On a cold Tuesday in January, Charlie and I flew to Maine.
“I bet it’s beautiful here when the leaves change,” I said conversationally, creeping the rental vehicle down a snow-packed lane. My hands were cold and stiff, but the strengthening exercises I was recommended really helped.
“Mmhmm,” Charlie replied, eyes glued to the window. His foot bounced anxiously against the clean plastic mat. Reaching over, I laced my fingers through his and squeezed once.
Quaint and darling even in the dead of winter, I quietly hoped today went well so we’d have a reason to visit Ogunquit again and see for ourselves how the town changed throughout the seasons.
“This it?” I asked a few minutes later, signaling my turn off Main Street.
He swiped up on his phone, pecking at the screen like it would bite if he hit the wrong button. There were some aspects of modern technology he still hadn’t adjusted to. “The Coastal Cafe,” he read aloud, checking the sign. “Yeah, this is the place.”
I pulled into the small gravel lot and parked. As with all the other buildings in town, the inn was a mix of rustic pine, cedar, and coastal cottage.
The view of the marina would be breathtaking from the outdoor patio in summertime, with a cool ocean breeze blowing in over the water. It was still beautiful now, of course, but I wasn’t keen on freezing my ass off outside.
“How are you feeling?” I asked gently, noting Charlie’s gaze hadn’t left the front door of the cafe. We were half an hour early, but he’d barely slept last night, and nearly wore a rut into the floor pacing around the Airbnb, so I’d suggested we go for a drive around town.
He finally pulled his eyes away to look at me. “Like I want to crawl out of my skin and run in the opposite direction.”
I chuckled. “Do you really want to leave? I can tell her something came up.”
“No,” he said quickly, looking back toward the front entrance. “I’d always wonder. And I don’t want her to be left waiting. Not anymore.”
I kissed the back of his hand. “It’s beautiful here. Seems she’s done well for herself.”
He nodded, rubbing his palms along the tops of his jean-clad thighs. Sometimes I still marveled to see him in modern clothes that actually fit, instead of my oversized T-shirts and sweatpants.
Somehow, though, through whatever magic had brought us both back to life last year, his flight jacket came along, too. He zipped it up against the chill creeping into the car. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing? Coming to see her?”
He’d asked me that many times over the last few months, but I didn’t mind reassuring him again. “I don’t think she would’ve agreed to meet you if she didn’t want to see you. Or at least see ifyou are who you say you are. There’s only one way to answer that question, though.”
Tate was the one who finally found Frankie Hart, formerly Frances Randolph. She owned a small bed and breakfast, the Coastal Cottage, that served brunch on the weekends out of an attached cafe.
She married Robert Hart over thirty years ago, who ran his own recreational sightseeing business, sailing tourists up and down the coast during the summer months.
I assumed he was the stone-faced man who stepped out of the cafe upon our arrival, arms crossed and feet planted wide, barring entry.
“Right. Time to convincehimwe aren’t con artists or scammers claiming her dead brother is sending us messages from the beyond.”
“Iwassending you messages from the beyond,” Charlie quipped.
I smiled at the return of the wit I loved so much. “Yes, dear. I’ve got the beaded curtains to prove it. Now, let’s go before he gets angry.”
“Orangrier,” Charlie mumbled under his breath.
Even in his seventies, Robert Hart was every bit as intimidating as I was sure he’d been at forty. It actually made me grateful Frankie had found a protector, hopefully a kind one, after all she’d been through.
Tate had a hell of a time getting her on the phone, and it was even more difficult to convince her to let the young man claiming to be her long-lost dead brother visit. Frankie and Robert made it very clear neither actually believed Charlie was who he said he was, but somehow, Tate—or maybe Sunglasses, I wasn’t sure—talked them into meeting us.
So, we left our home in Missoula and flew all the way to Maine.
When Charlie stepped out of the car, Robert’s arms fell limp at his sides, mouth agape. “Holy shit,” he mumbled just over the sound of our boots in the snow.
I took Charlie’s hand again and angled him behind me as we approached. I didn’t want Robert to lash out in anger if he suspected Charlie was an imposter.
“Are you Robert?” I asked, halting several feet away.
“How is this possible?” he asked Charlie, ignoring me completely. His eyes scanned up and down as if looking for the sleight of hand.
