For the next several days the conversation with Cam roiled around Alexa’s stomach like a batch of bad oysters. She vacillated between self-righteousness (how dare he refuse to help her with this very scary situation!) and self-doubt (was there a chance he was right?). At the Cottage, she worked one five-hour shift, during which she made six Ringers, three milk shakes, and who-knows-how-many ice cream cones with rainbow sprinkles. She was scattered and klutzy. She dropped a doughnut, and then she stepped on it. She gave the wrong change to two different customers. She forgot to tell her boss that they were on their last container of chocolate ice cream, so they ran out—a huge problem, obviously.
“Whoa,” said her coworker, Hannah. “Amazon. What’s going on with you? You get in a fight with Tyler or something?”
“No,” said Alexa tightly. “No, I did not get in a fight with Tyler. Tyler isn’t even here. He’s still in Michigan.”
She sat on the beach for forty minutes after her shift, long enough to add a light golden topcoat to her tan without going too far.
Alexa simmered and simmered. She made and posted one video, about market orders and stop-loss orders, which she had planned on doing separately but then realized she could easily combine into two. She reorganized her closet and her bathroom drawers. In a fit of do-goodness, she took Bernice down to the boardwalk, to see the tall ship (Bernice loved boats).
Finally, when she could stand the terrible feeling no longer, Alexa got in her Jeep and made the short trip to Market Basket.
Alexa generally tried to stay away from Market Basket because you couldn’t get down an aisle without seeing someone you knew. Sure enough, near the yogurt she ran into her eighth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Sanchez, who never failed to remember and mention Alexa’s “cogent” essay on To Kill a Mockingbird. (Topic: Discuss the concept of fear in the novel.)
“It’s so nice to see you, Alexa!” Mrs. Sanchez gushed. And then, right on cue, “You know, I still use your Mockingbird essay as an example. Every year, I pull that thing out, and I read the whole thing out loud, and I try to explain to my students that it’s a close reading of the text that really makes for a stellar piece of work.” She beamed for an uncomfortably long time and then said, “Please don’t tell me you graduated. Is time going by that fast?”
“I did,” said Alexa. “It is.”
“Where are you headed next year?”
“Um,” said Alexa. “I’m not sure.” She was scanning the aisles for Cam. She was pretty sure he worked checkout, but then again she could imagine him cheerfully restocking the salsa and answering customers’ questions about where to find the Bob’s Red Mill flour. “Probably Colby.”
“How wonderful! And I hope you’re going to put those fabulous writing skills to use,” said Mrs. Sanchez. Alexa was pretty sure that when she moved to Los Angeles and got natural highlights in her hair from the sun and dated surfers and actors, she would not be using the skills that allowed her to delve into Jean Louise Finch’s young psyche, but she didn’t want to crush Mrs. Sanchez completely. Mrs. Sanchez, after all, seemed to be in the very tiny camp of Alexa fans.
“I might go more in a—financy direction,” said Alexa. “I’ve become pretty interested in the stock market.” Before she could register Mrs. Sanchez’s disappointment, both in her future and in her use of the made-up word “financy,” Alexa said her good-byes.
By the hard cheeses, she saw her neighbors from two doors down, the Walkers. She kept her head pointed toward the floor and avoided eye contact. In the nonorganic fruit aisle she saw the mother of the first family she ever babysat for, Mrs. Reyes, but she was sans children and thus easily circumvented. In the organic fruit aisle she came upon Caitlin, of all people, who was taking a selfie with a container of raspberries. Alexa didn’t know why and wasn’t about to ask. She skirted out of the fruit aisle, undetected.
She gathered enough random food in her cart (broccoli, seltzer, those crostini Tuscan crackers Morgan liked, as an olive branch of sorts—a cracker branch) so that her trip looked legit but not over the top, and she headed toward the checkouts. Cam wasn’t working any of the registers. She chose a line with a young checkout person who might be friendly with him. Everyone else working was at least forty-five.
“You could have gone in the express line,” the girl chirped, surveying Alexa’s items. “You wouldn’t have had to wait!”
Alexa shot her a withering glance that said, I know, but I didn’t want to. Then she tossed her hair and said, “Hey, do you know if Cam’s working today?”
“Did you bring your reusable bags or do you want paper?”
Was this an answer? “Paper,” growled Alexa, and she repeated her question about Cam.
“I don’t know,” said the girl. She called, way too loudly, over to the manager’s station. “Bill! When is Cam working next?”
