1

In many ways, an eternity has passed since I boarded that Washington State ferry at Orcas Landing. During my absence, I’ve created a life on my own terms, married a wonderful man, and gave birth to a son who is the apple of my eye. Welcome to the Charmed Life of M. G. Hawthorne, according to the recent exposé published in Sunset magazine. Yet beyond those glossy pages of finely edited words and perfect photographs, the painful imprint of my departure still lingers, as do the haunting memories that wake me in the middle of the night, even after all these years. I recall the promises to myself and those I left behind, promises that eventually evolved into obligations. Revisiting the list of those now realized, I confirm the one that remains unattended; today, this terrifies me, and not just for my sake.

~

“Follow him . . . and don’t forget to put ’er in park and set yer emergency brake!

“Aye-aye, skipper,” Robert answers the ferryman, touching a finger to his forehead in a lazy salute as he drives us onto the San Juan Islands–bound vessel.

“How many times a day do you think he has to say that?” I ask, jarred from my contemplation.

“At least a few hundred if you consider the cargo capacity, give or take. Why are you shaking your head?”

“You engineers and your calculations,” I laugh.

“You think we’re bad? You’re lucky I’m not an accountant!”

“Don’t misunderstand. I still find your precise nature cute, but it’s 1972—surely those kinds of announcements can be made with a recording like they do at Sea-Tac.”

“Sounds like somebody’s got a bee in her bonnet,” Robert says with a smile.

I shrug lightly. He isn’t wrong, but my emotions are too unsettled to be pinned down so neatly. “Sorry, I guess I’m a little on edge; please ignore me.”

We come to a stop, and Robert shifts the station wagon into park, but it’s the ratcheting sound of the emergency brake that confirms we are officially aboard.

“Hey, Mom, I’m finished!” pipes Edward from the back seat, followed by the triumphant thud of a large book.

“Was there ever a doubt?” I reply, turning to see his satisfied smile.

“Never! All sixty-two Sherlock Holmes stories, every single word!”

“I’m very proud of you. That took a lot of determination and patience, especially with the language differences since those tales were written.”

“Thanks, Mom—reading The Old Nurse’s Story last fall definitely helped with that.”

“Congratulations,” Robert chimes in, his proud grin as wide as mine. “I bet not many thirteen-year-olds, or adults for that matter, can say the same.”

“That’s exactly what Mrs. Barr said. I lucked out that she allowed me to pick something else when all the girls in the school book club voted for Anne of Green Gables and Charlotte’s Web.”

“Not surprising, honey—you’ve been one of her favorites since kindergarten.”

“She knew I only had The Five Orange Pips left to read, and I promised her I’d be done before sundown, so today, in front of the whole club, she said it showed my ability to follow through on a highly formidable adult-level collection.”

“That’s a high compliment, Edward. I know you’re going to miss her next year with the redistricting.”

“I will, for sure.” Edward’s eyes scan the ferry, his insatiable curiosity gleaming with intensity. I can see him cataloging the details of our surroundings as he steps out of the car. “Are we going up on deck?”

“Absolutely, that’s the best part of a ferry ride. Tell you what—meet Dad and me at the snack bar in ten minutes, and we’ll grab a little something for the trip.”

“Deal!”

“Now, you better scoot if you’re going to see us get underway.”

The ferry horn announces our departure as Edward slams the car door behind him and dashes up the cavernous stairwell to watch us pull away from the Anacortes terminal.

“Well, what about that?” Robert chuckles.

“His vocabulary is something else!”

“I mean, look who his mother is.”

“Oh, stop—he’s growing up so fast, Robert.”

“He really is.”

“I just pray it’s not too fast . . .”

“As much as I wouldn’t mind it, he can’t stay our little boy forever,” Robert says softly, his wistful tone matching my feelings exactly.

“I know, but I’d like to think we’re giving him an extension is all; it’s such a sweet time in life.” The words sound like an attempt to convince myself as I speak them.

