I realize I’ve said too much, and her gaze makes me uncomfortable. To my relief, the wayward child suddenly thumps along the hallway and the docent turns just as a three-year-old boy darts into the room. He makes a beeline for the fireplace tools, of course, and in a flash he’s pulled out the poker.

“Travis? Travis, where are you?” his mother calls from another room.

The docent snatches the poker out of the boy’s hands and places it out of reach on the mantelpiece. Through gritted teeth she says: “Young man, I’m sure your mommy can find a much better place for you to play.” She grabs the boy’s hand and half-leads him, half-drags him out of the room. “Let’s go find her, shall we?”

    I take that opportunity to quietly slip out of the room and make my way back down the staircase to the exit. I don’t want to talk to her, to anyone, about what happened to me in Brodie’s Watch. Not yet. Not when I myself am not certain of what I actually saw.

Or didn’t see.

I walk toward my car, joining the throngs of tourists on the street. The world of living, breathing people who do not drift through walls, who do not appear and disappear like wisps of shadow. Does there exist a parallel world that I cannot see, a world inhabited by those who came before us, who even now are walking this same path I walk? Squinting against the glare of sunlight, I can almost see Tucker Cove as it once was, horses clopping across cobblestones, ladies swishing by in long skirts. Then I blink and that world is gone. I am back in my own time.

And Jeremiah Brodie has been dead for a hundred and fifty years.

Grief suddenly overwhelms me, a sense of loss so profound that my steps falter. I come to a stop right there on the crowded sidewalk as people stream past me. I don’t understand why I’m crying. I don’t understand why the passing of Captain Brodie should fill me with such sorrow. I drop down onto a bench and rock forward, my body shaking with sobs. I know that I am not really weeping for Jeremiah Brodie. I weep for myself, for the mistake I’ve made and for what I have lost because of it. Just as I cannot bring back Captain Brodie, I cannot bring back Nick. They are gone, both of them ghosts, and my only escape from the pain is the blessed bottle that waits in my kitchen cabinet. How easily one drink becomes two, then three, then four.

That is how it all went wrong in the first place. A few too many glasses of champagne on a snowy New Year’s Eve. I can still hear the happy clink of glassware, feel bubbles fizz on my tongue. If only I could go back to that night and warn New Year’s Ava: Stop. Stop now while you still can.

    A hand touches my shoulder. I snap straight up on the bench and turn to see a familiar face frowning at me. It’s that doctor I met in the hardware store. I don’t remember his name. I certainly don’t want to talk to him, but he sits down beside me and asks quietly:

“Are you all right, Ava?”

I wipe away tears. “I’m fine. I just got a little dizzy. It must be the heat.”

“Is that all it is?”

“I’m perfectly okay, thank you.”

“I don’t mean to be nosy. I was just on my way to get coffee and you looked like you needed help.”

“What, are you the town psychiatrist?”

Unruffled by my retort, he asks gently, “Do you think you need one?”

I’m afraid to admit the truth, even to myself: Maybe I do. Maybe what I’ve experienced in Brodie’s Watch are the first signs of my sanity unraveling, the threads spooling away.

“May I ask, have you eaten anything today?” he says.

“No. Um, yes.”

“You’re not sure?”

“A cup of coffee.”

“Well then, maybe that’s the problem. I prescribe food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“How about just a cookie? The coffee shop’s right around the corner. I won’t force-feed you or anything. I just don’t want to have to stitch you up when you faint and hit your head.” He holds out his hand, an act of kindness that takes me by surprise and it seems rude to turn him down.

I take his hand.

He leads me around the corner and down a narrow side street to the No Frills Café, which turns out to be a disappointingly accurate description. Under fluorescent lights, I see a linoleum floor and a glass case with an unappetizing array of baked goods. It’s not a café I’d ever choose to step into, but it’s clearly a gathering place for locals. I spot the butcher from the grocery store biting into a cheese Danish and a mailman standing in line to pay for his cup of to-go coffee.

    “Have a seat,” the doctor says. I still can’t remember his name and I’m too embarrassed to admit it. I sit down at a nearby table, hoping someone will call him by name, but the girl behind the counter greets him with only a cheery “Hey, Doc, what’ll it be?”

