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  “All about what?”

  “That bone.” Nadine stood watching her, patiently waiting for her contribution to the community pool of knowledge. Like most Maine women, Nadine did a lot of listening. It was the men who seemed to do all the talking. Claire heard them when she walked through the local hardware store or the five-and-dime or the post office. They stood around and gabbed while their wives waited, silent and watchful.

  “I hear it’s a kid’s bone,” said Joe Bartlett, swiveling on the stool to look at Claire. “A thigh bone.”

  “That right, Doc?” another one asked.

  The other Dinosaurs turned and looked at Claire.

  She said, with a smile, “You already seem to know everything about it.”

  “Heard it was whacked up good. Maybe a knife. Maybe an ax. Then the animals got at it.”

  “You boys sure are cheerful today,” snorted Nadine.

  “Three days in those woods, raccoons and coyotes clean your bones straight off. Then Elwyn’s dogs come along. Hardly ever feeds ’em, y’know. Bone like that’s a tasty snack. Maybe his dogs’ve been chewing on it for weeks. Elwyn, he wouldn’t think to give it a second look.”

  Joe laughed. “That Elwyn, he just plain doesn’t think.”

  “Maybe he shot the kid himself. Mistook it for a deer.”

  Claire said, “It looked like a very old bone.”

  Joe Bartlett waved at Nadine. “I made up my mind. I’ll have the Monte Cristo sandwich.”

  “Whooee! Joe’s goin’ fancy on us today!” said Ned Tibbetts.

  “What about you, Doc?” asked Nadine.

  “A tuna sandwich and a bowl of mushroom soup, please.”

  As Claire ate her lunch, she listened to the men talk about whom the bone might belong to. It was impossible not to listen in; three of them wore hearing aids. Most of them could remember as far back as sixty years ago, and they batted the possibilities around like a birdie in play. Maybe it was that young girl who’d fallen off Bald Rock Cliff. No, they’d found her body, remember? Maybe it was the Jewett girl—hadn’t she run off when she was sixteen? Ned said no, he’d heard from his mother that she was living in Hartford; the girl’d have to be in her sixties now, probably a grand-mother. Fred Moody said his wife Florida said the dead girl had to be from away—one of the summer people. Tranquility kept track of its own, and wouldn’t someone remember if a local kid had vanished?

  Nadine refilled Claire’s cup of coffee. “Don’t they just go on and on?” she said. “You’d think they was planning world peace.”

  “How do they know so much about it, anyway?”

  “Joe’s second cousin to Floyd Spear, over at the police department.” Nadine began to wipe down the counter, long, brisk strokes that left behind a faintly chlorinated smell. “They say some bone expert’s driving up from Bangor today. Way I figure, it’s gotta be one of those summer people.”

  That, of course, was the obvious answer—one of the summer people. Whether it was an unsolved crime or an unidentified body, the all-purpose answer served. Every June, Tranquility’s population quadrupled when wealthy families from Boston and New York began arriving for their lakeside vacations. Here, in this peaceful summertime colony, they would linger on the porches of their shorefront cottages while their children splashed in the water. In the shops of Tranquility, cash registers would ring merrily as the summer folk pumped dollars into the local economy. Someone had to clean their cottages, repair their fancy cars, bag their groceries. The business from those few short months was enough to keep the local population fed through the winter.

  It was the money that made the visitors tolerable. That and the fact that every September, with the falling of the leaves, they would once again vanish, leaving the town to the people who belonged here.

  Claire finished her lunch and walked back to her office.

  Tranquility’s main street followed the curve of the lake. At the top of Elm Street was Joe Bartlett’s gas and garage, which he’d run for forty-two years until he retired; now his daughter’s two girls pumped gas and changed oil. A sign above the garage proudly proclaimed: Owned and Operated by Joe Bartlett and Granddaughters. Claire had always liked that sign; she thought it said a lot for Joe Bartlett.

