“Ava. You up here?” Even from the farthest end of the hallway, Ava could hear worry in her father’s voice.
“I’m in Mom’s room. Looking for clothes.”
When he stepped into view, she could tell by his face that he didn’t want to come anywhere near that room. He stared hard at her, like it would hurt more to look anywhere else.
“I should’ve done a better job with the shopping,” he said. “You know, some of your mother’s things are in the attic. I’ll ask James for the key. Or I could give you some money to go in town.”
“Whatever.” Ava turned her back on him, taking her sweet time to close the wardrobe.
“It’s hard. For me. Being here. You?”
Ava hated it when he didn’t speak in complete sentences.
“It’s all right.”
“I’ve got to go pick up groceries. Get the mail forwarded. You could come.”
“No thanks.”
It was strange to feel so mixed up about him. Ava walked by her dad, wishing she felt brave enough to brush against him. To make a little contact with someone who wasn’t hitting her in the head or smacking her in the face. Except she still blamed him. For sending her to Mount Hope. For being so hard to talk to about Mom and Poppy in the first place.
He followed her, hanging on the threshold of her room.
“We could go to Blue Hill or as far as Ellsworth if you want. Check things out together. See what’s the same and what’s changed.”
“Maybe later,” Ava said, crawling back into her bed, pulling her spread over her head.
Her dad didn’t stomp out of her room into the hallway or down the stairs like he was angry. His feet said he was hurt. His lonely steps took him right out of the house, leaving her alone again.
Under the covers, the sharp edge of her dream found her.
Mallory wasn’t even in the room and she was making Ava feel guilty for not telling her dad about Mount Hope and why she did what she did. What Ava couldn’t figure out was whether bashing her head in had been Mallory’s plan all along, or if the place finally made her lose it? Ava and her father would need to be speaking in paragraphs before they could talk about that. The least she could do was find out if her roommate was okay, and according to James there was a working phone in the boathouse.
Hunting for her socks and boots, Ava found a pair of old flip-flops shoved in a corner under her bed. They were too small for her, but not by much, and something from Maine was miles better than anything from Mount Hope. Ava crammed the boots into her wastebasket and went downstairs.
Whether on a mission or not, she was ready to get outside. The quiet house spooked her. The breeze coming up from the Reach made her shiver, but the dew on her toes felt so familiar, so good. The hedges that fenced in the side lawn were overgrown, not flat and cut short the way they were when she and Poppy played hide-and-seek there. Back then it was a maze of a place decorated with petal-layered peonies and color-by-number roses.
Standing there by herself in the middle of May, looking at the tips of those neglected plants starting to turn green, Ava remembered a day when she was lying on the grass staring at clouds, searching for hidden pictures with her sister. Ava and Poppy wore shorts over their bathing suits like they did most summer days. Poppy was loving all things plaid and Ava was stuck in a polka-dot phase.
“There’s a bouquet of goldenrod and a bunch of black-eyed Susans,” Poppy said, pointing to a white ball of nothing.
“You can’t say you see specific flowers. Clouds don’t come in color,” Ava said, trying to decide if the glob of fluff she had her eyes on looked more like an elephant or a butterfly.
“Can too,” Poppy said. “It’s an imagination game, Ava. I’m using mine is all.” Poppy leaned her shoulder into her sister’s, encouraging her not to be so serious. “When I grow up,” she said, “everyone in my family is going to be named for a flower. Like me. I like Zinnia for a girl, don’t you?”
Mom had been reading two chapters every night of Chasing Redbird. Ava liked the main character too, but not enough to name a kid after her.
“What about your husband? Boys aren’t named after flowers, you nut.”
“I’m going to marry a guy named Salvia. I’ll call him Sal for short.”
There was a pause, and then both girls started laughing. Holding their stomachs, bumping into each other as they rolled around in the grass. Ava and Poppy scrambled to their feet and started running after each other through the garden, in and out of the hedges, down the path to the boathouse.
