Sabrina’s eyes returned to Jared’s name and rested there. The card trembled in her hand. How had it come this far without her knowing? Where was the warning, the announcement of the engagement, for heaven’s sake?
Then she remembered the emails from Aunt Bev she’d deleted. She remembered the voice mails from Jaylee and Arielle she’d never returned.
She hadn’t regretted the distance she’d put between herself and the relatives who’d raised her after her dad . . . died. They’d hurt her. It was natural that she’d want space between them, natural that she’d avoid them.
Still, this was a harsh way to find out. It was cruel to pop a wedding invitation into her mailbox with no warning. They should’ve tried harder. She looked at the date again. Less than three months away.
This shouldn’t be happening. How could life be so inequitable?
What does it matter now? I don’t love him anymore.
But she had. She’d loved him so much.
But that was over a year ago. She’d moved on. She’d learned from the experience. She was no longer a naive young woman waiting to have her heart trampled. She was savvier now. A well-protected fortress.
She walked to the trash basket and dropped the invitation. At the motion, her bracelet slid down her wrist, drawing her eye to it. She pulled her hand closer and found the dangling heart pendant. Her thumb ran over the familiar surface.
The old emotions welled up, stuffing her lungs with something thick and stifling. She wrapped her hand around her wrist, bracelet and all, as if she could contain the thoughts as easily.
She longed to throw on her tennis shoes now and run until she was out of steam. Run until she was too tired to think, too tired to feel. But she’d promised Renny an answer on the poison, and it might take all evening. So instead, she sank down into her chair. But still her thoughts rebelled.
Somewhere out there, Jaylee and Jared were choosing place settings and planning a honeymoon. Her aunt and uncle would spare no expense. Where was the event? Sabrina couldn’t remember. Did she even want to?
She did. She wanted to know the truth, every last painful drop of it, because it wasn’t the truth that hurt so badly, but the secrets that preceded it.
Harbormaster: My sister needs a miracle. But I’m not worried. I trust God to work it out. How about you, Sweetpea . . . do you trust God?
Sweetpea: God and me are kind of on the outs right now.
Sabrina pedaled down Tucker’s lane, parallel to the harbor. The cottages along Nantucket’s wharf resembled enlarged birdhouses perched on pilings at the water’s edge. Their front yards were the ocean, dotted with small, bobbing boats. In the winter these homes, mostly vacant, suffered relentless wind and bitter cold sprays of salt-laden water, but in the summer they drew hefty rental fees from tourists.
The day before, Tucker had jotted his address on a thin café napkin and asked her to arrive around six. His eyes had a boyish light behind them. Hope, she realized, feeling the pierce of guilt.
It was cruel to ignite a fire of hope when she planned to smother every last ember. She had stuffed her hands in her khaki pockets and squeezed the napkin into a tight ball.
She’d weighed her options a hundred times since he’d approached her two weeks earlier. There was no alternative. She would suck it up, and complete the task as quickly as possible.
She would read the emails as though detached from the people writing them. She would list harmless details, making sure they in no way offered any hope of pinpointing Sweetpea’s location. That was her plan, and she was sticking to it. Once it was over, she and Harbormaster would continue their relationship as it was before. The relationship was too important to risk losing.
She arrived at Tucker’s cottage and parked her bike. It was one of the smaller homes on the water, not much more than a dollhouse, but even these ran over a million. Tucker’s house would fit into her loft twice over, but you couldn’t argue with the charm of a harbor house. Weathered shaker shingles clothed the building, and its two front windows, like square eyes, flanked the Craftsman-style door at the top of a stoop. A potted plant was the home’s only exterior adornment, and it looked as if it had been forgotten long ago.
Sabrina knocked, then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her heart, beating up into her throat, seemed to have escaped her rib cage, and she wished she could tuck it in place so easily. Darkness hovered behind the windows. Maybe he wasn’t home.
Don’t get your hopes up. Of course he’s home. He asked you to be here at six.
