Читать книгу: «Those Cassabaw Days»

For Wimpy and Frances Harden—

they really did fall in love as kids

and grow old together.

For the Greatest Generation of our time—

the men and women of World War II.

For Deidre Knight—

someone who always believes

and is always my champion.

For my mom, Dale Nease—

best cheerleader ever!

And for Logan, Liam and Lachlan Pierce—

my crazy Texas monkeys who fill me with joy.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Island Cemetery Cassabaw Station August 2000

WHAT WAS IT about death and rain, anyway? Emily Quinn’s grandma had said it was the angels’ tears falling from Heaven, and they were sad that Mama and Daddy had to leave us behind to join them. She’d also said God was full of euphoria to have two new angels beside Him to do His work. What was euphoria, anyway? And why didn’t God do some of His own work? There were plenty enough angels in Heaven. Emily and her little sister, Reagan, needed Mama and Daddy more than God did. But it didn’t matter to Him. He had them now, and was keeping them. Forever. No take backs.

Emily stood just outside of the cover of her grandpa’s umbrella, staring at the cemetery workers as they turned a metal crank, lowering her father into the grave. She wondered who’d dressed him in that stupid dark gray suit. He looked stuffy and pinched and uncomfortable with that tie yanked up close to his throat. Daddy hated suits. He liked shorts and T-shirts and his favorite old brown leather flip-flops. They’d also brushed his unruly sun-bleached curls to the side. He never, ever wore his hair like that, and it looked dumb. Even now she wanted to fling that lid open and ruffle his hair so it was messy and Daddy. No one had listened to her, though.

Her eyes slid over to her mom’s casket. She didn’t want to think of her mama lying in that stupid shiny container, wearing that new gray dress Grandma had bought for her; it was ugly. Her mom always wore bright, sunny colors. Not drab gray. And, she had too much blush on her cheeks. Too much eye shadow. She would have hated that. Mama was naturally pretty and didn’t need even a stitch of makeup. Tears burned the back of Emily’s throat, and she pressed closer to Reagan, who was two years younger, at ten.

The drone of the preacher’s final words, meant for comfort, Grandma had said, sounded more like a hive of bees, mad and buzzing in Emily’s ears. It made the stitches under the bandage circling her head throb, and the gash burn. Anger boiled inside her at the thought. Why did I survive while Mama and Daddy didn’t? Why did they leave me behind?

Suddenly, a sob escaped Reagan and she hurried over to stand between their grandma and grandpa. She began to cry pretty hard. Emily squeezed her eyes tightly shut, refusing to set free the tears pushing at her eyelids. Slowly, she lifted her face, breathed and opened her eyes.

The rain fell from a blanket of dreary gray clouds in fat, heavy plops that sank straight through her hair to her scalp. Dull thuds pinged off the umbrellas as the rain fell a little faster, and chorused through the crowd of mourners gathered at the graveside.

The cemetery workers began turning the crank again, clink clink clink, lowering her mama into the ground beside her daddy. Her eyes followed that shiny container, and Emily felt cold and alone, and her body began to shake. She hated that suit. She hated that dress. And she hated those caskets. She couldn’t stop the tremors no matter how hard she tried.

She wanted to run. Run as fast and as far away as she could and just keep going and going. Her heart pounded hard against her ribs, and it hurt. It hurt to breathe, it...just hurt so bad inside—

A hand—warm, a little bigger than hers and stronger, too—slipped into hers and squeezed with a firm gentleness that caught her off guard. Emily didn’t even need to look to see who had eased through the crowd to stand beside her, and her body sagged against his skinny but surprisingly strong frame. Matt Malone’s hand squeezed hers a little tighter, as if trying to take the pain away, and Emily felt his warmth seep straight through his long-sleeved white dress shirt, deep into her skin.

Even though he was a boy, Matt had been her best friend since, well, forever, and his presence eased the hurt a little. Emily breathed, her head resting against Matt’s shoulder, and soon her body stopped shaking so much.

She knew it’d start up again, the shaking. And the tears would not stay inside her eyes for too much longer, either. She was leaving Cassabaw Station. Leaving her best friend. Leaving her dead mama and daddy in the ground in those shiny caskets.

Leaving home.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, we return Kate and Alex Quinn to Your servitude, oh Lord,” the preacher droned on. “In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, amen.”

