Page 27 of Under the Stars

It’s the first time I’ve sat inside Sedge Peabody’s vintage convertible, and I have to say it’s a sweet ride.

The weather, which hung cool and damp over the island for weeks, has finally turned and the warm sunshine washes over us as we thunder up West Cliff Road out of the village.

The engine purrs like a bobcat, deep in its throat.

As we crest the hill, Sedge shifts into a higher gear and it’s as if the wheels levitate from the ground.

Sedge glances at me. “What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like I’ve been released from prison or something.”

“Mike been getting to you?”

“I guess he has a right to be stressed. The inn’s been in his family for generations. Stakes are high.”

“But it’s your family too, right?” Sedge says.

“I know it is.” I prop my elbow on the doorframe and enjoy the ruffling of my hair. “It just doesn’t feel like it.”

Sedge doesn’t reply. I steal a glance to see what he’s thinking.

The landscape blurs green behind his sharp, strong profile.

He drives with his right hand at twelve o’clock; the other arm rests on the doorframe, like mine.

A pair of sunglasses sits on his nose—the sporty, wraparound kind, so I can’t really see his expression.

He lifts his left thumb to brush the corner of his mouth.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Mike took in the stray dog?” he asks.

“I don’t think so.”

“Some family rented a house in Little Bay one summer. Brought a dog with them. I used to see the kids out walking him. Seemed like nice kids. I don’t remember seeing the parents around, but the renters kind of keep to themselves most of the time—”

“Like they have a choice .”

He grins at me. “Fair. So Labor Day arrives, and the family moves back home, and Mike’s taking out the trash a week later and hears this whining, right? It’s the dog.”

“Oh my God, they didn’t. Oh, the poor thing!”

“So Mike gives the dog some food and water and tries to get hold of the family, but the guy who owns the house says they won’t respond to his emails, never claimed back the security deposit—probably because they left the house a total dump, right?

Fine, says Mike. I’ll take the dog to the shelter. ”

“There’s an animal shelter on Winthrop Island?”

“Yeah, over at the fire station. Most of the time it’s stray cats.

I mean, around here, I’ve seen people take better care of their dogs than their kids.

But Mike takes this dog to the shelter, right?

And since it’s a small shelter and the firemen are total softies, the cats pretty much own the place.

So this dog kind of bravely goes in and comes face to face with this feral alpha cat who takes one look—”

“What kind of dog?”

“Kind of a beagle-Labrador mix, I would say. A kid’s dog. Super friendly. Walks up to the cat, wagging hello—you should hear Mike tell the story—and the cat takes one look and casually just slashes the dog across the nose.”

“Oh, the poor puppy!”

“Mike’s like, right, this dog is mine. Takes the dog home. Names him Herman. Then Herman goes and has a litter of puppies two days later—we gave Mike some shit about that—”

Sedge pauses to slow the car and turn his head toward the guardhouse. He offers up a smile and a little wave; the guard sticks up his thumb and throws a curious glance at me as we pass into the Winthrop inner sanctum.

“—which Mike gives away to local families. And it’s a nice story and all that, but here’s the funny part.

This man comes to stay at the Mo for a couple of weeks in July.

Does it every year. Likes to keep to himself, like it’s his personal annual retreat.

Reads and takes walks. And the dog—this is the following summer—the dog falls in love with this man.

Follows him around, trots along after him when he’s out walking, wants to sleep on his bed.

It’s breaking Mike’s heart. He jokes around, like Oh this fucking dog, she’s got no loyalty.

But you can see he’s all torn up inside.

So when the time comes for the man to leave, he sees the guy saying goodbye to the dog, bags all packed, just sitting there together—you know how a dog leans against you sometimes? ”

“Yes,” I say.

“And Mike says, all right then, just take the fucking dog. And the dog goes away with the man, and the man never comes back after that. Mike never sees the dog again.”

“That’s an awful story, Sedge. For God’s sake. What a buzzkill.”

“Sorry. My point is that Mike has a heart of gold, all right? Underneath all that bullshit he dishes out? You need to give him some time, that’s all.”

I turn my head to watch some golfers prepare to tee off from a green perched on the edge of the water. Tip of Long Island in the distance. What’s the use of telling Sedge that I haven’t got any time to give Mike?

Until the end of July, that’s all we have.

Sedge drives past a few more greens, some houses, a couple of residential lanes meandering to the water. He jerks his thumb toward one of them as we zoom past. “Serenity Lane,” he says. “My gran’s house sits right at the end.”

