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Never once had Neil made a promise without every intention of keeping it. Didn’t plan on starting now.
“I swear to you, Syd, Melba wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
One week and one day ago, Sydney Rose had stood in that exact spot in the barn, eyeing Melba with the very same expression she wore now: pure alarm. “The way her tail’s whipping, I think she would. She could knock a fly flat with that thing.”
Both Indi and Lilian burst out laughing—Lil from her perch atop the stall’s gate and Indi from the open barn door, where two of her goats took turns knocking into her knees.
Teaching Sydney to milk Melba wasn’t the only promise he was currently in the process of keeping. He’d meant what he’d said Saturday night about it being time he and his sisters help her in her search for answers.
Which was why he’d coaxed Lilian and Indi downstairs extra early Sunday morning before church. Sat them down in the kitchen for a breakfast of Maggie’s blueberry waffles and his own bacon omelets. Then he’d had Sydney tell them about the photo she’d told him about the previous night as they’d walked from Wilder’s houseboat back to the square.
And then he’d asked his sisters to be a part of his plan.
“While Wilder’s busy chasing down whatever information he can find regarding Diana and CarleeAnn, we could be helping Sydney figure out who JP is. The way I see it, that’s a bigger lead than anything else. If we find Sydney’s father, he’ll be able to tell us which one was her mother.”
Assuming, that is, it really was her father in that photo.
“But that picture could’ve been taken anywhere. How do we know the JP in the photo was from Muir Harbor?” Lilian had asked the question. Though, surprisingly, it hadn’t been doubt or skepticism in her voice so much as interest. Maybe even intrigue.
“We don’t. But from what Syd says, all three people in the photo looked to be sixteen or so. And we know Diana and CarleeAnn were both in Muir Harbor at that age. Stands to reason JP was too.”
By the time they’d cleared their plates, both sisters were on board to help solve the mystery and Maggie was beaming and Sydney . . .
She’d blinked away tears. Mouthed a “thank you” to him. And for the life of him, he couldn’t have remembered why he’d ever thought her presence here an unwelcome thing.
He’d spent almost the entire rest of his Sunday, save an hour in church and hasty minutes completing chores, with the women. They’d dug through boxes in the attic, looking for Diana’s old yearbooks in hopes of finding a classmate of hers who might fit the bill. But there’d been no JP and only one student with those initials—a female.
Lilian had pulled up town and county records online and spent hours culling through them. Indi had made phone calls—so many of them and he didn’t even know who to. He’d been too busy helping Sydney parse through old phone books they’d found in a messy desk drawer. They’d found exactly one JP, and plenty of folks with the right initials. But a quick Google search, a glance at a social media profile, or as a last result, a phone call, nixed each one of them.
It was two days later now and they’d made little to no progress.
If only they could figure out where to go from here. It’s why they’d all tromped out to the barn together this morning—a second planning session before Lilian needed to head to the office and Indi hit the road for Augusta. She was going earlier than usual this week, something about floor replacements and dinner with Bennington.
Because despite last week, apparently that was still a thing. Maybe one of these days the guy would actually deign to show his face in Muir Harbor so his future family could meet him.
Neil rubbed his hands together, eager for what little warmth he could get. After unseasonably warm temps last week, the second-to-last day in October had blustered in with force this morning. “You’re going to have to come a little closer if you have any hope of going through with this, Syd.”
She was wearing his coat again, her red hair knotted in an unruly bun. Looked like someone had found her some work boots that actually fit. They’d gone and made a farm girl of her.
Of course, if she wanted a true taste of life on a blueberry farm, she’d need to experience harvest. Raking the fields under a September sun. The noise of the air blower and the metal hum of the conveyor belt. Cars rumbling down the lane, carrying customers ready to pick up berries by the crateful. Maybe more customers than ever, thanks to that website she’d built.
But no, she’d be long gone by next year.
Or would she? If she found out she truly was Maggie’s granddaughter, would she decide to stay? But she has a life back in Illinois. Jobs. She’d mentioned a foster brother and a friend who owned a bakery.
Hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend.
Sydney approached Melba’s stall now, a nervous tilt to her lips. “What kind of name is Melba, anyway?”
Neil propped one palm against Melba’s soft skin. “Don’t listen to her, girl. She’s just a little grouchy this morning.”
“I am not grouchy. I’m being appropriately cautious about an unfamiliar experience, that’s all.”
“She’s a scaredy-cat,” he said into the cow’s ear.
And was rewarded with one of those grins he’d come to enjoy the sight of almost as much as the seaside view from the attic window.
“Afraid you’re going to have to take those floppy wool gloves off, Miss Rose, if you want to get the job done.”
She yanked off one mitten. “I don’t remember ever saying I wanted to get this job done. ‘Come out to the barn,’ you said. ‘We’re going to plan the next step in our hunt for JP,’ you said. Didn’t mention anything about Melba.”
He chuckled. “It was implied. Now, if you would, kindly take a seat on that crate, lass.”
Indi joined Lilian at the stall door, perching with her feet on the bottom ledge and her arms dangling over the top. “Uh-oh, he’s turning on the Scottish charm. Neil always gets what he wants when he goes full Scots.”
Sydney plopped down. “It’s bad enough you’re forcing me to do this, but do I have to have an audience?”
Before he could answer, Maggie’s faraway voice drifted into the barn. “Neil, girls!”
Sydney popped up, shooting him a smirk over her shoulder as she raced after Lilian and Indi. Oh, if she thought she was getting out of this that easily . . . “Don’t worry, Mel. We’ll be back.”
In seconds, he was outside, hurrying after the girls as they caught up to Maggie at the edge of the grove.
Maggie huffed, bending over her knees, holding out her phone. “JP. I think . . .” She gulped for breath and straightened. “I think I might’ve found him.”
“Are you serious?” Lilian came up beside Maggie, placed an arm around her. “And are you all right? You shouldn’t have come running. You could’ve texted and we’d have come back to the house and—”
“Hush, Lil.” Sunlight twirled in Maggie’s eyes as she gazed at Sydney. “I was thinking about that photo, how you said the girls looked like teens. And then I remembered you saying it must’ve been taken in the summer because they were wearing tank tops.” She inhaled again. “And that’s when it hit me. The summer of 1987. Both of them—they were camp counselors at this little camp, only about forty minutes away. I looked at the website on my phone, thinking maybe I could call, ask if they kept any records or lists of counselors from past years.”
She held out her phone. “Look at the name of the current camp director.”
Indi took her phone, peered at the screen. “John Pettinger.”
Maggie’s look was pure triumph. “JP. I already tried calling the camp twice, but no answer. Makes sense considering the season. And there’s no photos of him on their site. Not that I can find anyway.”
Indi started tapping on Maggie’s screen. “But they might have an Instagram account. Or a Facebook page. We can search through photos there, see if Syd recognizes anyone.”
“Or we can drive out. Right away. Today. It looks like the director lives right on site.”
“Maggie—” Lilian began.
But Maggie cut in. “There’s no reason not to. It’s such a short drive. Sydney, we can go together.”
“A road trip sounds more fun to me than milking Melba, that’s for sure.”
Why did he get the feeling if no one else was watching, Sydney would’ve stuck her tongue out at him just then? He narrowed his eyes at her for the briefest moment before returning his attention to Maggie. This was a long shot. That camp director’s name could be pure coincidence.
But wasn’t everything about their quest a long shot?
Their quest. Sometime in the past two days, he’d stopped thinking of Sydney’s mission as hers alone. “If you guys wait a couple hours, I could go with you. Lil’s got work and Indi needs to hit the road but—”
“There’s no need, Neil.” Maggie plucked her phone from Indi’s hands. “Sydney and I are quite capable. We’ll take the Buick.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that he couldn’t remember the last time Maggie had driven anywhere. How rarely she left the farm or went into Muir Harbor, let alone hit the highway.
