Those Cassabaw Days (2 page)

A slight grin lifted the corner of his mouth, and he reached down with his bony fingers and broke the two wings apart.

“What’d you do that for—” Emily began.

Matt flipped each wing over, and Emily stared. Inside each shell, a name.
Matt
in one, and
Em
in the other. She lifted her gaze to his as he claimed the one with her name.

“This is for you to remember me by,” Matt offered. “Since you like ’em and all. I’ll keep yours, see, and you keep mine.” Then his brows furrowed. “It doesn’t mean boyfriend and girlfriend, or anything stupid like that.” He drew closer, his voice dropping once more to a whisper. “It just means best friends. Forever.” His eyes softened. “No matter what.”

A sob escaped her throat as she flung her arms around Matt’s neck. His skinny arms went around Emily, and he hugged her hard.

“No matter what,” Emily repeated against his damp shoulder. “Forever.”

“Emily, darling, it’s time to go.” Grandpa’s deep voice sounded behind them. They broke apart and, once more, Matt swiped Emily’s tears away with his fingers. Her grandpa gently grasped her hand and led her away.

Emily’s vision blurred as more tears filled her eyes, and even more pain returned. She watched the mossy ground move under her feet as she walked, and she’d kick an occasional pinecone when it got in her way. The rain had eased up, and the salty brine of the Back River wafted through the cemetery. Moss hung from the live oaks like ratty old hair, and puffy dandelions swayed with the breeze. She didn’t once look up, but she knew Matt followed, just a little behind. At her grandparents’ Bronco, she turned and met her best friend’s gaze. Matt stared hard and didn’t say anything, seemed almost angry, and she stared back. In her palm, she squeezed her Matt angel wing shell tightly.

Grandpa opened her door, and Matt mouthed the word
bye
.

Emily, her heart in her throat, mouthed it back.

She climbed in, and as the Bronco began to move away, the U-Haul heavy behind it, Emily kept her eyes trained on Matt Malone, standing there in his white shirt, crooked black tie and dress pants, his hand lifted in goodbye. She raised her hand, too, and didn’t look away until her grandpa turned out of the cemetery’s long driveway, heading toward the interstate.

Then, Emily reached over the seat to grasp little Reagan’s hand, closed her eyes and silently said goodbye to her home.

CHAPTER ONE

Cassabaw Station
Present day
Late May

E
MILY
Q
UINN WAITED
in a single line of four or five cars as the big steel bridge to the island broke apart, each side rising high. The warm early-afternoon sun poured in and warmed her skin. Fats Waller’s “Ain’t Misbehavin’”
played as she watched the large shrimp trawler pass beneath her. She turned the volume up, the trumpets and trombones and tenor saxophones of the vintage twenties music she loved so much coming to life through the speakers. Down the river, stilt houses and wooden docks hugged the water and marsh grass. She was almost home. Moments later, after the trawler had passed safely below, the bridge lowered, and she was again on her way, heading off the mainland and onto the island.

The early-summer wind whipped through the Jeep’s open doors and top and Emily inhaled, filling her lungs until they squeezed against her ribs.

Emily peered ahead down the stretched two-lane highway. Palms and oleander trees lined the narrow seven-mile tract of road over the marsh to Cassabaw Station, and it was just as she’d remembered. A tinge of excitement raced through her body, making her skin tingle. She had missed this—
the
salt life
, her daddy had called it. She remembered only hazy bits and pieces of her past, but that one in particular stood out. That, and her father’s sandy-blond curls.

The humidity lingered as heavy as the brine of the creek—so much that it clung to her skin, her tongue. Emily swept her gaze to either side of the road as she drove. Rudy Vallée sang “As Time Goes By”
and she hummed along, and somehow the vintage music fit right into the feel of Cassabaw. Low tide and clumps of saw grass hugged the edge of the muck. Oyster shoals rose in scattered little hills from the water and blinked in the sunlight.

Across the marsh, a lone white shrimp trawler sat anchored to the pilings, its masts and outriggings jutting skyward. Multiple docks stretched out over the saw grass to the water. Several had small tin-roofed dock houses. One of them now belonged to Emily and her younger sister.

Not for the first time since leaving Maryland a jolt of self-doubt shot through her, an unfamiliar sensation to Emily. Had she made the right decision? Was this new life, this brand-new start in the place where she’d grown up, really for her? Emily wasn’t fond of these niggling, questioning fears because it was more typical of her character to ponder, make a sound decision and be done with it. Stick to it and be confident in it.

