Chapter Two
Running was almost a religion to her. Five miles.
More on the weekends. Phil used to urge her to skip it once in a while and spend a lazy Sunday morning with coffee and bagels.
Looking back, maybe she should have. Staying in shape was part of it.
No question. But more than that, all the research showed a connection between exercise and cognitive function.
They didn’t know exactly why, only that people who moved had sharper brains.
Less likely to get dementia. So she ran like her life depended on it.
There weren’t many cars out early on a Saturday, especially on the back roads of Laurelton.
It felt like country up here, with the narrow winding roads and old stone walls.
The trees hadn’t leafed out yet, about a week later than in the city.
Everything was slower up here—neighbors even said hello, which would never happen in New York.
She crossed the road and jogged up the hill onto the undeveloped land next to her father’s property, coming upon a grassy area where, surprisingly, someone had installed dozens of bee hives. She kept well away, imagining how many insects must be churning inside.
She paused at a speckled boulder. That might be the spot, but maybe not.
Who could remember after all these years?
She’d bet even Shelly, who had a faultless memory, couldn’t find it.
But the doubt persisted as she ran on. Her mind, which had always been her biggest asset, played games with her, taunting her with what she thought she knew or should have known or might have forgotten.
Should she have remembered the rock? Would Shelly have remembered, would anyone?
She had no way of knowing. All she had was the dread that paced her, no matter how hard she tried to outdistance it.
She almost missed the sign. Luxury homes by Weber Properties. The rendering showed a high-end gated community. Pretentious construction. No charm, just big and new. The acreage next to her dad’s house apparently was going to be developed.
For a moment, she felt a piercing sense of loss.
Her parents had always loved that their land backed up to all this open space, that they couldn’t see another house from where they sat.
She had nothing against change. In fact, economic development for the city of New York was what she did for a living, crafting the legal framework for historic preservation and affordable housing projects.
The city was a living, breathing entity, always evolving.
Even here in Connecticut, life moved on.
But her dad would be upset the property was being developed.
She wondered if he knew, or if he’d known and forgotten.
She was still stewing about the development when she reached town with its tidy shopping district, the library on one corner and police station on the other.
Laurelton had a studied quaintness, the kind of place that had managed to avoid chain stores, where kids could walk to town for ice cream without anyone worrying.
If only Andrew were younger and she could tuck him away in a place like this.
She’d hoped growing up in New York would immunize him from the allure of New Orleans.
He was already a city kid, had been to museums, knew how to navigate the subways.
But apparently the mind-bending freedom of college had seduced him.
The coffee shop was packed. The woman in line ahead of Cassie, who had hold of a toddler, groaned in exasperation.
“I don’t know why they can’t get more help on the weekends.
It’s always busy. You’d think someone would figure that out.
” The little boy wriggled free, making for the granola bars and bags of veggie chips that were supposed to be better for you than regular chips but really weren’t.
The mother dashed after him, thanking Cassie for saving her place in line.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cassie said when the woman returned but missed what else she was saying because she’d caught a glimpse of the newspaper rack.
“Oh God, that nightmare,” the woman said when Cassie ducked back in line with The Laurelton Tribune. “I’m in real estate so I’m all for building, but that guy Weber wants to put up a bunch of McMansions. It’ll ruin the town’s character.”
“Who’s this Weber Properties?” Cassie said. “Have they done anything else around here?”
Until now, Laurelton had escaped the frenetic development of Stamford a few miles away, probably because it was too far from the train.
Laurelton had stayed small with strict zoning.
Half acre lots in town, at least two acres farther out.
Her parents had one of the few five-acre parcels.
But now it appeared the zoning laws had been relaxed because Weber Properties was poised to build forty homes on that twenty acres.
“Some outfit from New Haven. They’ve done a couple of other projects around here.” She gave Cassie a curious look. “You haven’t heard about this? It’s all anyone’s talking about.”
“I live in the city. I’m just here visiting my dad.”
