Tighter (13 page)

“But look.” I pointed. “Fresh ashes.”

Connie crossed to see. Stooped and traced her finger in the ash. “Itha went through a time when she burned candy wrapperth—getting rid of the evidenth. Lookth like thee might have thneaked back to her old bad habith. It’th only half her fault, in my opinion, what with all that candy they thell over at the Mud Hut. But you thould keep a better eye on her, Jamie—thee’th got a real thweet tooth.”

“Right, sure.” Everything ached, and I couldn’t deal with Connie and her easy explanations right now. I scrambled up and brushed past her, down to my room. I was starving and bleary. The hot shower did some good, and I decided to go cold turkey on the pills today; I wasn’t feeling nearly stable enough to risk taking an extra-wrong one, with all of its freaky consequences.

I bypassed the hair dryer to get breakfast: two full bowls of cereal plus the fruit smoothie that Connie had placed in the fridge. I stepped out onto the porch to drink it.

The light of day made order of last night’s chaos.

What had I done?
Okay, run through it, Jamie
. I’d taken a sleeping pill. I’d mixed it with a tiny bit of alcohol. I’d hallucinated and become disoriented. I’d told Sebastian a lot of loony, wild stuff—but I could have told him worse, and I didn’t. Then I’d gone to sleep and I’d had a nightmare, which caused me to go wandering around the house in a semi-sleepwalking fit of temporary madness in which I’d seen what I thought was Jessie and Peter, but which had turned out to be a stack of laundry.

As for those ashes, Isa easily could have burned some candy wrappers. I’d had to monitor some of her candy-buying sprees at the Mud Hut before; it was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Milo was on the front lawn, bare-chested and juggling an assortment of objects. I knew where he’d gotten them. They usually lived on a silver bar trolley in the parlor.

A letter opener, a china dog, and a glass paperweight. Milo’s movements were supple and assured.

“I’ll hand it to you,” I admitted. “You’re not bad.”

“Pete taught me last summer.” As the knickknacks spun weightless. “Pete taught me everything. Everything I am, I owe him. To the point where sometimes I feel like I
am
him.” He smirked. “Come to think of it, maybe I inherited his soul.”

My heart raced. “Don’t say that. Don’t even joke. I thought we’d buried the hatchet on all that stuff.”

“Too late. Everything is officially unburied, Jamie. You of all people should know that.” One by one, Milo caught them; dog, paperweight, letter opener, all safe, and then he bowed. “You look like death served cold,” he remarked. “Is that how Jersey Girls like to wear their hair?”

“Really, Milo?” I swallowed. “That’s the best you can do?”

His gaze flicked off me. He stuck the objects in his pockets, pivoted and then began a series of studied hand movements that looked like martial arts; it reminded me of Teddy’s brief junior-year romance with tae kwon do. “Your negativity is sucking the
chi
out of the atmosphere,” he informed. “Stop watching me.”

I did. Back in the kitchen, I found the note from Hannah Smart’s mom, explaining that she’d picked up Isa to pal along with Hannah, who was enrolled in some crafts workshop in town. “We’ll be back later in the afternoon, probably close to three o’clock.”

I crunched the note into the trash. So now the whole island’s worth of moms would be buzzing like bumblebees that the McRae au pair was so irresponsible that she partied all night and slept all morning.

Ah, yes. That was just great.

Alone, with the whole day on my hands and too many details of last night like a packed jack-in-the-box that I wasn’t quite ready to pop out, I stole into the den. Miles’s computer was there, and I checked Facebook to retrieve mail from Mags, Tess and Teddy.

When I typed
SEBASTIAN BROOKS
, I got a cute if ridiculous profile picture of Sebastian from a few years back, dressed as the Scarecrow from
The Wizard of Oz
, and I laughed out loud. Must have been a school play. This guy had no fear. There was the standard message that I had to be friends with Sebastian Brooks before he shared any information. To request his friendship at this stage was way too eagersville; I got off, and then, on impulse, I typed
SEAN RYAN
.

Although there was a seemingly endless supply of Sean Ryans in the data bank, I found his profile picture so quick, it slapped me back. But there he was. Exactly the same but changed, reinvented in a photograph of himself as Mr. Outdoorsman. Straddling a bicycle, his face obscured by aviators, with a cliché view of the mountains behind him.

