Gentle as I’ve kept my tone, her eyes are alarmed. “A gun? No.”
“Not on a bookshelf or in a drawer?”
“I’d never open a drawer. That’s not my business. I dust, is all.”
Her alarm could be guilt, if she’s protecting Dad, but my gut says that’s not it. Her response to this feels more spontaneous than the guarded one she’s shown up to now.
“Okay,” I say easily. “I just wondered. He’s confused sometimes, so a gun is the last thing he should have. If you see one, will you tell Anne?” She nods but says nothing, and that’s my cue. “Nice to meet you,” I say and add a genuine, “Thank you for helping around here, Lina. It’s much appreciated.”
Heading out the front door, I pause at my car. On one hand, I could drive. That would be fastest, and I’m so late already that I’m surprised Joy hasn’t texted to make sure I’m alive. On the other hand, it’s barely a ten-minute walk down the hill. Since the road is the only way to the square, if Dad and Joy are heading home, they won’t get past me. If I walk, I get exercise. If I walk, I get the Bay Bluff experience.
So I pull on my ball cap and sunglasses, thread the Nikon over my shoulder, and set off at an easy jog. The air is warm, the breezegrazing my skin. This isn’t the kind of day that gnarled the scrub pine with its twisted form at the very top of the road; that would be one where an angry wind spewed seawater in the name of rain. This day is hazy but kind, and how not to stop to memorialize that pine? As many times as I’ve photographed homes with man-made topiaries in glorious display at the front, this shaping is Mother Nature’s doing.
Glasses to my head, camera to my eye, I bracket my shots, then move around the tree and take several more. The exposure is tricky. With the sun rising from the ocean behind me, it is a matter of shadow and light in extremes. Inspired, I tilt the screen, raise the camera over my head, and shoot the pine against the lighter green of the ground foliage, perhaps not as dramatic as the silhouetted shots, but a more realistic rendition. Unable to resist, I return the camera to my eye and move in for several close-ups of the twist of a branch.
I could spend hours with this pine alone. Realizing that, I shoulder the camera with a vow to return and resume my jog. It’s an easy downhill stretch. Near the bottom are two driveways that lead to homes on the side of the bluff. There used to be a single mailbox at each, but the lower one now has three. I’ll have to ask Anne about that.
I’ll also have to ask her about Lina Aiello—well, not about Lina, per se, but about whom else I might run into. I’ve been gone a long time. If Anne can refresh my memory, I might be able to recognize some of the people I see and avoid the awkwardness I felt with Lina. I’ve forgotten how small Bay Bluff is.
As soon as I round the curve in the road, the square appears, and I slow to a walk. The parking lot holds a smattering of compacts, SUVs, and pickups. The Volvo is likely parked behind the eatery; Anne would have driven to work, not only to get there quickly but to avoid tempting Dad with wheels. As I approach, another pickup appears, this one with the logo of a construction company. Two men climb out and head for the yellow beacon of Sunny SideUp. They’re barely at the door when it opens and a family of four explodes from inside, two children breaking into a run, like they’d been caged and are suddenly free.
Shouting their names—Liam! Ava!—their parents run after them. I watch for only a second before spotting Jack Sabathian and his dog.
Chapter 9
They are at a picnic table on the edge of the square. The man sits on its top with his elbows on splayed knees, while the dog sits on the bench seat with its short, sandy-haired body pressed to his leg. As I watch, Jack tightens the leash while the children pass.
I consider what to do myself.
Still running?he asked me last night. If I were, I would study my phone like I was checking a crucial message and make for my sister’s shop as if I hadn’t seen him there at all. But that would be ridiculous, with Jack now the only human in the square. Giving the picnic table a comfortably wide berth, I circle to the front. Both heads follow me around.
Jack is wearing mirrored sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes. I do know they’re gray, but what shade? While his nose is blade-straight, his body solid, and his opinions either for or against with no room for doubt, his eyes can go darker or lighter, harder or softer, iron to pewter to dove. They are a paradox, the only part of him that lacks absolutism.
Well, there is his hair, I concede. Despite the occasional strands of gray in his beard, I see no gray on his head. In a nod to memory, its chestnut is perpetually streaked, more so under the June sun, and while it is inches shorter than it was, it still has enough length to form waves. That hair is the devil’s lure.
I focus on the dog. “Smart move, the leash,” I remark.
Jack is stroking the dog’s ear, drawing it between forefinger and thumb with soothing repetition. “It’s for his own protection. Kids can be lethal.”
“But there are always kids here. It’s the way of the square. So why bring him?”
“Training. He’s learning that not everyone is a danger.” He takes off the shades, drops them on the table, and adds with what I see now is amusement, “Want to give him a pat?”
My hands are busy, one holding the camera strap on my shoulder, the other wiping sweat from my neck. Sweat is trickling between my breasts as well, but I’m not going there with Jack so close. “Thanks, but I’m good. Maybe another time.”
His eyes chide me. “Let him get to know you. Your daughter wasn’t afraid.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“You are.”
I’m about to deny it. But why? “Okay. I am. I’m used to goldendoodles, cockapoos, and cheagles. They’re all smaller.” But we both know the problem isn’t size. Jack’s dog is smaller than many of the designer breeds my friends have in New York. “There’s something about the way he’s tugging on that leash.”
“He wants to sniff your hand. Don’t worry. He just had breakfast. He won’t eat you until that’s worn off.”
“Good to know,” I say, but those bloodshot eyes are begging for something, and I do feel for the poor thing.
Jack’s voice comes low and coaxing. “Make his day, Mallory. Let him know you won’t hurt him.”
