“Somehow I hadn’t expected Angie and Pete to end up here,” Nell said.
Izzy leaned closer to the window, shielding the glare of the lamplights behind her by cupping her hands to the glass and peering through them. “Cass said they were going to have a quick drink at the Gull, then head over to Passports in Gloucester.” Her breath painted a circle on the window, and she backed away, turning to Nell. “I wonder what they’re doing here, Nell? Pete was so happy earlier—he looked like he’d died and gone to heaven. That’s not a happy stance.”
Nell stepped closer to the window. Just then, the man turned and walked away from Angie, heading down the loft stairs. “And that’s not Pete, Izzy. That’s Tony Framingham.”
A shadow appeared from the back of the store. Archie stopped at the foot of the stairs, his friendly smile gone and his expression stern. “What’s going on up there, Tony?” His voice was low but traveled through the open door, out to the sidewalk.
Rather than walk past the open entryway, Nell and Izzy took a step back, their faces obscured by the display of books. Archie’s voice grew louder.
“You’re welcome in my store, Tony, just like anyone else. But you’re an adult now, and you don’t cause problems here like you did when you were a snot-nosed kid. You don’t curse and threaten a lady in my bookstore, no matter who you are. You were brought up better than that.”
“Lady?” Tony said, but Archie stopped him with the palm of his large hand held up between them.
Tony turned, lowered his head, and headed for the door.
Before Izzy and Nell could move away from the window, he walked out, his brows knit together and his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. A gust of wind pushed a patch of dark hair flat against his forehead, and he brushed it back with his hand. It wasn’t until Tony pulled out his car keys from his pocket that he raised his head and spotted Nell and Izzy.
For a minute Tony looked startled—and then, with the ease of one used to difficult situations, he forced a half smile across his face. “ ’Evening,” he said, nodding his head slightly. He glanced over Nell’s shoulder and through the store window, his eyes scanning the store as if to gauge what Nell and Izzy had seen, then focused back on the women standing in front of him.
“I haven’t seen you much since I’ve been back in town, Nell,” he said. “Are you and Ben doing all right?”
“We’re fine, Tony,” Nell said, trying to ease the awkward moment. “It’s nice of you to ask.”
Tony looked over at Izzy, and his preoccupied expression began to clear. “And Izzy Chambers. I hear nice things about your shop on Harbor Road. Kind of a surprise, I must say. But my mother thinks it’s the best thing to hit Sea Harbor since the quarries closed.”
Izzy laughed. “Your mom is my best customer, Tony. I think she has more yarn in her house than I have on my shelves.”
Tony Framingham had been Izzy’s first summer love. They’d spent long evenings walking hand in hand along Pelican Pier or over at the yacht club beach, spinning dreams of where they’d be in ten or fifteen years. Izzy was going to live in Italy and paint, though even back then Tony Framingham didn’t buy it. A lawyer, he had predicted. “A female Atticus Finch—you can argue with the best of them, Iz, and you’ll make the world a better place.”
Tony, they’d both agreed, would have a house on the Riviera and travel the world, managing stocks and bonds, buying and selling businesses. And they’d meet each other now and then in magical places, the world at their beck and call.
“We had some dreams back then, didn’t we, Tony?” Izzy said.
“And from what I hear, I was right about the lawyer bit. Boston’s Elliot & Pagett, no less.”
“For a while,” Izzy said. “I didn’t fit too well, Tony.”
Tony nodded. Like everyone else in Sea Harbor, he had heard about Izzy’s short-lived law career. “And here we both are, Izzy, back in Sea Harbor. Who would have thunk it?” His laugh was deep and traveled on the night air.
“So you’ve moved back, Tony?” Nell asked.
“I don’t know, Nell. I have things going on in New York and Boston. But I came up to help my mother. Since Dad died, she’s tried to handle everything by herself—that house, and my dad’s business, too. It’s too much for her—she thinks she’s still forty.”
“Tony, don’t ever underestimate your mother. There isn’t much Margarethe Framingham can’t handle. She’s been an amazing force in this town.” And Margarethe had always handled her husband’s business dealings, Nell knew, long before Sylvester Framingham Jr. died. She did it as easily as she knit up sweaters and jackets. And she’d probably saved the family fortune once or twice.
