Daisy raised her eyebrows. “Uh-oh.”
“I—he did some work at my aunt’s house. She died last year. He’s been helping with her things. You know, over at the…” She gestured in the general direction of the yellow phone. “Do people complain about him?”
“A few,” Daisy said noncommittally. “And he’s only owned the place three years,” Daisy said.
Three years. Not fifteen, like he had told her. “Oh yeah? Who owned it before that?”
Daisy smiled. “The Brewsters, Mary and Emile. They opened it in 1965.”
“And they sold it to him.”
She nodded. “Mary died about five years ago. Matt swooped in after that. And the Brewsters were not running a…whatever that bereavement thing is. That’s all him.”
Laurie came right up to the counter. Daisy had one earring in one ear and four in the other, and on the inside of one forearm was a simple tattoo of a sun, surrounded by wiggly rays. Laurie took a breath. “Is he, like, very bad?” she asked. “Your boss? Like really bad?”
Daisy froze. Then her eyes slid up to meet Laurie’s. “You’re asking if he’s bad?” Laurie just nodded. Daisy narrowed her eyes just so very slightly. “He’s not great.”
Just then, the bell rang on the door, and a couple came in chattering about how adorable everything was, in that unguarded voice people only use in places where they think everyone else present is part of a simulation. They should bring something back for the woman’s mother, they agreed. They should tell her about how cute this place was, they agreed. They should swallow a lobster whole, Laurie thought. The woman started admiring a table full of extremely tacky knickknacks.
“I can’t really talk about this here,” Daisy finally said. She flicked her eyes toward the couple. “But I’m interested.”
“Right. Well, my name is Laurie Sassalyn. Like I said, I’m staying out in Calcasset at my aunt’s house.” Daisy nodded. “Maybe this is weird, but it’s supposed to be a nice night, and I have a deck there. Do you want to come out and have a drink with me and maybe a couple of my friends later? It’s nothing cool, it’s just me and a librarian and a nice soccer mom, probably. Bring your girlfriend if you want? Maybe eight o’clock or so?”
“Sounds good.” Daisy scribbled on the back of one of the store’s cards and handed it over. “Text me your address.” It said Daisy Sun and her number, and then in Sharpie, it said, He’s the worst. “Worst” was underlined twice. Laurie looked up at her, and when their eyes met, Laurie mouthed, Oh, I know.
* * *
—
To say Laurie was nervous that things were going to be strange with Nick after the library was an understatement; it was more that she was nervous that they were going to be ruined entirely. She knew they were both right that there was no point in getting involved in anything complicated when she wasn’t staying—and she wasn’t staying—and he was probably specifically right that anything uncomplicated might well be a lot to expect from this situation.
Why couldn’t he just have been hot and boring? If he were hot and boring, she could do a little itch-scratching, a little rebounding, a little nostalgic tour of something nice from her past, then go back to Seattle. To come here and have something fall apart with someone she never even meant to pursue on top of being charmed by what now appeared to be an actual criminal was not a good start to life after a broken engagement.
Never trust a guy who’s leading with his feminist T-shirts. How had she forgotten such a simple rule? She’d known this since the guy with the Sleater-Kinney shirt who turned out to be married.
But the best way out was through, so she texted Nick about her impromptu party before she even texted June: The thing with the duck has gotten WILD. There is a whole story. Can you come over and have drinks tonight with me and Junie and my confidential informant?
It only took two minutes: How can I say no?
Just after he responded, the phone rang, and it was June, calling to follow up on the frantic texts Laurie had sent from Sea Spray. The kids made it harder for her to make plans on the fly, but she said that they were at her mother’s and Charlie was working, so as it happened, she was available.
“June,” Laurie said, with all the gravity a wooden duck could possibly deserve, “I promise I am going to make this worth your while.”
* * *
—
It really was a nice night. Maybe Dot had used the deck this way, for parties with friends. Or maybe she’d used it for dates, or for reading, or for moderately scandalous makeout sessions with the scientist and the journalist and the rest of the people whose letters Laurie had been so careful not to open. Maybe with a man who carved ducks out of pristine cedar or leftover lumber or a downed telephone pole. People could have gotten drunk out here before, gotten sloppy drunk and kissed inelegantly while fumbling with each other’s buttons, or they could have talked about fishing or the breeze off the water or who was going to be mayor. When Laurie was little, she’d never cared about the deck; it was a bunch of grown-ups chatting and laughing and being much too tall. She just wanted to root around in the backyard for whatever was moving, eyes peeled for worms and bugs and squirrels and butterflies and things. She was a gatherer of interesting life then, just like she was now.