Page 25 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

In the morning, I folded the clothes I’d washed the day before and started another load of laundry before eating breakfast at the dining room table.

I expected Wren to arrive at any minute, but she didn’t.

Restless, I sat on the sofa in the parlor with Paulie and reviewed the video from the night before.

As in the previous recording, there was no sign of Wren, only the sound of my own voice; but last night, I’d had the sense that she recognized me.

I wondered what, if anything, that signified.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t stop worrying about Daytime Wren, who was fading away more frequently, rapidly being subsumed by the nighttime version.

How much time did she have left?

There was no way to answer the question, so I wandered out onto the porch, noting the overcast sky and stiff breeze. Oscar had mentioned that a storm was headed our way, and a quick check of my weather app confirmed that it would rain this evening.

Still hoping to catch a glimpse of her, I made another circuit of the house, even visiting the cellar, where I moved the laundry from the washer to the dryer.

With no sign of Wren and hours to kill until I was supposed to meet Oscar, I returned to the dining room table, idly examining the drawing of the house I had made.

Recalling Wren’s suggestion, I considered adding window boxes beneath the windows on the upper floor.

Smiling, I thought, Why not? The worst that could happen was Oscar and Lorena wouldn’t like it.

After I’d sketched in the first box, I had to admit that Wren had been right. They would make the house feel warmer and more welcoming, so I started drawing a second one.

· · ·

By the time I got to Provincetown, the breeze had kicked up to a steady wind.

The temperature had begun to drop as well, and gray clouds were gathering in the sky, but Commercial Street was still crowded with pedestrians.

Quick peeks in the windows of restaurants I passed indicated that most were doing a brisk business.

Unlike Heatherington, Provincetown was right on the water.

It was the most visited location on Cape Cod and generally overrun in the summer, thanks to its historic lighthouses, beautiful beaches, and lively nightlife.

While it obviously boasted more activities and places to shop than Heatherington, I understood why Oscar and Lorena had chosen the location that they had.

They wanted to live somewhere quiet while remaining close enough to P-town to enjoy what it had to offer.

Oscar had pinned his location, making it easy for me to find him in the parking lot at Herring Cove Beach. Due to the overcast weather, the lot was mostly empty, and I spotted him right away. Like me, he was wearing a light jacket, but he’d added a scarf, beanie, and gloves.

“It’s not that cold out here,” I said, eyeing him with amusement.

“It’s cold enough.”

“We could go straight to lunch if you’d rather. I wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”

“Ha, ha,” he said, making a face. “Anyway, I can’t. I promised Lorena that I’d take regular walks while she’s back in Newton. She thinks I don’t get enough exercise.”

“Do you ever exercise?”

“What’s the point? People get in shape, which means they have to exercise even harder, which means they get in even better shape, and on and on and on. It’s a vicious cycle if you ask me.”

“Some doctors actually claim that exercise will help you live longer,” I said with a straight face.

“And doctors used to promote cigarettes on television. I’ve seen the ads on YouTube.”

“Still have a comeback for everything, don’t you?”

“I’ve always considered it one of my better qualities,” he said with a raffish grin. He pulled his beanie lower. “You ready?”

On the sand, my senses were flooded with the scent of the ocean and the bracing feel of the wind.

The water was the color of iron, merging with the slowly darkening clouds at the horizon, lending an austere beauty to the afternoon.

In the distance, a couple was strolling near the water’s edge, while another visitor walked his dog.

A small group of families were flying kites, but for the most part, we had this stretch of sand to ourselves.

“How’s it going, my friend? Anything weird to report?”

As we trekked along the waterline, dodging the incoming surf, I caught him up.

“You know how crazy all of this sounds, don’t you?” he panted when I was finished.

“I do,” I said.

He trudged a few steps in silence.

“But you’re pretty sure she’s blinking in and out more often when she’s with you? Like a brownout?”

“I haven’t kept an exact count, but it seems that way.”

“I’d wager that the increasing frequency isn’t a good sign.”

“I know.”

He turned to watch the churning waves, clearly thinking. “You said that Daytime Wren thinks it’s 2023?”

When I nodded, he walked in a circle, idly kicking at a tangle of seaweed as he ruminated.

