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  CHAPTER THREE

  THE CLAM BOX BUSTLED WITH THE USUAL MONDAY morning crowd, customers in a rush to gulp down hot coffee, eat breakfast, and settle the check before the diner’s two waitresses, Lucy and Sara, could even get out a “Good morning. What can I get you today?”

  In his usual spot at the counter right behind the grill, Officer Tucker Tulley sat serenely in the middle of the rush. He took a bite of a doughnut and paged through the Messenger while carrying on a fractured conversation with Charlie Bates, who was pouring sizzling rounds of batter and eggs onto the grill.

  “Table seven, two poached on toast—not fried and no home fries.” Lucy Bates slammed down a plate at the order window.

  “Here’s your poached,” Charlie replied in a belligerent tone. “You ran off with the order for table nine.”

  “Maybe because you can’t tell the difference between a seven and a nine, and you put it under the wrong ticket. And now they’re ice cold besides,” Lucy said, looking over the eggs. A frown marred her pretty face as she pushed the plate back on the ledge again. “You better do this over.”

  It sounded to Tucker as if Charlie almost growled at her. Then he swiped the dish off the ledge and turned his back.

  “Wow, what was that about?” Tucker said as Lucy grabbed a coffeepot and began refilling mugs.

  “Didn’t you hear? My wife’s a college girl now. She’s got opinions about everything. And she’s always right, too, so don’t bother arguing.” Charlie flipped a row of pancakes with a deft turn of his wrist. “And she doesn’t have a spare minute to help around here or help me with the campaign,” he added gruffly.

  “Well, she’s got a lot going on right now.” Tucker glanced over at Lucy, who was taking an order on the far side of the diner. “She probably needs some time to get used to school. That’s pretty brave of her, going back. I don’t think I could do it.”

  “More like insane, if you ask me. What does she need to go to college for? A woman gets some crazy idea, and a man always ends up paying for it,” he insisted.

  “That is not true.” Lucy stepped up behind Tucker. “Not one tiny bit. I stayed up until two in the morning the other night, stuffing envelopes, hand addressing everything. You tell me, Tucker, does that sound like someone who isn’t helping?”

  Tucker stared at her, feeling a bite of doughnut lodged in his throat. He hated to be stuck in the middle of an argument between a husband and wife. Especially when the husband was his best friend.

  “See what I mean?” Charlie shook his head as Lucy walked off with another order. “I don’t know what got into that woman. One day she’s as sweet as pie. The next she’s snarling like a wet cat.”

  Tucker glanced at Lucy over his shoulder, making sure she was out of earshot. “Women get . . . moody, Charlie.” He slowly stirred his coffee. “Fran got into a snit like this about a year or so ago. I could barely look at her sideways without an argument. She started redecorating the house, nearly tore the place apart. Then she got a job working for Betty Bowman. That calmed her down real fast. I think Lucy just needs a little time.”

  “I don’t have time, Tucker,” Charlie said. “I’ve only got eight weeks left until the election. I need an issue. I need to drum up votes. I can’t wait until my wife is finished with her book reports or whatever the heck she’s doing every night, when she should be taking over around here.”

  “How’s it going with that storm cleanup issue? Getting much interest there?”

  “Nothing really,” Charlie admitted. “Everybody agrees the storm drains need an upgrade and the firehouse needs a substation. But let’s face it. It’s tough to get people to blame Emily Warwick for the weather.”

  Tucker had lived in town his whole life, but had rarely seen a storm like the one that hit Cape Light shortly after Labor Day. Some villagers were still cleaning up and repairing the damage. He had heard a lot of complaints that the mayor’s office had not responded quickly enough and that the town was not prepared for such emergencies. But not much had come of it. People seemed to forget the crisis quickly.

  “I know what you mean. A storm drain upgrade is not the kind of problem that gets people hot under the collar,” Tucker said.

  “That’s just my point,” Charlie agreed. “I need something bigger. Something that can pull in everyone. Something really—galvanizing,” he said, drawing out the word.

