How the Light Gets In

by Katy Upperman

  I haven’t seen Chloe—not since the poppies. Without smoke to get lost in, I’m wide awake and circumspect. I miss her so much it’s hard to breathe. I wrestle with how to help her remember and agonize over how to let her go. I worry about my mom, alone in rehab. I fret about my dad, alone at home.

  And Tucker … always Tucker.

  The last week’s been lonely and monotonous. Early solo swims. Breakfast with Lucy. Long mornings working in the Savannah, which will be yellow, or the Gabriel, which we’ve already painted a soft peach. Nighttime is the worst. I lie in bed, listening to Buddy purr, anxiously examining the careless words and reckless actions of this summer and last.

  Today, I climb the attic stairs to sift through the last of the boxes, the ones we moved the other day, before we started painting the Gabriel. It’s hot and terribly stuffy. Mid-July sunshine streams through the porthole windows, and dust bunnies dance in pillars of light. I’m sick of this attic, but I’m about to lose another afternoon trapped within its walls.

  I set my mind to the work.

  It’s not long before my hands are filthy, thanks to dust and newsprint. My skin goes clammy. My tank top clings uncomfortably. I drag box after box, crate after crate, across the floor. I rifle through their contents—junk—then stack them in a rapidly growing tower to be moved downstairs and tossed.

  I’m nearly done when I spot an unlabeled box deep in a far corner. It doesn’t appear as old as the crap surrounding it, so I haul it to the middle of the room and pull its flaps open.

  Inside, right on top, are four Shell City High yearbooks, the same editions I saw at the library weeks ago. I flip the book from 1998 open. It belonged to Nathan Stewart—his name is printed in black marker inside the front cover. I read a few of the messages inscribed to him: Have a great summer! Keep in touch! Enjoy Europe! They’re superficial, bland, with the exception of one beautiful block of text on the back page. This letter speaks of soul mates and lasting love, the future and forever. It’s signed, Love, Annabel.

  I delve further into the yearbook, hoping to learn more. I find Nathan’s senior portrait and spend a minute studying it. Dark hair, brooding eyes, chiseled features. Classically handsome, like the men of old black-and-white movies—the ones who slick their hair and drink scotch and wear tuxedos. I pick him out of a photograph of the cross-country team, then find an individual shot of him midstride on a wooded trail, his legs long and lithe. Several pages back, there’s a photo of him and two others: a boy who bears a striking resemblance to Tucker and a girl, blond and lovely.

  Benjamin and Annabel.

  Stuck between the final pages of the yearbook, I find one of those staged school-dance photos, tacky background with flowers and balloons, awkward poses, stiff smiles. SHELL CITY HIGH, SENIOR PROM, 1998 is stamped on the bottom. Nathan’s on the right, wearing a tux, hair combed neatly. Annabel’s in black, too, a velvet gown with a sweetheart neckline. A pink corsage is fastened to her wrist. She tilts her head toward his, her smile luminous.

  She wasn’t happy with my dad, Tucker said. She went to visit a friend, and she never came back.

  Annabel must’ve been with Nathan in high school, at least at the end of their senior year. Yet, at some point, for some reason, she strayed.

  I set the prom photo aside and paw through the other items in the box. I unearth an envelope packed with images of two dark-haired children—the children whose pictures I found the first day I went looking in the Gabriel. The day I found the ring I’ve worn all summer. As I flip through the photos, I watch the bright-eyed girl become a pretty teenager, plainly happy, usually surrounded by hordes of friends. She’s labeled “Hannah” on the back of one picture—Hannah Stewart, the doctor Lucy mentioned my first night here, the woman who put this house on the market. I study an image of her brother, Nathan, straddling a motorcycle with HARLEY-DAVIDSON painted across its gas tank. He’s solemn and intimidating and indisputably sexy.

  Benjamin Morgan thinks he’s dangerous.

  Annabel Tate was seeing him behind Benjamin’s back.

  Makes me wonder where he is today.