“What if Nighttime Wren thinks it’s 2023, too?”

“Okay,” I said, wondering where he was going with it.

“And what if she’s reliving a memory, kind of like Daytime Wren does when she talks about other guests staying at the house?”

“Okay,” I said again. “What would that mean?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” he admitted, and despite my worries, I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it.”

· · ·

We walked for another hour as the temperature continued to drop. Despite our brisk pace, by the time we returned to the cars, the tips of my ears were pink, and I had buried my hands deep in my jacket pockets to keep them warm. Oscar enjoyed giving me grief for having ridiculed his extra gear.

Because parking was just as difficult in Provincetown as it was in Heatherington, Oscar rode with me to the restaurant.

Fortunately for us, a portion of the lunch crowd had cleared out by then, and we were able to get a table without waiting.

We promptly ordered Caesar salads, lobster rolls, and a mountain of fries, and planned to split a platter of clams casino and mussels as appetizers.

“Don’t tell Lorena what we ordered,” Oscar mumbled when the waitress walked off. “Just say I had a salad and soup.”

“It’ll be our secret.”

Later, as we dug into our meal, I kept thoughts about Wren to myself.

Instead, we talked a little about Lorena and the kids, but mainly about the house.

He said that both he and Lorena were closing in on several definite design features, and using a napkin and a borrowed pen, I sketched out a few basic options I’d been mulling to create the number of bedrooms they wanted—including the addition of a guesthouse on the property—while still allowing for plenty of common space where family and guests could hang out together.

Oscar mentioned that they were leaning toward the second contractor, and I nodded, unsurprised by their quick decision.

When we finished, we took a leisurely stroll up one side of Commercial Street and back down the other, shaking our heads at some of the tackier items in the tourist shops. But with the sky growing even more pregnant with heavy clouds, the crowds began to thin, and we finally made our way to my car.

I drove us back to the beach parking lot.

As we drew near Oscar’s Escalade, I noted a rusty pickup nearby with an elderly golden retriever in the truck bed.

An older man sat in a lawn chair on the sandy shoulder abutting the parking area, which puzzled me as the beach wasn’t even visible from the lot, obscured as it was by a large dune.

The dog raised his nose with every gust of wind, whining as he paced frantically from one end of the truck bed to the other.

Bundled up in a peacoat with a wool cap pulled low over his forehead, the old man paid the dog no mind as he drank steaming coffee out of a red thermos cup.

Only then did I realize that he’d sunk a fishing pole into the earth, as though he were shore fishing.

On the end of the line was a feather, which was tossing in the breeze.

“What do you think he’s doing?” Oscar asked me under his breath.

“I couldn’t begin to guess.”

Before I could stop him, Oscar approached the man, halting at a respectful distance. “Hi there,” he started. “I hate to disturb you, but my friend and I were wondering what you were doing with the fishing rod.”

The old man scrutinized both of us, taking his time to answer as he unscrewed the thermos and poured more coffee into his cup.

“Just checking the wind so I know when the rain will start,” he said and then grunted. His cheeks were ruddy and windburned, as if he’d spent a lifetime near the sea.

“And it works?” Oscar inquired, intrigued.

“Forecast says the rain will be coming at seven or eight tonight. The feather there, with the way it’s moving and twirling, says it’ll arrive at four thirty-five.” He squinted up at Oscar through rheumy eyes. “Gotta read the feather’s message.”

Oscar grinned at me, no doubt because the answer was as nutty as he’d expected.

“Is that why you’re not near the water? Because it messes with the forecast?”

“No.” He looked at us as if we were idiots. “It’s because of Bingo.”

“Who’s Bingo?”

“The dog,” he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the truck. “You know who Bingo is.”

“Why would I know Bingo?” Oscar asked.

“Because of the story.”

“What story?”

“On the TV,” the old man said.

“You mean the news?”

“That’s it.”

“I didn’t see the story.”

The old man looked up, baring his yellowed teeth. “If you don’t know about Bingo, then why are you asking about him?”

It took Oscar a second to process the question, but it was clear he wasn’t quite sure how to answer. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We didn’t mean to disturb you. We’ll be on our way. Have a nice afternoon.”

He had started to retreat in the direction of the Escalade when the old man’s voice stopped him.