  “Galvanizing.” Tucker chewed thoughtfully. “I like the sound of that.”

  SARA TURNED DOWN THE NARROW DRIVE THAT LED TO THE CRANBERRY Cottages, noticing the scent of fall in the chilly night air. She wasn’t used to that, not in the first week of September. Down in Maryland, where she grew up, they were still enjoying summer temperatures. But fall came quickly in New England and winter would be harsh, too, she’d heard. She wondered if she would stay long enough to find out firsthand.

  She parked her car and headed along the footpath toward her cottage. She felt tired from work and half-wished that Lucy wasn’t coming over later that night. But she had offered to help Lucy with an English assignment and didn’t want to let her down.

  Sara heard the sound of wood splitting before she actually saw Luke McAllister. She slowed her steps to watch him work in the fading light.

  Despite the chill in the air, he was wearing just a long-sleeved pullover, open at the neck. He was working hard, and the shirt clung to his shoulders and back, outlining well-defined muscles. He swung the ax down with a clean motion, splitting the log in one chop. The pieces fell away, and he stepped back from the block. Sara noticed how he stood slightly off balance and wondered if the exercise hurt his bad leg.

  He dropped another log on the block and seemed to size it up, his strong features set in a stern expression. His usual expression, she thought. But right before lifting the ax, he spotted her. His gray eyes flashed with recognition, though he didn’t quite smile.

  “Hey, Sara. There’s some mail for you. I’ll bring it over in a minute.”

  “Okay. Just knock,” she called back as she let herself into her cottage. He had caught her watching him, and she felt embarrassed. She dumped her knapsack on the kitchen table and slipped off her denim jacket.

  She felt hungry but had decided not to bring home any food from the diner. She was getting tired of the menu there. Unfortunately, the selection in her cupboard wasn’t much more appetizing. She pulled a can of chicken noodle soup out, opened it, and poured it into a pot on the stove to heat.

  A moment later she heard Luke knock and answered the door.

  Luke stood on the steps, his arms filled with wood. “Where do you want this?”

  “Out here is fine.” She pointed to a woodpile next to her door. “I have enough in the house for now.”

  Luke stacked the new wood neatly on top of the pile, then pulled an envelope out of his pocket. “Here’s your mail,” he said. “It was stuck in my box by mistake.”

  Sara glanced at the handwriting and return address—a letter from her parents.

  “Nothing bad I hope?” Luke asked, searching her expression with his cool gray gaze.

  “Just a letter from my folks. I think they’re starting to wonder when I’m coming back.”

  Now, why did I tell him that? she wondered. They weren’t exactly friends, yet somehow they were more than merely acquaintances. He had a quiet way of getting her to reveal herself, even when she didn’t want to.

  “Are you thinking of going back to Maryland?”

  “No, not at all. Not right now anyway,” she added with a shrug. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you plenty of notice.”

  “I wasn’t even thinking about that.” He kept his gaze fixed on her. “I’m going home for a visit myself.”

  “Do you miss the city?” she asked.

  “No, not at all.” He shrugged, looking surprised at his admission. “It’s my father’s birthday. There’s going to be a party for him.”

  Sara sensed the trip was important to him. Important and difficult. She had heard a little abou
t Luke’s past, a pretty dark story about why he left Boston and police work. She had also heard that his father and brothers were all cops there and considered whatever had happened a disgrace—though she wasn’t quite sure how much of that was gossip and how much was true.

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen them?” she asked carefully.

  “A few months, I guess. I haven’t been back since I came here in May.”

  He had arrived in town about the same time she had, she realized. They were both still outsiders in a way. “Have you stayed in touch at all?”

  “Just with my mother. She thought my coming up here was a good idea.” Luke jammed his hands down in his pockets. “It will be tougher to see my father.”

  Sara didn’t know what to say. He seemed uneasy but still seemed to want to talk. “Because you left the city?” she asked, really meaning “the police force” but afraid to be that blunt.

