The Great Escape

Chapter Seven

TOBY RACED THROUGH THE TREES, cutting to the left around the big stump, darting past the giant boulder, hurling himself over the trunk of the red oak that had come down in a storm last summer. Finally he reached the path that led to the cottage. Even though he was smaller than a lot of the other guys in his grade, he could run faster than any of them. Gram said his dad had been a fast runner, too.

He slowed as he reached the cottage. She was sitting on the back step smoking another cigarette and staring out into the yard the same way she’d been doing since she got here two weeks ago. It wasn’t as if she had anything to look at. The yard sloped down to a gully, and except for the tomato and pepper plants Mr. Wentzel had put in, Gram’s garden was nothing but a bunch of weeds. There were a couple of apple and pear trees behind the honey house, but they weren’t near as good as the trees in Mr. Wentzel’s cherry orchard.

The woman blew a long stream of smoke but didn’t even notice he’d come back. Maybe she thought if she didn’t look, he’d disappear, but she was the one who needed to disappear. He wished Eli and Ethan Bayner were still here so he could go to their house. They were his best friends-kind of his only friends-but they’d gone to Ohio for the summer because their parents might be getting a divorce.

She flicked her ashes in Gram’s rosebushes. “It’s going to rain,” she said. “The bees are all heading inside.”

He glanced uneasily toward the hives. Fifteen of them sat on the edge of their yard not too far from the border of Mr. Wentzel’s orchard. Gram had loved the bees, but Toby hated getting stung, so he stayed far away from them. At first when Gram had gotten sick, Mr. Wentzel had taken care of the hives, but then he’d gotten sick, too, and he’d had to go live at this nursing home on the mainland. His son was in charge of the orchard now, and he didn’t even live on the island-he just hired people to take care of the fruit. Nobody had checked the hives since Mr. Wentzel left, and if they got too crowded, the bees would start to swarm, something Toby didn’t even want to think about.

He didn’t want to think about a lot of things.

The lady crossed her legs and took a deep drag on her cigarette, holding the smoke in her lungs like she didn’t know how bad it was for her. She had long red hair, and she was tall and real skinny with sharp bones that looked like they could cut you. She didn’t ask him where he’d been. Probably hadn’t even noticed he was gone. He was like Gram. He hated having strangers around. And now there was also the new lady at the Remington house. She told him her name was Viper. He didn’t really think that could be her name, but he didn’t know.

All morning he’d been spying on the Remington house in case Panda, the guy who owned it, showed up, too. Toby’d never met Panda, but he was pretty sure he’d stop sending the money if he knew it was Toby instead of Gram who’d been taking care of the house ever since Gram got sick in January. Toby needed that money or his plan to live here by himself wouldn’t work. The last time Panda had been here was two months ago, and he hadn’t called Gram to complain about anything, so Toby figured he’d been doing an okay cleaning job.

She stubbed out the cigarette in a saucer she left on the steps. “Do you want me to fix you something to eat?”

“I ain’t hungry.” Gram didn’t let him say ain’t, but Gram wasn’t alive now, and he had to make sure this lady knew he could take care of himself so she’d go away and leave him alone.

She stretched out her legs and rubbed her knee. Even for a white lady, her skin was really white, and she had little freckles on her arms. He didn’t believe she really knew how to cook because all she’d done since she got here was heat up stuff Gram had left in the big freezer. Like he couldn’t do that himself.

She finally looked at him, but it was like she didn’t really want to see him. “I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here.” She sounded like she was really tired, but he didn’t see how she could be, since she didn’t do any work.

“Then why don’t you leave?” he said.

“Because your grandmother left me this place and made me your guardian and I haven’t figured out what to do about that.”

“You don’t have to do nothing about it. You can go. I can take care of myself.”

She picked up her cigarette pack and stared at the honey house. It was like she’d lost interest.

