Jonathan retreats to the bed and sits down. His eyes are calm, his voice contemplative. “I get it now. You like this guy. You don’t actually care about whether I’m a good person, or whether Logan ruined his life—you just want an out. You’ve met someone else, and instead of being up front about it, instead of being honest with yourself, you’re starting a fight in the hopes that I’ll end things for us.”
The veracity of Jonathan’s observation—an observational truth that was not evident to Cece herself until this very moment—leaves her speechless, her mouth agape, words caught somewhere in her throat. Jonathan regards her with a kind of sagacious displeasure, like a college professor listening to an undergraduate pleading for an extension on their midterm paper. He shakes his head and fishes his loafers out from under the bed. “It’s myreunion weekend. All my friends are here. I’d prefer if we didn’t have a big blowup…I’m all tapped out. We’re just different, Cece. There’s no shame in admitting it. I know that now.”
Jonathan’s maturity is enraging, but Cece knows he’s right. The fire’s gone out of her. Logan, Jonathan, the rest of his friends—they are of this place. And why should she hold it against them? It’s like faulting a fish for swimming, a wave for rolling. Her pocket vibrates but she ignores it. He is right. Of course, he is always right. Even now, she can’t vilify him—make it easier to leave, less risky. She goes to her suitcase and zips it closed. “I’ll just get going.”
“You don’t have a ride.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
Jonathan throws up his hands as if to extricate himself from the situation entirely. “Do whatever you want.”
Cece pulls out her phone. It’s Richie. “I’m sorry about the way this all ended.”
“I’m not,” Jonathan says. “It’s brought me clarity, and now I don’t have to waste any more of my time.”
Cece feels the heat rise in her chest, the need to defend, to attack Jonathan for beingsoJonathan in all things, but then it dies. She lets him have the last word (a sign of maturity, she hopes) and slips out into the hall, suitcase rolling behind her, and picks up the call.
“We’ve got a problem,” Richie says. It sounds like he’s calling from a high school cafeteria, voices echoing in the background.
According to Richie, he’s done nothing wrong. It was all just a big misunderstanding, but that isn’t how the police saw it, which is why he’s calling from the county jail.
“Assault?! What were you thinking?”
“All I did was yank a banner out of the guy’s hand. I was just going about my business. He was the one being aggressive.”
“They’re holding you just for that?”
“He might have taken a spill.”
Cece’s mind whirls. “What can I do?”
In an oddly steady voice, Richie tells her he needs two things. The first is that he’s using up his one call on her, so she’ll need to contact his lawyer. The second is that she’ll need to head back to New London as soon as possible.
“Why?”
“The town hall is tomorrow, remember? There’s no guarantee I make bail by then. You need to be prepared to give a statement, serve as a representative for the company.”
“What about Santiago?”
“Don’t kid yourself. He’s too rough around the edges. My time is up here. You’re the only one who can do it.”
Images flood her mind: Cece fumbling for words at the microphone, palms slick, tongue turgid, onlookers chuckling to one another at her frazzled gibberish. “I’m terrible at public speaking.”
“And you think I’m any good?”
“But I don’t know anything about the company. What am I supposed to say? This isn’t the plan.”
“You’ll figure something out,” Richie says.
“There’s got to be another—”
The line goes dead, and all Cece can do is stare at her trembling hands.
17
The tall ships have yet to sail into harbor for the maritime festival, leaving New London’s skyline empty and bare. The old church steeple stands alone, slender and gray. The rising sun bounds off the placid waters and glows on the redbrick train station, stout and proud. Row houses cramp the streets, side by side, ready to face the day. Fall beckons.
The planning and zoning commission meeting at city hall isn’t until noon, but there’s already a crowd forming—a rarity for downtown—of local news vans and overzealous reporters in heavy makeup and neutral-toned suits. Word of the protests and Richie’s arrest has sparked interest, and there’s nothing the media would like more than B-roll of civil unrest between protestors on the granite steps. People are picking sides, apparently, environmentalists and NIMBYs pitted against tradesmen and fishermen of all stripes. From the images on the grainy motel television, it’s clear to Cece that very few people understand the issue and instead have latched on to their chosen cause to align with their personal politics. Richie was nice enough to put Cece up at a local motel since staying at Lorraine’s is no longer an option. Hislawyer seems confident he’ll make bail in time for the meeting, but Cece isn’t taking any chances. Index cards with scribbled notes litter the carpeted floor like confetti. Still no word from Morgan. Cece doesn’t know what she’s expecting. At least they’d reached the two-hundred-signature threshold in support of Rayburn’s expansion. That had to count for something, right, all those names? She’d had no problem recruiting Santiago and Davi to collect signatures, especially once the protests had started.