  “You might say that.” He leaned back against the porch rail and looked down at her, his gaze narrowed, as if figuring out how much to reveal. “My dad is funny, though. When he sees me, he’ll talk a blue streak. About the weather, the news, and what kind of car I’m driving. That kind of stuff. But I can still see it in his eyes, like if he ever lets the cork out, he’ll explode.”

  She paused and considered his words. “That’s too bad,” she said sympathetically. “Maybe going down there will help.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a cynical grin. “I have to go back sooner or later. It seemed as good a time as any.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “I’m going in on Wednesday so I can meet up with an old friend of mine. He quit the force, too, a while back. Now he’s doing some kind of counseling or social work. It will be good to catch up with him. The party will be on the weekend, so I should be back by Monday. Are you worried about staying out here alone?” he added, sounding concerned.

  “No, not at all.”

  “That’s good. I’ll leave a phone number, just in case.”

  “Okay, if you want. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She crossed her arms over her chest. She was cold, but he was gazing at her so intently, she couldn’t quite find the words to excuse herself and go inside.

  “I thought I might go into town later. To see a movie,” he said. “There’s a good suspense film playing. Have you seen it?”

  “Uh . . . no, I haven’t.” Was he about to ask her out? She sensed her eyes widen in shock and quickly looked away, hoping he didn’t notice.

  “Would you like to go?” His tone was casual and light, but she could tell the question was difficult for him.

  She didn’t know what to say. Then she suddenly remembered. “I’m sorry, I can’t tonight. Lucy is coming by. I’m going to help her write a paper. She started college, did I tell you?”

  “Uh, no, you didn’t.” She saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes that was quickly masked by an impassive expression. “Good for her.”

  “Yes, it is good for her,” she agreed. Sara suddenly smelled something burning. The soup! “Oh sorry, I’ve got to run. I have something on the stove.” She ran inside, leaving the door partly open. “Good night, Luke,” she called out.

  “Good night.” He closed the door for her, then headed for his cottage.

  Sara dashed over to the stove and took the boiling pot off the flame. Saved by the soup, she thought as she poked her wooden spoon in to check the damage. It was stuck a bit on the bottom, but still edible, she decided.

  She poured it out into a bowl and brought it over to the kitchen table. She took out a box of crackers and a soup spoon, then sat down to eat. She enjoyed living alone most of the time. She liked to be as messy or as neat as she pleased, and liked all the free time she had to write and read.

  But dinner was the loneliest time for her. Maybe going out with Luke wouldn’t have been such a bad thing. He’s different from most of the guys I’ve known. Older for one thing. And he’s not the easiest person to get to know, not exactly Mr. Sunny, she thought, grinning to herself. But he’s interesting and trying hard to work things out for himself. And he’s attractive—very attractive.

  Maybe I like him more than I think, Sara realized. But what’s the point?I can’t get involved with him. It wouldn’t be right. I can’t even tell him the truth about who I really am and why I’m living here.

  Sara heard a car starting up outside, then saw the sweep of headlights through the trees, traveling up the drive toward the Beach Road. Luke on his way into town. She felt suddenly deserted, thinking she could have put Lucy off for tonight and gone with him. Maybe living here is wearing on me, she mused. Maybe I should call my parents and just check in with them. But that idea didn’t appeal much to her, either. She already knew what they would ask her, and she didn’t have an answer yet.

  She saw her journal on the other end of the table and picked it up. She opened it to a clean page, marked the date on top, then began writing with one hand while she ate the soup with an automatic motion with the other.

  My parents sent another letter and I haven’t even opened it yet, but I already know what’s inside. Their quiet but persistent questions: What are you doing up there? When are you coming home? Why haven’t you told your birth mother the truth?

  I can’t explain why it’s taking me so long to tell Emily Warwick who I am. I don’t understand it myself.

  Maybe I’m afraid that if I don’t get to know her secretly, I won’t get the chance to know her at all. Or my grandmother and aunt. But I do want to know why Emily gave me up. Then I get afraid to ask her, thinking maybe it’s enough just to get to know her this way—as a friend. Maybe telling her that she’s my mother would cause so much trouble, it would ruin everything.