  At the bottom of the box, there are more pictures of Annabel and Nathan, casual, touching, smiling. There are pictures of Nathan and a younger Benjamin, too. They’re playing volleyball on the beach, and they’re in a parking lot, their arms draped over each other’s shoulders, that same motorcycle in the background. And most surprising: a faded newspaper clipping with a grainy black-and-white photo of Benjamin Morgan and Annabel Tate. An engagement announcement. They’re smiling woodenly, obligatorily.

  She’s wearing a ring—diamonds and plaited platinum.

  My ring.

  Months after attending the prom with Nathan, Annabel was betrothed to Benjamin.

  I’m consumed by this mystery surrounding Stewart House, especially since the triangle created by Annabel, Benjamin, and Nathan is damn near equivalent to the triangle I once made with Isaac and Chloe. And especially since Tucker compared my behavior to his mother’s: I don’t want to be flighty and secretive and disloyal.

  But I do want to understand Annabel Tate.

  I gather the relevant photographs and the engagement announcement before hurrying downstairs, mentally cataloging the people I know in Bell Cove. My understanding of what happened between Nathan, Annabel, and Benjamin is like a beach ball riddled with holes. I need to talk to someone who can help me patch the punctures. Lucy will be as clueless as I am. Drew and Brynn are out of the question—their loyalty to Tucker outweighs any desire they may have to spill his family’s secrets. Animal Shelter Rex doesn’t seem like the type to gossip. Then, like the higher powers are rooting for me, a name flashes in my head.… Shirley.

  I swing by my room to collect Annabel’s letters, then head for the kitchen, where Lucy’s testing breakfast recipes. I find a manila envelope in one of the drawers near the fridge, where she keeps pens and pads of paper and mailing supplies. She watches me slip the letters and photographs and newspaper clipping inside. I tell her I’m going on a bike ride and it’s so obvious that her curiosity abounds, but she only nods. I haven’t flaked and disappeared into the woods in a week, we’re almost done with the second floor, and besides, I’m pretty sure she views my ventures into Bell Cove as forward progress.

  Look at Callie, biking and socializing, inhaling fresh air instead of weed—she’s healing.

  She licks batter off a spatula, tells me to be careful, and asks me to swing by the Morgans’ to see if Tucker’s home from his trip.

  Yeah, right.

  When I reach A Good Book, I leave my bike against the planked facade of the store, tuck the envelope under my arm, and peer through the window. Shirley’s behind the counter, ringing up a girl with a cute, angular haircut. A beefy guy waits beside her, fiddling with bookmarks that hang from a rack beside the counter. He knocks one onto the floor, and the girl pokes him before accepting the change Shirley offers.

  I duck away from the window as they turn for the door, pretending to study the sticker affixed to the rusty handlebars of my bike. The bell on A Good Book’s door tinkles as it opens, and then Drew and Brynn are a few feet away.

  “Callie?” he calls.

  Against my better judgment, I turn around. “Drew, hey.”

  Brynn, wearing a dress printed with tiny daisies and a pair of espadrilles, nearly knocks me over with her hug. “It’s good to see you!”

  Their presence brings such a powerful longing for Tucker; when Brynn unwinds her arms from my neck, I teeter, breathlessly sad. She’s oblivious, but Drew’s usual I want a piece demeanor is missing as he studies me from beneath the bill of his OSU hat.

  “What’re you guys up to?” I ask.

  Brynn holds up a bag from A Good Book. “Shopping for magazines.”

  “Tagging along,” Drew says.

  I try to come up with something semisociable to say, then spout the only thing that makes sense. “How’s Tucker?”

  “Good!” Brynn says. “We saw him the other n
ight. Grabbed pizza in Shell City.”

  I narrow my eyes, confused. “What about his fishing trip?”

  She and Drew exchange a look that makes me wonder what Tucker told them. That we argued? That I’m hung up on my ex? That I’m too high maintenance to bother with? “Oh,” Brynn says. “We went before he left.”

  My voice falters when I ask, “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  She blinks. “Uh…”

  Drew covers for her. “Shouldn’t be too long now.” And then, “Brynnie, why don’t you go get us a table at The Coffee Cove? I’ll meet you.”

  She frowns. “Why?”

  “Because I wanna hang with Callie for a minute.” Another glance passes between them, a wordless conversation that has her frown turning contemplative. Drew says, “Go on. I’ll see you in a few.”

