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  Which may have ended the rainy afternoon drama, except for a cry and a thud directly behind the women standing at the entrance to the club.

  The cry was from Birdie herself. She had felt Rose’s return from the ladies’ room, felt her standing close behind her, looking over her shoulder at the commotion on the steps.

  The next thing Birdie felt was a shudder, followed by a rush of air. When she turned around, Rose Chopra was falling to the ground, as graceful as a ballerina, her long face pale and her eyes fluttering, until they finally closed completely and she lay still on the floor of the yacht club entryway.

  Chapter 7

  It was a smaller group than usual that gathered at the Endicotts’ home for a Friday night dinner on the deck, and although Nell loved having Friday nights alive with music and laughter and drop-in friends and neighbors, the quieter, close-knit group seemed to suit the mood of the day.

  Birdie stood at the kitchen island unwrapping several loaves of pane casareccia, still warm from Harry Garozzo’s deli oven. “Harry said it’s ‘crusty on the outside, spongy within,’ in a way that seemed important to him. So please tell him you enjoyed it.”

  “That sounds like a fine description of the old baker himself,” Nell said, inhaling the comforting fragrance of freshly baked bread. “The food of life. A good thing for tonight. I thought for a moment today we were going to lose one.”

  “Whose life, exactly?” Birdie asked. “Spencer’s or Rose’s?”

  Nell nodded with a slight smile. But the earlier commotion at the club hadn’t been taken lightly. It had left them all slightly unnerved.

  She and Birdie had made sure Rose was safely in her apartment, then asked Izzy to run up from the shop and check on her before coming to dinner that night.

  Izzy had found Rose sitting cross-legged on the floor with a piece of sandpaper in her hand, examining a section of pine floor that had been damaged when the pipe was repaired. Soft Indian flute music was playing in the background. To Izzy, Rose looked more like a yogi than a plumber.

  Rose barely turned around when Izzy walked in, but she said that she was fine. And then she went back to sanding, moving the paper slowly back and forth, as if the rhythm itself was soothing to her.

  “So how is she?” Cass asked. “Rose, I mean.” She smeared a cracker with spicy fig jam and took a bite.

  “She seemed fine,” Izzy said. “She was embarrassed, but she said she faints easily. My roommate in law school had the same reflex. Things like trauma or sudden pain or seeing blood can trigger a sudden lowering in blood pressure. Law school exams used to trigger it in my friend Jenny.”

  “We had a hard time convincing the manager that it wasn’t the food,” Nell said. “Liz was beside herself, but Rose was adamant that she was fine. And the mayor was fine when she walked away, too. Spencer Paxton seemed to be the only one left with scars. Ben said he may have a black eye tomorrow.”

  “Our delicate mayor, punching him out like that? I wish I had been there,” Cass said.

  “I know, right?” Izzy said. “She’s such a lady and always perfect. Sometimes I want to muss up her hair. But you can’t help but like her.”

  “Ben was helpful calming things down,” Birdie said. “Do you suppose Spencer invited him to lunch to be a bodyguard?”

  “I don’t think Spencer had the slightest idea he was going to be attacked by the mayor,” Nell said, and set out a stack of napkins.

  Just then Ben walked through the deck doors, wearing a heavy sailing sweatshirt and smelling of mesquite. Sam and Danny followed a few steps behind, empty beer bottles in hand and deep into debating the merits of some football coach.

  Ben walked over to the sink and began washing his hands. “If you think I’m a match for Beatrice Scaglia, Birdie, you missed some of the action. That woman has a crazy uppercut. Spence invited Robbie McGlucken to join us, too. Maybe that was supposed to be his role. If so, he failed. Paxton was completely taken off guard. Not to mention the fact that he thought he and the mayor were friends. He donated to that city arts fund she started, they’ve dined together. He’s been hanging around city hall for weeks, learning things, making friends, and the mayor was one of them.”

  “I’ve seen them together at a few events,” Birdie said. “Beatrice seemed to be enjoying introducing Spence to people in the know. Her behavior today was definitely odd.”

