to believe their shared desire for a home and family was a kind of love. What they eventually had to admit—first to themselves privately, then to each other, and finally to Camille—was that no matter how much they loved their daughter, the marriage wasn’t working for them.
When Camille was eight years old, they sat her down and told her just that.
Their divorce was, as the mediator termed it, freakishly civilized. After a couple of years, Camille adjusted to dividing her time between two households. A few years after the divorce, Cherisse met Bart, and that was when Camille finally learned what true love looked like. It was the light in her mother’s eyes when Bart walked into a room. It was the firm touch of his hand in the small of her back. It was a million little things that simply were not there, had never been there, between her mom and dad.
She was grateful that her parents got along. Bart and her father were cordial whenever they encountered each other. But despite their efforts, the decades-old breakup of her family felt like an old wound that still ached sometimes. When she thought about Julie, she wondered which was harder, to have your family taken apart by divorce, or to lose a parent entirely.
Cherisse, at least, had thrived in her new life. She and Bart had two girls together, Britt and Hilda. Ooh-La-La annexed the building next door, turning it into its sister property, Brew-La-La, the best café in town. All through her high school years, Camille had minded the shop while her two younger half sisters played in the small garden courtyard.
These days, Camille worked behind the scenes with the bookkeeper, Wendell, an insatiable surfer and skateboarder who financed his passion by keeping the books. Despite his shaggy hair and surfer duds, he was smart, intuitive, and meticulous. The sales staff consisted of Rhonda, who was also an amazing cook, and Daphne, a transplant from upstate New York with a mysterious past.
Britt was the resident merchandiser and display designer. Cherisse was in charge of “flying and buying.” Two times a year, she went to Europe to find the lovely offerings that had put the shop on the map. Before losing Jace, Camille used to accompany her on buying trips, soaking in the sights of Paris and Amsterdam, London and Prague. It was a mother-daughter treasure hunt, those unforgettable days.
After Jace died, Cherisse urged Camille to come along on trips the way she used to, but Camille refused. She never flew anywhere. Just the idea of setting foot on a plane sent her into a panic. She never again climbed a mountain or rode a trail, rafted on a river, surfed a wave, or flew on a kiteboard. Other than routine commutes to D.C. for work, she didn’t go anywhere. These days, she regarded the world as a dangerous place, and her job was to stay put and keep Julie safe.
She had failed miserably at that today. She vowed not to make that mistake again.
Rhonda greeted them at the shop entrance with a tray of her legendary crab croquettes.
“I’m never leaving you,” Billy said, helping himself to three of them.
“Promises, promises,” said Rhonda. “Come on in, you two. We’re having a great night. The tourist season is about to kick into high gear.”
Camille’s mother was in her element, greeting visitors, treating even out-of-towners like cherished friends. Billy made a beeline for her. “Hello, gorgeous,” he said, giving her a quick hug.
“Hello yourself,” she said, her face lighting up. Then she noticed Camille. “Glad you came after all. How’s Julie doing?”
“She shooed us both out of the house,” Camille said. “She’s okay, Mom. Thanks for showing up at the hospital. I was a mess.”
“You were not. Or did I miss something?”
You missed me having a meltdown in front of Malcolm Finnemore, Camille thought, but she simply said, “I’m all right now.”
Billy surveyed an antique table displaying a polished punch bowl in the shape of a giant octopus. “The shop looks great, as always.”
“Thanks. Did you see Camille’s new prints? I can’t keep them in stock. I’ve sold four of them already tonight.” She gestured at a display of the three newest prints, matted and framed on a beadboard wall.
The center image was one Camille had rendered from an old daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe. Printed on archival paper, the portrait had a haunting quality, as elusive and scary as his poems. Next to those prints were examples of Camille’s own work. She almost never took pictures anymore, so these were from years before. She’d used a vintage large-format Hasselblad, capturing local scenes with almost hyperrealistic precision.
When Jace was still alive, Camille had been a chaperone on one of Julie’s school trips to the White House. It had been one of those days when shot after shot seemed to be sprinkled with fairy dust, from the dragonfly hovering perfectly over a pond in the Kennedy Garden, to a frozen moment of two girls holding hands as they ran along the east colonnade, framed by sheer white columns.
“I love these,” said a browsing tourist. “That’s such a beautiful shot of the White House Rose Garden.”
“Here’s the artist,” Billy said, nudging Camille forward.
“It’s very intriguing,” the woman said. “It looks as if the picture was taken at some earlier time.”
“They’re from six years ago. I was shooting with an antique camera that day,” Camille said.
“My daughter has a great collection of old cameras,” Cherisse said. “She does her own developing and printing.”
“Well, it’s fantastic. I’m going to get this one for a good friend who loves old photographs, too.” She smiled, picking up the Rose Garden print.
Camille was flattered, and she felt a wave of pride. She wished Jace had lived to see this. “Maybe this hobby of yours will turn into something one day,” he used to tell her.
“… on the back,” the woman was saying.
“Sorry,” Camille said. “What was that?”
“I wondered if you could write a message on the back,” she said. “To Tavia.”
“No problem.” The woman seemed a bit quirky, though perfectly nice. Camille found a pen and added a short greeting and her signature to the back of the mat.
“Let’s go drink,” Billy said after she finished. “I can watch you get hit on at the Skipjack.”
“Good plan,” she said, making a face. Guys didn’t hit on her, and he knew it.
She and Billy made their way to the rustic tavern, a nineteenth-century brick building near the fishing pier. The crowd here was friendly and upbeat, spilling out onto the deck overlooking the water.
“Is it just me,” Billy murmured, scanning the crowd, “or do we know at least half the people here?”
“The perks of growing up in a small town,” she said.
“Or the drawbacks. There are at least two women here I’ve slept with. Should I say hi, or pretend I don’t see them?”
“You should order a drink for me, and pick up the tab because I’ve had a rotten day.” Camille stepped up to the bar. “I’ll have a dark-and-stormy,” she said