He stomped past her and followed the flagstone path around the side of the house. Why wouldn’t she go away? He could get himself to school and cook his own meals and wash his clothes and all that other kind of crap. Hadn’t he been doing it ever since Gram got sick? Even those couple of weeks he’d stayed with Mr. Wentzel after the funeral, he’d done stuff. Gram believed in keeping to herself, so she didn’t have a lot of friends except Mr. Wentzel and Big Mike, who used to drive her to the doctor’s. Toby was the one who took care of about everything else.

He reached the front of the cottage. Him and Gram had painted it three summers ago-robin’s-egg blue with light gray trim. Gram had wanted to paint it this purple color, but he’d talked her out of it. Now he wished he’d let her paint it any color she wanted. Just like he wished that he’d never talked back to her or tried to make her feel bad about not buying him a new game system or any of the other stuff he’d done.

He grabbed the bottom branch of the biggest tree in the front yard, a maple that Gram had said was older than she was. As he climbed he scraped his knee on the bark, but he kept going because the higher he climbed the farther he was from her and from the bees and from thinking about the lady in the Remington house. And the closer he was to Gram and to his dad in heaven. His mom, too, but she’d left him when he was a baby, and he didn’t think much about her. Gram said she’d loved her daughter, but that she’d been sort of worthless.

Gram and his mom were white, but he was black like his dad, and as much as he missed Gram, right now he missed his dad more. He’d been four when his dad died. His dad was a tower dog, the most dangerous job in the world, ask anybody, and he’d died saving this other guy who’d gotten stuck on this big cell phone tower up by Traverse Bay. It had been in the winter, a couple of degrees below zero, and there’d been a snowstorm. Toby would give everything he had-he would even cut off his arm or his leg-if that meant his dad could still be alive.

LUCY FOUND THE EXPENSIVE MOUNTAIN bike in the garage and a fancy sea kayak in the boathouse, both too new to be castoffs from the Remingtons. After discovering the journey into town wasn’t nearly as complicated as her first night’s wanderings had led her to believe, she used the bike for transportation, carrying the groceries she bought in her backpack. Charity Island was used to all types, and her orange dreads, nose ring, and combat boots didn’t attract much attention.

After a few days, she took the ferry to the mainland to get rid of her rental car. While she was there, she shopped for a couple of additions to her new wardrobe, as well as some incredible temporary tattoos.

By the end of her first week at the house, she’d cleaned the kitchen from top to bottom. Each time she entered, she hated the big table more. It was not only hideous and much too large for the alcove, but also painted an ugly shade of mint green that was supposed to match the walls but didn’t. She’d even baked a few loaves of bread.

Other than occasional glimpses of the twelve-year-old spying on her from the woods, she had no distractions, which made it the perfect time to start the writing project for her father’s book. Since she hadn’t planned to resume her lobbying work until September, she’d originally intended to begin working on it as soon as she got back from her honeymoon. Mat said he was fed up with other people defining Nealy’s legacy, and he believed future generations deserved a more personal history of the nation’s first female president.

Her father was an experienced journalist, and he’d originally intended to write the book himself, but after a few months’ work, he’d decided one viewpoint was too limiting. He wanted several perspectives, each highlighting a different aspect of Nealy’s life, so he’d asked Nealy’s father to write one section and Terry Ackerman, Nealy’s longtime aide, to write another. Most of all, he wanted Lucy’s viewpoint. She had been an inside witness from the time Nealy had first run for the Senate through her presidency, and she was to write about Nealy as a mother. Lucy had jumped at the opportunity, but so far she hadn’t written a word. Even though her deadline wasn’t until September, now would be a perfect time to get started.

She’d found a laptop computer in the den-a computer wiped clean of any personal information-and after she’d finished breakfast, she carried it out to the porch. As she arranged herself on one of the chaises she had covered with a beach towel, she inspected the tattoo of thorns and blood drops that encircled her bicep. It was gloriously tacky, and she loved it, or maybe she simply loved the idea of displaying something like it, if only temporarily. The packaging said it could last up to two weeks, but she’d bought replacements as well as a few other tattoo patterns she might or might not use.

She pulled her eyes away from the bloody thorns and thought about what she wanted to write. Finally she set her fingers on the keys.

