It felt like somebody was squeezing me around the middle, stopping my heart and my breath at the same time.
“Sandy? Are you coming? Joe’s got a keg at his house—we’re moving the party there.” The group from the boat was clustered in front of two pickup trucks in the parking lot, carrying coolers and brightly colored beach towels, looking very hot and impatient.
She nodded, then turned back to us. “Gotta go—but it was great running into you, Gibbes. And meeting you,” she said to me. Her eyes were a dull green, as if the light had stopped penetrating them years ago.
“You, too,” I said, managing a small smile.
We watched her walk toward the group, tiptoeing her way across the hot asphalt.
“I wouldn’t pay her too much attention,” Gibbes said. “There’s a reason they used to call her ‘Sandy the Public Beach.’” Even though his words had been meant to comfort me, the storm brewing in his eyes matched my own uneasiness.
“Owen, I’m so sorry, but I’m not feeling well—it must be the heat. I need to go back right now. We’ll return another time, okay?”
Owen masked his disappointment quickly. “All right. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Maybe.” I walked quickly, unaware of the sun beating down on us or the sweat trickling down my face and back. As soon as I got inside the house, I tore off my hat, then stood in the front parlor between the two air-conditioning units, lifting my hair off of my neck, wishing the whir of the appliances could erase the woman’s voice from my head. I was lucky to get away with just a broken heart instead of something else.
The children rushed in behind me, followed by Gibbes, who shut the door. I kept my eyes closed, hoping they’d keep going.
“Did you save this for me?” Owen said behind me.
Reluctantly I opened my eyes and saw him holding up the newspaper I’d found on the stairs and left on the hall table.
“I think it fell out of the recycling box. Why don’t you give it to Dr. Heyward?”
“But it has a picture of that plane on it, and I’ve been keeping those.”
Gibbes took the newspaper and flipped it over to read. After a moment he lifted his eyes to meet mine. “It’s about the crash. In 1955.” He turned to Owen. “Did you say you have more of these?”
Owen nodded. “Yeah. Mama said it was okay with you if I kept a few because they had stuff about planes.”
“Have you read them all yet?”
Owen shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Can I borrow them? I promise I’ll bring them back to you when I’m done.”
“Sure. I’ll go get them.” He took off up the stairs, his tread light as he crossed the hall upstairs to his bedroom.
“This is odd,” Gibbes said.
I turned toward him. “What is?”
“The plane was on its way from LaGuardia to Miami when it exploded over Beaufort.”
“I know—that’s what Deborah told us. Which makes sense, seeing as how, without even looking at a map, I can see that Beaufort would be on its flight path.”
He lowered the newspaper, then folded it in half. “But that’s not where it originated. It was only on a stopover at LaGuardia, where it was delayed for two hours. It started farther north.”
For a moment I imagined I could smell the scent of smoldering fire, of hot ashes falling like rain. Never let the fire get behind you. “Where?” I asked.
“Bangor. Bangor, Maine.”
I blinked several times, trying to get my thoughts in order, hoping to find something to say about coincidences and the world being a very small place. But my thoughts ran all the way up to the attic room, to the plane model with forty-nine dead passengers and crew representing a plane from my hometown that had crashed in Beaufort, South Carolina. As incongruous as it seemed, I couldn’t help but think of Cal’s favorite phrase when talking about the causes of various fires. There’s no such thing as accidents.
I looked up and met Gibbes’s eyes, and knew without a doubt that he’d heard Cal say that, too, and that neither one of us believed in coincidence.
chapter 21
EDITH
DECEMBER 1977
The house carried the scent of pine and cinnamon, owing completely to Cecelia’s decorating skills. Garlands artfully wrapped the banister, held in position with oversize red velvet bows, and festooned with pinecones sparkling under a dusting of frosty-white paint.