  At the post office, Elm Street curved north. Already that northwest wind was starting to blow in across the lake. It blasted through the narrow alleys between buildings, and walking along the side-walk was like passing through a series of icy wind tunnels. In the window above the five-and-dime, a black cat gazed down at her, as though pondering the stupidity of creatures out in such weather.

  Next to the five-and-dime was the yellow Victorian where Claire had her medical practice.

  The building had once served as Dr. Pomeroy’s business and residence. The door still had the old frosted glass with the lettering: MEDICAL OFFICE. Although the name James Pomeroy, M.D., had been replaced by Claire Elliot, M.D., Family Practice, she sometimes imagined she could see the shadow of the old name lingering like a ghost in the pebbled glass, refusing to yield to the new occupant.

  Inside, her receptionist, Vera, was yakking on the phone, her bracelets clattering as she flipped through the appointment book. Vera’s hairstyle was like her personality: wild and woolly and a little frazzled. She cupped her hand over the receiver and said to Claire, “Mairead Temple’s in the exam room. Sore throat.”

  “How’s the rest of the afternoon look?”

  “Two more coming in, and that’s it.”

  Which added up to only six patients all day, worried Claire. Since the summer tourists departed, Claire’s practice had contracted. She was the only doctor with an office right in Tranquility, yet most of the locals drove the twenty miles to Two Hills for medical care. She knew why; not many in town believed she’d last through one hard winter, and they saw no point getting attached to a doctor who’d be gone by the following autumn.

  Mairead Temple was one of the few patients Claire had managed to attract, but it was only because Mairead owned no car. She’d walked a mile into town, and now she sat on the exam table, still wheezing slightly from the cold weather. Mairead was eighty-one and she had no teeth or tonsils. Nor did she have much deference for authority.

  Examining Mairead’s throat, Claire said, “It does look pretty red.”

  “I coulda told you that myself,” Mairead answered.

  “But you don’t have a fever. And your lymph nodes aren’t swollen.”

  “Hurts wicked bad. Can’t hardly swallow.”

  “I’ll take a throat culture. By tomorrow we’ll know if it’s strep. But I think it’s just a virus.”

  Mairead, her eyes small and suspicious, watched Claire peel open a throat swab. “Dr. Pomeroy always gave me penicillin.”

  “Antibiotics don’t work on a virus, Mrs. Temple.”

  “Always made me feel better, that penicillin.”

  “Say ‘ah.’”

  Mairead gagged as Claire swabbed her throat. She looked like a tortoise, leathery neck extended, toothless mouth snapping at the air. Eyes watering, she said: “Pomeroy was in practice a long time. Always knew what he was doing. All you young doctors, you coulda learned a thing or two from him.”

  Claire sighed. Would she always be compared to Dr. Pomeroy? His gravestone sat in a place of honor in the Mountain Street Cemetery. Claire saw his cryptic notes in the old medical charts, and sometimes she sensed his ghost dogging her on her rounds. Certainly it was Pomeroy’s ghost that now came between her and Mairead. Dead though he was, he would always be remembered as the town doctor.

  “Let’s listen to your lungs,” said Claire.

  Mairead grunted and tugged at her clothes. It was cold outside, and she had dressed for it. A sweater, a cotton shirt, thermal underwear, and a bra all had to be pulled free before Claire could set her stethoscope on her chest.

  Through the thump-thump of Mairead’s heart, Claire heard a distant tapping and she looked up.

  Vera stuck her head in the room. “Call
on line two.”

  “Can you take a message?”

  “It’s your son. He won’t talk to me.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Temple,” Claire said, and went into her office to take the call. “Noah?”

  “You have to pick me up. I’m gonna miss the bus.”

  “But it’s only two-fifteen. The bus hasn’t left yet.”

  “I’m in detention. I can’t leave until three-thirty.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I don’t wanna talk about it now.”

  “I’m going to find out anyway, honey.”

  “Not now, Mom.” She heard him sniffle, heard the tears break through his voice. “Please. Please, can you just come and get me?”

  The phone went dead. Haunted by the image of her son, crying and in trouble, Claire quickly dialed the school back. But by the time she reached the secretary, Noah had already left the office, and Miss Cornwallis was not available to speak to her.

