Whiskey Beach

Chapter Two

ELI WANDERED THE HOUSE, HOPING IT MIGHT HELP HIM orient. He hated this feeling of free-floating, just drifting from place to place, thought to thought, without any sense of anchor or root. Once he’d had structure in his life, and purpose. Even after Lindsay’s death, when the structure broke to pieces, he’d had purpose.

Fighting against spending the rest of his life in prison equaled a strong, defined purpose.

And now with the threat less immediate, less viable, what purpose did he have? His writing, he reminded himself. He often thought the process and the escape of writing had saved his sanity.

But where was his anchor now? Where was the root? Was it Bluff House? As simple as that?

He’d spent time in this house as a boy, as a young man, so many summers with the beach always tantalizingly close, so many winter holidays or weekends, watching snow heap itself on the sand, on the rocks jutting through it.

Simple times—innocent? Had they been? Sand castles and clambakes with family, with friends, sailing with his grandfather in the pretty sloop he knew his grandmother still kept moored in Whiskey Beach marina, and noisy, crowded, colorful Christmas dinners, with all the fireplaces snapping and sizzling.

He’d never imagined himself wandering through these rooms like a ghost straining for the echoes of those voices or the faded images of better times.

When he stood in his grandmother’s bedroom, it struck him that while she’d made changes here—the paint, the bedding—much remained just as always.

The big fabulous four-poster where his own father—due to a blizzard and a rapid labor—had been born. The photograph of his grandparents, so young and vibrant and beautiful on their wedding day more than a half century before still stood, as it always had, in its gleaming silver frame on the bureau. And the view from the windows of the sea, the sand, the jagged curve of the rocky coastline remained constant.

Suddenly he had a vivid, movie-stream memory of a summer night, a wild summer storm. Thunder crashing, lightning whipping. And he and his sister, who’d been spending the week at Bluff House, running in terror to his grandparents’ bed.

What had he been—five, or maybe six? But he could see it all, as if through a clear, crystal lens. The flashes of light outside the windows, the wonderful big bed he had to climb up to. He heard his grandfather—and wasn’t it odd to just that moment realize how much his father had come to resemble his grandfather at a similar age?—laughing as he’d hauled the terrified Tricia into the bed.

They’re having a wild party up there tonight! It’s heaven’s rock concert.

Even as the image faded, Eli felt steadier.

He walked to the terrace doors, flipped the lock and stepped out into the wind and cold.

The waves kicked, riled up by the strong, steady wind that tasted of snow. On the tip of the headland, the far end of that curve, the bride-white tower of the lighthouse rose above a tumble of rocks. Far out in the Atlantic, he saw a speck that was a ship plying those restless waters.

Where was it going? What did it carry?

They’d played a game long ago, a variation on A is for Apple. It’s going to Armenia, Eli thought, and it’s carrying artichokes.

For the first time in too long, as he hunched his shoulders against that ice-pick cold, he smiled.

To Bimini with baboons. To Cairo with coconuts. To Denmark with dental floss, he thought as the speck vanished.

He stood a moment longer before stepping back inside, back into the warm.

He needed to do something. He should go out, get his stuff. Unpack, settle in.

Maybe later.

He walked out again, wandered again, all the way to the third floor that had once served—before his time—as the servants’ domain.

Storage now, ghost-draped furniture, chests, boxes, most in the wide space while the warren of rooms where maids and cooks had slept stood empty. Still, with no purpose in mind, he walked through them to the sea side, and the gable room with its wide, curved windows facing the sea.

The head housekeeper’s room, he thought. Or had it been the head butler’s? He couldn’t remember which, but whoever had slept there claimed prime territory, down to the private entrance and terrace.

No need for all that staff now, or to keep the third floor furnished, maintained, even heated. His practical Gran had closed that off years ago.

Maybe one day whoever was in charge would repurpose it, bring it back, shake off all those ghost cloths and strike up the warmth and light.

But right now it felt as empty and cold as he did.

He went down again, continued to wander.

