hunting. They carried flannel nightgowns and pajamas, too. I glanced in the window. Global warming hadn’t affected Hubbel’s inventory.
I kept walking. I paused at the new “patisserie,” where Greene’s Bakery used to be. Cookies, cakes . . . and what Mr. Greene had called “treats.” There was still an alley next to it, with space to drive into the lot in back of the store, or cut through on foot to Wharf Street. Had Mr. Greene killed Mama at his bakery? Had he put her body in his bakery truck when he drove her to Union?
And if it wasn’t Joe Greene, how had her body gotten into a freezer in his storage unit?
I kept walking as my head exploded with memories and possibilities. An antique shop (From Here And There), which must be Sarah Byrne’s, was where the old candy shop had been. I missed the smell of toffee drifting out the door when I walked by. Sarah’s windows featured an old pine children’s table set with small china cups and plates for a tea party. A pot of lilies of the valley decorated the table, and an old teddy bear sat patiently in a small rocking chair. Cute. But not enough to draw me in. How had someone from Australia ended up in Haven Harbor? Was she running to something? Or running from . . . ?
I walked faster. I wasn’t shopping. I wanted to see what had happened to Haven Harbor in my absence. A new women’s boutique looked interesting. The consignment store around the corner from it was new, too. That had been the small grocery store where I’d been sent to pick up a quart of milk or a box of cereal. I cut through another alleyway I’d always avoided, with reason, as a child, and went down to Wharf Street, which paralleled the working waterfront of the harbor.
Two lobster boats were out in the harbor, and three were docked at the Town Pier. In summer the pier would be bustling. Today, only the lobster boats and a couple of skiffs were tied there.
I walked by the marine supply house and Harbor Haunts Café, where Gram had said Lauren worked, and where Mama had waitressed. Nice enough, and open year-round. I didn’t stop. Past the café was the lobstermen’s co-op, where I’d spent my summers steaming lobsters for tourists to eat at benches set along the pier. My skin, my hair, my clothes, had all smelled like lobster in those days, no matter how many showers I’d taken. I’d hated it. I hadn’t tasted lobster since. The co-op hadn’t opened for the summer yet.
Would lobster taste better now? I wasn’t ready to check it out today.
Beyond the co-op was another pier, and a rocky beach, before the mainland circled back toward the ocean. The Haven Point Lighthouse stood above the rocks on the point of land that jutted out into the Atlantic. It had been automated for years, but still blared out fog warnings. Its beams were the constant stars in Haven Harbor’s night.
I walked down to Pocket Cove Beach, one of my favorite past escapes. It was low tide. Rockweed and driftwood and mussel shells, dropped by herring gulls, mixed with used condoms and broken glass and cigarette stubs and beer cans on the wrack lines high on the shore.
When I’d lived here, the elementary school had a cleanup day at the shore in May when we’d all bring large trash bags to the beach and collect the detritus from winter’s high tides. If they still did that, they hadn’t yet this year. I kicked a Moxie bottle filled with seawater. It didn’t break. Moxie bottles were tough.
I stared out at the ocean. The Three Sisters, three small islands just off the coast, were still there, where they’d been for hundreds, maybe thousands, of years. My great-grandparents had rowed there for lobster bakes. My grandparents had explored them in small boats equipped with outboard motors. Each summer the yacht club over on the eastern point, opposite the lighthouse, held sailing races. And each summer at least one small sailboat ended up on the rocks of First Sister, the largest island. It had the highest cliffs
I kept walking. I paused at the new “patisserie,” where Greene’s Bakery used to be. Cookies, cakes . . . and what Mr. Greene had called “treats.” There was still an alley next to it, with space to drive into the lot in back of the store, or cut through on foot to Wharf Street. Had Mr. Greene killed Mama at his bakery? Had he put her body in his bakery truck when he drove her to Union?
And if it wasn’t Joe Greene, how had her body gotten into a freezer in his storage unit?
I kept walking as my head exploded with memories and possibilities. An antique shop (From Here And There), which must be Sarah Byrne’s, was where the old candy shop had been. I missed the smell of toffee drifting out the door when I walked by. Sarah’s windows featured an old pine children’s table set with small china cups and plates for a tea party. A pot of lilies of the valley decorated the table, and an old teddy bear sat patiently in a small rocking chair. Cute. But not enough to draw me in. How had someone from Australia ended up in Haven Harbor? Was she running to something? Or running from . . . ?
I walked faster. I wasn’t shopping. I wanted to see what had happened to Haven Harbor in my absence. A new women’s boutique looked interesting. The consignment store around the corner from it was new, too. That had been the small grocery store where I’d been sent to pick up a quart of milk or a box of cereal. I cut through another alleyway I’d always avoided, with reason, as a child, and went down to Wharf Street, which paralleled the working waterfront of the harbor.
Two lobster boats were out in the harbor, and three were docked at the Town Pier. In summer the pier would be bustling. Today, only the lobster boats and a couple of skiffs were tied there.
I walked by the marine supply house and Harbor Haunts Café, where Gram had said Lauren worked, and where Mama had waitressed. Nice enough, and open year-round. I didn’t stop. Past the café was the lobstermen’s co-op, where I’d spent my summers steaming lobsters for tourists to eat at benches set along the pier. My skin, my hair, my clothes, had all smelled like lobster in those days, no matter how many showers I’d taken. I’d hated it. I hadn’t tasted lobster since. The co-op hadn’t opened for the summer yet.
Would lobster taste better now? I wasn’t ready to check it out today.
Beyond the co-op was another pier, and a rocky beach, before the mainland circled back toward the ocean. The Haven Point Lighthouse stood above the rocks on the point of land that jutted out into the Atlantic. It had been automated for years, but still blared out fog warnings. Its beams were the constant stars in Haven Harbor’s night.
I walked down to Pocket Cove Beach, one of my favorite past escapes. It was low tide. Rockweed and driftwood and mussel shells, dropped by herring gulls, mixed with used condoms and broken glass and cigarette stubs and beer cans on the wrack lines high on the shore.
When I’d lived here, the elementary school had a cleanup day at the shore in May when we’d all bring large trash bags to the beach and collect the detritus from winter’s high tides. If they still did that, they hadn’t yet this year. I kicked a Moxie bottle filled with seawater. It didn’t break. Moxie bottles were tough.
I stared out at the ocean. The Three Sisters, three small islands just off the coast, were still there, where they’d been for hundreds, maybe thousands, of years. My great-grandparents had rowed there for lobster bakes. My grandparents had explored them in small boats equipped with outboard motors. Each summer the yacht club over on the eastern point, opposite the lighthouse, held sailing races. And each summer at least one small sailboat ended up on the rocks of First Sister, the largest island. It had the highest cliffs
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