the salt air and the murmur of the surf.
“Can you believe these were our old digs?” Jill Frankel remarks to me on the drinks line. “Harmon’s really outdone himself.”
I examine Jill for signs of bitterness. She’s dressed in an ankle-length embroidered dress, her curling hair piled on top of her head, holding a glass of champagne. “That’s nice of you to say,” I tell her. “I know you were interested in the job.”
Jill shrugs. “The important thing is that we all band together for the students. Look at how they’ve come together.” She waves her champagne glass at a group by the nonalcoholic-punch bowl. Dakota Wyatt whispers something into Paola Fernandez’s ear and Paola laughs. Rudy is standing between Samantha Grimes and Rachel, both of whom have their arms around Rudy’s waist. “I hear the historical society scholarship is going to Paola,” Jill says. “And that it’s going to be renamed the Lila Zeller Scholarship.”
“Oh, who . . .” I start to ask, but then guess. “Did Jean set that up?”
Jill nods, taking a sip of champagne. “Her other parting gift.”
I take a swallow of my champagne to dull the pang I feel at Jean’s absence. “She should be here.”
“Maybe,” Jill concedes, “but someone has to be the scapegoat.” She tilts her glass toward a group of well-dressed men and women on the terrace. I recognize Chelsea Whittenberg in a pale lilac sheath and pearls and a trio of men—Morris Alcott, Harmon, and a third trustee whose name I don’t recall—in black tuxes and lilac bow ties, lilac ribbons on their lapels. “The board is also starting a fund to support a domestic violence and child abuse shelter in Lewiston. They’ll shell out their tax-deductible donations to fund a feel-good distraction and throw one of their own under the bus.”
I look back at Jill and notice that she’s aiming her glass of champagne at the board members as if it’s a loaded pistol. “I’m sorry about Luther,” I say.
Jill’s eyes widen and a drop of champagne sloshes over the rim of her glass. “What do you have to be sorry about?”
“If I’d come forward about what happened to me, he wouldn’t have been free to hurt other women. Lila, of course, but also you. It must be hard—”
“To know that I was stupid and desperate enough to sleep with a child molester?” she hisses, her voice dripping with rage—most of it directed at herself.
“You have a good heart,” I say, surprising both myself and her, “and he took advantage of that. Maybe we both need to stop blaming ourselves . . .” I falter, blinking away tears, and then focus on Paola Fernandez laughing at something Dakota is saying. “Or how else are we going to help them not make the same mistakes we did?”
Jill chokes back a strangled sob, then wipes her eyes, smearing her mascara. “Shit,” she says when she sees the black smear, “I’ve got to go to the ladies’ to fix this.” She hesitates, then adds, “Let’s go for a drink sometime this summer, okay?”
“Sure,” I tell her, “that would be fun.”
She sweeps away, her long dress nearly catching fire as it trails past a bank of candles. Tragedy makes for odd bedfellows, indeed. I instinctively search Harmon out again. He’s talking to a slender young man I can’t make out until Harmon turns away and I recognize Kevin Bantree, looking unlike his usual self in suit and tie (a rather florid purple). He’s an alum, I remind myself as I watch him watch Harmon crossing the room to the group of students around the punch bowl. That’s why he’s here, not because he’s still harboring any suspicions about Harmon.
I have to admit, though, that I’ve been anxious since Kevin’s visit, with his talk of loose ends and the vanishing of LostGirl99. Which is ridiculous. It’s just compulsive (OCD much?) Kevin Bantree squaring off uneven corners. I hope he hasn’t been spoiling Harmon’s night. Harmon worked so hard to pull this together. Being headmaster suits him. As much as he claims not to have coveted the job it’s exactly what he needs. Luther was right about that; teaching AP History wasn’t ever going to be enough for him. And he’s good at this. I watch him laugh with the students and sample the punch. “Just making sure it’s not spiked,” I hear him say as he rests his hand on Paola’s arm.
Paola flinches so hard she drops her glass.
Smoothly, Harmon catches it. Samantha Grimes says, “Good