Then he strode from the room, the triangle of broken glass still clutched in his hand.
Olivia tapped the end of her pen against her lip. She reviewed her notes on the earlier sections of the chapter in which she had complimented Camden on the strength of voice in the first six pages and how well he had conveyed the emotions of his characters. She also suggested that he might incorporate more setting details and questioned the choice of Bradley Talcott’s name.
Isn’t that rather close to the young man’s real name? she had written on page one.
Frowning, Olivia put down her pen and walked over to the window. She checked her watch and then waved at Haviland. “Let’s grab some dinner before our fellow writers appear.”
An hour later, the members of the Bayside Book Writers began to arrive. Harris was the first to use the polished brass knocker in the shape of a starfish. It looked just like the necklace belonging to Olivia’s mother and Olivia felt it was a fitting memorial to the person she’d cherished most.
When she opened the cottage door to welcome Harris inside, he unsettled Olivia by giving her a hug and a quick, friendly peck on the cheek.
“This place is awesome!” he said, the ruddy skin on his face deepening a shade as he removed his arms from Olivia’s shoulders. “It’s the perfect setting for discussions. We are going to accomplish things here!”
“That’s what I was going for,” Olivia replied with a smile, surprised at how much she had wanted Harris to respond exactly as he had. She hadn’t realized, until the moment the first Oyster Bay member had entered, how much she was looking forward to this meeting.
Millay appeared shortly afterward, wearing a shredded Japanime T-shirt and a purple miniskirt. Her hair was now black and blue and had been styled so that the ends fell in sharp points against her neck. “I hate fresh paint smell,” she said by way of hello. “But it sure beats the diner. I used to walk out of there reeking of bacon.” She looked around. “Cool colors.”
Olivia nodded at the compliment. She offered the pair wine or iced tea, telling them to help themselves and then settled into one of the club chairs. She felt that it was important not to act as hostess.
“Camden’s a pretty good writer,” Harris said as he poured himself tea. “I’m a bit nervous about you guys seeing my stuff after reading his work.”
As he chose a seat, Laurel entered the house, her cheeks tinged pink and her wheat-colored hair escaping from a loose ponytail. “Sorry I’m late! It was really hard to get out of the house. The twins dumped their bowls of spaghetti all over the kitchen floor and I had to help the babysitter get them into the tub.” She glanced around the room, her forehead creased with worry. “Were you waiting on me?”
Millay frowned. “You’re not late, but Camden is. You know he likes dramatic entrances.” She filled a wineglass to the brim, her blue and black bangs falling into her eyes as she looked down. “This is going to sound whacked, but I swear I just saw him as I drove past Fish Nets.”
“Doing what?” Olivia inquired. “Aren’t we here to critique his chapter?”
Blowing the bangs from her eyes, Millay shrugged. “Maybe he wanted to toss back a shot before we ripped into his writing.”
Olivia doubted that. “Then you saw him go inside?”
“Yeah, pretty much.” Millay swished wine around in her mouth as though she were using mouthwash. “He was reaching out for the door when I drove by. If that was even him, but I don’t know too many other guys who’d wear a pink shirt and white pants.”
“We’ll give him fifteen minutes. Twenty at the most. That should give him plenty of time to finish whatever he’s doing in that place,” Olivia stated crossly. She’d been anxious for Camden’s opinion on her redecorating and was disappointed to have to wait for his special brand of enthusiastic praise.
“This cottage is lovely.” Laurel cradled her glass of Chablis and looked around appreciatively. Digging a sheaf of crumpled pages from what appeared to be a diaper bag, she inquired, “Do you all think Blake Talbot is really like Camden’s character? I mean—the drugs, the girls, the drinking—that seems like regular rock star behavior, but Bradley seemed really dark.”
“And angry,” Harris agreed.
The group talked animatedly about Camden’s chapter until Olivia finally interrupted by saying, “This is ridiculous! We’re starting the critique without the author.”
Harris checked his watch. “Guess his fifteen minutes are up.”
“Kind of like fame,” Millay muttered under her breath. “Well, let’s go drag his white-pants-wearing ass out of Fish Nets. For once in my life, I did my homework. I put time into this thing and I’m not letting my efforts go to waste.” She shook the paper sheaves.
“I’ve always wanted to see the inside of that bar,” Harris stated sheepishly. “But my friends are all afraid to go there.”
Laurel also seemed frightened by the suggestion and looked to Olivia for guidance.
Olivia recalled her declaration that she’d never cross the bar’s threshold, but she was so befuddled and irritated by Camden’s behavior that she decided the gossip writer owed them an explanation. Hadn’t she gone through plenty of energy and expense to prepare this cottage for his writing group?
Rising from her chair, like a monarch preparing to utter a declaration of war, she pulled her car keys from her pocket and gave them an angry shake. Her poodle leapt to his feet at the sound. “Come along, Haviland.” Olivia marched to the front door. “We’re going into town.”
Millay led her friends into Fish Nets with the sort of pride one exhibits when inviting another person into a well-ordered and attractive home. Olivia was relieved she’d decided to leave Haviland in the car because she was certain he would have been unhappy over having to breathe the smoke-polluted air while walking on such a disgusting floor. The gray cement had turned nearly black with the sticky grime of spilled beer, cigarette ash, discarded chewing gum, and mucus. It was a foul film that could never completely be cleansed off.
The decorations were exactly what one would except in a bar named Fish Nets. Cracked buoys, faded life jackets, and life rings no doubt stolen from dry docks up and down the North Carolina coast were haphazardly grouped with an array of plastic lobsters, fish, and rusty, menacing hooks. Photographs of sports fishermen exhibiting their finned prizes by the gills were nearly obscured by thick coats of ash-flecked dust.
“Any sign of Camden?” Harris asked nervously as they all looked around.
Millay was right, Olivia thought. A man with white pants and a pink shirt would never blend in with the bar’s regulars.
Fish Nets was filled with Oyster Bay’s working-class citizens. Some of their faces, the fishermen in particular, were dark and wrinkled as walnut shells. The women had long stringy hair, tight jeans, and generous amounts of exposed cleavage. The conversation of the patrons closest to the door came to an abrupt halt when the group of writers arrived.
“These your friends, Millay?” A fat woman with a rose tattoo curling up the side of her neck laughed.
“Hey, Darla. Yeah, they’re with me, but I gotta go talk to Mack, so catch you later.” Millay wove her way toward the bar and began to shout at the bartender over the music, which was louder on the other side of the room.
As there were no speakers where Olivia stood, she could not have misheard the old man in a pair of stained overalls. “If it ain’t Willy Wade’s lassie. All grown up now, ain’t ya? I’d know that white hair and those ocean eyes anywhere. You still lookin’ for your papa, girlie?” He took a deep draught of his beer. “’Cause he ain’t ever comin’ home. The fog carried him back to the sea. It’s how men like us are meant to go.” He pointed a gnarled hand at Olivia. “You can’t take from the sea all your life and not have ’er claim somethin’ as payment. ’Tis always been that way.”