In other words: The announcement of Karl’s death was probably correct, no matter whether Sylvia had misunderstood the specific circumstances.
No matter how fervently Molly wished it was wrong.
The reporter hadn’t mentioned the timing of a memorial service, but surely it would happen within the next several days. Unless Karl had changed significantly, he might not have many close friends at that service. Acquaintances, yes. People he’d known his whole life, people he’d helped without ever allowing them to acknowledge his efforts... sure. Lots of those. Not friends.
Once upon a time, though, she’d been as close to him as theirsituations and mutual defenses would allow. The nature and extent of that closeness—her feelings for him, and his increasingly obvious interest in more than friendship—had begun to trouble her after she’d left, so she’d cut things off. Even knowing she should talk to him about the issue directly.
Two things could be true at once: He shouldn’t have written like that to her while he had a girlfriend, and she should’ve handled the situation better.
But before then, they’d been friends. Genuinely. Maybe, if she hadn’t ghosted him, they could have worked things out, reconciled, and become friends again.
Either way, she could be a friend for him now. One last time.
Using her knuckles to dash away her tears, she sat at her kitchen table. Studied September’s empty calendar. Glanced at the furniture shoved into corners, stacked into untidy mountains, and covered with drop cloths, all in preparation for the imminent renovations. Spotted, on the other side of the table, yet another letter from her ex-husband, no doubt written in yet another attempt to convince her to sell her house to him and his fiancée.
Allowed herself to remember.
Let herself be rash and spontaneous and unwise, for once in her life.
And less than twenty-four hours later, she was back in Harlot’s Bay.
2
Los Angeles and Harlot’s Bay might as well have existed on different planets.
In Molly’s haze of exhaustion after a red-eye flight from LAX to BWI, a long line at the car rental kiosk, and two hours of driving, what surrounded her seemed like a hallucination.
Green. Green everywhere. Green grass in front yards. Green stretches of woods whipping by her rental car on both sides as she drove along the wide two-lane road leading into town. Green-stemmed black-eyed Susans planted in Strumpet Square, the center of downtown Harlot’s Bay.
And what made all that green possible? Water. A breathtaking abundance of water in the air—wow, she’d forgotten about the humidity—and all around, none of it turquoise or crashing onto rocks and sand. The brown river water reflected the blue of the sunny sky, and it lapped at the shore in gentle ripples or flowed in a quiet rush toward the Chesapeake Bay.
Those ripples sparkled on the horizon as she turned into the small gravel lot beside the Battleaxe B&B, where she’d be staying the next few days. However long it took to pay her respects and attend Karl’s...
She bit her lip, braking a little too hard once she’d pulled into a free spot.
However long it took to attend Karl’s funeral.
Checking in early and dropping off her bag for safekeeping untilher room was ready took five minutes, max. When Molly stepped back outside into the blinding sunshine and near-choking humidity, her cell’s display indicated that it wasn’t even ten in the morning yet.
There was no point putting it off, was there? She should go to Grounds and Grains, and if it was open despite Karl’s absence, ask someone for specifics about whatever arrangements had been made. Her overtired brain had even retained a vague memory of the bakery’s location just off Strumpet Square, so she had no excuse for waiting. Other than her unwillingness to confirm the reality of a loss she felt much more keenly than she should.
She took the walk at a leisurely pace, comparing what she saw to her memories. Most buildings in the center of town dated back at least a century, so the basic layout looked pretty much the same as she recalled from two decades ago. That said, she spotted new-to-her window boxes in full bloom, fresh coats of paint on shutters and signs, and different businesses than she remembered.
Somehow, Harlot’s Bay had managed to keep most national chains out of town. In their absence, locally owned restaurants and stores had proliferated in the last two decades. There was a fussy-but-pretty tearoom. An old-school diner with red vinyl booths. A peacock-hued Indian restaurant advertising its extensive lunch buffet across the street from a dark-wooded Swiss place only open for dinner. Lawyers’ and doctors’ and dentists’ offices. An architecture firm. A yarn store. A gallery displaying the work of regional artists and craftspeople.
Ladywright College, Historic Harlot’s Bay, and nearby military bases must be bringing visitors, residents, and tax dollars into the town. There was no other way a community of this size could support so many specialized businesses, almost all of them successful-looking.
Her steps slowed and slowed again as she drew closer to her destination, but the downtown area was only so large. The deep green sign for Grounds and Grains loomed just ahead, with its unfussy illustrations of a plump baguette and a steaming coffee mug painted a muted gold.
Molly gave herself a minute or two to study the place.
Behind the spotless glass windows, people stood waiting in front of a long counter and chose items from treat-packed display shelves. They sat around several small café tables and across from one another in the bakery’s three booths. They doctored their coffees with cream and sugar at a side table and deposited their trash in a discreet receptable.
She didn’t see a memorial, a sign informing customers about Karl’s loss, or even a perfunctory black ribbon anywhere. His shop’s running seemed remarkably unaffected by his death. Which was both impressive—he must have managed his business incredibly well if it could keep functioning this smoothly without him—and unbearably sad. No matter how crotchety he might have remained as he neared middle age, no matter whether an assistant baker could take over for him with ease, shouldn’t he be mourned? Shouldn’t his absence—hismurder—at least beacknowledgedby the business he’d spent his entire adult life serving?
Tragedy upon tragedy. Her throat ached with the tears she wouldn’t let herself shed.
Sucking in a deep, hitching breath, she swung open the heavy entry door. A cowbell attached to the push bar inside jangled loudly, its sound incongruously cheerful.
