Page 12 of Light of Day
That seemed like an odd question. “I’ve crossed paths him with here and there.”
“I might have better luck talking to him.” When he glanced her way in surprise, she gave him a wry smile. “Benefit of being a west-ender. My father was one of the few deckhands Denton never fired.”
She had a point, he thought ruefully. No matter how long he’d lived on the west end of the island, even after marrying a local, even after getting banished from the Lightkeeper grounds, some folks would never see him as one of them.
If there was one thing islanders knew how to do, it was close ranks and keep a secret.
6
The contrastbetween her mother’s house and the place where Luke had grown up couldn’t have been more dramatic. Heather’s childhood home would have fit ten times over into the foyer of the hotel. Size wasn’t everything, of course. There was also the field of dandelions that called itself a lawn, and the rusted propane tanks propped against the house, and the pile of ancient lobster traps buried in weeds.
Shame doesn’t serve you, she told herself, repeating the concept she’d learned in therapy. So what if she’d grown up in an atmosphere drenched in unpredictable alcoholism? She didn’t drink. She’d never allowed one drop of alcohol to pass her lips and she never would. Heather McPhee was a college graduate who lived in the city, not the skinned-knee tomboy who’d run wild through the woods and beaches and coves of Sea Smoke Island.
“Thank you kindly for the ride.” She made it sound as gracious as possible as she accepted her bike from Luke. Although tempted to throw in a curtsy, similar to his sweeping bow outside the constable’s office, she refrained.
“Talk to you soon.”
They’d already exchanged numbers, and she knew she’d be anxiously waiting for his text.Because of Gabby, of course.Not at all because Luke Carmichael was much more endearing than she’d realized.
She found Sally on the back porch, her feet propped on the railing, dragging deeply from a cigarette, gazing at the sycamore tree behind the house. The wind rustled its leaves in what Heather thought of as the island’s summer voice, enticing and, somehow, green.
Her mother wore white flop-flops and a bright pink zippered hoodie that somehow she could pull off despite being in her fifties. Heather suppressed the impulse to call her out on the smoking, because cigarettes were one of her mother’s sobriety crutches. Ice cream was another; she kicked herself for not picking up a carton of Breyer’s Chocolate Chip, her mother’s favorite.
After dropping a kiss on her mother’s cheek, Heather pulled up a lawn chair —one of two without broken webbing—and sat next to her.
“Back so soon.” Sally blew out a cloud of smoke. “What, ya get fired?”
Ouch. But she knew her mom didn’t mean anything by it. She had a caustic sense of humor, that was all. “The show got canceled, actually.”
“Shit.” Sally tossed her cigarette into the clam shell serving as an ashtray. “Sorry, baby-girl. I didn’t know.”
Heather heaved out a sigh. “It’s okay. That’s showbiz for you.”
“I thought it was the news.”
“Now that I’m no longer employed there, I can safely reveal that it has not ever been ‘the news.’” She used air quotes to emphasize her point. “But that’s not actually why I’m back. Have you seen Gabby any time over the last few days?”
Even though Gabby had been staying at the Lightkeeper, she might have wandered down to the west side. She and Sally had hit it off during that brief visit in March.
“Sure, she’s been all over the island. Amy Lou said she even showed up at a meeting of the historical society.”
“Really?” That struck Heather as rather random and unexpected. “Did she say why?”
“Because of history?” Sally pulled out a new cigarette and lit it. “That’s my wild guess.”
“Okay, but what history? What does that even mean?”
“You think I’m interested in that stuff? My grandpa used to tell me stories until I crammed my fingers in my ears.” She gestured at the far corner of the porch. “Those boards are rotted, so don’t go that way.”
“Grandpa Hector?” Heather had a vague memory of a very old man with hands so gnarled they scared her. He used to look at her as if he was seeing something or someone else. She even remembered being a little relieved when her great-grandfather had died.
“You remember him? You were so young when he died. Funny thing was, he was the strong and silent type until he got Alzheimer’s. Then he just started talking and talking. I used to catch him telling you stories and I’d have to snatch you away. I don’t know what kind of shit he was talking about, but he made you cry sometimes.”
“Hm.” Something tugged at Heather’s memory, but it was so vague that it didn’t take shape. “What sort of stories?”
“Did you miss the part where I crammed my fingers in my ears? I don’t know, mostly about the good old days. Harvesting ice from the pond for their ice boxes, old ways of making lobster pots, that sort of thing.”
“I wonder if he ever did an interview with Amy Lou?”
