Chapter Forty-Three

Beaufort, South Carolina

October 24

C lara took in the landscape as Tox pulled the Suburban into the gravel driveway. Marshland gave way to water as low-flying shore birds swooped along the wetlands for food. Farther from the shore, dark forest, rich with pines and autumn trees shrouded them. They had all agreed that staying in this anonymous rental was the safest option for Miles and Clara. Clara noticed Tox’s wife, Calliope, hadn’t put up too much of an argument when Miles suggested the housing arrangement. Calliope and her best friend, Emily Bishop, were playing Cupid. Little did they know how hopeless their attempt would be. Clara had been shooting suction cup arrows at a fortress for a long enough time to see the wall was impenetrable.

The stilted low country cottage was white with black shutters and an inviting front porch. Miles and his twin had been silent and vigilant on the drive here. Twitch had provided a laptop with security features, and her college bestie, Very Valentine, had sent along what she called “survival provisions:” wine, chocolate, junk food, a jigsaw puzzle, and a zipped cosmetics bag that Clara assumed contained female essentials.

Tox skipped all three front porch steps in one stride with their packed duffles. Miles carried the groceries. Clara followed the men inside, marveling at the synchronicity of the twins. They had spent most of their lives apart. Tox was unguarded and, well, happy. In contrast, Miles was distant and serious. And yet, as they moved wordlessly through the house, checking rooms and putting away food, Clara saw that neonatal connection. It was as if they knew the other’s movements before they made them. Tox ducked his head as Miles opened a cupboard. Miles sidestepped the freezer door when Tox turned with a pint of ice cream. As she watched this magical dance, Clara imagined them as boys, so connected, so reliant. The separation must have been devastating.

Clara took in the space. The cottage belonged to a friend of Nathan’s aunt and uncle. The woman was retired and rented out the house for extra income. The owner was all too happy to accept double the rent in cash and keep the whole exchange off the books.

Clara had been all over the world. Reynard had taken her to see the salt farms of Malta and pearl divers in the Philippines. She had been scuba diving in Kiribati and hiked in Nepal. Standing at the bay window and looking past the front porch into the woods and wetlands beyond, Clara could honestly say she had never been to a place so charming and so haunted. Half a world hid in this shadowed, mysterious biome. Good and evil. Predator and prey. A venomous snake entwined on a blossoming orchid. Poisonous berries growing beside a nest of bunnies.

A sound from the kitchen interrupted Clara’s dark thoughts, familiar yet foreign. She turned to the brothers, who were side by side at the kitchen island. Tox was holding a jar of peanut butter, and Miles was…laughing.

Clara hadn’t realized it until that moment, but she had never actually heard Miles laugh. Surely, that couldn’t be right. She had known him for twelve years. Not every day, of course, but they had certainly spent enough time together that she would have heard him laugh at least once. But no. She hadn’t. She knew she hadn’t because the sound was so wonderful, a rich, clear baritone from deep in his chest; if she had heard it before, she certainly would have remembered. Clara had to know what prompted this jovial first.

She walked past the chintz-covered living room furniture and into the open kitchen. “What’s got you so broken up?”

Miles was still laughing. Tox held up the Jif with a huge grin. “When we were kids, we had this dog, a beagle named Leonard. He was the best fucking dog. He used to—”

“Follow us to school,” Miles cut in.

“And he’d sit by the window in the afternoon waiting for us to get home,” Tox finished.

“But,” Miles started chuckling again. “He wouldn’t let you trim his nails.”

“Mom bought this dog nail trimmer thing from the vet, and if you even opened the drawer she kept it in—”

“Leonard would disappear under a bed.”

Back to Tox. “So one day, Miles decides we can do it if we can create a distraction for the dog.”

“ Rig ,” Miles corrected. “Rig a distraction. Clara, I’m telling you, it was a stroke of genius.”

“He takes a bath towel and cuts four holes in it.”

“Sounds like a bad start,” Clara said.

Tox held up a hand. “Oh, the punishments will pile up as the story continues.”

Miles defended, “The idea was sound. We may have had some glitches in the execution.”

“Miles fits Leonard’s legs through each of the holes in the towel. The theory being—”

“That if he couldn’t see his paws, he wouldn’t be scared,” Miles finished.

“But that was only part one,” Tox said.

“Part two,” Miles started laughing again. “For part two, we put the dog in the empty bathtub and taped the edges of the towel to the side of the tub.”

“Now, bear in mind that Leonard is not on board with any part of this plan. The dog hates water even more than getting his nails cut.”

Miles took over. “But there’s no water in the tub, so he’s not freaking out.”

Clara leaned her forearms on the kitchen island and asked, “How old are you at this point?”

