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  She looked familiar. It was a minute before I placed her as having been with her mother at Miss Lissy’s Closet the day before. At the time, I would have guessed she was no more than fifteen. Now with friends, all of them long-haired and mascaraed, she looked eighteen.

  I raised several fingers in a covert wave, a simple acknowledgment that we had seen each other before. After all, she was Phoebe’s customer. I didn’t want to be rude.

  The poor thing seemed horrified. I could only begin to imagine what nonsense someone had fed her. Quickening her step, she followed her friends to the very last of the booths, where they all crowded in. Shania Twain began to sing.

  “So,” Omie said with a gentle smile, “they say you’ve come to write. Are you still Grace’s girl?”

  “No. I’ve made my own way.”

  “Do you two still talk?”

  Had anyone else asked me that, I would have been mortified. Hearing voices—having conversations with people who no longer existed—wasn’t something sane people normally did.

  But Omie knew about these conversations. I had confided in her once, when I thought I was losing my mind. I was fifteen at the time. My body had finally—just barely and very late—begun to change and, while my family of women was relieved that I was “normal” in this sense at least, they were themselves too blasé about things like periods, breasts, and emotions to want to hear my qualms, even if I had been able to express them, which I hadn’t. Me, I was feeling like a stranger in my own skin. Well aside from those physical changes, I was terrified of my relationship with Grace.

  “You need a friend,” Omie had offered by way of explanation back then. “Grace understands you.”

  “Grace is dead,” I had replied with a touch of panic.

  “Well, yes. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t here with us.”

  “Like a ghost?” I asked skeptically.

  “That depends. Have you seen her?”

  “No. I just hear her. But how can that be? I never heard her voice in real life. How do I know what it sounds like?”

  “You know enough about her to imagine how it sounds.”

  “Grace is dead,” I repeated.

  “This is her spirit.”

  “Oh, Omie. I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I do. You came to me to ask, and this is what I say. Grace Metalious was not a happy woman. She died alone and unfulfilled. You may be her vehicle for fulfillment.” Before I could argue, Omie asked, “When she talks to you, what does she say?”

  What had Grace said? She had given me encouragement, even goaded me on at times. We could argue—I said some awful things—but she always came back for more. She told me I had the makings of a good writer, and, back then, it was what my battered fifteen-year-old ego needed to hear.

  We continued to talk, Grace and I, until I left Middle River. Once in Washington, I became a different person. I no longer needed Grace, so our conversations stopped.

  Did Grace and I still talk? Omie asked.

  There were those few whisperings I had heard, but I couldn’t be sure they weren’t just the purr of a cat or the buzz of a fly. And the woman goading me on when a well-formed man in running shorts and sneakers had crossed my path this morning? That was Grace all right, but just for fun—my alter ego, more than anything else.

  “No,” I told Omie in a version of the truth. “Grace doesn’t do Washington. She was there once to promote the sequel to Peyton Place. The press wasn’t kind.”

  “She was a small-town girl at heart, I think.”

  “Yes and no. She hated the scrutiny of small-town life, hated the expectations of small-minded people. Cities fascinated her—Paris, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, New York. But she couldn’t hold her own in those places. She didn’t know what to wear or what to say. She never became savvy and was forever putting her foot in her mouth and then, after the fact being hit in the butt by her own words.”

  Omie beamed. “Not you. See how far you’ve come?” She leaned in. “So, about the writing. Is it true?”

  My initial hunger sated, I put down my fork. “I’m already involved with a book. It’s due to be published next year.” I paused. “Omie?”

  “What, sweetheart?”

  “Do you think people here are unusually sick?”

  She considered that. “I don’t know what it’s like anywhere else.”

  “The doctor says my mother had Parkinson’s disease. She isn’t the only one in this town who has it.”

  Omie studied me more closely now. “No.”

  “Do you think there’s a reason why so many do?”

  “What kind of reason?”

  “I don’t know. Has there been any talk—you know, maybe about something in the air making people sick?”