And found more changes.

In what had been one of the second-floor bedrooms, his grandmother had reimagined, redesigned it into an office/sitting room. A study, he supposed. Complete with a computer station on a gorgeous old desk, a reading chair and what he thought of as an afternoon nap sofa. More of her art—petal pink peonies spilling out of a cobalt vase, mists rising over windswept dunes.

And the view, of course, spread out like a banquet for a hungry soul.

He moved into the room, to the desk, and pulled the sticky note off the monitor.

Hester says:

Write here, and why aren’t you already?

Relayed by Abra.

He frowned at the note a moment, not sure he appreciated his grandmother’s using her neighbor to relay her orders. Then, the note still in his hand, he looked around the room, the windows, even into the little bathroom, the closet that now held office supplies as well as linens, blankets and pillows. Which meant, he concluded, the sofa was a pullout.

Practical again. The house held a dozen bedrooms or more—he couldn’t remember—but why waste space when you could multipurpose?

He shook his head at the glass-fronted mini-fridge stocked with bottled water and his own guilty favorite since college, Mountain Dew.

Write here.

It was a good space, he thought, and the idea of writing held a lot more appeal than unpacking.

“Okay,” he said. “All right.”

He went to his room, retrieved his laptop case. He slid the keyboard and monitor to the far left, gave himself room for his own tool. And since it was there, what the hell, got a cold bottle of the Dew. He booted up, plugged in his thumb drive.

“Okay,” he said again. “Where were we?”

He opened the bottle, chugged as he brought up his work, did a quick review. And with one last glance at the view, dived in.

He escaped.

Since college, he’d written as a hobby—an interest he’d enjoyed indulging. And it had given him some pride when he’d sold a handful of short stories.

In the past year and a half—when his life began to shake into the dumpster—he’d found writing offered him better therapy, a calmer mind than a fifty-minute hour with a shrink.

He could go away into a world he created, he—to some extent, anyway—controlled. And oddly felt more himself than he did outside that world.

He wrote—again, to some extent—what he knew. Crafting legal thrillers—first in short stories, and now this terrifying and seductive attempt at a novel—gave him an opportunity to play with the law, to use it, misuse it, depending on the character. He could create dilemmas, solutions, tightrope along the thin and slippery line, always shifting between the law and justice.

He’d become a lawyer because the law, with all of its flaws, all of its intricacies and interpretations, fascinated him. And because the family business, the industry of Landon Whiskey, just wasn’t a fit for him as it was for his father, his sister, even his brother-in-law.

He’d wanted criminal law, and had pursued that goal single-mindedly through law school, while clerking for Judge Reingold, a man he admired and respected, and into Brown, Kinsale, Schubert and Associates.

Now that the law had failed him in a very real sense, he wrote to feel alive, to remind himself there were times truth held out against lies, and justice found a way.

By the time he surfaced, the light had changed, gone gloomy, softening the tones in the water. With some surprise he noted it was after three; he’d written solidly for nearly four hours.

“Hester scores again,” he murmured.

He backed up the work, switched to e-mail. Plenty of spam, he noted—and deleted. Not much else, and nothing he felt obliged, right then, to read.

Instead he composed a post to his parents, and another to his sister with nearly the same text. No problems on the drive, house looks great, good to be back, settling in. Nothing about recurring dreams, sneaking depression or talkative neighbors who fixed omelets.

Then he composed another to his grandmother.

I’m writing here, as ordered. Thank you. The water’s gone to rippling steel with fast white horses. It’s going to snow; you can taste it. The house looks good, and feels even better. I’d forgotten how it always made me feel. I’m sorry—don’t tell me not to apologize again—I’m sorry, Gran, I stopped coming. But I’m sorry now almost as much for me as for you.

Maybe if I’d come to you, to Bluff House, I’d have seen things more clearly, accepted things, changed things. If I had, would it have all gone so horribly wrong?

I’ll never know, and there’s no point in the what-ifs.