Now eight years later, walking through the same yard, Ava remembered coming to a dead stop when they saw their parents arguing. Mom was yelling, her face all red and tight. Dad held on to her arm. Neither of them noticed the girls standing there.
“Please go,” he said.
Mom’s shoulders were hunched, and she bit her lip, trying to pull away.
And then, like that, the memory went dark.
In front of the boathouse, Ava closed her eyes, hoping she could dig up something more. She lifted her head, breathed in through her nose, desperate for some smell to glide in on a breeze, bringing another detail along with it. One minute, then two, she waited. But nothing came.
It felt weird trying to work things loose after spending so much time trying to push them back where they came from. At home in Maine, it felt like the only place in the world where Ava could trust the memories would find her, and that when they did, she’d be ready.
The boathouse was more weathered than it had been when she was little. Shingles were missing in places, and the windows on the coast side had masking tape Xs, meant for storm winds.
Being on the side with the best light, Ava leaned up to the window, putting a hand over her eyes to block the sun. It was hard to see in through the grime. Zany shapes and their playmates tricked her eyes. She couldn’t make out what was inside. Inching along the building till she came to the front, Ava tried the door. It took some effort to push it open.
“If you wanted me to show you around, all you had to do was ask.”
The deep voice startled her, and she turned to see James standing there holding a brown paper bag with red lettering.
“You scared the shit out of me,” she said.
“Didn’t mean to. You’re the one who came to pay a visit.”
“I’m not visiting. I need to use the phone.”
“Coulda asked to do that too.” James moved into the boathouse and pulled a string dangling from the ceiling in the middle of the room. A bright bulb lit up the place, and Ava still had no idea what she was looking at. Her hands and feet started to go numb the way they did when she was getting sucked into one of her blackouts. The urge to run was fierce, but Ava couldn’t move. James didn’t look anything like Justice or Benno, and his vibe was a lot calmer, and still she didn’t feel like being alone with him.
James pushed aside a giant pair of gloves and a sci-fi kind of helmet so he could put the Ace hardware bag down on a long metal table. It reminded her of the ones they had in science lab at Wellesley High.
A crazy collection of things lay this way and that, top to bottom, all over the boathouse. Copper leaves attached to plumbing pipes hung from the ceiling. Coils upon coils of metal circles, like a Slinky gone haywire, sat on a square wooden platform on the floor. A mangled blue bike had been mounted on the wall.
“I’m a sculptor,” James said, pulling more pipes from his hardware store bag.
“It’s a studio,” Ava said, as more of a fact than a question.
“When my uncle got sick and I took over the caretaking, your dad offered to let me work here in exchange for helping out. I live with my aunt over by Walker Pond.”
She wanted to go in and look around, to keep taking in all his cool stuff, but it was smarter, safer, to stay where she was, to keep her eyes on the guy.
James took the phone from its base and walked halfway to her. Stopping in the middle of the cluttered space, he seemed to know not to come too cl
ose. “If I put 911 on speed dial and let you have this, will you come in and close the door? Squirrels have a thing for my space.” When he glanced at her feet in those little-girl flip-flops, he smiled.
There was a sliver space between his two front teeth and a tiny hollow in one cheek. Not deep enough to call a dimple, more like a dent he might make in one of the pieces he was working on. All his imperfections, including the two scars, should’ve added up to a face not much worth looking at. But somehow, all put together, James was some kind of beautiful.
Ava didn’t take the phone. After closing the door, she walked toward a torn seat that came from an old car. A metal stick figure sat there, her arms empty, as though she were waiting for something to drop.
James took his time putting his supplies away, while Ava circled his sculptures one by one. Every few feet she stopped to take in the ordinary junk that James had turned into remarkable pieces.
“How do you know what’ll look good together?” she asked, touching an iron woman’s hand.
“I went to art school for a year and a half. Now, mostly, I get a feeling and I trust it.”
“Something inspires you and somehow you know what to do with it. You relax and the piece comes to you.”
