1
Overcast with a chance of heartbreak
Kristen isn’t supposed tobe at the wharf.
Not on a Thursday. Not any day.
I creep past Mulligan’s Bait and Tackle, my fingertips bumping along the chipped blue paint as I inch closer to the edge.
WhyisKristen here?
She reeks of privilege. Upmarket, platinum blonde, she wears designer clothes and totes a luxury handbag over the crook of her arm whenever she breezes around town. I know labels.Nouveau richeis a world where I used to belong. But before today, I’d bet every last penny of my divorce settlement that Kristen’s stilettos have never stepped on the sun-bleached wharf in all her thirty-something years.
But the laugh floating on the breeze is hers.
“The woman is a beige tragedy.”
The bored, monotone drawl is unmistakably hers, too.
Iknowit is.
Just like I know almost everyone in St Helens. It’s impossible not to. After three months as a medical receptionist at the only clinic in town, I’ve learned too much about the locals.
The guy running the gas station has a case of crabs. Yes,thosecrabs. The girl working at the grocery store is pregnant but hasn’t told her boyfriend yet. Twins. That man is about to get the shock of his life.
Sure, I know the ins-and-outs of everyone’s life, but I’m good at keeping secrets.
On New Year’s Eve, huddled alone in my apartment, sipping boxed wine from my grandmother’s tiny teacup, I watched the clock tick over to not only a new year but a whole new millennium. I made a single resolution: no more drama. Kristen is nothing but drama… and the dread hollowing deep in my chest warns me I might be her latest victim.
I hook a thumb under the strap of my leather satchel, locking it in place as I shuffle to a stop at the edge of the shop. I tilt my head, listening, waiting…
Another breathy laugh bubbles my way.
“I shudder to think where she found the plaid skirt I saw her in today. She probably fished it out of her grandmother’s closet, mothballs and all.” That’sdefinitelyKristen, and she’sdefinitelytalking about me. “Luke, you can’t seriously be interested in her.”
My shoulder hits the wall, but at least I’ll stay upright if I’m slumped against the side of the shop.
Is Luke here?
I know his secrets, too. I’m one of them. He’s the reason I’m at the waterfront. We have what he calls an “arrangement.”
Usually, on Thursdays, I sneak down the alley beside Mulligan’s so no one sees me, the gravel crunching under the heels of my patent Mary Janes with every step I get closer to the wharf.
Luke’s always there.
That man’s crafted like an Italian god—dark hair, olive skin—and he speaks like the fading aristocracy after years in an English boarding school. Every so often, I’ll catch the sound of him laughing as he finishes buying whatever he needs for his restaurant. Seafood, I suppose. People rave that hisLinguine all’Asticeis to die for, but I’ve never eaten at Fuoco. The prices he commands don’t fit the budget of a woman who only scraped together enough money to lease the loft above the post office.
On Thursdays, the fisherman hangs around too.
Sawyer.
He doesn’t look like a man who enjoys fine dining. He’srugged. Too tall and too wide, the wind always tosses his sandy hair, and inky black tattoos hide most of his forearms. He never has much to say. Not to me, anyway. If he catches me waiting—and he has more than once—he only nods.
That’susuallyhow I spend every Monday and Thursday. Twelve weeks have disappeared, just like that.
Not today.
Luke’s bored tone matches Kristen’s. “What makes you think I’m interested in Elsie?”
