Page 86 of The Magic We Made

And why am I so sleepy? I can’t remember ever having been so sleepy. My eyelids have slammed shut, which might explain the sudden darkness. They’re so heavy, I can’t lift them. I can’t move any of my other muscles, either.

“Just a little devil’s weed,” I hear Haley coo in my ear, “to help you relax.”

No. Not now. I need to save Emma! I need to save Francesca! I need to...

Sleep.

Frankie

“Richard?”

My heartbeat slowly resumes its normal rhythm as I recognize my ex sitting in the dark on my porch swing.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Not the kind of greeting I was hoping for,” Richard says mildly, leaning forward to stub out his cigarette in the empty flowerpot he’s been using as an ashtray.

That’s when I finally smell it. It’s not a cigarette. The smoke from the fire hid the dank odor of his joint.

“Are you sitting out here on my front porchgetting stoned?” I demand.

“Well,” Richard says, resignedly. “I couldn’t get inside. You changed the locks. And you moved the spare key from the bottom of the flowerpot.”

“Of course I moved the spare key and changed the locks.”

I can’t believe this. I really can’t. First Ash proves himself tobe a complete head case, and then my ex proves himself to be another, all in the span of about two minutes.

But then, I always knew Richard was a head case.

“Get out of here, Richard,” I say. “I’m not in the mood for whatever this is.”

“No, I imagine not.”

He hasn’t moved from the porch swing, where he appears to be happy to sit indefinitely in the dark and cold. Fortunately he’s dressed for it, in a thick, waterproof sailing jacket and matching pants. Yes, he’s wearing waterproof pants. This, along with the full beard he’s grown and overlong, curly blond hair sticking out from beneath a black watch cap, makes him look like the salty old fisherman on the Gorton’s fish sticks box.

“Is it my imagination,” Richard asks, “or are you and that plebeian from next door having some sort of dalliance? Because that’s what it sounded—and looked—like just now. I couldn’t hear all the details, but I did see you allow him tocarryyou—”

“He isn’t a plebeian.” If only it were that simple. “He went to Penn, and Le Rosey in Switzerland before that.” Which are exactly the kind of schools I’d expect a child of the gods to attend.

Richard snorts. “That figures. I had him pegged as an entitled nepo baby from the day he moved in.”

Richard has no idea how much of a nepo baby Ash really is. That is, if a word of what he’s just told me is true, which it can’t be. But I ignore the insult for now.

“Richard, I really don’t have time for this.” I glance across the yard toward Ash’s house. He’s gone inside. I can see lights turning on in first one window, and then another. He’s gathering what he needs to make his trip to Center Island. Should I call Jackie inaddition to my own therapist? I wonder. Should I have Ash put on a psychiatric hold for his own safety? Or would that only make things worse?

It’s hard to imagine things getting worse.

“Why are you here, Richard?” I demand as I pull out my phone.

“I’m here,” he says, in his usual pretentious tone, “because I’ve realized I made a horrible mistake.”

“Oh, Richard.” I’m suddenly so exhausted, I can’t stand up anymore, so I sink down onto the porch steps. “I’m sorry about your boat,” I say. “But this is just a temporary setback. You’ll get it fixed and be back on the water in no—”

“I don’t care about the boat.” Richard stands up, and the porch swing creaks crazily. “That’s what I learned from all of this.”

“All of what?” From where I’m sitting, I can see everything that’s happening over at Ash’s house.

Well, almost everything. Not what’s happening down at his dock. Another marine layer is moving in, this one even thicker than the last, and rising up from the lake. I can feel its cool tendrils beginning to soak my hair and skin. It mingles with the smoke from the fire and limits my visibility, though I can still see the lights in Ash’s windows—and the ominous orange glow from Center Island.