Page 2

Chapter 2

Maggie

The present

It was the perfect summer evening: Maggie and her friends gathered around her picnic table, sipping martinis and bird-watching. Peering through binoculars as barn swallows dipped and swirled like bits of blue confetti over her freshly mowed field. Everyone relaxed and laughing and unarmed.

Although Maggie wasn’t entirely certain about that last detail. She just assumed no one had felt the need to pack a firearm tonight, and really, what would be the point? They were all perfectly capable of unleashing mayhem with merely a shard of broken glass, and at the moment, they were each holding an easily shattered martini glass as they discussed this month’s chosen title for their book group: The Genius of Birds . The book had been Maggie’s selection, so it was her turn to host tonight’s meeting of the Martini Club, the name they’d adopted for their pleasantly boozy get-togethers. Serving as host was not an onerous task, because dinner was always potluck, and Maggie’s primary responsibility—indeed, the most important responsibility of these evenings—was having a sufficient selection of liquor on hand. For this group, sufficient meant three different brands of vodka, two brands of gin, dry vermouth, red and white wine, and, for after dinner, a selection of single-malt whiskys.

Today’s weather was gloriously warm, so they’d carried the gin and vodka, vermouth and ice bucket outside to Maggie’s picnic table to enjoy the view over her rolling fields. Three years ago, when Maggie had first come to Purity, this view was what had convinced her to buy Blackberry Farm and finally put down roots. Here, she’d found a measure of peace. During the summers, she collected fresh eggs from her flock of layer hens and sold them at the local farmers’ market. During the winters, she shoveled snow and nurtured her newly hatched chicks and perused the seed catalogs for her vegetable garden.

But no matter the season, these evenings with her four friends carried on. She’d known them for decades, since long before they’d all migrated to Purity, Maine, where they now quietly blended in with other retirees. Where people asked few questions about their previous careers and left them to their secrets. Secrets they felt free to share only among themselves.

Tonight, Ingrid Slocum had appointed herself the bartender, and she was already at work mixing a second batch of martinis, vigorously shaking ice cubes in the stainless steel cocktail shaker. The merry clatter brought back Maggie’s days at Camp Peary, otherwise known as the Farm, where four of them—Maggie and Declan, Ben and Ingrid—had first bonded as clandestine officer trainees. Looking around at their faces, Maggie could still see them as they’d looked in their younger years: Ben Diamond, bull necked and muscular, with a glare that could freeze an assailant in his tracks. Eagle-eyed Ingrid Slocum, always the quickest to think her way out of any locked room. And Declan Rose, the dashing diplomat’s son who could charm a stranger with just his smile. Four decades later, their hair was grayer—or, in Ben’s case, shaved off entirely—and along with the passage of time had come the inevitable wrinkles and stiff joints and more than a few extra pounds. But the Farm veterans were still the Four Musketeers, undaunted by the encroaching years, eager for any challenge.

And a well-made martini.

“It’s a shame they’re dying off,” said Declan as birds swooped overhead. “In another generation, there’ll be no more barn swallows left in Maine.” He handed his binoculars to Ben. “Here, these are better than yours. Take a look.”

Ben, who was clearly not as much of an avian fan, halfheartedly peered up at the swallows. With his shaved head and faintly menacing scowl, he didn’t much look like a bird-watcher either. “Where did you hear that? About the barn swallows dying off?”

“It was in last month’s Purity Weekly . The bird-watching column.”

“You actually read that column?”

“Bird-watching’s an excellent cover for surveillance. If you’re caught and need to bluff your way out, it’s good to know the basics of the subject.”

“Anyone else, another round?” asked Ingrid. “Lloyd’s bringing out his antipasti tray, and it’s all rather salty. You’ll want to keep your whistles wet.”

Ben raised his hand. “Hendrick’s, please, no vermouth. With all this talk about birds, my whistle’s already gone dry.”

“Snacks incoming!” Ingrid’s husband, Lloyd, announced cheerily as he came out of the house bearing one of the antipasti extravaganzas that he was so famous for: feta skewers and artichoke hearts, marinated mushrooms and paper-thin slices of salami. “Just don’t fill up on these,” he warned. “My braciole’s warming up in the oven, and that deserves your hearty appetites.”

Ben looked at Ingrid as she handed him his freshly shaken martini. “With that man cooking for you, how are you not three hundred pounds?”

“Sheer discipline,” Ingrid said, and she settled into an Adirondack chair with her own drink.

“So are we all ready to discuss this month’s book selection?” said Declan.

Ben grunted. “If we have to.”

“Because I thought the book was absolutely brilliant.” Declan waved his new ZEISS binoculars. “It inspired me to upgrade to these beauties.”

“The book was far better than that ridiculous spy thriller we read last month,” added Lloyd, settling his generous bulk in the chair next to Ingrid’s. “Novelists never get it right.”

“What was everyone’s favorite chapter?” Declan asked.

“The chapter on sparrows,” said Maggie. “I love how most people ignore them because they seem so common, so ordinary. Yet sparrows have cleverly managed to infiltrate almost the entire globe.”

Ben snorted. “Are you talking about birds, or about us?”

“Well, there are parallels, don’t you think?” said Ingrid. “Sparrows are like the covert operatives of the avian world. Unobtrusive. Unnoticeable. They slip in everywhere yet rouse no attention.”

“Wait,” said Ben. “Could this be a first? Did we all actually read the book?”

They looked at each other.

“This is supposed to be a book group,” said Ingrid. “Even if we really come for the martinis.”

“And dinner,” added Lloyd. “Which, by the way, should be ready now.”

But no one moved. They were all too comfortable sitting in their Adirondack chairs, sipping their drinks and admiring the view. In the distance, bells tinkled as Maggie’s fourteen-year-old neighbor, Callie, just a twig of a girl in blue overalls, led her goats and her Jersey cow across the field, back to their barn. Callie waved at them; they all waved back. Crickets chirped and the swallows continued their aerobatic show overhead, flitting and swooping.

Ingrid sighed. “Does life get any better than this?”

No. It does not, thought Maggie. This was one of those rare perfect moments, with the tingle of vodka in her mouth and the scent of freshly mowed hay on the breeze. And dear Declan, sitting beside her, smiling. His once-black hair was now half-silver, but age had only deepened his Irish good looks, something she’d come to appreciate now, in the autumn of their lives.

She had spent her career on the edge of crises, never certain when everything might fall apart, so she knew how ephemeral moments like these could be, with everyone healthy and safe and no calamity in sight. But disaster could strike at any time, against any one of them: A car crash. A heart attack. A suspicious spot on an x-ray. Even on this perfect evening, surrounded by friends and with twilight settling gently over her fields, she knew that trouble was coming.

She just did not know when.