“I do!” I said. “I’m so glad you can come. This party just got much better.”
“It really did.” She grinned.
We left the shop, and Xiaowen got into her car, a sporty little silver Porsche, and pulled away from the curb.
My phone buzzed. Bobby, texting me a few pictures—Boomer lying in the middle of what was once our bed, his head on the pillow; Boomer at the Commons, sniffing a Chihuahua and looking very handsome. We miss you, read the text. Hope you’re having a good day.
I did not want to get back together with Bobby Byrne, I reminded myself.
Except we’d only had three normal months. If we could go back to how things had been...
But we couldn’t. He’d gotten tired of my woes after the home invasion. He’d fondled Jabrielle’s hair and flirted with her as I lay unconscious and bruised. He wasn’t worthy of me.
Still, it was disturbingly fantastic to know he wanted me back.
* * *
That night, I lay on the couch, nursing a glass of red wine for health, smugly satisfied with my dinner party plans. Guess who wasn’t married, even though he still wore a ring? Mr. Carver, he of the Viagra prescription (may Mrs. Carver rest in peace, but clearly he was ready to get back in the game, so...). And yes, he was free on Friday, if a little confused by my invitation.
Bob Dobbins said yes the second the words my mother left my lips. Also coming was Jake the grumpy ferryman, because he was also single (twice divorced, but I wasn’t judging). Hopefully, he would shower first, because based on the smell of him, it wasn’t a daily (or weekly) habit. So three eligible-ish men for my mother, plus Gloria, Xiaowen and myself.
Georgie Frank owned the hotel where my mother worked. Who knew? And according to his LinkedIn profile, he had grown into his looks, just like the actor who’d played Neville Longbottom. Unfortunately, he had another commitment that night, so I told him we’d have to get together with Xiaowen and catch up on old times. He sounded so nice.
It was funny how my memories were shifting now that I was back home. In high school, I’d felt like the loneliest girl in the world. But Georgie had sounded so happy to hear from me, I wondered if maybe I’d missed out on potential friends, too busy being miserable.
The birds were singing; Lily used to call them their pajama songs. How cute was that? On impulse, I got up and found one of the postcards I’d bought today. It was the gratuitous-sunset-over-the-harbor shot, the sailboats (all belonging to summer folk) reflected in the calm waters, the golden rocks and pine trees of the island behind them like a distant fortress.
Dear Lily,
The birds are singing their pajama songs, and the bats are out. The other day, I brought Poe to Eastman Hill. It was steeper than I remembered. You used to hold your arms out like you were flying, but you never fell. Dad never let you.
Love,
Nora
So what if she hadn’t written back? Or told Poe to say hi to me? Or contacted me in any way in the last five years? My sister was going to hear from me, damn it. I scrawled on the prison’s address, peeled off a stamp and shoved it in my purse so I could mail it tomorrow at Teeny Fletcher’s stupid little post office. I took a defiant sip of my wine. No one puts Nora in the corner.
Then, all of a sudden, the lights went out. I jumped and felt wine slosh on my shirt. Shit.
When I say it was dark, it was more than just the absence of light. It was as if the darkness had a texture and a sinister presence.
Also, I’d had a glass and a half of wine, started a Stephen King book and was slightly buzzed.
Without the hum of the fridge and water heater, without the little lights I took for granted—the laptop charger, the microwave clock, the smoke detector—I felt completely lost. I felt the houseboat move on the water in a way it didn’t seem to when I could see.
There was a thump on the dock. But that was normal, right? The dock and houseboat made noise all the time, thunking, squeaking, creaking. Maybe once in a while, thumping, too.
If only Boomer was here, I’d feel much, much safer.
My heart stuttered and sped. Not quite V-fib, but close.
The power is out, Nora. Get a grip. The electricity went out on a little island like this all the time. Sure it did. Practically everyone had a generator for storms—hurricanes and nor’easters in the fall, blizzards in the winter.
Except there was no storm now.
Had someone cut my power?
Luke Fletcher. Or...or him. Voldemort, he who could not be caught, thanks for nothing, Boston Police Department.
Could he have found me?
It was possible. He could’ve followed me here. If he was really obsessed with me, he could’ve figured it out. This time, there had been something public: the Scupper Island Weekly, which had an online version, had a snippet about me two weeks ago. Dr. Nora Stuart, a graduate of Scupper High, will be practicing medicine at the Ames Medical Clinic four days a week.
I whirled to look for my phone—it had a flashlight feature, God bless Apple—and slammed into the table, which was bolted to the floor. My breath hissed out of me. That’d leave a bruise for sure, but I couldn’t yelp, because if someone was out there, I didn’t want him to know where I was.
Crawl. Yes. That was a great idea. I wasn’t sure why, but everyone crawled in the movies, right? And maybe I wouldn’t crash into the table if I was on the floor.
I dropped to my knees and groped around. Where the hell had I left my phone? Table? Nope. Uh...couch? I crawled, my knee burning with pain. Right, right, I’d dislocated that sucker, hadn’t I? This made me try to crawl without using that knee, kind of humped up but still technically crawling, which made me feel like a werewolf in the throes of changing.
I groped. Groped some more. Nothing.
Shit! I banged my head on the coffee table. Must all the furniture be bolted to the floor? I mean, yes, I guess it did, since this was a houseboat, but it sure was inconvenient when crawling from a potential killer, wasn’t it?
I couldn’t find my phone.
But I knew exactly where my Smith & Wesson was, yessiree.
I crawl-hobbled to the hallway, hit my head on the wall—just call me Audrey Hepburn—and groped my way toward my bedroom, feeling for the door frame.
He dragged me by the legs down the hall. I grabbed onto the bathroom door frame, but my fingers weren’t strong enough.
Shit. Now was not the time for a flashback.
“You’re in Maine,” I whispered. “You’re okay. Get your gun and find your phone.”
There was another thump on the dock. Oh, God, oh, God. Now I was in my room, my knee on fire. I groped for the night table drawer, found it.
I stood up. I knew where I was now; my eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Like a ninja (with a bad knee and an intense case of the shakes and smelling of a plummy merlot with tobacco overtones), I shuffled back down the hall and crouched behind the kitchen counter. You’re a very brave, strong woman, Nora, I told myself. Myself didn’t believe me.
A man was coming down the dock, flashlight aimed at his feet.
Could I shoot a person? Someone who might be trying to kill me? What was the law in Maine about killing trespassers? Was it okay? Probably not. I mean, there were laws about killing moose. People were probably protected, too.
Also, there was that “first, do no harm” thing I’d sworn to. Shooting someone with a gun seemed like harm.
Calm down, Nora. Take a breath.
Before I let myself become Dirty Harry, I should probably know who was there.