“Him?” Robert asks, resting his hand on mine. “Touché. You’ve got me there.” I meet his eyes with a half-smile.

Robert gestures toward the emerald waters of the Salish Sea. “How does it feel to be returning to Orcas Island for the first time since leaving?”

“I was fine until we boarded; now there’s a bit of nerves, but I’m determined they won’t spoil this experience.”

“A little anxiety seems pretty natural. Don’t be too hard on yourself—this is a big deal for you.”

I smile at the man who has been the rock of my existence for fourteen years. “You’ve been so supportive through all this, especially with how I treated you and Edward while writing the last book.”

“Water under the bridge, and for what it’s worth, I’ve never questioned that this is the right thing to do. And I mean for all of us.”

“I’m so thankful to hear you say that. I’ve been questioning myself quite a bit lately.”

“You know this wouldn’t have been possible without your success—”

“Our success, honey.” I smile and peck his cheek. “Regardless, it’s hard for me to put into words, but being out on that property is something special, whatever

the challenges of island life may be.”

“I still remember that feeling . . . it’s hard to believe we’re actually doing this.”

“Aside from everything else, it’s an extraordinary opportunity for the price; you’d think the place was full of spooks or something.”

“It’s an old house, Robert; there are bound to be a few hanging around.” I laugh. “But I thought you didn’t believe in all that mumbo jumbo, as you so aptly put it.”

“I don’t know . . . the way the sellers jumped at our first offer kind of makes me want to reconsider my opinion.”

“It just wasn’t the right summerhouse for them, is all.”

“Yeah, or the folks before them, apparently.”

He smiles, but there’s something more behind his comment. “I thought you loved the house.”

“Oh, I do, spooks or not! I just hope they continue to mind their own affairs.”

“All right, so what’s the rub, then?”

“No rub, just thinking about the weekends I spent out there the past few months, is all.” He pauses for a beat, then shakes it off.“Let’s make our way upstairs and enjoy the rest of the boat ride.”

“Robert—”

“It’s nothing, really. Just stuff where your imagination can get away from you. Do you remember anything odd from when you were a kid?”

“Odd?”

“It’s pretty remote. That side of the island is so isolated, and at night it’s black as pitch when the moon isn’t out.”

“Which is part of the charm, right?”

“Indeed, I love the peace and quiet during the day—no complaints about that from me. Maybe it’s just that I’m not used to that type of quiet at night, and my mind is trying to make up for it.”

“That could be; we’ll see if it’s better tonight when we’re all together. Guess we should get up top—Edward’s probably already waiting for us at the snack bar. I think that kid’s got a hollow leg.”

Robert chuckles. “I shoveled away the food at his age, too. But I bet you he’s still out on deck leaning over the rail and having a blast.”

“You’re probably right. Better grab his windbreaker and yours, too—it’ll be chilly out there.”

Edward isn’t to be found at the snack bar, so we make our way through the main cabin until we spot him through a window at the forward rail. Robert and I laugh, and he joins him on deck, handing him his windbreaker while I find a booth inside the main cabin that allows me to observe my two boys doing what boys do best.

Witnessing their conversation and expressions from only a few yards away but separated by tons of steel and glass, I can only guess at their exchange.

The moment brings to mind a lecture I attended back at the University of Washington. The parapsychologist’s theory suggested that spirits of the departed vibrate at such high frequencies that they’re in another dimension and, as a rule, can only observe us. However, as all rules go, there are exceptions—something I can attest to from my own childhood experiences on the island.

Producing the small notebook and pen that once again serve as my constant companions, I recall that age when every new adventure is exciting and full of wonder.

The erosion of our youthful naiveté is a cursed path, but one we all must tread. Nonetheless, I still rue the memory of when Edward, then in the fourth grade, walked into the house so crestfallen after a neighborhood boy unmasked Santa Claus for him and his pals.

