The Sweetest Summer: A Bayberry Island Novel

  She was an IU graduate, a self-employed vitamin and supplement distributor, a registered voter, YMCA member, good credit, and legal guardian to her nephew Chris Dickinson, a four-year-old enrolled at a Montessori preschool down the street. According to tax records, she owned a three-bedroom bungalow at that address, which she’d purchased two years earlier for two hundred ninety-eight thousand dollars.

  Fine. It all looked perfectly fine. And that was what bothered him. Why did a chick with such a tidy little life give herself a quickie dye job and leave town? How did she find herself a thousand miles from home, on Bayberry Island during festival week, hiding from the police chief? What made her so frightened that she couldn’t admit she was his summer love from eighteen years before?

  Why was she even here?

  At this point, Clancy knew that was the only thing he was sure of—Cricket was Evie, they were one in the same. No doubt in his mind. Her touch, her kiss, her laugh, how she fit in his arms, the way he felt when he was with her . . . those things were real. The rest of it? He shook his head as he scrolled through the database search. The rest of it made no sense.

  There were a couple possibilities. She could be an innocent, law-abiding woman hiding from a spouse or boyfriend who had harmed her. The kind of domestic dispute Clancy had responded to just that morning was more commonplace than people wanted to admit, and Evie could simply be another woman who had reached the point of no return, unable to take one more punch or one more degrading comment. It would have taken planning and advanced IT skills, but maybe her new identity had been in the works for a long time.

  Or, she may be on the run for reasons far more sinister. Maybe she embezzled from her business, or orchestrated a pyramid scheme out of her home and the SEC caught up with her. Possibilities like that were endless.

  Clancy’s mind did a double take. On the run. The way she moved down the ferry gangway. The long, lean, muscular legs. Those shoes.

  He opened a new window on his laptop and searched for the make and model of running shoe she’d been wearing. It retailed for one-fifty, and just as he thought, it was the go-to shoe for serious women runners. Clancy smiled. Now this was a subject he knew a little bit about.

  He logged on to a members-only Web site that tracked amateur race results from all over the country, members and nonmembers, everything from 5Ks to ultra-marathons. First he checked Indiana races—no finishing times for a Cricket Dickinson were listed. He broadened his search. He saw nothing at first, but kept digging. There she was! San Diego’s Rock ’n’ Roll half marathon, 2009, where she finished twelfth in her category—the seventy and up age group.

  Huh?

  He tried for another half hour and though he encountered the senior citizen version of Cricket Dickinson a few more times, he didn’t find his Cricket. She simply did not exist in the data-hoarding world of running, which implied that her lies were several layers deep. And that bothered him. A lot.

  Clancy was so tired his body hurt. He took the Jeep home, played with the dogs for a few minutes, grabbed a quick shower, then collapsed in bed. His mind wasn’t racing with unanswered questions anymore. It was heavy with dread and regret for what had to be done come morning. When Evie boarded the first ferry—and he was sure she would—Chief Flynn would be waiting for her with a boatload of questions.

  She wouldn’t be leaving Bayberry until every one of them had been answered to his satisfaction.

  * * *

  “The FBI just found your car.”

  Evelyn let her head drop into the crook of her elbow. “No! Oh, God!”

  “They went public with a snippet of video footage. They caught you leaving the parking structure at Logan, and again taking the T. They don’t know for sure, but they’ve told the public that you may have caught a bus to the Cape.”

  “No! Hal!” Her body had already started to shake. “I had my hat on! My shades! I changed shirts in the ladies room before we got on the bus! I changed Chrissy’s clothes twice! How did they . . . ?”

  “Manpower. From what I’ve been able to tell, they put hundreds of agents on this, and they scoured thousands of hours of video from hell and back. They used facial recognition and the latest body recognition software. We were out-manned and out-teched.”

  “Shit.”

  “I’m so sorry, Evie. I know it sucks.”

  She groaned.

