It was a habit he had, saying what was on his mind. Usually without thinking before he opened his mouth and frequently in the presence of witnesses. Not that he regretted a word of what he’d said to Killian that day. There were people who needed a dose of truth now and then. Killian was one of them. Stephen Ludlow had been another.
SIX
Clear Harbor, Maine
November 29, 2016
Traffic was virtually nonexistent as Christine pulled onto the highway. Good riddance, she thought as the Rover’s headlights swept past the dirty remnants of yesterday’s snowfall mounded around the guardrail. She didn’t know where she was headed. She only knew there wouldn’t be snow on the ground when she got there.
What she needed was a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, preferably one where they’d never heard of Stephen Ludlow, where she could lay low and take stock of what remained of her life. If only such a place existed. It didn’t of course. The Examiner had seen to that. But with a few days head start, she might be able to disappear until the fervor died down—or some new bit of schadenfreude captured the world’s attention.
In the meantime, she needed to put as much distance as possible between herself and Clear Harbor. The only question was how far she’d be able to go before fatigue and the reality of what she’d done finally caught up with her.
Two hours later, she had her answer. Her eyes had begun playing tricks on her several miles back, and more than once, she’d found herself mesmerized by the strobe effect of the highway’s broken white lines. She had no idea where she was when she finally stopped for gas, but she was glad for the chance to stretch her legs.
She took a chance on the ladies’ room, which reeked of bleach and cherry air freshener, then bought a pair of bottled waters and several packs of Nabs. This wasn’t her first rodeo; she had subsisted for days on nothing but water and peanut butter crackers, and the less she stopped, the less likely she was to be recognized. She wasn’t sixteen anymore, wasn’t flat broke, wasn’t worried about seeing her face on a runaway poster, but somehow the stakes felt just as high. In fact, she’d spent a good portion of the drive dusting off her street smarts. Never use your real name. Pick one alias and stick with it. Cut your hair. Cover any tattoos. Lose the jewelry.
As she pulled back onto the highway, she glanced at her hands on the steering wheel, the ring finger of her left hand conspicuously bare. She’d taken care of the jewelry, at least.
The sun was on the wane when she finally crossed over into Virginia. She had eaten the last pack of crackers sometime around noon, and whatever benefit she’d reaped from the hour of sleep grabbed at a New Jersey rest stop had long since worn off. She needed food and sleep, and she needed them soon. Unfortunately, she hadn’t a clue where she was. Perhaps it was time to pull out the atlas and just pick a destination.
As it turned out, she didn’t need the atlas. She had gone only a few miles when she spotted a billboard for HISTORIC DOWNTOWN SWEETWATER. The name felt familiar, conjuring images of cobbled streets and tiny hole-in-the wall galleries, a quaint inn with a wishing well in back—and Stephen. Without meaning to, she had stumbled onto one of the tiny towns they had visited on their honeymoon.
They had stayed at a small inn whose name she couldn’t recall, had eaten fish and chips at a pub called the Rusty Nail, and then hung around for trivia. They’d been happy then, newlyweds with the whole world before them. What had happened to that couple?
On impulse, she peeled off at the exit and followed the main road through the center of town. Not much had changed. The town was small and picturesque, the sidewalks lined with trendy shops and locally owned cafés. Her mouth watered at the thought of food, but her first order of business was finding a place to sleep.
She pulled into the parking lot of the first inn she saw, an old converted farmhouse called the Fife and Feather. It was small but charming; two stories of clean white clapboard fronted with black shuttered windows and a small porch of weathered brick.
A wreath of magnolia leaves and creamy satin ribbon hung on the front door, reminding Christine with a bit of a jolt that Thanksgiving had come and gone. In the chaos after Stephen’s death, the holiday had simply slipped her mind, along with the turkey she had ordered from Longley’s. She was still wondering what had become of the unclaimed bird as she stepped into the Fife and Feather’s cozy lobby, a snug, low-ceilinged room decorated with shaker furniture and primitive American folk art.
