Funny, the things one remembered.
She slowed down. Hayden still looked like the kind of place that welcomed newcomers, where women brought homemade tuna casseroles to the families who moved in across the street.
But Meghann knew better.
She’d lived here long enough to know how cruel these nice-looking people could be to a girl who ran with the wrong crowd. Sure, a small town could comfort a person; it could also turn cold fast. When you’d been raised by a stripper and grown up in a trailer on the wrong side of town, you couldn’t move to Mayberry and fit in.
At least, Meghann hadn’t been able to. Claire had been a different story.
Meghann came to the one and only stoplight. When it turned green, she hit the gas and sped through town.
A few miles later she cam
e to the sign.
River’s Edge Resort. Next Left.
She turned onto the gravel road. The trees on either side were gigantic. Salal and Volkswagen-size ferns grew in their immense shadows.
At the first driveway, she slowed again. A cute mailbox, painted to look like a killer whale, read: C. Cavenaugh.
The once-wild yard had been tamed, trimmed, and planted; it now looked like an English country garden. The house was Martha Stewart perfect—pale, butter-yellow clapboard siding and glossy white trim, a pretty white wraparound porch decorated with hanging pots of geraniums and lobelia.
Meg had been here only once, after Ali was born. All she remembered about that day was sitting on a shabby sofa, trying to make conversation with her sister. Then the Bluesers had descended—Claire’s friends—they’d swarmed into the house like locusts, chattering and buzzing.
For an endless hour, Meg had sat there, sipping weak lemonade, thinking about a deposition that had gone badly. Finally, she’d made some idiotic excuse and slipped away. She hadn’t been back since.
Now she parked and got out of the car. Lugging gifts, she walked up to the front door and knocked.
No one answered.
After a long wait, she walked back to the car and drove the five hundred or so yards to the campground’s main office.
She walked past the swimming pool, where kids were playing Marco Polo, toward the long, narrow log building that served as the registration office. A bell tinkled overhead as she opened the door.
Sam Cavenaugh stood behind the desk. At her entrance, he looked up. His ready smile faded slowly, then reinforced itself. “Hey, Meg. It’s good to see you. It’s been too damn long. ”
“Yeah, I’m sure you missed me. ” As always, she felt uncomfortable around Sam; angry. Harriet claimed it was because Claire had rejected Meghann in favor of him, but that wasn’t right. She still remembered the day he told her, Go, just leave. He’d thought she was a bad influence on his daughter. But what she’d really hated, the one that stayed with her was just like your damn mother.
They stared at each other. Thankfully, he kept his distance.
“You look good,” he said at last.
“You, too. ” Meghann glanced down at her watch. The last thing she wanted to do was stand around not talking with Sam.
“Claire told me to watch out for you. She’s running a little late. The Ford family, over in campsite seventeen, had a little emergency with their stove. She had to go help them out, but she should be back any minute. ”
“Good. I’ll wait for her at the house, then. ”
“She should be there any minute. ”
“You just said that. ”
“You’re still tough, aren’t you, Meghann?” he said, his voice soft, a little tired even.
“I had to be, Sam. You know that better than anyone. ”
“I didn’t kick you out, Meghann, I—”