Never Doubt Me: Judge Me Not #2(78)

“Oh, Maddy, I am so excited,” Ami interrupted. “Only one more month.”

She rubbed her stomach, her hand gliding over the big, clear buttons on her powder-blue raincoat. Standing there—ash-blond hair cascading down her shoulders in big, bouncy curls and a smile as vibrant as ever—Ami radiated happiness.

I’d forgotten how pretty she was, and pregnancy certainly agreed with her. Truly pleased for my once dear friend, I said, “How’s Sean? Thrilled, I bet.”

“Very.”

“Do you know if you’re having a boy or a girl?”

“Um, no.” Ami hesitated and pressed her lips together. She took an inordinate amount of time to adjust the umbrella to block the swirling winds that were starting to kick up all around us, and added flatly, “We’d rather be surprised.”

“Oh,” I said slowly, “OK.”

An awkward silence ensued, and we both watched as a fast-food wrapper of some sort blew by us. It adhered to the trunk of my car, and Ami reached to snatch it up. “Nice car,” she murmured, crumpling the wrapper in her palm and dragging a finger through the beading raindrops. “Sean would love a BMW.”

There was something in her tone, something that made me feel self-conscious. Being a best-selling author of several novels allowed me to enjoy perks, such as my burgundy M6, back in Los Angeles. Flashy sports cars were a dime a dozen in California. But I’d forgotten, the people from this part of my life remembered me best as quiet, unassuming Madeleine Fitch—daughter of beloved and low-key widower, Mayor William V. Fitch.

“Thanks,” I mumbled as I shifted away, shivering as icy raindrops began to pelt the back of my head.

Ami stuffed the crumpled wrapper in her raincoat pocket and said, “Uh, we should start over to the ferry. Jennifer is expecting us by two.” And just like that, everything was back to normal.

Jennifer Weston and her cousin, Brody, owned the only two passenger ferries that operated out of Cove Beach. During the summer, in addition to the usual service, the Westons offered whale-watching excursions, usually for tourists passing through on the much less-traveled route to Canada. Or sometimes folks would venture up from Bar Harbor to explore this quiet little area, since it was relatively close. Not to mention somewhat infamous. But now that we were well into September, there’d be no whale watchers, no curiosity seekers. The ferries would be used strictly as transportation between Harbour Falls and my destination today, Fade Island.

A rocky and rugged landmass, mostly covered in thick, impenetrable forests, the island was located several miles from the mainland. While the eastern half remained untouched wilderness, the western half had seen its share of development over the years. Long ago a tiny fishing village had sprung up near the docks, and several Cotswold-style cottages were built to house the fishermen and their families.

Over time those early settlers dispersed, and the state had the cottages converted into rental properties. When I was growing up in Harbour Falls, it was not uncommon for families to spend at least a part of their summer vacation over on Fade Island. But I’d never been there. Not once. Eventually, as the residents of Harbour Falls expanded their vacation horizons, fewer and fewer people came to the island, and the cottages soon fell into disrepair.

But all that changed a few years back when the state of Maine sold the island to a private party. Almost immediately money poured in. The little fishing town was renovated, giving it a quirky, art deco uplift. The rental cottages were refurbished and made modern but in such a way as to retain their charm.

And a former resident of Harbour Falls—a man named Adam Ward—had a huge home in the style of Frank Lloyd Wright built overlooking the sea on the northern end of the island. Really it was more like a compound, complete with a private dock, a set of garages, even an airfield. It was hard to believe I’d once gone to school with the guy.

I had searched and searched to see if Adam had been the person who’d bought the island. It made sense, with the fancy home and all. But I came up empty-handed. The real estate transaction I culled from public records listed only a limited liability company with a bogus name as the owner. And the bogus name led me back to Harbour Falls Realtors but not to Adam. So the owner wished to remain anonymous. That was fine with me. I was tired of running around in circles.

One thing I knew for certain: Ami, as an agent of Harbour Falls Realtors, handled the business of renting out the cottages to a now-steady stream of wealthy summer vacationers looking for a private retreat. But Ami had no idea, in my case, she was about to rent to someone with a secret reason for wanting to stay on Fade Island.

It wasn’t the peace and solitude touted in the online brochure that I sought. Nor did I have a desire to just hang out in a nicely renovated cottage. Not even that picturesque lighthouse depicted on Ami’s business card, and located on the far southeastern tip of the island, held any appeal. Many a painter and photographer had traveled to the island to capture the image of the tall, imposing structure that harkened back to days past. Positioned at the end of a rocky peninsula and standing sentry in the shadow of a curved shelf of steep, jutting cliffs, the lighthouse was an artist’s dream, even if it was no longer in use. But I wasn’t here for that either.

No, I was much more intrigued by something the brochure failed to mention: the huge, private estate overlooking the sea on the other end of the island. To be more precise, I was intrigued by the sole occupant of that estate, the former Harbour Falls resident, Adam Ward. In fact, I’d purposely chosen the cottage closest to his home as the one I wished to view.