Now, she questioned herself. Was it just butterflies? The return home after so many years? Her dad’s old aunt Cora—Emily’s last living relative, save Reagan—had passed away and left them the river house and the Windchimer, a seaside breakfast-and-lunch café. With Reagan now in the air force and deployed to Afghanistan, and Emily’s recent breakup, there had been no better time to accept.

It
was
a good decision. It had to be. In truth, Cassabaw had been pulling at her for some time. She’d been unsettled with her retail manager’s job, with her relationship and the hustle and bustle of the city, and politics. Alone in Bethesda, or alone in Cassabaw? Somehow things didn’t seem so rimmed with despair on the island, even though she’d still be alone. The city never was her cup of tea. Now? The opportunity to leave it had been perfect. The therapist she’d had, so very long ago, had informed Emily that she suffered abandonment issues. Maybe. Possibly.

A couple of months earlier, Emily’s boyfriend had ended their relationship. She’d met Trent Hughes her sophomore year of college where they’d both played lacrosse for Mount St. Mary’s University. He was nice. Generous. Safe. Charming. Athletic. Everyone liked Trent. She may have even loved him, really, and had at the very least fancied the idea of growing old together. At first, she’d been hurt by the breakup. Hurt and rejected.

But politics and business—and his mother—always came first with Trent. And from the start Emily, with her spontaneity, her quirky love of the twenties and thirties and otherwise average life, just didn’t fit in with Trent’s political upper-crust Georgetown family—no matter how hard she’d tried. Mrs. Hughes definitely wasn’t thrilled about her dating Trent. The longer they stayed together, the bolder those facts became to Emily. Trent had always assured her he loved her the way she was, but over the past several months that assuredness didn’t really sit well with Emily and she had no doubt Allegoria Hughes had been a major factor in Trent’s decision to break things off. Emily, possessing a mammoth amount of pride, didn’t fight his decision—and that surprised Trent. And when the opportunity arose to move back home, she knew it was right. She wanted Cassabaw, not the Capital. She didn’t want someone to just merely accept her the way she was. At twenty-seven, her whole life lay ahead. Alone, she supposed it didn’t really matter. She’d make it work no matter what.

Finally, after fifteen long years, she was home. She inhaled deeply, letting the breath escape her pursed lips. Yes, indeed. It felt right.

Emily’s eyes slipped over the long, narrow road, crossing the marsh and river as she passed. The USCG station entrance stood ahead on the left. Matt Malone instantly rushed to the front of her memories. She fondly remembered her neighbor, Mr. Malone, as being part of the Coast Guard. He had worn his Coast Guard hat, and had really big muscles. Matt was his middle son and had been her very best friend. The years that separated them had somewhat dulled their old life together.

Now that she was back on Cassabaw...? Matt Malone seemed solid, real. Kind of like he would be waiting on the path that ran between their houses; a lanky twelve-year-old boy with a wide, toothy grin and emerald-green eyes. Random silly things they did as kids rushed back like a pot of water boiling over fast. Climbing trees. Eating wild blackberries that grew beside the keeper’s cottage. Racing up the steps to the lighthouse. Crabbing off the floating dock. Chasing fireflies in the summer. Dancing decades-old dances Matt’s Irish grandfather had taught them. So many recollections...

Emily had bumped into Mr. Malone—Owen—and his old sea-dog father, Jep, at Aunt Cora’s funeral in King’s Ferry, and told them she was moving back to Cassabaw. Emily hadn’t spoken long to the Malones, but Owen had told her that Matt had joined the marines right after high school. When she’d returned to Bethesda after the funeral she’d tried to find him on Facebook, but nothing. All she could find when she did an internet search was an old picture in the
Cassabaw Station Gazette
. A cocky, proud, eighteen-year-old newly enlisted Matt Malone. Even seeing that picture had been strange; he looked like Matt, yet different. More mature. Still a kid, though. She tried hard to picture crazy little Matt Malone grown-up, and it was nearly impossible. What had driven him to join the marines? To leave Cassabaw?

Matt Malone. Was he married now? With kids? God, how weird, she thought, to think of that little prankster with kids of his own. She’d have to visit the Malones and find out for herself.

The speed limit dropped to forty-five as she edged closer to the small island’s city limits. a large sign displayed a hand-painted beach, with sea-oat-covered sand dunes and the familiar black-and-white lighthouse against the picture-perfect gray blue of the Atlantic.
Welcome to Cassabaw Station
stretched in a half circle of wide black letters at the top. At the very bottom, in the right-hand corner, the artist left her mark with a single dandelion, its wispy little petals floating up and away.

