Harry had recovered. “Sure, I get that,” he said. “I didn’t spend too many summers here. But I kinda remember hanging out on those boulders down near the boathouse. It was a good fishing spot.”
Cass turned from Ben and leaned into the conversation. “Want to go revisit it? See if it’s changed? Catch a fish or two?”
“The boathouse?” Harry asked.
“Sure. The calamari is gone. I think I ate half a basket by myself. I need to walk it off.”
Harry shrugged and pushed out his chair, nearly colliding with Laura Danvers.
Laura laughed it off, excusing herself for sneaking up on him. She greeted everyone at the table with her hostess charm, urged them to visit the bar, thanked them profusely for coming, and moved on to the next table.
Blythe Westerland was just steps behind her, not wanting to be outdone in the hostess category. Her shimmering dress caught the table’s candlelight. She moved to Ben’s side and greeted him with a warm hug, then repeated Laura’s gracious welcome, moving around the table, trying with difficulty to keep her champagne from sloshing out of the glass.
Nell remembered Elizabeth’s request and mentioned to Blythe that the headmistress had been looking for her. “It’s a great crowd, but it’s difficult to find people.”
Blythe seemed to toss off Nell’s message and instead laughed and chatted on about the enormous turnout, the money raised, and her plans to suggest some changes to the board about how the money was spent. Travel was one idea, she said. “Maybe trips to Paris for the older girls.”
Nell held her silence, imagining the board discussions looming in the future. Travels to France would definitely not be how Elizabeth wanted the foundation money spent. It wasn’t at all what she had in mind when she proposed additional scholarships or more community involvement.
But Blythe had already turned her attention to greeting Cass, touching her arm for attention, nodding a hello.
Harry stepped away from the table. “Ready, Cass?” he said.
Blythe stepped back in surprise. “Well, now. I thought for a minute you were Danny Brandley,” she said. Her head leaned to one side, a curious smile on her lips. Her fingers touched her chin as if she, too, had a carefully trimmed beard. “Hmm. Nice beard.”
Cass put her hand on Harry’s arm and began to move away. “Sorry, Blythe. He’s not Danny,” she said, edging backward toward the terrace steps. Harry rested one hand on her lower back.
Nell half expected his foot to start tapping.
Blythe stayed still but watched the couple with an amused look, as if assessing the combination. She sipped her champagne, her eyes steady over the rim. As they moved away, she lifted one hand and wiggled her fingers in a wave. “Be good, you two,” she said.
Cass didn’t answer.
Blythe smiled. “Later,” she called out. Several people turned to look, wondering to whom the shimmering Blythe was talking.
Cass adeptly ignored her and quickened her step.
Nell held back a smile. Later for Cass would most certainly mean never.
Harry turned back once, then lowered his head to listen to Cass as they started to disappear in the crowd.
Nell felt the brief wave of tension. There wasn’t any love lost between Blythe and Cass.
But Blythe seemed impervious to it. She watched Cass walk away, an amused expression on her face. “I must need glasses. How could I have confused him with Danny Brandley? There are no similarities whatsoever between those two. Nada.” She chuckled, then said, “So . . . exactly where is our Danny boy?” The question was meant for no one. A random thought that found its way into words.
Nell watched the expression linger on her face. Was she surprised that Danny Brandley wasn’t there next to Cass? Blythe Westerland was impossible to read. Nell wondered if she played poker. She would be good at it.
Blythe seemed to feel Nell and Izzy watching her and pulled her attention back to the table. “Silly,” she said matter-of-factly. “The man looks good in a mustache, doesn’t he?” And then she turned toward Ben and engaged him in yacht club talk.
“She left just in time,” Izzy said. “I was ready to bop her. Cass would curse us all if she thought we were talking about her personal life with Blythe Westerland.”
Nell agreed. She looked over Izzy’s shoulder and caught a glimpse of Cass and Harry, stopping near the flagpole to talk to Jane and Ham Brewster.
