She's Up to No Good(102)

“Put it on my tab.”

“I swear—”

“Little pitchers have big ears,” she warned, inclining her head toward the two girls, who sat huddled together in the back of the boat.

He stopped talking and started the boat back toward the marina.

When they returned, the furious boat owner was still there, along with another police officer. Evelyn put a hand on Tony’s arm as they neared the dock. “Take the girls home. I’ll deal with this.”

He looked at her, holding her gaze for a long moment. “You take them home. I can handle the owner.”

“You’re sure?”

Tony nodded. “I didn’t mean what I said, you know.”

Evelyn planted a long kiss on his cheek. “I know.” She wanted to say more, but she felt Anna’s eyes on her. “And thank you.”

He took her hand and squeezed it, then released her to ease the boat into its slip.

“Arrest them!” the owner cried.

The poor officer on the dock was at a loss, seeing his superior officer shirtless and damp, handing a woman and two children off the boat. “Captain?” he asked, scratching his head.

“To the car,” Evelyn said to Anna and Sofia. “Go. Now.” She turned to the irate man. “It’s all right now. The girls are safe. My dear sir, you are a hero. Thanks to your gallantly selfless performance of civic duty, Captain Delgado”—she looked back at Tony—“Captain? Impressive.” Tony suppressed a laugh. “Captain Delgado was able to rescue my daughter and his niece. I’m sure the newspaper would even write a story about your heroism today in lending us your boat, you wonderful, wonderful man.” She hugged him, still damp, kissed him on both cheeks, then flashed a dazzling smile at Tony. “Captain.”

And without a backward glance, she walked off toward her car.

“Wha—what just happened?” the other officer asked.

“Evelyn Bergman,” Tony said. “She’s a force of nature.”





CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT





Joe held my hand as we walked along the beach in the late morning, Jax playing in the waves next to us, the water lapping against our bare feet and ankles. When we got back, he picked up sandwiches from a shop across from the beach while I showered; my grandmother had asked me to take her to the cemetery in the afternoon, and Joe needed to pop into the gallery for a couple of hours.

“I’ll text you when we’re done, and I can just go to the cottage if you’re not back yet,” I said as I was leaving.

He shrugged and kissed me. “If you want. But I’ll leave the door unlocked. You can come back here whenever.”

My grandma was sitting on the sofa in the living room, shoes on, purse on her lap, when I arrived. There was no sign of Tony. “Where’s your boyfriend?” I asked.

“Where’s yours?” she replied tartly, rising from the sofa. I offered her a hand, and she swatted it away.

“What’s the cemetery called?” I asked, pulling up Google Maps.

“The cemetery.”

“No, like what’s the name, so I can find it?”

“It doesn’t have a name.”

I sighed and searched for Jewish cemeteries near me. “Is it in Gloucester?”

“I know the way.”

I set the Gloucester cemetery as our destination and followed the map’s first direction.

“Are you and Tony like together now?”

She peered at me over her ridiculously large sunglasses. “Are you and Joe?”

I laughed. “I think we are.”

“Then you should thank your great-grandmother at the cemetery for not letting me marry his great-uncle. You’d have been cousins.”

“Ew, Grandma, why?”

She grinned. “Because it’s fun to make you squirm, darling.”

The cemetery was small and labeled only with a sign that said “Jewish Cemetery” from the main road, the words Mt. Jacob almost illegibly carved on a stone at the entrance.

I parked the car in the tiny lot and helped her out. She stood for a moment, and I saw the weight of loss in her face. Her whole family was here except my grandfather. Then she took a deep breath and strode purposefully through the headstones. I followed, careful not to step on any graves, though she had no compunction about that.

Finally, she came to rest at a large, shared headstone that read Bergman at the top. The left said Joseph, giving only the year 1895 for his birth, and his death on June 8, 1980. Miriam’s birthdate was present on her side, in 1894, and her death in October 1978.

“Less than two years apart,” I said quietly.

“Papa was lost with her gone.” She stared contemplatively at the earth in front of her. “And then he had a stroke, a heart attack, and another stroke.” There was a slight tremor in her voice. “That was when Bernie sold his cottage. Between Papa’s medical bills and the full-time care he needed by then—he didn’t want to leave the Main Street house, you see. We had a family meeting and agreed one of the cottages had to go to pay for it all.” She sighed heavily. “I probably drove back and forth fifty times those last two years. But we lived so far away, and Richie wasn’t in college yet. I wasn’t much help.”