CHAPTER 55
Sailor took a sip of her coffee and typed the word “all” into her search box. Before she’d even finished, though, Google had offered her several options. “Google, you know me better than I know myself,” she murmured, clicking on her favorite recipe site. She typed “summer salads” and then tapped the Enter button and began scrolling through a list of recipes, trying to find something fun to make besides her layered dip—which was a given—and the traditional tossed salad she always made with the maple dressing everyone loved. She glanced over at Mister Breeze, who was sunning himself in an adjacent chair. “What do you think, Breeze, potato or pasta?” He blinked indifferently and she smiled. “That’s okay. I’m just glad to have someone to talk to besides myself.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed something move, and when she looked up, she realized the chipmunk was sitting perfectly still on the edge of the new birdbath she’d bought after she’d finished weeding and pruning the garden. “Hmm, what sinister plan are you plotting, mister?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously. “Another murder, perhaps? It’s hard to forget the taste of blood once you’ve had it, isn’t it?” She watched him for a few moments and then realized there was a mourning dove stretched out in the sun. Her eyes grew wide. “Oh no, you don’t!” she shouted, getting up and startling the chipmunk—who scurried away, and the mourning dove—who flew up, its wings whistling, warning the other birds to Flee! Flee! Within seconds, there was a mass exodus of flapping wings.
Mister Breeze sat up to see what all the commotion was about and she eyed him, too. “Don’t get any ideas,” she said warningly.
She looked back down at her screen and continued scrolling. “I’m thinking pasta,” she murmured, narrowing her search, “since I’m pretty sure Birdie will make potato salad.” Just as she said this, the Platters started playing on her phone and she looked down at the screen. “Speak of the devil,” she said, accepting the call. “Hey, Birdie,” she answered. “How’s David?” She nodded, listening. “Well, he better take it easy or he’ll end up back in the hospital. Mm-hmm . . . By the way, are you making Mom’s potato salad for the Fourth?” She nodded again. “I was just wondering because I know you have your hands full, and if you don’t have time, I’d be happy to make it.... Is he going to be able to come? . . . Okay, good . . . I’m glad . . . and make sure you bring Bailey, too.... Yes, I’ll talk to you soon.” She paused, listening, and then raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I love you, too,” she said, and as she ended the call, she tried to remember whether she’d ever heard Birdie say “I love you” to anyone before. “Maybe Bailey or Chloe,” she mused, smiling.
She returned to her search and finally settled on an old-fashioned macaroni salad that looked—and sounded—like the one her mom used to make. She took a sip of her coffee, reached for her pencil, and jotted down the ingredients she’d need for the weekend, and ten minutes later—after a trip to the bathroom—she slipped on her flip-flops. “Be back soon,” she called, thankful to have someone—even if it was just Mister Breeze—to say it to. She was almost out the door when she decided to hit the bathroom one last time, just in case. “I’m really leaving this time!” she called.
As Sailor turned onto Route 6, she heard the wail of sirens and looked in her rearview mirror but didn’t see any emergency vehicles. There were always so many sirens on the Cape—a day didn’t go by in the summer when she didn’t hear the haunting sound. She turned down her radio, realized the sirens were getting louder, and looked in her mirror again. This time, she saw flashing lights. She pulled over, waited for the ambulance out of Provincetown to speed by, and then pulled back onto the road, whispering a prayer—as she always did—for whoever needed help.
She turned the radio back on and heard the unmistakable beginning chords of “Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying” drift into her car. She shook her head and reached for the knob but then stopped. It had been a long time—fifty-two years, to be exact—since she’d listened to the melancholy lyrics of the song that had been a hit the summer she’d turned eleven. The song had been on the radio constantly that summer, and it had made her heart ache even more . . . because all she could do was cry.
She gazed out the window, listening to the lyrics, and allowing the memory of a long-ago summer night to fill her mind. She was back in her father’s wood-paneled Country Squire station wagon, and with the evening breeze drifting through the open windows, she and her siblings were singing along with Gerry & The Pacemakers at the top of their lungs . . . and even though she and her sisters couldn’t carry a tune, Easton had the voice of an angel—which was fitting, she thought sadly.
She looked out the window, remembering the events that had followed—walking along the beach looking for heart stones and her father looking back and realizing that Birdie and Easton weren’t with them. “We have to go back,” he’d said, picking up Piper and starting to run. “Remy,” he’d shouted, “hold Sailor’s hand!” And they’d run as fast as they could. She’d fallen twice, scraping her knees, and when they’d found Birdie, her father had pulled her up off the sand and shaken her, shouting, “Where is Easton? Why did you let go of his hand?” She could still hear the terror in his voice and she could still see Birdie motioning tearfully to the dark, pounding waves, and then Remy had pulled her younger sisters back from the water and squeezed their hands . . . and Piper had cried out, “Ouch, Remy, you’re hurting me. Where is Easton?”
Sailor bit her lip now and realized she could barely see the road through her tears. She pulled over and turned off the radio. It was still too much to bear....