What I’m sure of is it’s good to be here, and I’ll take care of the house until you come home. I’m going to take a walk on the beach, come back and start a fire so I can enjoy it once the snow starts to fall.

I love you,

Eli

Oh, P.S. I met Abra Walsh. She’s interesting. I can’t remember if I thanked her for saving the love of my life. I’ll make sure I do when she comes back.

After he sent the e-mail, it occurred to him that while he couldn’t remember if he’d thanked her, he did remember he hadn’t paid her for the groceries.

He wrote himself a note on the pack of Post-its he found in the desk drawer, stuck it to the computer monitor. He forgot too easily these days.

No point in putting off unpacking, he told himself. If nothing else, he needed to change the clothes he’d worn two days straight. He couldn’t let himself go down that road again.

He used the lift writing had given him, dragged on his coat, remembered he’d yet to put on shoes, then went out for his bags.

In the unpacking he discovered he hadn’t packed sensibly. He hardly needed a suit, much less three of them, or four pairs of dress shoes, fifteen (Jesus Christ!) ties. Just habit, he told himself. Just packing on autopilot.

He hung, folded in drawers, stacked up books, found his phone charger, his iPod. Once some of his things worked their way into the room, he found it did make him feel more settled in.

So he unpacked his laptop case, tucked his checkbook—had to pay the neighbor when she cleaned—in the desk drawer along with his obsessive supply of pens.

He’d go for a walk now. Stretch his legs, get some exercise, some fresh air. Those were healthy, productive things to do. Because he didn’t want to make the effort, he forced himself as he’d promised himself he would. Get out every day, even if it’s just a walk on the beach. Don’t wallow, don’t brood.

He pulled on his parka, shoved the keys in his pocket and went out the terrace doors before he changed his mind.

He forced himself to cross the pavers against the maniacal bluster of wind. Fifteen minutes, he decided as he headed for the beach steps with his head down and his shoulders hunched. That qualified as getting out of the house. He’d walk down, head in one direction for seven and a half minutes, then walk back.

Then he’d build a fire, and sit and brood in front of it with a glass of whiskey if he wanted to.

Sand swirled up from the dunes to dance while the wind sweeping in from the sea kicked at the sea grass like a bully. The white horses he’d told his grandmother about reared and galloped over water of hard, icy gray. The air scored his throat on each breath like crushed glass.

Winter clung to Whiskey Beach like frozen burrs, reminding him he’d forgotten gloves, a hat.

He could walk thirty minutes tomorrow, he bargained with himself. Or pick one day of the week for an hour. Who said it had to be every day? Who made the rules? It was freaking cold out there, and even an idiot could look at that bloated sky and know those smug, swirling clouds were just waiting to dump a boatload of snow.

And only an idiot walked on the beach during a snowstorm.

He reached the bottom of the sand-strewn steps with his own thoughts all but drowned out in the roar of water and wind. No point in this, he convinced himself, and on the edge of turning around and climbing up again, lifted his head.

Waves rolled out of that steel-gray world to hurl themselves at the shore like battering rams, full of force and fury. Battle cry after battle cry echoed in their unrelenting advance and retreat. Against the shifting sand rose the juts and jumble of rock it attacked, regrouped, attacked again in a war neither side would ever win.

Above the battle that bulging sky waited, watched, as if calculating when to unleash its own weapons.

So Eli stood, struck by the terrible power and beauty. The sheer magnificence of energy.

Then, while the war raged, he began to walk.

He saw not another soul along the long beach, heard only the sound of the bitter wind and angry surf. Above the dunes the homes and cottages stood with windows shut tight against the cold. No one moved up or down the beach steps or stood on bluff or cliff as far as he could see. No one looked out to sea from the pier where the turbulent surf hammered mercilessly at the pilings.

For now, for this moment, he was alone as Crusoe. But not lonely.

Impossible to be lonely here, he realized, surrounded by all this power and energy. He’d remember this, he promised himself, remember this feeling the next time he tried to make excuses, the next time he tried to justify just closing himself in.

