Silence. Downstairs, she heard Julian and Armando laughing. Drinks were being poured. The clack of pool cues. The chime of the break.
‘Susan, answer me.’
‘There’s no Susan here,’ her daughter said dangerously from beneath her pile of quilts.
The Fort Cromwell Fair was always held the Saturday midway between Halloween and Thanksgiving, to celebrate the harvest and the season of gratitude. Everyone went. The Old Fairgrounds were miles from town, in the middle of nowhere. Driving past at any other time of year, you might see a tractor chuffing down the road. You’d be lucky to see another car. But around fair time, traffic was backed up for miles. The now-bare fields surrounding the grounds swarmed with the expensive import cars of urban daytrippers in search of local color.
Sarah had come with Meg and Mimi. They wandered around, gazing at prize pigs and champion steers. Clydesdales clopped by on their way to the horse pull. Since the fair was held so late, someone had gotten the idea to put Santa in the hayride, and a wagon full of little kids singing ‘Jingle Bells’ rattled past.
Mimi had gotten a camera for her birthday. She was taking pictures of everything, but she wanted to do everything too: eat cotton candy, take the hayride, run through the haunted house, ride the Ferris wheel. It was the conflict between being a total kid and starting to grow up a little. Sarah remembered Mike at that age and wished he were there.
‘Want to ride the Ferris wheel?’ Meg asked. ‘I think I’ll take Mimi.’
‘You two go ahead,’ Sarah said. ‘I’m going to find some hot chocolate.’
They agreed to meet by the paint-on-tattoo booth in an hour. Heading toward the refreshment area, Sarah felt exhilarated. Fairs always did this to her: the crowds, the animals, bells ringing everywhere. She said hello to a few people she knew, mainly college kids who came into her store.
She wore a black bowler hat, black jeans, and Zeke’s old leather bomber jacket. For some reason, she had felt like wearing it. Since it had belonged to Mike’s father, she hardly ever wore it when Mike was around. Seeing it brought forth too many questions. Sarah had so few of Zeke’s things, and they all seemed to stir Mike into asking things Sarah couldn’t answer. Once Mike had asked her why his father had given her his jacket, and Sarah couldn’t even bring herself to tell him the truth: that Zeke hadn’t given it to her at all. That she had borrowed it on her own and never given it back, that she had wanted so much more.
‘One hot chocolate,’ she said to the elderly man behind the counter.
‘Marshmallows in that?’ he asked.
‘No thanks,’ Sarah said, imagining the evil health risks of even one. She felt healthier all the time. She wasn’t going to throw it all away on a marshmallow, even though she really wanted it.
The cardboard cup was scalding hot. Glancing around for napkins, she saw a separate counter with squeeze bottles of ketchup and mustard and napkins and straws. A man was blocking her way. He was tall and big-shouldered, and he was wearing a leather jacket almost exactly like hers.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, leaning around him to get a napkin.
‘Hi, Sarah,’ he said, sounding surprised and happy.
‘Hi!’ Sarah said. It was the pilot, Will Burke. She had worked herself practically under his arm to reach the napkins, and he was holding his hot dog aloft to keep the relish from spilling on her. They untwisted themselves and stood back, smiling.
‘Good to see you,’ he said.
‘You too. How have you been?’
‘I’ve been fine,’ he said, tilting his head as if he were thinking that one over. ‘How about you?’
‘Great,’ Sarah said. ‘Really great. What brings you to the fair? Are you here with Secret?’
‘Secret?’ he frowned. ‘Oh, Susan. You’ve met her?’
‘She stopped by my store.’
He laughed, shaking his head. ‘“Secret.” It gets me every time. We gave her a perfectly nice name: Susan. Not that we didn’t think of something more exotic. Delphine comes to mind for some reason, but we didn’t want her to be embarrassed. You know?’
Sarah nodded. Will was laughing, but his eyes were barely smiling. He looked like a man with something weighing heavily on his mind, but she didn’t know him well enough to ask. Maybe he and his wife weren’t getting along. Never having been married herself, Sarah was no expert.
‘She’s a nice girl,’ Sarah said. ‘No matter what she calls herself. That’s the important part.’
‘So you wouldn’t worry about it?’
‘Personally, no. I wouldn’t.’
‘Hmm.’ He frowned again. He seemed to have lost all interest in his hot dog, which was piled high with relish, chili, and onions. ‘Because her mother thinks it’s a danger sign. Some kind of call for help. I don’t know.’
‘I wouldn’t want to second-guess your wife,’ Sarah began.
‘Ex-wife,’ Will said.
‘But it doesn’t seem all that dangerous to me. She’s fifteen, just trying out new things. It could be worse –’ Sarah said.
‘Drugs,’ Will said solemnly.
‘Exactly. She’s just figuring out who she is. You know?’
Will nodded. He obviously felt better, because he started eating his hot dog again. His face and hands were weathered, the constant tan of a man who loved to be outside. He had curly graying brown hair with all-gray streaks at the temples. For a man who had been in the navy, it looked a little long. His eyes were startling, as dark blue as a Maine bay.
‘Is she here?’ Sarah asked, looking around.
‘Secret?’ he asked, grinning. ‘No, she’s home. I’m here for work. I take people up for rides – like the one I gave you – to see Fort Cromwell from the air.’
‘That was a great ride. I’ve thought of it often.’
‘You have?’
‘Yes. It was the first time I knew –’ She took a sip of hot chocolate to buy a little time, get past the emotion.
‘Knew what?’
‘That I’m okay again,’ she said. Smiling, she felt radiant, as if she were shining with health and happiness from the inside out. She shivered, but it was from the thrill of existing, of standing outside on a crisp fall day, not from the cold.
‘I’m glad about that,’ Will said. He touched her arm.
An idea came upon her. It must have been brewing, because for the last few nights she had lain awake, wondering whether she should go home to Elk Island for Thanksgiving, how she would get there if she did. Because when she asked the question, it seemed as if she had it all planned.
‘Do you ever take long-distance charters? To Maine, for example?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Lots of times. Where in Maine?’
‘Elk Island.’
He closed his eyes as if he were trying to picture it on a chart. Sarah helped him out.
‘It’s far up there,’ she said. ‘Past Penobscot Bay, almost to Mount Desert. Just a tiny little island way out at sea.’
‘Does