  Claire had an hour to finish with Mairead Temple, see two new patients, and drive to the school.

  Feeling pressured now, and distracted by Noah’s crisis, she stepped back into the exam room and was dismayed to see that Mairead already had put her clothes back on.

  “I’m not quite finished examining you,” said Claire.

  “Yeah, y’are,” grunted Mairead.

  “But Mrs. Temple—”

  “Came for penicillin. Didn’t come to get no Q-Tip shoved down my throat.”

  “Please, won’t you just sit down? I know I do things a little differently from Dr. Pomeroy, but there’s a reason for it. Antibiotics don’t stop a virus, and they can cause side effects.”

  “Never caused me no side effects.”

  “It only takes a day to get back the culture results. If it’s strep, I’ll give you the medicine then.”

  “Gotta walk all the way into town. Takes up half my day.”

  Suddenly Claire understood what the real issue was. Every lab test, every new prescription, meant a mile-long walk into town for Mairead, and then another mile walk home.

  With a sigh, she pulled out a prescription pad. And for the first time that visit, she saw Mairead’s smile. Satisfied. Triumphant.

  Isabel sat quietly on the couch, afraid to move, afraid to say a word.

  Mary Rose was very, very mad. Their mother was not home yet, so Isabel was all alone with her sister. She had never seen Mary Rose behave this way, pacing back and forth like a tiger in the zoo, screaming at her. At her, Isabel! Mary Rose was so angry, it turned her face wrinkled and ugly, not like Princess Aurora anymore, but more like an evil queen. This was not her sister. This was a bad person inside her sister’s body.

  Isabel huddled deeper into the cushions, watching furtively as the bad person in Mary Rose’s body stalked through the living room, muttering. Never getto go anywhere or do anything because of you! Stuck at home all the time. A baby-sitter slave! I wish you were dead. I wish you were dead.

  But I’m your sister! Isabel wanted to wail, though she didn’t dare make a peep. She began to cry, silent tears plopping onto the cushions, making big wet stains. Oh no. Mary Rose would be mad about that, too.

  Isabel waited until her sister’s back was turned, then she quietly slipped off the couch and darted into the kitchen. She would hide in here, out of Mary Rose’s way, until their mother came home. She ducked around the corner of a kitchen cabinet and sat down on the cold tiles, hugging her knees to her chest. If she just stayed quiet, Mary Rose wouldn’t find her. She could see the clock on the wall, and she knew that when the little hand was on the five, their mother would come home. She needed to pee, now, but she would just have to wait because she was safe here.

  Then Rocky the parakeet began to screech. His cage was a few feet away, by the window. She looked up at him, silently imploring him to be quiet, but Rocky was not very smart and he kept screeching at her. Their mother had said it many times: “Rocky is just a birdbrain,” and he was proving it now by all the noise he made.

  Be quiet! Oh please be quiet or she’ll find me!

  Too late. Footsteps creaked into the kitchen. A drawer was yanked open and silverware clanged to the floor. Mary Rose was flinging around forks and spoons. Isabel wrapped herself into a ball and squeezed more tightly against the cabinet.

  Rocky the traitor stared at her as he squawked, as though to shout out: “There she is! There she is!”

  Now Mary Rose paced into view, but she wasn’t looking at Isabel. She was staring at Rocky. She went to the cage and stood looking at the parakeet, who continued to screech. She opened the door and thrust in her hand. Rocky’s wings flapped in panicked whooshes of flying feathers and birdseed. She captured the struggling bird, a squirming puff of powder blue, and took him out of the cage. With one quick twist, she snapped the bird’s neck.

  Rocky went limp.

  She flung the body against the wall. It plopped to the floor in a sad little heap of feathers.

  A silent scream boiled up in Isabel’s throat. She choked it back and buried her face against her knees, waiting in terror for her sister to break her neck as well.

  But Mary Rose walked right out of the kitchen. Right out of the house.