When my mother was president…

A squirrel chattering just outside the screen distracted her. She pulled her attention back to the keyboard.

When my mother was president, her working day started every morning before six with a stint on the treadmill…

Lucy hated treadmills. She’d rather walk outside in the rain and snow than on a machine.

My mother believed in the benefits of exercise.

So did Lucy, which didn’t mean she liked it. The trick was to find something you didn’t hate doing.

A trainer had designed her program, but she and my father were usually alone in the gym.

Lucy didn’t like gyms, either.

They started their routine with easy stretches, then-

She frowned. Anyone could have written those boring sentences. Mat wanted something personal, and this wasn’t it.

She deleted the file and shut down the computer. The morning was too beautiful to write anyway. She grabbed her baseball hat and climbed down the rickety wooden steps to the boat dock. The life vest in the kayak was too big for her, but she cinched it up anyway and took the boat out.

Even as she paddled around the rocky beach that marked the perimeter of Goose Cove, she had a hard time believing she was holed up on an island in the Great Lakes. She’d come here to unearth the secrets of the man her parents had hired to keep her safe, but the house hadn’t yielded any clues, so why was she still here?

Because she didn’t want to leave.

The wind picked up as she hit the open waters of the lake, and she turned the bow into the waves. She rested her arms for a moment, rubbed the bloody thorn tattoo. She didn’t know who she was anymore. The product of a chaotic childhood? An orphan who’d taken responsibility for her infant sister? A celebrity child who’d become part of the symbolic American family? She had been an exemplary student, a dedicated social worker, and she was an accomplished lobbyist. She’d raised a lot of money for some very worthwhile causes and promoted legislation that had made a difference in a lot of lives. Never mind how much she’d grown to dislike that work. Most recently, she was a neurotic bride who’d turned her back on the man destined to be the love of her life.

Between her job, her family, and planning her wedding, she’d been too busy for introspection. Now that she had time for it, she didn’t like the way it made her feel, so she headed back toward the house. She was paddling against the current, and she had to work harder, but it felt good. She reached the shelter of the cove and paused to rest. That’s when she saw the lone figure standing on the end of the dock.

His features were indistinguishable, but she would have known that silhouette anywhere. Wide shoulders and narrow hips. Long legs braced for action, hair blowing around his head.

Her heart started to pound. She bought herself time by making an unnecessary detour to inspect a beaver lodge, then another detour to check out a tree that had fallen into the water. Taking it slow. Pulling herself together.

He should never have kissed her at the Memphis airport. Should never have looked at her like that. If he hadn’t kissed her-hadn’t looked at her with all those turbulent emotions churning in his eyes-she’d have gone back to Washington-gone back to her job-and he’d have been nothing more than her only one-night hookup.

The closer she got, the angrier she became, not just with him but with herself. What if he thought she was chasing him? That hadn’t been it at all, but that’s how it would look.

She slid the kayak up to the dock. The rocky shoreline made it hard for her to beach the boat, so as long as the weather was good, she generally tied it to the ladder. But she didn’t do that now. Instead she secured the kayak loosely-too loosely-to the post at the end of the dock. Finally she looked up at him.

He loomed above her in his standard uniform of jeans and T-shirt, this one bearing the faded insignia of the Detroit Police Department. She took in those high cheekbones; that strong nose; those thin, sadistic lips and laser-sharp blue eyes. He glowered down at her.

“What the hell happened to your hair? And what are you doing out on the lake by yourself? Exactly who did you think was going to rescue you if you went in?”

“Your two weeks are up,” she shot back, “so none of that is your concern. Now I’d appreciate it if you’d help me up on the dock. I’ve got a cramp.”

He should have seen it coming. But he knew only Lucy, not Viper. He moved to the edge of the dock, a lamb to the slaughter, and reached down for her. She grabbed his wrist-braced herself-and, using all her strength, gave a sudden, sharp yank.

Dumb ass. He went right in. She went in, too, but she didn’t care. She cared only about getting the best of him in whatever way she could.