  “There’s a ferry at eight a.m., and you need to be on it. Cover up and wear the baggiest clothes you’ve got and try to remember to skip or swing your arms differently. The software is still rudimentary enough that you’ll get away with it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Keep Chrissy in your arms whenever possible so they can’t scan for her movement, either. I will contact you once you get back on the mainland, and I’ll have some ideas how we can switch things up.”

  Evelyn stared at the bug-encrusted light fixture again. She felt limp. Her brain had glazed over. “What am I going to do?” The pitiful voice she heard was her own. “This is a total disaster.”

  “You’re not alone. I am helping you every step of the way. And don’t you dare give up. Stay pissed! Wahlman is a scummy, lying dickhead who rigged the custody decision. Don’t forget that.”

  Evelyn broke down. She tried to keep the noise to a minimum by burying her mouth in the crook of her arm, then realized it probably didn’t matter much—Chrissy would soon be hearing a lot of crying.

  “Evie. Please.”

  “Why are you doing this for me, Hal?” Her sob came out as a hiccup. “You’re putting your own future at risk.”

  He laughed. “Honey, first of all, we’ve been over this—no one will ever find me. Remember, this is what I do. It’s my thing. And second of all . . .” Hal got choked up. It took him a moment to find his voice. “You saved my life, Miss Evelyn ‘Feed The Speed’ McGuinness. I was killing myself. I was thirty-nine and I was fucking killing myself with junk food and sitting on my ass in front of a bank of computers. You took me under your wing and—”

  “Hal—”

  “You asked, so let me answer.” He cleared his throat. “Evie, you taught me how to shop and cook and eat. You stood by me when I stumbled—and you know I stumbled a lot—then you picked me up each time. You shared everything you knew about training, fitness, equipment, mental preparation, physiology, and race strategy. Basically, you held my hand for six long months until I got my act together! My health and happiness are because of you. I owe you my life.”

  She shook her head, reaching for a strip of bathroom tissue to blow her nose. “I care about you. You’re my friend. And all that stuff, the nutrition and training stuff, it is just what I do.”

  “Right on, sister. Right on.”

  Chapter Eight

  Crazy-crackers-reckless-stupid insanity. That’s what M.J.’s night had been made of.

  And now it was six forty-two a.m. and she sat in the greenroom at the Boston CBS affiliate with her politically brain-damaged boss and his ice bitch of a soon-to-be ex-wife.

  M.J.’s letter of resignation was, at that very moment, burning a hole in her briefcase.

  The situation was pretty clear. If M.J. couldn’t pull a game-changer out of her ass in the next ten minutes, Richard would be destroying her career before a live television audience, Tamara at his side. Apparently, after her unpleasant visit to his office last night, M.J.’s boss was spurred to action. The FBI had a major breakthrough with evidence, and Richard decided he would never forgive himself if he didn’t contribute to the momentum. He decided to go public first thing in the morning.

  Richard now sat across the room from M.J., wearing a suit slightly too big for his post-surgery body. She noticed that instead of a dress shirt and tie, he wore a polo shirt with an open collar. That was his signal to the country that he wasn’t on official business, simply there as a regular Joe. Richard hadn’t spoken in the last few m
inutes, so M.J. knew he was rehearsing the talking points in his mind. She could just imagine:

  Unknowingly, I fathered a child with a young scheduling assistant a few years back:

  1. Tragically, the mother has died;

  2. Fortunately, I won custody of the product of that union;

  3. Shockingly, the child has been kidnapped!

  Now, I will do anything to get her back safely.

  And, most importantly, he would add this:

  I am not here to answer questions or respond to speculation about my political career. I am only here to ask—no, beg—for everyone’s help in locating my daughter.

  M.J. had already tried to talk some sense into him, of course. First, she tried on the phone. Next, it was at the Jefferson, on the private jet to Boston, then in the limo, and again while coming in the back entrance to the studio. But his mind was made up. He was about to kill his reelection bid and snuff out any chance for a vice-presidential nom—over some kid.