Sabrina checked her watch. One minute before the hour. Well, she could hope, couldn’t she? Maybe he’d let her work in peace. Maybe once she was acclimated to his computer, she could come directly after work. He’d be gone, and she could work alone. Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult after all.
The door opened, and Tucker’s frame filled the doorway. He wore a black T-shirt and faded jeans from which his bare feet poked. Sabrina forced her eyes to his face as he opened the door wider.
“Right on time.” His cap was missing, and his loose curls were damp, as if he’d recently showered.
Sabrina’s tongue felt stapled to the roof of her mouth. She smiled benignly as she squeezed past, catching a faint whiff of his woodsy cologne. The familiar scent drew her.
She held her breath until she was a safe distance away, then forced her eyes around the living room’s dim interior. A lone lamp lit the space, its inverted cone of light splaying upward, highlighting a sparse, clay-colored wall. A sofa, two chairs, and a TV hogged the space. A line of carved marine animals perched on the low mantel.
“The office is back that way.” He pointed to a short hall beyond the living room. “Can I get you something to drink? I have soda, juice, coffee . . .”
“No, thank you.”
She followed him down the hall, her sandals clicking on the wood floor behind his padding feet. She wondered if she should’ve removed her shoes, but they were clean and, judging by the dust ball in the corner, Tucker wasn’t exactly fastidious.
“Here we are. This is my office, slash computer room, slash junk room.”
Everything in the room faded in the wake of the harbor view. Evening light flooded the space through a large bay window, tinting the room golden pink.
“Nice view.” Strange that he’d never mentioned it in his letters. If she had such a view, she was certain she’d find it distracting. Then again, when she wrote Tucker, she was focused on him alone.
“I had the bay window installed after I bought the place. It’s supposed to be a spare bedroom, but it makes a nice office.”
Her eyes left the harbor to travel the small space. An oak desk anchored a large rug and faced a pale blue wall. In one corner, a louvered door covered what she assumed was a closet, and stacks of boxes lined the wall opposite the desk.
Tucker had pulled another chair to the desk and gestured toward it. Sabrina set down her bag and sank into the seat as Tucker settled behind the computer, inches away.
She focused on the screen, a fifteen-inch Dell. Several icons covered a photo of Nantucket’s harbor. She’d just identified Tucker in the picture before he opened his email program.
“We’ve been writing about a year, so there are lots of messages to wade through. Most are just quick back-and-forth stuff, but some are longer. I’ve reread them, trying to figure things out, but like I said, that’s not my thing.”
Sabrina watched him navigate the screen, going to the oldest letters. Something strange filled her at the sight of her email address in his inbox. As he scrolled, she saw there were few messages from anyone else.
“Her email address is right here.” He pointed to the screen. “Sweetpea.”
At least her screen name revealed nothing. She folded her hands in her lap.
“Are you always this quiet?”
She should be asking questions, not acting as if she already knew the answers. Which she did. “I’m just observing.”
“They say it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
His eyes flickered away from the screen long enough to give her a grin. “I don’t know, but they must know what they’re talking about, because everyone quotes them.”
The line was so like the tone of his emails, she nearly smiled, but caught it in time.
Questions. She needed to ask questions. “What kind of factual data do you have on your friend? Perhaps you can make a list of everything you know about her.”
“Sure. Here, switch chairs and you can start reading.”
His arm brushed hers as they passed, and the hairs on her forearm stood on end, drawn toward him as if he were a magnet. She settled into the leather chair and opened the first message.
He’d initially addressed her on Nantucket Chat, a community for those interested in Nantucket. The group was talking about the controversial offshore wind turbine program, a community hot-button issue, and after several days, Tucker emailed her privately.
“I wonder if she grows peas,” he said now, jokingly.
“Sweet peas are flowers, not a vegetable.”
“Oh. See, that’s why I need your help.”
She rolled her eyes. “You don’t know her occupation, then?”
He pulled a pen and paper from a drawer in the desk and hunched over the corner, way too close. His knee was a fraction of an inch from hers. What if she shifted? What would it hurt to touch him? He’d assume it was an accident if he noticed at all. She wanted to touch him so badly her palms began sweating. If only she could erase the past. If only this could be a normal relationship.
