CHAPTER THREE
There was no question in Willow’s mind; she would return to Little North. The semester was ending anyway, so she touched base with her thesis advisor, graded the last of her undergrads’ papers, booked herself a place to stay, and got on the road, praying she could make it in time for Sue’s memorial service.
Willow had feared the sights and smells of the Maine coast might have faded into the haziness of childhood memory, but the rush of familiarity swept over her with an almost painful clarity. From her seat in the stern of the passenger ferry, she inhaled the sea air, taking in the distinct flavor and scent it shared with no other place in the world. Bright lobster buoys bounced up and down in the rolling swells, each painted with a distinctive color palette showing which lobsterman it belonged to. Hoarse cries from a flock of hungry seagulls carried to Willow across the sea as a pair of porpoises swam past the stern of the boat; a little farther off, a cormorant flapped its waterlogged wings in a desperate attempt to go airborne. Willow silently rooted for the bird to break free of the water and take flight.
As the boat passed the first marker and turned out of itssheltered bay into the ocean, the temperature of the air plummeted about fifteen degrees in the space of a few seconds. Some passengers moved into the sheltered indoor part of the boat, but Willow stayed where she was, tugging her music conservatory sweatshirt over her head and pulling up the hood. She watched as Little North Island rose out of a strip of morning mist: There was the town dock, and there was the Dockside restaurant, with the best lobster roll on any of the islands. There was the Congregational church, its white clapboard bell tower rising from the hill by the main village. There were the granite-topped hills she used to hike up every summer and pretend she was queen of all she could see, and the rolling woods of spruce and pines that carpeted the valleys between them.
And there, a little west of the village, was Cameron House, the rambling old mansion where Little North’s founding family had always lived. It had begun its existence more than two centuries ago as a modest stone farmhouse, and as the Camerons’ wealth had grown, so had their home. Its present-day version sprawled out over the property as though grown directly from the granite foundations of the island, crowned by turrets and dormers that rose to varying heights along the asymmetrical roof; atop it all, a widow’s walk perched like an inevitable afterthought.
As the ferry rounded the last marker into the harbor of Little North, the air warmed, and in an instant the salt-sweet smell of the sea blended with that of the old fish the lobstermen used for bait, diesel fumes from their boats, and food from the restaurant. The captain pulled up to the float; the mate tightened bow and stern lines to the cleats and plopped down ancient wooden step stools, automatically extending a gnarled and seaworn hand to help passengers off the boat.
Willow checked the email from the vacation rental site again; it instructed her to pick up the key to the cabin at the Pottery Shop, the last business on the town dock before the restrooms. Seeing Sue’s cozy log home listed on the holiday rental websiteas some anonymous getaway for strangers had been a slap to the face, but shock had soon given way to resolve. She couldn’t really afford it, but she’d booked the cabin for herself without hesitation. She would do this last thing, for herself and for Sue. Even if it was too late.
Cautiously, Willow stepped inside the Pottery Shop. It was warm and golden and welcoming, and Willow immediately loved it. The honeyed wood of the walls and shelves displayed handmade ceramic pieces by the shop’s different artists, from large platters to mugs to little dishes molded in the shape of mussel shells; there was even a rack of delicate ceramic jewelry. A wide counter separated the shop from the workspace. To the rear of the store, a small, round woman sat bent over a pottery wheel; a few tendrils had escaped her silver-threaded black braid and sprang into tight curls at her temples.
“I’ll be right with you,” the woman said, eyes focused on the clay in front of her. A batik tunic in swirls of greens and purples and oranges flowed over loose black pants and fisherman sandals; the sturdy apron she had thrown over her clothes was smeared with clay and paint. Willow watched as the woman cupped the lump of clay with firm hands, slipping her thumbs into the center and effortlessly guiding the lump into a curved shape, broadening and lifting it until it bloomed into a vase.
The woman’s eyes flicked up, locking with Willow’s; only for a split second, but it was enough to send an infinitesimal jitter down to a hand, throwing the emerging piece off-balance and twisting it into a misshapen version of itself. The woman sighed and cupped her hands again around the clay, compressing it back into the wet mass it had been when she’d started. She shut off the wheel. Her jaw clenched a little as she said stiffly, “It’s you. Willow, is it?” The woman crossed the shop and began scrubbing the clay from her hands and nails in the utility sink against the back wall.
It seemed like forever before the potter dried her hands andreturned to the counter. Her expression was neutral, but her lips pressed together, her gaze a little averted; the woman’s warm olive skin carried a layer of pallor beneath it as though she had not slept well—or enough—recently.