Miles looked at Tox. “Seven?”

Tox corrected, “Eight.”

“That’s right. Eight. So Tox sneaks the clippers into his pocket, and I grab the peanut butter. And I just sink my whole hand into the jar and start smearing it on the side of the tub.”

“Leonard loved peanut butter. Miles passes me the jar, and I do the same.” Tox starts laughing again and can barely get the words out. “We are finger painting the entire tub. And we are covered in it. Miles runs his hand down my face, and I’m smearing it in his hair—”

“And Leonard is now fully on board with the plan, and he starts squirming against this towel hammock we’ve rigged.”

Miles rested his hand over the back of Clara’s and slipped his fingers between hers. Clara didn’t react. It was as if a squirrel had come over beside her and was eating a nut from her palm. She didn’t want to startle the creature.

“But now the tape is coming loose, and Leonard is rubbing the sides of the tub and getting peanut butter all over his fur.”

“Tox starts clipping his back paws, and it’s working.”

“But the clippers keep slipping out of my hand because I’m covered in peanut butter.”

“Meanwhile, I’m trying to resecure the tape, and I fall in the tub.”

Both men say simultaneously, “And that’s when our mom walks in.”

“Oh my God, how much trouble were you in?”

“She tried so hard not to laugh.” Miles squeezed Clara’s hand.

Tox said, “She took the clippers and finished the job. Then she started the water in the tub.”

Again, the brothers spoke in sync. “Nobody leaves this bathroom until you’re clean.” Tox wagged his finger in a parental gesture.

“Oh shit, Mi, we were a handful,” Tox said.

“Mom was a saint. That’s for sure.”

And just like that, the moment was gone, painted over with grief.

Tox slapped both hands on the granite. “I’ll let you two get settled—dinner at our place at seven. Calliope is craving Portuguese food, so she’s making this rice and duck thing she ate as a child. I was skeptical first time I tried it, but it’s insanely good. She has to make two now because I eat an entire casserole myself.”

“You would eat shoe leather if it had gravy on top. We know the dish.” Miles turned to Clara. “Arroz de Pato. I bet Calliope is a great cook.”

Clara explained to Tox, “Our old cook in Dordogne was Portuguese. That’s one of my favorite meals.”

“Righty-Oh. Mi, the homeowner, said the old pickup in the back runs great. Keys are on the rack in the mud room. See you tonight.” With a slap on the back to his twin and a wave to Clara, Tox left.

Miles returned to unpacking the remaining groceries. She couldn’t read him, which meant the walls were back up. He had returned to the impassive professional. Still, against her better judgment, that brief moment of pure joy between the twins had ignited a glimmer of hope.

Miles held up a box of cereal with a questioning look.

“Pantry?” Clara suggested, pointing to the door behind him. Miles turned and disappeared behind the doorway while she finished putting away the eggs and milk in the fridge. Clara folded the reusable bags and put them in a drawer. When Miles still hadn’t returned, she followed his path.

Clara opened the door and saw Miles’s broad frame standing in the middle of a small mud room. He still held the box of cereal. “Did you get lost?”

When he didn’t respond, Clara came around and faced him. Miles was pale as a ghost, staring at the wall. Nothing was inherently disturbing about the room—a pantry on the right and the back door leading to a raised deck on the left. Miles was staring at a row of cubbies holding waders, boots, and some fishing gear. He wasn’t staring at it, Clara corrected. He was staring through it, lost in some memory.

“Miles?” Clara murmured. No response.

She pulled the cereal box from his clenched fists and set it aside, then led Miles out of the alcove back into the kitchen. He followed robotically as she clasped his hand and walked him to the living room. By the time she helped him sit on the cheery floral sofa, he snapped out of it.

“Shit, sorry, Clara.” He ran a hand down his face, clasping his jaw. “That’s never happened before.”

“And what would you say was ‘that?’”

“Not sure. Low blood sugar?”

“Miles—”

“I’m fine, Clara. It’s nothing.”

More little arrows flying toward solid stone. “Yes, Miles. You’re fine.” She stood and crossed the living space, heading for the bedroom in the back. At the doorway, she turned to him. “You know, I had a dream about you the other night. We were on the Titanic. I was barefoot in my pajamas, standing in one of those wooden lifeboats hitched to the side of the ship. You were wandering the deck, oblivious to the people around you. The porters started lowering my lifeboat, and I frantically waved for you to get in.”

A piercing screech had both of them turning to the open window. Some small creature had fallen prey to an owl or other predator.

Miles returned his attention to Clara. “So what happened?”

Clara shook her head with a self-deprecating laugh. “You picked up a violin.”