“We should go,” Darcy said after a while.
They held hands as they walked over the sand toward town. Along Washington Street, the harbor deepened and dozens of boats bobbed on buoys or rested in slips on the town pier. The silence of the creeks slipped away from them. Music and laughter floated over the water toward them and more and more lights lit up the street. Her house was only a few blocks from the artists’ gallery, so they walked up Main Street toward Darcy’s, listening to the street musicians, gazing at the gorgeous shop windows, until they left the noise and the lights behind and turned onto her quiet lane. At the door, Nash pulled her against him and rested his forehead on hers.
“Want to come in?” Darcy asked.
“Better not. Early day tomorrow.” He gave her a crooked grin. “I mean it this time. Stand back, woman.”
Darcy laughed. “Call me?”
“Absolutely.” He kissed her, watched her turn her key in the lock and step inside her house, then headed down her walk toward his truck.
Darcy shut the front door, walked through her house, and went down the steps to her garden. She wanted to replay this evening in her thoughts. Something had changed between her and Nash. Something had deepened. He was trusting her more…and she was trusting him more, too.
She settled in her lounger and looked up at the sky. The lights were mostly out at the Brueckners’ house. No more music drifted from the Rushes’. It was completely dark, but not completely quiet. She let her thoughts drift down to the harbor and her conversation with Nash. He had been…
Something rustled in the bushes, and then, from the Szwedas’ yard came sounds of…sex? Darcy froze. On the other side of the hedge, in the corner of the yard, a tall maple towered, its sturdy branches extending over both yards. Its wide trunk and roots would make a good hideaway, a resting place. Or a lovemaking nest. But would Boyz and Autumn really have sex outside in the yard? Boyz had never been that fond of nature.
“No, Logan, stop. I’m not ready.”
Darcy’s breath caught in her throat. It had to be Willow.
“Come on, baby. You’re so beautiful.” Logan’s voice was like melted chocolate.
“I can’t. I have to go in. This grass itches my back. And everyone’s home.”
“No one can see you, babe. Here, I’ll put my shirt under you so your back won’t itch. I’ll take off my shirt, you take off yours. Nice trade, don’t you think?”
They stopped talking. Darcy heard moaning. She was hot with embarrassment and angry and frustrated. Willow was fourteen! She wanted to stand on top of the picnic table and yell at Logan to leave the girl alone. If Logan got Willow to have sex, wouldn’t that be considered statutory rape?
Anxiety gripped Darcy. Her mind worked overtime. She had to believe that Autumn and Boyz had discussed sex with their daughter. Still, should Darcy phone the Szwedas’ house and tell them what was going on in their backyard? Would she be helping or interfering? Was she overreacting because Willow was Boyz’s stepdaughter? No, she knew she would worry about anyone’s adolescent girl.
“Logan, no! Stop! Something’s jabbing my back.”
“Here, baby, let me—”
“No. Not here. Not with my parents nearby.”
More rustling noises. Their voices had changed. They sounded as if they were standing up.
“Let’s go to my truck,” Logan urged. “You can’t leave me like this. You make me want you too much.”
More kissing sounds, and then Willow said, “I’ve got to go in, Logan.”
Darcy heard two doors slam—Willow going into the house, Logan getting into his truck. She relaxed and went into her own house. It took her a long time to fall asleep.
8
Monday morning, Darcy stocked up for the week ahead. At this time of year, her meals were mostly salads or slow cooker, though she tried to get fresh fish from Sayle’s two or three times a week. She also needed the normal household items—toilet paper, laundry soap, milk, and of course kitty litter and canned food for Muffler.
Last year Stop & Shop had renovated their building, making it larger and more confusing. She found herself retracing her steps, trying to find olives, lemons, and a block of Parmesan cheese.
She was in the meat section—rump roast was on sale, and if she made a stew in her slow cooker, she’d have dinner prepared for most of the week—when she felt a presence, and heard Boyz say “Darcy?”
She turned to face him. “Boyz.”
Her first reaction was that he had never changed, this man she had loved and married and divorced. He was still drop-dead handsome—tall, lean, with platinum hair. After a moment of gazing at him, as he was at her, she noticed changes. His hair was shorter than when she was married to him, sheared into some sort of edgy, bristly brush cut, and he was much thinner. He was pushing a grocery cart, so he looked casual and domestic, but he wore a peach polo shirt with the collar turned up and madras shorts—madras shorts, what a peacock he was.