But she was dead wrong, she admitted now.
The PTA volunteers had created quite the festive winter wonderland on the Common, hanging dozens of strings of twinkling white Christmas lights in the trees and shrubbery, around the railing and the roof of the bandstand, and along the white picket fence that bordered the woods at the northern edge of the Common. Red and green streamers hung from lampposts and street signs. A hot chocolate and coffee booth had been set up by the entrance, and someone had even dressed up the War Memorial, draping a bright red ribbon around the WWI soldier’s neck and scrubbing the splatters of birdshit off his pie-dish helmet.
Conspicuous in their absence were the number of HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? posters missing from nearby telephone poles and lampposts and the windows of the handful of buildings that bordered the Common. For a few hours on one night only, talk of the missing girls had been pushed to the background and folks were focusing on the positive and hopeful. Tomorrow morning, the posters and the chatter would undoubtedly return.
At 11:45 PM, as Gwendy stands in line waiting for hot chocolate, the place is positively hopping. Kids dart past her in eager packs, shouting and laughing, tossing snowballs at each other and sliding on stray patches of ice, while their parents and neighbors wander around, flitting from huddled group to huddled group, chatting, gossiping, sneaking sips of whiskey from hidden flasks, and making grandiose plans for 2000 to be the best year ever. Gwendy spots Grace Featherstone from the Book Nook talking to Nanette from the diner over by the bandstand. Brigette is holding court with a number of her PTA minions by the picnic tables, no doubt making sure everything’s set for midnight and the big countdown. Gwendy saw Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman earlier inside the hall, but did her best to avoid them—going so far as to hide in the bathroom for much longer than was probably necessary. So far, so good, in that regard—she hasn’t seen either one of them again since.
The line inches forward, and she notices a tall man with a bushy mustache wearing a Patriots cap leaning against a lamppost by the fountain. He appears to be watching her, but Gwendy can’t be sure she isn’t imagining it. She thinks she remembers seeing him earlier in the audience during her speech.
“That you, Mrs. Gwendy Peterson?”
She turns around. It takes her a second to recognize the older man standing behind her, but then it comes to her in a flash. “Well, hello again, Mr. Charlie Browne.”
“Just Charlie, please.”
“Enjoying the New Year’s Eve festivities?”
“I was enjoying it a lot more when we were inside and I wasn’t freezing my giblets off.”
Gwendy tosses her head back and laughs. “Good thing the wind isn’t blowing, or we’d look like a bunch of ice sculptures out here.”
He grunts and looks around. “You see my boy around anywhere? That clock strikes midnight and I’m outta here.”
Gwendy shakes her head. “Sorry, I haven’t seen him.”
“There you are,” Brigette says, arriving in a perfume-scented flurry. “I was looking for you. What are you doing waiting in line?” She waves furiously at one of the women in the booth. “Can I get a hot cocoa ASAP for the congresswoman?”
“Brigette, no,” Gwendy says, horrified. People are staring at them, some of them pointing.
“Here you go,” a dark-haired woman says, hustling over with a steaming Styrofoam cup.
Gwendy doesn’t want to accept it, but she has no choice. “Thank you. You really didn’t have to do that.”
“Nonsense,” Brigette says, taking her by the arm and leading her away. “I want you right next to me at midnight.”
“Happy New Year, Mr. Browne,” Gwendy says over her shoulder. “It was nice seeing you again.”
“Happy New Year, Congresswoman,” he says, smirking, and Gwendy doesn’t know if it’s her imagination or not, but she’s almost positive his tone is no longer a friendly one.
“Three more minutes,” Brigette says, glancing at her watch. She spots her husband standing across the Common talking to two other men. “Travis! Travis!” She points at the clock tower. “Over there!”
He nods dutifully and starts in that direction.
The miniature clock tower is located at the very heart of the Castle Rock Common. It stands twenty-two feet high and its face measures three feet across its center. Erected during the town’s reconstruction period in the aftermath of the Big Fire, there’s an engraved metal plaque positioned at the stone base of the tower that reads: In honor of the indomitable spirit of the citizens of Castle Rock — 1992.
A burly woman wearing what looks like several layers of flannel shirts flashes a look of relief as they approach. “Thank goodness, I was starting to get worried.” She hands Brigette a microphone. A long black cord snakes from the bottom of the mic to a large speaker propped up on a picnic table behind them.
Gwendy smiles at the woman. “Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year,” she says shyly, and quickly looks away.
Travis walks up beside them, grinning and smelling like aftershave and whiskey. “All ready to go, ladies?”
“Almost,” Brigette says. She turns on the microphone and a whine of feedback erupts from the speaker. People groan and cover their ears. The woman in the flannel shirts scurries to adjust several knobs at the top of the speaker until the sound diminishes and finally dissipates.
“One minute til midnight!” Brigette announces, giddily. “One minute until midnight!”
A crowd starts to gather at the foot of the clock tower, the younger kids swarming toward the front, most of them wearing glow-in-the-dark necklaces and carrying party horns or noisemakers. Many of the adults are wearing glittery cardboard hats with Y2K! or 2000! or HAPPY NEW YEAR! printed across the brims at jaunty angles.
“Thirty seconds!” Brigette shouts, her tone bordering on hysterical, and for the first time tonight, Gwendy wonders how much her friend has had to drink.
Studying the crowd, she sees Grace and Nanette and Milly Harris, the church organist, huddled together off to the side. All three are staring up at the clock and counting down. Charlie Browne is standing toward the back by himself with his foot propped up on a bench. He’s wearing scuffed cowboy boots and a green plastic derby with a fake yellow flower poking out from the top. He grins and gives Gwendy a big wave. She gratefully waves back, thinking she must’ve been wrong about him before.
Maybe ten yards behind Mr. Browne is the mustached stranger in the Patriots cap. He’s scanning the crowd, but it’s hard to get a good look at his face because the brim of his hat is tilted so low.
“TEN, NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN, SIX…” Brigette lowers the microphone from her mouth. The roar of the crowd has grown louder than her amplified voice.
“FIVE… FOUR… THREE… TWO… ONE…”
The crowd erupts. “HAPPY NEW YEARRRR!”
A cacophony of drunken hooting and hollering, blowing horns and honking noisemakers fills the air. Confetti is tossed by the handfuls. Someone on the other side of the Common shoots off a string of bottle rockets. Brilliant explosions of red, white, and blue sparks light up the night sky and shower down upon the snow-covered ground. Everywhere around Gwendy, people are embracing and kissing. She thinks of Ryan, the way his whiskers tickle her chin when he kisses her, and a deep ache blooms in the center of her chest.
Brigette untangles herself from her husband’s arms, and then it’s Gwendy’s turn. “Happy New Year!” she shouts above the clatter, hugging Gwendy tight. “I’m so glad you’re here!”
“Happy New Year!” Gwendy says, her face awash in the glow of fireworks.
“My turn next.” Travis is standing behind his wife, arms held open wide, looking at Gwendy. “Happy New Year!”
Gwendy leans over and hugs him and the side of her face brushes against the cold skin of Travis’s cheek. “Happy New—” she starts to say, and then something changes.