The Sweetest Summer: A Bayberry Island Novel Page 5

  Evelyn’s ex-boyfriend would likely find her current cloak-and-dagger routine entertaining, as well. Rory often complained she was too predictable, too tied down by her routines, too comfortable with how things had always been. And, yes, when they broke up last fall, he’d used the dreaded B-word: bor-ring.

  Ha! Not anymore.

  Her friend Hal’s observations echoed in Evelyn’s mind. When she called the reformed hacker to ask for help, he was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this? Once you start down this road, you have to stay on it or pay the price.”

  Evelyn had tried to convince him it wasn’t that black-and-white. Or maybe she was trying to convince herself. “It’s temporary,” she told him. “I need some time to figure this out, find a way to prove he rigged the custody proceedings. I only want to get away from him long enough to come up with a plan.”

  “But she’s his kid, Evie.”

  “I know. I know. But Amanda made me swear to her . . .”

  “DNA crushes everything else.” Hal interrupted her. “Look, I’m sorry. You know I love you to death and will do anything to help you, but listen to me. It doesn’t matter how horrendous Wahlman was to your sister or how you promised Amanda you would keep him out of Chrissy’s life should anything ever happen to her. Now that she’s gone, the only thing that matters to the court is that Chrissy carries that rat bastard’s DNA. She will always be his daughter. That is forever.”

  Evelyn felt hot tears run down her sunburned cheek, across her lips, and down into the crease of her neck. She buried her nose tighter to Christina’s hair, knowing the last thing she wanted was to wake her up. She used her last bit of resolve to keep quiet as the tears ran. Silently, she prayed for strength. She prayed for luck. She prayed for sleep. She prayed that she was doing the right thing for her niece. But most of all, she prayed that Clancy Flynn wouldn’t remember that week they’d shared so long ago.

  She’d read somewhere that men didn’t retain muscle memory as sharply as women, at least the emotional component of it. If that were true, then Clancy wouldn’t have struggled the way Evelyn had, remembering strong arms pulling her from the undertow, fingers brushing wet hair from her face, the scent of Coppertone and sea spray. It wouldn’t have taken him years to forget holding hands by the bonfire, dancing under the fairy lights, and the kisses that started out as timid curiosity and flared into an explosion of awareness.

  He was Evelyn’s first. Her first kiss. Her first love. The first boy she let touch her like that. The fact that he never wrote back hurt like hell for many years, but now she was grateful. If Clancy Flynn didn’t answer her letter, it meant he wasn’t interested, and if he hadn’t been interested back then there would be no reason for him to remember her now.

  Don’t remember me. Don’t remember anything at all. I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I hope you forgot everything.

  * * *

  “So. You’re never speaking to me again?”

  Tamara looked up from her leather-bound planner, retrieved the eyeglasses hanging from a platinum chain around her neck, put them on, and then directed her attention to the doorway of her home office. She had no reaction whatsoever to seeing her husband for the first time in six days. She removed the glasses and went back to whatever she’d been working on, not bothering to respond.

  Tonight, Richard refused to accept her cold-blooded indifference. Tonight, he was going to stand up for himself. “For God’s sake. This is absurd.”

  Tamara popped up from the upholstered desk chair and marched toward him, her high heels clicking on the marble floor. She got inches from his face, so close he could see the feathering of her pink lipstick, how it ran into the tiny vertical crevices on her upper lip. She used to be so beautiful when she was young.

  “I would never stop speaking to you, dear. Do you know why? Because you would enjoy the silence. So I plan to talk—talk, talk, talk, talk, talk—and then talk some more. You won’t be able to shut me up. Care for a drink?”

  She spun away from him and headed to the bookcase. That was what she called the piece of ornately carved furniture with glassed-in shelves, though Richard knew it was more of a book-themed liquor cabinet. “I’m not supposed to drink, darling.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that. So do you want one or not?”

