Family.
Stability.
Baseball.
“If your interrogation is over,” Blair says sharply, pulling me back to the present, “I have meetings to attend.”
“I still have questions—”
“Honestly, Josephine! I’ve grown tired of your pointless questions.”
“They aren’t pointless to me. And I wouldn’t have so many of them if you’d been honest with me in the first place!”
“Enough! I will not entertain your baseless accusations—”
“They aren’t baseless if they’re true!”
“—about last summer. I am not discussing this anymore. I do not have to explain myself to my child. Certainly not when it comes to that… that… waste of space, Archer Reyes.” The receiver practically crackles with her wrath. “He is in the past. Leave him there, Josephine. I mean it.”
“Or what? What will you do, mother?”
But my angry inquiries never reach her.
The line has gone dead.
I spend the following hour seething and pacing. I cut a path back and forth across my bedroom so many times, I’m certain there’ll be a permanent groove left behind in the rug. The phone call with Blair rattled me more than I’d like to admit. I’m a mess of frustration and paranoia. Everything I thought I knew about last summer has been thrown off kilter. Like a conspiracy theorist, I tug at the loose threads of my life, searching for hidden schemes.
Great. Next, I’ll be questioning the moon landing and convinced the earth is flat.
I redial the VALENT offices, hoping to pry more answers from my mother through sheer force of will, but I’m told she is in a meeting. Unreachable, until further notice. Try back tomorrow. I’m fed a similar line when I ask to speak to my father.
“Then connect me to Oliver Beaufort.”
“Mr. Beaufort is out of the office today,” the receptionist says apologetically. I’m certain she can hear my patience dwindling. “If you’d like to leave him a message—”
“Forget it.”
I disconnect and fall back onto my bed with a huff. Blair told me nothing, but her silence was evidence enough. Whatever happened to Archer last summer, she knows more about it than she’s willing to share. More, even, than Chris Tomlinson or the Wadell twins, if I had to guess. Short of getting answers from Archer himself — which went over about as well as a hand grenade, at my last attempt — I’ve reached a dead end.
Why do you even care? a snide voice whispers from the back of my mind. Knowing the truth won’t change anything. Archer may’ve had an accident, he may’ve lied about All-Star camp… but that doesn’t mean he lied about how he feels. Didn’t he make things crystal clear the other day, when he practically threw you out of his apartment?
I feel like a dog chasing its own tail, going round and round in dizzying circles. I rack my brain, replaying blurry memories of last June, trying to sort the tangle of possibilities into something that makes even a little bit of sense, but there are no answers to be found inside my head.
Only more questions.
With the earth giving way beneath my feet, I’m dangerously off balance. I dial Oliver’s cell number, desperate for a shred of stability. I crumble further when the call goes straight to voicemail without a single ring. I try his landline instead. A sharp beep precedes his pre-recorded answering service.
“You’ve reached Oliver Beaufort,” his deep voice says, twanging with familiar warmth. “Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks.”
I terminate the call.
Where is he?
It’s late in Geneva. He should be home from the office by now, or at least on his way there. It’s unlike him not to answer his phone. I’m shaken by the distinctly unpleasant possibility that my mother was right. That I’ve truly driven him away for good by being so distant lately.
Perhaps that’s for the best, that same snide voice whispers inside my head. Perhaps that’s what you wanted all along.
“No,” I say aloud. “That’s not true. I love—” I swallow hard. Try again, with fresh conviction. “I love Oliver. I do.”
I tip my head back and look at the ceiling, attempting to hold in my tears. It takes a few shaky breaths, but I manage to keep them from welling over and flowing down my cheeks. When my chin lowers, I feel marginally more in control. At least, I do until my eyes drift out the large bay window that overlooks the water, and I spot something strange.
There’s a sunshine-yellow lobster boat puttering into the cove. It looks like it’s headed straight for our private dock. I move closer to the window, trying to peer at it from a better angle, but it’s hard to make out any details from this distance. In another minute, my view will be obscured completely by the boathouse.
Probably some guy having engine trouble, I think, a pang of sympathy stirring in my gut. He must’ve put into the first port he spotted.
Shoving my feet into a pair of old Sperry topsiders, I head down to the docks to offer the stranger some assistance.
TWENTY-TWO
archer
Cormorant House looms before me as I putter into the cove. I drop my throttle down low and turn the wheel lightly with the tips of my fingers, marveling at the responsiveness of the brand new boat.
My boat.
The thought alone makes a laugh catch in my throat. I’m still not quite used to the idea. After Tommy’s completely atypical show of generosity, the crazy bastard acted in a far more typical fashion — disappearing down the docks with his hands in his pockets and a faraway look in his eyes. His final orders lingered long after his departure.
Take her out for a spin, kid. See how she handles.
I offered for him to come along, but he told me the maiden voyage is something a captain should experience solo. So, off I went — cruising out of Gloucester Harbor, passing a fleet of inbound vessels returning with a fresh catch. It was one of those spectacular July days without a single cloud to mar the infinite blue sky, only a light breeze to stir the surface of the waves. As I puttered around, testing the features of my new rig, morning yielded into afternoon, but intense heat continued to blanket the coastline. The air was syrupy with humidity, even as the sun began to crest in the midday sky, and I knew it would be hot as hell even come nightfall.
A scorcher.
(Or, if you’re blessed with a thick East Boston accent like so many of the guys who work on the docks — a scor-chah.)
I’m not entirely certain how I ended up here. Maybe the temperature is to blame. Heatstroke makes people do all sorts of crazy things, doesn’t it? Too much hot air got to my head, upending all sense of intelligent thought and reason…
Right.
I snort.
I don’t have a sufficient explanation for my actions. All I know is, one minute, I was motoring down the Cape Ann coast, telling myself I should check our long-neglected traps off Magnolia Point… and the next, I was here. In the little cove where I’d spent so much of my youth, with the Valentine mansion rising up behind it like a mountain range of turrets and pitched roofs.
The estate is far more intimidating at this proximity than it ever appeared during my distant drive-bys. As I close the final distance, my heart begins to pound a frantic drumbeat inside my chest. I grip the steering wheel harder as I navigate toward the dock, ignoring my jangling nerves as I drift to a stop in the space formerly occupied by a bright red Alerion sailboat. My fenders bump gently against the wood planks as I shift into neutral, shut the engine, and scramble overboard. I’m securing the stern line around a sturdy cleat when approaching footsteps rattle the boards beneath my feet.