Page 42 of Rosie and the Beast Next Door

“Yep. It was dark, and people didn’t realize it was Rosie. They thought she was a rowdy tourist.”

“And she got in trouble for that? It sounds like an accident,” I said.

Dad paused and looked at me assessingly. “It was. The part she got in trouble for was painting a caricature of me on the side of the library.”

“Wearing his sheriff uniform and picking his nose,” Mom added.

Dad frowned. “It’s not necessary to describe it.”

Oh, but it was. This lunch was definitely taking a positive turn.

“It really was a remarkable likeness, especially given her intoxication level,” Mom continued.

Dad folded his arms. “Being accidentally drunk doesn’t give you a pass for defacing public property or for mistaking a broken chair for—”

Mom cut him off with a stern look, and Dad clammed up. Mistaking a broken chair for what, I wanted to press, but in that silence, awareness of all the things weweren’ttalking about flooded back in. I remembered that look—the one that said Mom was shutting down that line of conversation, and it was not going to be opened back up.

“More water?” Mom asked as she topped off my mostly full glass. Things had almost felt normal while we’d been talking about Rosie. Maybe that was the key to having a good relationship with my parents—have it all revolve around Rosie.

We finished the meal with a few painful attempts at conversation around how Mom’s garden was doing, what new book Dad was reading, and how unexpectedly sunny the day was. Things you might discuss with a stranger sitting next to you on a plane.

The relief was palpable when Dad’s phone rang, requesting he come back to the station to take care of a situation involving a couple of teenagers. I hopped up when Dad did, ready to take the opportunity to flee.

We stood at the door, again locked in the uncertainty of if we should hug, high five, shake hands, or maybe do a group thumbs up.

“It’s good to see you,” Mom said. She leaned close like she might hug me but then patted me on the arm.

Disappointment rose and then left just as quickly. “You too, Mom. Thanks for lunch.”

“I’ll give you a ride back into town,” Dad said gruffly. I’d walked the two miles there. Winterhaven was small enough to get away not renting a car. I hopped into his cruiser, cracked thewindow, and closed my eyes briefly to the sound of birch trees rustling and the wind whistling down the dirt lane.

Some of my stress unwound as I breathed in the familiar scent of pine and maple and was inundated with memories of running around these trees, playing explorer with Shiloh and Hudson, not coming home until just before dark, convinced we’d found shark teeth and arrowheads in our search for treasure.

The silence was broken only by the sound of Dad’s radio going off intermittently. It sounded like some teenagers had broken into one of the vacation cabins on the south side of the island and threw a party. The tension between us rose as the description continued, and I was momentarily thrust back into being a teenager again, my dad busting one of those parties, his red face when he realized I was to blame, throwing me in the back of his cruiser.

Then the long, angry silence all the way to the station.

“Hang on.” Dad frowned as he pulled up in front of Lily’s house and eased to a stop. Her white mailbox was listed to the side at a nearly forty-five degree angle from the ground.

I got out of his cruiser and gulped in the fresh air.

“The daggum wind keeps knocking Lily’s mailbox down.” Dad lifted the mailbox into place, stomped some of the dirt around it, and then tested its side-to-side lilt. “It’s just not stable.”

Claustrophobia clawed at me—the island had me trapped. I needed skates. Ice. Blurred lines. Hockey.

“I’ve got to go—”

“Why didn’t you come home for the burial?” Dad asked abruptly as he stood. His stare felt like two spotlights. I was the criminal, and dad my interrogator as he loomed over me.

I stumbled back a step, then another. Then I started jogging, running, sprinting toward the apartment.

“Wait, Dyl—” I heard the crunch of Dad’s footsteps behind me at first, and then to my relief, they stopped.

But I kept going.

“Whoa, hey,” Rosie saidas I nearly bumped into her coming out of Alaska Chic’s back entrance. “Whose chasing you?”

I paused to get my bearings. It hadn’t been a far jog from Lily’s house, but my mind had been in a different place the whole time.

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