All the Beautiful Lies(6)

She couldn’t see it, but a cloud must have crossed the sun because she could feel a sudden coolness on her skin. She sat up too fast, becoming a little dizzy. She realized she must have fallen asleep. There were fewer people on the beach now, and her mom was packing up.

“Ready to go, Al?” she asked.





Chapter 3





Now



Harry couldn’t sleep that afternoon. He kept thinking back to the time after his mother had finally succumbed to cancer, and the immense anger that he, then a moody and truculent teen, had felt.

“We have each other now,” Bill had said, after the funeral, “it’s important to remember what we have, and not what we’ve lost.”

“Whatever you say,” Harry had replied, not making eye contact, and his father had let him get away with it. But what his father had said had stuck with Harry through the following years. He missed his mother constantly, but he did feel close to his bookish, low-key dad. It was a family of two. Not nearly enough, but it was what it was.

And now he was a family of one, Harry thought.

The vacuuming had stopped, and Harry stepped out of his room, went down the stairs, coughing purposefully when he reached the first floor so that he wouldn’t startle Alice. He entered the large front living room, spotted her lying on one of the sofas, the crook of her arm across her eyes as though she had a headache. He began to turn away when she said, “Harry, come in. Talk with me.”

“That’s okay. Keep sleeping.”

“No, no. Come here.”

Harry sat on the edge of the oldest upholstered chair in the room, a transplant from the Manhattan apartment, and said, “Have the police told you anything more?”

“They haven’t, but they’ll be doing a full autopsy.”

“It seems strange that he would fall.”

“Something else might have happened. He could have had a heart attack.”

“Do you think so?”

“It makes more sense to me than him suddenly slipping off the path and—”

“Had it rained?” Harry asked.

“Um, a few days ago, I think, but I don’t think the path would have been slippery. We’ll learn more from the autopsy. It’ll be important for you, too, Harry, in case, for instance, he had a weak heart.”

“Oh, right,” Harry said. The thought hadn’t occurred to him, that his father’s death at an early age might be a harbinger for him, as well, if it had been a natural death. He bit at the inside of his cheek, an old habit that was suddenly resurfacing, and wondered if he’d care if a doctor told him that his father had a weak heart that he’d inherited. He tried to feel something—some fear for his own future—but couldn’t. What would it matter?

Alice pushed forward a little on the sofa. “Your father was really looking forward to you coming here for the summer. He talked about it a lot.”

Harry, not trusting his own voice, nodded his head, and Alice immediately asked, “How was your coffee? Was it the way you like it?”

“Oh, it was fine,” Harry answered, then quickly added, “Better than fine. It was really good.”

“Thank you,” Alice said, placing her palms on her knees as though she was about to stand, and Harry added, “Don’t get up. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He stood. “Maybe I’ll take a walk or something.”

“Okay, Harry, that sounds nice,” she said. “If John’s in the store, then maybe you’d drop by and say hello. We’re both hoping you can help out a little. John won’t be able to . . .”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry said.

Alice’s gaze settled on the bay windows. “It’s staying light for so long these days,” she said. “Go for your walk.”

Outside, Harry exited the driveway and turned left onto York Street, walking down toward the few businesses that comprised Kennewick Village. His father’s store was flanked by a florist and an ice cream shop; all three shared a single-story brick building that had once been a lumber mill. Harry looked through the tinted plate-glass window stenciled with the words ackerson’s rare books. It was dark inside—no John Richards, his father’s elderly assistant—but there was enough light to see that the interior was cluttered with too much stock, stacks of books lining the edges of filled shelves. A flicker of movement made Harry jump. It was Lew, a Maine coon that lived in the store. Lew leapt onto the window’s display case, dipping his head and rubbing his tufted ears against a first edition of Peyton Place. Harry hoped the cat hadn’t been entirely forgotten since his father’s death. He’d ask Alice about it later.

Harry walked east, passing in front of the Cumberland Farms convenience store, then took the Old Post Road toward Kennewick Beach. He knew he was walking along the same route his father had most likely taken to get down to the cliff walk, but it was the direction he felt compelled to go, toward the ocean. He hadn’t yet decided whether he wanted to walk along the footpath and see if there was any sign of where his father had fallen. For now, he just wanted to move his legs, and be away from the house.

The Old Post Road took Harry to Sohier Road. Kennewick comprised four distinct sections. There was Kennewick Center, now mainly dispersed along Route 1A; Kennewick Village, with the town’s oldest buildings; Kennewick Beach, with its affordable rentals and campsite; and Kennewick Harbor, the most exclusive section of Kennewick, studded with weathered mansions and the two biggest resort hotels.