He loved the beach, and this stretch remained a sentimental favorite. He loved the feel of it before a storm—winter, summer, spring, it didn’t matter. And the life of it during the season when people dived into the waves or stretched out on towels, or settled onto beach chairs under umbrellas. The way it looked at sunrise, or felt in the soft kiss of summer twilight.

Why had he robbed himself of this for so long? He couldn’t blame circumstances, couldn’t blame Lindsay. He could, and should, have come—for his grandmother, for himself. But he’d chosen what had seemed the easier way than explaining why his wife hadn’t come, making excuses for her, for himself. Or arguing with Lindsay when she’d pushed for Cape Cod or Martha’s Vineyard—or an extended vacation on the Côte d’Azur.

But the easier way hadn’t made it easier, and he’d lost something important to him.

If he didn’t take it back now, he’d have no one to blame but himself. So he walked, all the way to the pier, and remembered the girl he’d had a serious, sizzling summer flirtation with just before he’d started college. Fishing with his father—something neither of them had even a remote skill for. And further back to childhood and digging in the sand at low tide for pirate treasure with fleeting summer friends.

Esmeralda’s Dowry, he thought. The old and still vital legend of the treasure stolen by pirates in a fierce battle at sea, then lost again when the pirate ship, the infamous Calypso, wrecked on the rocks of Whiskey Beach, all but at the feet of Bluff House.

He’d heard every variation of that legend over the years, and as a child had hunted with his friends. They’d be the ones to dig up the treasure, become modern-day pirates with its pieces of eight and jewels and silver.

And like everyone else, they’d found nothing but clams, sand crabs and shells. But they’d enjoyed the adventures during those long-ago, sun-washed summers.

Whiskey Beach had been good to him, good for him. Standing here with those wicked combers spewing their foam and spray, he believed it would be good for him again.

He’d walked farther than he’d intended, and stayed longer, but now as he started back he thought of the whiskey by the fire as a pleasure, a kind of reward rather than an escape or an excuse for a brood.

He should probably make something to eat as he hadn’t given a thought to lunch. He hadn’t, he realized, eaten anything since breakfast. Which meant he’d reneged on another promise to himself to regain the weight he’d lost, to start working on a healthier lifestyle.

So he’d make a decent meal for dinner, and get started on that healthier lifestyle. There had to be something he could put together. The neighbor had stocked the kitchen, so . . .

As he thought of her, he glanced up and saw Laughing Gull nestled with its neighbors beyond the dunes. The bold summer-sky blue of its clapboard stood out among the pastels and creamy whites. He remembered it as a soft gray at one time. But the quirky shape of the place with its single peaked roof gable, its wide roof deck and the glass hump of a solarium made it unmistakable.

He saw lights twinkling behind that glass to stave off the gloom.

He’d go up and pay her now, he decided, with cash. Then he could stop thinking about it. He’d walk home from there, renewing his memory of the other houses, who lived there—or who had.

Part of his brain calculated that now he’d have something cheerful—and true—to report home. Went for a walk on the beach (describe), stopped by to see Abra Walsh on the way home. Blah, blah, new paint on Laughing Gull looks good.

See, not isolating myself, concerned family. Getting out, making contacts. Situation normal.

Amused at himself, he composed the e-mail as he climbed. He turned down a smooth cobble path between a short yard laid out with shrubs and statuary—a fanciful mermaid curled on her tail, a frog strumming a banjo, and a little stone bench on legs of winged fairies. He was so struck by the new—to him—landscaping and how perfectly it suited the individuality of the cottage, he didn’t notice the movement behind the solarium until he had a foot on the door stoop.

Several women on yoga mats rose up—with varying degrees of fluidity and skill, to the inverted V position he identified as the Downward-Facing Dog.

Most of them wore the yoga gear—colorful tops, slim pants—he’d often seen in the gym. When he’d belonged to a gym. Some opted for sweats, others for shorts.