Sean Ryan, Mr. Colorado. Desperate for people to think he was awesome. Mr. Chemistry Nerd, Mr. Mellow Teacher, Mr. Helpful Guy.

Mr. Hit the Refresh Button, after his Mr. Mistake Year.

In the search bar, I typed the name
JESSIE FEATHERING
. That profile was invalid, of course. The Featherings sounded like the type of people who’d have kept tabs on all those final arrangements and small considerations, like disconnecting a Facebook profile.

As I searched
PETER QUINT
, something in me was sure that his page would be open.

I was right. I dragged my pointer slow and careful as a hand along the tiny postage stamp of Peter’s profile picture. His eyes looked translucent. But I knew him already, of course, even as his actual photo unnerved me. He was the kid from the cliffs. He was Jessie’s sketch. The boy in the rain, through the window and on the bed.

And he knows you see him, Jamie, the way he stared at you last night but don’t think about that because you didn’t see him it was a sleeping pill it was a night terror.

I slid the cursor to the toolbar to exit the program. I clicked, and the drop-down menu showed me the previous user:
PDQUINT
.

My fingers snapped off the keys. Shock. Breathe. The last person to log on to Facebook before me, from this computer, was Peter. I steadied my breath. Okay, but that made sense. Milo and Isa preferred the family-room computer. Connie never used one. And Miles McRae hadn’t touched it, as evidenced by the fact that there were no marked tabs or bookmarks, no downloads. It was only for show—like his cigar humidor and scotch decanters and that spinning globe—to complete his gentleman’s den.

I double-clicked on Pete’s name.

PASSWORD
?

Imagine, if I knew that password, then I’d be inside, with access to all Pete’s private notes and comments and images. It was a Pandora’s box. I had no other choice—or hardly any—than to try.

I typed in
SKYLARK,
and it shot me back an
INCORRECT
.

Next, I typed
JESSIE.
Denied.

All variations of
JESSIE
and
PETER
, of
FEATHERING
and
QUINT
, even of
MILO
and
ISA MCRAE
. Nothing, nothing.

“Just as well,” I muttered. Nights were bad enough; why fill my days with phantoms, too? Even if I wanted to research Peter Quint’s data bank, his friends and messages and photos, what did I need to get to the bottom of, anyway? What did I need to expose?

Nothing you need nothing so leave it alone you don’t need any of this.

I shut down. My head hurt, my back hurt. I needed a pill. I needed all the pills. My mind shuffled rapid-fire images—bottomless eyes, Sean Ryan on his trendy mountain bike in front of his trendy mountain range, Milo’s smirk as the letter opener spun up through the air like a knife
everything is officially unburied, Jamie
.

All of it was chewing, chewing at my brain like that frantic, trapped squirrel unable to
bong, bong, bong
.

The grandfather clock in the hall was striking the half hour
the mouse ran down hickory-dickory
while at the same time the doorbell had been ringing
brring, brring.
All these bells, but the door was probably just Mrs. Smart, back and curious for a quick check to see if all my lazy bones were present and accounted for.

I logged off, then ran out of the den to answer the door.

“Oh.” I stepped back. “You.”

“Me.” Sebastian touched his forehead in a two-fingered salute. “It’s my lunch hour, so I thought I’d come by to check on your fake hangover. Plus I wanted to ask you out to Rocco’s. It’s on the harbor. Best lunch in town. They practically catch the fish with the griddle pan.”

I hesitated, one hand working subtly to smooth down my hair. My adrenaline was sloshing from the surprise of seeing him. Should I go? Or should I be here, in case Isa returned before three?

“Say yes.” He looked so fresh and crisp, his hair like tarnished gold bristles.

“I didn’t think I’d be meeting up with you again, after what a mess I was last night.”

“Maybe I’m a sucker for your drama. And you sure bring it.” Squinting slightly, with his thumbs stuck in his belt loops, and his sunny, extravagant smile tuned in to me alone, Sebastian made last night seem funny, like nothing. And if this guy was willing to give me a break on last night, I’d be glad to give myself a break, too.

And then, to my dismay, Milo. He’d located a T-shirt and shoes, and raced up from behind to stand on the bottom tread of the porch steps. “Oooh, Jamie’s got a boyfriend.”

I refocused on Sebastian’s eyes—a speckled amber, by the light of day—while studiously ignoring Milo. And those ears, had I noticed Sebastian’s exceptionally cute ears last night? Because they were adorable, tipping out just slightly on the ends so that the sun glinted through the cartilage, giving him a sweetly ethereal, star-boy quality.

