The crossing is slow-going. The beach is packed with snow, a thick crust of it left over from a week of storms. Layla’s boots catch as she runs, the heels sinking into the ice. Even as her mind thinks run, her body will not cooperate. The snow, the drinks, the bulky winter coat, the cold air chafing at her lungs, all of these conspire against her, and she moves slowly along the water’s edge. Her lip throbs, and she tastes the coppery flavor of her own blood.
He’s behind her. She can’t see him in the dark, but she feels his presence like a dark cloud gathering force. She hears the crunch of his boots, slower than her own crashing footsteps, but more confident, too. He knows this beach, this snowy climate. He’s at ease in the icy darkness of Great Rock. She is just an intruder here, a foolish interloper who doesn’t belong on a frigid island in the middle of winter. The waves lap at the snowy shoreline. The night is black, a starless sky, the slender scrap of moon hiding behind clouds.
Echoing in her mind is her mother’s voice, chastising her. “You’re reckless, Layla. You need to think first.” Even as a little girl Layla had this problem, jumping head first into the neighborhood pool before she knew how to swim, knocking over someone else’s block tower for no reason other than wanting to hear the crash. Then later, quitting jobs in anger, ordering too many sugar-sweet cocktails on a Saturday night, bringing home men that she regretted even before her clothes were off. “You need to think first, Layla,” her mother’s words echoed.
She will not return home. Even as she tries to run, even as her mind screams escape, even as she chokes in cold gulps of air that burn her lungs, she knows the ending. The fear that fills her body is like a trapped bird, flapping wildly into windows and walls in an effort to get free.
“Layla.” He yells her name. His voice is absent of the anger she’d assumed. For a moment, she allows herself to hope. “Wait. I just want to talk.”
She’s tired. Her lungs aren’t made for this watery air, each breath sharp with the frozen sea. She pictures her purse, its skinny red strap slung over the back of her chair. Down the road from the bar, he’d looked at her with kind eyes, but panic coursed through her at how close she’d come to getting caught. The nervous laugh had escaped without her consent. It was seeing his eyes after she laughed that frightened her. She should have gone to the hotel, but instead she’d run, away from the safety of downtown and toward the beach, a black no man’s land. Stupid, stupid.
But his eyes had been kind, she reminds herself. Her legs are heavy and her boots are wet. And she’s too tired to keep running.
She stops. The night is silent except for the steady crackle of his boots as he nears. He appears from the blackness, an apparition materializing out of the empty night sky. It’s too dark to see his face, but she allows herself to hope his eyes are crinkling at the corners with a flicker of tenderness.
His hands around her neck take her by surprise, the raw strength contained within his fingers. Even as she fights, her heels scrabbling on the beach, hissing sounds escaping from her lips, she hears her mother’s voice, the admonition of her whole life. “You need to think first, Layla.”
No more thinking now.
Great Rock Island comprises three towns—Osprey, Heron, and Egret—but really it’s one small town in many ways. One high school, one police department, one hospital, and pages in the phone book dedicated to a few last names who have lived on the island for generations.
If I flipped to the Ds, I’d find half a page of Dohertys. Jack’s siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, and in-laws, a sprawling family tree that traverses the island. When I married Jack twenty-two years ago, dropping my maiden name and adopting his, I was absorbed into the fold. No one cared who I’d been before Great Rock. All they needed to know was who I would be here. My previous life evaporated with my name, and I worked hard to meet their expectations: Caroline Doherty, librarian, wife, mother, friend.
My maiden name was Dillon, though no one here knows it. Lately I’ve been wondering if I would take it back if Jack and I divorce. But Caroline Dillon is a girl, an aimless twenty-year-old college kid, beguiled by Great Rock in the summer. I may no longer be Caroline Doherty, but I am certainly no longer Caroline Dillon.
When I return from the library this evening, I flip through the stack of mail lying on the front step. The usual bills, flyers, and junk mail, but there are two new brochures, one from Berklee College of Music and the other from UMass Amherst, both addressed to Connor. I pause for a moment in the cold entryway to examine the latest catalog from Berklee, for I have others, a whole stack of brochures from probably fifty different colleges across the country. Like all the others, this one features glossy pages of students cross-legged in the grass, hunched over textbooks or staring earnestly at laptop screens. Since it’s a music college, this one also has an instrument in almost every shot—a girl with a cello clutched between her legs, a young man leaning over a piano, a woman with a flute held delicately, her mouth pursed into a kiss. So easily can I picture Connor here, perched on a darkened stage, his guitar propped in his lap, a captivated audience holding their breath as they listen to him sing. Then I realize I’m remembering his junior year talent show three years ago when he sang Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” to a crowd that cheered for an encore. The last time Connor expressed any interest in applying to college was two years earlier, despite my not-so-subtle hints and the promotional material I keep ordering.