Now, as I sit here accompanied by the drone of ferry engines, my prayer is that this summer won’t extinguish the last vestiges of his innocence, and yet, deep down, it seems inevitable.

Novels resemble life in that they’re full of chapters, some to be reread, others to be rewritten, but all to be experienced. I learnedthis lesson early, as I was fortunate enough to have a good teacher. Without her, I’m not sure I would have had the resilience or fortitudeto break away and craft stories of my own. This career in writing is something I’ve never regretted, but it’s the casualties . . . there are always casualties, even when wielding Lytton’s pen.

Survival demands that we learn to live with the con- sequences of our decisions, written or otherwise, and I’m only three ferry stops away from facing mine. Or so I think.

After a rough docking at Lopez Island, the boys join me inside the main cabin and apologize for their extended absence, explaining how they lost track of time looking for killer whales.

“Don’t apologize; watching you two have a ball always does my heart good.”

“Did you catch that dicey docking? Sometimes they come in a tad hot.”

“Oh, we definitely felt it inside. Those poor folks over there almost had their sodas in their laps,” I reply, gesturing across the cabin to an elderly couple playing cards.

“It’s a good thing those pilings are designed to flex because we really whacked them that time.”

“I thought it was cool!”

“That was evident from the grin on your face,” Robert says, giving Edward an affirming nudge, then tipping his chin in my direction. “I’ve been wondering when that little notebook of yours would make an appearance.”

“Just a few scratches is all,” I smile.

“Edward, why don’t you keep Mom company while I run to the snack bar for us, all right?”

“Sure. I’ll have a Simba and some peanuts, please.”

“You got it, champ. Coffee, honey?”

“Yes, please, unless they’ve started a wine service,” I laugh.

“You know I’ll join you if they have! Sit tight, and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

As Robert heads off toward the snack bar, Edward slides into the bench seat opposite me, resting his elbows on the table and chin in his hands.

“Now that you’re out of school for the summer, does anything stand out from this past year?” I ask him.

Edward reflects for a moment.

“I guess one thing I noticed was how strange it is being one of the big kids.”

“In what way?”

“Well, when I was in the lower grades, I thought they were so big and cool. Then, when I finally got here, I didn’t feel that big and cool.”

“That’s a great life lesson and pretty common when we enter new environments, no matter what age we are. Think about all those younger kids who were looking up to you this year.”

“That’s kind of funny.”

“Well, it’s true—”

But before I can finish the thought, my throat goes dry, and my heartbeat accelerates as I lock eyes with the man making his way in our direction from the opposite end of the cabin.

I calmly stand up, and without raising my voice, I direct Edward to slide into my side of the booth. Sensing the urgency, he slips in behind me, and together we watch the man in his middle thirties with a cane and limping gait approach our table.

“You are Meredith Gaines, aren’t you?”

“That was my name at one time,” I answer, not tersely but definitely without further invitation.

“Oh, I see . . . yes, yes, of course,” he replies with an odd look while taking stock of Edward over the top of his heavy black eyeglass frames. “Chase Stuart of the Shaw Island Stuarts—I’m sure you remember us.

“Indeed, I do. It’s been many years.”

“Things don’t change much on Shaw, although Mother did die about four years ago in a house fire.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I reply, hoping this ends our visit.

“No loss, really—it’s not a secret that she hated me. If I only had a dollar for every time I warned her about cooking in that nightgown . . . but she never listened. It was always Skip this and Skip that . . . Why couldn’t you be smart like your brother Skip was? When any chump off the street knows that an open flame, hairspray, and a flannel nightgown are a bad combination.

“That evening, she was standing over the stove with her hair in rollers shellacked with half a can of Aqua Net and bent down to light a cigarette off the burner. When the flame got a whiff of that hairspray, up she goes like a goddamned dry Christmas tree, then ran through the house screaming and spreading fire everywhere. Next thing I know, the whole place is an inferno, and I have to fend for myself before the propane tanks explode! I mean, any sane person in that position would have done the same thing, right?”