The door swings open and yet another person I recognize steps into the café. Donna Branca has shed her blazer and the humidity has fluffed up her usually tidy helmet of blond hair. It makes her look younger, and I can see the girl she once must have been, sun-kissed and pretty, before adulthood forced her to don a businesswoman’s uniform. Spotting the doctor, she lights up and says, “Ben, I was hoping to run into you. Jen Oswald’s son is applying to medical school and you’d be the perfect man to give him advice.”

Ben. Now I remember. His name is Ben Gordon.

“I’d be happy to give him a call,” he says. “Thanks for letting me know.” As he heads toward my table, Donna stares after him. Then she stares at me, as if something is not right with this picture. As if I have no business sharing a table with Dr. Gordon.

“Here you go. That should get your blood sugar up,” he says and places a cookie in front of me. It’s the size of a saucer, thickly studded with chocolate chips.

I have absolutely no interest in eating this cookie, but to be polite I take a bite. It is irredeemably sweet, as boringly one-note as spun sugar. Even as a child, I knew that in every good recipe, sweet must be balanced with sour, salt with bitter. I think of the first batch of oatmeal raisin cookies I ever made by myself, and how eagerly Lucy and I had sampled the results after they came out of the oven. Lucy, always generous with praise, pronounced them the best ever but I knew better. Like life itself, cooking is about balance, and I knew that next time I must add more salt to the batter.

    If only every mistake in life could be so easily corrected.

“How is it?” he asks.

“It’s fine. I’m just not hungry.”

“Not up to your high standards? I’m told you make killer blueberry muffins.” At my raised eyebrow, he laughs. “I heard it from the lady at the post office, who heard it from Billy.”

“There really are no secrets in this town.”

“And how’s your mouse problem these days? Emmett at the hardware store predicted you’d be back within a week for more traps.”

I sigh. “I was planning to pick up some today. Then I got distracted at the historical society, and…” I fall silent as I notice that Donna, sitting alone a few tables away, is looking at us. Her eyes lock with mine, and her gaze unsettles me. As if she has caught me trespassing.

The door suddenly bangs open, and we all turn as a man wearing fishermen’s overalls lurches into the café. “Doc?” he calls out to Ben. “They need you down at the harbor.”

“Right now?”

“Right now. Pete Crouse just tied up at the landing. You need to see what he dragged outta the bay.”

“What is it?”

“A body.”

* * *

—

Almost everyone in the café follows Ben and the fisherman out the door. Curiosity is infectious. It forces us to look at what we do not really want to see, and like the others, I’m pulled along with the grim parade as it heads down the cobblestoned street toward the harbor. Clearly the news about a dead body has already spread and a small crowd stands gathered around the pier where a lobster boat has tied up. A Tucker Cove policeman spots Ben and waves.

    “Hey, Doc. It’s on deck, under the tarp.”

“I found it near Scully’s Rocks, tangled up in seaweed,” says the lobsterman. “Didn’t want to believe what I was seeing at first, but as soon as I snagged it with the boat hook, I knew it was real. Afraid I might’ve caused some, um, damage when I hauled it aboard. But I couldn’t leave it just drifting out there, and I was afraid it might sink. Then we’d never find it again.”

Ben climbs onto the lobster boat and approaches the blue plastic tarp, which covers a vaguely human shape. Although I can’t see what he’s looking at, I can read his appalled expression as he lifts up one corner of the tarp and stares at what lies beneath. For a long time he simply crouches there, confronting the horrors of what the sea can do to a human body. On the landing, the crowd has gone silent, respectful of this solemn moment. Abruptly Ben drops the tarp and looks up at the police officer. “You called the ME?”

“Yes, sir. He’s on his way.” The officer looks at the tarp and shakes his head. “I’m guessing it’s been in the water for some time.”

“A few weeks at least. And based on the size and what’s left of the clothing, it’s most likely a woman.” Grimacing, Ben rises to his feet and clambers off the lobster boat. “You have any current missing persons reports?”