She was laughing when a man came up to their table and said, “Hello, Tyler. Who’s this?”

Becca looked up at the older man, who had lots of white hair, a good-sized belly, and a big smile. He said, frowning down at her, “Hey, you look familiar, you-”

“I’ve known Becca for nearly ten years, Bernie. We were at Dartmouth together. She got tired of the rat race in New York City and decided to move here. She’s a journalist. You want to hire her for the Independent?”

She hadn’t gone to see Bernie Bradstreet for the simple reason that it had dawned on her that she didn’t have any legitimate ID and now her face was plastered all over TV. She just sat there, smiling stupidly, not knowing what to say. She’d forgotten to say anything to Tyler. She was a fool.

Very sharp gray eyes focused on her. He held out his hand, with large, blunt fingers. “I’m Bernie Bradstreet.”

“Becca Powell.”

“You write what? Crime coverage? Weddings? Local charities? Obits?”

“None of those things. I mainly write human interest articles about strange and wonderful things that are all around us. I try to amuse people and perhaps give them a different perspective on things. I’m a luxury for a newspaper, Mr. Bradstreet, not a necessity. I’m the last sort of frill a small newspaper needs.”

She’d whetted his appetite. Just great. He said, a brow arched, “Like what, Ms. Powell?”

“Why feta cheese and glazed pecans taste so delicious in a spinach salad.”

“I suppose you went into all sorts of folklore, nutrition information, stuff like that?”

“That’s right. For example, with the feta, pecans, and spinach, it all has to do with a chemical reaction that zings the taste buds.”

Bernie Bradstreet looked too interested. She drew back, lowered her eyes to the napkin Tyler had tossed beside his plate.

Tyler said, “Dessert, Becca?”

She said, grinning up at Mr. Bradstreet, “Yep, that’s what I am, dessert for a newspaper. I’m low on a priority list, very low.”

“No,” Tyler said. “I mean real dessert. Coffee and dessert for you, Bernie?”

Bernie couldn’t stay. His wife was at the far table with one of their grandkids. “They make special hot dogs for kids here,” he said; then, “Why don’t you drop by with some of the articles you’ve written, Ms. Powell? Actually, bring me the feta cheese article.”

“I didn’t bring any of them with me, sir, sorry.”

Tyler gave her a look but didn’t say anything. But his eyes had widened just a bit. He’d finally realized that this was the last thing she needed. Good, she thought, she was out of it. But no, he just ruminated awhile, looking at her, then said, “All right, write me up one-whatever topic you like-not over five hundred words, and we’ll see.”

She nodded, wishing the guy was more hard-nosed. She watched him walk back to his table, stopping at three more tables on the way. She looked at Tyler and raised her hand to stop him. “No, I can’t work for him. I don’t have any ID I can use. I doubt he’d want to pay me in cash.”

“Damn,” he said. “I didn’t think of that. I just finally realized that the more he saw you, he just might put you together with the Rebecca on TV.”

“It’s okay. I’ll write up an article or two and give them to him, tell him to see how the readers like them, then we can talk. He shouldn’t get suspicious then. I don’t need the money. I’m not going to starve. It’s just that I do need something to keep my mind busy.”

“Are you any good with computers?”

“I guess I’m what you’d call a functional genius, but a technological moron.”

“Too bad. Since I’m a small-time consultant, I don’t need any frills, either.”

The night was clear and warm, with just a slight breeze off the Atlantic. The stars were brilliant overhead. Becca stood by Tyler’s Jeep, staring up at the sky. “Nothing like this in New York City. I could get used to this real fast, Tyler. Too bad you can barely hear the ocean from here. The briny smell is fainter, too.”

“Yeah, I found I missed it so much I had to move back, and so I did just a couple of years after I finished my master’s degree. But you know, more and more young people leave and stay gone. I wonder if Riptide will still be here in another twenty years or so.”

“There are lots of tourists to boost the economy, aren’t there?”

“Yes, but the entire flavor of the town has changed over the past twenty, thirty years. I guess that’s progress, huh?” He paused a moment, staring up at the Milky Way. “After Ann went away, I thought I wanted to leave Riptide and never come back-you know, all the memories-but I realized that all of Sam’s friends are here, all the people who knew Ann are here, and memories aren’t bad. I can work anywhere, and so I stayed. I haven’t regretted it. I’m glad you’re here, Becca. Things will work out, you’ll see. The only thing is winter. It’s not much fun here in January.”

“It’s not much fun in New York, either. We’ll see what’s happening by January. I don’t understand about your wife, Tyler. Did she die?”

She wanted to take it back at the look of pain that etched lines around his mouth, made his eyes look blank and dead. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s all right. Of course you’re curious. Everyone else in town is.”

“What do you mean?”

“My wife didn’t die. She just up and left me. She was here one day, gone the next. No word, no message, nothing at all. That was fifteen months, two weeks, and three days ago. She’s listed as a Missing Person.”

“I’m very sorry, Tyler.”

“Yeah, so am I. So is her son.” He shrugged. “We’re getting by. It gets better as the time passes.”

What an odd way to put it. Wasn’t Sam his son, too?

“The townspeople are like folk everywhere. They don’t want to believe that Ann just up and left Riptide. They’d rather think I did her in.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I agree. Now, Becca, don’t worry. Things will get better. I’m an expert at things eventually getting better, particularly when they can’t possibly get any worse.”

She sure hoped he was right. They made a date to go to the gym together the following day. His wife had just walked out-on him and on her own little boy? That had to be incredibly tough for both of them. Why did folks want to believe he’d kill her?

Three nights later, on June 26, Becca was watching TV, not to see if she was still a footnote in Governor Bledsoe’s ongoing story, but to check in on the weather again. The most violent storm to hit the Maine coast in nearly fifteen years was surging relentlessly toward them, bringing with it forecasts of fifty-mile-per-hour winds, torrential rains, and the probability of immense property damage. Everyone was warned to go to shelters, which Becca considered doing for about three minutes. No, she wasn’t about to leave. Being with other people up close and personal as one would be in a shelter would put her at greater risk of being recognized. She didn’t think many of the Mainers would even consider leaving their homes. They were incredibly tough, only nodding philosophically when discussing the incoming storm.

Becca paced the widow’s walk as the storm approached, watching the skies, the now disappearing stars as clouds blanketed them, the boats in the harbor, bobbing about in the rising waves. Then the winds suddenly increased and tore through the trees. The air turned as cold as a morning in January. When the rain finally hit, crashing down hard and fast, she was driven inside. It was just before ten o’clock at night.

The lights flickered. Becca had bought candles and matches and she set them on her bedside table. She paused to listen as the storm bludgeoned the shoreline. She heard a newscaster predict great destruction of lobster boats and pleasure craft if they hadn’t been thoroughly secured. She could imagine what the harbor looked like now, waves frothing high, whipping against the sides of the boats, probably sending water crashing over the sides.