The Accomplice(79)

Owen was hardly a monk that year. There were girls, all kinds of girls, too many girls to count. What he liked best about these girls was their accents. After that it was that none of them knew about Scarlet. He didn’t have to fight any preconceived ideas people might have about him, other than being American, which he apologized for whenever possible. Later, tired of apologizing, he’d say he was Canadian. He decided on Halifax, because he liked saying Halifax.

Luna’s letters were less informative about her day-to-day. She figured Owen wouldn’t want to know about anything Markham-related. She thought he ought to know more about Halifax if he was claiming it as his hometown. She wrote a three-page letter including a serviceable history of Halifax and a collection of trivia to strengthen his story. Did you know Halifax has more pubs per capita than any other city in Canada? Every August, Halifax hosts a busker festival. Lobster and scallops you can find in abundance, so don’t get too excited if you find them on a London menu. Halifax scallops will always taste better. Luna almost wished Owen had gone to Halifax instead of London. It sounded like a great place, and she wouldn’t have to buy a plane ticket.



* * *



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After his months alone in the rambling Berkshires house with only his brother and Luna as company, it had taken Owen a few weeks to shake off the feeling that everyone hated him. He tried to remember, to repeat, to imprint in his brain, Luna’s parting words of advice: People don’t know what you think they know. On the whole, Owen thought that was good advice. However, some people did know about Luna.

It wasn’t long before Owen had a small set of friends he could drink, hang, and frequent museums with. One night he made plans to meet a friend at the Three Legs in Camden Town. The friend couldn’t make it and called the pub. Tessa, the bartender, delivered the message and kindly offered Owen a pint on the house. Not that he needed it. He was already blotto. Tessa accused Owen of being a Yank. He told her he was from Halifax. Then a girl with blue hair sat down next to him. It was the hair that got your attention, but the rest of her kept it. She was almost too striking, he thought. She was all cheekbones and long limbs and way too skinny. Some guys were into that. Owen didn’t usually go for that type. It reminded him of his mother. But the blue-haired girl had other things going for her. The bartender made introductions.

“Owen from Halifax, meet…uh—wait, remind me,” Tessa said.

“Phoebe from Sheffield,” the blue-haired girl said. “Hi, Owen.”

“Hi, Phoebe from Sheffield,” Owen said. “I like your hair.”

He wasn’t lying. The hair grounded her appearance. It drew attention and deflected it. Phoebe figured out that Owen wasn’t Canadian as soon as he said, “Hi, Phoebe.”

“Never been to Halifax,” Phoebe said with a heavy northern accent.

“Glad to hear it,” Owen said.

“Tell me about it,” Phoebe said.

“It’s a great place to visit. We’ve got more pubs per capita than anywhere else in Canada.”

“And, tell me, what do Halifaxians do for fun?”

“Haligonians,” Owen said, delighted to have that correction on hand. “We drink. Wasn’t that clear?”

“What’s the population of Halifax?”

“Few hundred thousand,” Owen said.

“Sport?”

“Hockey.”

“What’s your team?”

“I’m a Moosehead,” Owen said.

“When you’re rooting for your team, what team are you rooting against?” Phoebe asked.

Owen knew she was trying to trip him. “I give up,” Owen said, dipping into a whisper. “I’m from Boston. Please don’t tell anyone.”

“No!” Phoebe said, feigning shock.

Having used the Canadian bluff herself, she didn’t hold it against him. Still, she maintained her heavy northern accent and never suggested that they had a country of origin in common. She didn’t want to be herself, especially that night.

Owen watched Phoebe devour another bowl of pretzels.

“Why don’t we get some real food?” Owen suggested.

The new friends left the bar and found a chip shop down the road. Phoebe inhaled her order—so fast that Owen briefly wondered if she’d slyly tossed the newspaper cone of potatoes when he wasn’t looking.

“That was impressive,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “What should we do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Want to come back to my place? We’ve got a good liquor cabinet.”

Owen hesitated. The we threw him. He thought she might be trying to get even with a boyfriend.

“No pressure. Just to hang,” Phoebe clarified, noting his pause.

Owen asked about the first-person plural. Phoebe clarified that her mother owned the apartment but she wouldn’t be home. Owen and Phoebe left the shop and headed back to the apartment. Phoebe picked up a couple of bags of crisps on the way.

“This is it,” Phoebe said, nodding at a well-kept Edwardian structure surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Owen followed Phoebe through a pristine foyer that had a couch and coffee table and then up two flights of stairs. She stopped in front of a door and put her ear to it, listening. Owen thought he might have heard a male voice inside. Phoebe said, “Run,” in an urgent whisper, and they raced down the hall and took the stairs.