“He’s off for a few days,” said Bill. He moved over to the end of the checkout lane and began bagging Alexa’s groceries. “No reusables?”
“She didn’t bring any,” said the checkout girl. She shrugged at Bill as if to indicate that she couldn’t help it if people didn’t care about the planet.
Bill said, “I think he’s at the lake.”
“Thanks,” said Alexa. She took her paper bag and hightailed it back to her Jeep before she could run into anyone else she knew.
The first thing she did after putting away the groceries, and—out of some inexplicable spite toward the checkout girl—throwing the paper bag in the garbage can instead of recycling it, was to climb the stairs to her bedroom and call Hannah to see if she would switch shifts with Alexa. Alexa would work for her the following day if Hannah would work for her this afternoon at four.
“I don’t know, Amazon,” said Hannah. “I’m at the beach.”
Alexa gritted her teeth at the nickname and set her wheels turning. “Which beach?”
“Jenness.”
“Oh boy,” said Alexa.
“What?”
“Aren’t they getting those crazy thunderstorms up there today?”
Hannah hesitated. “I don’t think so? It looks like really clear now?”
“Hang on,” said Alexa. “Let me put you on speaker phone so I can check.” She paused as if she were checking her weather app and said, “Yeah, right around three. Trust me, that beach is going to clear out.”
There was a faint murmuring, which Alexa took to indicate that Hannah was passing this information on to her fellow beachgoers.
“Crazy,” said Hannah. “I didn’t see anything about that on my app.”
“Are you using the app that came with your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t do that, Hannah. That app is terrible. You’ve got to download Dark Sky. It’s so much better.”
“Really? Dark Sky?”
“Trust me. It keeps up much faster. These summer storms can come from out of nowhere, you know.”
“I do have something I was hoping to do tomorrow,” Hannah considered. “So if you took my shift—”
“Perfect!” said Alexa. “I owe you.”
Hannah was fair-skinned and freckled so probably should limit her sun exposure. If you looked at it correctly, Alexa was doing her a favor.
Back downstairs, she could tell that somebody had come home because the paper bag from Market Basket had been dug out of the garbage and lovingly folded into the recycling bin. She sensed the hand of Morgan the Environmentalist in this, but she didn’t stop to look around because she wanted to get on the road.
She turned off the locator app on her iPhone. Her mother didn’t know how often Alexa did this; she just thought the app was given to “malfunctioning” and wondered when “they” were going to come up with a tracking app that actually tracked reliably.
A quick Google search led her to Cam’s Winnipesaukee address, which she plugged straight into Waze.
The drive to Wolfeboro took her to Alton and then northeast along Winnipesaukee, but she wasn’t paying attention when it was time to make the turn from Route 11 to Route 28, and before she knew it she was heading the wrong way around the lake, adding at least thirty miles (maybe more) to her drive. But that was okay. It was a kick-ass summer day, sunny and cloudless. Along the arm of Alton Bay, the pontoons and the other pleasure craft were out in full force. The lines for ice cream at the myriad outdoor stands were long, and traffic was slow. She didn’t mind. She was enjoying being somewhere different, away from the fishbowl of Newburyport.
She passed the parking for the Sandy Point Beach Resort, which looked like something out of a 1950s movie, and the parking area for Mount Major. She wound through Meredith and Center Harbor and Moultonborough. Finally, just as she was approaching Wolfeboro, she followed her GPS across a skinny, skinny road with water on both sides, made two turns, and arrived at Cam’s house. In case Alexa had any lingering doubts about the address being correct, they were immediately assuaged by the sight of not one, not two, but three vehicles in the driveway (one being the minivan) bearing St. Michael’s College stickers.
She sat for a moment in the Jeep, wondering if she should just turn around and go back home. What, exactly, was she doing here?
There was a movement behind one of the windows. She’d been spotted. Nothing to do now but get out of the car and knock on the door.
“Alexa!” Cam said. He didn’t say, How’d you know where I live, you psycho stalker? He didn’t say, Don’t you remember that I don’t like you very much? He simply smiled and nodded—that broad, welcoming smile—as though he’d been expecting her all along, and he said, “I’m really happy to see you.”
“You are?” Tears sprang inconveniently to Alexa’s eyes. She blinked them back and didn’t let her hand reach up to wipe them away.
“Yeah. I’ve been feeling bad about the fight. Really bad.”
“Me too,” she whispered.
