would be: Did you leave any doors or windows open? But I didn’t want to seem like I was blaming the Donaldsons, especially if nothing had been taken. Still, it would help to know.
“Did you call the police?” I asked.
“Of course. Last night. We tried calling you first, but you didn’t answer.” Of course. They must’ve tried me when I was at the main house with Parker last night. “Someone came and took our statement, took a quick look around.”
I closed my eyes, drawing in a slow breath. Protocol was always to call Grant Loman before involving the cops. A police report at a rental property wasn’t good for business.
“Look,” he continued, “it doesn’t matter that nothing was taken. This is obviously unsettling. We’ll be leaving this morning and would like a refund for the rest of our stay. Three days.”
“Yes, I understand,” I said, fingers to my temple. Even though there were only two days remaining on their contract. Not worth the fight in the service industry, I knew from experience. “I can get that in the mail by this afternoon.”
“No, we’d like to pick it up before we go,” he said. His tone of voice told me this was not up for debate. I had dealt with his type before. Half my job involved biting my tongue. “We’ll be staying at the Point Bed-and-Breakfast for the remainder of the week,” he continued. “Where’s your office located?”
My office was wherever I happened to be, and I didn’t want anyone showing up on the Loman property with a business concern. We handled agreements and finances online, primarily, and I used my P.O. box for anything else. “I will personally deliver it to the Point later this afternoon. The check will be at the front desk before the end of the business day.”
* * *
I TEXTED PARKER SO I could plan my day’s schedule, but my message bounced back as undeliverable.
Despite the fact that I’d overslept, the walk-through wasn’t scheduled until ten. I had time for a morning run if I kept it short. I could check in with Parker on the way back.
* * *
THE ONLY EVIDENCE OF the storm last night was the soft give of the earth beneath my feet. The morning was crisp and sunny, the way of Littleport postcards in the downtown shops. These were the days that catered to the tourists, that kept us in business: picturesque, quaint, protected and surrounded in turn by untamable nature.
In truth, the place was wild and brutal and swung to extremes. From the nor’easters that could quickly drop an easy foot of snow and ice, downing half the power lines, to the summer calm with the birds calling, the buoy bell tolling in a rhythm out at sea. From the high-crested waves that could tear a boat from its mooring, to the gentle lapping of the tide against your toes in the beach sand. The quaint bustle to the barren loneliness. A powder keg to a ghost town.
As I passed the garage, I noticed that the garbage can had been fixed, the gate secured. Parker was apparently up and out, unfazed by the late night and the liquor.
I had just set my foot on the first step of their porch when the front door swung open. Parker stopped abruptly, doing a double take.
It was the same look he’d given me the first time he saw me. I’d been sitting in Sadie’s room, cross-legged on her ivory bedspread, while she painted our nails a shimmering purple, the vial balanced precariously on her knee between us, nothing but sea and sky behind her through the glass doors of her balcony, blue on blue to the curve of the horizon.
Her hand had hovered in midair at the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, and she’d looked up just as Parker walked by. He was nineteen then, one year older than we were, just finished with his first year of college. But something had stopped him midstride. He’d looked at me, then back at Sadie, and the corner of her mouth had twitched.
“Dad’s looking for you,” he’d said.
“He’s not looking very hard, then.” She’d gone back to painting her nails, but he hadn’t left the doorway. His eyes flicked to me again, then away, like he didn’t want to get caught staring.
Sadie had audibly sighed. “This is Avery. Avery, my brother, Parker.”
He was barefoot, in worn jeans, a free advertisement T-shirt. So different than he looked in the carefully staged portrait downstairs.