She went back to her room and texted Shane:The rain cleared the TP off the windmill and roof, so no need for you to come by this morning. Thanks anyway.
She hit the send arrow and set down her phone.I should’ve trusted my intuition that going to the party with him was a bad idea, she thought regretfully.But I won’t make that mistake again. From now on, I’m keeping our relationship strictly professional.
TEN
Caitlin decided to spend as much time as possible away from the cottage—and away from Shane. Rather than drinking coffee with him each morning, she took off on her daily walk to the market before he even arrived. When she returned, she’d either briefly visit Marion, or else she’d pack her lunch and then leave again, heading to Benjamin’s Manor.
Once or twice, she saw Shane in passing, but instead of stopping to chat, she smiled and called hello and then hurried on her way. She’d eat on a bench by the harbor on Main Street, and then head into the library to work on her research until around 4:00, when she figured Shane was winding down his work for the afternoon.
However, by the end of the week, she was restless from doing so much campaign research and even her pleasure reading didn’t seem very pleasurable anymore. Recognizing she needed a change of scenery, Caitlin caught a bus to the conservation land in Rockfield, adjacent to the cranberry farm.
Hiking a trail along the periphery of the marsh, she noticed the yellowish-green inflorescent cordgrass was accented by seaside goldenrod, claret-colored pickleweed, and a smattering of sea lavender. Caitlin veered onto a side path through thewoods, and just when she started to wonder if she’d gone the wrong way, she happened upon a clearing and spotted the red-speckled bogs beside the rambling white farmhouse.
To her surprise, there was no admission fee to enter the education center, and she relished learning about the Lindgren farm, as well as about cranberry harvesting in general. She snapped a few photos to send to her niece and nephews, who couldn’t have been more fascinated by everything she did or saw on Dune Island than if she’d been staying on the moon.
Christmas is just around the corner, she thought, heading down the hall to the gift shop.Maybe I can find an entertaining, educational present for them, or at least a few souvenirs.
There was no one in the shop but the door was open, so Caitlin went in and began to browse. A few minutes later, a woman about her age appeared, carrying a stack of boxes, which she set behind the front counter. “Hi, I’m Lily. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. I hope it’s okay that I came in here—the door was open.”
“I’m glad you did. Usually, someone’s here to assist customers, but we’re short-staffed today, so I’m filling in wherever I’m needed. Is this your first time in the shop?”
“Yes, but not my first time on the farm. I attended the Halloween party. It was such a great event. Very festive but not overdone.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. I wish we could take credit, but it was the community center who put that on. We just provided the venue.”
“The farm is what made it feel so authentic,” Caitlin said. “I was intrigued by the education center so I came back. Now I’m browsing for gifts for my niece and nephews. I’d also like to purchase a bag of cranberries.”
“We usually keep them on the roadside stand, but I haven’t replenished it yet, so I’ll get a bag for you from the kitchenwhile you’re browsing,” said Lily. “There’s a children’s section in that corner over there, and the rest of the displays are self-explanatory. All our merchandise is locally sourced or created by Hope Haven residents. And of course, the cranberry items are fresh from the farm. If you have any questions, just let me know—I’ll be right down that hall.”
As Caitlin was perusing a rack of notecards painted by a Highland Hills artist, she heard the bells jingle on the door, and vaguely registered that someone else had entered the shop. Caitlin moved on to examine several handblown Christmas tree ornaments, thinking,These are so pretty and they’re reasonably priced. Maybe I should bring one home for my brother’s family—or would it just end up getting broken?
As she was dithering, she noticed movement in the corner of her eye. Turning her head, she saw a woman obviously giving her the once-over.
“Sorry for staring,” she said loudly. “But I recognize you from somewhere. I’m Claire Griffin. What’s your name?”
Flustered, Caitlin nearly dropped the ornament she was holding. Instead of telling the woman her name, she rambled, “You might have seen me here at the Halloween party the other night. I was dressed in all black, and I had whiskers on my face. I was supposed to be a cat burglar, but I don’t think the pun translated well.” She chuckled, hoping to distract Claire by making light of her costume.
“I didn’t go to the Halloween party, so that’s not why I recognize you.” She repeated, “What’s your name?”
“It’s Caitlin, but I don’t think we’ve ever met. Maybe we’ve crossed paths in town.” She quickly rehung the delicate bulb on the display and started inching down the aisle, but the woman snapped her fingers and stepped closer.
“Wait, I know who you are! Your grandparents owned The Windmill Cottages where that Nicole girl drowned like, twenty years ago.”
Stunned by her insensitivity about Nicole, Caitlin could only mumble, “Those weren’t my grandparents.”
Claire narrowed her eyes. “Okay, so it was your aunt and uncle, or whoever, but I’m sure it was you because I was at the party the night she drowned, too—my cousin Dave was the chaperone. I remember how mad he got because one of the student rangers took off with you instead of staying with the group. He was a tall boy from Kansas or somewhere in the Midwest. I think his name was Derrick. Or was it Drew?”
She was getting the names wrong, but Claire recalled the gist of what had happened, and Caitlin knew there was no sense denying it. “His name was Donald,” she said flatly.
“Really?” Claire wrinkled her nose. “Are you sure?”
Was she sure she knew the name of her first love? Of the boy whose heart she’d broken? Caitlin was so ashamed of how deeply she’d hurt him that she would’ve liked to pretend she could barely recall anything about him. But he was indelible in her memory, and she felt she owed it to him to assert, “Yes, I’m sure. He was my boyfriend and his name was Donald.”
“Hmm, that’s weird. Usually I get my facts straight,” Claire claimed, without any sense of self-awareness. “But I distinctly recall seeing both of you at that party. I also remember seeing your aunt and uncle on the news.”
Two days after Nicole died, a Boston TV station had sent a crew to cover the story, and they’d shown up unannounced at The Windmill Cottages. As ill as Albert had been—in retrospect, Caitlin realized he must have had cancer already, although they hadn’t known it at the time—he’d gone outside to ask them to leave.
