But phones they had.
The world shifted, as he imagined someone calling Piper that instant. Or Pearl. Or BobDan. His body swayed and he bent over at the waist.
“Anders?” Greta’s voice filled with alarm.
“I’m gonna be sick.”
“Oh.” She took two large steps back. “Why don’t you, uh . . . head home? We can talk about this later.”
Anders didn’t even look at her as he bolted for the door.
—
If BobDan was surprised to see Anders sprinting toward his ferry at the Winder marina just as he was pushing off from the dock at 12:01 p.m., he didn’t show it. He eyed Anders calmly and said one word: “Jump.”
And Anders did, nearly overshooting the boat altogether and landing in the Chesapeake Bay. Fortunately, the railing on the far side of the boat caught him in the thighs and BobDan managed to grab an arm, pulling Anders back into the boat, where he tumbled onto the floor with a thud.
“Welcome aboard, Walter Cronkite,” BobDan said, and then ambled to the front of the boat and settled into the captain’s chair.
—
Once docked on the island, Anders leapt from the boat and ran directly to the Blue Point market. He had no idea what he was going to say to Piper; all he knew was that if he had any kind of chance of protecting her, he had to get to her before anyone else. He vaulted up the few rickety wooden stairs of the tiny store and burst through the front door, red-faced, clammy with sweat, and breathing hard.
The market was empty, save for an older gentleman in a white apron and glasses, whom Anders had seen around the island but not officially met. “Mr. Garrison?” he said.
“Yes?” The man peered at him over his thin wire frames.
“Is Piper working today?”
He frowned. “No. Called in sick today. Don’t think she ever fully got over whatever it was she had a few weeks ago.”
Anders paused at that, as he couldn’t remember Piper ever being sick. He glanced around the tiny store. “Do you sell soup here?”
With a foam cup of microwavable chicken noodle in hand, Anders walked to the bed-and-breakfast, staring at his shoes, unsure what he was going to encounter. As he turned the corner, he saw Mrs. Olecki kneeling at the edge of the yard with a garden trowel in one gloved hand and a flower bulb in the other. He slowed his pace, wondering how to explain his sudden reappearance on the island. He’d have to tell Pearl sooner or later, and everyone else out here. But he was determined to tell Piper first. If he could get her to understand, then maybe . . .
“Well, speak of the devil!” Pearl said brightly.
Anders stopped in his tracks. “Huh?”
“The phone has been ringing off the hook this morning!”
Anders tried to swallow. His heartbeat revved. “It has?”
“Seems like that little podcast of yours has people interested in visiting our island. Who’d have thought?”
Anders pushed out a laugh. “Oh, ha ha! Wow. Who would have thought?”
“Well, I’ve told them tourist season is over, of course. But we’re already completely booked up for the first two weeks of May.”
“That’s . . . great.”
She narrowed her eyes, as if just realizing the day. “What are you doing back so soon? Didn’t you just leave yesterday?”
“Yeah. I, uh . . . heard Piper was sick and thought I’d bring her some soup.” He lamely lifted the cup up a few inches.
“You came all the way back over here to bring . . . soup?”
“Yep.”
“Ohh-kay,” she said, as if the actions of young people were beyond her comprehension and she wasn’t going to worry herself trying. “Well, can you go through the kitchen and take the trash out on your way? It’s near overflowing and Harold won’t be back ’til later on this afternoon.”
“Sure,” Anders said. He walked past Pearl and up the steps to the porch.
Just as Anders put his hand on the front doorknob, Pearl spoke again. “Hey, Jeffrey.” Anders turned his head in time to see the One-Eyed Crab waiter ambling down the side alley between the houses. Walking toward Piper’s. Wearing a green baseball hat.
Anders blinked, pausing at that detail.
What on earth was Jeffrey coming over for? It was clear they weren’t exactly friends. Unless . . . Oh, God. He had heard about the podcast and was coming to tell her before Anders could.
Anders stepped across the threshold and ran to the back of the house, lifting the storm window facing the back porch as quietly as he could. The roof overhang obstructed his view of Piper’s porch, but he could see Jeffrey’s boots walking up her steps.
Thunk-thunk-thunk.
Jeffrey rapped on the door in time with Anders’s racing heartbeat. And then the silence stretched out so long, Anders thought—he hoped—Piper must be asleep.
Finally, he heard the door creak open. “What are you doing here?” Piper whispered harshly. She did not sound happy to see him. Jeffrey mumbled something in return and Anders strained to hear, his heartbeat now pounding in his ears.
“Jeffrey, you’re drunk. Go home.”
Drunk?
“Please. Don’t send me away. I don’t want to be alone.” Anders heard it then. The slurring.
“Jeffrey, you have to stop coming here. It’s too much.”
“I can’t,” Jeffrey said, his voice breaking. “Don’t you understand?”
Piper’s voice went even softer and Anders could only make out every few words: “. . . have to get over it . . . it was never meant to be . . .”
Jeffrey was full-on crying now. Sobbing, more like, and Anders, though relieved, was wildly confused.
“Piper? Everything OK up there?”
“Yes, Mrs. Olecki,” she called back. And then, her voice a little louder: “I have to tell Tom, Jeffrey.”
“No!” Jeffrey wailed. “Piper, stop. Please stop.”
Anders quietly closed the window, uncomfortable eavesdropping on such raw pain. He stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of
