Page 76 of Tourist Season
Tears streak down my face. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over the guilt of being the one who lived, or the woman who walked away. Or the grief of everything I lost. Or even my fear of waking alone in the dark.
But I can do something now.
I stumble to the shelves, grab the bag, and run, nearly toppling Arthur over when I bolt through the door and into the kitchen.
“Harper,” he breathes, catching my arms. I’m gasping for air, as though I’ve run a marathon. The stern stare that’s always etched into his skin from a lifetime of frowning softens when he takes in the state of me. “What are you doing? You were in the cellar …?” I nod. “Why …?”
“I had Lukas put something down there for safekeeping,” I say between ragged inhalations. “It belongs to Nolan. The guy at the theater …?” He looks at me blankly, and I can tell he’s unable to recall the specifics. “It doesn’t matter. I just had to give it back.”
“So you went downstairs …?” I nod, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. He knows I can hardly even look at the door. There are too many horrifying memories that lie in wait behind it. “My dear Harper,” Arthur says, folding me into an embrace. “You could have asked. I would have come. You don’t need to brave those demons alone.”
I weep, for the first time in a long, long time. And as the weight of the backpack and the secrets it carries shift over my spine, I think maybe he’s right.
Maybe I don’t have to brave them alone anymore.
FOUL GROUNDNolan
IT’S EARLY EVENING, THE SUNstill hidden behind a thick gray veil when I walk to Harper’s cottage. I hear the electric hedge trimmer in the distance as I head up the flagstone walk and take the path that hugs the cottage and leads to the back garden. The sound grows louder as I cross the patio.Christ, I hope she’s not slicing up another tourist to put through her woodchipper—though something about that idea fills me with unexpected excitement. I’m sure she’d have a good reason and a delightfully unhinged plan. I think.
I’m just about to pass through the garden gate when Arthur appears before me, a startling specter in his three-piece suit and polished shoes with a bespoke cane. His shock of white hair is perfectly coiffed, his bushy brows lowered as he regards me.
“Hello, Mr. Lancaster. You startled me,” I say, opening the gate for him as he’s clearly determined to pass through it.
“You’re the man from the theater,” Arthur says, his sharp eyes slicing across my face.
“That’s right. Nolan Rhodes, sir.” I extend a hand and hisexpression softens. He gives me a slight nod and leans his weight on his cane as he accepts the handshake. “Is Harper around?”
“Yes. She’s working on the topiaries.”
“How’s that going?”
“Horribly. The moose is an atrocity.”
“I expected as much.”
Arthur gives me a grunt and I tip my head to him, starting to walk in the direction of the sound. His sudden grip on my wrist stops me. “Before you move along, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind doing me a favor?” he asks.
“Certainly. What do you need?”
Arthur doesn’t let go of my arm, instead using it to prompt me back in the direction of Harper’s house. “I’m looking for my bag that Harper was keeping for me. She said I could retrieve it from the cottage, but it might be upstairs and I have difficulty with the staircase. I’m old, you see.”
I chuckle at his dry wit. “No problem,” I say as we make our way toward the cottage with more vigor than I expected from my elderly companion. “What does it look like?”
“Black leather. Looks somewhat like an old doctor’s bag. It has two robins embossed on the side, between the handles.”
“Do you remember where it is, exactly?”
“I … I don’t recall. The guest room, possibly.”
“Okay. I’ll have a look.” I help him lower to a seat at the patio table, then I head into the unlocked back door of the cottage. The scent of palo santo lingers in the air. The interior is clean and unfussy, just like it always is. As I’m heading toward the staircase, I notice one of the white pawns has been moved on the chessboard. It’s jumped ahead two spaces, waiting for an unseen opponent to play.
I take the stairs by twos, reluctant to leave Arthur waiting in the cooling air and growing fog. I’ve seen the guest room before, but this is the first time I’ve been inside. It’s a simple layout, just a bed and a small dresser, a worn desk with some sewing supplies and papers resting beneath a window. I check the closet first, and I find the bag almost immediately beneath the folded blankets and winter clothes, taking it downstairs and out the back to where Arthur waits at the table, fidgeting with his crooked fingers. As soon as he sees it in my hands, his expression brightens, and he rises to his feet.
“Good lad,” he says, nearly yanking the bag out of my hand when I offer it. “Thank you. You saved my poor knees. I’m old, you see.”
“Yes, I think you might have mentioned that.”
“Your short-term memory is the pits when you’re so old your bones are crumbling to dust.” He waves me off as I offer an arm with a chuckle. I’d assumed he wanted to go back to the house, but instead he heads toward the path that leads to the front of the cottage.
