Page 60 of Under the Stars

After he handed me that handkerchief on the stairs to the car deck of the Winthrop Island ferry, I washed and folded it and put it in my underwear drawer, where it lay forgotten until I started packing up a week ago and discovered it.

I should return this to him, I thought. It would be the perfect excuse to send a note.

Here is your handkerchief, which you so kindly lent me three months ago, even though you said you had plenty of them and didn’t need it back.

Then I thought, Except I don’t have anything else from him. Even Quincy has somehow gravitated toward Meredith instead of me. Maybe it was too soon for another dog, after all.

I didn’t send the handkerchief or the note.

I stand there with my bicycle in my hands, deciding. To stay or to go. Panic racing from my heart, down my arms and legs.

The kitchen door groans open. Mike’s voice floats over the gravel.

“Hey, Audrey. You have a second?”

He props the door open with one hand, poker faced.

I summon myself. “The police called.”

“Police? What now?”

“About Harlan Walker. The autopsy report came back. An overdose. Self-administered. And it turns out he had terminal cancer, so.”

Mike palms his neck and says Ugh.

“I know,” I say quietly.

“But Meredith is in the clear. Right?”

“Meredith is in the clear. We’re heading out on the first ferry tomorrow morning.”

“Shit.” He lets the door close with a bang. “You serious? This is it?”

“Yep. Last dinner service.”

Mike crosses his arms.

“Don’t act like this is a surprise,” I say. “I told you from the beginning. The kitchen’s up and running. Taylor’s aunt’s been working out great. And she needs the work. She’ll—”

“I know that. I just.” He kicks at the brick on the stoop.

“You just what? Thought I would stay here forever? I have a life, Mike. I have friends. I have stuff in storage. I did what I came for. Now it’s time to go back home.

” I look down at my hands on the bicycle and think about the fortune left to me by a man I hardly knew.

A world of possibility so limitless, I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around it.

“You can come visit me in California, you know. It’s allowed. ”

The word California tastes weird on my tongue. Like a word I don’t really know anymore.

Mike sighs and opens the door. “You’d better come on in.”

—

As I follow Mike through the kitchen, my chest starts to hurt. Those cabinets I designed myself, the neat rows of cans and bottles on the shelves. Over at the chopping board, Taylor lifts her head and gives me a puzzled look.

“Be back in a sec,” I tell her, as I grab my apron from the hook and tie it around my waist.

Mike opens the door to the taproom. “After you.”

Sedge sits at one of the tables with a pint of beer. He stands—a little stiff, a little thin and pale—and says, Hey.

“Hey,” I say back.

Mike says, “We’ve been going over some legal stuff. Thought you might want to take a look. Pull up a chair.”

Mike, I’m going to kill you, I think.

Sedge pulls his laptop bag from the chair next to him and sets it on the floor. “Sit. I won’t bite.”

I drag my feet toward the table. Up close, I can see how gaunt he is, how tired.

I blink back the tears that spring to my eyes, then use the corner of my sleeve.

I say thanks and lower myself into the chair next to Sedge.

In the proximity of his body, my nerves calm down a notch or two. Like they know something I don’t.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“I’m okay. Apparently you can go your whole life without actually needing a spleen.”

“Never used mine once,” says Mike.

“Spleens are definitely overrated.” My voice pitches a little high.

I stare at the rim of Sedge’s pint, where his lips touched.

I stare at his fingers, curled around the base.

I have always loved Sedge’s fingers—they have this rangy, tensile strength to them.

A pianist’s fingers, I told him once, kissing each tip, and he laughed and said he couldn’t play a note, had tried every instrument and couldn’t even play the fucking recorder in third grade, that he was the despair of his parents and his elementary school band teacher. I look at Mike. “So what’s up?”

Mike looks at Sedge. “You want to do the honors?”

Sedge shrugs. “This is your deal.”

“Mallory did all the legwork, bro. I just sat on my ass and marveled.”

“Fair.” Sedge reaches down for the laptop bag. It’s one of those old leather messenger bags, probably used by the Peabody ancestors to carry Civil War dispatches.

Say something nice, I think. Say something nice before he’s gone.

But my mouth is too dry. The words won’t form. What am I supposed to say? Thank you for saving my life?

Sedge lifts the leather flap and draws out a manila folder, legal size.

“Got this from Mallory this morning. She’s been dealing with all the paperwork, being the resident art expert and everything.

” He produces a piece of paper and slides it across the table.