  Richard didn’t answer. His wife was angry. He got it. Tamara wouldn’t mind if he dropped dead right on the spot. He understood that as well. Richard wandered over to one of the white sofas arranged in the center of the room and sat down, trying to get comfortable. He’d always thought it was interesting how Tamara’s things—her furnishings, her cars, her clothing, her jewelry, her hairstyles—everything was chosen for its visual appeal instead of its usefulness or comfort. That’s why her sofas were quite chic but as comfortable as sitting on a steel girder. Her clothing was expensive but restricting, her cars were exotic but in need of constant repair, her jewelry too heavy for her earlobes, and her hairstyle crunchy to the touch. But it all looked fabulous.

  She sat facing him and daintily crossed her ankles. One thing he could say for her—she knew all the steps to the dance. Always had. She was as refined and ladylike as any woman he’d ever known. She had a gift for people’s names and faces. Tamara could talk to anyone about anything. She was an impeccable hostess, generous philanthropist, and sought-after board member.

  Only Richard knew what she really was. He wanted this encounter to be quick. “Go ahead. Let me have it.”

  She raised her cut crystal highball to her wrinkly lips. Richard suspected she’d had some work done around her eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t the kind of thing she shared with him.

  “I am thinking about divorcing you, Richard.”

  He shrugged. “It’s unfortunate you feel that way.”

  Tamara downed the rest of her scotch in one swig and slammed the glass onto the coffee table. “You broke the rules, goddammit!”

  What could he say? She was right. The only thing she’d demanded when they got married was that his extracurricular activities never reflect badly on her. She would not be made a fool of—period. Richard agreed to those terms. If Amanda hadn’t gone and gotten herself killed, everything would still be copacetic. But she had died and left his child behind, and this could prove to be an exceptionally unflattering turn of events for Tamara Derrick Wahlman.

  “I am sorry for how this played out. As you know, none of this was due to my own carelessness.”

  Tamara howled. It took her a moment to collect herself. “Oh, Dick, my darling. The level of your self-involvement never ceases to amaze me.”

  He adjusted his position on the steel girder, which he now suspected she purchased just to rupture one of his discs.

  “Out of curiosity, Dick, while you were banging your intern, did you stop to consider that you might better serve your country by using a condom?”

  “She was a staffer, not an intern.”

  “Ah, so she was on your payroll while you were . . . What do the kids say today? ‘Hittin’ it’?”

  Richard twisted his face into a smile. “As much as I enjoy your verbal abuse and dirty talk, I must insist that you have an actual conversation with me this evening. You said you were willing to talk. So talk.”

  “Right. And did you ever consider that your obsession with teenagers might damage my name and all members of the Derrick family?”

  “She was twenty-four. Maybe even twenty-five. And this isn’t about your family or their deep-fried dynasty, Tamara.”

  She laughed again. “Everything about you serving in the U.S. House of Representatives is about the wealth and connections of Derrick Brand Restaurants. Let’s not delude ourselves, dear, darling Dick. Your entire career has been built on chicken strips and fries.”

  Richard remained perched on the edge of the sofa and stared at his hands. He needed to conclu
de this bit of nasty business. “Do you have any idea what kind of time frame you’re looking at with the divorce?”

  “I’ll wait until after the election. When are you going public with the child?”

  “Well, it depends.” He stood, knowing this would be the tricky part. “We’re dealing with two separate issues here, I’m afraid. First, there are the things I have no control over.”

  Tamara’s wrinkly upper lip twitched.

  “There is always the danger of an anonymous tip, plus the grandfather despises me so much that he might launch a campaign to ruin my reputation.”

  “Ha! But you’re doing so well by yourself!”

  He moved right along. “Also, my legal name is on dockets, petitions, and the custody ruling. It would take a halfway decent reporter two minutes to connect the dots, since Gerhardt R. Wahlman isn’t exactly the most common name in the universe. Thank God there aren’t too many halfway decent investigative reporters out there anymore.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back into the sofa. He hoped it bruised her kidneys. “I can’t wait to hear about the second issue.”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, my hope is that they find her soon and I can choose how and when to tell my story, giving me some control over how it plays out in the media. But that isn’t so clear cut, I’m afraid.”

