Now That You Mention It
Page 33

“What do you do, specifically?”
“Well, as the saying goes, I am the shit. New England’s leading expert in the rejuvenation of the mollusk population. Right now, I’m growing oyster beds about a mile off the coast to replace the overfished areas. Cool, right? Saving the world through shellfish.” She looked at me, her eyes smiling. “You always knew I’d be a badass.”
“I did,” I said. “She had badass written all over her, Gloria. A total Gryffindor.”
Xiaowen laughed. “You’re still a Harry Potter geek, I see.”
“Yes. Of course. I would never betray Hogwarts.” I felt it, that flash of my Perez self.
“Are you married, Xiaowen?” Gloria asked. “Did I say that right?”
“You said it fine. Nope, not married. I was engaged, but I dumped him. But that, my friends, is a story best told over martinis. You should come to my house, Stuart. Both of you. Gloria, you’re not a serial killer, right? You can come, too. But, Stuart, you have to tell me. What the hell are you doing back here? To say you left skid marks on the pavement would not have been an exaggeration.”
I gave her the same vague answer I’d given Gloria—family, a minor car accident that left me slightly injured.
Amy brought our food, grunting at Xiaowen before going back to the kitchen. It was clear Xiaowen and she weren’t friends. That made the petty part of me feel good. How many times had Amy and the Cheetos made my life miserable, after all? By the end of lunch, Gloria, Xiaowen and I had a date to get together at the houseboat for wine and cheese later this week.
I picked up the tab, telling the other two they could get it the next time, and left Amy a fifteen percent nothing-was-terrible tip. Twenty percent was my standard. Points off for surly attitude.
We parted ways in the parking lot, and because my knee and shoulder weren’t killing me, I decided to walk the few blocks downtown. My mother had opened a post office box for me, and I had to check it.
Maybe Bobby had sent me something.
I squelched the thought. But next week, I’d see him—it was our first trade-off with Boomer.
Daffodils and tulips bobbed in front of most of the stores on Main Street, and a few businesses had already filled their window boxes with pansies, though a hard frost wasn’t out of the question. I went past the bookstore, which I would hit on the way back... I needed something to read on the quiet nights on my boat (in addition to Harry Potter, of course). Nothing scary, though. Stephen King would have to woo me back in a few months.
Scupper Island General Store was the jewel of the downtown businesses. It was the original general store on the island—wooden floors shiny from a hundred years of footsteps, a woodstove in the center, shelves made of oak. It was laden with things a person might actually need, like laundry detergent and dish towels, but also with old-timey goods—blue-and-white tin mugs, hand cream made from goat’s milk, homemade cookies, cast-iron frying pans and lots and lots of lobster-eating tools—shell crackers and picks and giant white enamel pots, strainers and serving spoons and little tubs for drawn butter. They also sold plenty of postcards, served ice cream out the back window in the summer and carried T-shirts depicting mosquitoes carrying away children. Business had always been good. For townies, the Fletchers were well-off.
I went to the other half of the building, to the post office, which held a hundred brass boxes with twist combinations.
I got my mail—an envelope addressed in Roseline’s pretty handwriting, bless her, and, dear God, a note from Bobby! A handwritten note from my ER physician boyfriend?
Check that. Ex-boyfriend.
Still, it gave me a warm tingle. I’d read it on the deck tonight when I could savor it (hopefully it wasn’t just a bill he was forwarding). I’d be a modern-day Lizzie Bennet, with wine instead of tea.
I also had a yellow notice alerting me that there was a package. I went to the counter. Mrs. Fletcher, Luke and Sullivan’s mother, was visible at the other end, fussing with some papers.
She ignored me.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Hi, Mrs. Fletcher.”
Nothing.
I rolled my eyes. “Hello. I have a package?”
Still nothing. There was a bell on the counter, and I dinged it. Hard.
“What do you need?” she snapped.
“How are you, Mrs. Fletcher? I don’t know if you remember me, but I went to school with your sons.” I smiled, not even trying to make it genuine. “Nora Stuart.”
“Oh, I remember you, all right.” Insert the sound of evil music—duh-duh-dunnnn.
“May I please have my package? Box eighty-eight. Thank you so much.”
She snarled, turned and tossed it on the counter. “Such friendly service,” I said, glancing at the thick envelope.
It was from Washington State Women’s Correctional Facility. My mouth opened.
“Your sistah might be in jail, but she’s worth twenny of you,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
I blinked, the words stinging. My sister, the drug dealer. The thief.
Then again, Mrs. Fletcher thought I was a thief, too. “Have a nice day, Teeny,” I said, deliberately using her ridiculous first name.
I pushed her nastiness out of my head. My sister had sent me something, and that was a first. A complete first. Never once, not at college, med school, afterward, had she sent me anything at all. She only—and very occasionally—answered emails and texts, never initiated them. I hadn’t heard from her at all in the past three years.
What would my sister be sending me? It was a small package, the kind lined with bubble wrap. I stared down at it as I walked back to my car.
I’d wait to open this, too.
I stopped at Island Flowers, another new business, and chatted up the owner, a lovely man with dirt on his hands. At my old apartment, I’d had herbs in little pots on the kitchen windowsill. No reason for me not to have them again. I smelled the cilantro and nearly swooned, grabbed some mint, rosemary and oregano. A couple of flowering plants, too. Why not?
“I’ll bring my car around,” I said.
“Perfect!” said the owner. “I’ll box them up for you, so they won’t tip.”
As I walked down to the clinic, where I’d parked, I looked out at the water, which was dark blue today. Full moon tonight, so the tide would be high. I’d sit on the deck and—
I slammed square into someone. My collarbone twinged. “I’m so sorry!” I said. “I didn’t—”
It was Luke Fletcher.
The boy who once—I was almost positive—threatened to rape me because I’d taken something he thought was his.
I straightened up. “Luke,” I said.
“Troll.”
So, like his brother, he’d recognized me.
He was still so beautiful, though I recognized the signs of a hard struggle with alcohol and drugs. He was thinner than I remembered, and a few capillaries were broken in his cheeks. There were a few scars that might’ve been from skin picking on his face, a classic habit of a junkie.
But drugs and booze hadn’t taken away his bone structure or his thick tawny hair or the way he owned the sidewalk.
“Heard we’re neighbors,” he said, looking over my head. “My brother said he’s already been to see you.”
“Your niece, too.”
“You stay away from my family,” he said.
“They visited me,” I said. Then, trying to be friendly—new leaf and all that—I added, “Audrey’s very nice.”