  “I wasn’t sure why Spencer invited me to lunch today,” Ben said, “but I think it’s what you described, Birdie. Goodwill. Learning more about how the town is run. Making connections. Who knows, maybe he was impressed by these silvery strands that keep appearing on my head.”

  Nell smiled and touched a finger to his temple. “I know I’m impressed.”

  “I certainly hope so.” Ben chuckled. “Apparently I was on Spence’s list of people to connect with. Not a bad thing—I got an amazing bowl of the club’s clam chowder out of it.”

  “It sounds reasonable. And not at all what we thought when rumors of his company developing big box stores in our sweet little town began circulating,” Birdie said.

  “Exactly,” Ben agreed. “His interests seem less about his development company and more about civic involvement. That’s why he came back to live here. He thinks he has a lot to offer Sea Harbor and that the town would benefit from his ideas and his leadership. Since he grew up here, he sees it as giving back.”

  “He wants to be a leader?” Cass asked. “That’s weird.”

  “Maybe not. He sees himself that way. He actually had some good ideas for social programs, said he’d been successful other places. He asked if I’d use my connections to help him with his efforts. He isn’t a shrinking violet, that’s for sure. In fact, at times, he was a little . . .”

  Ben took the martini Sam handed him. “I don’t know, too much, maybe? The line between being egoistic and being self-assured can be thin. But he speaks a good line. He left the waitress a wad of bills. The ideal citizen.”

  But the sound of Ben’s last words was tinged with something Ben wasn’t very good at—sarcasm.

  “He sounds calculating,” Cass said. “I had an accountant like that, though I guess accountants have to be calculating.”

  Ben laughed. “Calculating. Maybe. But hey, if he means what he says, does what he intends, who cares if he’s puffed up a bit.”

  Nell opened the refrigerator and removed a tray of scallops, setting it on the counter. “So why was Robbie McGlucken there?” There was something incongruous about the image of Robbie McGlucken in his leather jacket, dining with the young, well-dressed businessman and her Ben.

  “Spence hired him to help with some Internet things. Spence is a Luddite in that department, he says. Robbie was fine, he even cleaned up a bit for lunch. Seemed engaged. Took some notes on his iPad. And he devoured three bowls of clam chowder.”

  “He was with Spence at the Gull the other night, too,” Sam said. He stood next to Izzy, his strong fingers rubbing her neck and filled them in on their beers at the Artist’s Palate.

  “Hey, you two,” Cass said. “No PDAs for old marrieds.”

  Sam grinned at Cass and reached over, kneading her shoulder, too. “Robbie and Spence get along great. Robbie even told a joke or two. Sort of. Something I don’t think he does much. Gus says his son mostly communicates with computers.”

  “Dear Robbie,” Birdie said, shaking her small head in that way she did when regretting someone’s hard life or misfortune. “Good for him.”

  “I agree,” Cass said. “Robbie needs focus. I used to babysit him. The only things he was interested in back then were Dungeons and Dragons and arm wrestling.”

  “You arm wrestled with Robbie McGlucken?” Danny asked his wife in mock surprise.

  Cass took a drink of Danny’s beer and wrinkled her nose at her husband, her dark eyes on him. “Not now, you goof. Not with all those tattoos on his arm.”

  Danny stepped close and made a show of straightening his glasses, lifting a brow—a small smile teasing his
wife.

  But Cass silenced him immediately with one wicked look. Danny would be sleeping on the couch if he dared reveal that his wife had several secret tattoos of her own.

  “My mother was a friend of Robbie’s mom,” Danny said, suspecting it would be wise to change the subject. “After she died, Mom used to look out for Gus’s kids. She thought the older one was a saint, the way she cared for Robbie. Mom always kept cookies in the back of the store for them.”

  Birdie smiled. “That is a very Harriet Brandley thing to do.”

  “Speaking of cookies,” Ben said, picking up the platter of scallops. “It’s time to eat. Grab your fleeces, a martini, a blanket if need be, and join me at the fire pit. Rain is gone and I need fresh air.”

  The group rallied, loading trays with mint-roasted vegetables and a spicy slaw salad and parading to the deck.