  “Exactly what are you implying?”

  At that moment, Richard was positive she’d had work done. Tamara was trying her best to scowl, but her forehead looked as icy-smooth as a hockey rink after a Zamboni run. He wondered when she might get around to having her lip wrinkles removed. They really did age her.

  He needed to refocus, because he wanted out of there. “I’m not implying anything. What I am, in fact, saying is that if the days drag on and the FBI can’t locate her, then—”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “The first days are crucial. If I came forward as her father, it might help bring attention to the case, darling. If I went public, the abduction of a congressman’s child would become the lead news story and stay that way until she was found.”

  Tamara pressed a thumb and forefinger into the bridge of her nose. “Absolutely not. Not before we’re divorced.”

  “This is the safety of a little child we’re talking about.”

  Tamara’s head snapped up. “And my dignity! And my family’s name!”

  He held out his hands. “Tamara, it might get to the point where I really have no choice.”

  “You always have a choice, darling.” She got up and returned to her desk chair. “I would tell you to pack up your things and get out but you don’t have much here these days, do you?”

  “I never intended to hurt you. Believe me.”

  She folded her hands on the desk, her lips peeled back in a sneer. “I’m not hurt, darling. Not in the least.”

  “What are you, then?”

  “I am thoroughly disgusted with myself for ever marrying you.”

  Chapter Four

  Clancy hung out on his mother’s porch while Tripod and Earl rolled around in the yard like they were still puppies. Unfortunately, he arrived while the meeting of the Bayberry Island Mermaid Society was still in full swing. He didn’t want to interrupt. Scratch that. He didn’t want anything to do with their mermaid crap.

  On the other side of that bright blue painted door, the living room couches and chairs were packed with middle-aged women dressed in long wigs, sparkly spandex mermaid tails, and shell-shaped boob-catchers. That’s what his brother had called them when they were kids, at any rate. Clancy closed his eyes and tried like hell not to think about the whole subject.

  Detective skills weren’t necessary to guess what was being talked about in there. Not only could he hear nearly every word being exchanged—these ladies were, and would forever be, loud—but they’d been having the same festival week discussion since he was born. There was certain to be bitching and moaning about last-minute changes to festival scheduling and who needed to be where, when, and doing what. They would certainly pledge not to make “the same mistake” next year, whatever this year’s mistake happened to be. And there were surely complaints about parade logistics, disagreement among the members of the clambake decoration committee, and any number of off-color comments about God-knows-what. Rising above it all was his mother’s unmistakable voice, calm and no-nonsense, cutting through the menopausal melee.

  Though Mona Flynn had retired after thirty-five years as principal of the island’s only school, she hadn’t managed to shake her principal tone of voice. Clancy suspected it was permanent.

  “We are all grown women here,” he heard her say. “I am confident we will all be on our best behavior this week. Remember, these seven days are the reason we work so hard all year long. This is our holy week, ladies, our sacred duty to the history of this island, the legend of the Great Mermaid, and how the two have become intertwined through the generations.”

  The room went quiet. Clancy raised his head, knowing what was coming next. He waited . . . waited . . .

  “Pass the merlot,” Polly Estherhausen said.

  Bing, bing, bing! He was damn good at this.

  “All right. Gather ’round, ye maids. Let us recite our sacred pledge of devotion.”

  At his mother’s command, Clancy could imagine the swish of mermaid skirts and mumbled complaints about stiff joints. He decided to give them some space. After all, this closing ritual was supposed to be secret. Most everything Mona’s Mermettes did behind closed doors was supposed to be secret, but the Flynn kids had been spying on these meetings since they were old enough to get out of bed and sit on the main staircase at the Safe Haven. Voices carried in that big old house, and when Mona forgot to close the huge pocket doors to the formal dining room, they got to watch the proceedings, too.

