The Sweetest Summer: A Bayberry Island Novel by Susan Donovan Page A

“I’m not implying anything. What I am, in fact, saying is that if the days drag on and the FBI can’t locate her, then—”
    “You wouldn’t dare.”
    “The first days are crucial. If I came forward as her father, it might help bring attention to the case, darling. If I went public, the abduction of a congressman’s child would become the lead news story and stay that way until she was found.”
    Tamara pressed a thumb and forefinger into the bridge of her nose. “Absolutely not. Not before we’re divorced.”
    “This is the safety of a little child we’re talking about.”
    Tamara’s head snapped up. “And my dignity! And my family’s name!”
    He held out his hands. “Tamara, it might get to the point where I really have no choice.”
    “You always have a choice, darling.” She got up and returned to her desk chair. “I would tell you to pack up your things and get out but you don’t have much here these days, do you?”
    “I never intended to hurt you. Believe me.”
    She folded her hands on the desk, her lips peeled back in a sneer. “I’m not hurt, darling. Not in the least.”
    “What are you, then?”
    “I am thoroughly disgusted with myself for ever marrying you.”

Chapter Four
    C lancy hung out on his mother’s porch while Tripod and Earl rolled around in the yard like they were still puppies. Unfortunately, he arrived while the meeting of the Bayberry Island Mermaid Society was still in full swing. He didn’t want to interrupt. Scratch that. He didn’t want anything to do with their mermaid crap.
    On the other side of that bright blue painted door, the living room couches and chairs were packed with middle-aged women dressed in long wigs, sparkly spandex mermaid tails, and shell-shaped boob-catchers. That’s what his brother had called them when they were kids, at any rate. Clancy closed his eyes and tried like hell not to think about the whole subject.
    Detective skills weren’t necessary to guess what was being talked about in there. Not only could he hear nearly every word being exchanged—these ladies were, and would forever be, loud—but they’d been having the same festival week discussion since he was born. There was certain to be bitching and moaning about last-minute changes to festival scheduling and who needed to be where, when, and doing what. They would certainly pledge not to make “the same mistake” next year, whatever this year’s mistake happened to be. And there were surely complaints about parade logistics, disagreementamong the members of the clambake decoration committee, and any number of off-color comments about God-knows-what. Rising above it all was his mother’s unmistakable voice, calm and no-nonsense, cutting through the menopausal melee.
    Though Mona Flynn had retired after thirty-five years as principal of the island’s only school, she hadn’t managed to shake her principal tone of voice. Clancy suspected it was permanent.
    “We are all grown women here,” he heard her say. “I am confident we will all be on our best behavior this week. Remember, these seven days are the reason we work so hard all year long. This is our holy week, ladies, our sacred duty to the history of this island, the legend of the Great Mermaid, and how the two have become intertwined through the generations.”
    The room went quiet. Clancy raised his head, knowing what was coming next. He waited . . . waited . . .
    “Pass the merlot,” Polly Estherhausen said.
    Bing, bing, bing!
He was damn good at this.
    “All right. Gather ’round, ye maids. Let us recite our sacred pledge of devotion.”
    At his mother’s command, Clancy could imagine the swish of mermaid skirts and mumbled complaints about stiff joints. He decided to give them some space. After all, this closing ritual was supposed to be secret. Most everything Mona’s Mermettes did behind closed doors was supposed to be secret, but the Flynn kids had been spying on these meetings since they were old