“Oh, God, are you all right?” Jill asked, acting all fake. She bent down to get a better look at his face, feeling one cheek then the other with the back of her hand. Ava wet a few paper towels and smoothed them out over the back of his neck. Jill must’ve heard him accuse her of lying, because when he wasn’t looking, she shot her a glare that rivaled one of the ones Ava used to get from Justice.
“You don’t look well. I’m calling an ambulance,” Jill said.
“No, no, I’m all right.” He slid the note from Mallory into his wallet, right in front of the detective’s business card. Patting his face with the paper towels, he stood. “See what happens when I skip lunch.” He rubbed his stomach, trying to make a joke. “Really, I’m fine, just wiped out from everything.”
By everything, he meant Ava.
“Mind if I rescind my dinner invitation?” he asked.
Jill looked pissed. Ava wanted to thank Mallory right out loud for doing her such a huge favor, sending Jill on her way.
“Your color’s awful,” Jill said. “I wouldn’t feel right leaving you. Why don’t you let me make you an omelet or something?” She pointed to the carton of eggs on the counter, which, at that very moment, Ava decided to step in front of.
“He won’t be alone,” she said. “I’m here. And our caretaker’s right out in the boathouse. The kid works late every night. Dad, I’m going to make pancakes, okay?”
Her father took advantage of Ava backing him up, by putting his arm around her. “Perfect. With blueberries, please.” He smiled and thanked her with a squeeze.
In the beginning, when he’d first hired Jill, Ava was young and she didn’t pay any attention to her. Later, when her father spent more time with her, supposedly doing business, something about Jill bugged her. Once her father asked her why she didn’t like Jill, so Ava told him straight out how she gave her dirty looks when he wasn’t looking. How she always brought up her psycho daughter, Becky, telling Ava how great the girl was compared to her.
Standing there now, looking at Jill, Ava had no trouble pinpointing exactly why she hated her. She had to be the one to tell her father about Mount Hope. Ava had heard so many kids tell their stories during The Circle that she started to see things clearly. Jill wanted her out of her way so she could have her father to herself.
“I’ll walk you out,” he said to Jill.
As she turned toward the sunroom to go get her things, Ava overheard her say, “Please know, I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”
Her father stopped on the threshold separating the kitchen from the sunroom. He pointed a finger at Ava, warning her to be nice or to wait there, she couldn’t tell which. Either way, she knew she was in trouble.
“Thanks for bringing my guitar,” she called after Jill.
Five points to Ava for being polite.
It had been almost an hour since Jill brought her guitar case into the sunroom. When Ava first saw it, all she wanted to do was flip open all four latches and pull the instrument onto her lap. But she wouldn’t play it in front of Jill. She wouldn’t share that part of herself with the person who’d tried to get rid of her.
Now that Jill was out of there, Ava could hear the music calling her. Lifting the guitar from the velvet lining, she didn’t even take the time to sling the vintage strap over her head. The strings burned her fingers as she strummed. One splinter from Mount Hope was still lodged in her finger. She didn’t care. Finger-picking one of her songs, a river of emotion rushed from her.
It was the perfect tune for how she felt. The chords, the dynamics, even the lyrics, came back to Ava as if she’d played it yesterday. In the middle of singing—you are silent rain, I am paralyzed—she sensed her father there. Ava covered the strings with her palm to stop them from vibrating. When she dared to look up, the afternoon light had to be playing tricks on her. Her dad never cried.
“I promised to return that call,” he said, pressing his lips together. “Then we need to deal with some things.”
Obviously, the things they needed to deal with involved Mount Hope and the detective.
Jill had one thing right. Her dad did look terrible. Ava wondered if he still didn’t feel good or if he was freaked out by Mallory’s note.
“It’s a nice night. Walk with me,” he said.
Ava put her guitar back in the case and went to him.
“I’m sorry I sent you there. It’s obvious to me now, you didn’t belong there with those kids. Mallory seems like a very troubled girl.” He held open the door to the lawn. “And I should’ve told you Jill was coming. I wasn’t trying to keep it from you, or even surprise you with your guitar. All I can say is sometimes I’m clueless.”