But another glance at Sydney stopped his words in his throat and he could practically hear her voice. You don’t have to do it all. Let your family help.
She lifted her brow.
Okay, fine, Syd. We’ll do this your way. “Guess I’ll just get back to work, then. Someone has to milk our poor cow.”
Moments later, he watched the women walk away, their chatter drifting behind them—and was glad he had when Sydney turned her head, gave him the briefest smile, a quick wave. Then she tucked her arm through Maggie’s, his too-big coat billowing in the wind behind her.
The sight was enough to keep a smile on his face all the way back to the barn.
Until he saw the truck sitting in front of the machine shed, the Carter Farms logo on its side. Not Tatum again.
Only it wasn’t Tatum striding across the patchy lot. Not enough swagger in his gait.
And yet, Tate Carter was a spitting image of his sire, save the older man’s rugged lines. Sandy hair, brown eyes—determination glinting in his expression. “Morning, MacKean.”
Trapping his groan inside, Neil moved forward, forced out a greeting, and held out his hand.
Tate’s grip wasn’t as bone-crushing as his father’s, but it was rigid all the same. Sunlight glinted on the sunglasses hooked to his shirt. “Sorry to show up out of the blue. Figured I’d have a better chance finding you out here than at the house. Unfortunately, I’m not here for a social call, either.”
Hadn’t figured he was. “If this is about the land—”
The older man gave a stiff shake of his head. “No, it’s about a little pranking spree my son and some of his friends got off to the other night. I’m afraid yours is one of the farms they hit.”
Oh, the goats in the yard. Melba and the chickens.
“Wanted to offer my personal apology. And I’m going to make sure my boy comes by to do the same soon as he’s back from his mom’s next week.”
“Well . . . thank you. I appreciate that.”
Another taut nod and Tate turned. But he stopped at his truck door. “Since you brought up the land, I heard my father paid you a visit. Heard you turned him down flat.”
Guess the man’s ears worked just fine. “True.”
“What I can’t figure out is why. I’m sure it’s gutting to hear it, but you’ll kill yourself trying to keep this place afloat on your own, MacKean.”
“I’m not on my own.” Except . . . except if he were brutally honest with himself, there were times when he felt like he was. He loved Maggie and his sisters more than anything, but at the end of the day, he did shoulder most of the weight of this place.
“You don’t have to do everything on your own, Neil.”
But what was he supposed to do? Ask Lil and Indi to step back from the careers they loved? Burden Maggie with financial woes?
“Heard you might be out a harvester, too.”
His focus tore back to Tate, suspicion—possibly illogical, but born out of frustration—forming words before he could stop them. “And you wouldn’t know anything more about that, would you? Any chance your boy’s been doing more around here than unlatching gates?”
Tate took a step back. “What’re you trying to insinuate, son?”
Son. Tatum Carter had tossed that word at him too. Tate’s use of it rankled every bit as much. “Two pieces of equipment shot in one week. Can you blame me for wondering?” Not that he’d seen a single sign of tampering. But there had been those footprints last week. That idling car the weekend before.
“I know my boy. He might be a little wild, but he wouldn’t—”
“So maybe it wasn’t him. But he’s not the only Carter who’s been on this land.” Tatum Carter had been by twice in as many days—and Neil had discovered the broken generator in between. “If your father thinks he can bully us into selling just because all you Carters have some grand scheme to own every berry farm from here to Rhode Island . . .”
He needed to stop. His argument wasn’t with Tate. The man had seemed sincere when he’d apologized for his son’s actions a minute ago.
Unless it was an act. Another excuse for another Carter to come calling.
“If you’ve got something to say, MacKean, come right out and say it.”
“I’m saying no means no. And if you’d pass that message on to your father, I’d appreciate it.” He turned away, started toward the barn.
“They have history, you know.”
He slowed. History? They . . . who?
“Maggie, my dad. Did you know that?”
