For razor clamming the next day, Madison wore rain pants, a zip-up hoodie and Karin’s spare rain boots. The weather was cool and misty, with a brisk wind that blew the wet sand into weird, otherworldly ripples. She kept her hood up to stay warm and reasonably dry and to help hide her identity.
Clamming was a hoot. Sten taught her how to look for the “show,” the doughnut-shaped dimples in the sand that appeared as the tide retreated and indicated a razor clam in residence. He even let her try his PVC-pipe clamming gun, but only one time—because, he said, the rules were that you had to be licensed, you brought your own bucket and your own shovel or gun and you dug your own limit in clams, with nobody helping you.
“You’re such a straight arrow,” she teased him when he made her give him back his gun.
“You better watch out,” he warned in a dire tone, grinning at her from under the headlamp he’d yet to switch on.
“Because...?”
He leaned closer, as though he had some big secret to share. “Your brother Matt is a game warden. He might come and arrest you.”
The wind tried to blow her hoodie back. She pulled the drawstring tighter and retied it. “Matthias.” She’d memorized all the names on the stick Jonas had given her. “Second-born after Daniel, recently married to Sabra Bond of Astoria.”
“That’s him. But most of us call him Matt. And you’ll make a bad impression if you have to introduce yourself while he’s booking you for poaching.”
“Oh, come on. The most I would get is a citation, I’ll bet.”
He chuckled. “Just trying to keep you on the straight and narrow.”
“And even if he did arrest me, at least I would be meeting him.”
He leaned closer. His breath warmed her cheek. “A phone call. How hard can it be?”
“You’re nagging again.”
“Think of it asencouraging.”
Coco, in a purple slicker and red rain boots printed with dinosaurs, came running up. She skidded to a stop in the wet sand. “Madison,” she stage-whispered and then darted a glance around her at the scattering of strangers digging nearby. No one seemed the least interested in the little girl or the unknown woman in the turquoise hoodie gazing down at her. “Want to go to the truck and play? Mommy says if you pour it for me, I can have hot chocolate from the thermos she brought.”
It wasn’t full dark yet, but all down the beach as the tide continued to retreat, the clam diggers were switching on their headlamps.
Sten looked up from working his gun into the sand. “Go. Have fun.”
The next half hour was perfect. Madison sipped hot chocolate and made rubber band bracelets with Coco in Sten’s truck, watching the waning moon hanging over the water and the bright headlamps bobbing as the clammers hustled to take their limits.
Later, at Sten’s house, Madison got a lesson in cleaning the catch. Then she helped Karin and Sten with the cooking. They dredged the tender parts in flour, egg and panko, fried them up fast and ate them with lemon wedges and tartar sauce.
Sten walked her back to the cottage at ten. She pulled him inside with her and kissed him. He tasted of the single malt Scotch and dark roast coffee he’d had after dinner. She longed to ask him to stay.
But she sensed that he wouldn’t and why go hunting rejection?
When he said good-night, she let him go.
Even after a long, hot bath it was hard to sleep. She really was here for a purpose and getting absolutely nowhere with it. Sten annoyed her when he kept bugging her to reach out to old Mr. Valentine or one of her long-lost siblings—mostly because he was right. Damn it. She needed to make her move.
* * *
The next morning, Sten tapped on the sliding glass door at seven dressed in ripped-out jeans, flip-flops, a long-sleeved T-shirt that had seen better days and a serious case of bedhead. He had a half-empty mug of coffee in his hand.
She opened the slider. “What’s up?”
“Got any eggs?”
“Of course, I have eggs. You saw me buy them the other day.”
“Scramble me some?” Why did it feel like he was up to something? “Please?” he asked hopefully.
“Uh, sure. Come on in.”
