“Did she tell you what that was? She keeps telling me it’s her business, not mine, and then telling me stories about how in love she was with your great-uncle.”
“I have no idea why she’s here. Do you think it’s about Tony?”
I shrugged. “She said it’s not. But that’s most of what she’s told me about.” I paused. “Then again, with her it could all be a red herring.”
Joe parked near the bank that used to be my great-grandparents’ house and gestured down the hill. “I thought we’d go see the park,” he said.
The shops we passed were mostly nautical themed, about two-thirds of them in repurposed Victorian houses. I read the names as we walked. There were a handful of art galleries and artisan shops boasting handmade soaps. One advertised spells and charms.
“How far are we from Salem?”
“Little over half an hour. Why?” I gestured toward the shop. “Tourist trap. I went to high school with the owner. If she’s a witch, I’m Tom Brady.”
About halfway down, the hill leveled out, and we reached a small park with a playground, pear trees, flower beds, benches, and large rocks lining the edge that overlooked the hill leading to the water below.
This is what he wanted to show me? I thought, unimpressed. Yes, it was cool that it overlooked the water, and it was immaculate, but I didn’t see anything special about it. “It’s nice,” I said politely.
“Do you want to read the plaque?” He gestured toward a copper plaque on a pedestal, long oxidized to green from the salt air.
“Uh, okay.” I approached it. “Oh.”
Joseph Bergman Memorial Park, it read. Hereford had no truer friend.
I looked up at Joe, who was standing close enough to my shoulder that I could feel the electricity of his presence. I took a reflexive step away. “I feel like your great-uncle doesn’t agree with that sentiment.”
“Actually, he put up part of the money for the park.”
“What?”
“I don’t know the whole story. But there isn’t any bad blood there.”
I thought for a moment, trying to figure out how that could be. “Did Tony ever get married?”
“No.”
“And he forgave my great-grandfather for not letting him marry my grandma? How?”
Joe shook his head. “I don’t think anyone really knows what happened except Tony and your grandmother.”
I sighed. She made it clear she was only going to tell me what she wanted to and in the order she wanted to. If I asked her how Tony and my great-grandfather made amends, I’d get a story about Sam or Bernie or something unrelated. She said it was all the same story, but I didn’t see the connection.
Giving up, I snapped a picture of the plaque.
“Do you want me to take a picture of you next to it?” Joe asked.
I looked out at the horizon. “How about one of me by the rocks with the water in the background instead? I want to look like I’m having an amazing time.”
He looked mildly amused. “You’re one of those people on social media?”
I shrugged self-consciously and tried to play it off. “Mid-divorce and all.”
“Got it. Go sit on the rocks.”
I obliged, and he took my picture. When he returned the phone, he had taken multiple shots.
“You’re good,” I said, swiping through them.
“I should be.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m a photographer.”
“You—wait, I thought you were the cottage’s property manager?”
He shook his head. “The owner is a family friend. I help out sometimes. That’s all.”
“Oh. So like, you shoot weddings and stuff?”
“That’s part of it. I’ve got an art gallery in town.”
I had pegged him as a townie who rented properties, not a legitimate artist, and I cringed at how judgmental that was. “Can I see it?”
“Sure.” He checked his watch. “Probably not today if we’re going to see the harbor though.”
I wanted to ask if he did a lot of business. I couldn’t imagine art being enough to make a living in a town like this. And I wanted to ask about his family—I knew he came from fishermen. Was that still a family business? But it felt like prying and like I was too interested. So I didn’t.
Instead, I posted the pictures to Instagram. No, I wasn’t going to spend my time going through Brad’s pictures anymore, but if he was still looking at my feed, he’d wonder who took the picture. I looked so carefree, my face turned toward the sun, hair blowing in the breeze, sunglasses on top of my head. If he did, I hoped he felt a pang of regret at throwing me away.