Page 9 of Light of Day (Sea Smoke Island #1)

Over the years, Heather’s mother had held just about every job available on a small island off the coast of Maine.

She’d painted houses, she’d picked crabs, she’d bartended, she’d learned to roof, she’d sold muffins at the general store, she’d turned her car into a cab.

Heather had quite a few memories of being strapped into her car seat next to a fisherman who’d had a few too many drinks to drive himself home.

One of her jobs had been caring for an elderly man who owned several properties, including one he willed to Sally when he died.

Heather remembered dancing around the house with her euphoric mother when she got the news.

Then they went to look at it, and all that excitement faded away when they saw that she’d been gifted with a glorified fish-house.

Only its indoor plumbing set it apart from the other sheds that sat at the end of Sea Smoke’s fishing docks.

At first Sally had turned it into a hair salon but after she mistakenly doubled the amount of product required for Shannon Simms’ perm, that business fizzled. Word got around fast on Sea Smoke.

Personally, Heather believed that the name she’d chosen had doomed the salon from the start. “ Hairballs ?” she’d asked her mother incredulously.

“It’s unique.”

“Yes, I get that. But a trip to the salon shouldn’t make you throw up.”

Apparently, it might have, because Hairballs folded after three months.

But Sally McPhee had an incredible ability to rise again after every disaster. She did some research and found out that serving beverages could be very profitable. She got rid of the shampoo bowl and installed a commercial coffee machine and a camp stove to make eggs on.

She’d been running the Bloodshot Eyeball Coffee and Breakfast ever since, and this business had become an actual success.

Which probably proved that it wasn’t about the name after all.

Her hours were godawful—she opened the shop at four-thirty in the morning, and kept it open until two in the afternoon.

The best thing about it was that it kept her from drinking.

In high school, Heather had filled in for her when Sally was too hungover to go in.

After she’d left for college, Sally’s only option was not to open when she couldn’t handle it herself, so she’d been mostly sober since then.

By eight o’clock, Sally was already in her pajamas, curled under a blanket on the sagging couch, her TV tuned to a cable show on pirate shipwrecks.

“You know some people think there’s treasure buried on this island?” She tilted her head back to watch Heather move around the kitchen. Whenever Heather visited, she deep-cleaned the kitchen before anything else. A girl had to eat, and she had to feel comfortable with the conditions.

“Some people think a lot of things,” Heather answered as she scrubbed the back corner of the countertop, where bottles of hot sauce collected, leaving crusted red rings on the tile. “And most of those things are bullshit.”

“Who are you to say?” Sally dragged on her vape, which, Heather figured, at least wasn’t making the house smell like smoke. “You act all smarty-pants because you work on the news. The news doesn’t know everything either.”

“Amen to that. I’m just saying, no one’s ever found any pirate treasure here, have they? And you know people have looked. Isn’t that what Ernie O’Shea does with his downtime?”

“Ernie.” Sally snorted. “He’ll do anything to get out of the house. That wife of his?—”

Heather held up her hand. “I don’t want to know. You know how much I hate gossip. After all the stuff people say about me, I never believe any of it anyway.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if you really came out of my belly. How else are you going to know what’s going on if not for gossip?”

Heather thought about it as she squeezed the sponge under the faucet. Maybe her mother had a good point. And maybe she could take advantage of it. She abandoned her cleaning project and joined her mother in the living room, sinking into the soft embrace of a paisley-patterned armchair.

“Okay, what about Denton Simms? Any gossip going around about him?”

“Denton? Not that I know about. He’s kept close to home ever since Shannon died. His wife,” she added, as if Heather could forget the stunning Shannon with her wild red curly hair.

“Still grieving? Hasn’t it been a few years now?”

“Only two. They were super in love, ever since they were teenagers. I heard they got into a big old fight right before she died, though. I asked him about it the last time he came in for his sunny-side up, and he told me to mind my own business. He hasn’t come back since, so I guess I was over the line. ”

Heather couldn’t see any relevance of that bit of gossip to the disappearance of Gabby, so she moved on. “What about the hotel? There’s always something about the Carmichaels, right? I heard some YouTube influencer wants to buy the place.”

Sally took another whiff from her vape. Cherry flavored? Heather couldn’t quite tell. “I think it’s the other way around. John Carmichael is dying to sell. His newest wife thinks it’s boring here, and she ain’t wrong.”

“Really.” Heather brought her legs up under her, tailor style. “I can’t imagine them ever selling. It’s a piece of history, that hotel. Didn’t his great-grandfather build it? Or would it be his great-great-grandfather? It’s hard to keep track.”

“Yes, but things change. I wouldn’t be surprised if his wife wants to cash out and buy an island in the Pacific instead.”

