Page 4 of The Dead of Summer

When I was little—but not so little that I couldn’t hold my own ice-cream cone without dropping it—Gracie and I would sit on the benches of the marina, cones in hand, and watch the ferries come in.

She would point out all the interesting people she knew, like past guests of Singing House, or mortal enemies, or celebrities, or dogs she thought looked like celebrities.

You never know who might waltz off one of those boats and right into your life , she would say with a wistful sigh.

And, inevitably, some long-lost friend of hers would show up, totally unplanned, and she’d insist we all go get lobster rolls.

Today, we are the people waltzing off the boat, and there’s nothing wistful about it.

In fact, a lobster roll might kill me. I’m dragging both our suitcases, sweating through my shirt, my head swiveling like a seagull as I search the crowds for anyone from school who might recognize us.

Meanwhile, Gracie and Sam chatter away like old friends.

“There’s whale watching and oyster shucking and a shark museum.

” Gracie points out the attractions. “Oh, see that pink pontoon? It’s actually the shuttle out to the tip of the bay.

That’s the hook of land we passed, with the lighthouse.

It’s the best-kept townie secret on Anchor’s Mercy. Right, Ollie-baby?”

“Right.”

“You’ll looooove Singing House.” I wince every time Gracie drags on Sam’s arm.

“It’s right in town, right in the heart of it all.

Ollie’s friends practically move in every summer.

Ollie, remember that year Elisa declared squatter’s rights to one of the guest rooms?

Sam, you’ll love Elisa. Like vinegar chased with sunshine.

Her dad runs Marine Supply. You said you came here when you were little, yes?

You probably remember it? Big old store just full of everything from shells to machetes.

” She barely pauses as Sam nods. “Anyway, usually we’re all booked up in the summer season, but it’ll be just family for the next few weeks as we fix things up.

If you get lonely in that rambling house, you’re welcome to come stay with us for a few nights.

No charge.” And she winks. Like, actually winks.

My throwaway crush on Sam is somehow already deepening past the point of excusability. It doesn’t help that he keeps glancing at me. Is he feeling inspired or entrapped? I know he could just run away, but he seems genuinely interested in Gracie’s ramblings.

“You must have quite the luck.” Gracie’s bracelets jingle as she conducts her tour. “Striking up a conversation with the owner of an empty bed-and-breakfast during the busy season.”

“That is lucky.”

Gracie doesn’t say that the reason the bed-and-breakfast is empty is because everyone, herself included, assumed she’d be dead by now. But sure, let’s call it lucky .

“The sea is full of fortune for those that dive right in,” Gracie pronounces. “We call it Mercy magic. Right, Ollie-baby?”

I know my lines here. “Right. Mercy magic. That’s just how things work around here.”

This, I have to admit, is real. On Anchor’s Mercy there does seem to be a nauseatingly high amount of serendipity.

Practically speaking it’s hard to avoid anyone or anything for too long on such a small island, but it’s more fun to think of it like an invisible tide, playing unknowable games of push and pull, floating you toward not what you want, but what you need.

I never thought much about it. I only really cherished it once it was gone.

Not a ton of magic to be found in the MaineHealth Cancer Care building, and what little we brought with us got rubbed off pretty damn fast. Now that I’m back on the island, I feel it again, plucking at my clothes, asking me to play, but I’m scared of what it might bring me.

Or who.

At the end of the pier, we walk through a rotunda bordered in grab-’n’-go restaurants and souvenir shops. Distant music grows suddenly close as a beat-up, hot-pink Jeep rips the crowd apart and lurches to a stop inches from Gracie.

“Is that Little Miss Mercy 1993?” the driver shouts.

“WILLY!” Gracie screams. A man swings out of the Jeep and scoops her up into a hug, literally halting traffic.

I’m next. I groan as he crushes me in a hug that reminds me he was in the army for a mysterious amount of time before moving to work at the piano bars in town. Then he steps back to look at me.

“A twink? Still?”

Willy hasn’t changed at all, either. He is the same tall, deeply tanned man with a buzz cut, muscular arms decorated with blurry tattoos, and bootcut jeans that have swerved in and out of style since well before I was born.

He smells like cheap sunscreen despite no evidence that he’s ever used a drop of it.

He’s my old piano teacher, and my mom’s best friend, and the closest thing Anchor’s Mercy has to a mayor.

