Page 55 of The Magic We Made

I slam the door to my car. I can see the silhouette of Daisy sitting on the back of the couch in my living room window. I left the house lights on for her, but from the way she’s watching my front door, she doesn’t seem to appreciate it. All she can think about is how much she longs to get away.

I can relate.

Especially when I hear thePUTT PUTT PUTTof Ash’s stupid truck—the truck my brother admires so much—coming down the night-darkened road toward my house.

Ash has followed me home from the party.

And okay, he lives here, too, so maybe “followed” me home from the party isn’t the most accurate way to put it. But he didn’t have to leave the party at the exact same time I did.

It’s not that I think he’s stalking me. I’m not conceited enough to think that’s why he was at the party in the first place—or that that’s why he’s followed me home after I left (contrary to the text Angie just sent me, I did not “storm out”).

I left for an entirely different reason... although I do think Ash Merit is jerking me—and all of West Harbor—around, and I definitely don’t appreciate it.

Oh, I heard what he said when he rushed over to me out on the deck back at the Brewport.

“Hey.” He was smiling—but in that uneasy way people smile when they know they’ve screwed up and are wondering how mad you are. “You look great. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have given you a lift. We could have carpooled.”

He didn’t look too bad himself. He’d exchanged the flannel shirt and hiking boots for a button-down, dark jeans, and wool sports coat. He looked like a newscaster or the host of a competitive baking show. It was not at all a bad look for him.

But I refused to let that distract me.

“What are you doing here?” I’d asked. I was conscious that a lot of eyes were on us—he seemed to have been conversing with my entire family (except Cat, who once again was MIA from a function she’d at least hinted she might attend). All of them were watching our interaction with differing levels of engagement, varying between highly interested—Mark, Angie, Dina, my mother—and not so interested—Troy, Jessica, Derrick, Mr. Hong.

That’s right. My mother was standing there with Mr. Hong at her side.My motherwas watching.

“Oh, hey, Frankie,” Mark said. “We’ve just formally met your new neighbor.”

“I didn’t know he and Derrick were related,” Mom cried. “Francesca, you’ll never guess. He loves mysalsicce all’uva!”

“I didn’t know that either,” I said, narrowing my eyes at Ash. “That’s so interesting. And just how are you and Derrick related?”

“We’re cousins,” Ash said at the same time as Angie said, “Derrick’s his uncle,” in a smug tone that told me exactly how much she was relishing this entire situation.

“Half-uncle,” Ash corrected her with a nervous laugh. “It’s easier just to say we’re cousins. Families can get so complicated, you know?”

I looked from Ash to Derrick. I could see no family resemblance whatsoever. Ash is dark-haired, dark-eyed, and dark-complected, whereas Derrick is blond, blue-eyed, and pale as a Viking warrior. Derrick towers over Ash—and most everyone else.

“I see,” I said, even though I did not—and still do not. I fear I’m going to need a genogram of Ash’s family if I’m ever going to be able to understand him. To Ash, I said, “So your father—”

“My mother is Ash’s grandmother,” Derrick said shortly. “Oh, look, Jessica. The food is here.”

It was true. Servers were walking around with trays of appetizers that included sliders, mini cups of chowder, and little cardboard bowls filled with nachos.

That worked to distract most of my family. Mark said, “Ooh, chowder, my favorite,” and grabbed a cup, while my mom and Mr. Hong laughed giddily over their beef sliders.

But I wasn’t interested in the food. I was still processing what I’d just been told. Derrick’s mother is Ash’sgrandmother? How was such a thing even physically possible?

“I’m serious,” Ash said to me. Everyone else had disappeared in pursuit of nachos. “I didn’t think you were going to be here. I overheard you on the phone yesterday with your sister—you two were talking about this party—and you said you weren’t going to come.”

So he’d been listening during my call with Angie.

“Yes,” I said. “I changed my mind. Could you tell me how it’s physically possible for a woman to have a son and grandson who are about the same age?”

“It’s a long story, and you don’t even have a drink. Can I get you one?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “Is she your biological grandmother, or were you adopted?”

“No. Like I said, it’s complicated—”