  She pivots and prances away.

  He heads for a bench, then sits, stretching his legs out onto the sidewalk, where passersby will likely have to step over them. I join him. He doesn’t look at me and he doesn’t ask questions—he just lets the quiet fester. The atmosphere around our shady bench thickens until it’s practically buzzing.

  “I haven’t spoken to Tucker in days,” I say when I can’t take the silence another second.

  He glances over, as if only mildly interested. “Oh yeah?”

  “Did he tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “That he’s pissed?” I’m not sure why I’m confiding in Drew, of all people. Maybe it’s that he’s known Tucker forever. Maybe it’s the regret I feel at having judged him unfavorably when now he’s being so decent. Maybe I’m desperate.

  “He might’ve mentioned it.”

  “I have no idea how to fix things.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Of course I want to.” There are a million reasons why: Tucker has the biggest heart of anyone I know, I hate that I hurt him, and I don’t want to lose him. But all that feels intensely personal for a Bell Cove afternoon.

  Drew stretches an arm over the back of the bench. “You want to talk about it?”

  I shrug. “Everything was good, then it wasn’t. He must hate me.”

  “Nah. He’s definitely into you. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so bummed. Anyway, whatever happened can’t be as bad as the bullshit he’s put up with from Brynn and me over the years. He’ll get over it.” He flashes a flirty grin. “If he doesn’t, you know where to find me.”

  I shake my head, hiding a smile. “I should go, but when he gets back from fishing, will you ask him to call me?”

  “No problem.”

  When we stand, he engulfs me in a hug, thudding my back with his big hand, like a buddy, like a big brother. It’s clear, now, why Tucker’s been friends with him for so long.

  “Thanks, Drew.”

  “It was good seeing you, Callie,” he says before ambling down the sidewalk.

  45

  “Callie, hello,” Shirley says when I step into A Good Book. “How’s Lucy?”

  “Good. I told her I’d check to see if you have new cookbooks.”

  “Not since last time she was in. I’ll give her a call if I get any shipments, though. Is there something I can help you find?”

  I approach the counter. “If you’re not too busy, I thought I might talk with you for a few minutes.” I open the envelope and fan its contents out. “I was hoping you could help me make sense of all this.”

  She makes a soft clucking sound and picks up the photo of Nathan, Benjamin, and Annabel. “I see you’ve caught wind of our small-town scandal.”

  “So you know about it?”

  “All Bell Cove locals know about it.” She gazes at me over the tops of her wire-rimmed glasses, impassive. “What is it you’d like to talk about?”

  “You said you taught Annabel and Benjamin. Did you teach Nathan Stewart, too?”

  “I didn’t. There were two third-grade classrooms the year he and his friends passed through. My colleague had him, though I did have his sister a few years later.”

  I rest my elbows on the counter. “What were they like, Tucker’s parents?”

  Shirley’s eyes narrow. She wants to know why I care.

  “I found these pictures in the attic at my aunt’s house,” I explain. “I recognize Tucker’s father and I’m curious, but I don’t want to bug him with a bunch of questions.”

  Her expression becomes reflective. “Benji was a great kid. Mischievous, but in a way that made teachers laugh. Silly, but sweet as sugar. He was one of my favorites.”

  “What about Annabel?”

  “Thoughtful, quiet, very bright.”

  It sounds like Tucker is a blend of his parents’ best traits. I show Shirley the prom photograph. “Annabel and Nathan…?”

  “Were together for years. She was the best thing he had going.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She sighs, a reluctant sound, and folds her hands. “Nathan Stewart was spoiled. He had a reputation for being reckless, and he didn’t have the best role model in his father. He and Annabel were serious, but they fought often, and they didn’t seem to care who was around to pay witness. Once, here in this shop, I watched Annabel bat her lashes at Benjamin—I think he always had eyes for her—and Nathan caught her. They had it out on the sidewalk out front,” she says, nodding toward the window. “I used to wonder if Annabel enjoyed pushing Nathan’s buttons, toying with Benji, seeing how miserable she could make them both.”

  “But why would Nathan stay with her if she acted like that?”

  “You know how young relationships can be,” Shirley says. “Acutely passionate, occasionally codependent.”