“I think I was agitated, that’s what it was. About—the thing you told me, at Canobie Lake. And I let my agitation get the better of me. I’m really sorry, Alexa. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“But it’s my fault,” she said. “That’s why I drove up here, because I did a really bad job talking about it the other day—and I got, I don’t know, I just got upset over nothing, and it all spun out of control. I came here to apologize. I’m really, really sorry.”
Wow. Apologizing felt really good. Unexpectedly good. How come nobody had ever told Alexa that it would feel so good?
“Alexa Thornhill, I accept your apology.” Cam spoke ceremoniously. He stood up straight, the way she imagined he might if he were about to accept a golf trophy. “And I’d like to offer you one of my own. I’m truly, honestly sorry for what I said.” There was something in his gaze that made her stomach flip, and then flop, and then flip again. “Will you do me the honor of accepting my apology?”
Alexa rolled her eyes at the formal language and smiled at the same time she was rolling her eyes; she couldn’t help it. “I will,” she said. “I definitely will.”
“Shake?” He offered his hand and she took it. The skin on Cam’s hand was soft, with a slight bump in the palm that might have been a callus from a golf club. He held on to her hand longer than a typical handshake would require and her stomach went through another round of gymnastics. Then Cam said, “Well, what are we waiting for? Welcome to my humble abode.” He swung the door wide, and in she went.
In the kitchen stood a woman with short, stylish hair, white shorts, and a peach-colored tank top; she was slicing lemons. She was barefoot and suntanned—older than Alexa’s mom, but not so much older.
“Mom, this is Alexa. The one I told you about. Alexa, my mom, Linda. Beware of her, please, she’s on vacation from the law firm for two weeks so she’s dangerously relaxed.”
Linda looked up and smiled, and Alexa said, “Hi, nice to meet you.” She tried to study Linda without being obvious about it. She could see where Cam got his dimples.
“Nice to meet you, Alexa!” Linda said. “I’d shake your hand, but, well—” She gestured to the lemons.
“I get it,” said Alexa. “We’ll just wave.” She waved.
The counters sparkled. The refrigerator was industrial-size, with one half devoted to a glassed-in beverage fridge. An upside-down canoe attached to the kitchen ceiling held rows of wineglasses and cocktail glasses. It was all so sunny and good, Alexa felt like there must be a catch. Was a murderer about to jump out of the butler’s pantry? A rabid dog loose somewhere on the grounds? A girlfriend hiding upstairs, in the guest quarters? (Surely there were guest quarters.)
“Want to see the house?” said Cam. He was as eager as a little boy. “Did you eat? Are you hungry?”
“No,” she said, and he looked crestfallen. “I mean, no, I’m not hungry, yes, I want to see the house.” Cam smiled, and she followed him out of the kitchen.
The upstairs hallway formed a loft that overlooked the massively cozy living room. In the living room, there were deer heads mounted on the wall (real?) and a friendly pot-bellied bear made of some sort of metal or stone (definitely not real) standing proudly on one side of the fireplace, one paw extended, like he was giving a tour. A pair of old-fashioned skis was crisscrossed above the stone fireplace, and just below it hung a single snowshoe that was woven like a basket.
There was a bunk room where the bunks were made out of roughly hewn logs and covered with quilts that looked like they were sewn by a thousand perfect grandmothers. In the corner of another bedroom sat a tiny, inoffensive pile of clothing. (“Mine,” said Cam. “I’m the only slob in the family.”) She should have known: some of the clothing was purple. The only other sign of inhabitance was a book opened facedown on the bed. Dreams from My Father. (“Early Obama,” said Cam.) She rolled her eyes and tried to hide her smile. This guy was too much.
“I saved the best for last,” said Cam. “We’re going outside,” he called to his mom, who was still in the kitchen, and she called back, “Okay, honey!”
What could be better than everything they’d already seen? Well, the lake, of course. Alexa followed Cam out the back door and down a flagstone path to a semicircular rock wall enclosing the world’s most adorable private beach. There were four lounge chairs and a boat garage that was a miniature version of the house, also made of wood and also with a green roof. To the right of the semicircle beach was yet another deck, or really more like a little dock, with two Adirondack chairs and a small table. It was here that Cam led Alexa.
Alexa settled into the chair he indicated. “Cam! This is insane. You know this is insane, right?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Sort of.” He ducked his head modestly. “This was Mom’s present to us when she made partner. I mean, to herself too, sure, but she was trying to make it up to us for being gone so much, working when we were growing up. She worked really hard to get where she is.” He began to look wistful—maybe even a little sad, and Alexa found herself putting her hand over his.