Thunder rumbled far in the distance, almost as if God was answering the preacher’s offering. Sniffles rose through the air as mourners sobbed out loud, and Emily blocked them all out, turning her head to look at Matt. He was already staring at her, and she gazed right back into his strange green eyes. Eyes that always held mischief and devilment now looked glassy and sad. Long black lashes fanned out against his wet, bronzed skin. His dark hair sat plastered to his head from the rain, but a long hank flipped out from his cowlick and hung across his forehead. His black tie was crooked and soaked. She fixed her gaze on his eyebrow, the one with the scar slashing through it. The emptiness returned, and a big, swelled-up tear rolled down her cheek.

“I wish you weren’t going,” Matt said, his voice low, steady. He still had her hand in his. “I don’t want you to go. It ain’t fair.”

“I know,” Emily answered. Her voice cracked as the pent-up sobs grabbed her over. “I don’t want to leave.”

Matt leaned closer to her ear, and for once, he smelled clean, like soap. Not salty from the river water. “Jep says it’s horseshit that you and Rea have to move away to Maryland,” he whispered. “Says you should just stay and live with us, on Morgan’s Creek.” He pulled back and stared. “That this is your home.”

Jep was Matt’s grandpa, and Emily felt the very same way. She’d pleaded for her and Reagan not to leave Cassabaw, but Grandma and Grandpa said they had to take care of them, and their home was in Maryland. Right next door to the President of the United States, they’d said. Emily had begged to stay with Daddy’s aunt Cora; that she and Reagan didn’t care one bit about living close to the president, but Grandpa said no, because Aunt Cora was too busy and had the café to run.

It hadn’t taken their grandpa long to pack up all the things from the river house and load them into the U-Haul. They were leaving straight from the funeral, heading to their home in Bethesda. Nine hours away, Grandpa had said.

A sob caught in Emily’s throat as the tears kept rolling down her cheeks. “I’ll come back one day,” she whispered, “right here to Cassabaw, and I won’t ever leave again. We have to fly in our flying machine. Right?” Jep had taught them an old song, “Come Josephine in My Flying Machine,” and they’d sung it together since they were little. It was their song now, and they’d sworn they’d fly in one, someday.

Matt dropped their entwined hands, reached up and gently wiped Emily’s tears away with the rough pads of his fingers. “Yeah, that’s right. So don’t go flyin’ away in one with anyone else, okay? Promise?” he asked, and jerked a pinkie toward her. “Promise, Em. Promise you’ll come back. For good. And never leave again.”

She nodded, and hooked her own pinkie around his. “I promise.”

Matt’s emerald gaze regarded her for a long time before he gave a single nod. “Deal.” He dropped his hand and it disappeared into the pocket of his black dress pants. When he withdrew it, his closed fist hovered in the air. “I got something for you. Hold out your hand.”

Emily held hers out. Matt lowered his fist and opened it. Something small and cool grazed her skin. It was an angel-wing shell. At least, that’s what she and Matt had always called them. Although in the ocean the shells were closed, like little clams, with a little creature inside. Once the shells washed onto the beach, they opened up like a pair of angel wings. Emily looked at Matt.

A slight grin lifted the corner of his mouth, and he reached down with his bony fingers and broke the two wings apart.

“What’d you do that for—” Emily began.

Matt flipped each wing over, and Emily stared. Inside each shell, a name. Matt in one, and Em in the other. She lifted her gaze to his as he claimed the one with her name.

“This is for you to remember me by,” Matt offered. “Since you like ’em and all. I’ll keep yours, see, and you keep mine.” Then his brows furrowed. “It doesn’t mean boyfriend and girlfriend, or anything stupid like that.” He drew closer, his voice dropping once more to a whisper. “It just means best friends. Forever.” His eyes softened. “No matter what.”

A sob escaped her throat as she flung her arms around Matt’s neck. His skinny arms went around Emily, and he hugged her hard.

“No matter what,” Emily repeated against his damp shoulder. “Forever.”

“Emily, darling, it’s time to go.” Grandpa’s deep voice sounded behind them. They broke apart and, once more, Matt swiped Emily’s tears away with his fingers. Her grandpa gently grasped her hand and led her away.

Emily’s vision blurred as more tears filled her eyes, and even more pain returned. She watched the mossy ground move under her feet as she walked, and she’d kick an occasional pinecone when it got in her way. The rain had eased up, and the salty brine of the Back River wafted through the cemetery. Moss hung from the live oaks like ratty old hair, and puffy dandelions swayed with the breeze. She didn’t once look up, but she knew Matt followed, just a little behind. At her grandparents’ Bronco, she turned and met her best friend’s gaze. Matt stared hard and didn’t say anything, seemed almost angry, and she stared back. In her palm, she squeezed her Matt angel wing shell tightly.

Grandpa opened her door, and Matt mouthed the word bye.

Emily, her heart in her throat, mouthed it back.