He came up cussing and sputtering from the freezing water, hair wild and wet. All he needed was a cutlass in his teeth. She flipped her own dripping hair out of her eyes and yelled, “I thought you couldn’t swim.”

“I learned,” he yelled back.

She swam away from the kayak, the life vest inching up under her armpits. “You’re a jerk, you know that? A lying, money-grubbing jerk.”

“Get it all out.” He swam toward the ladder, his strokes long and powerful.

She swam after him, her own strokes choppy with anger. “And you’re a first-class-” Viper found the right word. “Asshole!”

He glanced back at her, then mounted the ladder. “Anything else?”

She grabbed the bottom rung. The water hadn’t lost its spring chill, and her teeth chattered so hard they hurt. “A liar, a fraud, a-” She broke off as she spotted the lump. Exactly where she expected to see it. She scrambled up the ladder after him. “I hope that gun is waterproof. No? Too bad.”

He sat on the dock and peeled up the right leg of his jeans, revealing the black leather ankle holster that explained why he’d refused to wear shorts at Caddo Lake, why he wouldn’t go in the water. He pulled the gun out and flipped open the bullet chamber.

“Are you back on duty?” She shoved her wet, dyed hair out of her eyes, her finger snagging on a dread. “Did my parents extend your contract?”

“If you have a problem with what happened, take it up with your family, not with me. I was just doing my job.” He knocked the bullets into his hand.

“They hired you again. That’s why you’re here.”

“No. I’m here because I heard that somebody was squatting in my house. Anybody mention that breaking and entering is a crime?” He blew into the empty chambers.

She was dizzy with fury. “Anybody mention that bodyguards are supposed to identify themselves?”

“Like I said. Take it up with your family.”

She stared down at the top of his head. His hair was already starting to curl. Those wild curls. Thick and rancorous. What kind of man had hair like that? She fumbled with the buckles on her life vest, so angry with him-with herself-she could barely unfasten them. She’d come all this way because of a kiss that she’d convinced herself meant something. And she’d been partially right. It meant that she’d lost her mind. She tore off the vest. “That’s going to be your defense, isn’t it? You were just doing your job.”

“Believe me. It wasn’t easy.” He stopped blowing into the bullet chambers long enough to take in her hair and the thorn and blood tattoo around her arm. “I hope none of that’s permanent. You look weird.”

“Screw you.” Viper would have said, “Fuck you,” but Lucy’s lips couldn’t quite shape the words. “I’m sure you liked that little job perk you picked up at the end? Nailing the president’s daughter has to give you bragging rights in the bodyguard locker room.”

Now he looked almost as angry as she felt. “Is that what you think?”

What I think is that I lost every shred of my dignity when I came here. “What I think is that you’re a professional, so you should have acted like one. That meant telling me who you were. More important, it meant keeping your hands to yourself.”

He sprang up from the dock. “I damn well did! All those days we were trapped in that shitty little hole on Caddo Lake. The two of us rubbing against each other. You running around in a piece of black cellophane you called a bathing suit and that pink top even somebody half blind could see through. I damn well kept my hands to myself then.”

She’d pierced his armor, a small bandage to her pride. “You knew all about me, Panda-or whatever your name really is. You had a dossier full of information on me, but you didn’t reveal one honest thing about yourself. You played me for an idiot.”

“I didn’t play you at all. What happened that night had nothing to do with the job. We were two people who wanted each other. It’s that simple.”

But it hadn’t been simple to her. If it had been simple, she would never have come here.

“I did my job,” he said. “I don’t owe you any more explanations.”

She had to know-had to ask-and Viper formed a sneer to hide the importance of her question. “Did your job include that pathetic, guilt-filled kiss at the airport?”

“What are you talking about?”

His confusion cracked another layer of her self-esteem. “That kiss had your guilty conscience smeared all over it,” she said. “You wanted some kind of absolution because you knew exactly how sleazy you were.”

He stood there stony-faced. “If that’s the way you see it, I’m not going to try to change your mind.”