  Cass plugged her phone into the Bose speaker, and soon the deck was humming with the soul-stirring voice of Aretha Franklin. The old maple tree, growing right through the deck, was still wound with hundreds of tiny white lights from Danny and Cass’s wedding a year before. Tonight they cast a warm glow across the relaxing friends.

  In minutes, plates were filled and bodies were settled comfortably on the plush cushions of the deck chairs and lounges around the fire pit, warmed by the dancing flames that cut right through the evening chill.

  Without more talk of Spencer Paxton or angry mayors, the small group settled in for an early evening and easy talk of simpler things.

  “The fiber show is the talk of the art colony, Jane Brewster tells me,” Birdie said. “And Bree McIntosh is leading the charge. A lovely young woman.”

  “Not to mention that she does things with yarn that no sheep could have dreamed up. I love that woman.” Izzy took a bite of a sweet scallop.

  Nell settled back in a chair. She felt present and not present, listening and watching as the evening played out in front of her—Bree McIntosh and her husband were absent players on a stage. She liked Bree and had spotted her talent early on. It was curious that Spencer Paxton and Bree seemed almost as separate as their different surnames, barely mentioned in the same breath. Some marriages, she supposed, thrived on that kind of separateness. But the thought left her wondering, and whether it was because of the ire that Spencer Paxton had elicited in their town’s mayor that day—or the fact that she liked Bree McIntosh—she couldn’t be sure.

  She set her plate on the wide stone ledge of the fire pit, then settled back again, her head resting against the back of the Adirondack chair, her eyelids heavy. She hadn’t realized how tense the episode at the club had made her until her body slowly began to relax. Friends and a fire—the perfect combo. She stayed put in her chair, letting others pass around seconds and refill wine and water glasses, their voices soft and comforting around her.

  As the fire and the music filled the chilly night air, Nell closed her eyes and played with the many strands of conversations, trying to knit them together in some meaningful way. There were no Friday night bombshells, no emergency phone calls or sirens in the night or knocking at the door—all things that had sometimes happened at the comfortable home on Sandswept Lane.

  But even a second glass of wine couldn’t completely erase the niggling feeling inside her. A tiff at the yacht club couldn’t be contributing to it. Nor a young stranger settling in above Izzy’s shop.

  All should be well . . .

  * * *

  “Nell. Nell—” Ben leaned over her, one hand resting on each arm of her chair. He leaned low, his voice so close she could feel his breath before she saw his smile.

  She tugged her eyes open and looked up. She was wrapped snugly in a blanket, the fire pit now an ant hill of glowing embers.

  “You fell asleep,” he said. “I think it was the Super Bowl argument that had Cass, Danny, and Sam in a tither. Izzy and Birdie showed their distaste by going inside to watch Casablanca. Cass and Danny finally took Birdie home.”

  “The dishes?”

  “Done. Everyone is gone. So come inside, m’love. It’s time for bed.”

  Ben helped her up and took her in his arms, holding her close for a minute.

  Nell stayed still, breathing in the comforting smell of him—the clean soapy smell of his aftershave, mixed with the scent of fall and burning embers and fallen leaves. Ben. Her rock.

  And then they headed up the back stairs, turning out the lights as they climbed. Soon they were settled beneath the thick down comforter, the windows opened a crack. Ben turned out the lights and reached over, pulling her close, filling her with gentle desire. Not crazy and wild like in their college days, but deep and satisfying and loving—and warming her to the very marrow of her bones.

  A short while later Ben’s breathing slowed and his body loosened, one arm still looped across Nell’s chest.

  She lay still, their bodies pressed together as she watched him sink into sleep. Finally she unwound herself and lay, hips touching, and closed her eyes.

  But sleep escaped her and she thought back to the moments on the deck earlier, the quiet evening, the easy talk. And her mind going fuzzy as she drifted off to some other place.

  She tried to remember what she was thinking about as dessert plates were being collected and Ben was pouring coffee.

  The sound of Aretha Franklin’s powerful voice came back to her. And with it the emotion that had floated up as she tried to make sense out of her week.

  Nothing truly bad had happened, nothing to keep her awake. But when her eyes finally closed again, she began to sort through what it was that was bothering her. What had floated around the evening’s talk, the togetherness.