I bring the catalogs upstairs to his room where I leave them on the bed. He comes over to do his laundry every week, but never bothers to take any of the college material with him, sifting through the mail that still gets delivered to our house. When he goes back to his apartment, hauling a rumpled bag of clean clothes, he leaves the magazines on his bed, and I’m never sure if he’s even bothered to glance at them. He doesn’t throw them in the trash either though, and this is enough for me to continue ordering them, a feeble hope that the next brochure just might be the one that inspires him to apply.
I stop at Connor’s bedroom, which should be turned into a guest room considering he’s twenty-one years old and probably won’t be moving home. It looks just as it did when he moved out six months ago—rarely worn clothes stuffed in the dresser, music posters of bands I don’t know curling from the walls. Propped in the corner of the room is his old guitar. Connor bought himself a new one his senior year when he applied to Berklee, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw out the one he’d had since he started playing in middle school. It’s in a beautiful vintage case, leather with tarnished silver buckles and pockets on the back, picked up at a music store in Cambridge on a trip to Harvard Square.
I run my hand along the rough leather of the neck. It’s smooth under my palm, the leather cracked and worn with handling and age. For years the case was a part of him, like a security blanket or teddy bear that a toddler takes everywhere. He brought the guitar to school every day, playing in the quadrangle at lunch or sneaking into the music room during study halls for an extra thirty minutes of practice. Even though I know he has his guitar at his new apartment in a new case, I doubt he plays every day, and it’s been years since I heard him. But every night from middle school through high school, the twanging chords would drift downstairs, his soft voice barely audible through the closed door of his bedroom. Connor could play on a stage in front of a hundred people, but he was self-conscious to play when it was just me and Jack. Or maybe it was just Jack, because on the nights when his father worked late, Connor was more likely to play in the living room, not minding if I came and sat on the couch to listen.
I leave the catalogs on the bed with a sigh, knowing that they’ll still be there a week later, whether Connor comes to do laundry or not. I have a nervous ache in my stomach, a cold damp dread that’s been there all day. Before I even think about dinner, I slip into the bathroom to brush my hair and reapply blush and lip gloss. The plain face of a middle-aged woman stares back at me, limp hair, skin pale from another New England winter, dusky shadows under my eyes from restless nights sleeping alone. I add a quick swipe of mascara, for there’s only so much I can do.
In the kitchen I survey the sparse pantry and settle on a can of lentil soup. One of the few nice things about this new separation from Jack is there’s no need to cook. Jack is the one who likes big meals at the end of the day—a roast beef or chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans, even if it’s just an ordinary Tuesday. I’m perfectly content with a salad or can of soup for dinner, and I haven’t made much more than toast or grilled cheese in the month and a half he’s been gone. Meals are quiet, and I’ve taken to eating in front of the television with the plate perched on my knees.
I don’t eat much, too anxious to manage more than a few spoonfuls of soup. Tonight is the night we agreed to have “the talk.” It’s a trial separation, though neither of us has uttered those words, too formal and planned for his hasty departure.
If I could divide our marriage into a list of pros and cons, I don’t know which side would be longer. Remembering to keep the kitchen tap dripping on these frigid days, shoveling my own car out after another snowstorm—these are the inconveniences of living alone. Focusing on unfamiliar noises in the middle of the night, wondering if I remembered to lock the door, the panic that grips me before I realize it’s just the dog’s thumping tail—this is the downfall of having depended on someone else for nearly all of my adult life.
Even if I were to tally up the list, how can not having to cook dinner every night compare to I love him? Because I do. Despite everything, I love him.
Thank God for Champ. His steady presence calms me, though I never gave the dog much attention before, a boxer-husky mix we got when Connor was in middle school. I was surprised how insistent Jack was that Champ stay with me. Though we all took care of him, he was Jack’s dog, nosing Jack’s palm when he came home from work, settling at his feet at the end of the day. Champ may have been Jack’s dog, but he’s taken his new role as my protector seriously, and the clicking of his nails on the wood floors follows me from room to room.
I rise from the counter and dump the soup in the trash, placing the bowl in the dishwasher as my phone beeps with an incoming text. It’s a message from Jack. Running late.
“Of course you are,” I mutter under my breath. Champ lets out a whimper, attuned to my mood.
It’s the recurring flare of anger that’s most confusing. The distance from Osprey to where Jack’s staying in Heron is only a few miles, but it might as well be the mainland. From a distance, I can love and miss Jack. Up close, in real life, it’s not that simple. My love chafes and burns, too hot to touch, always leaving a mark.
I sigh heavily, even though there’s no one but Champ to hear me. I settle on the couch with a stack of new releases I brought home from the library and flip through the pile, finally selecting a vegetarian cookbook by a local author. I’ll never make a single recipe in here, but it’s the book that requires the least amount of focus. I took it out mostly for Evvy, thinking she might work some of the dishes into the menu for Petunia’s, her catering business.
