The Tail of Emily Windsnap by Liz Kessler Page A

started walking back so quickly I could hardly keep up.

    We ate our sandwiches on that green bench on the headland, after all. A bus went whizzing past just as we were approaching the road, so there was nothing to do but wait for the next one. We ate in silence: me not knowing what to say, Mom gazing into space.
    I kept wanting to ask her things, or tell her things, but where could I start?
    Eventually another bus came, and we rode home in silence as well. By the time we got back to Brightport Pier, it was nearly four o’clock.
    “Are you angry with me?” I asked as we let ourselves into the boat.
    “Angry? Why? You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?” Mom searched my face.
    “I wanted to have a nice day out and now you’ve gotten all sad.”
    Mom shook her head. “Just thoughtful, sweetheart. There was something about that place. . . .” Her voice trailed off.
    “What? What was it?”
    “It was such a strong memory, but I don’t even know what it was.” She shook her head again and took her coat off. “Listen to me, talking drivel as usual.”
    “You’re not talking drivel at all,” I said urgently. “What was the memory?”
    Mom hugged her coat. “Do you know, it wasn’t a memory of a thing. More a feeling of something. I felt an overwhelming feeling of . . . love.”
    “Love?”
    “And then something else. Sadness. Enormous sadness.” Mom took her coat down to the engine room to hang it up. “I told you I was talking nonsense, didn’t I?” she called. “Now get that teakettle on, and I’ll go and give Mr. Beeston a shout. I’ll bet he’s wondering where we’ve been.”
    I glanced out of the window as I filled the kettle. Mr. Beeston was on his way up the pier! My whole body shivered. He was striding fast and didn’t look happy.
    POUND! POUND! POUND! He banged on the roof as Mom came back in the kitchen.
    “Oh, good. He’s here.” Mom went to let him in. “Hello.” She smiled. “I was just coming to —”
    “Where have you been?” he demanded.
    “We’ve been out for a little adventure, haven’t we Emily? Just up along the —”
    “I was here at three o’clock,” he snapped, stabbing a finger at his watch. “I waited a whole hour. What’s the meaning of this?” His head snapped across to face me. I swallowed hard.
    Mom frowned at us both. “Come on, there’s no need to get upset,” she said. “Let’s have some coffee.” She went to get the cups and saucers. “What have you got for us today, Mr. B.? Some lovely cinnamon buns? With vanilla glaze?”
    “Doughnuts,” Mr. Beeston said without taking his eyes off me.
    “I haven’t done anything,” I said.
    “Of course you haven’t, Emily. Who said you did? Now, won’t you please join us?” Mom held a cup out to Mr. Beeston as he finally turned away. He took his jacket off and folded it over the back of a chair.
    “No, thanks.” I lay on the sofa and eavesdropped, waiting for Mr. Beeston to try to inject her with the memory drug. I had to catch him in the act, to prove to Mom that he wasn’t really her friend. But what if he got to me first? What if he injected me with the memory drug, too?
    But he didn’t do anything. As soon as he sat down with Mom, he acted as though nothing had happened. They just drank their coffee and munched doughnuts and chatted about condo owners and the price of mini golf.
    They’d barely finished eating when Mr. Beeston glanced at his watch. “Well, I’ve got to move along,” he said.
    “You’re going?” But he hadn’t drugged her yet! Maybe he didn’t do it every week. Well, I’d be waiting for him as soon as he tried!
    “I have a four-forty-five appointment,” he growled, the left side of his mouth twitching as he spoke. “And I don’t like to keep people waiting.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    “Goodbye, Mary P.” He let himself out.
    Mom started clearing the cups away, and I grabbed a hand towel.
    “So you were saying earlier,” I began as Mom handed me a