  She silenced a groan of frustration that began in her toes and rose up into her throat. How dare he keep her from the kind of power she deserved, the kind she was promised? She longed for the delicious feel of digging her fingers into his neck and cutting off his air.

  A production assistant stuck his head through the greenroom door. “Five minutes, Congressman and Mrs. Wahlman. You can follow me to the set.”

  “Just a minute.” M.J. held up her hand. “Go on. We’ll be there.” She closed the door in the kid’s face.

  “Don’t do it, Richard. One last time, I’m begging you.”

  He shook his head. “I have to.”

  “See, that’s where you’re wrong. You don’t have to do anything. You’re Richard Wahlman, four-term congressman from Massachusetts, cosponsor of groundbreaking debt ceiling legislation, chairman of the Ways and Means subcommittee on oversight, philanthropist—”

  “Father.”

  M.J. closed her eyes. This was a fucking catastrophe!

  It was almost as if he didn’t care! Out of utter desperation, M.J. looked to Tamara. The oh so chic blonde sat in the corner with a glass of sparkling water balanced on her bony Lanvin-covered knee. She wanted no part of this.

  Ha! If M.J. thought about strangling Richard, then Tamara was probably fantasizing about breaking his neck, slapping him silly, and cutting off his Johnson—just to warm up! Not for the first time, M.J. wondered whether the roles within that union were backward—Tamara should have served in Congress while Richard hosted dinner parties and charity fund-raisers. Things might have turned out better.

  The limo ride to the studio had been, by far, the most cringe-worthy twenty minutes of M.J.’s life. Unfortunately, she had been privy to everything the Wahlmans had said to each other. How could she avoid it? Was she supposed to open the sliding window, crawl headfirst through the divider, and sit up front with the driver? She needed a hot shower and a tequila slammer after the experience.

  “This is utterly ridiculous, Dick.” That’s how it had started. Tamara had said that as she finished off what was left of her second early-morning scotch, leaving a shiny pink lipstick stamp along the rim of the glass. “This is a debacle. At this point in your career? Really, Richard? Couldn’t you have found some other way to help look for this pitiful urchin of yours? Perhaps walk through fields with neighbors and their tracking hounds or something? Anything that didn’t involve dragging the Derrick family name through the muck?”

  “I told you—this isn’t about the Derricks.”

  “Oh, darling, you are my very favorite pathological narcissist.”

  “Stop it, Tamara.”

  “You truly don’t give a rat’s ass about the impact this may have on Derrick Brand Restaurants, which I find ironic, since you would be nothing without us.”

  “That’s enough.”

  “I despise you for this, Dick.”

  “You’ve despised me for twenty-five years.”

  “True.” She had thrown a few ice cubes into the glass and freshened her drink. “Well, at least now you have the baby I could never give you.”

  “I won’t even respond to that.”

  “But why this way, Dick? Why can’t you deal with this problem quietly? Why are you making a spectacle of yourself ten weeks before the election? Why are you throwing away your shot at the vice presidency? Do you want to ruin your life? Is that what’s going on? Are you just so insecure about yourself that you want the world to know your penis works?”

  M.J. had contemplated hurling herself out the window at that point.

  Richard had kept his fury bottled in, however. No wonder he’d had a heart attack. “I simply want to find Christina.”

  “How noble of you.”

  “It’s the right goddamn thing to do!”

  Tamara had blinked in surprise at her husband’s sudden outburst, then turned her claws on M.J. “This is your idea, I take it?”

  It was a good thing M.J. had long ago perfected the art of saying “fuck off” without using the word “fuck” or the word “off.” She had smiled pleasantly at Tamara. “As much as I appreciate your confidence in my skills, I assure you, you couldn’t be more wrong. I’ve advised Richard to keep the matter as private as possible. I think what he’s doing is a horrible mistake. There is a chance some of his base would admire how he’s stepped up to his responsibility here, but that is a gigantic risk.” M.J. had then pretended to be checking her text messages.

