“Very good. I’d say call me if you need anything—”
“But I have no phone.”
“Precisely.”
“I think parchment and quill is more my style of communication anyway,” he said, perpetuating their running Duke joke.
“In that case, if you need anything, send a parchment message to me via pigeon.”
“Will do.”
Their exchange had ended on a humorous note yet as Remy drove Islehaven’s bumpy roads, worries over Jonah kept rising to the front of her thoughts. Repeatedly, she pushed them down.
Stop chewing the inside of your cheek, Remy. He’s fine. Think about one of your story worlds instead.
She felt safest when deep in her own mind, pondering one of her three favorite things to ponder. One, the narrative she was weaving in her mind about her sculpture in progress. Two, the narrative of the book she was reading. Three, the narrative of the show she was watching. Like the stories she created to inspire her art, her books and shows typically fell into her treasured fantasy genre. Thus there were always juicy places of myth, magic, legend, and action to visit in her imagination . . . .
Yes, but what if Jonah took her absence as an opportunity to down all of his prescribed pills? She should have brought his pills with her! Why hadn’t she brought them along—
Stop it, Remy.
She parked, then knocked on the door of Harry’s spartan cottage.
Wendell answered. “Remy!”
They shared a hug that gave her impressions of brittle bones and the faint scent of his English Leather cologne.
“Harry’s out,” he said when they pulled apart, “helping Kitty pick the rest of her apples.” He shepherded her inside and to the kitchen.
Wendell had the face of a leprechaun. His cheerful, pointy features would have been more at home on a short, young man. Yet, Wendell was eighty and tall with lanky limbs. His receded gray hair stood out from his scalp a few inches in every direction, and he always dressed in patterned sweaters and khaki trousers. Today’s sweater featured foxes chasing one another around and around his torso.
He made small talk as he prepared Irish tea and served her store-bought butter cookies from a tin. But just like something was off with her (concern aboutconfoundedJonah) she sensed that something was off with Wendell, too. He was doing and saying the usual things, but it was as if a light had gone out inside him.
Remy took stock of him as he settled across from her at the well-worn table, backlit with views of ocean and tumultuous sky.
When she’d moved to Islehaven, Wendell and his wife, Ruth Ann, had immediately befriended her. She’d been a newbie with a lot to learn about life on Maine’s most remote island. They’d known everything there was to know about life here. The difficulties of numerous harsh winters had sowed in them both a calm, “we’ll get through it” capability that had been medicine for her soul.
Once upon a time, Wendell had written theological nonfiction tomes for a living. After he’d retired from that, he’d volunteered as their local pastor. He was gentle, slightly mischievous, and given to speaking in superlatives. Ruth Ann had been opinionated, quick to laugh, and a terrific cook.
Week after week, they’d invited Remy into their home for Sunday lunch. Remy had never turned them down. She’d loved the lively conversations that had circled meals of corned hake, chowder, crab cakes, and whoopie pies. Those lunches had been a golden spot of interaction. Through them, she’d come to know all the year-round residents of Islehaven and many of the summer people.
A heart attack two years ago had suddenly and heartbreakingly ended Ruth Ann’s life. Soon after, Wendell’s kidney disease had grown more acute, and dialysis had become imperative. He’d had no choice but to sell his beloved home here and move near a medical facility. Now, when he visited Islehaven, he stayed in the homes of friends for no more than a few nights at a time before having to return to the mainland for more treatment.
“When were you here last?” she asked.
“Five months ago.”
She lifted her brows. “Did something keep you away longer than usual this time?”
“It’s not easy to get here and back.”
“Right, but even so, you used to come every two months. Has something changed?”
“I suppose”—he scratched behind his ear—“I don’t come as often as I used to because leaving Islehaven is harder on me every time.”
Her heart twisted with sympathy. It seemed her “we’ll get through it” friend was losing the ability to get through it without his wife and without his island. Ruth Ann wouldn’t have wanted Wendell’s sorrow to cause him to flounder, of that Remy was certain. “Surely there are things to love about your life in Rockland?”
“Hmm.” He appeared to think it over. “No.”