She climbed in, and as the Bronco began to move away, the U-Haul heavy behind it, Emily kept her eyes trained on Matt Malone, standing there in his white shirt, crooked black tie and dress pants, his hand lifted in goodbye. She raised her hand, too, and didn’t look away until her grandpa turned out of the cemetery’s long driveway, heading toward the interstate.

Then, Emily reached over the seat to grasp little Reagan’s hand, closed her eyes and silently said goodbye to her home.

CHAPTER ONE

Cassabaw Station Present day Late May

EMILY QUINN WAITED in a single line of four or five cars as the big steel bridge to the island broke apart, each side rising high. The warm early-afternoon sun poured in and warmed her skin. Fats Waller’s “Ain’t Misbehavin’” played as she watched the large shrimp trawler pass beneath her. She turned the volume up, the trumpets and trombones and tenor saxophones of the vintage twenties music she loved so much coming to life through the speakers. Down the river, stilt houses and wooden docks hugged the water and marsh grass. She was almost home. Moments later, after the trawler had passed safely below, the bridge lowered, and she was again on her way, heading off the mainland and onto the island.

The early-summer wind whipped through the Jeep’s open doors and top and Emily inhaled, filling her lungs until they squeezed against her ribs.

Emily peered ahead down the stretched two-lane highway. Palms and oleander trees lined the narrow seven-mile tract of road over the marsh to Cassabaw Station, and it was just as she’d remembered. A tinge of excitement raced through her body, making her skin tingle. She had missed this—the salt life, her daddy had called it. She remembered only hazy bits and pieces of her past, but that one in particular stood out. That, and her father’s sandy-blond curls.

The humidity lingered as heavy as the brine of the creek—so much that it clung to her skin, her tongue. Emily swept her gaze to either side of the road as she drove. Rudy Vallée sang “As Time Goes By” and she hummed along, and somehow the vintage music fit right into the feel of Cassabaw. Low tide and clumps of saw grass hugged the edge of the muck. Oyster shoals rose in scattered little hills from the water and blinked in the sunlight.

Across the marsh, a lone white shrimp trawler sat anchored to the pilings, its masts and outriggings jutting skyward. Multiple docks stretched out over the saw grass to the water. Several had small tin-roofed dock houses. One of them now belonged to Emily and her younger sister.

Not for the first time since leaving Maryland a jolt of self-doubt shot through her, an unfamiliar sensation to Emily. Had she made the right decision? Was this new life, this brand-new start in the place where she’d grown up, really for her? Emily wasn’t fond of these niggling, questioning fears because it was more typical of her character to ponder, make a sound decision and be done with it. Stick to it and be confident in it.

Now, she questioned herself. Was it just butterflies? The return home after so many years? Her dad’s old aunt Cora—Emily’s last living relative, save Reagan—had passed away and left them the river house and the Windchimer, a seaside breakfast-and-lunch café. With Reagan now in the air force and deployed to Afghanistan, and Emily’s recent breakup, there had been no better time to accept.

It was a good decision. It had to be. In truth, Cassabaw had been pulling at her for some time. She’d been unsettled with her retail manager’s job, with her relationship and the hustle and bustle of the city, and politics. Alone in Bethesda, or alone in Cassabaw? Somehow things didn’t seem so rimmed with despair on the island, even though she’d still be alone. The city never was her cup of tea. Now? The opportunity to leave it had been perfect. The therapist she’d had, so very long ago, had informed Emily that she suffered abandonment issues. Maybe. Possibly.

A couple of months earlier, Emily’s boyfriend had ended their relationship. She’d met Trent Hughes her sophomore year of college where they’d both played lacrosse for Mount St. Mary’s University. He was nice. Generous. Safe. Charming. Athletic. Everyone liked Trent. She may have even loved him, really, and had at the very least fancied the idea of growing old together. At first, she’d been hurt by the breakup. Hurt and rejected.

But politics and business—and his mother—always came first with Trent. And from the start Emily, with her spontaneity, her quirky love of the twenties and thirties and otherwise average life, just didn’t fit in with Trent’s political upper-crust Georgetown family—no matter how hard she’d tried. Mrs. Hughes definitely wasn’t thrilled about her dating Trent. The longer they stayed together, the bolder those facts became to Emily. Trent had always assured her he loved her the way she was, but over the past several months that assuredness didn’t really sit well with Emily and she had no doubt Allegoria Hughes had been a major factor in Trent’s decision to break things off. Emily, possessing a mammoth amount of pride, didn’t fight his decision—and that surprised Trent. And when the opportunity arose to move back home, she knew it was right. She wanted Cassabaw, not the Capital. She didn’t want someone to just merely accept her the way she was. At twenty-seven, her whole life lay ahead. Alone, she supposed it didn’t really matter. She’d make it work no matter what.