She wanted him to change her mind. To say something that would make her feel better about everything that had happened since she’d jumped on the back of his motorcycle. But he didn’t, and she’d only inspire pity if she said more herself.

He didn’t try to hold her back as she left the dock. She stopped at the outdoor shower. With her clothes on, she shampooed the lake water out of her hair, then wrapped a beach towel around herself and went inside. A trail of wet footprints followed her across the kitchen floor. She shot the lock on her bedroom door, peeled off her wet clothes, and slipped into a black tank, her leather-belted green tutu skirt, and her combat boots. She took another few minutes to smudge her eyes in black and her lips in brown, and put in her nose ring. Then she stuffed everything she could fit into her backpack. The ferry left in half an hour. It was finally time to go home.

A late-model dark gray SUV with Illinois plates sat in the drive. Odd to think of him behind the wheel of a car. She climbed on the mountain bike and headed for town.

It was a hot, sunny afternoon. The summer season didn’t launch into high gear until the Fourth of July, but tourists in shorts and flip-flops were already mingling with the locals on Beachcomber Boulevard. The smell of French fries wafted from Dogs ’N’ Malts, a beach shack with a squeaky screen door and splintery picnic tables. She passed the Painted Frog Café, where just yesterday she’d picked up a cappuccino. Next door, a dog lounged in the shade by the entrance to Jerry’s Trading Post. As she took it all in, she realized how much she liked this place, how much she didn’t want to leave it.

Jake’s Dive Shop doubled as the ferry’s ticket office. It smelled of musty rubber and oily coffee. She bought a one-way ticket and stashed the bike in a rack at the municipal dock. Maybe Panda would find it there. Maybe not. She didn’t care.

She joined the line of tourists just beginning to board. A mother jumped out of line to chase a restless toddler. How many times had Lucy imagined herself with Ted’s baby? Now she wondered if she’d ever have a child.

She wished she’d asked Panda more questions, like what kind of reputable bodyguard thought it was a good idea to toss his client on the back of a motorcycle and take off on a road trip? The person in line behind her moved too close and bumped her backpack. She edged forward, but it happened again. She turned and gazed up into a pair of cold blue eyes.

“What I told you was true.” His voice was gruff, his mouth unsmiling. “The bumper stickers were already on the bike. I didn’t put them there.”

He wore the same wet clothes she’d dunked him in, and his hair wasn’t quite dry. She was determined to keep her dignity. “I so don’t care.”

“And I only wore those T-shirts to rile you.” His gaze made its way to her tutu skirt and combat boots. “You look like a teenager turned hooker for drug money.”

“Lend me one of your T-shirts,” she retorted. “I’m sure that’ll polish up my appearance.”

He was receiving his customary amount of attention, and he lowered his voice. “Look, Lucy, this situation was a lot more complicated than you want to acknowledge.” He moved with her as the line edged forward. “The whole world was covering your wedding. You needed your own security.”

She wouldn’t lose her temper. “Three words. ‘I’m your bodyguard.’ Not complicated.”

They reached the bottom of the ramp. The chest-scratching doofus who’d picked her up had turned into Mr. No Nonsense. “Your parents hired me. They gave the orders. They knew you’d object to having private security, especially for your honeymoon, so they wanted you kept in the dark.”

“My honeymoon?” she nearly shouted. “I was going to have security on my honeymoon?”

“How could you not have figured that out?”

She handed over her ticket. He flashed his ferry pass. She stalked up the ramp, her boots clattering on the boards. He followed right after her. “Ted knew it was necessary even if you didn’t.”

“Ted knew about this?” She wanted to stomp her foot, throw a tantrum, throw a punch.

“He’s a realist, Lucy. And so are your parents. I called your father from the convenience store that first night. He told me not to identify myself. He said if I did, you’d figure out a way to ditch me. I didn’t buy it, but he was the one who hired me, so no, I’m not going to apologize for following a client’s wishes.” Lucy tried to walk away from him, but he grabbed her arm and steered her toward the ship’s stern. “As soon as your honeymoon was over and you got back to Wynette, we were dropping security. Except that’s not the way it played out. You took off and media was everywhere. It was too big a story. Too much attention focused on you.”

