Now That You Mention It

“I loved her more than I loved anyone.”

“Hooray for her.”

“And I love you, no matter what. I would love to be closer, and I’d—”

“Could you shut up now? I’m trying to sleep.”

I reached down to pet Boomer, who slept next to me, since we both couldn’t fit on the twin bed. His tail thumped, letting me know I was loved. God, grant me the serenity to not tell my niece she’s a royal pain in the ass. “Good night, Poe. Sleep well.”

* * *

The second weekend after I returned to Scupper Island, my mom asked if I wanted anything in town. It was Saturday, her day to do the grocery shopping.

“Can I come with you? Please? Please?”

“Sure, but only if you calm down.” She kissed Tweety on the beak—I suppressed my scream—and went to the bottom of the stairs. “Poe, you need anything?”

“No.”

“Text me if you think of anything.”

There was no answer.

“Give me a few minutes,” I told my mom. “I need to brush my hair.” And change and put on makeup. Without a doubt, I’d run into someone I knew.

Half an hour later, I was shiny and clean and ready to go. “Go see Poe,” I told my dog. Given time, I knew he’d win her over. He obeyed, galumphing up the stairs, the genius.

I’d graduated to a plain old runner’s brace, which made my knee look lumpy but was a vast improvement over the soft cast. My mom was waiting by the front door, puss on her face, arms crossed.

We drove into town, my mom grumbling about the “crowds” that would be at the market, now that it was 10:00 a.m. By crowds, she meant four to six people.

We pulled into the store’s parking lot. “I think I’ll take a hobble around, if that’s okay with you,” I said.

“Suit yourself.”

“Here, let me give you some money for groceries.” I took out my wallet.

“Save it.”

“I make a good living, Mom. Let me help.”

She gave me a dirty look, then threw the car into Park. “I can afford to put food on the table, Nora.”

“Well, I’m an extra mouth to feed, and—”

She got out the car and walked off, her canvas bags flapping indignantly.

“Thank you!” I called. She didn’t look back.

I would definitely be needing that rental place, fast. Otherwise, there’d be blood everywhere, and soon. I hated to use words like killing spree, but between Poe talking on the phone at 3:00 a.m. this morning, then using all the hot water again and my mother’s refusal to have a conversation of more than two sentences, I was getting a little homicidal.

I maneuvered myself out of the car. Sammy’s Grocery was behind Main Street, the heart of our happening downtown, and it was probably time for me to start walking without the crutch.

And you know...I didn’t want to look quite so pathetic. Bad enough that I was still limping.

Slowly and carefully, I wobble-walked up the slight incline. It was the end of April now, and in the years I’d been away, the town had planted crab apple trees along Main Street. They were thinking about blooming—the little pink buds were still clenched, but giving a sweet glow. A restaurant—Stone Cellar—had window boxes of pansies. I peeked inside. Wooden beams, dark floor, nice-looking bar. And looky here—it was open on weekends in the off-season. That was something. Only Red’s, the bar frequented by the hard-core drinkers, had been open year-round when I was a kid.

I stopped at the corner. The gray-shingled building here was, conveniently, a real estate office, pictures of houses in the windows.

Time to be independent and all that.

Suddenly, I missed Bobby. I missed him so much it wrapped around me like a lead blanket, heavy, tugging me down. He had called the other day, at two-fifteen in the afternoon, and his voice had made my eyes well up. We’d talked gently and sweetly to each other, asking about work, what the other was doing. We’d listened to each other breathe, and it was...nice.

If he was dating Jabrielle, he didn’t say so.

Once, I’d imagined marrying Bobby. Before we started dating even, and once we’d started, I couldn’t imagine anyone more perfectly suited to me. We had so much fun together! Life had seemed impossibly wonderful.

Then the Big Bad Event happened, but even that showed me how great he was. About three months after the BBE, he’d said, “When we make it official someday,” just an offhand remark that had made me so embarrassingly happy I almost floated. I’d told Roseline, who was already engaged, and she’d brought me to the posh bridal salon where she’d bought her gown, and we played dress-up for an hour.

Now I was getting a place of my own, back in the hometown I never wanted to return to.

At least I didn’t have to remember our fun times here. Bobby had never been to the island. I’d never let him come. I hadn’t come, always making the case that Mom should come to Boston, which she did, stoically, without a lot of fuss, never staying more than a day.

The man in the real estate office saw me standing there and opened the door. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“I’m looking to rent a place for a couple of months,” I said. Until Lily comes back. Until I make things right again.

“Come on in!” he said with such good cheer that I knew he was an island transplant. “I’m Jim Ivansky. We handle lots of rentals here. What brings you to Scupper?”

I filled him in, mentioned Boomer, and he smiled and smiled as Realtors do. “We have some great places. You’ll be renting during the summer, so the price will go up after Memorial Day, but I’m sure we can find you something.”

The first few houses he showed me were the summer people’s McMansions—five-bedroom, six-bath places on the water, complete with boathouses.

“It’s just me and my dog,” I said. I paused. “Maybe something with two bedrooms, in case my niece wants to stay with me once in a while.”

He scanned his listings. “How about this?” he asked, swinging the computer screen around to show me. It was the Krazinskis’ place, an unremarkable ranch on Route 12, the closest house to Mom’s. I wondered why their house was vacant. The interior pictures showed a pretty bland, somewhat-careworn place and a kitchen last updated in the 1970s, based on the Harvest Gold appliances.

“Got something with a little more...character?” I asked, feeling guilty. Lizzy Krazinski—or Lizzy Krizzy, as she’d been known—had been a year behind me in school. We’d ridden the school bus together. She’d been okay, Lizzy.

“I know what you mean,” Jim said. He scrolled down. It seemed that it was McMansion or meh.

“Oh, hold on, what was that one?” I asked.

“This? It’s a houseboat.”

“In Maine? Isn’t the water a little rough for that?”

“It is, but it’s moored in Oberon Cove,” Jim said. “Some rich tech goober had it built over at WoodenBoat and then bought most of the Cove. Built a nice dock to moor it. To the best of my knowledge, he hasn’t even lived here yet. One of those guys who has houses all over the world.”