“Well, she needs to slow down, sell that damn mansion. Not worry so much about things.”
“I don’t think she thinks of it that way.” Nell held back from telling Tony it might not be his decision to determine what his mother did or didn’t do. The Framingham house was certainly huge—and a little ostentatious, in Nell’s opinion. Parisian curtains and marble hallways seemed a little out of place in Sea Harbor. But Margarethe loved her home, and she was exceedingly generous in sharing it. It had been in the Framingham family since they began mining the stone quarries on outcroppings of their land. And if that was how she chose to live—and decorate—that might not be anyone’s decision but her own.
“You’re right, Nell,” Tony said. “It’s her house.” But his face tightened as he spoke.
Just then the light in the front of the store went off, and Archie knocked on the window. He waved, mouthing a good night, then pulled down the blinds on the front door and slid the dead bolt in place.
Nell looked through the window into the darkened shop, half expecting Angie to appear, but the store was dark and silent.
Before she could ask Tony what had happened to her, he mumbled a hasty good-bye and was off across the street, headed toward his bright orange Hummer.
“Where’s Angie?” Izzy asked Nell. She looked back through the window into the dark, quiet store.
“She probably went out the back door, like Archie does, instead of walking past Tony.” Nell looked back at the Seaside Studio next door. The upstairs apartment was dark. Angie hadn’t headed home. Nell hoped that for Pete’s sake, Angie was back at his side.
“I remember Tony’s argumentativeness,” Izzy said. “There’s a temper beneath all that charm.” She tucked her arm back through Nell’s, and they crossed the road, dodging a group of boys who breezed by on shiny bikes.
“He was cocky in his teenage years,” Nell said. “But that’s part of growing up.” Tall, good-looking, and smart, Tony was sometimes involved in minor scuffles back then, but Nell never thought him a bad boy. He was always gracious when he came to the house, and Ben liked him. He was simply a product of too much indulgence, Nell had always thought.
Once Tony had to face real life, Ben always said, he’d shape up.
And taking care of his mother certainly fit in that category, even though Nell found it hard to imagine that anyone would presume to take care of Margarethe Framingham.
“I never thought Tony would come back here,” Izzy said. “He seemed destined for a bigger world than Sea Harbor.”
“Maybe he succumbed to its magic, like you did.” Nell stopped at the door of her car and pulled out her keys. She was parked in front of the Gull, a local hangout. Yellow light from the bar spilled through the windows, lighting up the brick sidewalk.
Nell opened the door and put her knitting bag on the backseat, then turned toward Izzy and looked at her closely. She felt a familiar tightness in her chest. The feeling she had had off and on since Izzy moved to Sea Harbor.
Izzy searched her aunt’s face. Then she wrapped Nell in a tight hug, breathing in her familiar soapy smell. “I love you, too, Auntie Nell,” she whispered.
When Izzy pulled away, Nell collected herself. Why was she feeling so emotional tonight? She kissed Izzy on the cheek and slipped into her car. When she looked back to
wave, her niece was already walking away, her arms swinging and her hair flying on the wind, headed toward the Ocean’s Edge.
Nell slipped the key into the ignition and looked up to see a lumbering, slightly hunched figure crossing the street in front of her. It was Angus McPherron, a long-retired stonecutter who spent his days wandering the harbor and spinning tales for anyone who crossed his path. “The old man of the sea,” the kids called him.
Nell wondered for a minute if she should drive him home. Sometimes Angus wasn’t quite in touch with his surroundings, and he might not notice the impending storm. But the old man looked up then and gave a small wave. His small beady eyes were clear and bright with recognition. In the next instant, Angus slipped inside the Gull, swallowed up by music and bodies, and disappeared from her sight.
Nell looked after him. He was a kind man, but a bit unfocused sometimes. She looked through the tavern windows, trying to see his rounded shoulders, his lumbering gait. A mahogany counter, running along the width of the windows, was packed tonight with the usual Thursday-night crowd, anxious to get an early start on the weekend. Angus would have his pick of listeners. A good night for him.
