By some miracle, my car—a formerly gorgeous vintage Mercedes I’d named Beatrice, now salt-streaked and rusted—still ran.
I quickly loaded it with things I’d need for the trip: inland clothes (no flip-flops, no baggy beach dresses), a few slightly soggy books I’d been meaning to read, and my laptop and phone. Though it wasn’t particularly practical, I took my spider plant from its place on the windowsill and set it on the front seat. I’d had it since I was a freshman in college, and it seemed cruel to leave it behind. It was the closest thing I had to a pet.
“I guess you’ll be riding shotgun,” I said, and then I laughed a little crazily because I was talking to a plant.
I grabbed a red coral cameo that had belonged to my mother, and a little jar of fossilized sharks’ teeth that I’d found on my beach. I’d moved around a lot since college—from New York City to Long Island, and then to Boston, then Raleigh—but this tiny little North Carolina island was the first place that had felt like home.
While I gathered my things, I tried to keep my eyes fixed on the intact part of my house. But right before I was ready to go, I let myself creep toward the remains of the darkroom, which I’d built myself. The shelves were broken, the enlarger crushed, and the bottles of developer and stabilizer spilled onto the ruined floor.
The question was: If that was gone, what, really, was worth saving?
When I went back outside, Bill was standing in the driveway with three cans of motor oil, a first-aid kit, and a tuna sandwich from Zell’s Café. “Thought you could use these,” he said.
I took them gratefully. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” I said. “Overseeing the… whatever?” I gestured toward the house. Whether it’d be patched back up or torn down entirely was an open question, and the insurance company was in charge of the answer.
“Course not,” he said. “What else do I have to do? Can’t run the charters when the tourists aren’t here.”
I reached out and pulled him to me in a hard hug. He was surprised, obviously, but eventually he sort of hugged me back.
“You be careful,” he said.
“I will,” I promised.
“Maybe you want to take this,” he said. And then he handed me my beloved Nikon, its lens missing and its body gritty with sand. “I found it underneath my house.”
I took the camera from him gently, as if it were alive but gravely wounded.
“Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”
And then I got in my car and drove away.
Chapter 5
I HADN’T seen my brother, Ben, in three years—not since our dad’s funeral. But after only five hours of driving, there I was, standing on his front porch, wondering why I hadn’t made the trip sooner.
When I knocked, the door flew open and a giant Labrador came barreling out, nearly knocking me back down the steps. Ben stood in the hall, grinning and shaking his head. “Sorry about Stanley,” he said. “He’s sweet, but he’s crazier than a squirrel on speed.”
The dog was now racing around the yard in ecstatic circles. “No kidding,” I said laughing and stepped inside.
I followed Ben into his cozy kitchen and sat down at the same pinewood table we’d eaten dinner around when we were kids. He brought us each a beer.
“It’s so good to see you,” we said simultaneously. Then, quick as we could, “JinxyouowemeaCoke.”
Ben clinked my glass with his. “Cheers, big sis,” he said. And then, “I’m really sorry about… Claire.”
“Both of them, right?” I asked wryly. Until I could make those two disasters into a good story, they could at least be a punch line.
“You know you can stay here for a while if you want,” he said.
“I know—thank you. But I’m going to do some traveling.”
Then I explained what I’d realized on the drive up: After Patrick left, I’d moved to Topsail Island and basically gone into hiding. Even before that, I’d lost touch with a lot of people—which was a problem. “Take Karen Landey,” I said. “She was my best friend for sixteen years, and now I see her only on Instagram. So sure, I know what she ate for dinner last night—but I haven’t met her baby.”
“Um, didn’t she have that baby five years ago?” Ben asked.
“My point exactly,” I cried. “It’s time to go see a few old friends.”
Ben nodded thoughtfully. “Have you mentioned that to them?”
“Not yet,” I admitted. “But cut me some slack, I only figured it out an hour ago. I’ll write Karen tonight.”
He laughed. “It’s a great idea. Take pictures, okay?”
My shoulders immediately slumped.
Without saying anything, Ben got up and walked down the hall, and when he returned he set two boxes in front of me. “It’s a Nikon D5300 DSLR with a portable photo printer. I bought them for you last Christmas—”
“Oh no!” I interrupted, horrified. “That was when I told you I’d rather cut off an arm than go digital. I’m so sorry! I had no idea!”
Ben shrugged. “No big deal. But maybe you can use this stuff now.” Then he snorted. “Annie, stop looking at it like it’s going to bite you.”
“I’m not—It’s just…”
“It’s like giving a girl who’s only ever ridden a donkey the keys to a Ferrari?” he asked.
I laughed. “I’m going to try not to take that as an insult. And thank you. I’ll… I’ll try these out. Really, I will.”
He got up again. “You hungry? I made spaghetti. Homemade sauce, noodles, everything.”
“Considering I’m barely past opening cans of SpaghettiOs, that sounds amazing.”
The dinner was even better than I expected: San Marzanos in a buttery sauce over hand-cut tagliatelle, and a kale Caesar so good it nearly brought tears to my eyes. I was helping myself to round two when Ben caught sight of the coral cameo, hanging on a thin gold chain around my neck.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked.
“It was Mom’s,” I said. “Isn’t it beautiful? Dad gave it to her.”
Ben held out his hand and I put the necklace into his big palm. He turned the cameo over and back.
“What?” I asked. “You have a funny look on your face.”
“Dad might have given it to her. But he didn’t buy it for her.”
I set my fork down. “What do you mean?”
“He bought it for Kathy Pasters. But Mom found it in his sock drawer, and she assumed it was for her,” Ben said.
“Excuse me?”
Ben looked at me in surprise. “You really didn’t know? Dad and Kit were a thing for a while.”
I couldn’t believe it. I had no idea what to say. “Mom and Dad, Kit and Joe—they all used to play euchre together,” I cried.
“Yeah, and Dad and Kit were playing footsie under the table.” He ripped a piece of garlic bread in two. “Everybody has secrets, Annie,” he said. “You were just probably too busy messing around with your camera to notice what Dad’s was.”
Suddenly I felt confused and sad. Was I really so blind? This new story of my parents’ marriage wasn’t the one I wanted to be true.
“But I think, in the end, they were happy,” Ben added, as if he could read my mind. “I really do.”
Okay, maybe, I thought—because I wanted him to be right. But how did their marriage survive an affair when mine went belly-up?
The world was full of mysteries.
I wondered if Patrick Quinn could help me solve that particular one. Had we made the right choice? Were we, in the end, happy—apart?
Ben hoisted steaming strands of spaghetti with a pair of silver tongs that also used to belong to our parents. “Thirds?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No thanks.” I wasn’t hungry anymore. I was busy calculating how long it would take to get to my ex-husband’s house.
Chapter 6
A BETTER person might have warned him—I know. But this wasn’t going to be an emotional ambush. As the saying goes, I came in peace.
I called Patrick from the historic main drag of Ellicott City, an affluent town just outside of Baltimore. “I’m across the street from a place called Renard—is that French for fox? Duck? I forget. Anyway, would you like to meet me there for dinner?” I asked.