He shakes his head, not bending.
“Wait, let me guess. You’re hiding from a giant green monster with furry teeth. From a purple shark that can walk on land. From a super-evil puppy?” The last one brings a tentative giggle. He shakes his head. “No?” says Maggie. “I’m not on the right track? Hmmm.” She cups her chin in her hand and acts like she’s thinking.
That’s when the boy blurts out, “From Mommy!”
“From Mommy!” Maggie pretends to be very shocked. “Well, my goodness, what did Mommy do to deserve being hidden from?”
“She made Daddy mad.”
It occurs to Maggie that she has no way to let the blond woman know her son is safe. She should have taken her cell phone number—but, since she didn’t, she will wait with Max until she returns. She figures they should come out from behind the steps and sit on the porch of the hotel, where they will be in plain sight of Max’s mother.
“Are you all done hiding now, Max? Are you ready to come out?”
He nods somberly.
“Why don’t we sit over here,” Maggie says. “And wait for Mommy. She went to look for you. But she’ll come back!”
They were sheltered from the wind when they were behind the steps, but once they emerge they can feel how much it is picking up. Maggie glances at the sky—it has taken on a yellowish tinge—and shivers. She’s seen the skies over Block Island a lot of different ways, but never yellow.
She settles Max on the top of the short set of steps leading to the sandal store and sits beside him. She knows from Chase and Sebastian that it’s best to keep talking. “You don’t live here, do you?” she asks. “Because I know everyone on this island and I don’t think I’ve seen you before. You must be a very important visitor. Are you a very important visitor, Max?”
He looks uncertain. “We’re visiting Daddy. I think he lives here now.” He sighs, world-weary. “But I don’t know.”
“What are the names of your parents?” Maybe she can call the police station and submit a report; that way, if the mother calls the police, they’ll have Maggie’s phone number.
“Mommy is named Cassie. And Daddy’s name is Anthony.”
“Ohhh!” says Maggie. Could it be? She has known, of course, that Anthony has a son he never told her mother about, and that the not-telling was the cause of the breakup. Grown-ups are both confusing and exhausting. “Is there any chance,” she says, “that your last name is Puckett, Max?”
He nods. He seems unsurprised that Maggie knows this.
“Max,” she says, “is your dad an author? Does he write books?”
Max nods. “Only some. But my grandpa writes lots and lots and lots of books.” He holds his arms out as if he is holding the books. Maggie’s mom told her all about the other secret part of Anthony’s life too—the ultra-famous thriller-writer father. “Daddy doesn’t live with us anymore,” says Max.
Maggie supposes it’s not out of the question that Anthony’s wife and son would come to the island at some point during the summer. Maybe they have come to woo Anthony back. She hopes not. She doesn’t want Anthony to get wooed away.
“I’m sorry,” says Maggie. “Does that make you sad?”
Max nods again. “But before there was lots of fighting,” he says. “I didn’t like that.”
Maggie was so young when her parents split up that she doesn’t remember any fighting. “No,” says Maggie softly. “Of course you didn’t.” She thinks about how badly she wants her mother to be the kind of happy she was with Anthony. For her mother to be that happy, this kid will see less of his father. For Sandy to be happy, Tiki will grow up hardly knowing Maggie. It suddenly hits Maggie that there’s only a certain amount of happiness in the universe, and if you take what you think is your fair share, somebody else might have to give up theirs.
From far down Water Street she can see a figure on a bike. Driving next to the bike is a police car, and, as the car draws closer, Maggie can see that behind the wheel is Bret Holyman, one of the island’s four full-time police officers.
“It’s going to be okay, Max, you know that?” She suddenly feels very old and wise. “I promise you that everything is going to be okay, even though sometimes it seems like it isn’t.”
He nods solemnly. He has a cowlick—adorable. She’s not sure how this kid would react to a hug: some kids are huggers, some aren’t. (Sebastian is and Chase isn’t, for example.) She settles for a friendly shoulder rub, which is what Chase prefers. Max leans into her, the way Pickles does when you hit the perfect spot on her back, the one that makes her left hind leg twitch.