“Nice to meet you,” the woman said, without the smallest pretense of a smile; Willow did not believe the woman thought meeting her was nice at all. “I’m Rina Montalto; this is my shop, and I also run the inn and cabin rentals. I’m glad you made it.” She reached under the counter and pulled out a key ring in the shape of a log cabin, with two keys hanging on it. “Here you go; here are the keys. Not that anyone locks things up much around here. It’s a pretty safe place.”
Willow nodded shyly. “Thank you for reaching out when you saw my reservation. I didn’t know who to call or…” Her voice trailed off.
Rina Montalto’s jaw tightened again, as though biting back something she knew she shouldn’t say aloud. With obvious effort, she smoothed her face again into a neutral expression. “I saw your name on the B&B rental and knew it had to be you. I’m glad you’re able to be here for her service. The pastor said you’ll play the organ; Sue would like that.”
“Thank you. I’m glad too,” Willow said. Her voice was hesitant as she continued, “Do you own the cabin now? I was surprised to see it on the vacation site; did Sue sell it?” The thought of the cabin belonging to someone else made Willow’s heart hurt; Sue had always promised Willow the cabin would be hers one day.
Rina shook her head. “No, she still owned it; we took care of the properties together. The big blue farmhouse B&B outside the village is mine, and we have several small cottages and cabins we manage—managed—” Rina’s voice broke a little.
“I understand,” Willow said awkwardly. She did not, in fact, understand, but she did not know what else to say. Nor did she know why this stranger was giving off a vibe of barely contained hostility toward her.
A voice, harsh and abrasive, interrupted them from the shop door. “Got a good deal on it, I expect—even this harridan knows you get what you pay for, and God knows you won’t get much.” Willow turned and saw an old man leaning insolently in the doorway, tall and gangly with a windblown shock of white hair and eyebrows to match. He wore a cream-colored, half-zip sweater and plaid pants and was waving his ornately glass-topped cane at Rina from the doorway, glaring at her.
The woman’s face darkened with anger. “It’s none of your business what I charge, old man,” she bit back, “but for your information, our rates are perfectly consistent with the costs for accommodation anywhere around here.”
The man sneered. “That’s becauseyouown ninety percent of the accommodation on this island, undercutting anyone else for miles around and screwing up the economy by making Little North a place no one with actual money to spend would touch with a ten-foot pole. And you think you and your little preservationist friends are going to get Cameron House now—well, you can forget aboutthat! My lawyers—”
“You can shout and threaten legal action all you want, Geralt Talbot, but when Miss Effie left the house to Sue, she wasabsolutelyclear she wanted it to stay as it was, preserved and still housing the historical society—”
“Hah! You know what else my dear departed Aunt Effie said she wanted? She wanted a surviving Cameron to inherit the house if Susan died. So once my bloodsucking lawyers do their jobs,that”—he jabbed his cane in the direction of the Cameron mansion, narrowly missing a row of brightly colored mugs—“will officially bemy house! You and your historical society be damned!”
Rina’s face was livid, with high circles of red at the top of her cheeks. “It’s not justyourhouse, it’s yourfamily’shouse, with generations of history! Of all the pigheaded, self-centered, solipsistic, close-minded—”
“Generations, my octogenarian backside!” he snorted, shakingthe cane for dramatic effect. “You’re just steamed that if she’d died one day later, it could have all been yours.”
Rina looked ready to lunge at the man—or start throwing beautifully glazed bowls and platters priced far out of Willow’s range—as the silence in the little shop grew taut and Talbot waited for her to respond. Willow watched as the other woman fiercely held control, then released a shaking breath and shook her head. “I can’t. I just can’t.” She turned to Willow; her voice was flat, cold. “You know where the cabin is, you have the key, let me know if you need anything.” She turned and walked to the rear of the shop and opened the back door, pausing to offer her parting words to the sneering old man. “And you,” she said harshly, “I don’t know if Hell will even take you when you die, you shriveled old fossil, but I look forward to the day when they have the opportunity to decide.”
Rina slammed the door behind her.
CHAPTER FOUR
Geralt Talbot’s face broadened into a self-congratulatory smile; he’d gotten Rina Montalto’s goat, which had of course been his aim all along.Artsy-fartsy hippie shrew, he thought with grim satisfaction. Sue Davis had deserved better than people like that in her circle.
He regarded the girl who stood gaping after the Montalto woman’s exit, pale and nondescript with her tousle of dark hair and rumpled black dress and tights. It wasn’t that she was particularly thin, he mused; no, the girl wasnarrow, compressed, as though she were trying to take up as little space in the world as possible—to be unseen, unnoticed.
And yet. Something in the eyes…
