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“She’s dead, Ginny.”
Golly, why were all the writers they read for the book club dead? “So she is. I guess you’ll just have to settle for me as a friend, then.”
“Settle? The way I see it, I’m lucky to know you, Ginny Atkins.”
There was something so honest it hurt in the way their eyes met, and some crazy impulse made Ginny want to reach out and take his hand. Tell him things were going to be all right. That he was doing good work right where he was.
“Dreadfully hot day, isn’t it?” Louise’s voice caused Ginny to startle, which probably wasn’t the best reaction, given the air of suspicion the older woman directed at them. As if Freddy might have up and proposed in the five minutes her back was turned.
While Louise went on about the weather and sat betweenthem, Ginny popped a piece of pickle in her mouth, making a face at the tart vinegar. Her theory of Freddy Keats running some sort of long con was starting to seem questionable.
After the last book club meeting, she’d hinted around Louise enough to get out of her that no, Freddy hadn’t asked for a single thin dime besides his salary, not even to pay Gio. According to Eva, Hamish’s wife and Louise’s twice-weekly housekeeper, nothing had gone missing recently from the manor, and anyway, Louise had sold all the expensive silverware and antique vases and such when she’d first inherited Windward Hall.
So the only thing she really had going for her theory that Freddy was a con man come to bilk a rich old lady out of her fortune was that he got cagey when you asked after his family and sometimes told small lies.
It would never hold up in court. And it was getting harder for it to hold up in her own mind. How could someone so gosh-darned kind be a criminal?
Freddy was no counterfeit bill or knockoff moonshine. He was the real deal, with resentments and guilt and hurts tucked under that charming smile, just like anyone else. Just like her.
She was lucky to have him for a friend too.
Though for some reason, at this moment, that didn’t feel like quite enough.
twenty
AVIS
JULY 3
The pattern book had called her blue-striped dress “the dream summer swing ensemble,” and Avis noted with satisfaction that the description was accurate. There were others at the dance wearing showier frocks, but no skirt twirled as dramatically as hers when Russell spun her around, which he did often to cover the fact that he hadn’t mastered more complex footwork.
Avis made up for his two left feet where she could, executing the movements she’d memorized in physical-education class back in high school.
When Russell had suggested they take the drive and make a date out of it, she’d agreed almost instantly. It didn’t matter that the only decoration was a tattered red-and-blue bunting left over from an another year’s Independence Day celebration or that the room, an Elks Lodge by day, was too cramped for the couples who spun to the music. All that mattered was how normal it all felt when the band, a quartet with just enough talent to be better than the record player smaller events used, struck up the familiar strains of “Moonlight Serenade.”
A smile tugged at her face involuntarily, and Russell leaned in close enough that she could smell his cologne. “Remember taking a spin to this tune at the Palace Ballroom?”
Of course she did. When she closed her eyes, she could stillpicture its sign lit golden with electric lights and the dizzy whirl of nearby carnival rides. On the inside, the ballroom boasted vaulted ceilings, elegant décor, and a full big band in shiny brass.
At first she hadn’t wanted to go in, seeing the flock of wealthy women with their silks and furs, but Russell had said, “Come on, sweetheart. It’s our honeymoon. Let’s show those peacocks what we’ve got.”
And they had, dancing the night away, then sleeping in before exploring the piers, the amusement park rides, the shops. By the time they paid for the hotel and food, they’d only had fifty cents between them for a souvenir on their last morning. Avis had bought a postcard for Russell: sensible, cheap, and easy to preserve. He’d spent the rest on a sweetheart lapel pin for her, one side stamped withOld Orchard Beach, the other a heart shaped like a lock.
Avis frowned. She hadn’t worn it in months. Where had she tucked it away?
“‘A love song, my darling, a moonlight serenade,’” the lead singer crooned, and the couples on the floor applauded.
It was only then, in the few beats of quiet between songs, that Avis noticed something odd. Except for a few men in navy uniforms, clearly on shore leave, most of the male dancers were middle-aged or older, enjoying a night away from the children or celebrating an anniversary numbering in the decades.
She turned toward her husband. Even now, after only three dances, she could see Russell struggle to hide a slight wheeze, like he was breathing through a milkshake straw.
I won’t mention it. I won’t.That would risk giving her the label ofnag, somethingSecrets of Love and Marriagehad told her men abhorred above all else.
“Let’s get some fresh air,” she said instead, smiling at him and pretending not to notice the cough he hid in his elbow.
Once they were past the cadre of men taking a smoke break,the sky was clear and the stars bright, like something out of a painting. Across the street from the lodge, the grassy slope of a hill gave them a view a mile across town, toward the cove. There, Avis could see the long granite breakwater pushing out into the ocean, with the lighthouse at its tip.
Don’t stare too long.Lovely as the lighthouse was, Avis knew the coast guard was using it as a lookout station. Best not to bring that up either.
