The next place I check out is a medium-size, two-story clapboard house, and so is the final one. They’re both in decent condition and freshly painted, it seems, but without any of the rustic charm Jamie found so appealing. I’m left with the same impression I had yesterday: I can’t imagine him seeing photos of these properties on real estate sites and deciding they were worth a look, even for a sense of what area homes were selling for these days. Like yesterday’s batch, none of these have For Sale signs in their yards, either. I’m now even more convinced that he wasn’t house hunting—and that leaves the list a mystery. A very odd one.
What I should do next, I decide, is google all nine of the propertiesand see if the search offers any kind of explanation or connection between them. At the very least, I’ll discover if the houses are on the market.
As I start my journey home, I realize I’ll be driving through Sharon, the town where Jamie’s uncle lives in a stunning white clapboard house just a couple of blocks off the main street. Drew’s a very successful portrait painter, but he was able to afford such a grand home in part because his first wife, who died almost twenty years ago, inherited a substantial sum from her parents.
Jamie loved being in that house and in his uncle’s company. Though he never had children himself, Drew was paternal toward Jamie and a huge support after he lost his mother so young, and then again five years ago when his father died. And Drew’s an appealing guy—tall and slim like Jamie, with longish dark blond hair that’s turned pale with age, and quite attractive and energetic for a guy in his early seventies. Yes, he can be pompous at times, but it’s hard to resist his zest for life. We were invited to parties, barbecues, and charity events at Drew’s home, as well as laid-back dinners around the honey-colored wooden table in the kitchen.
The only drawback: Drew’s fiftysomething wife, Heather, a former yoga instructor, whom Jamie was never a fan of. Dressed in flowy clothes, Heather would act laid-back and easygoing one minute, and the next come across as totally entitled, talking with clipped tones to a handyman or someone helping in the kitchen for a party. Jamie was happy, though, that his uncle had found someone he adored after the devastating loss of his first wife, and he was also grateful Heather hadn’t tried to box him out. She never seemed to warm to me, and I’m a hundred percent sure that after I broke off the engagement, she burned a sage leaf in the kitchen, trying to dispel any trace of my presence from the house.
The minute I enter Sharon, the sight of its graceful clapboard houses, church steeples, and lovely village green overwhelms me with sadness, and on the spur of the moment, I make the turn that will take me down Drew’s street. Perhaps seeing Jamie’s uncle’s place one more time might do my heart good, helping me envision the memorial service that was held there. I understand why I wasn’t included, but over the past few days I’ve realized that being denied the chance to honor Jamie with the people closest to him has added to my sadness and sense of disorientation.
As soon as I’m on the street, my pulse begins to race, and as I approach the house, it spikes. That’s because Drew is standing under the portico at the front of the house, along with Heather and another man, perhaps someone who dropped by to offer condolences. I slink down in my seat a tiny bit, while still being able to see the road. Though I feel the urge to pick up speed, I resist, knowing it might call attention to the car.
I exhale loudly once I’m past the house, pretty sure they didn’t notice me. So much for that doing my heart good.
At the first stop sign, I check the time and see it’s just after ten. Feeling a little frayed, I’d like nothing more than to head home, but I have my coffee date with Tori and there’s no way I’d blow that off.
I end up arriving ten minutes early, but Tori is pulling into the parking lot of the Salisbury Inn at the same time.
“Thanks for suggesting this, Tori,” I say after we greet each other on the blacktop. She looks even more fatigued than she did yesterday, with purplish, bruiselike half-moons under her eyes. “And also for accommodating my schedule.”
“Glad we could do it.” A few beats later she smiles in that hesitant way of hers. “Did you have errands to run first thing?”
“Yes, kind of.”
After ordering cappuccinos in the café section of the inn, we take our drinks to the wide porch that runs along the front. There’s a man working on a laptop at the far end, but otherwise we have the space to ourselves.
“Is this one of your regular free days?” I ask once we’ve selected our own table. She’s casually dressed in a sleeveless, pale yellow top, shorts, and sandals, an outfit I doubt she’d wear for her job at the library.
“No, I took some time off,” she says somberly. “I felt Liam needed me—and I didn’t want to have to answer any questions at work about Jamie.”
As she pops off the lid of her drink, I notice her ragged cuticles. In the period I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Tori with a manicure, but based on a photo I saw of her and Liam at Drew’s house, I think she used to primp a lot more. That wasn’t the only difference I noticed between her during her real estate days and now. She looked really stylish in the picture, dressed in a bright white pantsuit with her hair in waves. I wonder, not for the first time, if the air of disappointment that’s overtaken her since is related to her marriage. I can’t imagine spending my life with someone as tightly wound as Liam, but then who am I to question anyone’s romantic choices.
“Is Liam okay with us getting together?” I ask. Even if I never set eyes on her husband again, I hate to think of him harboring any animosity.
“He headed into work just for the morning and I didn’t have a chance to tell him, but I doubt he’d mind. He’s shattered, we all are. But like I told you before, Kiki, he doesn’t blame you.”
“That’s so good to know,” I say, then pause. “Would—would you mind telling me about the memorial service at Drew’s? I completely get why I wasn’t included, but I’d love to hear a little bit about it, if you’re open to sharing.”
She nods, staring into her cappuccino. “Drew kept it very simple. There were about thirty people in all, I’d say—a few very old friends of Jamie’s, including Sam, but mostly family. A cousin on Jamie’s mother’s side flew in from Buffalo and so did Liam’s sister from Chicago. Unfortunately, Taylor has been dealing with a bad case of strep throat, so we discouraged him from coming up for it.”
“What about Liz?” I ask, referring to Jamie and Liam’s grandmother.
“No.” She shakes her head. “Drew decided not to tell her about Jamie. He doesn’t think she’d be able to grasp it, and if she did, it would be too upsetting.”
“That makes sense. She loved Jamie so much.”
I take a sip of my drink and set the cup back on the metal table. It’s now or never, but I need to proceed delicately. “I-I’m sure you’ve given some thought to the party the other night.”
“Of course,” she says as her expression darkens.
“Did you see Jamie interacting with anyone?”
“Now and then, but I was busy keeping Liam company, and then after he left, I talked with someone I know from the library.”
“When Jamiewasin your line of sight, how did he seem to you?” I ask. “Did you notice anything odd?”
What I want to ask is whether she saw anyone acting contentious with him, but it would give too much away.