  I drum my fingertips. I’d had Benjamin pegged as the villain in all this, a girlfriend thief, yet if what Shirley’s saying is true, he might not have been more than a casualty.

  I point to Annabel and Benjamin’s engagement announcement. “How did this come to be?”

  “Nathan went away the summer after high school, a family trip to Europe.” She pushes her glasses up her nose and gives a dainty shrug. “Annabel found affection elsewhere.”

  “With his friend.”

  Shirley nods. “And then there was the pregnancy. Annabel’s parents wanted her to marry Benjamin—they demanded it, if the rumor mill is to be trusted. They were traditional, old-fashioned, and in their eyes, a baby out of wedlock was taboo. Far as I know, Benjamin wanted a wedding, too. Even back when they were my students, he was protective of Annabel. Devoted.”

  “She accepted his proposal,” I say, pointing to the newspaper clipping.

  “But she didn’t stop seeing the Stewart boy. People spotted them together in town when she was pregnant and even after Tucker came along.”

  This isn’t surprising. Annabel’s letters to Nathan were about finding their way back to each other. And Nathan … I wonder how culpable he was in all this. It sounds like he was betrayed by his girlfriend and his friend, but Tucker harbors so much hatred toward him; he all but blames Nathan for his mother’s disappearance.

  The shop door opens. A woman and a brown-eyed little boy stroll in. Shirley smiles and offers her help. The woman declines, and the two of them meander into the stacks, toward the picture books. Shirley turns her attention back to me, and I’m relieved—I’ve still got questions.

  I point at the letters. “Do you think Annabel wanted to be with Nathan, not Benjamin?”

  She sighs. “I’m not sure Annabel knew what she wanted. It was unfair of her, stringing those boys along. Unfair of her to walk into precarious situations when she had a baby at home.”

  “She was with Nathan before she disappeared. What do you think happened to her?”

  A quiet moment slips by. Shirley stares at the scattered photos. Painstakingly, she shuffles them into a pile, tapping the edges on the counter to align them. When she looks up, her demeanor’s cloudy. “I’m not sure we’ll ever know.”

  “I’ve heard different theories,” I say. “She fell, she was pushed,
she left town in search of something new. Do you think she could’ve done that, left her baby—left Tucker—behind?”

  Shirley’s eyebrows arch. “I’m really not sure. But if I’m going by what Nathan did after, then I’d say he was likely involved in some capacity.”

  “What Nathan did after?”

  “You don’t know?”

  A shiver rolls through me. “I have no idea.”

  She glances around the store, then she whispers: “Suicide.”

  “What?”

  She nods. “Inside Stewart House. A week after Annabel disappeared.”

  I shake my head, dumbstruck. It’s one thing for my sister to have died down shore from Stewart House, for Annabel Tate to have possibly died near Stewart House, but holy hell. Nathan Stewart died by his own hand, inside Stewart House.

  Shirley touches her wrist, the only cueing I need.

  The stain in my bathroom—it’s his blood. It has to be.

  I understand, now, why Tucker’s convinced Nathan played a part in Annabel’s disappearance; what he did could imply guilt. But it also points to some serious mental-health issues. Based on what Shirley’s said, Nathan loved Annabel, no matter how imperfectly. When she vanished, he must have been devastated.

  “What a terrible story,” I say. “So much loss.”

  Shirley purses her lips. “You can see why not many Bell Cove residents talk about it. With Benjamin and Tucker still in town, it’s better not to dwell. They deserve privacy.”

  I nod, thinking of the day I spoke to Tucker so flippantly about Annabel jumping from the cliff behind Stewart House. I wish I could travel back in time and slap a hand over past Callie’s mouth, because if the situation had been reversed, if Tucker had disparaged Chloe and her death, I would have been inconsolable.

  I owe him the biggest apology.

  I turn to the sound of the woman and her giggling boy, arms laden with picture books. I thank Shirley, squeezing her hand before I tuck the photographs and newspaper clipping safely into their envelope. I’m preoccupied by lingering questions, but I take a second to browse the cookbooks. One with photographs of seafood on its cover catches my eye, and I buy it for Lucy. It feels good to do something impulsively nice for her.