“Undoubtedly.” Now I’m so intrigued by his candor that I don’t dare interrupt as he continues.

“You’re a survivor like me, Meredith—I figured you’d see it my way, unlike some of the riffraff also-rans loafing on these islands. That same lot would have been roasted like pigs on a spit!” Stuart chuckles as he whips the cane hard against the side of his leg, producing a loud, unnatural crack.

The startled expression on Edward’s face registers with Stuart as he ends the diatribe, and following another awkward laugh, he hikes his pant leg using the crook of the cane to reveal a medieval contraption fashioned of metal, canvas, and leather straps, cradling a grotesquely disfigured leg.

“I consider myself damned lucky to have gotten out of that house with some singed hair and this gimped leg after the tanks blew.” He states before releasing his trousers to once again cover the repulsive sight.

“The entire ordeal sounds horrible; I’m sorry,” I say.

“No pity, please. I’m the first to admit that the checks I received from the insurance company helped out, if you catch my drift.” He winks.

Once again, I hope this concludes our conversation; he continues, however, carrying Edward deeper into uncharted territory with his dredging of the past.

“I recall reading in The Seattle Times that your father and that gold-digging trollop of his died in a car wreck on the floating bridge; that must be fifteen or sixteen years ago now.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” I reply, smirking at his description of Samantha.

“Considering the circumstances, I’m surprised he didn’t blow his brains out or jump off Deception Pass bridge. I know plenty who would have preferred that to the humiliation of financial ruin and life among the rabble.”

I nod without reply. Then he meets my eyes with a quick, cold stare that I haven’t seen for almost two decades, and his carefully chosen words bring a shiver to my spine.

“Dreadful business, but alas, the worms have to eat too— don’t you agree, Meredith?”

Everything about Chase Stuart makes my skin crawl, but I don’t flinch from his flattened delivery or break from those empty eyes with my response.

“According to the paper, they were cremated in the wreckage, so I guess the worms missed a meal.”

“How delightfully morbid!” Stuart lets out an exaggerated laugh, narrowing his gaze as he searches my eyes for weakness. I refuse to show him one.

The chill in the conversation is palpable, and before he can comment further, Edward, who has been a quiet observer, stands up and shouts across the cabin, “Dad, we’re over here!” waving his hand in the air as if his father doesn’t know our location.

Robert sets the tray on the table and introduces himself while extending his hand in greeting.

“The name’s Chase Stuart—a pleasure to meet you, Robert. Meredith and I have quite the family history together,” he says coolly as the docking announcement for Shaw Island crackles over the speaker with their handshake.

“Ah, my stop approaches. I’d better not dally and get back to the car—these ferrymen tend to frown on tardiness, and it doesn’t matter to them in the least if you’re a goddamned cripple, either. Well, it’s been nice to see you again, Meredith, and to meet you, Robert, and your son, I presume?”

“Yes, this is Edward,” Robert answers.

“A nice strong name! Off to Meredith’s old stomping grounds, are we?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stuart, it’s a surprise for Edward,” I intervene before Robert can answer.

“In that case, enjoy your surprise, Edward! It’s supposed to be beautiful up here the next week or so—might even see a whale pod or two if you’re lucky. I’ve sighted several over in Sullivan’s Cove on Shaw!” he yells just before vanishing into the stairwell.

“Hmmm, that was interesting,” Robert says with a lift of his eyebrows and a questioning smile.

“Astonishing is more like it,” I answer, trying to conceal my trembling as the adrenaline from our exchange dissipates.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine. A bit of cat and mouse.”

“I think it’s safe to say the cat’s out of the bag now.”

“We both knew it was bound to happen at some point. I’m actually relieved that it’s over.”

“But do you think he—”

“Oh, he’s a reader all right—a return one at that,” I say with a nervous laugh and a thousand-mile stare, which Robert immediately recognizes.