In the center of the flower, the letters
KQ
were
inscribed. Emily remembered it well.
Katie Quinn
. Emily had the same dandelion tattooed onto her shoulder, the petals scattering up and over. Trent had always liked it; his mother despised it. She’d said tattoos were a little on the
distasteful
side. But Emily loved her body art. Loved what it meant to her. And on her shoulder it would stay. Forever.

Her eyes skimmed over her hand as it gripped the Jeep’s steering wheel. There, on her inner wrist, her parents’ birth year was forever embedded with black ink.
1965
. Trent’s mother had disliked that one even more.

“You can do this, you can do this,” Emily encouraged herself out loud. A burst of confidence surged through her, and she squealed. “Yes! I can do this!” It’d be her new mantra.

Although dying to see the Windchimer, she decided to go to the river house first. Then, later, the island cemetery. Emily heaved a gusty sigh and pressed the clutch, downshifting to Third as the speed limit declined again. Suddenly, the Jeep sputtered, almost stalling. With her foot pressing the clutch, Emily shifted back into fourth. The transmission lurched, but finally caught the gear.

“Oh, well, that’s just supergreat.” Emily could do many things, but working on cars was not one of them.

Ahead on the right was the same old Chappy’s IGA and Fuel Stop. As she approached, Emily noticed the brightly colored beach towels, the foam wakeboards and the variety of kites that still lined both of the wide picture windows of the storefront. Up ahead and around the big curve to the right she knew were the beachfront, pavilion, pier and boardwalk. Had it changed in fifteen years? She could hardly wait to find out.

Emily’s heartbeat quickened as she hit the left-turn signal and downshifted again. This time, the Jeep simply sputtered. She passed the lively little cottages from the twenties and thirties that hadn’t changed a bit. Painted in colors varying from pink to green to baby blue, and decorated in nautical themes, they sat nestled beneath oak trees draped in Spanish moss and aged wisteria vines. Scrub palms graced every yard. Yes, everything was exactly as Emily had remembered. She, Reagan, Matt and his brothers had trick-or-treated here every single Halloween. Made out like bandits, too. They’d last been zombies, walking through the streets, moaning and dragging their legs. God, what fun they’d had.

Just then, the Cassabaw Station Lighthouse came into view, jutting skyward. Sitting directly across from it was old Fort Wilhem—the Civil War fort. How many times had she and Reagan climbed those spiral steps clear to the top and looked out over the Atlantic? She and Matt, too.

Emily continued around the curb. Soon the cottages grew sparse, and through the canopy of moss and live oaks, the sunlight blinked in and out. She slowed and scanned the mailboxes that sat at the entrance of each long, shady driveway. Clark. Harden. Malone.

“Quinn,” she whispered as her gaze found the large rural mailbox. The name was faded now, painted in big swirling letters so long ago by her mom. Great-Aunt Cora had lived in the house after the accident, unmarried and without kids, and had run the café until she passed at seventy-six. Emily drew another deep breath as she eased onto the narrow driveway.

More recollections swamped her as she crept down the azalea-lined driveway, and they were fond ones. Happy. And so thick you had to brush them away with your hand like a swarm of gnats. Massive oaks and magnolia trees with blooms the size of softballs formed a shady awning over the two Quinn acres and, before long, the old whitewashed river house came into view.

Just then, the Jeep’s engine coughed, sputtered and died. Close to the wide, raised porch, Emily coasted to a stop and threw the Jeep into Neutral. Yanking the emergency brake, she leaned back against her seat and blew out a breath of relief.
Barely made it.
She would need a mechanic sooner than ASAP. But for now, she was finally home. With excitement, she pulled her shades off and drank it all in.

Crickets and cicadas chirped a deafening chorus. The saw grass rustled as the wind rushed through the salt marsh. The oyster shoals bubbled in the low-tide mud. And although it was only late May, the moisture hung so thick that it stuck to Emily’s skin like a sopping wet blanket. Her eyes drifted to the front porch, where her mom’s hydrangea bushes still sat, full of wide green leaves and almost-ready blooms. God, she loved it here. Why had it taken poor Aunt Cora’s passing for her to come back? She’d been so busy with school, then college, then she’d met Trent, work... Time had just flown by. With her eyes closed, she inhaled, and let her senses take over.