She didn’t know what to make of Harry. Blythe was right—he looked good in a mustache, and he seemed nice enough. A little nervous, maybe. He was good-looking, in a movie star way. But there was something about him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. He seemed to treat Cass fine. So perhaps that was all that mattered. And the fact that he intended to turn the old and weathered beach home into something pleasant was also a good thing for Sea Harbor. No one liked seeing run-down cottages along the shore.
Blythe began walking away, then turned back. “Cass looks good tonight, don’t you think? Her boyfriend, too. Is that what he is?”
Izzy’s radar pulled her around and her thoughts merged with Nell’s. They didn’t like Blythe talking about Cass, but on the other hand, they couldn’t quite decide if it would be good or bad to have Blythe show an interest in Harry Winthrop.
“He’s nothing like Danny, do you agree?” Blythe said. “Not with all that facial hair, anyway.” She held out her glass as a waiter passed by and waited for a refill.
It was a curious comment, but both Nell and Izzy chose to ignore it. Nothing Blythe said could really surprise them.
Then Sam joined in, “Well, his name is Harry—”
Blythe smiled. She looked out again, scanning the groups of partygoers filling the lawn. “We certainly have our share of interesting guests tonight.”
Before Ben or Izzy could respond, the society editor and photographer from the Boston Globe beckoned to Blythe. Also waiting for the photo shoot was a well-known senior partner in Elliott Danvers’s Boston law firm, his infatuation with Blythe visible in his waiting smile. Blythe returned it, and was soon standing before the camera, comfortable and happy.
The evening moved on in unending samplings of Sea Harbor restaurants’ most delicious entrées: skewered pork and apples, cucumber soup, roasted fall vegetables, and chunks of succulent sautéed crabmeat.
Blythe Westerland was everywhere, greeting each group of guests as if the school were her elegant home and she were Pearl Mesta, a hostess everyone would remember. Always, it seemed, there was an elegant man at her beck and call. Hovering, Cass called it, and suggested that she wore some potent perfume that was probably illegal.
As they reached the last course—generous slices of key lime pie that were being passed around the terrace—Laura Danvers stood on the fan of steps overlooking the partygoers, beaming. Just a year or two younger than Izzy, Laura handled such affairs with the ease and aplomb of someone twice her age. Gracious and smart, she was the go-to person for nearly every charitable event in town—and as she had done tonight, they were all successful.
She tapped her handheld microphone for attention, gathering people to the terrace area. Many were already at their assigned tables, but others were scattered in happy groups everywhere. “I think the crowd has grown with each course,” Nell murmured to Ben as they sat down next to Izzy and Sam. “I don’t know if we’ll ever see Birdie again—she claims everyone she has ever met in her life is here.”
Cass waved from the bar that she was bringing over a fresh carafe of coffee.
Another tap of the microphone hushed the crowd, and Laura looked out at the crowd, asking for quiet while she thanked the school staff and the myriad of other generous people who had made the evening possible.
First came the restaurateurs who had donated the innovative tapaslike courses they had all enjoyed. The applause was rousing.
“And next, for those of you who don�
��t know her, Dr. Elizabeth Hartley has pulled our school together and given it new life. If you haven’t met her yet, make sure you do before leaving tonight. You’ll be glad you did.” She looked blindly into the crowd, motioning for Elizabeth to come up to the microphone.
Necks swiveled, seeking out the headmistress. An awkward silence followed, people shifted, and those still standing moved, in case they were blocking her way. At the edge of the terrace, Jerry Thompson stood with a puzzled expression on his face, looking around the crowd.
Laura held her smile and waited patiently.
A door opened, and Elizabeth appeared, hurrying across the flagstone terrace, her face flushed and the sound of her heels magnified in the silence that had fallen over the crowd.
Nell felt her embarrassment.
“It’s like the Academy Awards,” Izzy whispered next to her. “Caught in the bathroom when your name is called.”