Get a grip, Sabrina. Focus. Read the letter.
“I wish I did. Like I said, she’s been careful. On the chat site where I met her, her screen name was SweetpeaKS. Maybe those are her initials or something.”
His words were a sharp smack across the face, waking her from her careless daze. He couldn’t know, could he? Of course he couldn’t. She’d sent Arielle’s picture, not her own. She didn’t think he’d remember that screen name. It had been over a year ago.
Say something quick. Before he realizes those are your initials backward.
“Maybe the KS is for Kansas.”
The tip of his pen paused over the paper, and his head tilted sideways as he studied her. “Could be.”
Relax. He doesn’t know anything.
Sabrina got caught in his eyes, sinking in the blue pools. How could a cool color feel so warm? Silver flecks splintered out from the center like shiny threads.
“It could stand for anything, I guess,” he said softly.
She pulled her attention to the screen where it belonged.
For heaven’s sake, you have got to focus.
Pretend you’re at the café.
Why was it easier there? Because she was on her feet and busy? Because when things grew difficult, she could retreat? Because they weren’t alone?
Tucker returned to his list, shifting until his knee grazed her thigh.
Because there was no actual touching involved? His body heat permeated the material of her khakis, warming her skin. She should move. She should shift, or cross her legs, or casually lean away. But the contact with him felt so good. So temptingly wonderful.
She didn’t want to move away. What could it hurt anyway?
Sabrina crossed her legs and leaned forward, breaking contact for her own sanity. Now she could focus. She opened the next letter and scanned it. They were still discussing the wind farm. Nothing extraneous here.
She waded through several more letters, noting that two or three days separated their messages at this point.
“Just keep going,” Tucker said. “I know there’s little information in the early emails, but it gets better.” He bowed his head over his list again. “Much better,” he mumbled, or at least she thought he did.
She read three more, her thoughts going back all those months. She’d never reread the early letters. It had begun harmlessly, a casual exchange of information and ideas. It was in this email, three weeks into their correspondence, that he’d gotten personal:
You know a lot about the wind farm project. Are you from Nantucket? Or are you a summer person? I live near the harbor.
She remembered freezing at the question, recognizing it as a potential turning point. If she told him yes, would she open a can of worms? He seemed kind, but she wasn’t ready for a relationship or even a friendship. Her bad track record had sworn her off men months ago.
But it wasn’t really a relationship. She didn’t know him, he didn’t know her. It was just words on a screen. What could it hurt? And yet, now that she knew for sure he was here on Nantucket . . . the proximity was frightening. If he knew she lived here, would he want to meet? That question sealed the deal.
No to both, she’d answered
,
and technically she wasn’t, though she lived here now.
“What do you think?” Tucker interrupted her thoughts.
Sabrina wasn’t sure what he meant. “She seems nice.”
His eyes teased her. “I’m not asking for a character reference. Have you found anything interesting yet?”
Her face warmed. “Oh.” She curled her fingers on the keyboard. “No, I’m just getting to the good stuff.”
“Maybe this will help.” He handed her the list. “That’s all I can think of right offhand. I’m going to get a soda. Can I get you one?”
“No, thank you.”
When he left the room, she scanned the list.
Loves to read mysteries
Works until two or three in the afternoon—the service industry, I think??
Lives alone
Allergic to cats and peanuts
Reads poetry—partial to Longfellow
Likes to clean
Favorite foods: pasta, dark chocolate, cupcakes, drinks iced tea
Hates corn
Never married—no kids
Has an extended family—two cousins, aunt and uncle, where??
The list continued, covering both sides of the paper. She felt increasingly exposed with each item. He knew a lot about her. And the list didn’t even include the personal experiences she’d shared, only the bland facts. Although no one detail was particularly telling, the summation was like a fingerprint, surely unique to her alone. The revelation frightened her. What if she said or did something to reveal herself? She’d have to be extremely vigilant.