  “There’s always talk. Someone gets a cold, they blame it on airborne germs.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know.”

  “Alice LeClaire’s three-year-old son is autistic,” I said. “Would she talk with me?”

  “I doubt it. In addition to that child, she has four other children to care for, and no man to help.”

  “No man? I thought there were at least two.” My mother had maintained—with proper scorn—that pairing up fathers with Alice’s children was a popular game in Middle River. Apparently, Alice never quite broke it off with her exes.

  “The latest count has it at three,” Omie confirmed, “but since the little one was diagnosed, they’re all staying clear. They don’t want to be blamed for it. They’re convinced it has to do with genes.”

  A muffled phone rang. Instinctively, I went for my purse, but this ring came from somewhere back in the kitchen. Seconds later, a closer phone rang. James Meade flipped open a cell.

  “Autism can also result from exposure to toxicity,” I told Omie. “Wouldn’t Alice want to know that?”

  Omie smiled sadly. “And think she had let her baby be exposed to something bad?” The more distant phone rang again. “Besides, the Meades pay for medical insurance for their workers.”

  Ah. And Alice had a job at the mill. Considering the special needs of an autistic child, she would be lost without insurance, not to mention that job.

  James Meade pocketed his phone. Alfie Monroe pushed himself off the stool and strode past.

  “What about the Dahills?” I asked Omie when he was out of earshot. “How many in that house have kidney problems?” My reading told me they were on the third generation of it. All three generations worked at the mill, though I didn’t recall in what capacity.

  “Kidney problems are hereditary,” Omie said.

  “Possibly. Okay—probably. But what if they’re job-related?”

  Omie seemed about to caution me when her grandson called from the kitchen cut-through, “Omie, it’s cousin Ara on the phone.”

  Her eyes lit. “I have to take this,” she said. Rising, she leaned close, kissed my cheek, and whispered, “Try the McCreedys. They’ve suffered a long string of problems. They’re looking for a reason.”

  I had barely taken that in when Omie was gone, and a separate movement caught my eye. James Meade had risen. He put money on the counter and approached me. There was nothing casual about his course. He knew I was here and meant to stop.

  James was impressive. Not only was he the tallest of the Meades, but he was the best looking, and I don’t say that to get back at Aidan. It was simply true. Like Sabina and me, James and Aidan had similar features—thick hair, deep brown eyes, pointed nose, square jaw. But with James, like Sabina, the whole was more than the sum of its parts. You might notice Aidan’s hair, or his eyes, or his mouth. What you noticed with James was his authority. He was quiet. But when he spoke, you listened.

  Now, eyes somber, he stood before me. He wore jeans and a pressed blue shirt, neck open, sleeves rolled to the forearm. Those threads of silver in his hair lent him greater bearing.

  “My brother just called in a stew,” he said in that quiet, authoritative voice. “He saw your ca
r here. He thinks you’re up to no good.”

  Something about James unsettled me. I wished he wasn’t so tall, wished those eyes weren’t so penetrating. Feeling a need for distance, I sat back. “I was hungry,” I said. “I came here for food.”

  “You make him nervous.”

  “Why?”

  James seemed to consider the question, but his eyes never lost their intensity. Imaginative on my part, yes, but I felt they were searching me for motive and thought. Finally, quiet still, he said, “I’d say Aidan was feeling guilty for what happened all those years ago, but I doubt that’s it. More likely, he’s afraid of your pen. He doesn’t know what you’re going to write.”

  I smiled. “If he’s afraid of my pen, then he has something to hide. I wonder what it is.”

  James almost smiled back. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Do what?”

  “Wonder. It could create problems. Aidan doesn’t want that.”

  “Should I care what Aidan wants?”

  “Yes,” James said in a factual way. “We employ Sabina and her husband, and we hold Phoebe’s lease. There’s a lot at stake here.”

  I felt an inkling of anger. “Is this a threat?”

