Grabbing a pen from the basket on the sink, she scribbled on a scrap: Gone to get some groceries. V. She stuck the note to her mother’s fridge with a Welcome to Glen Cove magnet. Of course the magnet had waves and gulls and a lighthouse. Everything in Glen Cove was sea-orientated: seafood restaurants, boat rentals, souvenir shops brimming with shell-decorated photo frames and postcards of the harbor with all the fishing boats. Vicky’s gift shop wouldn’t sell any of that. It would focus on bringing a British touch to life, be it through exclusive home decoration articles, china, clothing, books or tea. It would fill a niche.
At least that was what Vicky had told herself when she had thought up the idea in the comfort of her London pad. She had made sketches of what her store would look like, inside and out, had written long lists of the products she might sell, had visited websites of potential suppliers. She had even already ordered a set of china with rosebud décor, because she had been so certain she could sell it either way.
Every step had fed the fire inside, even the little setbacks of estimating costs and hearing from suppliers they were reluctant to deliver to someone whose name was not established. That only made it a challenge, and challenges were fun. She had missed them as she had settled into the routine of writing her successful travel columns. Ten years had about exhausted every wedding venue and secret hideaway anyway.
And life began at forty, right?
Just as her hand was on the back door handle, a voice behind her back said, “Wait, I’ll come with you. I want to show you some changes in town.”
Vicky froze, surprised that Claire had resurfaced so soon. “I thought it was Pam on the line.”
“Had to go baby-sit her granddaughter. She only called to say Roberts put his place up for sale. The next to leave. This town is drying up.” The sadness in Claire’s voice could not be missed.
Vicky swallowed. In summer when the tourists flooded in, the town flourished, presenting that postcard idyll holidaymakers longed for. It was like the incoming tide, bringing unsuspected riches to the shore. But in fall the tide became outgoing as the ocean that had lured the tourists now drove them away, cold gusts of wind whipping the sharp sand across the deserted beach and even into the windowsills of cottages that were no longer let.
Winter months were dark and depressing when the bell over your store door didn’t ring once in a whole day.
It was possible to stay afloat as a store owner if you had a second source of income, from fishing for instance. If you had to live off the store alone, it was harder. Especially if the store concept you wanted was something quite new for the town. It could become a major hit or a terrible disaster. That latter possibility stared Vicky in the face. As she had given up on her life in London, her career, her friends, there was no way back either.
Claire came up to her. “Come on, Coco.”
Nails scratched on the floorboards, and a cuddly white bichon frise ran past Claire up to Vicky, whining for a pat. Vicky smiled as she leaned down to scratch the doggy behind the ears. Her shoe-box apartment hadn’t allowed her to have pets. Here she intended to take full advantage of the nearness of her mother’s beloved lapdogs. “Where’s Mr. Pug?”
“On his walk.”
“His begging tour, you mean.” Mr. Pug always took a morning stroll on his own, just down the road and back, around the time when people went to their mailboxes or left for shopping. His cute black face usually persuaded them to give him a cookie or another snack.
“He likes the good life.” Claire leaned down with the leash in her hand. “Come here, Coco; be a sweet girl now.”
With a playful yap the dog jumped just out of Claire’s reach.
Claire sighed. “Stand still now, girl. Come on.”
“Let me do that,” Vicky said, trying to pull the leash from her mother’s hand. Coco could be just like a naughty toddler staying out of reach.
“I can put my own dog on the leash,” Claire protested, tearing the leash away and leaning even further to clip it onto Coco’s collar. “Turning seventy doesn’t make one weak or senile.”
Vicky held her breath, worried that the playful dog would scoot away again and Claire would hurt her back. Her mother had suffered from joint trouble for some time now, although in her letters she had always pretended everything was fine. But Vicky had seen the tightness in her mother’s facial muscles this morning as she had struggled to get the lid off the tin with biscuits.
“There.” Claire put the leash in place and straightened up with a satisfied grunt. She cast Vicky a glance. “That retirement home Emma was raving about doesn’t even allow pets.”
“I didn’t know Emma had any pets,” Vicky said innocently, although she knew full well what her mother was driving at. Ever since Vicky had told Claire she was coming home, Claire was convinced it was a conspiracy to get her out of her cottage and her independent life and into a retirement home. The idea of losing her freedom, and her dogs, set her mother’s blood on fire. But Claire did need someone to be close to her and cater discreetly to her needs. Board up the cottage windows when a storm was about to blow in, get an old photo album out of the attic. Or just spend a night together watching Claire’s favorite gardening show. But if Vicky really wanted to help her, everything would have to be done in a way that made Claire feel like she was still doing everything on her own.
“There is Mr. Pug now,” Vicky said quickly and opened the back door to meet the dog halfway along the driveway. She squatted and patted his sturdy body. Mr. Pug grunted in satisfaction, tilting his face up to her. The crumbs around his mouth looked a lot like blueberry muffin.
Just a few feet away from them the Glen Cove Gazette rested in the grass, thrown there by the newspaper boy who never bothered to get off his bike. The whole front page seemed to be taken up by a photograph of a stunningly beautiful woman.
A woman who seemed somehow familiar.
“Celine…” Vicky said under her breath.
A chill went up her spine, and she scrambled to her feet. Snatching the newspaper up from the grass, her hands began to tremble. She stared into those familiar eyes. It was a stunning portrait of the girl who had gone missing over twenty years ago, but somehow more mature, even more commanding in her stark classic beauty. The blonde hair so soft around her face, the eyes a little sad, boring their way straight into the beholder’s heart.
Celine Dobbs’ disappearance had been a life-changing event for the entire town. Also for Vicky herself. Looking out of her window at night seeing the searchlights on the beach where workers combed the caves for a dead body…
Somehow her hometown hadn’t felt the same anymore. Perhaps that had even pushed her to become a foreign correspondent and leave the States altogether. Leave behind a confusing time of insecurity for a whole new life far away. First in Switzerland, then in the UK.
Frowning, Vicky read the thick black letters above the photograph: Missing girl’s twin: Reopen case.
So it was not Celine in the picture.
No, of course not, how could it have been? Celine had vanished at nineteen. This woman was of Vicky’s own age, but still with that ageless beauty that had made the Dobbs twins legendary in the area. This had to be…
Vicky dug through her memories. What had Celine’s sister been called?
Diane?
Yes, her name was in the piece below. Diane Dobbs.
Vicky held the paper up to Claire. “Didn’t Diane leave for Europe to study there?”
Claire nodded. “Got married there, has kids.”
Vicky ignored