“What’s rattling around in that pretty little head of yours?”

“Sullivan’s Cove—there isn’t one on Shaw or any of the San Juan Islands.”

“So it’s something from your last book that only a local might catch.”

“Yep, thinly veiled, along with—”

“Who is that guy?” Edward interjects. “He gives me the creeps.”

“Excuse me? What have I told you about interrupting people?”

“Sorry, Mom . . . it’s inexcusably rude and a vulgar habit.”

“Exactly.”

“Aside from the interruption, I’m with you—that guy’s a weirdo,” Robert says, rolling his eyes and making Edward laugh.

“Dad, you should’ve seen his mutilated leg—it was super-gross, plus he was talking about worms eating dead bodies!”

“All right, now.”

“But Mom, his skin . . .”

“But Meredith, that skin on his throat—I’m going to wash my hands in case he’s got scabies!” Robert parrots as he laughs.

“You two are incorrigible! Now, gather up your stuff because we need to get back to the car in a couple of minutes.”

The encounter with Chase Stuart at the outset of this trip was unsettling, to be sure. He’s three years my senior and was about twenty when I left Orcas; today he’s just a limping older version. The same height as Robert at six feet, but of a slighter build and wearing what’s left of his orange hair in a comb-over so sparse, I think, why bother? Dressed in corduroy trousers and a waxed canvas jacket, the generous helping of Brut aftershave appeared to irritate his skin. It was outlasted only by the tension that hung in the air after his departure.

Although I wasn’t around him much during my years on the island, there were the occasional soirees of affluent families who entertained at one another’s estates. His awkwardness was abundantly clear from the start, as he lacked even the most rudimentary of social graces. Initially, this elicited compassion from people, believing that he might be a tad slow, but this opinion changed after just one conversation when it became apparent that there was an absence of right or wrong behind that unsettlingly vacant stare of his.

It’s no secret or slight to locals to point out that the veins of Islanders run rich with gossip, and the more prominent the family, the more rancorous and salacious the whisperings. The Stuarts were never far from the top of that list, and after his teenage stint in a mainland reformatory for setting fire to the dock in Deer Harbor, Chase unseated his philandering father for top billing in marina gossip throughout the San Juans. As the younger and least preferred of two brothers, he survived the rest of his family and became sole heir to their once-sizable fortune, apparently boasting about acquiring his money the old fashioned way—inheriting it.

Chase Stuart is the sleeping dog that I hadn’t let lie in my latest work, and though he was cleared by the local authorities of the day, his proximity to several deaths, including that of a local girl who was pregnant, left many unanswered questions. His parting comment assured me that our next encounter would prove even more interesting. Entertaining that suspicion as Edward and I make our way toward the stairs, I discreetly ask Robert to go to the bow of the boat to see what Stuart might be driving, as there won’t be many disembarking at Shaw Island, even on a Friday afternoon.

The stop is brief, and Robert returns to the car as the docking horn sounds for Orcas, just minutes across the channel.

“Orcas! That’s where we’re going,” shouts Edward, stating the obvious.

“The game’s afoot, Watson!” Robert replies in the accent of a Londoner.

“I’m Holmes, Dad. You’re Watson!”

“Tally ho then, Holmes!”

“Get those hands washed?” I ask Robert.

“Yes indeed, no scabies here,” he answers the question I’m really asking.

Following the small line of traffic along a two-lane road, we reach the island’s main village of Eastsound and pull into the parking lot of Templin’s grocery store.

“Wow! It’s nice to see the old place hasn’t changed much,” I say.

“According to the banner inside, they’re celebrating seventy-five years this summer. I figure we’ll grab some steaks for dinner and a couple of things for breakfast. You ready, or do you want to stay in the car?”

“Are you kidding me? I can’t wait!”

