“Let’s not,” I agree. “This disaster is already large enough as it stands.”
But as I head back down the ladder and sneak across the boatyard, eager to put both physical and emotional space between me and Lucky and this whole tangled mess, his words drum in my temples along with my pounding pulse. And I realize something.
He’s lying too.
His parents don’t know that he didn’t throw that rock. They don’t know that he’s covering for me. That seems significant. I just can’t figure out why.
But I’m going to.
COAST LIFE IS THE GOOD LIFE: This etched glass sign is posted by the entrance to the lone quarterly magazine headquarters in town. The brick building also houses the local newspaper and sits on the historic town common next to Summers & Co Department Store.(Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 7
Like most of the smaller shops on our block, the Nook traditionally closes early at noon every Wednesday for a half day—something to do with farmers back in the 1800s, I don’t know. But the Wednesday after I talk to Lucky, I’m thankful for it. If Lucky won’t let me turn myself in to the police and unburden my soul, then I’m going back to my original plan: Los Angeles or bust. I’ve just got some repair work to do. A teeny, tiny little patch.
And maybe while I’m in the process of patching, I might do a little snooping. I’ve been cooped up in the Nook too long.
I need to get out and assess the damage. And other things …
“You can use your darkroom if you need to develop any film,” Mom tells me when I clock out for the afternoon and she’s taking the till out of the register. “I won’t be receiving books in the back this afternoon.”
“That’s okay.”
“You were begging me to clear it out yesterday.”
“I’m going to … shoot some signs on the common.” Lie.
“Oh? Thought you’d snapped all those.”
“Not all of them.” Double lie. I’ve taken a million shots of every sign on the town common. “Maybe I’ll head down the Harborwalk. Need new material for my Photo Funder. Losing subscribers left and right.”
“Only losers who don’t appreciate good art when they see it. You’ll get new subscribers. I don’t like you walking around town alone, though. If anyone harasses you—”
“I’ll record it.”
Which is probably what I should have done that night at the party with Adrian; then again, I’d have to look at that nude photo of my mom all the time. She still doesn’t know, which is a miracle, considering how small this town is. All I can hope is that it stays in the teen gossip circuit and doesn’t make it up to her old friends.
When I’m certain she’s taken the till into the stockroom and will be busy for a bit, I race up the rickety back steps to the above-shop apartment and scour my clothes for an outfit that screams Professional and Adult, but not Trying Too Hard: black pants, flats, white blouse. Hair in a simple French braid. Not much I can do about the splotchy freckles that make me look years younger, and after two failed tries, I give up on covering them with makeup.
Satisfied, I grab my big sunglasses and my portfolio—a black leather binder with twenty-five prints zipped up inside—andrace out the door. I take the long way through the alley, to avoid being spotted by Mom or anyone else, and cut through a narrow lane with a shop that always smells like Christmas and sells hand-dipped beeswax and bayberry candles, and a darkened door with a bright redFOR RENTsign: It once housed the office of Desmond Banks, Private Investigator. Beauty only has one store that stays open twenty-four hours a day, but we had a need for a PI? Or maybe the point is that wedidn’t, and that’s why he’s out of business.
Who knows. Beauty is strange.
But strange isn’t a bad thing, and it’s sunny and warm, a perfect June day without a cloud in the sky, making it easy to lie to myself and pretend that I’m not anxious. As I cross the town common, tourists shade their eyes to stare at the historic town hall and take pictures on their phones of iron hitching posts and red-and-purple pansies under massive beech trees that rich families brought here from Europe in the Gilded Age. I hurry past them, hoping no one recognizes me, and I stride down a long sidewalk to my destination.
The entrance ofCoast Lifemagazine’s offices.
I’m breathing heavily when I push through the old brass doors and stride into a silent lobby with vaulted ceilings and marble floors. A lone receptionist sits behind a glass desk, guarding a glass door: The actual offices are beyond it.
All is quiet except the sound of my flats on the marble. When I reach the desk, the young woman with short hair holds up afinger until she’s finished talking in a low, metered voice on a wireless headset. Then she lifts her head and smiles.
A smile is good. A smile means she doesn’t associate me with the police station. Or the broken window at Summers & Co. Or the nude photo of my mother that’s circulating around town …
“Josie Saint-Martin to see Nina Cox,” I say, a little breathless and nervous.
She looks confused. “Did you have an appointment?”
“Not, uh, exactly, but she was considering me for the photography internship—”
