“We need more caffeine for this discussion,” I say, standing up and gathering our empty iced coffee cups. “Do you want the same thing?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
The line to order is shorter than when we arrived, but there are still three people ahead of me, so I gaze around while I wait. Sweetfern looks like the inside of a candy cane: red-and-white striped walls, white wrought-iron tables and chairs, and a shiny, cherry-red floor. The air is warm despite the hum of air-conditioning and thick with the smell of sugar and chocolate. A dozen black-framed photos line the wall behind the cash register. I look them over absently, then snap to attention as I recognize a familiar face in the picture over the cashier’s right shoulder.
It’s my father in all his youthful glory, dark-haired and handsome, one arm cradling the ugliest painting I’ve ever seen. It looks like a preschooler dragged a ball of yarn through mud. Dad’s other arm is draped casually across the shoulders of an older woman whose palm rests affectionately on his cheek. Even from a distance, I can see the distinctive port-wine stain on her hand. My elusive grandmother, showing up in the most unexpected places.
I step a little closer to read the plaque beneath the photo: MILDRED AND ADAM STORY WITH THE FIRST-PLACE WINNER OF THE 1994 GULL COVE ISLAND LOCAL ARTISTS COMPETITION. Hard to believe that a woman with a world-renowned art collection would’ve given a blue ribbon to that.
When it’s my turn to pay I swipe my credit card left-handed, even though I know it’s silly to imagine that the teenage cashier, who’s barely looking at me, would see the birthmark on my arm and realize I’m a Story. Still, not waving it in front of her gives me the courage to ask, “Are any of those pictures on the wall for sale?”
“What?” The cashier finally meets my eyes, her thinly plucked brows raised in surprise. “I don’t think so. They’re, like, decoration.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling foolish. My father was a senior at Harvard when Mildred disinherited him; he was living in Cambridge with no opportunity to return to Catmint House and gather personal effects. Someone boxed his room up and had the contents sent to him, but there were hardly any family photos included. It would be nice to have something like a picture, but there’s no way I can explain all that to a bored cashier.
I turn and nearly bump into the person behind me. “Nice picture, huh?” says a familiar voice. “Terrible painting, though.” It’s Hazel Baxter-Clement, who gestures at the next person in line to go ahead of her as she steps closer to the wall with photos. Her grandfather is nowhere in sight. “That was the first annual local artist competition. I like to think we’ve improved since then.”
“Are you an artist?” I ask.
“Me? No. Just interested in Gull Cove Island history.” Hazel pushes her stack of leather bracelets up her arm. “How’s everything going?”
“Pretty good. How’s your grandfather?”
“He’s fine.” She tilts her head and smiles. “I’d hoped to hear from you guys.”
“We’ve been really busy,” I say limply. Over Hazel’s shoulder, Milly is pointing toward that big gold watch of hers that doesn’t work and then toward the door. “We’re just heading out, actually. Time to get back to work.”
“Well, let me know if your schedules open up. Granddad is doing much better lately, so he could probably tell you a few stories about your parents.”
I pause, because that’s actually tempting. “Will you give me your number again? I know Jonah has it, but he’s kind of disorganized.”
“Sure,” Hazel says, brightening. She recites it and steps aside to let me pass. “Text me anytime.”
Milly is standing beside the door, holding it open with one foot while the other taps impatiently. “What did she want?” she mutters under her breath when I join her.
“She still wants to talk to us,” I say, handing her an iced coffee as we pass through the doorway. “She said her grandfather’s doing better. Maybe he could explain all the weird stuff he said when we met him.”
Milly looks skeptical as she puts on her sunglasses. “Or maybe she’s just saying that so she can turn us into a term paper.”
We head up the sidewalk, away from the ferry dock, passing a row of shops and restaurants. “It’s like a mini Fifth Avenue around here,” Milly says, pausing to look into the window of