  Tamara had laughed again. “Oh, I find that hard to believe, Mary Jane. I’ve known you for a long time, and I’ve seen you use anything and anyone for political gain.” She had looked toward her husband and cocked her head to the side. “So let me take a wild stab at it, darling—you think voters will see that behind that nasty old scar of yours is a heart of gold. Is that it? Just weeks out of the hospital and Congressman Richard Wahlman is willing to sacrifice his health and his reputation to find his long-lost bastard child? Or maybe you’re proving to the world that you’re still healthy and vibrant enough to be the parent of a toddler!” She raised her glass. “Fabulous.”

  “Shut up, Tamara.”

  “Go to hell, Dick.”

  They had ridden in silence for about five minutes before Richard said to Tamara, “You don’t need to say anything today. Just look supportive.”

  Tamara had drained her glass. “Of course, darling. We both know how good I am at faking it.”

  Now the three of them sat in the greenroom like cattle penned before slaughter, the seconds ticking by, and M.J. knew this was her last chance to stop the freak show.

  “Linking your name to the girl is unnecessary. The FBI has solid leads now. They will find her without the endorsement of Congressman Richard Wahlman. Once she’s home you can quietly maintain custody and go on to have a lovely life with your daughter, without destroying everything you’ve worked for all these years.”

  He stood and smoothed his shirt. “Neither of you can possibly understand where I’m coming from.” He turned his steady gaze toward M.J. “I know this will make things difficult for you professionally, which is something you clearly don’t deserve. You’ve always gone above and beyond. I appreciate that.”

  On his way out the door, Richard stopped and gave her a stiff hug. It was the only time in eighteen years he’d touched her.

  “Stop.”

  “I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Richard, seriously. There’s something you need to know before you go on the air.”

  A frantic voice echoed down the hallway. “Congressman and Mrs. Wahlman! We need you on the set!”

  Richard was clearly irritated. “Your story will have to wait, M.J. Call me tomorrow.” He held out his hand to Tamara. “Darling?”

  The power couple met up with the production assistant, who hurried them along to the sound tech. They were clipped with their lapel mics and ushered out
onto the set.

  M.J. hated him at that moment. Rage scalded the inside of her throat. Her brain felt like it was in danger of exploding. That idiot! There wasn’t enough money inside the beltway to pay for the kind of dedication she’d shown Richard Wahlman, but in the end it didn’t even matter to him. All he cared about was the kid.

  Someday, he would learn to what lengths M.J. had gone on his behalf five years ago, and on that day he would completely lose his shit. Richard was so oblivious that he believed his perky little paramour quit her job and slipped out of town without a peep because she was homesick. How simpleminded could a man be?

  M.J. told the pregnant girl that Richard insisted she have an abortion, and handed her six hundred dollars in an envelope. Next, M.J. made vague threats about how some young women in Washington who found themselves in her situation were never seen or heard from again. Oh, how Amanda cried. She threw the money back at M.J. and slammed her door. And she was gone the next day.

  M.J. smiled to herself at the memory. When Richard found all this out, he would hate M.J. as much as she hated him. Funny how one little girl could flip the script like this.

  She gathered her briefcase and headed for the TV studio’s back door. M.J. wasn’t sure what her next step would be. Maybe she’d take a week off. Start packing up her apartment. Or maybe she’d go somewhere—she hadn’t taken a real vacation since she got to Washington.

  Her thoughts went to poor little Amanda McGuinness—just another exceptional girl who hit the Hill with big dreams and open legs. Surely she didn’t deserve what she got. M.J. had actually liked her. She was high-energy, cheerful, and the first in line to take on extra tasks. But what was done was done. There was no such thing as a do-over. And she regretted nothing. As everyone knew, the rules were different in Washington.

  Above and beyond? Richard had no fucking idea.

  * * *

  He woke to a headache lit up by a bolt of lightning and head-butted by a crash of thunder. His scaredy-cat dogs hurled themselves onto the bed for protection, and somebody’s bony elbow dug right into Clancy’s diaphragm.