  I wish I had someone to talk to about this. My parents have been great, but I can’t tell them much. They worry too much about me. Lucy has been a real friend. But I can’t tell her, either.

  Besides, nobody would really understand. . . .

  BARELY FIFTEEN MINUTES INTO THE MOVIE AND HIS HANDS WERE CLENCHED on the armrests, his knuckles white. Luke stared at the flickering images on the screen but didn’t really see them.

  He sat watching another film unreel, the one that had been stuck in his mind for years now. The one he couldn’t quite forget.

  His mouth grew dry, and he could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead. Still, he could not look away from the dark images, the flashing lights, the sounds of sirens and footsteps running down a wet alley. He smelled the gunpowder, the blood. He heard the heart-wrenching moan of a man mortally wounded, his life spilling out second by second, with no way to stop the flow.

  Another barrage of gunshots sounded through the theater, and Luke jumped to his feet and grabbed for the pistol that once sat holstered on his hip. His popcorn and soda spilled around his feet, the icy liquid on his shoes suddenly bringing him back—back from that terrible night on Delaney Street to the movie house in Cape Light. He glanced around, to see if anyone was watching him, then with his head ducked down, he left his seat and walked quickly up the aisle.

  The bright lights in the lobby stung his eyes. He pushed open the heavy glass doors to the street. He stood on the sidewalk a moment, breathing in the bracing night air.

  Good thing Sara didn’t come, he thought. I would have hated for her to see me like this.

  Her excuse sounded real enough. But she had that look on her face when I started to ask her—like she was scrambling for some way to get out of it.

  It’s just as well. I don’t need that right now, he decided. Everything in life is timing. And this is the wrong time.

  He rubbed the back of his neck as he walked along the deserted street and flipped up his collar. A damp wind blew up from the harbor and seeped into his jacket. The foghorn sounded, out on the bay, echoing through the village streets. The vintage gaslights on Main Street stood haloed in the foggy air and gave the empty avenue a surreal, dreamlike quality.

  Everything was closed. Except for
the Clam Box, its blue-and-red neon sign glowing a few doors down. But Sara wasn’t working tonight, so what was the point? He knew the Beanery down near the green might be open. That would be a nice change, he thought. His mouth tasted like cotton. But he knew he wasn’t really thirsty for coffee.

  What I’d really like right now is a beer. A tall cold one. Then another, to wash down the first.

  But drinking was something else he’d put behind him, and not without a struggle. Just across the street the yellow lights from a tavern flickered, and Luke paused.

  He gave his head a hard shake, then turned and walked in the opposite direction. Might as well go back home and make my own coffee. This little excursion into town wasn’t such a great idea after all.

  LUKE RETURNED TO THE COTTAGES AND PARKED HIS TOYOTA 4RUNNER. AS he started walking toward his cottage, he noticed that Sara’s lights were still on, but Lucy’s car was nowhere in sight. She must have come and gone already. Or was that just an excuse to get out of going to the movies? he wondered.

  Then a sound in the shed near his cottage drew his attention, and he froze in place, listening, every nerve suddenly alert.

  “Who’s there?” he called out sharply while another part of his mind reminded him that out here, the sound was doubtless nothing more than a cat or raccoon, prowling for food.

  No one answered at first, then he heard a louder sound, like a pile of tin cans falling down a hill, and then Sara’s voice, sounding frustrated and annoyed.

  “For Pete’s sake, don’t you have a light out here?”

  He trotted toward the shed, reached in, and flipped a switch. A bare bulb above illuminated the scene: Sara, looking trapped by the pile of empty paint cans around her legs, holding an old blue bicycle at arm’s length.

  “Here, let me help.” Luke rushed forward awkwardly, unmindful of his bad leg. He pulled away some of the cans so that she could get her balance.

  “Thank you,” she said, brushing back a strand of dark hair that had fallen across her eyes. “If you could move some of those cans aside, I just want to lean this bike against the wall. The kickstand seems to be broken.”