Page 45 of Under the Stars

It was only later, racing back to Winthrop in time for dinner prep, that I gazed at the side of his face, gold with sun, and realized what I’d said.

Oh fuck, I thought.

This could hurt.

—

And it does hurt. It hurts like hell.

I spend some time staring at the phone I’ve tossed on the bar counter. It’s already a little past noon and I should be starting the dinner prep, but for some reason my body doesn’t want to move. It hurts too much.

I look back down at the painting. Providence Dare’s wise eyes regard me.

“Stop judging, okay? It’s better this way. I was getting too attached. We were both getting too attached.”

“Excuse me?”

I spin around. An old man stands at the front door, wearing a white linen shirt rolled at the sleeves, tucked into a pair of tan linen pants, and what looks like an old-fashioned straw boater on his graying head. Over his shoulder, he carries a matching linen blazer from his finger.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

He walks forward and removes his hat to reveal a pale, withered face. As he approaches me, a smile appears. Something stirs in my memory. “Ah,” he says. “The woman on the ferry who disapproves of late arrivals.”

“Oh! Oh my God. That was you ? That was you. I’m so sorry about that. I was in a terrible mood. Welcome to the—um, welcome to the Mo. We’re kind of closed at the moment, but if you want a—a drink or something…”

But his eyes have already shifted from my face to land on the portrait that sits on the floor behind me, propped up against the bar. The smile falls away. “Excuse me,” he says, a little hoarse. “I can’t help noticing…”

“Oh! This? It’s—it’s just an old portrait we found in the basement. Little racy, huh?”

He walks right past me to stand before the painting. Unslings the blazer from his shoulder and braces his hand on the edge of the counter to crouch low enough to view it eye to eye. “She reminds me of someone,” he says.

“Yeah? Me too. I think it’s the way she’s looking at you. Like she knows you.”

He just sits there in his crouch—his left hand holding the edge of the bar, blazer draped over his right arm and his hand that holds the hat. A little ahead of me, so I can’t see his expression. When he rises, wobbly, I catch the glimmer of tears in his eyes.

“That must be it,” he says.

“Can I get you something? Beer? Dinner service doesn’t start until five, but I can whip up a sandwich if you’re hungry—”

“No, thank you,” he says. “I just came to inquire after Meredith Fisher. I understand she’s living at her family’s estate for the summer?”

My body stiffens. “I’m afraid that’s private information.”

“But the owner of this inn is a friend of hers, isn’t he? They share a child.”

“ What? How did you know that?”

The skin bunches up under his eyes. He’s an old man in a linen suit, with coarse white hair in need of a trim and a face lined with age. Smudges below his eyes. Not sinister at all.

And yet, now that he’s looking at me like this, from a pair of unusually pale, colorless eyes that don’t appear to blink—not un sinister, either.

“You’re her daughter, aren’t you?” he says. “My God. Yes, of course. I see it now.”

I tie my hands behind my back. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to—”

“Please. I don’t mean to alarm you. Here.” He pats the pockets of his blazer and retrieves a business card from the inside compartment, which he holds out to me. “Will you give this to her?”

“No.”

He steps toward the bar. A shout chokes up in my throat—I’m about to jump forward and snatch the painting away.

But he only lays the card on the edge of the counter and turns back to me with a smile that isn’t really a smile—the smile you might wear at the reception after the funeral of an old friend.

“Tell her that Harlan Walker asked after her,” he says. “She’ll know who I am. I’ve taken a house on Bay Hill for the summer.”

With a last glance at the portrait against the bar, he slings his blazer over his shoulder and walks back out on the street.

“Who the fuck was that?” asks Mike, entering from the hallway.

“Someone who says he knows Meredith.” I look at Mike. “He says he knows you. That you’re my father. I don’t know. It was weird. He left his card on the bar over there.”

Mike frowns and picks up the card. He looks at me, then back at the card. “This was his card? Harlan Walker?”

“Ring a bell?”

“And he was asking for your mother ?”

But he doesn’t wait for my answer. He runs out the door and into the street.

I hurry after him. Outside the bubble of the Mo’s air-conditioning, the July heat feels like walking into a steam shower.

The sun beats down. Mike takes off on Little Bay Road, toward the harbor.

I remain on the porch, watching him jog away from beneath the shade of my right hand.

At the intersection with Bay Hill Lane, he comes to a stop and runs one hand through his hair.

Looks both ways, shakes his head, turns back.

When he reaches me, he says, “I’m going to head up to Greyfriars and check on Meredith. You stay here. If there’s any trouble, call your boyfriend.”

“If you’re talking about Sedge, he’s off island right now. And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Whatever the fuck. Call Monk.”

“I’m not going to call up Monk Adams for a fucking 911 rescue call—”

“You,” he says, stabbing a finger at my chest, “are just like your mother.”

As he hurries to the parking lot and his beat-up Ford pickup, I call after him.

“And whose fault is that ?”