All of them, with some wobbles, brought one foot forward into a lunge, then rose up—with a couple of teeters—front leg bent, back leg straight, arms spread front and back.

Mildly embarrassed, he started to step back, to back away, when he realized the group was following Abra’s lead.

She held her position, her mass of hair pulled back in a tail. The deep purple top showed off long, sculpted arms; the stone-gray pants clung to narrow hips, slid down long legs to long, narrow feet with toenails painted the same purple as the top.

It fascinated him, tugged at him as she—then the others—bowed back, front arm curved over her head, torso turning, head lifting.

Then she straightened her front leg, cocked forward, leaning down, down until her hand rested on the floor by her front foot, and her other arm reached for the ceiling. Again her torso turned. Before he could step back, her head turned as well. As her gaze swept up, her eyes met his.

She smiled. As if he’d been expected, as if he hadn’t been—inadvertently—playing Peeping Tom.

He stepped back now, making a gesture he hoped communicated apology, but she was already straightening up. He saw her motion to one of the women as she wove through the mats and bodies.

What should he do now?

The front door opened, and she smiled at him again. “Eli, hi.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . . until I did.”

“God, it’s freezing! Come on inside.”

“No, you’re busy. I was just walking, then I—”

“Well, walk in here before I freeze to death.” She stepped out on those long bare feet, took his hand.

“Your hand’s like ice.” She gave it a tug, insistent. “I don’t want the cold air to chill the class.”

Left without a choice, he stepped in so she could close the door. New Agey music murmured like water in a stream from the solarium. He could see the woman at the rear of the class come back up to that lunging position.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m interrupting.”

“It’s all right. Maureen can guide them through. We’re nearly finished. Why don’t you go on back to the kitchen? Have a glass of wine while I finish up?”

“No. No, thanks.” He wished, almost desperately, he hadn’t taken the impulsive detour. “I just— I was out for a walk, and I just stopped by on the way back because I realized I didn’t pay you for the groceries.”

“Hester took care of it.”

“Oh. I should’ve figured that. I’ll talk to her.”

The framed pencil sketch in the entry distracted him for a moment. He recognized his grandmother’s work even without the H. H. Landon in the bottom corner.

He recognized Abra as well, standing slim and straight as a lance in Tree position, her arms overhead, and her face caught on a laugh.

“Hester gave it to me last year,” Abra said.

“What?”

“The sketch. I talked her into coming to class to sketch—a gateway to persuading her to practice. So she gave this to me as a thank-you after she fell in love with yoga.”

“It’s great.”

He didn’t realize Abra still had his hand until she took a step back, and he was forced to step forward. “Shoulders down and back, Leah. That’s it. Relax your jaw, Heather. Good. That’s good. Sorry,” she said to Eli.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m in the way. I’ll let you get back to it.”

“Are you sure you don’t want that glass of wine? Or maybe, considering . . .” She closed her other hand around his, rubbed at the cold. “Some hot chocolate?”

“No. No, but thanks. I need to get back.” The friction of her hands brought on a quick, almost painful warmth that emphasized he’d let himself get chilled down to the bone. “It’s . . . going to snow.”

“A good night to be in with a fire and a good book. Well.” She let go of his hand to open the door again. “I’ll see you in a couple of days. Call or come by if you need anything.”

“Thanks.” He walked away quickly so she could close the door and keep the heat in.

Instead she stood in the open door, looking after him.

Her heart—one some often told her was too soft, too open—just flooded with sympathy.

How long had it been, she wondered, since anyone but family had welcomed him out of the cold?

She shut the door, moved back to the solarium and, with a nod for her friend Maureen, took over again.

As she completed final relaxation, she saw the snow Eli had predicted falling thick and soft outside the glass so her cozy space felt just like the inside of a fanciful snow globe.

She thought it perfect.

“Remember to hydrate.” She lifted her own water bottle as the women rolled up their mats. “And we still have room in tomorrow morning’s East Meets West class in the Unitarian Church basement at nine-fifteen.”