Heather hesitated before heading down that road. But in the end, she couldn’t resist. “How about Luke? Seems like people are getting used to him being on our end of the island.”

Sally nodded as she swung her feet off the ottoman, which was upholstered in corduroy of a mustard shade, perfect for hiding stains.

“I’d say so. He’s done a good job, all things considered.

The Prevosts were a big part of that. They made it known that anyone who messed with Luke was messing with them. ”

The Prevosts were one of the most sprawling families on the island, related to practically everyone. Heather was pretty sure she was some distant cousin of Carrie’s. “But aren’t they divorced now?”

“Oh yeah, people say Carrie cheated on him soon as the honeymoon was over?—”

“Nope!” Heather flung up a hand. “That’s just plain gossip. ‘People say’? Come on.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “People say shit about me, too. That’s just the way it is. If people aren’t talking about you, do you even exist?”

“That’s pretty twisted.”

“Honey, we’re just the last in a long line of gossip. You know our family’s reputation. We’re the Messy McPhee’s. We’re a hot mess, always have been, ever since?—”

Heather covered her ears. “I don’t care. I don’t care, I don’t care,” she chanted, as if she were five years old again. Still drowning out her mother’s voice, she shot to her feet. “That’s why I don’t listen to that stuff. It just drags me down.”

“Well, excuse me if your family legacy is such a burden.”

“Isn’t it to you?” Heather cried. Good lord, she was already fighting with her mother, and she’d barely just arrived. “Didn’t you ever want to be more than a Messy McPhee?”

Sally too bolted to her feet. “Don’t you think I am? I worked my whole life to give you a chance. Why are you,” she jabbed a finger toward Heather, “always running away from who you are?”

Heather planted her hands on her hips. “That’s ridiculous. You don’t have any idea who I am now. The New Yorker is considering hiring me.”

Well…technically… The New Yorker had received a recommendation from Mindy and her writing samples. She prayed that added up to “considering” her.

“Oooh, la-di-da. You know, you claim to be some kind of journalist, but you won’t even look right under your own nose. Gabby told me that. She said she found something about our family and she was trying to figure out how to tell you about it. But she worried you wouldn’t want to know.”

Her heart racing, Heather turned back to face her mother. Sally’s faded red flannel pajamas hung on her thin frame, and her blond hair straggled from her scrunchie. Her eyes looked tired, just as bloodshot as her coffee shop promised. “What did she find out? Do you know?”

“No.” Sally pressed her lips together. “She said she was still confirming details, and didn’t want to upset anyone for nothing. She asked about some family history.”

“Okay, like what?”

Chills were running up and down Heather’s arms; a sure sign she was on to something here.

“Like what my great-grandfather Hennessy did for a living, that sort of thing.”

Heather pressed her hands to her cheeks. What kind of sense did that make? Why would Gabby care about something from so many generations ago? “What did he do for a living?”

“Well, if you can believe it, he was a doctor. See? You’re not the only one with education in this family. We went downhill after that.” She snorted.

A doctor. Had she known that? Granted, her interest in her family history was pretty minimal. If she’d heard that information, she hadn’t retained it. “What kind of doctor?”

“I don’t know, just the general kind. He was the only one on the island back then. At least, that’s the way it got passed down to me. Your grandfather Hector used to tell you stories about him when you were little.”

An uneasy sensation settled in the pit of her stomach. “I don’t remember.”

“You would if you weren’t so bent on denying everything about your lineage.”

“Lineage seems like a fancy way to describe ‘long line of alcoholics,’” Heather said dryly. She regretted it as soon as she saw her mother’s face shut down.

“I gotta get to bed,” Sally muttered, and snatched up the crocheted blanket she’d been snuggling with. She aimed the remote at the TV to shut it down, then brushed past Heather on her way to the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” Heather called after her. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth. Part of it, anyway. I guess it’s the only part you care about.”

Tucked under the eaves in her own bedroom, it took Heather a long time to fall asleep.

The branches of the apple tree outside her window cast strange shadows across her floor, especially after a night wind picked up.

Had that apple tree been around when her great-great-grandfather Hennessy had lived here?

Even though the house dated from the 1960s, the land had belonged to the McPhee’s since the early 1900s. Maybe Hennessy McPhee had casually tossed an apple core back then. Now a gnarled tree swayed outside her window, its creaky movements keeping her awake at night.

She pulled the quilt over her head in an effort to block out the sounds and the shadows. She wasn’t here to delve into the past. All she wanted was to find Gabby. She ought to be out there right now, searching—though there wasn’t much she could do in the dark.

Gabby. What the F were you up to? Are you okay? If you turn up tomorrow, I promise I’ll throw myself heart and soul into the podcast, even if The New Yorker hires me. But you have to be alive and safe and well. Deal?

Wind moaned through the branches of the apple tree.

I’ll take that as a yes.