Jack still blames Mallory’s father for his mother’s mysterious death years ago.
Can they now finally find out the truth of what really happened, before it’s too late?
Escape to the beach with the first chapter of Delinsky’s new novel, below.
Chapter One
Every memory is real, but not all are based on fact.
Time, forgetfulness, emotional need any of these things can chip away at memory.
But what if a memory is wrong from the start?
What if what you think you saw, isn’t what was there at all?
This is why I love my camera.
It is never wrong.
It captures facts and stores them.
Since coming to New York, I’ve documented snowstorms and floods.
And recording my daughter’s life?
I have thousands of photos of Joy.
Inevitably we’ve forgotten.
But there it is in vivid detail.
That isn’t to say detail can’t be fudged.
Angles, lenses, creative lighting these are the stock of my trade.
But much of marketing is.
It’s just past nine at night.
Fog is on the move, enfolding my building like a hug from behind, before slipping on past.
My condo is on the fortieth floor overlooking Riverside Drive.
I paid more for it than I should have, but a river view was a must.
I’ve always needed open space, not a lot, just enough.
As long as I have that, I can breathe.
I’ve taken this same shot hundreds of times maybe thousands but it’s never the same twice.
Photography has taught me how to wait.
It has also taught me how to focus on that single subject and ignore everything else.
This doesn’t come naturally to me.
Limiting myself to one scene at a time, as my camera does, has been huge.
The fog thickens on the street below.
“What’s the bridge doing?
Joy asks from the far end of the sofa, and I smile.
She would know what the Nikon and I see.
We’re connected that way, my thirteen-year-old daughter and I.
And this is a game we often play.
I can’t see its legs.
Leaving the bridge, I find her reflection in the glass.
But that glow isn’t as warm as it would have been reflecting off paper.
Suspicious, I slide in beside her, angled to see her book.
She starts to close it, makes a small sound, and stops.
Close up now, I see page forty-four of Garth Stein’sThe Art of Racing in the Rain.
We were supposed to read it together.
Read it aloud, actually.
I’d been looking forward to being a dog.
“It’s true.
And anyway, Olivia has the mind of a squirrel, and squirrels are afraid of dogs.
I was practically crying on page three.
You know what happens?”
She isn’t really asking.
She knows I know, but letting sentences end in the air started along with her period.
“It’s good, Mom, she confides.
It’s sooo good.”
I want to talk about respecting schoolmates.
But that’s all beside the point.
Your final is next week.”
Besides, I’m the mom and you’re not.
I get to play.
It’s a perk of growing up."
I deliberately add the last.
My daughter isn’t wild about the pressure that comes with being a teenager.
Being precocious was cute in a child, not so in middle school, where social conformity is key.
We’ve had the Peter Pan discussion many times.
Rather than take the bait now, she simply says, Do I have to stop reading this?"
I rub her shoulder with my cheek.
Her fresh-from-the-shower curls, still damp and docile, smell of organic mint shampoo.
We’ll pick another to do together.
The call is from the area code where I grew up.
Just the sight of it brings a whoosh to the pit of my stomach.
And at this hour?
But neither my father’s name nor my sister’s appears, and I don’t recognize the number.
Not a question, but a statement in a voice that is deep and tight, familiar but not.
The whoosh in my stomach becomes a twist.
Rhode Island is a small state, the town of Westerly smaller, its villages even smaller.
But my gut says something else.
Standing, I move to the far side of the tripod and say a cautious, Yes?"
“It’s Jack.”
I know that, I think, and I barely breathe.
Jack Sabathian grew up on the shore, just like us.
“We have a problem, he barrels on.
He raises his voice to imitate.
You no-good bastard, you knew exactly what was going on, didn’t you.
Tell me where she is.
I know you know.
He had a gun, Mallory.
He was waving a gun in my face.
He swore he didn’t own one back then.
It isn’t your responsibility, is it?
Well, hello, Mallory, it is.
So here’s the thing.
you gotta step up to the plate.
If he’s talking about that night to me, he’s probably talking about it in town.
If he’s blabbing, they’ll hear and hey, I’m all for it.
He killed my mother?
I want it coming out.
So here’s a wake-up call, the slightest pause before an accusatory, Mallory.
Either you do something about him, or they will.”
That quickly the past is here and now.
And the lump in my throat?
“Mom, Joy prods with an insistence that says she has called my name several times.
My eyes fly to hers.
Who was that?”
“No one was shouting.
He was using your name.
He even said bastard.
I heard it from here.”
Leaving the window, I switch on a lamp.
I don’t want to see the ocean, the bluff, the boat.
I’m leaving it all to Anne.
But my daughter is mine.
I’m raising her to be different from my past.
And she isn’t a baby.
It was one of your grandfather’s neighbors."
“He only has one.
Anne was saying that remember, when she was here last time with Margo?”
Oh, I remember.
Murder was the conversation stopper, the horror issue, the visit-breaker.
Since Joy heard all that, I figure she’s old enough to hear more.
The guy who called is Jack Sabathian.
He’s Elizabeth’s son."
Her eyes go wide.
What did he say?"
I thumb in Anne’s cell, knowing my daughter will listen in.
The phone is approaching its fourth ring when my sister picks up.
I wonder if she was outside chasing after my father.
“What’s going on?
I ask as casually as I can.
You don’t usually call at night.
She seems innocent enough, but then, my sister is always innocent, thirty-seven going on twelve.
I swear, Joy is more savvy.
“Jack Sab just called.”
FromA Week at the Shoreby Barbara Delinsky.
Copyright 2020 by the author and reprinted by permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
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