Nell squinted, pulling the scene inside the bar into focus.
“Oh my,” she said aloud.
Seated on a high stool, his eyes staring off into space, was Pete Halloran. He sat alone, unaware of the jostling activity on either side of him, his elbows planted on the counter. A half-dozen empty beer bottles littered the narrow space in front of him.
Nell slipped out of her car and walked toward the Gull’s windows, her intentions unclear, but her body propelled forward.
As she neared the window, Pete’s hand lifted into the air and curled into a tight fist.
On either side of him, men and women laughed and drank beer and picked fried clams from wicker baskets, oblivious of the troubled young man in their midst.
The veins in Pete’s forehead pulsed and his jaw clamped shut. He stared through the window, but Nell knew he didn’t see her. In the next second, Pete’s raised fist swept through the air and slammed down on the pocked wooden counter, sending discarded beer bottles, paper-lined baskets, and bits of clam and French fries crashing to the hardwood floor.
And the next minute, Pete was gone, swallowed up by the crowd of people on either side like a hole in the sand, filled in by a rushing tide.
Chapter 3
Friday was a perfect Sea Harbor day. The night rain had washed the village clean, and a white sun hung over the water, warming bare shoulders and cheeks. A perfect day for fishermen heading out in small boats to check traps. A perfect day for friends to gather on the Endicotts’ deck to talk about the weekend regatta or share news from Boston or gush over the shipment of new alpaca yarn that Izzy had unpacked that day. A perfect day for grilled tuna with Nell’s spicy herb sauce and Ben’s magnificent martinis.
Too perfect, Nell would think later. Beneath the glossy sheen of perfection, tiny cracks could widen in the blink of an eye, taking one by total surprise.
“I’m ready, how about you?” Nell called from her post at the kitchen sink. The open windows carried her voice out to the wide deck, where Ben poked and prodded a pile of coals in the stone grill.
Ben looked up, his thick gray brows lifting suggestively over sparkling eyes. “Ready, you say?”
Nell brushed her hair back behind one ear and smiled. What a comfort this big bear of a man was. Ben knew her so well. And he could still punch the buttons that made her remember what it felt like when they roamed Harvard Square, arms wrapped around each other, totally unaware that there were other people in the world. The desire was mellow now, not that crazy, exhilarating rush of youth. But rich and full, just the same. Ben Endicott still lit fires in Nell—and the fires warmed her to the bone.
Ben was at the door now, wiping his hands on an old towel. “I need to get some ice from the garage for the cooler. But otherwise, my darlin’, the bar’s ready and the grill will be soon. Some soft jazz and we’ll be set.”
Friday-night gatherings at the Endicotts were all about relaxing, putting the week to rest and being with friends. Ben and Nell were never sure who would show up, but it didn’t matter—there was always enough food and friendship to go around. And if it was just the two of them—though that happened rarely—that was just fine, too.
Nell stood in the doorway and looked out over the backyard. Later in the evening, tiny gaslights would blink on, but now the large yard was bathed in the soft light of day’s end. When she and Ben had decided to move to Sea Harbor permanently, they had added a guesthouse behind the garage, tucked cozily into a grove of pine trees. Beyond it was a narrow pathway, flattened into the earth by generations of Endicotts making their way through the pines to the beach beyond. The first time Nell had visited Ben’s family vacation home, years ago when his parents were still alive, she thought she would never in her life find a place quite as perfect as 22 Sandswept Lane. And she’d been right.
Ben looped one arm around her shoulders. “You didn’t sleep much last night.”
“The rain, maybe.” Nell leaned into his body, her head just touching his shoulder.
Ben touched her hair, then traced her high, prominent cheek-bone with the tip of his finger. “I’ll make sure you sleep tonight.”
Nell smiled and nodded into his shoulder.
“Anyone home?” The front screen door banged open and shut, followed by sandals flip-flopping on the hardwood floor. Izzy breezed into the family room, a large wicker basket hanging over one arm.
“You look like Little Red Riding Hood.” Ben walked across the room and wrapped Izzy in a warm hug. He took the basket from her arm and carried it over to the kitchen counter.
