Chapter Twelve
I change out of the smoky running gear I’ve been wearing all day and check my phone.
The unsent text to Julian about scrapping the podcast waits for me on the screen.
I delete it for now, then wash my face, scrubbing at the last remnants of ash and blood.
The wound on my forehead is tender and swollen, with a welt forming around the stitches that will probably take days to heal.
I sweep dark hair from my forehead and sneer into the mirror, my blue eyes—my father’s blue eyes—staring back at me.
Maybe the doctor’s right and the scar will add character.
And maybe Seton and I can talk tomorrow and leave what happened today behind us.
Outside, chilly air and thick clouds have rolled in with the promise of rain.
The dock is empty, while out in the lake, Reid cuts a line through the water as he swims across the cove, breathing rhythmically to the left and then to the right.
I perch on one of the Adirondack chairs as he reaches the opposite shore and begins the return.
My brother has another life away from Idlewood, one he doesn’t share much with the rest of us.
He keeps an apartment in Boston’s South End, the penthouse in a building he developed.
It’s only a few miles from my place in Somerville, though we rarely see each other.
I’ve found photos of him on social media with groups of handsome men on beaches or yachts in far-flung locales.
Once in a while, he’ll bring one of those men to Idlewood for the weekend, though they rarely make a return appearance.
He swims up to the dock, touching in with a flourish and shoving away. When he sees me, he says, “No permanent damage?”
“Maybe a scar,” I say.
“You had us worried there.”
He hauls himself out of the water, his body long and well muscled. He pulls the swim cap from his blond hair, tucks his goggles into the side of his red briefs, and lies on the dock to stretch.
“The water must be freezing,” I say.
“I’m used to it,” Reid says. “Was that Seton I saw out in the parking area? Watch what you say to her. She’s a cop, and she has a personal interest in what her mother did. Don’t be too trusting.”
I won’t mention our argument over money.
Reid slides his left leg under his right and leans across the dock. “Gilcrest had plenty of questions for me,” he says. “Now I need to get the insurance company to sign off on the damages from the fire. Not the easiest thing with arson.”
“Do they know it’s arson?” I ask.
“They will soon enough,” Reid says, turning onto his stomach and lifting his chest forward. “The state fire marshal’s here. Let’s hope he gets what he needs before the rain starts.”
“When you talked to Gilcrest, did he mention Dad?” I ask.
Reid finishes the stretch, stands, and slides his feet into a pair of flip-flops. “Not once,” he says. “And right now, Mom and I have enough to deal with without you opening up old wounds. Let this podcast thing go. And stop asking questions.”
He leaves me on the dock and heads up the path toward the cabin.
Now I’ve managed to piss off Seton and Reid. I sit by the water until the first of the rain begins to fall, forming concentric circles as it patters onto the lake. I snap a selfie of the welt on my forehead and text it to Julian.
The phone rings thirty seconds after I hit send.
“Charlie,” Julian says. In the background, a dog barks and a baby screams. “Nice setting in that photo. Where the hell are you?”
“On our dock,” I say.
“On our dock. What I’d give to say that one of these days. What happened to you, dude? You look wrecked.”
I hit the highlights of the day.
“Andrea Haviland, your mother, Paul Burke, the cop,” Julian says. “The same players as the first case.”
“Except for the dead ones,” I say.
Julian whispers something. “Sorry,” he says. “Dinner at the Allende household is chaos. And this arson case, this whole mess, could be the hottest story around.”
“Or it could be a whole lot of nothing,” I say.
“But you never know until you dig in and get dirty. That’s what journalists do. Here you have the past folding in on the present. It would make for a good narrative, especially if the fire’s connected to what your father did.”
Julian’s grasping for a story, but I need to focus on the truth, not constructing something sensational, especially not at the expense of my family and friends. I settle into the chair. “I’m not sure what I’m doing. I’m flailing around without knowing where to start.”
“It’s how you do the job. You flail—and fail—until you finally realize you’ve asked the right question.”
“Well, right now, I could use some time away from the family.”
The baby in the background screams again.
“I could use some time away from the family, too,” Julian whispers.
“But don’t tell anyone I said that.” Glass breaks.
“Oops. Yuck. Listen to me, I have to get off the phone, but letting this story go would be a huge mistake. Grab on to it and don’t let go.
Or someone else will tell the story for you. ”
He clicks off the call. The light rain has transformed to a cold drizzle, and the wind has increased. Up at the cottage, Reid stands at the stove in the kitchen. I don’t want to face him right now.
I step onto the boat, unsnap the cover, and start the blower.
A few moments later, I ease into the marina in downtown Hero, where I cut the engine to headway speed.
The lights in the Landing blaze, and voices from the crowded pub reverberate across the water.
I take the last spot at the town pier and cover the boat before hurrying through the rain, along a gangway to the street above, where a few smokers puff away while water pours off the eaves.
I sidle in beside a woman huddled under an umbrella with a cigarette tucked into the side of her mouth and a German shepherd sitting at her feet.
I’ve never smoked tobacco before, but tonight—with Reid and Seton and everyone else pissed off at me—seems like the night to start. “Could I bum one?” I ask.
The woman taps a cigarette from a pack, lights it between her own lips, and hands it to me. She seems familiar, though Hero is tiny, and I’ve seen most of the people who live here at one time or another. As I crouch to pet the German shepherd, a growl begins at the back of its throat.
“Ginger needs permission to be kind,” the woman says, her voice low and throaty. “Should I give her permission?”
“I’m pretty harmless.”
“Release,” the woman says, and the dog transforms, melting against me. She wags her tail as I bury my face in her fur, letting all the stress of the day flow into her. I inhale on the cigarette. My body convulses with coughs, like the doctor said it would.