“Hey there!” A pretty blonde stood grinning behind the registration counter. She looked to be in her thirties, but there was an air of prom queen about her too, perky and bright with her messy bun and shimmery pink lips. “Welcome to the Fife and Feather.”
Christine ran a hand through her hair, painfully aware of her bedraggled appearance. “I was driving by and saw the VACANCY sign. I’m hoping you still have a room available.”
The woman’s smile widened as she produced a registration form from somewhere below the counter. “You’re in luck. The leaf peepers are gone, and it’s too early for Christmas guests. You can pretty much take your pick. What brings you to Sweetwater?”
“I’m, uh . . . just passing through.”
“So just the one night then?”
“Yes. Just one night.”
“Well, we’re happy to have you. I’m Missy Beck, by the way—the owner. And since we’re so quiet, I’m going to put you in my favorite room. It was actually the library back when the Holcombes owned it. The bookcases are all original.”
Christine didn’t have the heart to tell her she wouldn’t be paying attention to much of anything except the bed. “Does the inn serve dinner?”
“Sorry. I’m afraid we’re limited to breakfast. But I can offer you one of these to take the edge off.” She held out a plate of what appeared to be freshly baked oatmeal cookies.
Christine took a cookie, nibbling politely. “I don’t suppose the Rusty Nail is still in business, by any chance?”
Missy looked surprised. “The Nail’s been closed for years. It’s a pizza place now, and a pretty good one if that’s what you’re in the mood for. I take it you’ve been to Sweetwater?”
Christine nodded. “Years ago, on my honeymoon.”
“Oh, nice. Is your husband traveling with you this time through?”
“No, he’s . . . I’m a widow.” The word stopped her cold. It was the first time she’d said it out loud, and it surprised her how easily it had slipped from her tongue.
Missy reached across the counter to give her hand a squeeze. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. And you, so young. Was it sudden?”
“Yes. He was—” She paused, realizing she was about to say too much. “He drowned.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either—at least not all of it. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to dislodge the images that had been haunting her for days. Had he been conscious? Had he struggled, and if so, for how long before the water had finally filled his lungs?
Missy’s gray-green eyes filled with sympathy. “You poor thing. I have a friend who lost her husband a year ago, and I’ve seen what she’s gone through. I know it’s hard in the beginning, but it does get easier. Tomorrow will be better, and then the day after that. As long as you have friends, you can get through anything.”
Christine managed what she hoped would pass for a smile as she reached for the registration form. She was grateful for the words of comfort. She even wanted to believe them. But if things getting better was dependent on having a circle of friends, she was out of luck. There were a handful of women from the club she had socialized with now and then, most of them the wives of Stephen’s friends. A few had even sent cards filled with condolences, but that’s as far as it went—and as far as Christine wanted it to go.
“I’m sorry,” Missy blurted. “You were asking about dinner, and as usual, I went down a rabbit hole. I’d definitely recommend the Cork and Cleaver. It’s right next door, and the food is wonderful. Queenie Peterson owns it. She’s a friend of mine, so I�
��m a little bit biased, but they really do have the best food in town.”
Christine nodded vaguely, staring at the line on the registration form asking for her name. She didn’t dare use Ludlow. Instead, she picked up the pen and printed the name she’d given up eight years ago when she married Stephen. From here on out, she was Christy-Lynn Parker. Now all she had to do was remember.
“Do I pay you for the room now?” she asked when she had completed the form.
“Tomorrow will be fine. Here’s your key. Your room is at the top of the stairs. Breakfast is served until eleven in the room right off the stairs. There are no TVs in any of the rooms, but if you really want to know what’s going on in the world, there’s a television in the business center. Oh, I almost forgot—” She paused, wrapping several cookies in a napkin, and passed them to Christine. “To tide you over until dinner. Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you. I’m sure I will.”