James nodded, but he didn’t say anything else. Maybe he was superstitious when it came to his art. Sometimes talking about what inspired something wrecked it. Ava didn’t tell him it was the same with her music. With writing her songs.
“I’ve got a few things I need to do for your father,” he said, trying once again to hand her the phone. “Stay as long as you want. When you’re done, shut the light off and close the door, okay? You can leave it unlocked.” There was that smile again.
“That reminds me,” Ava said. “Do you have my dad’s key to the attic? He said you’d know where it is.”
“I gave it to him on my way out. Saw him put it in his jacket pocket.”
Ava needed that key. She felt ready now to go up to the attic. Happy memories would be waiting for her there.
TWENTY-TWO
Toby couldn’t remember the last time he stood in Biddie Purcell’s kitchen. Stuck in a time warp, Lorraine’s best friend from childhood used steady hands to pour coffee from a percolator.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Make yourself useful.”
Toby reached into the hutch and pulled two of her mother’s plates out, setting the chipped china down on the plank-top table, scratched and stained. Biddie cut slices of cranberry loaf right out of the cast-iron pan, putting a sliver in front of him.
“You don’t look surprised to see me,” he said. Disappointed with the size of the piece on his plate, nonetheless Toby took a large bite of the buttery bread.
“It’s Maine,” Biddie said. “People been talking ’bout you since you drove ’round Walker Pond Sunday night. I knew you’d come when you were good and ready.”
Biddie’s name had never suited her; it belonged to an old lady. Bridget Cornish Purcell was Toby’s age, and even she wouldn’t use the word lady to describe herself. Rough around the edges, her hair pinned up in a sloppy bun, she wore a pair of overalls that could easily have come from the closet of her recently deceased husband. Biddie was as plain as the house she lived in. Yet there was nothing modest about the view from her window. Her home sat spitting distance from where Lorraine’s family home had been, nearly two miles from Herrick House on a parcel of land off North Deer Isle Road overlooking the part of the Reach called the Punch Bowl.
“It’s hard to believe Charlie’s gone,” Toby said, taking a bite so big it nearly choked him. He took a swig to wash it down. “Sitting here, I almost expect him to bang through that door, smack me on the back and tell me a story about some annoying summer person.”
“I miss that Charlie too,” Biddie said, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “He wasn’t like that for some time. You wouldn’t have recognized him. Awful to say, but it was a blessing when he passed.”
Toby rearranged the napkin on his lap, trying to draw less attention to his gut. Giving up, he leaned forward, putting an elbow on the table. He wondered if Biddie recognized him after all these years. The summer before Toby took his family to Thailand, he hadn’t been protected by a shield of extra flesh.
“He looked like a skeleton.” Biddie stared at Toby over the rim of her mug. “Couldn’t do a single thing without help, which a-course he hated. Thank goodness James dropped what he was doing to come live with us and help me out.”
“I’m so sorry,” Toby said.
This would be where Lorraine would touch Biddie’s arm, rubbing the sleeve of her flannel shirt, soft and worn. Certainly now would be the time to bring up Biddie’s other loss, of her other nephew and James’s cousin—little Bobby Carmichael. Toby just sat there.
“I couldn’t handle coming over here, after —” He couldn’t say Lorraine and Poppy. Their names burned in the back of his throat. “No excuse,” he said. “I should’ve at least come to see you when Charlie got sick. Some friend I turned out to be.”
Toby used a finger to press one crumb on top of the other on his plate. He was afraid to look at Biddie, for fear there’d be some sign she held a grudge.
“For godsake, take another piece,” she said.
He looked over to see the same bland expression she’d had on when she’d met him at the back door, as if she’d seen him just last week. Biddie had a history of being quick to lose her patience with Toby. But after all this time, she was calm with him. Detached in a similar way to Ava.
Toby always told Lorraine that Biddie didn’t like him. She held him personally responsible for Lorraine leaving Maine. And she resented him for his money. The last time he’d seen her, she’d come right out and said so.