The woman set down the toddler, who’d begun to twist. “Beth Tartullo.” She extended a hand.
“I’m with Keller Williams here in town. I’d give you a card, but I know for a fact all I have are graham crackers.
” She let go an easy laugh. She looked like any suburban mom in leggings and a sweatshirt, her hair swept into a slightly disheveled ponytail.
“Who’s your dad? Would I know the name?”
She was perfectly pleasant, but the question caught Cassie off guard.
Even with her worry over Andrew, she’d been energized by her run, reluctantly charmed by the town’s tasteful storefronts and pristine sidewalks.
Appealing in a quiet way. Despite her love of New York, some days it was a battle just to walk out the door.
New York was not easy. You had to fight for your scrap of sidewalk, shoulder your way onto the subway with eight million other people, and hope the train wasn’t delayed.
And horrifyingly, the rats were making a comeback.
You saw them even during the day, darting behind piles of garbage or scurrying under parked cars.
At times, especially lately, it all felt exhausting.
But no one asked if they knew your father in New York. She considered ignoring the question, but Beth was smiling expectantly and Cassie couldn’t bring herself to be rude.
“Sorry, I’m Cassie Linden. My father is Stuart Linden.”
“You’re the Linden property?” Beth’s eyes opened up. “That’s right next door.”
“Yes, I know.”
“What’s your dad going to do?”
“About what?”
“Rumor has it Weber is after his property too. They want to build another ten homes.”
Her father had said nothing. Did he even remember?
In his day, her dad had been one of the sharpest attorneys around.
A partner in Linden, Soule and Harrison, one of Fairfield County’s most well-connected firms. Her dad had always known who was buying and selling.
Who had a deal in the works. “I ah…just got here,” Cassie said, slightly embarrassed. “He hasn’t mentioned it.”
Beth swung the little boy to her other hip.
“Don’t let him sell to Weber. If he’s looking to sell, have him give me a call.
” She lowered her voice, which carried even in the crowded coffee shop.
“Seriously. Forty houses is bad, but fifty would be a disaster. I’m sure your dad knows what’s going on. You ask him.”
“I will,” Cassie assured her, although she had no faith she would get any kind of answer.
. . .
Her father was out in the field tinkering with his hives when she got home.
They used to be sky blue but had bleached out over the years and were now the milky hue of a cloudy day.
Two of them, three boxes each, one stacked on top of the other.
Cassie wandered out to join him, keeping a wary eye on a couple of stray bees.
Her parents’ field was an untamed thing—it started out as lawn near the house but soon abandoned any pretense of cultivation.
Her dad had the field mowed spring and fall so it wouldn’t revert to woods.
And now, after a long winter, the grass was just starting to grow.
“Do you know about this?” She handed him the Tribune.
“They want to build forty houses on the Kingsley property.” They’d always called it the Kingsley property because it had originally belonged to a family named Kingsley.
No one knew anything about them, except they were from England.
They’d never seen any Kingsleys, and the property had been wild for so long, they’d assumed the family had gone back where they came from and forgotten all about it.
Until now.
Her father squinted at the newspaper. “I might’ve heard something.”
“Didn’t you see the sign?”
“What sign?”
“On the way to town. A woman at the coffee shop told me the developer is interested in this property too. Has anyone called or sent a letter?”
“This property? Why would I want to sell the house?”
“I’m not saying you do. I’m just asking.
” It struck her how easily someone could take advantage of him.
The elderly mother of a colleague had nearly lost her life savings when a scammer got her on the phone and convinced her to hand over her bank password.
Only by chance the woman’s son happened to drop by and made her hang up.
But they had to close all her accounts, and her mother wasn’t permitted to go online after that.
The colleague, one of Cassie’s friends, was heartbroken at how quickly her mother had lost all sense.
Before any of them realized what was happening.
“I’m not interested,” he said. But underneath his dismissal, there was the slightest hesitation that he might have missed something. He handed back the paper. “Here, why don’t you give me a hand?”
“Me?”
“There’s no one else around.”