Now That You Mention It

“Think he’d rent it?” I asked.

“It’s not for sale; I just have the listing for tax reasons. I’m on the assessment board here in town. But let me give him a call. I think he’s in New Zealand on a spirit quest.”

“Of course.” I smiled. Rich tech goobers did things like that.

Jim punched in a string of numbers, and miraculously, the guy picked up. “Collier, Jim Ivansky from Island Real Estate here. I’ve got a beautiful young lady here who’s absolutely in love with your houseboat.” He put his phone on speaker. “You’re on with Nora Stuart. Nora, meet Collier Rhodes.”

“Hi there!” I said in my Cute Nora voice. “It’s such a pleasure to talk to you! Jim’s right, I’m madly in love. What an amazing place you’ve built!”

“Thank you so much!” he said. “So you’re looking for shelter and inspiration, is that it?”

Not really, but... “You got it.” I told him my story of returning home after an accident, the siren call of the sea, the rugged beauty of Maine. “I wonder if you’d consider renting it to me. It’s so lovely, and I’d take excellent care of it. Something about it just spoke to me.”

“I hear you. Returning to your roots, taking time to breathe in the cosmic power that saved your life. Absolutely get it. I’d be honored to rent it to you. You know what? You don’t even have to pay me.”

Jim winced. There went his commission.

“No, no,” I said. “I’m more than happy to pay.”

“All right. I totally respect that. Okay, then. I’ll let Jim work out the details. Namaste, Nora Stuart.” He hung up.

“Ah, tech geniuses,” I said, and Jim laughed.

Ten minutes later, the houseboat was mine until mid-September, though I planned to go back to Boston in August. But maybe Poe and Lily would like to stay there when Lily got out of jail. In the meantime, it was all mine. It was even furnished. I couldn’t wait to see it. Maybe my mom and Poe would like to come with me. Or not.

Boomer, I was sure, would love it.

I went out of the office, keys in hand, and started down the street, feeling rather pleased with myself. No more Tweety giving me the evil eye.

I’d be living alone again. First time since the Big Bad Event.

My heart suddenly went into A-fib, a hummingbird trapped in my chest, buzzing frantically, trying to get out. My mouth was sand, palms sweaty.

I’d be okay. It was fine. I had Boomer now. And it was Scupper Island. A very safe place.

Shit. I couldn’t do it. I’d have to stay with my mom. She wouldn’t kick me out. I turned to go back in the real estate office, then turned around again.

No. Now or never. No more gray, no more fears. Plus, when Lily came back, she could stay with me.

“Time for a donut,” I muttered. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Lala’s was four shops (or shoppes) down the street. I could use a sugar boost, since my mother didn’t believe in dessert, viewing it a moral weakness like her Calvinist ancestors before her. Poor thing. I mean, sure, I was a GI doc and believed in good nutrition, but I also had a beating heart.

There. The thoughts of donuts had helped. I was calmer.

“Let me get the door for you,” said an older gentleman, approaching with a newspaper under his arm. Mr. Carver, who did handyman work for the summer people—opening their houses, clearing their lawns, letting them know if a tree fell during the winter.

My dad used to help him out once in a while.

“Hi, Mr. Carver,” I said.

“Ah...hello there, young lady.”

“Nora Stuart. Bill and Sharon’s daughter.” I glanced at his left hand. Married, and therefore not a contender for Mom.

“Is that right? Jeezum crow, you got big. Have a good day, now.” He smiled and headed off.

Not everyone hated me. That was nice to know. “Hey, Mr. Carver,” I said, gimping out after him. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure thing.” Steam rose from his coffee.

“Um...” It was embarrassing that I had to ask someone I hadn’t seen in almost two decades a deeply personal question. “Do you remember my dad, Mr. Carver?”

“Of course. He was a nice fella.”

“Did you ever hear from him? After he left the island?” Because he never bothered getting in touch with me. My face felt hot.

“Cahn’t say that I did, sweethaht.” He thought another second or two. “No. I don’t think so.” His weathered blue eyes were so kind that I had to look away.

“No, I figured it was a long shot. But thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Nice to see you.”

So. The first stone had been overturned and revealed nothing. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, but...well.

The humid, sweet air of Lala’s was like a much-needed hug.

Standing in line was a mother with three little kids. The older two stood silently, staring down at their phones, their necks curved in that unmistakable posture that said, Don’t bother me, I’m emotionally dead inside. The littlest kid, about six, blond with a puffy winter coat on, pulled on his mother’s hand. “I want a cookie,” he said.

“You’re not getting one. I already told you that.” She adjusted her purse strap and sighed.

The little boy pushed out his lip, then saw me looking. “What happened to you?” he asked, eyeing my sling.

“I didn’t look crossing the street, and I got hit by a car,” I said. “So you make sure you look both ways and always hold a grown-up’s hand.”

The mom looked back at me.

It was Darby Dennings, sidekick of Amy Beckman, Queen of the Cheetos, receiver of hugs. Amazing how I knew everyone instantly, as if I hadn’t been gone for fifteen years.

“Sorry if he’s bothering you,” Darby said with a smile. Her eyes flicked up and down, assessing my injuries, her gaze lingering on my purse. “That’s a great bag,” she said. “Mind if I ask where you got it?”

“Oh, um...I think I got it at—”

I’d bought it at a snooty boutique on Newbury Street after I was hired by Boston Gastroenterology Associates. Roseline, who had a serious shopping addiction, believed that every woman needed to own a purse that was way too expensive. We’d made a day of it, both of us still heady with our salaries, and settled on this one, made of buttery brown leather so smooth and supple I wanted to date it.

It had cost an amount that still embarrassed and thrilled me.

“I got it at T.J. Maxx,” I said.

“You can get great stuff there,” she said. “The one in Portland?”