“You don’t say.”
My head tilts sideways at the wry note in his voice. “Yeah, it was a real bummer. I’ve had her for years. Losing her feels a bit like losing a limb.”
“Tricky weather, that was. You’re lucky you got out alive.” Two salt-white brows arch. “Anyone come to your aid out there?”
“Thankfully, there was a lobsterman nearby and willing to lend a hand. I’m not sure I would’ve been so lucky if he hadn’t heard my distress call and shown up to pull me from the water.” I pause a beat, laughing humorlessly under my breath. “Though I seriously doubt he sees it that way.”
“Now, why would you think a thing like that?”
“Oh. Uh…” I swallow hard, instantly regretting my words. “He ended up sinking his own boat, trying to save me.” Aiming for nonchalance, I shrug. “Not sure it was a fair trade, in his eyes.”
Tommy says nothing. But his eyes — the palest shade of blue I’ve ever seen, made more so in contrast to his sun-weathered skin — scan my face so intently, it’s like he’s trying to see into my soul. Normally, this might make me uncomfortable, but there’s something oddly comforting about his closed-off demeanor. I find myself wanting to tell him all my secrets. Knowing he would keep them.
Maybe I do have a concussion, after all.
Finally, Tommy drops his eyes. With an awkward cough, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The silence has stretched on for far too long.
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. Embarrassment heats through me, burning the tips of my ears. I’m sure my cheeks are flaming red. “I don’t know why I told you any of that.”
“No need for apologies. And no need for such thoughts. I’m sure that man — whoever he is — doesn’t feel that way. Any mariner worth his salt would happily sacrifice his boat for his girl.”
“Oh,” I blurt. “I’m not his girl. I’m just—” I break off abruptly, unsure why I’m bothering to explain my twisted saga with Archer to a total stranger. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Whatever you say.” Tommy pauses. “Though if you’re feeling guilty over things, you could always do something to make it up to him.”
I blink slowly, stupefied by the suggestion. “Such as?”
“Home-cooked meal goes a long way with most men.”
“Oh. That’s a good idea. It’s only… we aren’t on the best of terms, these days. I’m not sure he’d appreciate me showing up with a thank-you casserole, butting into his personal life like that…”
“That boy’s life could use some butting into, trust me.”
“What?” I ask, certain I’ve misheard him.
“Nothing, nothing.” Tommy’s mouth twists sardonically. “Just blowing hot air.”
“Okay…” Shaking off my confusion, I downshift the conversation back to business. “Anyway. Do you need me to show you to the boathouse?”
“No, I’ve been here plenty of times before. I know the way.”
“All right. Mrs. Granger should be back soon, but if you need anything in the meantime, I’ll be at the pool.”
He gives a short nod and, after wordlessly retrieving his tool kit from the back of his truck, walks down the pebbled path that leads through the gardens, toward the water. Just before he’s out of earshot, he stops to glance back at me. His gruff voice carries on the wind.
“Hey, Josephine!”
“Yes?”
“Don’t bring him a casserole. Make him a pie. No man says no to a pie. Especially apple. With a big scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side.”
He turns and walks off before I have a chance to respond, whistling lightly as he goes.
It’s a nice enough suggestion. Though, if he knew the slightest bit about my relationship with Archer, he’d know it’s going to take a lot more than baked goods to repair things between us.
After yet another sleepless night tossing and turning, going over everything that happened on the Fourth of July again and again and again, until I want to pull my hair out by the roots, Tommy’s suggestion doesn’t seem quite so ludicrous.
When the sun’s first rays of light begin to leak through my curtains, I kick off my duvet and swallow a scream of sleep-deprived frustration. Over the past few days, my confusion about Archer has solidified into a mass of quiet rage I cannot push down, no matter how many times I try to swallow it. All the words I want to say — to scream — at him are lodged at the back of my throat, making it harder and harder to breathe with each passing hour.
None of my usual mind-occupation tricks are working. Nothing provides a true distraction. Not burying myself in books, not lounging at the pool, not scrolling aimlessly on the internet for hours. Even the possibility of a long sail has been taken away from me, given Cupid’s current location.
In my overtired, increasingly ornery state, perhaps my better judgment is compromised because I decide to take matters into my own hands. To get the bottom of things, once and for all. At this point, I figure I’ve got nothing left to lose.
It’s time I got some answers.
Past time.
I pay special attention to my hair and makeup, fussing with my reflection in the mirror until I’m satisfied with the girl staring back at me. She is not the same innocent introvert who left this place last summer, heart shattered and head hanging low. That girl is long gone. In her place stands a young woman in a chic linen dress, with a direct gaze and unflinching confidence. At least, that’s what I’m hoping I look like. I have a feeling, as soon as I find myself face to face with Archer, my carefully cultivated self-possession will crumble to dust and fly away on the wind.
I’ll have to track him down first, though.
I hop behind the wheel of the Porsche and head toward the only lead I possess. It doesn’t take long to reach the police station — situated smack in the middle of Manchester-by-the-Sea’s idyllic downtown, a stone’s throw from the harbor. With a force of a dozen total officers, it takes even less time to locate Chris Tomlinson inside the white-columned building. In fact, he’s the first person I come across, sitting at the front desk manning the reception area.
“They’ve got you on phone duty, huh?” I ask, smiling sunnily at him as I step through the front doors. “Not out fighting crime?”
“Oh, you know. The glamorous life of a rookie.”
“They let you use a gun yet?”
He scoffs. “They barely let me use the stapler.”
“Give it time. I have a feeling that by the end of the year, you’ll have graduated to a three-hole-punch at the very least.”
“Hardy-har-har.” He narrows his eyes at me across the desk. “So what brings you here today? I assumed, since you blew off my Fourth of July cookout, you were already on your way back to France.”
“Switzerland.”
“Not my point, Valentine.”
“Sorry.” I blow out a breath. “I sort of… need a favor.”
“Let me guess. You want my help getting out of a speeding ticket.”
“Not exactly.”
“Parking violation?”