Christy-Lynn’s legs felt leaden as she mounted the stairs and made her way to the end of the gallery. She experienced a profound rush of relief as she locked her room door behind her. Safely and blessedly alone, she let her bags slide to the floor, too weary to do much beyond surveying her accommodations.
It was a bright, spacious room filled with period antiques, including a glorious four-poster bed dripping with vintage lace. And Missy hadn’t exaggerated about the bookshelves; they were gorgeous, shelf after shelf stocked with classics bound in worn, jewel-toned leather. Defoe nestled beside du Maurier. Longfellow beside Kerouac. Unlikely friends standing shoulder to shoulder.
The thought brought a smile until she caught her reflection in the bureau mirror. With her stringy hair and rumpled clothes, she looked like a bag lady or an escapee from the local women’s prison. What would Stephen say if he could see her now? Nothing good, that was certain. As his wife, her image had been his image, which meant no sweatpants at the market or messy ponytails at the drugstore. But then he wasn’t around to criticize anymore. Still, she couldn’t walk into a restaurant looking like she’d just crawled out of a dumpster.
Thirty minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom blissfully clean and smelling of the lavender bath gel Missy provided for her guests. The plan had been to dry her hair, pull on fresh clothes, and head next door for dinner, but the effort required to carry it out suddenly seemed Herculean. Instead, she fetched Missy’s napkin-wrapped cookies from the pocket of her coat. They might not qualify as dinner, but she didn’t have to get dressed to eat them.
She devoured them in minutes, still wrapped in her towel, then lay back against the creamy lace counterpane. Missy’s words drifted through her head as she closed her eyes.
Tomorrow will be better.
She hoped so.
Christy-Lynn Parker. Christy-Lynn Parker.
The name seemed to throb like a drumbeat in her head as she strolled Sweetwater’s downtown streets, a reminder that yesterday she had stepped out of one life and into another. It was a strange feeling to suddenly find yourself unmoored from your own life, to open your eyes in the morning and not know where you are, where you’re going, or even what happens next. But it was liberating too, in a way, the delicious anonymity of simply blending into the scenery of a small town street. It had been years since she’d been able to blend into the scenery back in Clear Harbor.
She was heading for the corner deli, humorously named the Fickle Pickle, when her fingers began to cramp. She paused, shifting her shopping bags from one hand to the other. Hippie clothes, Stephen would have called her recent purchases. And maybe they were. They were certainly nothing like the sleek designer labels he preferred she wear, or even the cheap working girl separates she had worn in her early days at Lloyd and Griffin. In fact, now that she thought about it, she was surprised he’d bothered to give her a second look back then.
She’d been working as an editor’s assistant, still brown-bagging it and driving an old Ford Tempo with wind-down windows when they met—hardly trophy wife material. Stephen had been on his way to a marketing lunch with his editor when she literally ran into him in the hall with an armload of cover posters. He had spoken first, apologizing when the collision had clearly been her fault. It irked her to think of it now—one flashed smile, and she’d gone all tongue-tied. He had canceled with his editor, inviting her for sushi instead, which she secretly hated but pretended to love. Six months later, they were married, and the pretending had become more complicated.
Christy-Lynn shook off the memory, redistributed her shopping bags, and continued on to the deli. She was reaching for the door when she spotted a sign for the Hair Lair next door and changed direction.
An entry chime sounded as she entered the shop. Other than the gum-chewing stylist leaning against one of the shampoo bowls the place was empty.
“Hey there. What can I do ya for?”
Christy-Lynn ran a hand through her shoulder-length hair, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m thinking about going short, maybe adding some highlights. Can you do that?”
“Honey, I can do whatever you want if you’ve got the time.”
“I mean now. Can you do it right now?”
The woman looked around the empty salon and grinned. “I think I might be able to squeeze you in.” She stepped closer, running a hand through Christy-Lynn’s hair with an assessing eye. “You’ve got good hair. Color shouldn’t be a problem. Have a seat.”