“Here you go. Official letter of authentication from the experts at Sotheby’s, confirming that the nine works of art in the possession of Michael Winthrop Kennedy of Winthrop Island, New York, are, on the preponderance of evidence, the sole and uncontested work of the nineteenth-century American artist Henry Lowell Irving. ”

I stare at the paper, then at Sedge’s smiling face. “ In the possession. So does that mean…?”

“Yep. The Irvings have relinquished all claim.”

“Wow. Amazing. I mean, I knew the Irvings had backed off, obviously. But to see it all official like this.” I look up. “Mallory didn’t breathe a word.”

“She wanted it to be a surprise. Sometimes these things don’t work out. And you’ve had enough to deal with.”

I blurt out, “So have you, though.”

Sedge looks down at the leather bag.

“Anyway,” says Mike, rising from his chair, “I got a stack of invoices waiting for me upstairs, so I’ll leave you to—”

“Wait a second. So what are you going to do with all this?” I ask. “You can’t just hang a bunch of priceless Irvings on the taproom walls.”

“The fuck I can’t. They belong here. They’re family.”

“Mike, you’re insane. The insurance alone.”

He folds his meaty arms over his chest. “You want to take them with you ? Is that it?”

“Take them with her ?” Sedge asks.

“Audrey’s headed out tomorrow,” says Mike. “With Meredith. They got a movie to make, I guess.”

“So you’re leaving,” says Sedge.

I mumble, “Meredith’s already late on set. For the movie.”

He asks, in a perfectly affable voice, “And what about you? What are your plans?”

“What they always were, I guess. Head back to California. Start fresh with a new restaurant.”

“Start fresh,” says Mike. “You keep doing that, hon. You and Meredith. See how it works for you this time.”

Sedge puts the Sotheby’s letter back in its folder and hands it to Mike. “Audrey’s right, bro. You can’t hang up those paintings like hotel room art. Someone’ll rip you off inside of a week. Talk to Mallory. She’ll have some ideas. And for God’s sake, lock this document up in the safe, all right?”

Mike looks pained. “Like I’m gonna leave it lying around.”

Sedge slings the laptop bag over his shoulder and holds out his hand to me. “Take care, all right? Safe travels.”

When I put my hand in his, he draws me in and kisses me on the cheek.

“I’m sorry about your spleen,” I say.

He grins. “I’m sorry about your forehead.”

I touch the scar with one finger. “Makes a good conversation starter, right?”

“Bonus points if it predicts the weather for you.” He releases my hand. “I guess we’ll always have Springfield. Keep in touch, will you? Let me know how you’re doing?”

“Of course.”

I brace one hand on the back of my chair as I watch Sedge zigzag between the wooden tables of the taproom and out the door.

He doesn’t look back. Through the window I glimpse his tall, straight figure, striding down the porch and around the corner to the parking lot.

My ribs feel as if they’re being ripped apart by a pair of pliers.

“Excuse me,” says Mike, “but what the fuck was that?”

“What was what?”

“You’re just gonna let that man walk out of here? You’re gonna jump on board the ferry tomorrow morning and keep in touch ?”

“Mike, it wasn’t a big deal. I was only ever here for the summer. For Meredith.”

“He took a bullet for you. I’d say that’s a pretty big fucking deal.”

“He’s Sedge. He’d do that for anybody.”

Mike puts his hands in his hair and rolls his head back to address the ceiling beams. “No, Audrey. Sedge Peabody would not the fuck take a bullet for anybody. He took one for you because he’s in love with you. And if that scares the shit out of you, well, you know what? You need to get over it.”

I brace my fists on my hips to anchor myself. To hold myself together. “Look, it’s like Meredith says. Either you leave or you get left. I thought I’d let Sedge do the honors. He’s earned it.”

Mike points to the door. “You didn’t get left, Audrey. You let him leave.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk.”

“Me? Who?”

“Meredith. I don’t remember you running after her, when she left for California. Begging her to stay. And I haven’t noticed you fighting for her this time around, either.”

“You don’t know shit,” he says.

“Oh, yeah? Maybe you don’t know shit. Maybe, between the two of us, we know exactly zero shits. Maybe I’m not like Meredith at all. Maybe I’m you, Mike. Scared as hell that if I chase after someone, I’m going to get burned.”

We stare at each other.

Outside, the Aston Martin’s engine ripples to life.

“Fuck,” says Mike. “I think you’re right.”

—

One more memory, from the scraps that make up that endless night in the hospital in Springfield. An important one.

Sometime after midnight, Mike fell asleep in his chair. One minute he was lecturing me, the next minute his head fell back and the dad snores rumbled off the walls like a biker gang rolling down the hallway.

I waited a moment or two to make sure the nap took.