I didn’t tell Evvy that Jack was coming over tonight, haven’t told her that tonight may be the night when I find out if I’m getting a divorce. It’s the type of thing that I imagine most women would share with their best friend, particularly when that friendship is as old as ours. Evvy is the only one I’ve told about the separation—not Connor, not my sister Shana in D.C., not my co-workers or other friends, only Evvy. Yet even with Evvy, I’ve told her only the basics, none of the details, in my typical dry-eyed fashion. I haven’t fallen apart, haven’t cried in front of her, haven’t raged in anger. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve lived for too long with a cop, grown too accustomed to the stony reserve and matter-of-fact approach to life. I don’t know if this is a character flaw or strength, this ability to rise up above emotion and get on with what needs to be done. Jack would say it’s a strength while Evvy would argue it’s a weakness. I suspect it’s both.
Twenty-two years is a long time to be married, yet it’s not so long that there are no surprises. I’ve never been more stunned than the night I came home from work to find a note from Jack saying he was subletting the Feldmans’ place in Heron for the next few months. I stood in the kitchen and reread the note. It was only a few lines, carefully written in Jack’s square print, and I wondered how many times he rewrote it before he got it just right. Or if it only took him one try.
Twenty-two years together, and I never actually believed our marriage might not survive. Until the night I came home to that note and realized it was a possibility. Standing in the kitchen, I was rocked by grief and anger and shock, but something else too, just the palest glimmer of anticipation, so unexpected and unfamiliar that it’s easier to ignore.
The dog’s ears perk up at the sound of the car, and Champ rises from his bed, body alert. There are footsteps on the front stairs and a heavy knock on the door.
“It’s me, Caroline.” Jack’s voice is steady and familiar. Champ is already wagging his tail. I open the door and there’s Jack, though he’s in plain-clothes tonight. “You should lock that,” he tells me, tipping his head toward the door. For the twenty-two years that we lived together, we only locked the door right before we went to sleep. This is Great Rock, an island of five thousand, where everyone is connected by three degrees of separation. I refuse to let the night-time fear swallow up my days too.
I ignore his comment. “You’re late.”
“Sorry. I got hung up at work.” He stands awkwardly in the doorway, rubbing his knuckles. He glances around the house, our house, his house, the one he built with Cyrus the year we bought the land. I haven’t changed anything. This is a trial separation after all, though with each day my anger seems to burn brighter, and it’s difficult to imagine how we’ll ever find our way back after this. Though it’s also difficult to imagine the alternative.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Fine.” He steps inside and his eyes flit around the kitchen, likely assessing it for damage or change. In the past month and a half, he’s barely been to the house, and the few times he has come by, it’s been for a quick retrieval of something he’s forgotten—a pair of rain boots, or an extra shovel from the basement.
We cross the room. “Do you want a drink or anything?” I ask. There are options—both red and white wine and a half-full bottle of whiskey that Jack left behind.
“Maybe some tea?”
“Peppermint or lemon?”
“Lemon. Please.”
I fill the kettle and take out a set of blue-glazed handmade mugs. We bought them on a trip to the Southwest several years ago, one of the few vacations we’d ever taken without Connor. We stayed for a week in March at a beautiful ranch with terracotta floors and a fireplace in the bedroom. When we hiked Bryce Canyon, Jack had been awed by the orange rock formations that exploded from the ground like the ruins of some mythical age. When we drove south to Tucson, I’d never seen him so overwhelmed by a place, the way he kept exclaiming over the architecture, the light, the shops, and restaurants. I’d long ago stopped thinking I could convince Jack to leave Great Rock, but for a few days the possibility seemed to present itself. Until we came home.
I put the mugs back in the cupboard and pull out a set of plain white ones I picked up at the thrift store. We’re quiet for a moment, and I’m grateful for the simple act of preparing the tea. Otherwise I would appraise Jack the way he did the house. Already I’ve noticed he’s gained a few pounds, though he’s always been so thin it looks good on him. I wonder what he’s been eating.
The silence isn’t awkward, but it isn’t comfortable either. I wonder if this will be a long and drawn-out talk or if Jack has come with a plan in mind. Knowing him, he’s already decided what he wants, and it’s just a matter of him telling me. I realize that if he says he wants to move back, I’ll let him, clearing my books off his nightstand and making room in the closet. If he says he wants a divorce, I’ll accept that too, going about the motions of figuring out the rest of my life. My own passivity infuriates me, yet this has been the truth of our entire marriage.
I pour the steaming water into the mugs and hand him his, then sit beside him at the counter, my chair a little further away than usual. Jack winces at the heat as he takes his first sip. I wait, knowing he’ll speak when he’s ready.
“They found a body on Osprey Beach this morning,” he finally says.