“Listen, I need a ride over to Stonyfield.” Milo took the remaining couple of steps so that we were all at level gaze. He stood with arms crossed, and I knew he was flexing his biceps. It was almost sweet if I hadn’t been so annoyed. “I got selected to play in the junior golf tournament, and, uh, I wanted to get some practice in. Gimme a lift?”

Sebastian just raised his eyebrows. He didn’t want to, I could tell. He wouldn’t even break eye contact with me. Was still waiting for my answer, which said it all. Milo could try all he wanted, but he was just a kid. And a pest—who was best left ignored, as Emory had put it.

“Speak now or I’m taking that as a yes,” said Milo, whining slightly, but undeterred. “So we’ll go in Dad’s car?”

There was no arguing it. Milo was a real force, not the type to go quietly now that he was here, especially if he sensed resistance. And Sebastian was waiting for me to decide what to do.

“Take it as a yes,” I said to Milo.

Then, to Sebastian, “We’ll borrow Miles’s car. Let me get the keys, plus my flops. Okay by you?”

“Aw, chicken. You’re just scared of Bonnie’s four-speed horsepower,” he teased. “But yeah, that’s fine by me.”

“Two seconds,” I said, returning his smile, which seemed almost dangerously contagious. “Be right back.”

SEVENTEEN

Officially, Milo’s niggling presence was not going to bother me. He could smirk and undermine and be disdainful all he wanted, but I’d resolved to keep my cool and hold my own.

“Big Rocco’s the man,” Sebastian mentioned as we parked, then walked to the wharf. He had a loose but directed stride that was easy for me to fall in step with. “There, that’s him.” As a stout guy came barreling out of the restaurant, a wagon-wheel-sized tray balanced over his shoulder.

“
Big
Rocco.” I grinned. Rocco couldn’t have been more than five feet. The place was the definition of a local secret, a corrugated tin shed right on the harbor, with lunches arriving in red-checked paper boats.

Milo hadn’t mentioned any turnoff to Stonyfield, and Sebastian didn’t even bother to ask him. Which only confirmed my suspicion that his golf date had been a complete ruse. Milo was sticking with us, tagging along and waiting for me to act gauche or say something Jersey Girl. The kid brother I never wanted. Well, he could bring it on. I was too wrapped up in Sebastian, and my second chance with him, to care.

The view was pretty, a colorful homecoming of tied sailboats and schooners with a couple of yachts bobbing farther out in the harbor. I inhaled ocean air, brine and browned butter. The noonday sun and the pitcher of lemon ice water that arrived when we sat drenched the moment in summertime bliss that made it seem immediately nostalgic.

Sebastian turned up his face to the sky and closed his eyes. “I’m going for my standard—a batter-fried clam sandwich.”

“I think I’ll have that, too,” I said.

Milo made a barf noise, then slumped in his seat. “She orders what he orders. Way to show your hand. I’ve lost my appetite to you lovebirds. Looks like you’ve fallen pretty hard, Jamie. So now I know that even Jersey Girls with gold plastic sandals get soul mates. Who’da thought?”

I reddened, glad for Sebastian’s gentlemanly disregard of what turned out to be Milo’s last dig. He lapsed into near-total silence, letting Sebastian lead the talk in easy hops from bands he liked to plays he’d seen to the ideal summer job.

“How’s yours?” I asked.

“It’s intense. Running a laundry can be an obstacle course,” Sebastian explained. “Lifting, sorting, folding, ironing. See these scars?” He rubbed his finger along the marks. “My war wounds. Years of run-ins with the steam iron.”

“Ouch.” I winced. While inwardly, I guess I sank a little. Not self-inflicted, after all. Was I disappointed? Had Sebastian’s scars made him more accessible? I hated to think it, but they probably did.

On the drive home, Sebastian directed me to a gas station. It was off Bush, along a one-way road, cupped with potholes and crumbled to gravel on its edges, and was lined with modest cottages, their land tracts divided by fences or chicken wire.

“Most of what you’ve seen on Bly is theater. This is backstage,” said Sebastian. “Laurel Lane is also known as Local’s Lane, Yokel Lane … it’s almost one hundred percent year-rounders. My folks and I live a mile down. But right there, that’s Augie Quint’s place.”