Ava brushed past her dad, letting their sides touch. Not one foot apart, they took the path to the boathouse. When he owned up to making mistakes, she could relate. Away from Wellesley and out of Mount Hope, Ava could see she was partly to blame for the mess they were in. Maybe he deserved another chance.
She was about to tell him that no one belonged at Mount Hope and that the detective should take a closer look inside the place, when her dad pulled her toward him. He kissed her on the forehead. “I’m glad we came to Maine,” he said.
Like a scene out of a fairy tale, his kindness broke the spell that evil place had over her. Suddenly, standing above the Reach with her father, it was easier to pretend Mount Hope never happened.
TWENTY-FIVE
While her father took care of business, making his call, Ava went back to her guitar. Sitting on her mom’s couch in the sunroom, she played her favorites. Songs by legendary writers Ava knew by heart and some songs she’d written herself a long time ago. It was getting harder to play with that one finger throbbing, calling to mind Mount Hope. It was as if Mallory were sitting next to her, taunting her, telling Ava to go back out to the boathouse and tell her father everything she knew about the place.
As Ava mulled things over between songs, she heard a knock. It felt weird to be proud of herself for not jumping.
“You’re good,” James said, pointing to the fireplace. “Mind if I work in here?”
It was his job to close the house down for the night, and right then it bothered Ava that she and her father made him do it.
“Sure, go ahead.”
She didn’t have the guts to keep playing in front of James, so she bought time tuning her guitar, turning the pegs, plucking the strings. The sliver, wedged deep in her finger, wouldn’t cooperate, finally making her wince.
“You okay?” James turned from stoking embers. Before Ava could say anything, he walked toward her, sat down on the couch, and asked without words if he could take her hand to inspect it.
“You wouldn’t believe how many of these I get, working with the things I do,” he said.
James turned her finger side to side, massaging it, seeing if he could coax the stubborn thing out. Everything about him was warm, his fingers holding hers, his knee touching hers, his voice. A prickly feeling that usually frightened Ava radiated down her arms and legs. Her heart beat light and fluttery but it didn’t knock on her chest from the inside out like it did when she was about to freak out.
“I could take it out,” he said. “Be a shame to have something so small keep you from playing.”
All Ava could do was nod. James went into the kitchen. She could hear him opening and closing drawers. As the water ran, the ancient pipes made an embarrassing racket. When he came back he had exactly what he needed. James knew where things were in Herrick House better than she did.
The bowl of water, a box of matches, and the Band-Aids didn’t slay her. The miniature first aid kit that belonged to her mother, covered with Poppy’s heart-shaped stickers, would’ve knocked her down if Ava hadn’t already been sitting.
Without James telling her to, she put as much of her hand in the bowl of sudsy water as she could. He pulled a long needle from the kit and lit a match. The burnt smell made her dizzy. Or maybe James did, when he took her hand and patted it dry with
a towel.
Laying the needle lengthwise across her skin, below the deepest end of the splinter, he pressed down, slowly rolling the needle upward. The pressure beneath the sliver and the upward motion prodded it to inch forward. James was patient and gentle, and when that wasn’t enough to work the splinter free, he pierced her finger, exposing only enough skin so he could give the piece of wood a tiny push.
“It’ll be tender for maybe a day, but it won’t hurt as much as before.” He removed what was left of the splinter with a pair of tweezers and wrapped the Band-Aid around her finger. Ava didn’t want the operation to be over.
“I haven’t played in a while,” she said. “It’ll take a few weeks at least to build calluses.”
“That’s something you want, right?” James turned her palms up, and with one of his paint-flecked fingers, he touched them. It felt electric. Ava told herself she could handle it if he kissed her.
“I should get going,” James said. “Got more to do ’round here before I do some work of my own.”
James collected the bowl and the towel. Ava picked up the first aid kit, trying to remember the last time she’d seen her mother use it. Had it been on her?