  For most children, it would be unnerving to see your friends’ moms hanging around your dining room every Sunday evening dressed like mythological sea vixens, but for the Flynn kids, it was just the way things were.

  While the ladies finished their business, Clancy shoved his hands in the pockets of his uniform shorts and wandered out toward Mona’s front walkway, the dogs at his heels. He threw a stick toward the backyard and they raced off.

  Clancy turned his gaze east, over the Atlantic. As he often did, he began searching for the breakthrough stars, the first few pinpoints of celestial light to leave their mark on the blank slate of nightfall. He widened and softened his gaze, and like magic, they appeared. As a kid he’d been fascinated by the idea that all those billions of stars and galaxies had been up there all day long, hidden from view by only a thin curtain of sunshine. The stars hadn’t disappeared and reappeared—it was just the perspective that had changed.

  Even now, as a cop, he found he returned to that certainty again and again. He often discovered that the truth was right there in front of him, visible only when he widened and softened his gaze and waited patiently for the glare to fade. A change of perspective worked wonders.

  His thoughts went to the chick from the ferry, and he decided he’d rely on his tried-and-true method with her, as well. After all, he hadn’t gotten anywhere by trying to force his memory to work. It still bugged the hell out of him that he knew her from someplace yet couldn’t figure out where. So tomorrow, once the parade was over, he would get her name from the ferry manifest and find out where she was staying. Then, he’d pull back, relax, and wait for the spark of recognition to reveal itself.

  Because, dammit, he did recognize her. And it was driving him crazy trying to figure out why she felt so familiar.

  The front door of the cottage creaked open, spilling lamplight onto his mother’s unruly rosebushes. The ladies filed out chatting and laughing. The dogs abandoned their stick and ran toward the voices.

  “Spying on us again, Clancy?” Abigail Foster gave him a friendly wink
. “Hey, boys,” she said, bending down to pat the dogs’ large heads.

  “I could have you arrested for loitering,” Izzy McCracken added.

  “Hold on while I get my cuffs,” Polly said, snorting in appreciation of her own wit. “Hello, Earl. Yo, Mr. T.” She rubbed Earl’s ear and kissed Tripod on his nose.

  “Evening, ’maids.” Clancy gave them a gallant tip of his ball cap, stepping aside and gesturing for them to pass him on the sand-strewn walkway. “Enjoy your stroll home. It’s a lovely night.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Layla O’Brien said.

  “Good luck this week.” Darinda Darswell stopped in front of Clancy, smiled, and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate like every year, but do try to take a few minutes to enjoy it, too. Thank you for being such a wonderful chief of police.” She squeezed his hand, turned, and walked through the garden gate.

  “She’s right, you know.” Clancy felt his mother’s soft touch on his back. “We are all very lucky you decided to come back to the island.”

  Clancy turned toward her, smiling to see she’d already exchanged her Spandex and wig for a pair of khaki slacks and a well-worn cotton blouse.

  He wrapped an arm around his mother’s shoulders and gently pulled her closer. She felt frail to him, tinier than just a couple months ago. Her latest rheumatology checkup on the mainland hadn’t produced the best of news. Her lab results were high, and the doctor added yet another medication to combat painful swelling in her joints. Along with all the other pressure he felt during festival week, this year he was particularly concerned about his mother. The woman was sixty-seven but never stopped. She’d been at this mermaid thing most of her life, and he wished she’d just give it a rest, hand over the reins to someone else. It was starting to be too much for her.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, Ma. It’s okay. I just stopped by to check on you.”

  “Care to take a walk with me, then? Do you have a few minutes?”

  “For you, absolutely.” Clancy whistled for the dogs and took his mother’s elbow. The group passed through the gate and strolled out onto Idlewilde Lane, a narrow paved road blown over with sand and dotted with loose gravel.