“Do you mind if I pick you up, Max, just for a sec?” Max shakes his head. He seems firm and sure of himself, like a survivor.
She raises Max into the air. It’s hard with the cast, but not impossible. He is heavy and solid in her arms, like three Tikis put together, or one Sebastian plus half a Chase. “He’s here!” she calls, as the bike comes closer. She’d wave an arm if she could, but she needs both to hang on to Max, so she instructs him to wave, which he does. “I got him!” Maggie cries. The wind picks up; the sky turns, almost instantly, from yellow to black. A bunch of trash funnels down Water Street. Then the rain comes.
Chapter 63
Block Island
People stood in line every Friday to get a copy of the Block Island Times as it arrived on the ferry from the printer in Springfield, Mass. The Friday after the storm the line was especially long. That issue of the Times contained photographs of the damaged boats in New Harbor, and an article about the cleanup at Ballard’s, and an interview with a well-known meteorologist who explained the weather patterns that allowed a storm of such force to strike with very little warning.
And the following two items:
Obituaries
Helen Simmons, 84, died peacefully at home on August 7. She joins her beloved husband, the late Jack Simmons. She is survived by her sons, Jack Simmons II (and wife Joanne), of Stamford, Connecticut, and Joe Simmons (and husband Bart Winslow), of New York City, and her daughter, Lila Simmons Griffin, of Providence. Born on Sept. 8, 1934, in Woonsocket, R.I., Helen graduated from Salve Regina University with a degree in nursing. She served as a nurse in the U.S. Army during the Korean War, after which she moved to Block Island with her husband, a native islander, to raise their family. She has been a proud island resident for most of her adult life. Funeral services are pending.
Famous Novelist Dies During Storm
Bestselling thriller author Leonard Puckett, author of dozens of popular thrillers that have sold millions of copies worldwide, was in town to give a reading at Island Bound Books when he collapsed and was taken to Block Island Medical Center, where he was pronounced dead.
Leonard Puckett’s son, Anthony Puckett, who had also been a celebrated novelist in his own right until a plagiarism scandal sullied his reputation earlier this year, was with the elder Mr. Puckett at the time of his collapse. Mr. Puckett’s reading had been postponed due to the storm. “He was such a nice man,” said Bridget Fletcher, an employee of the bookstore. “So gracious, and very kind.”
Mr. Puckett’s latest book, The Thrill of the Chase, has held a spot on the New York Times bestseller list since its publication this spring. Mr. Puckett’s publisher issued the following statement: It is with tremendous sadness that we hear of the loss of our beloved author. In his long career Leonard Puckett has proved himself to be an unrivaled talent who never wavered from his prodigious and punishing schedule. The literary world has lost a great man.
Chapter 64
Joy
All in all, they’d been lucky, with their cottage spared any damage. At Joy Bombs, one of the front windows had been knocked out by a bicycle pump that had blown down the street: could have been worse. Block Island Power expected to have service restored by early afternoon; for now, the shop was closed, Joy never having invested in a generator the way some of the big restaurants had. Joy was trying not to think of how many lost dollars each hour out of business was cost
ing her. Just before the storm Harlan Nichols had sent a reminder of the increase in rent in writing.
The Friday after the storm, Joy and Maggie were wearing gloves and picking up the larger pieces of glass so that the smaller ones could be cleaned up with the shop vacuum. The day before, Joy had taped cardboard over the broken part of the window, but she decided to wait for the power to come back before doing the real cleanup. Maggie had said that she and Riley would be happy to decorate the cardboard later if Joy wanted, using miniature spray-paint cans they’d procured in sixth grade for a history project on the Wampanoag tribe. Riley, for all her questionable decisions with the vaping and the boys, was a pretty good artist, so Joy figured she’d probably take them up on that. Later that day, she hoped, she could reopen Joy Bombs and everything would go back to normal. Mostly normal.