Finally, after fifteen long years, she was home. She inhaled deeply, letting the breath escape her pursed lips. Yes, indeed. It felt right.

Emily’s eyes slipped over the long, narrow road, crossing the marsh and river as she passed. The USCG station entrance stood ahead on the left. Matt Malone instantly rushed to the front of her memories. She fondly remembered her neighbor, Mr. Malone, as being part of the Coast Guard. He had worn his Coast Guard hat, and had really big muscles. Matt was his middle son and had been her very best friend. The years that separated them had somewhat dulled their old life together.

Now that she was back on Cassabaw...? Matt Malone seemed solid, real. Kind of like he would be waiting on the path that ran between their houses; a lanky twelve-year-old boy with a wide, toothy grin and emerald-green eyes. Random silly things they did as kids rushed back like a pot of water boiling over fast. Climbing trees. Eating wild blackberries that grew beside the keeper’s cottage. Racing up the steps to the lighthouse. Crabbing off the floating dock. Chasing fireflies in the summer. Dancing decades-old dances Matt’s Irish grandfather had taught them. So many recollections...

Emily had bumped into Mr. Malone—Owen—and his old sea-dog father, Jep, at Aunt Cora’s funeral in King’s Ferry, and told them she was moving back to Cassabaw. Emily hadn’t spoken long to the Malones, but Owen had told her that Matt had joined the marines right after high school. When she’d returned to Bethesda after the funeral she’d tried to find him on Facebook, but nothing. All she could find when she did an internet search was an old picture in the Cassabaw Station Gazette. A cocky, proud, eighteen-year-old newly enlisted Matt Malone. Even seeing that picture had been strange; he looked like Matt, yet different. More mature. Still a kid, though. She tried hard to picture crazy little Matt Malone grown-up, and it was nearly impossible. What had driven him to join the marines? To leave Cassabaw?

Matt Malone. Was he married now? With kids? God, how weird, she thought, to think of that little prankster with kids of his own. She’d have to visit the Malones and find out for herself.

The speed limit dropped to forty-five as she edged closer to the small island’s city limits. a large sign displayed a hand-painted beach, with sea-oat-covered sand dunes and the familiar black-and-white lighthouse against the picture-perfect gray blue of the Atlantic. Welcome to Cassabaw Station stretched in a half circle of wide black letters at the top. At the very bottom, in the right-hand corner, the artist left her mark with a single dandelion, its wispy little petals floating up and away.

In the center of the flower, the letters KQ were inscribed. Emily remembered it well. Katie Quinn. Emily had the same dandelion tattooed onto her shoulder, the petals scattering up and over. Trent had always liked it; his mother despised it. She’d said tattoos were a little on the distasteful side. But Emily loved her body art. Loved what it meant to her. And on her shoulder it would stay. Forever.

Her eyes skimmed over her hand as it gripped the Jeep’s steering wheel. There, on her inner wrist, her parents’ birth year was forever embedded with black ink. 1965. Trent’s mother had disliked that one even more.

“You can do this, you can do this,” Emily encouraged herself out loud. A burst of confidence surged through her, and she squealed. “Yes! I can do this!” It’d be her new mantra.

Although dying to see the Windchimer, she decided to go to the river house first. Then, later, the island cemetery. Emily heaved a gusty sigh and pressed the clutch, downshifting to Third as the speed limit declined again. Suddenly, the Jeep sputtered, almost stalling. With her foot pressing the clutch, Emily shifted back into fourth. The transmission lurched, but finally caught the gear.

“Oh, well, that’s just supergreat.” Emily could do many things, but working on cars was not one of them.

Ahead on the right was the same old Chappy’s IGA and Fuel Stop. As she approached, Emily noticed the brightly colored beach towels, the foam wakeboards and the variety of kites that still lined both of the wide picture windows of the storefront. Up ahead and around the big curve to the right she knew were the beachfront, pavilion, pier and boardwalk. Had it changed in fifteen years? She could hardly wait to find out.

Emily’s heartbeat quickened as she hit the left-turn signal and downshifted again. This time, the Jeep simply sputtered. She passed the lively little cottages from the twenties and thirties that hadn’t changed a bit. Painted in colors varying from pink to green to baby blue, and decorated in nautical themes, they sat nestled beneath oak trees draped in Spanish moss and aged wisteria vines. Scrub palms graced every yard. Yes, everything was exactly as Emily had remembered. She, Reagan, Matt and his brothers had trick-or-treated here every single Halloween. Made out like bandits, too. They’d last been zombies, walking through the streets, moaning and dragging their legs. God, what fun they’d had.

