Page 26 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

“I can tell you about Bingo if you want, because the news got it wrong. They turned it into something sweet and syrupy instead of telling the truth.”

Oscar looked at me, and we both shrugged simultaneously.

“I’d love to hear your version,” Oscar said.

“Bingo has been coming here every day, even in winter, for the last four years. If I don’t bring him here, he finds his way to the beach on his own, and I have to drop everything I’m doing and come get him because otherwise people complain that he’s not on a leash.

I’ve been called to account by the police about that and even fined once.

In winter, I stay in the cab, of course, but Bingo’s always in the back so he can see Henry better. ”

“Who’s Henry?”

“Henry’s my neighbor, and Bingo used to be his dog.

He used to sit out here in his car at night and drink, finishing off half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s by himself.

” The old man shook his head. “Anyway, one night four years ago, I guess he was stumbling around with the bottle in hand—probably going to take a leak—and he fell. The bottle smashed on the asphalt, and he came down right on it. A shard of glass cut his femoral artery.”

Oscar and I stared, unsure how to respond.

The old man went on, clearly eager to tell his story.

“Old Henry bled out right here in this parking lot, and Bingo was in the car the whole time, watching it happen. When the beach patrol found him the next morning, Bingo had near torn apart the interior. He was barking like crazy and hurling himself against the windows and doors.”

“That’s terrible,” I said, eyeing the dog with sympathy.

“I took in Bingo as Henry didn’t have any family.

But Bingo keeps coming back here to this very spot.

” He grimaced. “The news stories were all about how Bingo keeps coming back because he’s waiting for Henry to return, like that dog in Japan who waited for his owner at the train station.

” He turned in his lawn chair to look at the dog, who continued to whine and pace.

“But he’s agitated, see? Upset. Unsettled.

I’ve had dogs all my life, and I tell you, Bingo isn’t waiting for Henry’s return.

” He fixed us with a look of utter conviction.

“He keeps coming back to this spot because he senses Henry’s presence in this parking lot,” he said. “Because Henry can’t let go.”

· · ·

Oscar and I were quiet as we parted ways, each disturbed by the sight of Bingo pacing in the truck bed, and the old coot’s story. I knew we were both thinking of Wren and wondering again what it was that kept her tethered here.

Once again, I wished Sylvia were around to help me understand this strange and improbable world, whose existence I had scoffed at until a few days ago.

Perhaps she could have explained whether my interactions with Wren were responsible for the increased speed at which she seemed to be slipping away, or whether it would be happening this quickly regardless.

As I was pulling up the drive, the first drops of rain began to hit the windshield. Glancing at the digital clock on the dash, I somehow wasn’t surprised to see that the time was 4:35 p.m.

· · ·

I jogged from the car to the porch, entering the house just as it started to rain in earnest. The storm made the parlor dimmer than usual, but a quick glance revealed no sign of Wren there, or in the kitchen or dining room.

It was only when I circled back to the parlor that I noticed the wood stacked on the fireplace grate, more logs on the rack, and a bag of kindling, indicating that Louise and Reece had been inside.

On the mantel, I found a lighter and a brief note saying that if I intended to use the fireplace, I should remember to open the damper.

It added that if I needed help getting the fire lit, I could call them, and Reece would be able to assist.

Though I’d never started an actual fire—when I was growing up, our fireplaces had always been tended by the housekeeping staff—I assumed I could figure it out. I could almost hear Wren telling me that it was something an adult should know how to do, like laundry.

Feeling a chill, I went up to my room and dug a Patagonia fleece out of a drawer. I was plucking at the fabric to adjust it when I heard a familiar voice from my bedroom doorway.

“If you’re going to change your clothes, you really should consider closing the door. Some of the other guests might not be as easygoing as I am,” Wren drawled, a provocative lilt to her voice.

She can come upstairs, I immediately thought, unsure why I had been thinking of this floor solely as Nighttime Wren’s domain.

When I turned to face her, I was struck again by how attractive she was.

She was dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck sweater, her eyes outlined in smoky gray, and a dark lipstick accentuating her wide mouth, all of it coming together perfectly.

