Love Song(37)

“Wait. Loughlin? The same Loughlins who own that mansion on the cliff?”

“Yep,” I say triumphantly. “Darlie and Raymond knew each other their whole lives, but they didn’t start dating until they were nineteen. Her family was well-off but nowhere near as wealthy as the Loughlins. They’re the old-money kind of rich. And from what I’ve read, Raymond was one of those polished yacht-club dudes who was going to be a big-shot banker. Never had a job in his life. Darlie worked as a waitress in town, and they fell in love. She used to sneak out at midnight, paddle a boat across the lake, and meet Raymond under this huge tree on the Loughlin property.”

“So far, this sounds like a rom-com.”

“For all we know, maybe it is. I can’t find much else about these people,” I say glumly. “I think it’ll be easier to track down what happened to Raymond, because his family is still around, but Darlie basically dropped off the face of the earth.”

“Or dropped into the bottom of the lake. If we believe the boat weirdos.”

“And every true-crime forum. They all insist that Raymond left Darlie for her younger sister Dolly—”

“Darlie and Dolly? Really?”

“Hey, I didn’t name them.” I grin. “And their mom’s name was Dotty. According to the internet, Raymond and Dolly started sneaking off together. They would meet at the lighthouse on Fannette island to hook up.”

“So basically this dude was turning every place in Tahoe into some kind of sex landmark.”

“And may or may not have caused a woman to drown herself.”

“Stand-up guy.”

“Right?”





We develop a routine over the next week. Wyatt writes or lounges during the day while I research Darlie and the Loughlin family. We have lunch. We swim. He strums his guitar while I tan on the dock. And after dinner, without fail, we sit at the dining table and work on the puzzle.

We don’t speak other than to trash-talk or argue whether a piece belongs to the dark sky or the dark water or the dark trees. The only fun part of this puzzle is the red canoe, over which Wyatt and I valiantly battle for domination.

“Why is this four thousand pieces?” he growls on a Monday night. “Aren’t puzzles supposed to be a thousand pieces or less? What kind of sadist decides to pick four thousand?”

“Maybe it’s an ex of yours who wants to torture you.” I pause, something occurring to me. “Wait. Do you even have any exes? Like a real ex?” I strain my mind, trying to remember his girlfriends.

“Natalie in high school,” he supplies. “That lasted almost a year. And six months with Rhett a couple years ago.”

“What a great name,” I say enviously. “I wish my name was Rhett.”

“No, you don’t. She was nuts.”

“That’s what all fuckmen say about their exes.”

“She slashed my tires after I broke up with her.”

My jaw drops. “I take it back.”

“But at least she isn’t holding my toaster hostage.”

The reminder makes me frown. “Oh, I already have a plan about how to get Hot Boi back. I’m gonna bribe Joseph to let me upstairs when I’m back in Boston.”

“And Joseph is?”

“The doorman. He loves me.”

Wyatt snorts. “Oh, by the way, I forgot. My mom texted earlier. She wants us to send Henry a grocery list for the week.”

“Nope,” I say stubbornly. “I already told my mom I don’t want Henry getting all our food. I’m buying my own groceries from now on.”

“All right, then let’s go to the supermarket tomorrow,” he says, and the following morning, we pile into the Jeep for a grocery shopping adventure.

We start in the cereal aisle. I trail after him while he pushes our cart. When he reaches for a box on the top shelf, I admire his bare arms. The golden tan. Sinewy muscles. Dark hair falling onto his forehead. I’m not the only one checking him out—every woman in our vicinity is mentally undressing him. In those faded, threadbare jeans and sleeveless Bruins T-shirt representing his dad, he’s the hottest guy in the store and probably the planet.

I stop to grab my favorite cereal, eliciting a stern reprimand from Wyatt.

“Seriously? No way. That’s not the cereal we’re buying.”

“But it’s nutritious.”

“Cereal should not be nutritious. It should be delicious.” He puts my healthy granola and oats cereal back on the shelf and grabs a horrific sugary concoction instead. Dropping it in the cart, he rolls away, whistling to himself.

I stare at him in disbelief. “I didn’t agree to that!”

“Don’t care,” he says without turning around.

“You guys are a cute couple,” an amused voice remarks from behind me.

It belongs to a young woman around my age with dark skin and black hair arranged in two braids, a baseball cap atop her head. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” I ask at the same time as she says, “I know you.”

We both laugh.

“Are you local?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No, but my family’s been coming here every summer since I was a kid. We just bought a place on the west shore a couple years ago. Blue boathouse with white trim?”