Owning a repurpose shop hadn’t been my plan when I graduated. I’d worked in radio after college, eventually hosting a popular evening program playing classic rock and interviewing some of the genre’s best musicians. Then one day I was replaced by a syndicated music feed out of Los Angeles and a nineteen-year-old who read the weather twice an hour and called everyone “dude.”
Growing up I’d spent my summers in North Harbor with my grandmother. It was where my father had been born and raised. I’d even bought a house that I’d renovated and rented. When my job vanished, I’d landed at Gram’s planning to hide under the covers and eat grilled cheese sandwiches. I’d ended up opening Second Chance instead.
I’d been working for about half an hour, sanding the metal frame of the cart, when a white Audi roadster pulled into the parking lot. The driver, in strappy flat sandals, easily had a couple of inches on my five-foot-six height. She was in her early thirties, I guessed, and the sleeveless blue and white sundress she wore showed off her dark skin.
Her hair was a mass of gorgeous, caramel-colored ringlets, worn chin length. Like a lot of women with straight hair, I’d always secretly wanted curls like that.
This woman could easily be a model, I thought, and not just because she was so striking. She had perfect posture and she seemed to glide, not walk, as she made her way over to me. I felt grubby and sweaty in comparison.
I pulled the sanding mask off my face and wiped the dust from my hands with a rag. “Hi,” I said, smiling at her.
She gave me a polite smile back. “I’m looking for Mac McKenzie,” she said, glancing around. “Is he here?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. He won’t be back for a while.” Mac was crewing on the boat of a friend who wanted to get in some practice time before an upcoming race.
The woman exhaled softly, giving her head a little shake. “Do you by any chance know where I could find him?”
I explained about Mac being out on the water, sailing. “It’ll probably be a couple of hours before they come back in. Is there anything I could help you with?”
She shook her head. “Thank you, but I need to talk to him. It’s, uh, personal.” She was holding what looked to be a tiny carved wooden bird and she turned it over in her fingers. Some kind of talisman or good luck charm? I wondered.
Mac had worked with me for over a year and this was the first time anyone had shown up looking for him. I couldn’t help wondering why this woman I’d never seen before wanted him now. He was intensely private, so even though we worked together every day, I knew very little about his life both now, and before he’d arrived in North Harbor about eighteen months ago.
I did know that Mac had been a financial planner in Boston, but he had walked away from that life to live in Maine full-time and sail, which was his real passion. There were eight windjammer schooners based in North Harbor, along with dozens of other sailing vessels. In his free time Mac crewed for pretty much anyone who needed him. Eventually he wanted to build his own boat. He’d taken the job at Second Chance because he said he liked working with his hands.
The woman put the little carving in her pocket and offered her hand then. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have introduced myself. I’m Erin Fellowes.”
“I’m Sarah Grayson,” I said, wiping my hand on my shorts before I took hers. “Mac works here with me.”
She nodded. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m a friend of Mac’s wife, Leila.”
For a moment I froze. I’m not even sure I took a breath.
Wife?
Mac had a wife?
Just then Elvis knocked a small recipe box off the top of the dresser. I swung around automatically and the cat gave me his best Oh, did I do that? look.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Erin said as though she’d been the one to nudge the turquoise plastic box onto the floor.
“It’s all right,” I said. “Elvis is pretty good at interrupting the conversation when he thinks he’s being left out.” I bent down to pick up the box and the recipe cards that had spilled out, which gave me a chance to collect myself.
Mac was married? Why didn’t I know that?
“His name is Elvis?” Erin asked. She smiled at the cat—the first genuine smile I’d seen since she pulled into the lot—and extended her hand so he could sniff it.
“After the King of Rock and Roll,” I said, straightening up.
Elvis was his usual charming self, tipping his head to show off the scar that cut diagonally across his nose and blinking his green eyes at her. Erin was clearly enchanted by him and started to stroke his fur.
She glanced at me and the smile faded from her face. “It’s really important that I talk to Mac as soon as possible,” she said.
Watching Elvis from the corner of my eye, I knew she was telling the truth. There was no change in the cat’s blissful expression as she scratched behind his left ear.
I wasn’t exactly sure how, but Elvis could somehow tell when a person was lying. His green eyes would narrow and one ear would turn to the side as his expression soured. It had happened enough times that I’d come to believe the behavior wasn’t a coincidence. And I wasn’t the only one who had noticed how Elvis reacted in response to a lie. Both Jess and Mac thought the cat was reading the same sort of physical reactions a polygraph did, which was as good an explanation as any.
“I’m staying at the Rosemont Inn,” Erin said. She pulled a small spiral-bound notebook and a pen from her multicolored, cross-body bag, wrote something on one of the pages, then tore it out and handed it to me. “That’s my cell number.”
“I’ll give it to Mac as soon as he comes back.” I folded the piece of paper in half and tucked it in the pocket of my shorts.
“Thank you,” she said. She hesitated for a moment. Something flashed across her face. Regret? Sadness? I wasn’t sure. “Please, tell him . . . tell him I believe him.”
I watched her walk across the lot, climb into the white sports car and drive away.
I turned around to find Elvis watching me.
“Mac has a wife.”
“Mrr,” he said, wrinkling his whiskers. It seemed that was news to him as well.
“Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t he tell me?” I pulled a hand over my neck. “It’s not that he had any kind of obligation to tell me,” I said. “But why didn’t he want to?”
I closed my eyes for a moment and exhaled slowly. This was a reminder of how little of himself Mac shared—with anyone. I didn’t like how shut out it made me feel. I thought of Mac as a friend—a close one. Was I wrong?
I opened my eyes and looked at Elvis, who stared back at me, his green eyes unblinking. “Enough,” I said. “Mac is allowed to keep things to himself. I’m not getting crazy about this.” I pulled the sanding mask back up onto my face. Elvis very wisely kept whatever he was thinking to himself.
It was about an hour and a half later that I looked up and saw Mac walking toward me across the parking lot, his backpack over one shoulder, the hood of his gray sweatshirt over his head. A week ago he’d bought a truck from Clayton McNamara. There were three vehicles on the old man’s property. The half-ton wasn’t pretty, but it ran well and Mac still walked a lot of places so it seemed like it would serve his purposes.
The clouds had closed ranks and it was beginning to spit rain. I’d just gotten everything moved inside the old garage. Elvis had taken refuge on the seat of a wooden rocking chair, his expression cranky at the imminent rain. I set down the rag I’d been using to clean dust off the metal table and stood up.
Mac was tall and strong with light brown skin and close-cropped black hair. He smiled and raised a hand in hello. “Looks good,” he said as he ducked inside the building.