I had obediently called the client. “Hi, I’m Liliana Silva with Fairchild Properties. I understand you’re looking for a place up here?”
“Oh, yes! Thank you so much for calling me back.” She had a nice, low-pitched voice, and though her area code was 212, she didn’t have a New York accent.
“Are you familiar with the area?” I asked.
“A little bit,” she said. “We rented a house up there last summer in Truro, but Wellfleet seems a little more . . . civilized.”
I laughed. “It’s true.” Wellfleet had a bustling Main Street, a wonderful old movie theater, restaurants that were open year-round. Truro was wilder and had less to offer tourists.
“It seems like a good place to raise a child,” Melissa said.
“It is,” I said. “Our school system is fantastic. How old is your child?”
“She’s twelve,” Melissa said.
“Such a fun age. My son is eighteen. I’d be happy to show you around. Have you looked online at any particular listings?”
“A little bit. I haven’t seen anything perfect just yet.”
“Tell me what you’re looking for.”
There was a silence. “Something . . . open. Lots of light. Maybe a water view?”
That would cost millions. No wonder my in-laws wanted someone to talk to her. “And your price range . . . ?”
“Well . . . to be honest, if it’s the right house, I don’t have one. I’ve been blessed with financial security.”
That must be nice, I thought. “We have some lovely properties. Describe your dream house, and let me see what we can do.”
I could hear the smile in her voice as she answered. “Oh, gosh. Well, big enough, because I like to entertain. Lots of windows, somewhere quiet and safe. It’s time to get out of the city. We need a change, and a small town just sounds so lovely right now.”
“And your partner?” I asked. “Any preferences on their part?”
“Sadly, I’m a widow,” she said.
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.” Raising a twelve-year-old alone . . . gosh.
“Thank you,” she said. “That’s very kind.” There was a pause. “Another reason for a change.”
“You won’t regret it,” I said. “I’m a fifth-generation Cape Codder, and I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Ophelia.”
I winced. Who names their kid after the doomed innocent who commits suicide in Hamlet? Rich people, that’s who. “Such a pretty name.”
“Thank you!” There was genuine warmth in her voice. “What’s your son’s name?”
“Dylan,” I said, as ever feeling a rush of pride and love （and panic, because he was a senior in high school and life as I knew it was ending）。
“And he’s been happy on the Cape? With school and, um . . . opportunities?”
I understood the code. Are you hicks? Because I’m from New York. “Very happy. The kids from Nauset High get into the full range of schools, from Harvard and Stanford to the Air Force Academy.” It was true. Our school system rocked.
“Wonderful! I plan to come up this weekend. Would that be okay?”
“That would be perfect.” Wanda, my boss and friend, would be on call at the hospital. “It’s pretty quiet up here, and there’s nothing like the winter beach. It’s so pure and majestic. Can I take you to lunch first?”
“Thank you, Liliana!” she said. “That’s so kind of you!”
“Call me Lillie,” I told her. “And it’s my pleasure.”
Thus began my doom.
She came up, without her child, who was with a friend that weekend, and we met at the Ice House, Beth’s restaurant, which was one of the few places open year-round. Melissa Finch was very pretty, much younger than I had expected. “I can’t believe you have a twelve-year-old!” I exclaimed. “You don’t look a day past twenty-five!”
She smiled. “Actually, Ophelia isn’t my biological daughter. She came from a troubled background, and Dennis—my late husband—well, we just couldn’t say no.”
“How lucky for you and her both.”
Melissa had been born in the Midwest, went to school in Connecticut and landed in New York City. “I was planning on going to medical school,” she said, “but Ophelia came into our lives and I needed to devote all my time to her.” The answer sounded as if she’d given it a hundred times.