“I love that class.” Heather Lockaby fluffed her short cap of blond hair. “Winnie, I can pick you up on the way if you want.”

“Give me a call first. I’d love to try it.”

“And now”—Heather rubbed her hands together—“was that who I thought it was?”

“Sorry?” Abra responded.

“The man who came in during class. Wasn’t that Eli Landon?”

The name brought on an immediate murmur. Abra felt the benefits of her hour’s yoga practice dissolve as her shoulders tightened. “Yes, that was Eli.”

“I told you.” Heather elbowed Winnie. “I told you I’d heard he was moving into Bluff House. Are you seriously doing the cleaning there while he’s in the house?”

“There’s not a lot to clean if nobody’s living there.”

“But Abra, aren’t you nervous? I mean, he’s accused of murder. Of killing his own wife. And—”

“He was cleared, Heather. Remember?”

“Just because they didn’t have enough evidence to arrest him doesn’t mean he isn’t guilty. You shouldn’t be alone in that house with him.”

“Just because the press likes a good scandal, especially where sex, money and bedrock New England families are involved, doesn’t mean he isn’t innocent.” Maureen arched fiery red eyebrows. “You know that old rule of law, Heather. Innocent until proven guilty?”

“I know he got fired—and he was a criminal defense lawyer. Seems fishy, if you ask me, that they’d fire him if he wasn’t guilty. And they said he was the prime suspect. Witnesses heard him threaten his wife the same day she was killed. She’d have gotten a pile of money in a divorce. And he had no business being in that house, did he?”

“It was his house,” Abra pointed out.

“But he’d moved out. I’m just saying where there’s smoke . . .”

“Where there’s smoke sometimes means someone else started the fire.”

“You’re so trusting.” Heather gave Abra a one-armed hug—as sincere as it was patronizing. “I’m just going to worry about you.”

“I think Abra has a fine feel for people and can take care of herself.” Greta Parrish, the senior of the group at seventy-two, pulled on her warm and practical wool coat. “And Hester Landon wouldn’t have opened Bluff House for Eli—always a well-mannered young man—if she had the smallest doubt of his innocence.”

“Oh, now I’ve nothing but affection and respect for Ms. Landon,” Heather began. “Every one of us hope and pray she’ll be well enough to come home soon. But—”

“No buts.” Greta yanked a cloche cap over her steel-gray hair. “That boy’s part of this community. He may have lived in Boston, but he’s a Landon, and he’s one of us. God knows he’s been through the wringer. I’d hate to think anyone here would add to his troubles.”

“I—I didn’t mean that.” Flustered, Heather looked from face to face. “Honestly, I didn’t. I’m just worried about Abra. I can’t help it.”

“I believe you are.” Greta gave Heather a brisk nod. “I believe you’ve no reason to. This was a very nice practice, Abra.”

“Thank you. Why don’t I drive you home? It’s snowing pretty hard.”

“I believe I can manage a three-minute walk.”

Women bundled up, filed out. Maureen lingered.

“Heather’s an ass,” Maureen stated.

“A lot of people are. And a lot of people will think the way she does. If he was suspected, he must be guilty. It’s wrong.”

“Of course it is.” Maureen O’Malley, her short, spiky hair as fiery as her eyebrows, took another pull from her water bottle. “The problem is, I don’t know if I’d think the same, at least in some little cynical pocket, if I didn’t know Eli.”

“I didn’t realize you did.”

“He was my first serious make-out.”

“Hold that.” Abra pointed with both index fingers. “Just hold that. That’s a glass-of-wine story.”

“You don’t have to twist my arm. Just let me text Mike that I’m going to be about another half hour.”

“You do that. I’ll pour the wine.”

In the kitchen Abra chose a bottle of Shiraz while Maureen plopped down on the sofa in the cozy living area.

“He says that’s fine. The kids haven’t killed each other yet, and are currently in the happy throes of a snowstorm.” She looked up from her phone, smiled when Abra handed her the wine, took a seat. “Thanks. I’ll consider this girding my loins before I walk next door into the battle and feed the troops.”

