Page 92 of Stony Point Summer

But to get this shot, Neil had to stand close—close enough toknowwho it is.

Problem is, Jason can’ttellwho it is. He turns the picture over, but Neil made no notes on the back. So Jason flips the scrapbook pages for any clues in the next pictures. There’s actually a photo there of Neil himself—one that Jason missed before. He’s got on jeans and a white tee. A blue bandana hangs from a belt loop; sunglasses are propped on his head. The same water view is behind his brother, and that same viewfinder is off to the side.

Okay, so Neil definitely knew whoever was standing at the viewfinder, then. That person was no stranger and must’ve taken Neil’s picture.

While digging into his grinder, Jason flips the pages to more photos. Whether or not they’re from that same day is questionable. One is of a stone tower atop a hill. Others are cottage close-ups: peeling fish-scale trim, shadowy gabled peaks, decorative cutouts in fading window shutters—all against graying cedar shingles. There’s even a white church steeple rising tall behind leafy trees.

Nothing’s revealed. No captions. No names. No remarks.

So Jason flips back to the beach binoculars picture.

Wait a minute.

Dropping the grinder half on his plate, he hurries into Ted Sullivan’s cottage. The dog follows close behind him as he opens the slider screen and unzips his workbag on the counter. He digs around in a zipped pocket and pulls out the magnifying glass he sometimes uses on architectural prints. Grabbing a dog biscuit, too, he heads back out to the deck, sits again and snags another bite of that roast beef grinder. Behind him, Maddy laps up a mouthful of cold water from her bowl. When she’s done, he tosses her the biscuit and gets back to business. Surely the magnifying glass will help. Pulling the scrapbook close, he holds that magnifier over the puzzling image; lowers the magnifier; inches it to the left.

“Shit,” he whispers, then looks again at the photograph.

Which is when Jason gets another idea. Picking up his cell phone, he carefully snaps an actual pictureofthe photograph. That done, he opens the image on his phone screen.

And flicks it larger.

Then a little more.

And lifts the phone close, angling it away from the noonday sun.

Setting the phone down then, he finishes his grinder—first dragging the last hunk of it through mayo and olive oil juices on his plate. While chewing, he wipes a spot of mayo from his chin with the back of his hand. Wipes his hands off with a paper napkin, too. The whole time, his eyes are on that damn photograph. Its colors are a little faded; the mist off the water gives an ethereal effect. Picking up his soda can, Jason stands and walks to the far deck railing. Standing there facing the distant beach, he tips up the can and finishes every last drop of soda.

“No,” he says then. “It can’t be.”

He turns and just leans there on the railing, facing the patio table now. But he doesn’t move—as if there’s some danger to taking a step closer to that photograph.

To that person in it.

Shaking his head, he walks back to the table and looks at the scrapbook picture while standing. The dog lies beneath the table now. Her tail thumps the deck floor as Jason stands there. After a few seconds, he sets down his empty soda can and nudges the picture to a different angle. Then nudges it back. Turning away, Jason runs a hand through his hair, salty from the breeze lifting off the sea. He paces, too, and heads back to the deck railing. Leaning his forearms on it, he drops his head and takes a long breath of the salt air here. It’s so pungent, the scent is almost medicinal.

Hell, life just went and did it again.

The tide turned. Damn, did it turn—big time, this time. Not only did the tide turn, it happened fast and washed right over him. Practically knocked him over, actually, with disbelief.

About his brother.

About the person in the picture.

And about so much more. Grievances and loyalties. And more secrets.

Now? Now Jason can’t stay away from that photograph. So he returns to the deck table again and gives a short laugh.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispers as he slowly sits. This time, he picks up his cell phone and looks at the enlarged photograph on the screen. At the mist lifting off the distant sea. At the person bent and peering through those silver beach binoculars. “It’s you.”