Sam thrusts out a hand. “Sam Hale, sir.”

The respect makes Willy’s eyes crinkle, and he bats the handshake away.

“Not too generous with the sir s around here, kid,” Gracie jokes.

While we load up the car, Gracie describes Sam as a new friend whose aunt has a place off in the dunes .

Willy gets what she means right away—the kid comes from money—but years of bartending keep Willy’s face warm and unaware.

Gracie adds, “He plays piano. He’s promised Singing House several songs. Right, Sam?”

“For sure.”

Willy approves. “Well, then, welcome to our island. Need a ride?”

“It’s cool, I was just gonna take a cab.”

Willy and Gracie erupt in protest. A cab?

All the way out to the dunes? Preposterous!

There’s no point resisting. I grab up Sam’s bag and toss it in the Jeep, and then we squeeze together into the back seat.

There’s barely enough room to not touch knees and it’s hot as shit, but once the windows drop and Willy fires up his speakers—he’s got a Celine Dion megamix ready for Gracie—it’s kind of perfect.

“You have been missed , my dear,” Willy says as he tosses an arm over Gracie’s shoulders.

“Both of you. It’s been positively dreary without the Veltmans and their magical Singing House.

A shroud has been cast over the people of Mercy.

A pall. The birds won’t sing. The oysters won’t open.

Our top scientists are perplexed. Imogen Pfaff is—”

“Imogen Pfaff?” Gracie cackles. “God, I remember when she got that director job at the institute a million years ago. She’s still here?”

“And drunker than ever. Just the other day she delivered the world’s wobbliest rendition of ‘No Good Deed’ from Wicked . A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

Gracie gasps. “She did not! Where?”

“Where else?”

Together, Willy and Gracie groan: “Hail Mary’s.”

And, like the cursed structure that it is, the dark wooden face of the Last Hail Mary is suddenly staring us down. It’s right at the main intersection where traffic halts so hordes of sunburnt families can pass.

“Still standing,” Gracie says with admiration. “How is Mary, anyway?”

“Hanging in there, but she’s off her feet for now. Not sure she’ll be getting back up this time, but as always we’re hoping for the best, whatever that may be.”

My ears perk up. The ancient and unsinkable Scary Mary is sick?

A year ago I wouldn’t have thought twice about this exchange, but I’m different now, and my ears hear old things in new ways.

The world of Anchor’s Mercy has changed keys, and there’s a foreboding minor chord hiding in what the adults won’t say.

I lean forward. “What is Mary sick with?”

Willy looks to Gracie, like it’s up to her to handle this, which she does with a rare frown. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Just some adult talk.”

“I can handle it.”

“Ollie, don’t be rude.”

Gracie stares me down, and I want to snatch the stupid blue wig off her head.

Rude? Is she really going to treat me as a kid, as if I didn’t sit by her for the last ten months for every single adult talk between her, the nurses, and the doctors?

I slump back next to Sam. Willy turns the music up, but I keep listening.

“How long?” Gracie asks.

“Maybe a month. Could be weeks. I visit her on Sundays. You should come say hi.”

“Who’s managing the bar?” Gracie asks.

“We all pitch in.”

“I’ll swing by for the brunch shifts this weekend. Lend a hand. Just until Mary’s back to her old self.”

“You’re a doll, Gracie Jo. A doll.”

I lock this conversation up in my head with a few other thoughts that have been slow-boiling my insides. And I decide right here and now that I will get to the bottom of what the adults won’t talk about. For now, though, I need to play host for Sam’s sake.

We briefly glimpse the bustle of Main Street—beachy boutiques, seafood shacks, candy shops advertising authentic saltwater taffy. A drag queen in a giant red wig stands out front of Willy’s bar, Scuttlebutt’s. She’s waving flyers for tomorrow’s drag brunch. She blows us a kiss as we pass.

“Isn’t it a little early for drag queens?” Sam asks.

Willy laughs. “Ollie, educate your friend.”

“The drag queens run this place,” I say. “Most of them have worked back-to-back brunches, and they won’t rest until the bars close late at night. The devil works hard, but the drag queens of Anchor’s Mercy work harder.”

“Oh, Ollie, you should give Sam a tour! You loved doing that when you were little.”

“Later.” I say it too fast, and Sam narrows his eyes. “I mean, I just want to get home first, but we can explore after, okay?”