“Make out?”

“I was fifteen, and while I had been kissed, that was the first kiss. Tongues and hands and heavy breathing. Let me say first, the boy had most excellent lips, and very nice hands. The first, I’ll also admit, to touch these amazing ta-tas.” She patted her breasts then sipped her wine. “But not the last.”

“Details, details.”

“July Fourth, after the fireworks. We had a bonfire on the beach. A bunch of us. I had permission, which was hard-won, let me tell you, and which my kids will likely have a harder time winning due to my experience. He was so cute. Oh my God, Eli Landon up from Boston for a month—and I set my sights on him. I was not alone.”

“How cute?”

“Mmm. That curling hair that would get more sun-streaked every day, those fabulous crystal blue eyes. And he had a smile that would just knock you senseless. An athletic build—he played basketball, as I remember. If he wasn’t at the beach—shirtless—he was at the community center playing ball—shirtless. Let me repeat: Mmm.”

“He’s lost weight,” Abra mentioned. “He’s too thin.”

“I saw some pictures, and the news clips. Yeah, he’s too thin. But then, that summer? He was so beautiful, so young and happy and fun. I flirted my butt off and that July Fourth bonfire paid the dividends. The first time he kissed me we were sitting around the fire. Music banging out, some of us dancing, some of us in the water. One thing led to another, and we walked down to the pier.”

She sighed with the memory. “Just a couple of hormonal teenagers on a warm summer night. It didn’t go any farther than it should have—though I’m sure my father would have disagreed—but it was the headiest moment of my life to that date. Seems so sweet and innocent now, but still ridiculously romantic. Surf and sea and moonlight, music from down the beach, a couple of warm, half-naked bodies just beginning to understand, really, what they were for. So . . .”

“So? So?” Leaning forward, Abra circled both hands in a hurry-up gesture. “What happened then?”

“We went back to the bonfire. I think it might have gone farther than it should have if he hadn’t taken me back to the group. I was so unprepared for what happens inside your body when someone really flips that switch. You know?”

“Oh boy, do I.”

“But he stopped, and after, he walked me home. I saw him a few more times before he went back to Boston, and we had a few more lip-locks—but nothing hit me like the first. The next time he came down, we were both dating someone. We never reconnected, not that way. He probably doesn’t even remember that July Fourth with the redhead under the Whiskey Beach pier.”

“I bet you’re selling yourself short.”

“Maybe. If we ran into each other when he’d come up to visit, we’d have a nice little chat—the way you do. Once I ran into him in the market when I was enormously pregnant with Liam. Eli carried my bags out to the car. He’s a good man. I believe that.”

“You met his wife?”

“No. I saw her once or twice but never met her. She was gorgeous, I’ll give her that. But I wouldn’t say she was the type who enjoyed those nice little chats outside the market. Word was there was no love lost between her and Hester Landon. Eli came up alone or with the rest of his family a few times after they were married. Then he just didn’t come. At least not that I know of.”

She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get home. Feed the rampaging horde.”

“Maybe you should go by and see him.”

“I think it might feel like an intrusion at this point—or like I was morbidly curious.”

“He needs friends, but you may be right. It may be too soon.”

Maureen carried her empty wineglass to the kitchen, set it down. “I know you, Abracadabra. You won’t let him wallow, not for long.” She pulled on her coat. “It’s your nature to fix things, heal things, kiss it where it hurts. Hester knew just what she was doing when she asked you to look after him and the house.”

“Then I better not let her down.” She gave Maureen a hug before she opened the back door. “Thanks for telling me. Not only a sexy story of teenage lust, but it gives me yet another perspective on him.”

“You could use a lip-lock or two.”

Abra held up her hands. “Fasting.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m just saying should the opportunity arise—he’s got great lips. See you tomorrow.”

Abra watched from the door while her friend hustled through the thick snow, and until she saw the back door light on the house next door shut off.

She’d build a fire, she decided, have a little soup, and give Eli Landon some serious thought.