At the steps, Laura hugged Elizabeth warmly and thanked her for all she had done—and was doing—for the school and for the whole community. Her words brought great applause from the crowd.
Elizabeth took the microphone and spoke a few words, enough to express her deep love for Sea Harbor Community Day School, for her job, and for the people who had made it all possible. And then she handed the mic back to Laura and wound her way through the crowd until she stood safely at Jerry Thompson’s side.
Next Laura asked all the board members to stand. “These folks are giving enormous amounts of time and energy—not to mention fund-raising—to this school and to the community projects it supports and fosters. Frankly, they’re great,” she said, “and not just because my charming husband is one of them.” She blew a kiss in Elliott’s direction and the crowd laughed. Again necks craned in the direction of shuffling chairs as Nell and Birdie, Barrett Mansfield, Elliott, and half a dozen others stood, nodded, and quickly resumed their seats.
“One of you needs to remain standing and accept your own round of much-deserved applause,” Laura said graciously, peering out into the crowd.
Nell looked at Birdie. “That’s generous of her.”
Birdie nodded. “Our Laura knows people. And she knows how much Blythe covets attention. It will put her in good stead.”
How true. And how wise of Laura. Surely Elliott kept her attuned to some of the more dramatic meetings of the board. This might be one good way to calm Blythe down.
“Blythe Westerland, please come up and take a well-deserved bow.” Laura looked out over the sea of heads toward the mayor’s table, where Blythe had been sitting. Mayor Beatrice Scaglia shrugged and nodded toward an empty seat.
“Blythe hasn’t been off her feet all night,” someone murmured from a table near Laura. “She’s everywhere.”
Laura picked up on the remark. “That’s true—Blythe hasn’t stopped for a minute. She’s probably helping with the dishes.” The image brought a wave of laughter, waving off the awkward moment. “Be sure you seek her out before you leave tonight and let her know what a superb hostess she’s been. Now let’s get on with a wonderful wind-down to the evening. Please enjoy the rest of your pie, help yourself to the coffee bar, and drive home safely.”
Within an hour the crowd had thinned to just a few dozen folks, some helping Laura collect stray programs and others simply reluctant to call it an evening while the wine was still flowing. Ben noticed the tired lines on Birdie’s face and the slowness of her step. “It‘s time to go,” he said.
Birdie gratefully agreed and gave a farewell wave to Angelo, who was bending over to pick up stray napkins, the pants of his neat dark suit straining against his girth. “You never rest, do you, Angelo?” she called out as he straightened up and called back, “Keeps me outta trouble, Birdie. You know that.”
He laughed, waved, and then began barking orders to the crew to take down the tables, clean the lawns, make sure stray sweaters and glasses and scarves were collected with care, and snuff out every single hurricane lamp, all the way down to the water, so the place wouldn’t burn down.
The parking lot was a jumble of good-byes, hugs, and brief conversations about the evening.
A perfect party, Harriet Brandley said.
Esther Gibson agreed as she ushered her husband over to their truck, waving good-bye to Ben and Nell. “Not a single emergency call,” the alert dispatcher called out to Ben. “The guys spent the evening playing chess at the station. Now, how perfect a night is that?”
Ben and Nell laughed, knowing that, of course, Esther would have called in not once, but many times during the evening. Whether she was on duty or not, the dispatcher’s thoughts were with the Sea Harbor men in blue and keeping the town safe, even though if there had been a disruption, it most likely would have been something as severe as a fight in Jake Risso’s Gull Tavern over a baseball score, or a rowdy party down on one of boats. Or maybe a firework or two being set off in a quiet neighborhood.
Disruptions were mild in Sea Harbor. Almost always.
Ben dropped Birdie at her home and he and Nell drove through the quiet night to their house, their bodies weary, but with the contented slowness that an enjoyable evening brought about. Along Harbor Road, shops were closed and lamplights lit the way for late-night diners and revelers meandering out of Jake Risso’s bar or the Ocean’s Edge restaurant.