“Ha,” Izzy said, following Ben into the kitchen. “And the wolf’s name is Gideon, our new security guard—the guy the shop owners hired to patrol at night. He’s kind of creepy, Nell. He was sitting on Angie’s apartment steps tonight when I left. Acted like he had a perfect right to be there and gave me the oddest smile.”
“Was Angie home?”
Izzy shook her head. “At least I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her all day, in fact.”
“That’s odd.” Nell unwrapped a hunk of Vermont cheddar and placed it on a wooden platter, then spread crackers at either end. “I poked my head into the research library to say hi when I was over there today for a meeting, but she wasn’t at her desk. I wonder if she’s sick.”
“Maybe she was out late last night and slept the day away. Or stayed at her mom’s. I remember a time or two when I crashed at your home in Boston after a night of too much fun.” Izzy pulled some aluminum foil from a drawer and began to wrap the bread for the oven. “Pete Halloran is the one I’d worry about, not Angie. Cass said he stayed at her place last night. He came in late and not in great shape. Cass is ready to strangle Angie for ditching him the way she did.”
“At least he had the sense not to drive back to his own place. He wasn’t in any condition to be on the road.”
“I saw him at McClucken’s this afternoon buying rope for the boat,” Ben said. “He looked a little down in the dumps, so I told him to be sure to come tonight. A chilled pint, good friends, Nell’s cooking—that’s what Pete needs.”
Izzy looked up at Ben and brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers. “You are such a sweet softie, my uncle Ben.”
“Soft?” Ben frowned and pretended to flex a muscle. “Not a good thing at my age, Izzy girl.”
Izzy squeezed his bicep.
“He’s strong as nails,” Nell said. And Nell made sure he stayed that way. A mild heart attack a few years back had frightened Nell—and Izzy, too—in an icy, paralyzing way. But the outcome, Nell often said, was a good thing—a reminder of their mortality. And together they decided to work less and enjoy life more. A few months later, to the surprise of the foundation Nell directed and Ben’s business associates, they’d sold their Beacon Hill town home and moved permanently to Sea Harbor.
&
nbsp; “What time is Cass bringing the tuna by?” Ben asked, deftly shifting the attention away from his sixty-five-year-old physique.
“She should be here by now,” Izzy said. “She was baiting traps over at the cove, but planned to drop the fish off before going home to shower.”
Nell looked at her watch. “Maybe I’ll give her a call. Ben could pick it up and save her the trip.”
But before she reached the phone, a rattling and screech of brakes in the driveway announced the arrival of Cass’s ancient Chevy truck. Nell headed for the door to help her with the ice chest of fish, but before she reached the front of the house, the screen door banged open.
Cass was dressed for the sea, her muddy yellow waders and baggy bib overalls hiding her shape. The familiar Sox cap was missing, and masses of thick tangled curls were plastered against her wet, red cheeks. But it was the enormous tears streaming down Cass’s face that stopped Nell in her tracks.
Nell reached out instinctively for the young woman. “Cass— what is it?”
In a heartbeat, Cass was in Nell’s arms, her head burrowing into Nell’s shoulder. Her body shook, and Nell pulled her close.
“It will be all right, Cass,” Nell whispered. “Whatever it is, we’ll make it right.”
Cass’s head moved from side to side. “No, it won’t be all right, Nell.” Cass pushed away from Nell and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. She took a deep, steadying breath, pulling herself together.
“It’s Angie,” she said. Her husky voice was reduced to threads.
“Angie Archer?” Nell asked, not wanting Cass to answer.
“She’s dead,” Cass said, her voice as heavy as the anchor on her lobster boat.
Izzy and Ben came into the hallway just as Cass’s words thudded onto the hardwood floor.
“No, Cass,” Izzy said, her voice catching in her throat. “Angie’s not dead. She’s at the apartment, or out somewhere, you know how she does, or—”
Cass lifted her hand to stop her friend’s words. She took a deep breath, sucking in the air as if it were her last breath. She let it out slowly. When she spoke again, her voice was unusually loud, the words pushed out with force.
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