boat or even from shore.”

  “Maybe it was an accident,” Julia said. “Maybe he had the gun aboard and hit it or stepped on it. Maybe he was innocently putting it away when it discharged.” When neither man replied, she asked, “Did he have any enemies?”

  “The wife says no,” John said and eyed Noah again. “What do you think?”

  Looking back at Hutch’s grave, now half-filled with dirt, Noah chewed on his cheek before speaking. “I don’t know who or what he was back where he lived. Enemies up here? I think he annoyed lots of us with that boat, but that’s all it was, an annoyance. Nothing to kill someone over.”

  “What about Kimmie?” John asked. “Would someone have killed over her?”

  Julia was trying to make the connection, when John answered himself. “Nah. I don’t see it. It’d be too much of a coincidence to think that someone shoots Artie for her sake and then she nearly dies on the Amelia Celeste.”

  “Is she talking?” Noah asked.

  “Not yet. I’m going there now.” He put the cap back on his head. “I was hoping to catch the last of Hutch’s service. He was a good man.” Giving a clap to Noah’s shoulder, he went to the grave for a minute, before turning and striding down the hill.

  “Kimmie?” Julia asked as soon as he was out of earshot.

  Noah drew in a tired breath. “There were rumors she and Artie were an item.”

  “How tr
ue were they?”

  “You’d have to ask Kimmie. For what it’s worth, there are always rumors about Colella women.”

  “With married men?” Artie Jones had a wife and four children.

  “Yes.”

  “So. What do you think? Is there a murderer involved here?”

  Noah averted his eyes. “I’ve been looking for someone to blame, and that’d do it. But it’d only be a diversion. Wouldn’t change the outcome any.” Chewing on his cheek again, he set off for his father’s grave. The men were finishing up. He watched them shovel the last of the dirt onto the mound. When they were done, he shook each hand. He continued to stand there after they left.

  Julia watched quietly, until she began to feel awkward. When she turned to leave, he said, “Hold up. I’m coming.”

  “There’s no need. This is your time with him.” She was barely past the cemetery gate, though, when he was walking beside her. Seconds later, a beautiful red-and-white dog bounded up the hill from the road and danced excitedly around his legs.

  “Is he yours?” she asked.

  “Yes. His name’s Lucas. He’s probably thrilled the old man’s gone. They were never the best of friends.”

  “He’s a striking dog,” Julia said, admiring a feathered tail, white bib, silky ears, and freckled nose. “What kind is he?”

  “A Nova Scotia duck tolling retriever.”

  “That’s a big name for a medium-size dog,” she said with a curious smile. “What’s a ‘tolling retriever’?”

  Noah stopped walking and bent to scrub the dog’s ears. The dog raised adoring eyes to his. “Tollers are a breed of dog used as decoys for ducks. They jump around onshore to distract the duck while the hunter takes aim. Since we don’t hunt ducks here, it means that this one’s forever running back and forth, up and down the dock, in and out of the boat. It means he likes the water, which can be a problem when he goes after a gull and finds himself in rough chop.”

  The instant he straightened, the dog shot off down the hill after the departing cemetery truck. The only two vehicles left were Zoe’s little Plymouth and, down the road a bit, Noah’s dark blue pickup.

  They started walking again.

  Julia watched the dog. He followed the cemetery crew for a minute, was distracted and chased a bird, was distracted again and made for the woods. “Does he ever stop?”

  “Now and then. He probably slept through the service in the bed of the truck.”

  They walked toward the bottom of the hill. Noah seemed deep in thought, but the silence was a comfortable one. The sun had come out, warming the ocean breeze to a perfect temperature. Birdsong came from the trees, close enough not to be drowned out by the surf. Julia took a deep breath and relaxed.

  They were nearly at the car when Noah spoke. “I keep thinking about what his friends said. You know, about the kind of man he was. I wonder what they’d say about me, if I was the one who had died.”

  Julia wasn’t surprised that his thoughts mirrored hers. It went with the territory of missing death by a hair. “What would they say?”

  “Nothing interesting. I’m an average kind of guy.”

  “Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “Actually, there is,” he said with feeling. “I could be more.” He stopped speaking. Julia waited for him to go on, but he was frowning, lost in thought, eyes focused on the road below. Suddenly, he looked at her. “What about you? What would they say?”

  “Loyal. Loving. Able. Obedient.” The words were fresh in her mind.

  “Obedient?”

  “I’m a very docile person. Or was,” she added with a half smile. “I’m not identifying with that woman at this moment.”

  “How not?”

  “Being here on Big Sawyer, for one thing. I was breaking new ground when I decided to visit Zoe for two weeks. I’ve never left my husband for this long. He’s… dependent.”

  “Physically?”

  “No.” She was about to say emotionally, but Monte wasn’t really that. “Custodially,” she finally said. Not caring to elaborate, she rushed on. “My mother thinks I should hurry back to New York, because of the accident and all. But I want my time away.” She smiled in self-deprecation. “That’s out of character. I’m not a very independent sort. But you all are. Maybe there’s something in the air here. I’m feeling a little like a stranger to myself.”

