“Did you take care of the plants at the Harding house?” Harriett asked.
“Yes, I did,” Isabel told her.
“Do you know what happened to the pale-yellow flowers that were growing out front?”
“The wolfsbane?” Isabel knew exactly what Harriett was asking. “After Mr. Harding died, Ms. Marchand asked one of the gardeners to tear it all out.”
“Why do you suppose she would do that?” Harriett asked.
“Maybe so no one would see that some of the plants had been uprooted the night before.”
“That’s what I thought.” Harriett held out a hand. “Thank you, Isabel. When you’re ready to leave the Pointe, just head to town and ask for the witch. Any person in Mattauk will know where to find me. If you can stay an extra week or two, I’d love to have you as my guest. I suspect I can learn a great deal from you.”
Isabel closed her eyes and nodded happily. “It would be my pleasure,” she said.
As Harriett walked back across the lawn to the house, she thought of the video. It wasn’t the right time to ask. The knowledge of its existence was enough for the moment.
The Others
Nessa sat in her car across the street from an old beachfront cottage. From the outside, the house looked cozy. Its blue-trimmed windows with their overflowing flower boxes were a perfect contrast to the weathered gray shingles. Nessa had never been inside, but she’d driven past on several occasions over the previous weeks. No matter what time of day she went by, there was always a silver SUV in the drive. So far, she’d resisted the urge to pull in behind it.
Nessa kept her hands on the wheel and left the car idling. She was scared. Not of the man who lived in the cottage, but of what he would say to her when she knocked on the door. She knew this was one of those moments when things were decided. If he sent her away, there would be no coming back. If he invited her in, she’d be there to stay.
Nessa had already turned the wheel toward the driveway and her foot was making the transition from the brake to the gas when the front door of the cottage opened and Franklin stepped outside. Whatever happened, she knew she would always be grateful for the few moments that followed. Dressed in an old T-shirt and jeans, Franklin walked barefoot down the crushed-shell drive and crossed the road to her where her car sat on the shoulder. Then he leaned in, his forearms resting on the edge of her window.
“Is this a stakeout?” he asked.
In that instant, Nessa knew everything would be okay.
“I’ve missed you,” she told him.
“You didn’t need to,” he said. “I’ve been here the whole time. I’ve seen you drive by. I’m glad you finally decided to stop.”
After she pulled her car into the drive, Franklin guided her down a little path that circled around the house to the back porch. It was nothing more than a wooden platform with two Adirondack chairs and a table between them. The dunes started right at the edge, and beyond them lay the sea.
“There aren’t many places like this anymore,” Nessa noted. When she was a girl, there had been hundreds of similar cottages along this stretch of shore, all owned by Black families who arrived every summer. Nessa’s great-grandfather had learned how to swim on the island. Her parents had met on a beach nearby. Now the families like hers were long gone and only a few cottages remained. The rest had been razed to make way for mansions and oceanfront condominiums.
“The house belonged to my great-uncle,” Franklin said. “He was a cop, too. When things got too much in the city, he’d come out here by himself to fish. Over the years, developers offered him a fortune for the land, but he said you couldn’t put a price on solitude.”
“You feel the same way?” Nessa asked.