the book aside and stood. “I need to move. Want to go for a walk?”
There were tears in Nicole’s eyes when she looked up. “I can’t leave now. I’m at a really good place.” She swallowed. “And I want to call Julian. You go. I’ll leave the door open.”
* * *
Layering up with her humiliatingly perfect fisherman’s sweater and a scarf, Charlotte went out the kitchen door. But she didn’t head for the beach. She didn’t want to pass the painful stretch that would make her think of Julian. She didn’t want to think at all .
So she made for the road, where she would be able to walk faster, and headed west, toward town. A minute later, she made a U-turn. Town was safe, and safe was okay. If she wanted distraction, though, risk was better.
She walked at a clip back, past the Lilly mailbox and on, speeding up once her muscles warmed. Nervous energy? Oh yeah. She needed to get it all out—needed to exhaust herself if she hoped to sleep that night. And the fact of “that night” being only the second of her time here?
Leave, a tiny part of her begged. Julian sick, Nicole needy, Charlotte feeling responsibility—this was the kind of tension from which she had always run. She could easily claim a problem that demanded she return to New York or, better yet, to the site of one of her stories. She could be on the first ferry out, whenever that was.
But she kept walking. She couldn’t leave. Totally aside from the fact that Nicole was counting on her, it was a matter of self-respect. And besides, she’d been looking forward to this last summer on Quinnipeague. She did love this place.
Not much to see now, though, she thought with a shiver as she gathered the mess of her hair and tucked it under her scarf. Darkness was dense this far from town. There were no cars here, no streetlights, no welcoming homes, and whatever glow had been cast from Nicole’s house was gone. Trees rose on either side, sharing the narrow land flanking the road with strips of field, and beyond was the rocky shore, lost now in the murk.
But there was hope. As she walked, she saw proof of a moon behind clouds, etching their edges in silver and spraying more to the side. Those silver beams would hit the ocean in pale swaths, though she could only imagine it from here. But she did hear the surf rolling in, breaking on the rocks, rushing out.
When the pavement at the sides of the road grew cracked, she moved to the center. This end had always been neglected, a reminder that Cecily didn’t invite islanders for tea. The fact that no repair work at all had been done said the son was the same.
Turn back, a tiny part of her begged. Nicole was right; they could get plenty on Cecily without coming here. But to see the gardens again, this time with purpose? How to resist?
She passed a string of birches with a ghostly sheen to their bark, but between the sound of the breeze in their leaves and, always, the surf, she was soothed. The gulls were down for the night, hence no screeching there, and if there were sounds of boats rocking at moorings, the harbor was too far away to hear.
There was only the rhythmic slap of her sneakers on the cracked asphalt—and then another tapping. Not a woodpecker, given the hour. Likely a night creature searching for food, more frightened of her than she was of it. There were deer on Quinnipeague. And raccoons. And woodchucks, possums, and moles.
The tapping came in bursts of three and four, with pauses between. At one point she stopped, thinking it might be a crick in her sneakers. When it quickly came again, though, she walked on. The closer she got to the Cole house, the louder it was.
The creaking of bones? Skeletons dancing? That was what island kids said, and back then, she and Nicole believed it, but that didn’t keep them away. Bob and Angie had forbidden their coming here, so it was definitely something to do. Granted, Charlotte was the instigator, but Nicole wouldn’t be left
There were tears in Nicole’s eyes when she looked up. “I can’t leave now. I’m at a really good place.” She swallowed. “And I want to call Julian. You go. I’ll leave the door open.”
* * *
Layering up with her humiliatingly perfect fisherman’s sweater and a scarf, Charlotte went out the kitchen door. But she didn’t head for the beach. She didn’t want to pass the painful stretch that would make her think of Julian. She didn’t want to think at all .
So she made for the road, where she would be able to walk faster, and headed west, toward town. A minute later, she made a U-turn. Town was safe, and safe was okay. If she wanted distraction, though, risk was better.
She walked at a clip back, past the Lilly mailbox and on, speeding up once her muscles warmed. Nervous energy? Oh yeah. She needed to get it all out—needed to exhaust herself if she hoped to sleep that night. And the fact of “that night” being only the second of her time here?
Leave, a tiny part of her begged. Julian sick, Nicole needy, Charlotte feeling responsibility—this was the kind of tension from which she had always run. She could easily claim a problem that demanded she return to New York or, better yet, to the site of one of her stories. She could be on the first ferry out, whenever that was.
But she kept walking. She couldn’t leave. Totally aside from the fact that Nicole was counting on her, it was a matter of self-respect. And besides, she’d been looking forward to this last summer on Quinnipeague. She did love this place.
Not much to see now, though, she thought with a shiver as she gathered the mess of her hair and tucked it under her scarf. Darkness was dense this far from town. There were no cars here, no streetlights, no welcoming homes, and whatever glow had been cast from Nicole’s house was gone. Trees rose on either side, sharing the narrow land flanking the road with strips of field, and beyond was the rocky shore, lost now in the murk.
But there was hope. As she walked, she saw proof of a moon behind clouds, etching their edges in silver and spraying more to the side. Those silver beams would hit the ocean in pale swaths, though she could only imagine it from here. But she did hear the surf rolling in, breaking on the rocks, rushing out.
When the pavement at the sides of the road grew cracked, she moved to the center. This end had always been neglected, a reminder that Cecily didn’t invite islanders for tea. The fact that no repair work at all had been done said the son was the same.
Turn back, a tiny part of her begged. Nicole was right; they could get plenty on Cecily without coming here. But to see the gardens again, this time with purpose? How to resist?
She passed a string of birches with a ghostly sheen to their bark, but between the sound of the breeze in their leaves and, always, the surf, she was soothed. The gulls were down for the night, hence no screeching there, and if there were sounds of boats rocking at moorings, the harbor was too far away to hear.
There was only the rhythmic slap of her sneakers on the cracked asphalt—and then another tapping. Not a woodpecker, given the hour. Likely a night creature searching for food, more frightened of her than she was of it. There were deer on Quinnipeague. And raccoons. And woodchucks, possums, and moles.
The tapping came in bursts of three and four, with pauses between. At one point she stopped, thinking it might be a crick in her sneakers. When it quickly came again, though, she walked on. The closer she got to the Cole house, the louder it was.
The creaking of bones? Skeletons dancing? That was what island kids said, and back then, she and Nicole believed it, but that didn’t keep them away. Bob and Angie had forbidden their coming here, so it was definitely something to do. Granted, Charlotte was the instigator, but Nicole wouldn’t be left
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