Amagansett

‘Playing golf.’

‘Who with?’

‘Don’t worry, I don’t think you’re missing out on anything.’ The words came out wrong, the tone more aggressive than she had intended, but Manfred didn’t appear to notice. ‘He said he’d meet you at the club for lunch,’ she added.

‘You’re not coming?’

‘I’m going to see the fishermen, the ones who found Lilly.’

‘That’s right, I’d forgotten. Do you want me to go with you?’

‘It’s okay.’ She paused. ‘I want to take them something, but I can’t think what.’

‘Champagne. Raid the cellar.’

‘Champagne seems a little…celebratory.’

‘We served it after the funeral.’

‘That’s true.’

They sat in silence for a moment, then Manfred reached out, took her hand and squeezed it.

‘Gayle, you haven’t really talked about what happened. About Lilly.’ Gayle didn’t reply. ‘Maybe it’s not my place to say, but you might feel better if you did.’

‘You’re right,’ she said, removing her hand from his. ‘It’s not your place to say.’

She spotted the turning on her third pass, just as she was about to give up and go home. A sandy track, barely wide enough for a vehicle, snaked off through the pines on the south side of Montauk Highway.

There was no sign on the verge, nothing to indicate that someone lived at the end of the narrow trail. She was beginning to doubt that they did when, after a hundred yards or so, the trees petered out, giving way to an expansive view, the top of a barn showing in the distance above the crests of the rolling dunes.

She teased the car forward, steering to avoid the ruts. This proved to be her undoing. The front wheels of the roadster sank into the soft sand beside the track, losing all purchase. The more she gunned the engine, the faster the wheels spun and the deeper the car settled.

‘Damn.’

She grabbed her handbag and the two bottles of Champagne, and set off on foot. Almost immediately she kicked off her shoes and tucked them under her arm.

She was sweating now, irritable, and it occurred to her that she must look like some slattern searching for a party.

The fisherman didn’t see or hear her approach. He was bent over the front of a battered truck, head in the engine, revving the motor loudly. He was wearing only a pair of tatty cotton trousers, and she could see the muscles in his shoulders bunching beneath the skin as he worked.

She didn’t call out; her shadow alerted him to her presence, startling him.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you. I’m looking for Conrad Labarde.’

He reached into the engine and killed the motor.

‘You just found him.’

‘I’m Lillian Wallace’s sister.’

‘Yes…’

He must have spotted the resemblance. There was oil on his hands, and what she first took to be oil smeared around his right eye and along the side of his chest. She quickly realized that what she was staring at was bruising.

‘Some gear fell on me,’ he said, reading her look.

‘These are for you, you and your friend, by way of thank you.’

He took the bottles of Champagne from her.

‘You look hot,’ he said. ‘Are you thirsty?’

‘A little.’

‘Come with me.’ He wandered off, leaving her little choice but to follow.

The house wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting. What had she been expecting? There were pictures and books and fine old pieces of furniture, albeit of a rustic nature. He obviously felt no inclination to make idle chat, and she browsed around while he washed his hands at the sink.

‘Here,’ he said, handing her a glass of water.

She had every intention of leaving as soon as she’d quenched her thirst, but when he indicated a chair at the end of the table she found herself sitting. He took a seat near her.

‘I’m sorry about your sister.’

‘It could have been worse.’

‘Worse than death?’

‘If you hadn’t caught her in your net she might never have been found.’ She paused. ‘Does that sound silly?’

‘No. We all look for small consolations at times like this.’