  A quiet Friday night, with the warmth of friends and the fire dispelling the chilly air. But there was something else, perhaps something brought about by the change of seasons. The air had been laced with something tonight, a feeling that filled her with an odd unease. An unnerving feeling about the weekend. A feeling that, just like the weather, what comes in like a lamb . . . may go out like a lion.

  A fragile peace, she thought as her lids finally closed and she drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 8

  Rose was right on time to meet Stella at Coffee’s, the crowded coffee bistro in the middle of the Harbor Road shops.

  The weather was sunny but with a brisk wind, leaving the patio nearly empty of people and full of leaves from the maples lining the back alley. Rose walked through them, feeling the crunch beneath her boots and inhaling the pleasing smell of fall.

  She spotted Stella in the back of the coffee shop, sitting in a booth and talking to a tall man. As she walked closer, she realized that she knew the man. No, she didn’t know him, but she’d seen him before. The man who was leaning against a fence near Izzy’s shop that day. He had seemed out of place, that’s why she remembered him.

  Today he was leaning, too, his hands shoved in his pockets and his angular form bent to talk over the noise of the espresso machine and chatter of the crowd. He reminded her of a gentle giraffe. With a ponytail. Less off-putting as he had been when she’d seen him before.

  Stella spotted her then, and waved wildly in the air. Rose hurried over.

  “Rosie, meet my buddy Josh,” Stella said. “Josh is an incredible artist. A great painter.”

  Josh straightened up and turned toward her, and she saw what she hadn’t seen before—hooded and searching eyes—the color of the sea before a storm.

  She blushed slightly, wondering how readable her thoughts were. “Hi,” she said, sliding into the booth across from Stella. She looked up at the man. “I’m Rose. I think I saw you down the street the other day. Near the yarn shop?”

  “Could be,” he said. He nodded.

  “An orange bike?”

  “Musta been me.”

  “I was hypnotized by the shop’s window display so could have gotten my colors mixed up.” She laughed.

  “That fiber art display,” he said, nodding. “Great window display, I agree.”

&nb
sp; A small, smiling woman walked up behind Josh. “Hi, again,” she said, looking at Rose.

  Rose grinned. It was like seeing an old friend. “We’re talking about your window art in the yarn shop.”

  Bree smiled, flattered, then greeted Josh, and looked at Stella. “I’m not sure we’ve met.”

  Rose felt a surprising pleasure that she knew someone whom Stella didn’t. As if she belonged, in some odd way.

  Josh shook his head. “Hey, sorry. I thought Stell knew everyone in town. Stell, meet Bree McIntosh. She hangs out around Canary Cove. An art groupie,” he joked.

  Bree laughed and poked him in the side.

  Josh ignored the jab and said to Stella, “Actually, she’s an artist. A talented one. You should get one of her paintings or hangings before everyone realizes it.”

  “He means they’re cheap,” Bree said.

  Stella laughed.

  Bree glanced down at the photos littering the table. “What do you do, Stella?”

  “Real estate,” Stella said. “My uncle Mario is officially the owner, but I figure if I don’t remind him, he’ll forget.” She rummaged around for a business card.

  Josh groaned.

  “Josh groans, but that’s what we Realtors do—we push ourselves on people. So if you’re in the market for a house . . .” Stella lifted her brows, handing a glossy card to Bree.

  Bree looked at the card, her face blank. Then, with a slight slap, she set the card back on the booth top. “No,” she said, “I’m definitely not in the market for a house.”

  She turned toward Josh, murmuring that Izzy needed him to move some displays over at the yarn shop. And the staff over there needed coffee, too. Now.

  Rose watched them walk quickly away, Josh’s head high above the crowd, and Bree’s disappearing in the swarm of bodies.

  Stella looked at Rose, slightly embarrassed at the quick departure. “I get that. Not everyone wants to buy a house. I was probably a tad too pushy. Now where were we? Is our coffee cold?” She slid one mug across the table to Rose. “It’s crazy in here. Way too noisy. But I thought it’d be better to meet here first. If this isn’t a gig you want to get yourself into, it’d be easier to walk out on me in a coffee shop than in my office.”