  “Not from me. I’m just passing on what my brother said. He also wanted to remind you that we were good to your father when he was sick. Northwood paid him long after he stopped being a productive employee. We did it out of loyalty.”

  The implication, of course, was that we owed loyalty in return—or rather, that I did, since I was the one threatening the status quo—and that angered me all the more. I didn’t owe the Meades a thing.

  “Was it loyalty?” I threw back at him, perhaps rashly, but I didn’t like James Meade. “Or was it fear? My father worked at your plant all his life. Maybe he knew things you’d rather he hadn’t known. You treat all your employees a little too well. Is that to instill loyalty, so that they won’t blow the whistle if they see something wrong?”

  I shouldn’t have said it. I knew that the instant the words were out of my mouth—and if I hadn’t realized it on my own, James’s expression would have tipped me off. He seemed suddenly alert, suddenly personally invested in the discussion.

  Eyes barely leaving mine, he slid onto the bench where Omie had been. He put his forearms on the table, large hands maddeningly relaxed. “Is something wrong at the mill?” he asked with a calm that could grate.

  I nearly backed down. Then I caught myself. Call me impulsive to have blurted out what I had in the first place. But backing down was idiotic when something higher was at stake.

  So I said, “I ask you. Is something wrong at the mill?”

  He sat back. He didn’t answer, just looked at me. At one point I saw his jaw move, but otherwise he was still. He seemed very intelligent. That bothered me the most.

  He stared. I stared back. Elton John was singing. I liked Elton John, but took no pleasure in him now.

  “What,” I finally demanded.

  “Are you writing about the mill?” he asked.

  “Should I?”

  “Are you?”

  “It’s amazing,” I mused. “No one seems to want to talk with me here except to ask if I’m writing a book. The more they ask, the more intrigued I get. If one more person asks, I may do it.”

  He didn’t speak, just continued to look at me.

  “What,” I said again, more irritably this time.

  It was a minute before he responded, and then he seemed genuinely curious. He frowned. His voice dropped even lower. “Do you hate me?”

  The question took me aback. “Not you. Who you are.”

  “My family.”

  “What it represents.”

  “Power.”

  “No single family should have that much. People shouldn’t have to fear for their lives if they speak up.”

  “Their lives?”

  “Their livelihood,” I corrected. “You just threatened my two sisters and my brother-in-law.”

  “I didn’t. Aidan did. I’m just the messenger.”

  “Same difference.”

  “No,” he said with calm assurance. “It isn’t. I’m not my brother. And I’m not my father.”

  I eyed him dead-on. “Then you wouldn’t commit perjury like Aidan did, and then bribe enough public officials like your father did so that nothing would come of it?”

  James didn’t blink. “I have never committed perjury.”

  “What about bribing public officials? Ah, but you don’t need to do that. Daddy does it for you.”

  I was hitting a nerve. I could see that in his dark eyes and tight jaw.

  “You don’t know me,” he said. “I wouldn’t burn bridges if I were you.”

  “Does that mean if I were to write a book about the mill, you’d cooperate?”

  “It depends what you want to say in your book. If it’s simply the diatribe of a woman who hates this town—”

  “I don’t hate Middle River. If I went to the effort of writing a book, it would be because I care about the town.”

  “Do you?”

  “I grew up here. My family still lives here.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I would never write a book out of spite. I don’t think I’m capable of doing that.”

  Still his question hung in the air. He eyed me steadily, daring me to confess. And suddenly, what he asked wasn’t so bad. I was a big girl. Spite didn’t have to play a part in my response. I could rise above the past.

  “Yes, I care,” I admitted. “There’s lots that’s positive here.”

  “Like?”