“You’re right,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Do you mind if I come in? I want to show you something.”

“Please,” I said.

She hesitated, the outline of her body growing fuzzy and indistinct for a moment as she stood on the threshold. Then suddenly she relaxed, gaining density as she moved to the window.

“Come here,” she said as she crooked a finger.

I approached, standing close but not quite close enough to touch her.

“Do you see the bench out there?” She pointed, squinting slightly. “The one by the bluff?”

“I saw it when Reece showed me the property.”

“Do you know why it’s there?”

“Because of the view?”

“That’s what most people think,” she said. “And some guests have sat out there, but that’s not why my grandma put it there. She put it there for me. That was my punishment bench. I spent a lot of time there when I was in high school. It was her version of a time-out.”

“It seems better than standing in a corner.”

“You’d think so, right? But if you ever take a seat on it, you’ll notice it’s situated in a spot where you can’t see the beach or even the waves. All you see is water and sky and nothing else. You know how boring that is? The monotony is unbearable.”

“I think my sister had a coffee mug that said we should try to find beauty in everything.”

Wren laughed. “Of course she did, but even your sister would have struggled to spend an hour out there. You feel like you’re the last person on earth.

” She leaned toward me, almost as if she were going to nudge me with her shoulder, but stopped short.

“It was rough punishment for a teenage girl who hated to be alone.”

“It obviously worked,” I said. “You seem okay to me.”

“Just okay?” She glared at me in mock outrage. “Is that what you think of me?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out.

“Just kidding.” She giggled, her image fading again as she sashayed to the door. I laughed, trying to pretend I hadn’t noticed.

“Want to join me downstairs? I don’t think any of the guests have returned yet, so we have the parlor to ourselves.”

I nodded and followed her down. I was about to ask whether she was going to get a glass of wine when she picked up a mug from the gaming table, the string from a tea bag hanging over the lip.

She took a sip before sitting down on the sofa.

Paulie immediately crossed the room and hopped up next to her.

The sky beyond the window flashed, followed by the distant sound of thunder.

“Looks like we’re in for a real storm,” she observed. “Makes me happy, because I love a good thunderstorm, but it’s strange. It was supposed to be sunny and hot all weekend.”

Perhaps, two years ago, I thought, it had been.

“I’m pretty sure the rest of the week is supposed to be warm.”

“Just in time for the festival,” she said. “My soon-to-be ex, Griffin, will be thrilled,” she said. “Did I mention he’s in charge of the whole thing?”

“You didn’t,” I answered. “Can I ask what the deal is with the masks?”

“Most of the bands who will be performing are local bands from the Northeast—and I don’t mean big cities like New York or Boston or Philly.

For some reason Griffin thought it would be good marketing to lean into their mostly unknown status on the theory that people would focus on the music instead of the lack of so-called brand names.

The festival’s slogan is ‘All About the Music’—as in, not about the names.

Hence the idea of having them all perform in masks.

” She snorted. “In reality, the crowds really get into the masks, and the performers just push them up on their heads.”

“Why doesn’t he bring in any well-known bands?”

She shrugged. “Heatherington isn’t big enough to interest bands with even a modicum of fame.

The only reason he can line up the bands he does is because it’s not yet summer, and the performers treat it as a rehearsal for the festivals and shows they’re really gunning for.

And then there’s Griffin, who’s part of the problem. ”

I watched while she rose from her seat and started toward the kitchen, no doubt wanting to dispose of her tea bag, but she disappeared entirely within a few steps. I suppressed a twinge of nervousness until she reappeared in the parlor.

“Griffin’s father owns a car dealership in Provincetown,” she continued, oblivious to my anxiety.

She took a seat again, going on. “His two older brothers work there, but Griffin always wanted to do his own thing. The dealership is the largest sponsor of the festival, and Griffin still gets a check from his dad every month, like an allowance. He has visions of taking this festival and turning it into an East Coast version of Coachella or managing one or more of the bands that happen to make it big or becoming a music producer. He has plenty of dreams,” she said.

“Unfortunately, most of them are fueled by alcohol and drugs.”

“Was he ever violent?” I asked, frowning.