He didn’t want to look back. Didn’t want to give the man the satisfaction of his confusion. Or his curiosity. But what in the world was he talking about? He gave in and veered to face Tate once more. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“Probably because it was forever ago. Before your time and mine. But they were sort of . . . together, for a short while. I found out when I was a teenager. Walked in on my mom yelling something about how my dad had never gotten over Margaret Muir.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Tate pulled his sunglasses free and slid them over his face. “So that you’ll consider, even if for no longer than a speck of a second, that maybe my father isn’t out to cheat Maggie out of her land so much as help her.”
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It might be him. Could be. The hair was the right color, the eyes.
Sydney stared at the man they’d found behind a grouping of log cabins, wielding a leaf blower, wearing a puffy cobalt vest and fingerless gloves, his cheeks ruddy from the morning’s cold.
It could be him. John Pettinger. JP. Her father.
If this man was an older version of the one in the photo and if the one in the photo really was her father . . .
“Oh, I definitely remember those two. That was my first summer as a counselor. A good experience, obviously. I’m still here.” He stared at the Polaroid Maggie had handed him once they’d explained why they were here, a picture Sydney had retrieved from one of the scrapbooks she’d gone through last week. It showed Diana and CarleeAnn near to the same age as they were in the missing photo she’d taken from CarleeAnn’s hospital room. In this one, the two teenage girls were sitting on Maggie’s front porch, skinny arms draped over each other’s shoulders.
Mr. Pettinger handed the Polaroid back to Maggie. “I have to admit, after twenty-plus years working with young people, most of the names and faces tend to blur after a while. But there’s some you just don’t forget.”
If the man noticed the way Sydney’s gaze hadn’t moved from his face, he didn’t let on. Were John Pettinger’s eyes a little wider set than the teenager in CarleeAnn’s photo? And just how much did she trust her memory of that picture? She’d certainly studied it plenty in the days after that hospital visit, but that was years ago.
If only Micah would message or call one of these days to tell her he’d found it. She’d texted him yesterday to check in, but the exchange had been brief. She’d reminded him about the photo, but his response hadn’t exactly been a jolt of assurance. Yeah, I’m keeping an eye out.
Only when she finally tore her scrutiny away from John Pettinger did she realize Maggie was looking at her, clearly waiting for Sydney to follow up with a question. But how to approach what could potentially be an incredibly awkward subject. Did you more than know one of these girls? Is there any chance . . .
“Were you pretty good friends with Diana and CarleeAnn?” A gust of wind sent curled leaves skittering off the pile he’d been forming before they arrived.
“Oh, well, sure. All the counselors tended to hang out together when we weren’t with campers, especially on weekends when the camp emptied out.”
Okay, apparently she was going to have to get more specific. “Did you keep in touch with either of them after that summer?” Chilled air scuffed her cheeks and she burrowed her chin into the burnt-orange-and-white-striped scarf she’d borrowed from an overflowing basket in Maggie’s entryway closet. Together with Neil’s bulky coat, they went far in warding off the morning cold.
But not the nerves grating her in this moment, edgy and muddled. She didn’t know what to feel right now. Hopeful? Uncomfortable? Tense?
A cumbersome quiet stretched for too long, impatient breaths trapped in her lungs.
And yet, certainly only a second or two must have passed before the man replied. “No. No, I never saw or talked to either one of them again after that summer.”
The exhale hit her hard and quick, scraping up her throat. “You’re sure?” she rasped.
“Positive.”
She couldn’t bring herself to look at Maggie. The poor woman had been so excited this morning, so pleased at remembering the summer camp, finding John Pettinger. What an awful, unfair coincidence.
“Honestly, I’d be surprised if anyone from that summer kept in touch with the two of them,” the man added. “They hung out with the rest of us, yes, but they always sort of gave off the vibe that they had each other and that was enough. Attached at the hip—part of why they’re so memorable.”
“So you never . . . with one of them . . . there’s no chance that you’re—”
With a soft touch on Sydney’s arm, Maggie intervened. “Thank you, Mr. Pettinger. We’re grateful you were willing to take a few minutes away from your yardwork, but we won’t keep you any longer.”