“When we’re done here, Mags, can you zip down to the terminal to pick up a copy of the paper?” In all of the frenzy Joy had forgotten. She wanted to see the storm photos.
“Sure,” said Maggie. She seemed affable and compliant. Most likely she’d been more scared in the storm than she’d ever let on.
Joy had been terrified for a good long time too when the lights first went out and the wind picked up and the whole island seemed to be shrieking and wailing. She’d closed up the shop and taken refuge at home, texting Maggie to please please please come home or let her know where she was so Joy could collect her. There had been a solid twenty minutes when she’d imagined Maggie swept out to sea, never to be seen again.
When Bret Holyman brought Maggie home and told Joy Maggie had helped find a missing little boy, Joy had gotten so dizzy with relief that she’d had to sit down. Her head was actually spinning. When she learned it was Max—Anthony’s Max, the Max who had just been in the shop while his mother told Joy, in so many words, that Joy made Anthony happier than Cassie ever had—she’d gotten even dizzier, and then, in an unexpected display of emotion that had made Maggie wince and cringe, she’d sobbed.
“You did all the right things, you know,” she said now to Maggie, to keep the conversation going. “With that little boy. Max. Keeping him calm.”
Maggie shrugged. Her shrug said, Whatever, but her smile said, Thank you: the contradiction of the teenager.
“What’d you talk about with him?” asked Joy.
“Oh, nothing.” Maggie didn’t meet Joy’s eyes, and Joy wondered if her name had come up. Then Maggie asked, “Was Dad a good singer?”
Joy paused to consider this non sequitur. When she’d first seen Dustin with his early band, the Chiclets, she’d thought he was fantastic. She’d watched him up there, tossing around his hair, his eyes closed, a trickle of sexy sweat traveling down from his temple to his slender jaw, and she’d thought, That guy is something special.
The Chiclets became the Unbecoming, which morphed into the Stellars. They won a Battle of the Bands here and there; they played around New England in dive bars and hip basement venues. They scraped together enough money to do their own studio recording and waited for their big break. And waited and waited and waited. Joy went from groupie, to young wife and mother, to single mother, to single mother and business owner. Dustin capitulated; he got a job at a tech company that did something nebulous with storage. He married Sandy; they had Tiki. Joy imagined that life for Dustin became both exciting and pedestrian.
“Not good enough to go anywhere with it,” she said finally.
“He told me that,” Maggie said.
“He did?”
Maggie nodded. “Last time I was there. It makes him sad.”
“It does?”
“Yup.”
A small seed of sympathy sprouted somewhere inside Joy’s heart. She tried to dislodge it, but it stuck there, refusing to budge. All these years Joy had wished bad things for Dustin. The revenge plots she’d hatched in her mind, the ill fortune she’d visited upon him in her imagination. See what you’ve done? She wanted to say that to him a thousand times in the beginning. There was the time when the heater in her car broke and it was the middle of winter in Fall River and she’d had to layer blankets over Maggie’s car seat to keep her warm. There was the time she had a meeting with the small business loans department of a bank in Narragansett and she’d prepaid for Maggie to stay two extra hours at day care and ten minutes before the meeting she’d received a phone call saying Maggie had just projectile-vomited in the sandbox and could Joy please come pick her up immediately. The time when Maggie’s school had held a father-daughter dance and Maggie had cried herself to sleep because she hadn’t been able to go. See what you’ve done, Dustin? To your daughter? To me? So you could chase your silly little dream! See what you’ve done.
But now she wouldn’t say that. Now she’d say this: Thank you. If Dustin hadn’t left her she would never have known how resourceful she could be. In the literal sense of the word: how full of resources.
“He was good,” Joy said now. “He was very good, really, Mags.” (She could tell that Maggie really wanted him to have been good.) “But the music business is hard. There’s talent but that’s not all it takes. There’s a certain amount of luck. You have to be in the right place at the right time, that sort of thing. And if it doesn’t happen by a certain point, well, you sort of have to accept that it might never happen.”