These are not the words I expected, and it takes me a moment to process them, my mind still focused on our marriage.
“Who is it?” Jack’s family extends across every town. His position as police chief makes him a public figure. There is every likelihood that we’re connected to this person, this body, in some way.
“It was a woman. Layla Dresser was her name. Not from here, only twenty-two. She was here last summer, working at one of the restaurants on the harbor. She was living in Boston, but she was over for the winter festival.”
Great Rock is a seasonal town. In summertime, the smallness of the island evaporates, and it’s possible to become anonymous. The population soars to seventy, eighty, ninety thousand on a sunny week in August. In the winter, one of the few tourist draws is the winter festival, a day of chili and chowder cook-offs, ice sculptures, and drinking. The festival takes over all of downtown Osprey. The bars and restaurants set up tents and heating lamps on Main Street, and the whole road becomes a bar. Inside, the restaurants have freebies and specials. It’s bigger than the Fourth of July. Though it’s run by the restaurants and bars on the island, it’s an event for off-islanders, full of twenty-somethings and tourists. I haven’t been in years.
“What happened?” I ask him, although I already have a pretty good idea.
Alcohol is a problem on the island. In the winter it can be a lonely place, where work is scarce and entertainment options are slim. Walk down Tunnel Drive on a Sunday morning, and you’ll come across more discarded nips bottles and empty beer cans than people. The only businesses that thrive in the off-season are the liquor stores. I’m imagining this girl drank too much and passed out on the beach, froze to death in the cold February night, so I’m unprepared for Jack’s response.
“She was strangled.” Jack’s large hands grip the mug. His face tightens in a grimace.
“My God.” Great Rock is a land from another time. A place where people leave their doors unlocked and you know every neighbor on your street. It’s a place where the most common crime is public drunkenness and disorderly conduct, shoplifting or check fraud. There hasn’t been a murder on Great Rock for as long as I can remember. A few cases of manslaughter or attempted murder—bar fights gone wrong, domestic disputes. But not like this.
“A dog walker found her early this morning.” I shudder, thinking about how often I take Champ for early morning walks, sometimes along that very strip of beach.
“The last bar she was seen at was Moby Dick’s.” Jack meets my eyes. Moby Dick’s is the restaurant where Connor works as a sous chef, the same restaurant he’s worked at since high school. Scott Lambert is the owner, a local guy who takes good care of his year-round employees.
“Was Connor working last night? Did he see her?”
“He worked last night, but I haven’t been able to get ahold of him. Have you talked to him today?”
I shake my head. The last time I talked to Connor was a week ago when he came over to do laundry. He came when he knew I’d be at work, and I only caught him because I left early with a headache.
“I saw him last night when he got off work. The bar was packed.”
“You were there?”
“I was working earlier in the evening. Cyrus and I had a drink when I got off.” Cyrus is Jack’s best friend, also a cop, and he’s Evvy’s ex-husband. When the kids were little, we used to do everything together—dinner every weekend, beach days in the summer, pizza nights at Papa’s. Evvy and Cyrus split up nearly eight years ago, not long after their daughter Serena died, and while we’ve managed to maintain our friendship, it’s been a long time since it was the four of us. Evvy’s been with Ian for several years now, but Jack and I don’t socialize with him and Evvy the way we did when she was married to Cyrus.
“Do you know what happened?”
“Not yet. We think someone might have followed her out of the bar. Lured her down to the beach.” It sounds like something out of a movie or one of the BBC mysteries that Jack and I often watch. I think of how dark Osprey Beach must be at night. There are streetlights on the road, but the beach is down a set of stairs and it’s one of the wider beaches on the island, with a broad stretch of sand before you reach the water.
“Do you have any suspects?” He averts his eyes at this last question, for we both know that even if he did, he wouldn’t tell me. “Never mind,” I add before he can say this, knowing it will just leave me bristling, even though he’s doing his job. When he looks up, I see the dark circles beneath his eyes. Perhaps I’m not the only one who’s having trouble sleeping.
“If you talk to Connor, tell him to call me,” Jack says.
“Why? What does he have to do with any of this?” I ask, another jolt of alarm cutting through me.
“Nothing, I just need to know if he saw anything that night. Just tell him to call me.”
I nod because this is how it always is with Jack and Connor: me the middleman trying to help them find some common ground.
“I have to get back to work, but I wanted to come over to tell you why,” Jack says, but he doesn’t make any move to leave.
Despite the reason, I feel a rush of relief at having been given a reprieve before we decide our fate. It will not be tonight after all. He hasn’t shaved today and without touching him, I know the feel of his cheek against my palm, the sandpapery roughness and softness together. I keep my hand firmly on my mug.
Jack and I rarely fought. We’d bicker in the way that married people do, over housework and chores, the daily details of family life. More often, our arguments happened through silence, the distance between us gro. . .
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