The familiar smell of Templin’s takes me back to the days when my tutor Edna brought me shopping with her. Somewhat indescribable, it’s reminiscent of the cardboard boxes that apples are packed in, much like our Capitol Hill market on 15^thAvenue during fall, minus the waft of caramel and cinnamon brooms from the neighboring bins. I return a welcoming smile from the clerk ringing out another customer, and the three of us set off through the narrow aisles with our shopping cart.

“Well, hello there, Robert,” says the slim, attractive, doe-eyed brunette about my age, whom I barely avoid a collision with at the intersection of canned goods and condiments.

“Hi Danelle! We just got in on the five o’clock,” Robert responds, as my raised eyebrow relaxes with the mention of her name.

“I figured. Welcome to Orcas, Meredith and Edward! I’m Danelle Sinclair—my husband, Kent, and I have the farm just down the road from you.”

“Danelle, it’s so nice to finally put a face to the name. I can’t thank you and Kent enough for everything you’ve done.”

“Aww, you’re welcome. We’re just glad to help out and thrilled that you’re finally here. Edward, we have a fourteen-year-old daughter named Vivian, and she’s very excited to meet you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Edward replies, not quite knowing what to make of the situation.

“Would y’all come for dinner on Sunday? Maybe three thirty or four—that way we can show you around the farm, too.”

“That sounds wonderful, Danelle,” I smile. “We’ll be looking forward to the visit. What can we bring?”

“Yourselves, and please call us if you need anything in the meantime. Oh, and don’t stock up on eggs or fruit— we’ll be sure to send you home with plenty!”

~

Robert squeezes the groceries into the overstuffed station wagon, and minutes later, we find ourselves on a forested, twisting two-lane highway heading toward the eastern end of the island. A long stretch of trees that creep close to the road produces an overhang so dense that it practically extinguishes the daylight. After a few are-we-there-yets from Edward, we turn onto an unmarked, unpaved road leading to a dead end.

I feel the flutter of butterflies for the first time as Robert drives through the arched iron gate and we start down the cedar-lined lane. Rounding the final curve, we enter a large, open range, cordoned on three sides by a forest that closes its doors behind us, and a second later, my heart jumps at the sight of her.

The house is regally perched among the rock and cedars, her weathered shingles reflecting fawn and silver in the fading daylight, the exception being those yet to endure the prolonged exposure to salt air and unrelenting island sun. The white trim outlining the house is fresh and bright, giving added distinction to the windows, roofline, and several large pillars supporting the formidable front porch. She’s breathtaking to behold.

“Oh, Robert, thank you! How on earth did you manage all of this?” I ask, kissing his cheek.

“Not a big deal, really,” he answers nonchalantly, struggling to contain his smile.

And that’s the moment when Edward puts the pieces together.

“Wait a minute—this is the project Dad’s been working on, not something at Boeing?” His tone reveals the shock of his misperception and excitement for what lies ahead.

“Another case solved, Mr. Holmes!” Robert affirms.

In the preceding months, Edward had deduced that his father’s weekend absences were due to an important deadline he was under at Boeing, and neither of us corrected him. First, his deduction was plausible. Every Seattleite knew that the aircraft giant had undergone severe austerity measures the past year and a half, with over fifty thousand losing their jobs in the downsizing. We were extremely fortunate, as Robert’s knack for logistics was deemed essential, and our family survived the bloodlettings. So rather than correcting Edward, we reasoned that it would be a good lesson for him to learn about jumping to conclusions, and it just so happened to fit in with his current muse, the great detective Sherlock Holmes. But deep down, I felt it was more about preserving his innocence for one last semester of school in our Capitol Hill enclave, as everything was set to change.

The car stops a few feet from the house, and Edward naturally goes for the door handle.

“You stay put!”

“Better do as she says,” Robert advises with a slight turn of his head as I step out of the car.

I stare up at her just long enough to draw in a deep breath and exhale a quick prayer before opening Edward’s door with all the flourish of an Italian courtier.

“Edward, welcome to the House of Long Shadows.”