Two hours later, the stylist, whose name turned out to be Rena, snapped off her blow-dryer and spun the chair around to face the mirror. Christy-Lynn experienced a moment of confusion as she faced her reflection. It was like looking at a stranger who resembled someone she used to know but had lost touch with. She ran a hand through her hair, shook her head back and forth, savoring the feel of the soft, springy curls against the nape of her neck.
Stephen had liked it long, preferably pulled back in a sleek Town & Country ponytail. She had humored him, of course, as she had with most things, but now as she stared at this throwback version of herself, it was as if time had folded in on itself, returning her to the woman she had been before blundering into Stephen with an armload of posters. But that woman had been gritty and independent—a survivor. Was there any trace of her left?
SEVEN
The sound of canned mariachi music greeted Christy-Lynn as she stepped into the lobby of Taco Loco. She wasn’t sure why she came in. She wasn’t really hungry, but she wasn’t ready to go back to her room at the inn either. And it would appear she wasn’t the only one taking advantage of the unseasonably warm evening. The place was jammed, with every table full and several large parties waiting to be seated.
The hostess, a frazzled woman with a headful of blue-black hair, was doing her best to greet guests and manage the wait list. Christy-Lynn had just managed to catch her eye when she heard someone calling her name. After a quick scan of the tables, she saw Missy near the back of the restaurant, waving frantically.
“Oh, my Lord! It is you!” she gushed when Christy-Lynn had finally made her way over. “I wasn’t sure at first. Look at your hair! Did you know you were going to do that when you left this morning?”
Christy-Lynn tucked the freshly cropped strands behind her ears, suddenly self-conscious. It was like part of her was missing. “I didn’t. I was on my way to grab some lunch when I saw the salon and thought, Why not?”
“Well, I just love it. It’s fun and really sexy. Don’t you think, Dar? Oh, sorry, I almost forgot. This is Dar Setters. She runs the new age shop on Bond Street. Crystals, candles, that sort of thing. Hey, why don’t you eat with us? We just sat down.”
Christy-Lynn smiled awkwardly at the blonde seated across from Missy. “Thanks, but I don’t want to crash your dinner. I just put my name on the list.”
Dar smiled. She was pale and petite, almost ethereal, her head of silver-blonde hair framing her small face like a halo of moonlight. “Don’t be silly. Missy was just telling me about you. I’m sorry to hear about your husband.”
Chr
isty-Lynn wasn’t sure she liked being the topic of conversation but forced a smile. “Thank you. It’s awfully nice of you to include me.”
“Don’t be silly,” Missy said, pulling out the chair next to her. “We’re not going to sit here and let you eat by yourself. You need to be with friends. Besides, it’s margarita night!” Missy’s gaze strayed briefly as a waiter in snug-fitting black slacks moved past with a tray balanced on one shoulder. “The scenery’s not bad either.”
Dar sighed and snapped her fingers. “Focus, Missy.”
Missy whipped her head around, feigning innocence. “What?”
“I thought you said you’d sworn off men.”
“There’s nothing wrong with looking, honey. Especially when looking’s all you’ve got time for. Not that anyone’s likely to look back. Guys aren’t lining up to date a woman with my particular combination of baggage, and certainly not one with Jamba Juice on her jeans. Speaking of which, where did Marco get to? It’s time for another margarita.”
Christy-Lynn stole a look at Missy. She was totally gorgeous, outgoing, and appeared to have herself together, a combination that made it hard to believe every man in Sweetwater wasn’t jumping through hoops to get her attention. But then, she knew better than most that the face a person chose to show the world wasn’t always the real one. Everyone had a story. Not everyone wanted to share.
Missy’s attention was still on Marco. She watched until he had disappeared through the swinging kitchen door, then turned to Christy-Lynn with a grin. “He’s fun to look at, but I’m pretty sure he’s spoken for. Janice over at Bristow’s said he was in the other day and bought a pair of ruby earrings, and she’s pretty sure they weren’t for his mother.”
“Poor Missy.” Dar sighed. “Foiled in love again.”
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