“First time?” the woman asks. “You must have had a worse day than I had.”
“We’ll have to compare notes.”
I grind the cigarette out with the heel of my shoe.
“Hey,” the woman says. “Those things cost about a buck apiece these days.”
“I’ll make it up to you. Let me buy you a drink.”
She steps out of the shadows and eyes me up and down.
She has the healthy, outdoorsy appearance of most of the people around here, and looks like she might be in her early forties—though, as I realize where I remember her from, I know for a fact she’s older.
She’s changed since the last time I saw her on TV, playing Gina Shock on Scene of the Crime.
Freya Faith, Paul Burke’s TV star client, has swapped the brash red hair from the series for a more natural auburn, and replaced the tailored suit with a sparkly black blouse, capri pants, and stacked heels.
“What happened to your head?” she asks.
“I ran into a tree.”
“Must have hurt.”
“Still does.”
“We’ll see about that drink you owe me,” she says. “My break’s over, but I’ll be at the bar later. Say hello.”
She snaps the umbrella closed and disappears inside with the dog at her heels. I follow a moment later. The pub is packed, the air heavy with damp clothing and body heat. In the corner, at a makeshift stage, Freya perches on a stool, a guitar balanced on one knee, the dog at her feet.
Someone grips my shoulder. “I didn’t expect to see you out and about tonight.”
I turn to where Paul leans against the wall.
“I’m escaping Idlewood for a few hours,” I say, realizing I haven’t seen him since the fire. “Sorry about what happened today.”
Paul nods toward Freya. “I’m distracting myself. These shows—” He clucks his tongue. “Do you know who convinced Freya to sing here a few nights a week? Andrea Haviland. So I have Andrea to thank for burning down my house and for ruining Freya’s career.”
Freya begins a slow rendition of Pat Benatar’s “Love Is a Battlefield,” her voice a throaty contralto. All around, phones snap photos for social media.
“She’s good,” I say.
“And if she performs a night here and there,” Paul says, “we can spin that as spontaneous. A whole summer? It looks desperate.” He finishes his drink. “Actually, I’ve had enough. Maybe I’ll see you at Idlewood later,” he says, stepping outside into the rain as Freya finishes the song.
Paul’s been Freya’s manager and lawyer since the nineties.
He has a vested interest in what she does with her career, though from what I can see, Freya’s soaking up the attention.
I join in the applause, then grab a beer at the bar and head to the back porch.
A group of women laugh at a table with a bottle of rosé between them.
I must stare too long, because one of the women catches my eye and whispers to another.
That one stares right back at me, until I retreat inside, pushing my way through the crowd to the bar, where a single seat has opened.
Onstage, Freya sings Heart’s “If Looks Could Kill,” as though she was out on the deck with me and those women.
A glass jar by the beer taps has a photo of Mrs. Haviland taped to it with Defense Fund written in black Sharpie, along with a website to donate electronically.
There must be a few hundred dollars in the jar already.
The bartender approaches. He’s about ten years older than I am, with prematurely white hair and an angular face. He wears a tight concert T-shirt that shows his pecs. “Blancy, right?” I ask, remembering he and Reid used to hang out when they were in high school.
“Good memory,” he says.
He pours me another IPA and slides the glass down the bar. “On the house,” he says. “You were the hero today.”
“Seton did most of the work.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“I’ll donate to the defense fund, then,” I say, pulling up the website and adding money to a growing pot of online cash.
“Every little bit helps,” Blancy says. “It must have been a rough day all around. Tell your brother I’m thinking about him.”
A middle-aged man slides onto the empty stool beside me. “Any news about the woman who was hurt?” he asks.
Blancy shakes his head. “We’re all hoping. Andrea’s the heart of this town, even if she is a little salty.”
The man adds a twenty-dollar bill to the jar. “I’ll take one of those,” he says, pointing at my beer.
He wears thick glasses and has long gray hair tied in a ponytail, a look that signals he’s either a biker or a multimillionaire, though my guess is probably both. “You up for the weekend?” he asks me.
“I’ll be in and out for most of the summer, or I thought I would be.”
“That welt on your head must hurt. You okay?”
“Nothing worth talking about,” I say, taking a long quaff of the beer and letting the bitter liquid slide over my tongue. “How about you? What brings you to town?”
“Visiting an old friend,” the man says. “Someone I’m worried about.”
The door to the bar opens, and Seton enters.
She’s changed out of her uniform and into a pair of jeans and a formfitting fleece.
Her spiky hair shines from the rain, and light glints off a stud in her lip.
Even here, she moves like a cop, alert and scanning the room for trouble.
She stops when she finds me. I wave as a kind of peace offering, but she doesn’t approach.
“Is that your girlfriend?” the man asks.
“I’m not sure what we are,” I say.
“Seton Haviland. I hear good things about her, that she’s tough but fair. She’s having quite a day, too. She must be worried about her mom.”
The man’s words are a good reminder that what Seton’s facing right now has little to do with me and a lot to do with an uncertain future. “She is worried,” I say. “Let’s hope our friendship survives whatever the next few days bring.”
“You have nothing but time, and a good friend is hard to find. Take it from someone who knows.”
He finishes his beer and tosses two twenties on the bar. “I’m sorry about what happened, Charlie. But I’m glad to see you on your feet. You were all I could think about today. Let’s hope tomorrow brings more light.”
He lifts his thick glasses onto his hair, and my breath catches as he heads toward the door, past Seton, out into the rainy evening.
I should run after him, but my body won’t move, my limbs frozen in shock, because I’d recognize those blue eyes anywhere.
They stare back at me every morning from my own mirror.
That was Mark Kilgore, my father, the man who disappeared into the White Mountains a quarter of a century ago.