“Winnipesaukee,” she said. The word came out of her involuntarily, like a hiccup or a spasm.
“This is technically Winter Harbor,” Cam said, recovering from his memories of his less-than-perfect childhood, which actually seemed about as close to perfect as a childhood could get. “It feeds into Winnipesaukee just down there.” He pointed. “Dad’s out on the boat right now, or else I’d take you around. When I do, I can point out Mitt Romney’s house, which makes this place look like a two-star-on-Trip-Advisor shack. Hey, want to go grab something to eat in town? Or do you have to get back?”
Alexa thought about Hannah, scooping ice cream for the customers who should be Alexa’s. “Nope, there’s nothing I need to get back for,” she said. When she thought about the rooms full of cozy beds she wanted nothing more than to lay her head down on one of the pillows and curl up under one of the grandmother quilts.
“In that case,” said Cam, “I’m going to take you to Wolfe’s Tavern, at the inn. It’s a famous landmark around here. You’ll love it, I promise.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” said Alexa. “Some of my favorite places are landmark taverns.”
He laughed, and his laugh was a genuine sound, no malice in it, no ill-will or awkwardness. People didn’t often laugh at things Alexa said that way, and her face and heart both warmed.
Alexa offered to drive the Jeep but Cam demurred and said they’d take the minivan. “I’m more used to driving in the crush of people and cars that is the heart of Wolfeboro in the summer,” he said. “Pedestrians leap out into the roads without warning or provocation.”
Alexa figured she must be imagining it when she looked in the minivan’s rearview mirror and saw a black SUV. Well, she wasn’t imagining the SUV: it was really there, and really black. But she must be imagining that it had come for her: she wasn’t even in her own car. Still, the chorus started again in her head, like the far-off beating of a drum. The bad men, the bad men, the bad men. She shivered so visibly that Cam reached for the AC button on the console and raised the temperature.
Discuss the concept of fear in your trip to Winnipesaukee, Alexa.
At the tavern, Cam showed Alexa where his father’s silver mug was hanging from the ceiling, along with the mugs of all the other people who had completed the one hundred beer challenge; he showed her the moose that people kissed after completing the fifty martini challenge. They shared an order of asparagus fries, the Nashville hot wings, and pork pot stickers.
By the time they returned to the house, someone had put lights on in a few of the rooms; the house looked so welcoming and unblemished that Alexa’s throat caught. The house was beautiful, yes, but more than its beauty was the fact that its coziness, its familial feeling stood in contrast to Alexa’s own lonelier home, bowing still to grief. As if specifically placed to complete the tableau, from somewhere out on the water came the soulful, haunting cry of a loon.
“That’s a yodel,” said Cam knowledgeably. “Which is different from a wail. Only the males yodel. Listen—”
Cam stepped closer to her and they leaned together against the minivan, listening. Cam intertwined his fingers with Alexa’s and, despite her worry that some of the Nashville hot sauce lingered on them, she was scared to move, almost scared to breathe, lest she destroy the moment. A loon called again.
“That was a wail,” he said. “Did you hear the difference? They’re talking to each other with the wail, regaining contact. It’s pretty amazing how they do that, make sure that they’re never lost from each other.”
“I love that,” said Alexa softly. “I really, really love that.”
She didn’t want to let go of Cam’s hand, but she said she should think about getting home. It was a long drive, and her mother would start to worry. She moved toward her Jeep, still holding on to Cam’s hand. Kiss me, she was thinking. Please, Cameron Hartwell, please kiss me before I leave.
And then he did kiss her; he was kissing her. It wasn’t like the time she kissed him in his driveway at home, when she took him by surprise, and it was a one-sided thing, a show of power or chutzpah. This kissing was mutual, reciprocated and reciprocal, urgent.
“You should go,” Cam whispered, when they came up for air, and his voice was gruff and sexy. With his thumb he traced her cheekbone. “Before I do something I might regret.”
“Go ahead and do it,” she said. “I dare you.” She pressed against him—she couldn’t help it; her body led her mind. Cam rubbed his hands up and down her upper arms, gently but firmly, like he was warming her after some chill, although even without the glow of the sun the air was perfectly temperate.
“Don’t tempt me,” he said. “We have the rest of the summer.” He opened her driver’s-side door and said, “I’ll see you soon.” He kissed her twice more, once on the forehead and once on the nose, and those types of kisses could have seemed avuncular but actually they were sexy too. She climbed behind the wheel, and he stood in the driveway as she executed a three-point turn and departed, leaving behind something as glimmering and hopeful as a promise.