  “Four seasons. Trees and flowers. Good schools. Marsha Klausson and Sam Winchell. This diner. Omie.” When he said nothing, I added, “The barbershop. The nail shop. Miss Lissy’s. Brunch at Road’s End Inn. Chocolate pennies.” He remained silent. “The October Stroll,” I tacked on, because it was a lovely tradition, and there were others. “Christmas Eve at the intersection of Oak and Pine. Fireworks in the stadium on the Fourth of July. Even the Backabehind Club.” I smiled. “Can’t believe the kids are still doing that, but I caught a pair of them at it on my way in the other night.”

  “Did you ever do it?”

  My hackles shot back up. He was ridiculing me. He knew I hadn’t dated. The whole town knew I hadn’t dated.

  But his expression wasn’t so much smug as curious.

  “No,” I said flatly. “I spent most of my senior year at Cooper’s Point waiting for your brother to show up.”

  “For what it’s worth,” James said, “he was wrong when he did that.”

  “Which part—carrying on with someone’s wife, or using me to get away with it?”

  “Both.”

  As apologies went, it was indirect. But it did seem genuine. And that struck me as odd. Reminding myself that James was a Meade, I put my elbows on the table and leaned in just a bit. “If you’re trying to soften me up, don’t bother. I’m here to keep an eye on my sister. She doesn’t seem well.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did Tom have any thoughts?”

  “Tom?” I asked in surprise, but quickly regrouped. “Tom isn’t treating Phoebe. I was just thanking him for taking care of my mom.”

  “What about Sam? He have any thoughts?”

  There was clearly a point here. James was giving me a message. It was a continuation of the one he had set out to deliver in the first place, namely that I was being watched.

  “Sam’s a friend,” I said. “I dropped by to say hello.”

  “And stayed for three hours after he left,” James reported.

  “And that,” I declared, “is one of the things I detest about Middle River. Whose business is it but mine where I go and what I do? Do you Meades have a spy in every corner?”

  James snorted. “No need for spies, and we’re not talking corners here. That car of yours can’t be missed. Leave it home next time.”

  �
��Next time, I will,” I said with resentment, then added dryly, “Any more warnings? Words of advice? Messages?”

  James slid out of the booth and rose to his full height. “Just a question. Aidan wants to know why you aren’t in D.C. with loverboy.”

  Mention of Greg made me feel stronger. “Loverboy? Cute.”

  “The correspondent.”

  “I know who you mean. I’m not there with him, because I’m here,” I said quite logically and tipped up my chin. “Does Aidan have any more questions?”

  Chapter 9

  KAITLIN DUPUIS didn’t have much of a choice as to where she would sit in the booth. Totally distracted by the sight of Annie Barnes, she had just been carried along by the others. When the dust cleared and they were seated, she found herself on the bench that faced the front of the diner, and a lucky thing it was. If she had been sitting on the opposite side of the booth, she wouldn’t have seen Annie talking with James Meade, and this was important. Annie talking with James was bad.

  Kaitlin didn’t care what Kevin thought; Annie did recognize her. First a wink at Miss Lissy’s Closet, now a wave. Annie wasn’t waving at any of the other girls. She knew about Kaitlin and Kevin. Oh, she knew. And what if she was telling James at this very moment, just as part of the conversation, like, You’ll never guess what I saw the DuPuis girl doing the other night? James would tell his brother, who would tell Kaitlin’s mother, who would then have heard it from two sources, if Phoebe’s manager’s mom, who was James’s secretary, was counted, and no way would Kaitlin be able to talk her way out of it then. Not that she would have had much of a chance of doing that even with one source. Nicole was obsessed with her daughter’s virginity, even more than she was with her weight.

  What to do? In Kaitlin’s dreams, Kevin would have already taken the lead, sought Annie out, and sworn her to secrecy. But Kevin still thought she was imagining things. Besides, Kevin would be totally intimidated approaching someone like Annie. And why would he bother? His parents didn’t care if he was with Kaitlin. His dad would cheer him on and reach for another beer. And his mom? His mom loved Kaitlin. It would be her dream to have her son marry up.

  Kaitlin wasn’t marrying Kevin until she was older. But she sure didn’t want him in jail now.