Ava didn’t want James to go. Her father would be back from the boathouse any minute, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to talk to him now.
James moved through the downstairs closing windows and pulling drapes. He called back over his shoulder, “See ya, Ava.”
After he let himself out, Ava remembered the key to the attic. Earlier she had found it exactly where James said it would be, inside her father’s coat pocket. Right next to Mallory’s note.
As much as Ava wanted to head up there now to get a look around, she couldn’t make herself do it. Bats came out at night. And like Mallory had said, the dark’s the worst. Sick of always being so afraid, and liking that right then, thanks to James, Ava felt calm, she’d put it off till morning. Not about to take chances, she’d wait for the sun.
TWENTY-SIX
Ava pulled her boots back out of the trash and laced them; she grabbed her old tennis racket. The steps to the attic were sturdy, the floors solid. Nothing creaked as she climbed. Without cobwebs, it wasn’t like she’d stepped into one of those scary movies, but it wasn’t pretty either. Plastic containers filled with her mother’s things outlined a path. Electrical cords dangled, swinging rafter to rafter. Screens for windows of all sizes fit snugly under the eaves. Rolls of pink fluffy stuff she and Poppy had been told never to touch were stacked in a corner.
It was hard to know where to start.
Ava went straight for the window on the ocean side of the house, hoping light could give her some direction and calm her nerves. Stretching her hand out to yank the pull of the shade, she jumped back, ready to swing if she had to. Armed and afraid of bats in the attic, Ava’s mind slipped back to Mount Hope. The noise the shade made hitting the casing reminded her of that morning in the bunk room when Mallory let go of theirs by accident, sending Cheez popping up, her hands stretched out ready for battle.
Thankfully the light illuminated a familiar box. The capital letters written on the cardboard invited her right over. Suddenly Ava wasn’t worried about finding clothes or hunting for memories. All she wanted to do was open the box marked books to find her mother’s copy of Blueberries for Sal.
The spine crackled, and a mildewy smell wafted out from the inside. Ava took her time turning the pages, running her hand over the picture of Sal holding her tin pail in one hand, a blueberry to her lips. And like that, Ava was far away from Mount Hope and safe at home. The memory of her mother reading to her didn’t come by way of a dream or as part of any freak-out. It was as clear and real to her as the book she held in her lap.
Mom sat on the lumpy green couch in the sunroom wearing shorts over her bathing suit like Poppy and Ava always did. The book lay in the hollow her legs made. There was no fire in the fireplace. It was August, and they were taking a break from the intensity of the midday sun. Mom was in the middle, Poppy on one side, Ava on the other. It didn’t matter how many times she read those books to them, or that they were capable of reading more difficult ones on their own. There was magic in the words written by the man who was practically their neighbor. Robert McCloskey lived over on Scott Island, a short boat ride from Bucks Harbor Landing. Poppy and Ava had never met him, but Mom and Mrs. Purcell sure had. His signature was in every one of her books to prove it.
“I have an idea,” Mom said, pausing on the page where Sal’s looking behind a big rock. “You girls remember picking blueberries on Caterpillar Mountain, over by Walker Pond?”
“Is that the place I fell down and ripped my jeans?” Poppy asked, trying to turn the page.
“That was last week,” Ava said, placing a hand over Poppy’s, not wanting her to read ahead. “We haven’t picked berries yet this summer.”
“I have,” she said, putting her fingers over her mouth, her eyes shifting toward our mother.
Ava’s sister was one of those kids full of surprises; you never knew what she’d do next. Dad said her name suited her. Poppy—the wild flower.
Mom gave her a worried look.
Poppy smiled big. “Kidding.” Lowering her voice, Poppy tried to sound like Dad, parroting something else he was always saying. “Never pick and eat anything without showing it to a grown-up.”
Mom playfully elbowed Poppy, then tapped the book. “Some people say this story took place on Blueberry Hill,” she said. “But Mr. McCloskey told me, Caterpillar Mountain was the real inspiration. I say we pretend to be Sal and her mother. Let’s go there to act out the story like a play. What do you girls think?”