It was Labor Day weekend, and the Sedgwicks were sharing Sunday supper with the Purcells. Toby leaned back in the porch chair next to Lorraine. Errant spikes of loose wicker poked him from behind. Trying to get more comfortable, he propped his feet up on the railing. Flakes of paint fell onto the deck as he crossed his legs at the ankles.
“Toby, look at the mess you’re making,” Lorraine said. “You’ll hurt her feelings if she sees that.”
“It’s not my fault. I’m not the one who needs to get out here with a paintbrush.”
He took his feet down and blew the chips through the slats, never taking his eyes off his girls and Biddie’s nephew, Bobby. All three children played tag in the side yard, weaving in and around Charlie’s rusted-out truck. Toby felt bad for the boy with the Coke bottle glasses strapped tight to the back of his head. Geez, the way the poor kid ran was awkward as hell. Back at Herrick House, he’d meant to ask Lorraine why the boy had stayed on longer than usual this summer. Amid the commotion of getting ready to come here, he’d been sidetracked by Ava begging him to help her find her flip-flops.
Bouncer started in on his nonstop barking. Once Charlie’s Doberman got going, he didn’t pause for a breath. Poppy was standing two feet from the end of the dog’s chain, waving a tennis ball, jazzing the dog up to play a game with her. Bouncer got more excited with every circle he completed.
“Poppy, don’t tease the dog,” Lorraine said.
“I’m not. I want to play with him, don’t I, boy?” Poppy kept waving the ball.
“Bouncer, quiet,” Biddie shouted through the screen. She carried a full tray of gin and tonics and was trying to maneuver the door with her elbow. Toby was about to get up to open it for her when Ava scrambled onto the porch and jumped into his arms, landing full force in his lap.
He rubbed his daughter’s back and patted her shoulder in the time it took to catch his breath. “No one’s taking Bouncer off the chain while we’re here,” he said.
Lorraine hopped up to get the door for her friend, holding it open to let Charlie through too. He carried a platter loaded with top-notch steaks; Toby’s contribution to the meal.
“Kids, you’ve got about twenty minutes to ride them bikes,” Charlie said. “I’ll ri
ng the bell when the chow’s ready.”
Ava hesitated to go down the steps toward Poppy and Bobby. “Go ahead,” Toby said. “Bouncer can’t reach you.”
In seconds, Ava was on her bike, riding down the lane to catch up with Poppy and the boy.
“You’d never know those two are sisters. One fearless. The other afraid of dogs, bears, and thunderstorms,” Toby said to Charlie. “And you should see Ava near the water.”
“Who can blame her?” Lorraine asked. “After falling out of that boat the way she did. It’s all my fault.” Toby’s wife rubbed her arms as if overtaken by a chill.
“By the end of the year, Ava could be swimming like a fish without an ounce of worry, if you’d agree to come with me,” he said, putting his feet back up on the railing a little too loudly. Paint flaked off again, this time sprinkling down on the deck right in front of Biddie.
“I’d only spend a couple hours a day checking in on the Thai projects and the rest of the time I’d be with you and the girls,” Toby said. “We could stay as long as you like. It’s a perfect place to teach her.”
Lorraine didn’t say anything.
He could’ve kicked himself for rambling, for bringing it up yet again. This time in front of friends. So he tried to make light of it. “Charlie, you up for a trip to paradise if I can’t convince Lorraine to go?”
“Dinner’s almost ready,” his wife said, pushing out of her chair. “I’ll go get the children.” Lorraine changed the subject by leaving. Now if Toby had done that, he’d get a ration. She’d accuse him of shutting her down.
“You can’t make Lorraine happy by promising to take a little time off,” Biddie said. “One vacation with the wife and kids isn’t going to change what she wants.”
Without looking at Toby, Biddie brushed the paint chips from under his feet off the deck with her bare hands. Clapping them together, as if to say I’m done with you, she started humming “Can’t Buy Me Love.”
Toby knew what Lorraine wanted. For him to work less. For their family to live more simply by moving back to Maine. That’s all she ever talked about.
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