“You mean the Peabody compound?”

“Gran likes the company. Ever since Grandad died she prefers to live out here, right up until the weather gets rough into November. She would stay year-round if she could, but we’re like, that is not an option, Gran.”

“It’s nice of you to spend so much time with her.”

“It’s a legit pleasure, actually. She’s a character. I’ll introduce you sometime. Here we are.”

Sedge executes a tight corner down a gravel driveway. A roomy shingled house appears around a bend, silhouetted against the gigantic blue sky. In the driveway sits an ancient wood-paneled Jeep Wagoneer.

“There’s a classic,” I say.

Sedge pulls up behind and shuts off the engine. “I texted ahead. She’s intrigued, to say the least.”

He reaches behind to gather up the painting, all rolled back into its cylinder, and springs from his seat. I open my door and climb out. Some birds chatter from a nearby tree. The faint noise of a piano drifts through the air.

“What did you say her name was?” I ask.

“Mallory,” he says. “Mallory Adams.”

—

Mallory Adams answers the door barefoot in a linen shirt and loose, faded jeans and a baby on her hip, nibbling a teething ring.

She looks like she just stepped off the set of a J.Crew catalog shoot—delicate bones, skin dipped in honey, no makeup.

She’s twisted her curling brown hair in a topknot and her face beams as she goes on her tiptoes to kiss Sedge’s cheek.

“Look at you, dashing as ever. So where is it?” she asks, in a throaty voice with a touch of Boston in the vowels.

He holds up the canvas. “Right here. Holy mackerel, she’s getting big. How old is she now?”

“Eleven months tomorrow. She’s that close to walking.

Then my life will be over.” She turns to me with a shy, warm smile.

Her eyes startle me—the color of new spring leaves, luminous.

She looks about to speak and checks herself.

Cocks her head to one side, narrowing her eyes like she’s examining me.

“I’m sorry, have we met? You look familiar, somehow. ”

“I don’t think so. I’m more of a West Coaster, really. My name’s Audrey? Audrey Fisher.”

The smile returns and she holds out her hand. “Audrey. Mallory Adams.”

“I’m sorry to intrude like this. I hope it’s no trouble.”

“Totally not. I’m in the middle of launching a new line and I’ve been up to my ears in emails and Zoom calls, so I could use a break. Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Spindrift? Something stronger?”

“Water would be great, thanks,” I say.

“Love a Spindrift,” says Sedge.

Mallory pulls a phone from her back pocket and texts with an expert left hand, holding it just out of the baby’s reach. “All set. Come on into the sunroom. It has the best light.”

We follow her down a hallway into a gigantic room at the back of the house, overlooking a lawn and swimming pool and sea from three walls of French windows.

Mallory eyes the rolled-up canvas in Sedge’s hand and kicks away a couple of toys.

“Let’s spread it out here. I don’t think it’ll fit on the coffee table, do you? ”

Sedge grabs a couple of candle pillars and sets them on the floor.

I help him unroll the canvas and lay it on the rug, anchored at the corners with the pillars.

Mallory stares in deep concentration. The baby fiddles with the buttons on her shirt.

Without looking at Sedge, she says, “Can you hold her a second? I want a closer look.”

Sedge lifts the baby away and Mallory crouches at the bottom of the canvas.

On her face rests an expression of puzzled wonder.

She stretches one hand and passes her fingertips over the feet and up the leg, then describes a circle through the leaves and back to the bottom, where she stops and peers closer.

“No way.” She looks up. “Audrey, could you look inside the drawer in that side table over there? Should be a magnifying glass somewhere.”

I retrieve a small, silver-handled magnifying glass from an assortment of oddities inside the drawer and hand it to Mallory. She goes on her elbows and knees and bends close. The baby starts to fret. Sedge bounces her in his arms and takes her to the window to point out stuff.

“Drop that kid and you’re a dead man, Peabody,” says a voice from the doorway.

A man strolls in like a beam of sunshine, carrying a couple of cans in one wide hand and a glass of ice water in the other. His hair looks like it’s been dipped in the same pot of honey as Mallory’s skin. A grin splits his face from side to side.

Sedge turns from the window. “Good to see you, man. You can have her back anytime.”

“Dada!” shrieks the baby, stretching out her wee plump arms. Her father sets the drinks on the coffee table and swings her up in the air. Her shrieks turn to squeals of joy.

“Hey there!” he croons. “What’s up, buttercup?”