Heroes Are My Weakness: A Novel

Instead of driving back toward the house, he drove in the opposite direction. The dilapidated yellow schoolhouse trailer clung to the hill next to the ruins of the old building. They passed a closed art gallery and a pair of shuttered eateries advertising lobster rolls and steamed clams. The fish house sat next to Christmas Beach, where the fishermen hauled out their boats for maintenance.

The bumpy road made drinking a hot beverage, even with a lid, difficult, and Annie sipped carefully at the bitter coffee. “What Peregrine needs is a good Starbucks.”

“And a deli.” He slipped on a pair of aviators. “I’d sell my soul for a decent bagel.”

“You mean you still have one?”

“Are you done yet?”

“Sorry. My tongue keeps getting away from me.” She squinted against the bright winter sun. “One question, Theo . . .”

“Later.” He turned onto a badly rutted lane that quickly grew impassable. He parked in a grove of spruces. “We have to walk from here.”

Only a few weeks ago, even a short walk had been daunting, but she couldn’t remember her last coughing fit. The island had given her back her health. At least until the next time somebody shot at her.

Theo shortened his long-legged gait and held her elbow as they walked across the frozen ground. She didn’t need the support, but she liked the simple courtesy of his Old World manners. Twin ruts marked what was left of a lane that cut through a pine thicket. From there the lane sloped slightly downward past a felled tree, curved around a slight bend, and then opened into what, in summer, would be a glorious meadow. At the center sat an abandoned stone farmhouse with a slate roof and a pair of chimneys. A patch of what might be blueberries grew against an old stone icehouse. The ocean lay in the distance—close enough for a breathtaking view, but too far to inflict the worst of its fury. Even on a cold winter day, the secluded, sheltered meadow felt enchanted.

She released a long, slow breath. “This is a fantasy of what a Maine island should be.”

“A lot cozier than Harp House.”

“A crypt is cozier than Harp House.”

“I’m not arguing with you about that. This is the island’s oldest working farm. Or at least it was. They kept sheep here, grew some grain and vegetables. It’s been abandoned since the early 1980s.”

She observed the solid roof and unbroken windows. “Somebody’s still taking care of it.”

He took a slow sip of coffee, saying nothing.

She tilted her head toward him, but his eyes were hidden behind the lenses of his sunglasses. “You,” she said. “You’re the one who’s been taking care of it.”

He shrugged, as if it were no big deal. “I bought the place. Got it for a song.”

She wasn’t fooled by his dismissive tone. He might hate Harp House, but he loved this place.

He continued to gaze across the meadow and out at the ocean. “There’s no heat, no electricity. A well, but no functioning plumbing. It’s not worth much.”

But it was to him. The meadow’s shady spots held a few still-pristine patches of snow. She gazed past them toward the water, where the morning sun decked the waves’ crests with silver tinsel. “Why didn’t you want me to get on Naomi’s boat? Once I cleared the harbor, the cottage would have been yours.”

“The cottage would have been my father’s.”

“So?”

“Can you imagine what Cynthia would do with it? Turn it into a peasant’s hovel or tear it down to build an English village. Who the hell knows what she’d come up with?”

Another piece of what she’d thought she knew about him broke away. He wanted her to keep the cottage. She had to shake the cobwebs from her brain. “You know it’s only a matter of time before I lose the cottage. Once I find a steady job, I won’t be able to come here for two months every year.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

We. Not just her.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you the place.”

She followed him toward the farmhouse. She’d grown so used to the sound of the surf that the meadow’s birdcalls and deeper silences seemed enchanted. As they approached the front door, she knelt to examine a cluster of snowdrops. Their tiny, bell-shaped petals dipped in apology for showing off their beauty when so much winter remained. She touched one of the snowy blooms. “There’s still hope in the world.”

“Is there?”

“There has to be. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

His harsh bark of laughter held no merriment. “You remind me of this kid I know. He can’t win, but he keeps fighting.”

She tilted her head quizzically. “Are you talking about yourself?”

He seemed startled. “Me? No. The kid is— Forget it. Writers tend to blur the line between reality and fiction.”

Ventriloquists, too, she thought.

I have no idea what you’re talking about, Scamp sniffed.

Theo located the key he wanted and slipped it into the lock, which turned easily.

“I thought nobody on the island locked their doors,” she said.

“You can take the boy out of the city . . .”

She followed him into an empty room with worn, wide-plank wooden floors and a big stone fireplace. A chorus of dust motes, disturbed by the air currents, danced in front of a sunny window. The room smelled of woodsmoke and age, but not neglect. There were no piles of trash, no holes in the walls, which were papered in a faded, old-fashioned floral design that curled at the seams.

She unzipped her coat. He stood in the center of the room, his hands in the pockets of his gray parka, almost as if he were embarrassed for her to see this. She moved past him into the kitchen. The appliances were gone, with only a stone sink left and some dented hanging metal cupboards. An old fireplace occupied the end wall. It had been swept, and fresh wood lay in the grate. I love this place, she thought. The house was of the island but set apart from its conflicts.

She pulled off her hat and stuffed it in her pocket. A window above the sink looked out across a clearing that must have once held a garden. She imagined it in bloom—hollyhocks and gladiolas coexisting with snap peas, cabbage, and beets, all of it flourishing.


THEO CAME INTO THE KITCHEN behind Annie and watched her gazing through the window, her open coat falling slightly off one shoulder. She hadn’t bothered with makeup, and standing in this kitchen from the past, she could have been a farm woman from the 1930s. Her bold eyes and abundance of unruly hair didn’t conform to contemporary standards of manufactured beauty. She was a creature unto herself.