Last free chapter of the new novel. Many thanks to all of you who signed up to live behind the paywall with me. Very much appreciate your support. After this one, all chapters will go to paying subscribers. (And there are more than fifty chapters to go.)
The weeks that followed were a maelstrom of funerals, public meetings, memorial services, counsellors at the local schools, a severe test of South Barnham’s ability to absorb the tragedy and thrive. Seven children, all under five, and Mack, who had wanted sons and daughters all his life, was as savaged by the deaths as any permanent resident of the town. And curious, too, that when his phone had buzzed on the day of the fire, the message had been from Karin. “I’m sorry,” it said.
The State Police, arson, and insurance investigators all agreed the fire was an accident, though its source was unclear. Philip reopened the IGA, except for the deli counter, and people made it a point to shop there, as if not doing so would be pointing a finger at him somehow. And slowly, the town stretched its memory to encompass the fire, make it part of its history.
And during that time, Mack did not press Karin about reconciling. Even people like them, on the periphery of the town, were stunned by what had happened.
But one early morning in mid-April, Mack woke in the apartment over the farmhouse garage and decided it was time. Since he’d thrown up his life in Boston to come up here after her, she’d declined all his phone calls and ignored texts and emails. If they were going to get back together, as he hoped, he was going to have to initiate. And if they were not going to heal the breach, it was time to let go.
Karin had retreated to her family’s summer cottage in South Barnham right after Christmas, two days after Mack caught her with Roger Carson in the powder room of their house in Weston. For months before, he’d had the sense that things between them were skewed, but he put it down to her losing her coaching contract with the school district. On Christmas Eve, they’d argued bitterly about whether it was time to have children. He said yes, she now said never.
He chased his mild hangover with a quart of Poland Spring water and a bagel with low-fat cream cheese. Credence Clearwater Revival tried to buck him up as he rumbled along Shore Road, the winter’s pothole not yet filled in by the town’s maintenance crew. His stomach gnarled with anticipation.
The cottage on the rocks, not far from Friendship Cove, boasted the same ocean view as the palaces along the road, though with far less upkeep and a much lower tax bill. The concrete driveway was cracked and salt-stained, the second parking space occupied by a South Barnham police cruiser.
He pulled in off the road behind Karin’s lime-green VW, wondering if she’d had a break-in. This oceanfront loop of road was miles from the center of town and not on a direct route to anywhere. The remoteness meant occasional minor property crimes, kids breaking windows, stealing liquor, looking for a place to screw.
He climbed out of the Pilot and shut the door quietly, walked up the shell path to the front of the cottage. He knocked.
“Karin?”
“Macklin? What are you doing here? You stay out there.”
Her voice was high and panicky.
“I’ll be right out.”
A male voice rose and fell, back in the dimness. Mack’s jealousy flared.
She opened the door, flushed in a way he knew too well.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
The place was one large room, tight and neat as the cabin of a daysailer, with a queen-sized bed, rumpled, half-hidden behind a gauze curtain, under the seaside window.
“Can I come in?”
She pulled him inside by the arm as a side door opened and shut. A shadow passed in front of the picture window overlooking the side porch. A man in uniform, familiar in size and shape, jogged down the short stairway and climbed into the cruiser. He turned to look back at the cottage so that Mack could see, yes, it was his cousin Raymond Fecteau, South Barnham’s Chief of Police.
“What the fuck was Raymond doing here?”
She flushed, which he read as embarrassment.
“He’s been a friend.”
“So was Roger Carson.”
She turned and walked inside, sat at the small square kitchen table. Two mugs marked where she and Raymond had sat. Mack took a different chair.
“Sorry,” he said.
She pushed her fingers through her asymmetrical hairdo—she’d cut it short when she moved back to South Barnham.
“Why are you still here, Macklin?”
“In town? Or in your house?”
She regarded him with her cool gray eyes, not taking the bait.
“I wanted to find out if I should head back to Boston. For good.”
“I apologized once,” she said.
“And ran away.”
Her eyes shone.
“How did everything get so screwed up?”
She hadn’t answered his original question, which gave him hope.
“We don’t have to talk about children,” he said.
Wrong answer. She knotted her fingers, banged her fists on the table. Tears dribbled down her pale cheeks. He’d felt like he’d failed a test.
“Have you been around here the last few weeks?” she said. “You’d want to bring a child into a world where something like that could happen?”
“It was an accident. You can’t live your life avoiding everything bad that might happen.”
Her argument had a flavor of convenience, not something true. She hadn’t wanted children before the fire.
“We don’t need to talk about it now,” he said. “What I want is you. Our life like it was.”
“Something broke,” she said.
“And we can fix it. Here or somewhere else.”
He wanted to ask why she’d chosen South Barnham to retreat to—memories of childhood summers didn’t seem like they’d be strong enough.
“You’re either very patient or very dumb.” Her shoulders relaxed. She looked around the cottage, avoiding the bed behind the gauze curtain. “I can’t ask you . . .”
“I know. I’m staying at Edna’s, over the barn.” He stood up. “You texted me. Right after the fire? ‘I’m sorry.’”
She shook her head.
“Olive branch.” He sensed again she wasn’t telling him everything.
“Will we talk?” he said.
She nodded, stiff as a tree now.
“I can’t guarantee anything, Macklin.” The tears were gone. “Those babies.”
He looked up at the broad cedar beams that carried the roof, worried by her brittleness.
“We will talk,” he said, and turned to leave her.