“You’re not going to tell me why you came here? Have to admit you’ve got me curious.” The man had a warm, steadying smile.
Just not the one from CarleeAnn’s photo.
Maggie’s tone was all grace, though there was a breathless quality to her voice. “Just trying to fill in a few gaps from the past.”
“Well, I hope those two are doing well now. Of course, I only knew them for those couple of months, but it was enough to see they had the kind of friendship that sticks.”
No, no they weren’t doing well. One was killed in a tragic accident. The other, from disease and addiction. And as for their enduring friendship . . .
Hopelessness clawed its way in. Conjecture, that’s all any of this was. For all any of them knew, once Diana left Muir Harbor and landed in Atlanta, they never spoke again. But they returned to Muir Harbor the same weekend. After CarleeAnn dropped out of college, she could’ve gone to Atlanta, could’ve met up with Diana . . .
More guesswork.
Maggie’s only reply to Mr. Pettinger was a murmured, “Yes, they were certainly close.” Then a kind, if strained, smile. Another thank-you for his time. And she steered Sydney away.
Only when they’d emerged on the other side of the cabins did Sydney find her voice. “Maybe I should’ve been more straightforward. He might’ve slept with one of them that summer.”
“Sydney—”
“We might have the dates off or maybe you’re misremembering when Diana was at the camp. Maybe it was after her senior year of high school. That would make complete sense. She sleeps with the guy in the summer, discovers she’s pregnant once she’s home, takes off in the fall, and by the time she returns two and a half years later—”
“The camp was after her junior year, Syd.” Maggie’s pace quickened as they neared her car. “She was home the summer after she graduated, not that she was around the house much. But I remember it clearly. She and CarleeAnn made a point of having all the fun they could before adulthood set in—her words.”
In the distance behind them, the rolling hum of John Pettinger’s leaf blower sounded. Not her father. Not the JP from the photo.
Another billowing draft captured the ends of her scarf and set them flapping against her back. “I know we’ve already talked about this, Maggie, but are you certain you don’t remember anyone else Diana and CarleeAnn might have spent time with that last summer?” Someone had known the both of them, taken that photo with them. “Wilder said there was a guy at a pub. Are you sure she never mentioned or—”
Maggie stopped a few feet from the car. “I know you want answers. I do, too. But Diana was my daughter, and it’s not easy thinking about her being . . .” Her breathing hitched, her tone firmer than Sydney had heard before. “One minute you’re talking about her sleeping with a camp counselor and the next it’s a stranger in a bar and . . . she was only a teenager, Sydney. She was my daughter. Flippantly talking about who she was or wasn’t intimate with is not exactly comfortable for me.”
Hot reproach warred with the bitter wind. “I’m sorry.”
“I still have nightmares about her accident from time to time. I still wonder if I’d been a better mother . . .”
“Oh, Maggie. I’m sorry—I’m so, so sorry.”
Maggie had a palm over her heart, apparently still working to catch her breath—from the walk or her exasperation? “It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not. You just wanted to find your granddaughter, and I’ve turned it into something else entirely. I’ve made it about finding my father instead and . . . and it’s dredging up so many hard things.” She turned around, needing the momentary reprieve from Maggie’s gaze, this benevolent, wonderful woman who’d only shown her kindness and unending welcome since the moment Sydney arrived. “I know this has to be so hard for you and I’m only complicating things further. Not only for you, but now everyone else has been drawn into it too. And it’s the last thing you all need, especially Neil with all he has going on—trying to save the farm, dig it out from a financial danger zone, and—”
“What?”
Too far, Syd. Neil didn’t want her to worry.
“Sydney.”
Why did she keep making things worse? Tell her you were exaggerating. The farm is fine. But lying to her wouldn’t make this any better.
“Maggie, I shouldn’t have . . . I didn’t mean . . .” She finally turned around.
Too late. Maggie was already crumpling to the ground.