“Nobody recognized me.”

“They almost did, and if you’d been by yourself, they would have.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” The ferry blasted a warning as they reached the stern. One of the male passengers regarded her with concern. She remembered how young she looked, how threatening Panda looked, and figured he was trying to decide whether or not to intercede. He chose not to risk it. She pulled away. “You said you and Ted were friends.”

“I met him three days before the wedding.”

“Another lie.”

“I do my job the best way I know how.”

“You’re a real pro,” she shot back. “Is it standard bodyguard practice to stick a client on the back of a motorcycle?”

His jaw set in a stubborn line. “I’m not explaining anything else until you get off this boat.”

“Go away.”

“Look, I know you’re pissed. I understand that. Let’s get off, grab a couple of burgers, and talk this through.”

“Now you want to talk? All right, let’s start with your name.”

“Patrick Shade.”

“Patrick? I don’t believe it.”

“You think I’d make up my name?”

“In a heartbeat.” She shoved her thumbs into the straps of her backpack. “Where do you live? Because you definitely don’t live in that house we just left.”

“I have a place in Chicago. And if you want to know more, you have to get off the ferry.”

She did want to know more, but not as much as she wanted payback. “I’ll admit I’m curious. But I’m not getting off.” The whistle blew its final warning. “If you want to talk to me, we can talk right here. But first I need to find the ladies’ room so I can throw up.”

He decided not to push her. “All right. We’ll talk here.”

“See if you’re competent enough to find us a place to sit where everybody won’t stare at you.” She headed into the ship’s cabin, knocking her backpack against a fire extinguisher as she ducked around a corner. She wedged through the door on the other side and raced down the ramp just as they were getting ready to pull it up. Moments later, she was standing in the shadows by the municipal dock sign, watching the ferry chug away with Panda on board.

Knowing she’d gotten the best of him felt good, but it would have felt even better if she weren’t stuck here until that same ferry returned, undoubtedly bringing Panda along with it. This was the kind of situation Meg got caught up in, not Lucy, but she couldn’t regret it. At least she’d recovered a small measure of pride.

The dark gray SUV with Illinois plates she’d last seen at the lake house was parked in the municipal lot. She had an afternoon to kill until she could leave again, and she wasn’t doing it in town.

As she biked back to the house, she passed a playground. She’d carried her infant sister ten blocks to a playground like this the day after their mother had died just so she could push Tracy in a baby swing-a fourteen-year-old’s idea of what a good mother should do. Tracy had screamed the whole time.

Patrick Shade… What kind of name was that?

If she chartered a boat to take her to the mainland, she wouldn’t have to see him again. Expensive, but worth it. She turned the bike around and went back to the dive shop.

“We’re booked for the rest of the day,” the guy behind the counter told her. “The Mary J and Dinna Ken are out, too. But if you want to go tomorrow…”

“That’s okay,” she said, even though it wasn’t okay at all.

Maybe she wouldn’t have to deal with Panda again. She’d made her point, and he wasn’t the kind of man who explained himself more than once.

The house smelled faintly of cooking gas and the hamburger she’d made for dinner last night. How could he own a place like this and not put a single personal mark on it? She traded in the combat boots for flip-flops, grabbed a book she’d picked up in town yesterday, and carried it down the rickety steps.

He’d pulled the kayak up on shore. She sat on the edge of the dock, but she couldn’t read, couldn’t do anything except try to quell her panic. What would she do once she was back on the mainland? Where would she go?

A noise distracted her. She looked up and saw a man who definitely wasn’t Panda coming down the steps from the house. He was tall, with a large frame. The steps were wobbly and he took his time, his carefully styled light brown hair glistening with an undoubtedly expensive hair product. “Hey there!” he called out cheerfully.

Although he was good-looking, everything about him was a little too loud-his voice, the crest on the pocket of his designer sports coat, the heavy gold bracelet and big college ring any intelligent man would have gotten rid of after his frat boy days ended. “I heard Panda’s back on the island,” he said, taking in her tattoo and hair as he came toward her on the dock. “But nobody answered the door.”

