Maddie winced. She opened her eyes to the unwelcome sight of curmudgeonly Bud Erikson.
“Mind if I join you?” he rasped.
More than anything, Maddie wanted to say, “Yes, I mind. Now go away.” Instead, as the new shopkeeper on the harbor, she smiled and said, “Please do. Would you like a cup of herb tea? We’re not officially open until tomorrow, but I could make one—hot or iced—for you.”
He frowned, his thick eyebrows meeting head-on at the bridge of his wide nose. “Not much of a tea man. But thanks for the offer.”
How on earth did he have a son as nice as Dave?Shaking off her distaste, Maddie sat up straight and tried to look halfway pleasant. Then she remembered his comment when he’d stopped by the shop before: “I’m still here,” the grumpy man had said. The same words that appeared on the second note on New Year’s Day.
She folded her hands in her lap and tightened her grip of her fingers.
Bud’s eyes were busy scanning the glass doors that served as the rear entrance to the bookshop. “Did my son do a respectable job inside?”
“He sure did.”
“He used to be a fisherman like me.”
“Yes, you mentioned that before. It’s nice that he found something else that he’s good at.” She couldn’t believe how calm and controlled her voice sounded when inside she was quivering.
The man guffawed. “I didn’t say he was a good fisherman.”
“Well, he’s a good painter. And he helps Kevin with other things, which are very much appreciated.” For some ridiculous reason she felt she should sing Dave’s praises to his father.
“You’re the one who cleared the tables at the potluck, right? On Cranberry Day?”
She felt her eyes open wide as she said yes, surprised he’d paid her any notice, what with him having been deep in conversation with a Wampanoag man about Arnie’s Bait & Tackle.
“I’ve been wonderin’ something. Did you hear what we were saying about Arnie’s? Is that how you wound up with this place?”
Maddie wasn’t sure how to respond. “Let’s say it gave me the idea.” She forced a smile, unsure what he was trying to get at, if anything.
“Well, I’ll be.” He scratched his bristly chin, then skimmed his gaze across the back of the shop again. “I wish you all the best. God knows you’ve done wonders with the place. For starters, it smells better now. And though I’m not much of a reader, summer folks will lap it up. Up-islanders will, too.”
It was difficult to tell whether he was being nice or wanted something. Not that she cared. She only wanted him to leave.
“Your grandmother’s Nancy Clieg, right?”
Has he stopped by just to grill me? And if so, why?Maybe he wanted to make her nervous the day before the shop opened, though why on earth would he do that?
The baby did a somersault inside her. Maddie stiffened.
“Yes,” she said, “Nancy’s my grandmother. She’s made some of her traditional baskets that we’re going to sell at the shop.”
Like herbal tea and reading, baskets did not appear to interest him.
“So, Hannah was your mother, right? You going to sell any of her paintings?”
Maddie grew cautious. “No,” she said.
“Huh,” Bud continued, once again scratching at his stubble. “Damn good artist, she was.”
“You knew my mother.” It came out as a statement, not a question. She started to perspire.
“Sure. Everybody knew everybody back then. I was a couple of years ahead of her in school. A right pretty girl, that Hannah Clieg.”
And then things seemed to make sense. The notes. The yearbook. Was Bud Erikson the mystery man who, as Rex suggested, might have had a “thing” for her mother? Had they dated? Had Hannah dumped him for Stephen Clarke, the washashore who’d whisked her off to America? All these years, Bud might have harbored a grudge. Seeing Hannah’s daughter might have dredged up his old pain, might have made him want Maddie toGet off the island. And don’t come back.
“It’s you,” she said.