Ben had almost reached the corner of Sandswept Lane when the sudden sound of sirens pierced the stillness. Startled, Nell pressed forward against the seat restraint as Ben pulled the car over to the side of the road.
They looked around, unsure of where the alarms were coming from or in which direction the ambulance would be speeding.
Suddenly the night was filled with what seemed like hundreds of sirens—although there weren’t that many police cars on all of Cape Ann.
In the distance, spinning lights lit up the dark sky.
And in that single instant, a perfect evening was shattered.
Chapter 8
T he ringing of the doorbell at two a.m. would have paralyzed Nell on a normal night, jarring her out of a deep sleep and causing her heart to skip a beat.
But neither she nor Ben had slept much. They’d stood on the back deck, watching the sky light up as police cars and emergency vehicles headed north along the shore road.
And then they had gone back inside and up the back stairs to get ready for bed because at that late hour there was no one to call for information, no one to assure them that everything was fine. No one to say that it was a minor car accident, but no one was hurt. A slow night for the police, so they sent out the whole crew. It was just a bad scare. Everyone—everywhere—was fine.
Sleep came reluctantly, and when it did, it was a slight, light sleep, dipping just beneath that thin layer that separates sleep from wakefulness.
Ben was out of bed in an instant at the first ring.
Pulling on sweatpants, he took the back stairs two at a time. Nell was seconds behind him, grabbing the sash of her robe where it hung loose, flapping against her leg.
Stars still lingered in the black sky, but not enough to distinguish the figure on the front step. Ben clicked on the porch light and opened the door.
Chief Jerry Thompson stood in front of him, disheveled, the light catching his badge. Behind him, nearly hidden by his frame, was Elizabeth Hartley.
“Ben, Nell,” the chief began, his deep voice catching in his throat. He took a deep breath, moving slightly, and it was then that Nell saw Elizabeth’s face. It was pasty white, and filled with something unreadable. Something beyond fear.
Without a word, Ben pushed the door open wider, stepped aside, and ushered them in. Nell led the way to the kitchen, where she automatically filled glasses with water and pulled out the island stools.
“An accident . . . ,” Nell began, the question not really forming. But at least her friends standing on the doorstep were both safe. Able to walk away from what
ever it was that had happened. Except for Elizabeth’s shock—that was the expression, she recognized it now, shock—they were unhurt.
Elizabeth still wore the dress she had had on for the party—a dark silky dress, a splash of turquoise at the neck. She had looked so pretty at the party. But that prettiness had been replaced by the circles beneath her eyes and the pasty look on her face.
She looked over at the chief. He, too, still wore the suit he’d gone to the party in. But instead of a handkerchief in the front pocket, it was covered over with a Sea Harbor police badge.
“You’re on duty, Jerry,” Ben said.
He nodded. “I have to go back to the school, but I didn’t want to leave Elizabeth at her dark house. It just seemed . . . well, since she lives just down the street—”
“Of course,” Nell said quickly, not knowing why they were there, but it suddenly didn’t matter. Elizabeth looked as though she needed comfort—and she and Ben could certainly supply that.
Ben took a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and poured Elizabeth a shot. She looked fragile, as if she needed something to bolster her up or she might crumble.
“The boathouse,” Elizabeth managed to say. She took a sip of the whiskey and swallowed it with a grimace as if it were medicine. “I knew we should have taken it down. It was such a wreck, but teachers had ideas for it . . .” Her voice drifted off. It was a faraway voice, as if she were alone in the room and her thoughts had unintentionally taken the shape of words.
Jerry reached out and covered her hand. “Shh,” he said gently, then explained to Ben and Nell how the boathouse played a role in the middle-of-the-night visit. “The cleanup guys went down to extinguish the gaslights lighting the paths to the water. They were clear around the boathouse—people had wanted to see the old place, so the path around it had been lit, too, to keep folks from falling on the gravelly path and boulders. It’s a rocky shore in that spot.” He paused and took a drink of whiskey, and then went on.
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