  It was an opening. She might have liked to talk more about that, because Noah was the only other person who had experienced what she had. Well, Kimmie Colella had experienced the same thing. But Kimmie wasn’t talking.

  Noah didn’t pursue the issue. Her disappointment was short-lived, though, because he smiled. It was a gentle smile for a man who seemed rock-hard and somber.

  “Maybe it’s Zoe’s clothes,” he suggested.

  Julia wore Zoe’s slacks and sweater. She plucked at the latter. It was charcoal angora, shot with ribbons of blue at random spots. “The sweater gave me away, huh?”

  “Her things are distinct,” Noah said with respect. “Maybe you’ll feel more like yourself once you have your own clothes.”

  But Julia didn’t think so. More to the point, she didn’t know if she wanted to feel like her old self. Looking back at the woman she’d been, she knew she wasn’t a very interesting person. Interesting people weren’t content to play second fiddle all the time. They didn’t fade into the woodwork or defer to their husbands. They didn’t always play it safe.

  Looking back at that woman, Julia found her wanting.

  She was saved from confessing this to Noah, though, when Zoe’s truck rumbled up the road. After bucking erratically, it came to a stop.

  “Sounds like gear trouble,” Noah said, which reminded Julia of gear wars, which she wanted to ask him about but instantly forgot, because Zoe wasn’t the one climbing out of the truck. It was a petite young woman who, with one marked exception, looked very much like Molly.

  “It’s not gear trouble,” Julia said in a rising voice. “I believe that’s my daughter, who doesn’t have a clue about driving a stick shift.” She set off across the grass, walking at first as she stared in disbelief, then running when she realized that, despite the boyish haircut, it really was Molly.

  By contrast, Molly was frozen in place, one foot on the running board and one on the ground. She was looking in Julia’s direction, her expression registering something akin to horror.

  By the time Julia reached the truck, her excitement had turned to concern. Molly had Julia’s blonde hair and slim build, but she was less fair-skinned, and she had Monte’s dark eyes rather than Julia’s hazel ones. That skin was washed of color now, and the eyes were red-rimmed.

  Julia took Molly’s face in her hands and spent only the briefest seconds looking at that startling short hair before focusing on her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Who’s that man?” Molly asked.

  “Noah Prine. He survived the accident with me. This funeral was for his father. What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  There was a tiny pause. Then a tense, “Nothing.”

  “Yesterday morning you were in Paris!” They had talked then. “And what is this?” she asked, moving hands lightly over Molly’s head.

  “It’s the rage there. I thought it looked great.”

  “It does. I’m just startled. You’ve always had long hair. I wasn’t prepared.”

  Molly shot Noah another glance before refocusing on Julia. “That makes two of us. It’s weird seeing you with a man who isn’t Dad.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Men are so bad.” Seeming to simply crumble, she wrapped her arms around Julia’s neck and, weeping softly, held on more tightly than she had done in years.

  Julia’s mind went in a dozen different directions at once. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  Julia held her back. “If it was nothing, you’d still be abroad. How did you… when…?”

  “Last night,” Molly said, brushing at tears with the palm of her hand. “I kept thinking that m
y job stunk, that my boss sucked, that my roommates were totally selfish and unfriendly, and here you were nearly killed, and how could I stay there when someone should be with you? Only they routed me through Chicago,” she wailed, crying again, “and the plane back to New York was two hours late, and by the time I took a cab home it was after one, and Dad didn’t know I was coming, and we had a big fight.”

  “About the hair?” Julia asked uneasily. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Noah heading for his truck. He raised a hand; talk later, it said.

  “About men,” Molly cried. “The things they do. They were just so disgusting at the restaurant, Mom. I could have been someone walking in off the street, and they would have been nicer. It’s like they were doing me a big favor letting me watch them work—which they were— but they were also supposed to let me work, too. I mean, there I was, their slave for the summer, doing an internship for no pay, and they were rude. Like I was the one who offered to sponsor an internship. I haven’t spent the last two years at culinary school just so I could smile and nod and say, ‘Vous êtes brilliant, monsieur’!”

  Julia was oddly relieved. “Why didn’t you tell me things were so bad?”

  “Because I kept thinking they would get better. Dad kept insisting this was going to be a worthwhile summer, quote unquote, and I kept reminding myself of it, but then I kept thinking that I’d had a choice. I wanted New York, but Dad thought Paris would look better on my résumé. Well, I don’t care about my résumé. What’s a résumé worth if you’re miserable? And I was, Mom. That was not where I wanted to be.”

  Julia smoothed that short blonde hair. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I wish you’d told me.”

  “What good would it have done? I accepted the internship, and I probably would have stayed, because God forbid,” she drawled sarcastically, “Dad should think I’m a quitter. Then you were in the accident, and it changed everything. I had to see for myself that you were okay.”

  “So you flew to New York by way of Chicago. But how did you get up here?”

  “I flew to Portland and took a bus the rest of the way.”

  Julia wasn’t surprised. Molly had always been resourceful, particularly when she wanted to do something that one or both of her parents did not want her doing. Julia took pride in Molly’s independence. Now, she also felt relief. It was nice knowing that Molly could take care of herself, in case something had indeed happened to Julia. “Did Dad give you money?”