“He’s not here.”

“Too bad.” With a broad smile, he thrust out his hand. “I’m Mike Moody. Big Mike. I’ll bet you’ve seen my signs.”

She shook his hand, then regretted it as the pungent scent of his cologne clung to her skin.

“Big Mike’s Island Brokerage,” he said. “Anybody who buys or sells property on this island-house or boat, big or small. Hell, I’ve even sold a couple of horses. I take care of it all.” His straight teeth had an iridescence achievable only in a dental chair. “I sold Panda this house.”

“Did you?”

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“I… go by Viper.”

“No kidding. That’s some name. You’re one of the hippie girls.” Like a good salesman, he sounded more admiring than critical.

“Goth,” she replied, which was beyond ridiculous.

“Yeah, that’s right.” He nodded. “I stopped because I’ve got a boat I thought Panda might be interested in.”

Lucy was a big believer in being cooperative, but Viper didn’t share her principles. “Come back after the six o’clock ferry gets in. I know he’ll want to talk to you about it. Maybe bring a pizza along. That way the two of you can have a long chat.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Big Mike said. “Panda’s a great guy. I don’t know him well, but he seems like an interesting character.”

He waited, hoping she’d provide a few details, and Viper decided to cooperate. “He’s a lot different from the way he was before he went to prison.”

Her troublemaking didn’t go over nearly as well as she’d hoped. “Everybody deserves a second chance,” Big Mike said solemnly. And then, “Holy cripes, but you look familiar.”

While she speculated on what kind of man would say “holy cripes,” Big Mike gazed at her more closely. “You been on the island before?”

“No. My first trip.”

His gold bracelet gleamed as he stuck his hand in his pocket. “It’ll come to me. I never forget a face.”

She hoped that wasn’t true. He looked like he wanted to linger for a chat, so she nodded toward the steps. “I have some things to do in the house. I’ll walk with you.”

He followed her, and when they reached the top, he pumped her hand again. “Anything you need, you let me know. Big Mike’s services don’t stop with the sale. Ask anybody on the island, and they’ll tell you that.”

“I’ll remember.”

He finally left. She began to walk toward the house only to stop as she heard a rustle in the trees that didn’t sound as though it came from a squirrel. A branch snapped, and she glimpsed a bright red T-shirt.

“I see you, Toby!” she called out. “Stop spying on me!”

She didn’t expect an answer, and she didn’t receive one.

She made a sandwich, but tossed it out after only a few bites. She sent Meg a text that revealed nothing important, then did the same with her parents. She wanted to send Ted a text but couldn’t imagine what she’d say. With hours still to kill, she wandered into the sunroom.

Three walls of dirty, square-paned windows extended in a large square bay from the wainscoting to the ceiling. Lumpy couches, wing chairs upholstered in fabrics popular in the early nineties, and scarred tables sat haphazardly around the big room. This must have been the family’s primary indoor gathering place. Built-in bookshelves displayed the detritus that ended up in summer homes: yellowed paperbacks, videotapes of old movies, board games in broken boxes held together by dehydrated rubber bands. There was something about this house she’d loved from the beginning, and her inner Martha Stewart wanted to toss out all the junk and clean those windows until they sparkled.

She picked up a ratty dish towel she’d used to wipe up a Coke spill and rubbed one corner of the glass. Most of the dirt was on the outside, but not nearly all of it. She blew on the pane and rubbed again. Better.

Cooking wasn’t the only homemaking task she’d observed during her White House years, and fifteen minutes later she was equipped with a squeegee she’d seen in the upstairs bathroom, a bucket of clean water with a few drops of dishwashing soap, and a stepladder from the pantry. Before long, she’d finished one section of the sunroom windows. She reached for a spot she’d missed, and when she was satisfied, climbed down only to trip on the bottom rung.

Panda stood just inside the door, a can of Coke in his hand, combat in his eyes. “I’ll bet you were real popular with the Secret Service.”