“What about the bears?” Ava asked, trying not to sound anxious.
“We’ll use our imaginations,” Poppy said, reaching across their mother’s lap to elbow Ava the way her Mom had just elbowed her.
Ava didn’t ask about bears on that mountain because she’d be disappointed if they weren’t there. She worried they would be there.
“I’ll go tell Dad,” Poppy said. “He’ll want to come.” She slipped off the couch and went running toward the dining room where their father was working, even though he was supposed to be on vacation.
“There’s only one girl in the story, and there aren’t any dads,” Ava said.
Mom closed the book and tidied the stacks piled on the floor, as if she hadn’t heard her. “He’ll be too busy. It’ll just be us,” Mom said quietly, talking to herself.
Mom had been right.
Carrying tin pails and pretending there were bears on that hillside turned out to be fun. Poppy kept trying to get the plink-plunk of a blueberry landing in her pail to sound exactly the way Mom said it when she read from the book. Ava filled her pail with perfectly ripe berries. They decided to go home when Mom’s eyes wouldn’t stop watering. “Too much sunlight,” she’d said, even though Ava knew those tears had something to do with Dad.
Ava couldn’t remember much of the rest of that day or if Mom read to them that night. What she could remember was having bad dreams about bears. The next morning, she was wiped out from having spent hours running in circles and trying to find good places to hide on the side of Caterpillar Mountain.
Poppy leaned on her door. A muffled “Good morning” came through cotton as she struggled to get her sweatshirt over her head.
“Need help?” Ava asked.
“I can do it myself,” Poppy said. Once her head popped out, she tipped her nose up and breathed deep, sniffing the air like a puppy. “Mmmm good.”
The smell of bacon lured the girls downstairs. It got stronger the closer they came to the kitchen. Dad stood at the counter chopping potatoes. Poppy and Ava turned their heads, looking at each other, puzzled. Eggs weren’t sizzling in a skillet, cooked by Mom. Instead bacon and onions were hiding in the bottom of the giant pot she used for making chowder.
“You girls had so much fun yesterday, I thought we’d surprise Mom today by acting out her favorite McCloskey sto
ry.”
Poppy jumped up and down in the kitchen, twirling around shouting “Yay!” One Morning in Maine was everybody’s favorite.
All these years later, sitting on the floor in the attic, Ava could’ve paused the memory right there, happy to have called one up without sweating, choking, or fainting. Closing one book, she could’ve turned off the movie, saving it to watch another time or not at all, the choice was hers. With her eyes wide open, Ava dug into the box looking for that much-beloved story. Flipping through its pages, even with some part of her not wanting to, Ava felt brave enough to go back to that day.
Before Mom had taken three steps into the kitchen, Dad poured her a cup of coffee and kissed her on the lips.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Rain,” he said, pulling out a chair, setting the mug down on the table. “Who says it has to be celebrated on a certain day in May?”
Dad retied the loose strings around and around his waist. Wearing Mom’s flowery apron over his shorts, his skinny legs stuck out underneath, making him look like a Popsicle.
“As I recall you worked that Sunday.” Mom didn’t sound mad. Her smile told everybody she was kidding. She held her mug in one hand and stuck her other one out to protect her coffee, afraid it might get knocked over because Poppy wouldn’t quit spinning.
Dad took her sister by the hand to a chair and put a glass of milk in front of her. “Not today, I’m not,” he said.
At first, it bothered Ava that they weren’t acting the story out exactly as Mr. McCloskey had written it. In One Morning in Maine, Sal and her father do the clamming. The mother and sister stay home, counting out the milk bottles to go to Mr. Condon’s store. They’d skipped that part and went straight to the shore. Bored with digging, Poppy skipped stones across the water. She said she wanted to pull out a tooth and lose it in the muck like Sal did. Mom told her she was to do no such thing. Teeth came out when they were good and ready. When Poppy wasn’t looking, Dad handed Ava a flawless seashell he’d found on the beach. “It’s perfectly fine for Sal to have her story, and for you to have your own,” he said.
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