Just then, the Cassabaw Station Lighthouse came into view, jutting skyward. Sitting directly across from it was old Fort Wilhem—the Civil War fort. How many times had she and Reagan climbed those spiral steps clear to the top and looked out over the Atlantic? She and Matt, too.

Emily continued around the curb. Soon the cottages grew sparse, and through the canopy of moss and live oaks, the sunlight blinked in and out. She slowed and scanned the mailboxes that sat at the entrance of each long, shady driveway. Clark. Harden. Malone.

“Quinn,” she whispered as her gaze found the large rural mailbox. The name was faded now, painted in big swirling letters so long ago by her mom. Great-Aunt Cora had lived in the house after the accident, unmarried and without kids, and had run the café until she passed at seventy-six. Emily drew another deep breath as she eased onto the narrow driveway.

More recollections swamped her as she crept down the azalea-lined driveway, and they were fond ones. Happy. And so thick you had to brush them away with your hand like a swarm of gnats. Massive oaks and magnolia trees with blooms the size of softballs formed a shady awning over the two Quinn acres and, before long, the old whitewashed river house came into view.

Just then, the Jeep’s engine coughed, sputtered and died. Close to the wide, raised porch, Emily coasted to a stop and threw the Jeep into Neutral. Yanking the emergency brake, she leaned back against her seat and blew out a breath of relief. Barely made it. She would need a mechanic sooner than ASAP. But for now, she was finally home. With excitement, she pulled her shades off and drank it all in.

Crickets and cicadas chirped a deafening chorus. The saw grass rustled as the wind rushed through the salt marsh. The oyster shoals bubbled in the low-tide mud. And although it was only late May, the moisture hung so thick that it stuck to Emily’s skin like a sopping wet blanket. Her eyes drifted to the front porch, where her mom’s hydrangea bushes still sat, full of wide green leaves and almost-ready blooms. God, she loved it here. Why had it taken poor Aunt Cora’s passing for her to come back? She’d been so busy with school, then college, then she’d met Trent, work... Time had just flown by. With her eyes closed, she inhaled, and let her senses take over.

Emmie! Reagan! Time for supper!

A sad smile tugged at Emily’s mouth as she recalled her mom’s sweet voice. It seemed like forever ago that she’d heard it. Blinks in time, those memories. She cherished every single one.

Male voices rose from the river, interrupting Emily’s reverie. She peered through the trees in that direction. Easing out of the open door, she slid her iPhone into the pocket of her vintage sundress and started across the hard-packed dirt path that wound to the marsh. Flip-flops smacked her heels as she walked, and the voices cleared.

“Owen! Dammit, boy, I told you it was that check valve on the bilge pump through-hull! Christ almighty!” The voice was old, graveled and familiar.

“Dad, calm down. Eric’s picking up the valve on his way home. We’ll have it fixed tonight.”

“Can’t take ’er out with a busted bilge pump.”

“I know that, Dad.”

Emily smiled as she made her way to the marsh. Those voices belonged of course to the elder Malones. The wood groaned beneath her feet as she stepped onto the sun-faded dock and started out across the water. Picking her way carefully, she noticed every third board was missing, others were rotted and, finally, she had no choice but to stop. A big gap of sheer drop-off to the salt water, maybe ten feet or more, lay between Emily and the rest of the dock. Beyond that, the tin roof of the little dock house had faded from red to salmon in the blazing sun. It, too, had seen better days.

Shading her eyes with her hand, she peered over at the anchored shrimping trawler and the two older men standing beside it. They both looked in her direction, and she waved. “Hey there!” she called.

“Little Emily Quinn, is that you?” Owen Malone hollered back.

Even though fifty feet or more stood between them and Emily, his deep voice carried over the water, strong and clear. He wore a dark cap, khaki shorts and a dark T-shirt. Years of being in the sun had bronzed his skin.

“Didn’t expect you till next week.”

It had already been over a month since she’d flown in for Aunt Cora’s funeral. For some reason, Emily had resisted driving out to Cassabaw to see the old homestead before. She hadn’t been ready then, she supposed.

“Yes, sir,” she answered. “I decided to come a little early. Just got in.”

“Who is it?” Jep Malone grumbled, peering in Emily’s direction. He wore the same white cap and light blue short-sleeved coveralls she remembered. She was surprised he hadn’t worn the same thing to the funeral. Quite a character, Jep Malone.