“Yeah,” said Maggie. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry he’s sad about it,” she said.
“You are?”
“A little.”
After a while Maggie said, “I miss Anthony.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” Maggie looked sidelong at Joy. “Don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” said Joy, as nonchalant as you please. (All the time, she thought.) And it wasn’t just the sex! (Though that was at least thirty-eight percent of it.) Just the other day she’d been thinking about how Anthony let Maggie teach him how to clam, even though he didn’t eat clams. She’d been thinking too about the way he held the back of Joy’s neck when he kissed her, like if he let go she might fly away. She was thinking about the time Pickles had picked up a tick walking in Rodman’s Hollow and Anthony had gone out and bought a magnifying glass to make sure they’d gotten the legs out too. “I think we’re doing fine on our own, Mags.”
“I don’t,” said Maggie. “Not really.”
Maybe because she wanted to change the subject to something less close to her heart, and maybe because Maggie seemed open to conversation in a way she hadn’t been in a long time, Joy said, “Bridezilla changed her mind, Mags. She wants macarons for her wedding, not whoopie pies.”
Maggie looked up. “No! Really? That’s awful. From the Roving Patisserie?”
“Yup. Of course.”
“Ugh,” said Maggie loyally. “That’s a really bad idea.”
“Maybe it’s not,” said Joy.
“It is! Those macarons are terrible.” Maggie stood up and brushed her hands on her tiny shorts. “You have to do something! You can’t let her get away with that!”
“There’s not much I can do. The contract was only verbal, so I don’t have a lot of recourse. Except not to make that mistake ever again. Not to trust a verbal contract.” You couldn’t trust anyone, that was the real and true lesson of Joy’s summer.
“But you have to do something.” Maggie reached up and pressed a piece of the tape holding the cardboard on the window, while Joy closed the paper bag. The shop vacuum would be able to get the rest of the pieces. “Do what you always tell me to do.”
“What do I always tell you to do?”
“You tell me to figure it out!”
“Ah,” said Joy. “Excellent advice from the Phone It In School of Parenting.”
“It’s actually good advice,” said Maggie. “Anyway, I’m sure you will figure it out. You’re tough.”
“I am?” Joy looked around to make sure there wasn’t somebody else in the shop Maggie might be addressing. “Me?”
“You’re the toughest person I know.”
“Car
eful,” said Joy. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
Maggie rolled her eyes and said, “Well, it wasn’t.”
“What was it, then?”
“It’s just a fact.” Maggie bent over and inspected something on the floor, but even with her face pointed downward Joy could see that she was smiling. “It’s just a fact.”
Joy figured that in present circumstances that was good enough.
Chapter 65
Lu
Two days after the storm the ocean was still wild and angry. To Lu it seemed like it was holding a grudge. There were a few surfers visible far down the beach; Lu could see their wet-suited bodies appear and disappear with the movement of the waves. It was high tide—very high. Giant clumps of seaweed littered the sand where the Trusdale family was walking, and pieces of driftwood, and the occasional bird feather. The seaweed made it look like a bunch of mermaids had taken off their wigs and thrown them ashore.
Chase and Sebastian ran ahead of Lu and Jeremy, then back toward them. They had a lot of pent-up energy after a day and a half full of solid rain and no electricity.
After their beach walk they were going to see which breakfast places were open in town. The island was still getting its feet back under itself, but they were hoping at least to find a bagel.
Chase and Sebastian had discovered big sticks on the beach and were using them to poke every mound of seaweed they came across.
“I bet there’s a seal in one of these!” called Sebastian. Optimistically, he kept poking.
“Maybe,” said Jeremy. “Keep looking, you might find something.”
“I’m looking for a whale,” said Chase firmly. “Sometimes after a storm you get a visit from a friendly whale.”
“I don’t think—” said Lu. Then, “Oh, never mind.” She had been about to say that any whale washed up on a beach was probably not alive, but maybe Chase was right—maybe after a storm you did get a visit from a friendly whale, and who wouldn’t like that?
The Islanders Page 33