  3

  Noah was sitting on the front steps of the high school when Claire arrived at four o’clock. She had rushed through her last two appointments, and had driven straight to the school five miles away, but she was a half hour late, and she could see he was angry about it. He didn’t say a word, just climbed into the truck, and slammed the door shut.

  “Seat belt, honey,” she said.

  He yanked on the shoulder strap and rammed the buckle in. They drove for a moment in silence.

  “I’ve been sitting around forever. What took you so long?” he said.

  “I had patients to see, Noah. Why were you in detention?”

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Whose fault was it, then?”

  “Taylor. He’s turning into such a jerk. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.” Sighing, he slumped into his seat. “And I used to think we were friends. Now it’s like he hates me.”

  She glanced at him. “Is this Taylor Darnell you’re talking about?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was an accident. My skateboard ran into him. Next thing I know, he’s shoving me around. So I shoved him back, and he fell.”

  “Why didn’t you call a teacher?”

  “There weren’t any around. Then Miss Cornwallis comes out and suddenly Taylor starts yelling that it’s my fault.” He turned away from her, but not before she’d glimpsed the embarrassed swipe of his hand across his eyes. He tries so hard to be grown up, she thought with a twinge of pity, but he’s really still a child.

  “She took my skateboard, Mom,” he said softly. “Can you get it back for me?”

  “I’ll call Miss Cornwallis tomorrow. But I want you to call Taylor and apologize.”

  “He turned on me! He’s the one who should apologize!”

  “Taylor’s not having an easy time of it, Noah. His parents just got divorced.”

  He looked at her. “How do you know? Is he your patient?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you see him for?”

  “You know I can’t talk about that.”

  “Like you ever talk to me about anything,” he muttered, and turned once again to stare out the window.

  She knew better than to rise to the bait, so she said nothing, preferring silence to the argument that would surely erupt between them if she allowed him to provoke her.

  When he spoke again, it was so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. “I want to go home, Mom.”

  “That’s where I’m taking you.”

  “No, I mean home. To Baltimore. I don’t want to stay here anymore. There’s nothing here but trees and a bunch of old guys driving around in their pickup trucks. We don’t belong here.”

  “This is our home now.”

 
“Not mine.”

  “You haven’t tried very hard to like it here.”

  “Like I had a choice? Like you asked me if we should move?”

  “We’ll both learn to like it. I’m still adjusting, too.”

  “So why did we have to move?”

  Gripping the steering wheel, she stared straight ahead. “You know why.” They both knew what she was talking about. They’d left Baltimore because of him, because she’d taken a hard look at her son’s future and was frightened by what she saw. An enlarging circle of troubled friends. Repeated calls from the police. More courtrooms and lawyers and therapists. She had seen their future in Baltimore, and she’d grabbed her son and run like hell.

  “I’m not going to turn into some perfect preppie just because you drag me up to the woods,” he said. “I can mess things up just as good right here. So we might as well go back.”

  She pulled into their driveway and turned to face him. “Messing up is not going to get you back to Baltimore. Either you get your life together or you don’t. It’s your choice.”

  “When is anything my choice?”

  “You have lots of choices. And from now on, I want you to make the right ones.”

  “You mean the ones you want.” He jumped out of the truck.

  “Noah. Noah!”

  “Just leave me alone!” he yelled. He slammed the door shut and stalked off to the house.

  She didn’t follow him. She just sat clutching the steering wheel, too tired and upset at that moment to deal with him. Abruptly she shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway. They both needed time to cool down, to get their emotions under control. She turned onto Toddy Point Road and headed along the shore of Locust Lake. Driving as therapy.

  How easy it had all seemed when Peter was alive, when one of his cross-eyed looks was all that was needed to make their son laugh. The days when they were still happy, still whole.

  We haven’t been happy since you died, Peter. I miss you. I miss you every day, every hour. Every minute of my life.

  The lights from lakeside cottages shimmered through her tears as she drove. She rounded the curve, drove past the Boulders, and suddenly the lights were no longer white but blue, and they seemed to be dancing among the trees.