“You’re right,” he said mildly. “I was a terrible babysitter. Used to let my neighbors’ kids eat candy all night.” He nodded at a ­stony-­faced Anahera, then Nikau. “Have a good day.”

He felt their eyes on him as he got into his vehicle, both dark, both impenetrable.

It was a good thing he’d never told himself that he understood Nikau; their friendship was a surface thing based on their liking for the same sport, a good run through the trees, and the odd beer. Will knew Nikau was pissed his ex had married ­rich-­and-­liked-­people-­to-­know-­it Daniel May, and that Nikau was in the Cove because of that same ex.

That was pretty much the extent of his personal knowledge of Nikau Martin.

Nik knew even less about Will.

As he backed down the drive, unable to turn with Nikau’s truck parked where it was, he was again aware of both of them watching him leave. Watching the outsider leave. He’d never had any illusions about that, ­either—­in a place like this, a man stayed an outsider for decades, no matter how hard he tried.

Of course, Will wasn’t exactly hankering to belong anywhere.

Which made him the perfect cop to send to Golden Cove.

8

Anahera drove to the garage after breakfast, her blood still cold. Peter, unsmiling as always, and just a little strange in a way it was difficult to define, said, “Hi, Ana,” and got to work checking out her engine.

Nothing serious, was the conclusion. He changed a small part, told her the Jeep was a solid investment, then waved off the bill. “Next time won’t be free.”

“Thanks, Peter.” Guilt nipped at her even as she said that. She’d never been able to make herself genuinely like Peter, though she’d tried; he was always nice and he’d never done anything to make her dislike ­him… but the tiny hairs on her nape stood up anytime she was alone with the lanky redhead. “Have a good day.”

He nodded, standing unmoving in the garage entrance as she drove away. It felt as if his muddy green eyes tracked her until she turned onto the main strip. She spotted the cop’s vehicle heading out of town, tried to guess who he was going to see. A number of Cove people lived way out in the wilderness, including a few who didn’t much care for company. But she guessed that was his ­job—­to show his face even in the shadows, make people know the law was around.

She wondered if it was working.

Parking the Jeep outside the café, she got out. But it was only Miriama she found inside. “Jo says her ankles are the size of tree stumps today,” the girl informed Anahera, her smile sunny. “I told her to stay home and have some time to herself since Tom’s taken the boyo with him on a job. With the weather so grizzly, it’ll probably be quiet until the fishing boats come in later today.”

Anahera had almost not noticed the change in the ­weather—­the West Coast was often clear and bright even in winter, but for some reason of geography, the Cove collected what water there was in the atmosphere. The sky was stormy gray today, rain a dark mist that threatened to turn morning into evening. “Who’s out fishing?”

“The usual crazy crew,” Miriama said with a roll of her eyes, but those eyes were warm with affection. “Kev and Tamati and Boris.”

“I know all those names except Boris.”

“Backpacker who washed up here and decided to stay. A year now.” Miriama shook her head. “He’s from St. Petersburg. Decided he liked the quiet of the Cove better.”

“If he’s survived a winter already, maybe he’ll make it.”

“He keeps telling us he’s ­Russian—­‘And Russians know winter. This is nothing.’ ” Dropping the thick Russian accent with a grin, she moved to her coffee machine. “What’s your poison?”

“Straight black,” Anahera said. “And I’ll take a decaf cappuccino, too. Both to go.”

Miriama made the drinks, then said, “Say hi to Jo for me.” She drew a smiley face on the cup meant for Josie.

“Will do. Thanks, Miri.” The Jeep had no cup holders, but thanks to the cardboard holder Miriama had provided, Anahera managed to make it to Josie’s without spilling. Her friend’s home was a small clapboard house painted a crisp white with a ­blue-­green trim. Josie had planted native ferns around the sides, hardy flowering plants out front.

Going to the door, Anahera tested the knob and, as expected, it turned easily. “Locks exist for a reason!” she called out so Josie wouldn’t get a fright when she walked in.

“You’d better have brought me a cappuccino!”

Anahera smiled and walked into the living room to find Josie sitting on a sofa, folding curtains of happy yellow with white daisies printed on them. Her breath stuck in her chest. “­Where—­” She took a desperate sip of coffee to wet her ­bone-­dry throat. “Where did you get those?”

“I saved them for you.” Josie’s smile was uncertain. “I’m sorry. Was that the wrong thing to do? I was worried they’d get moldy and damaged in the cabin after you left.”

Heart thundering, Anahera put the coffees on the small wooden table in front of Josie. “I thought they were gone,” she whispered, taking one of the crisply laundered and ironed curtains in her hands.

Josie touched her fingers to Anahera’s shoulder. “Your mum spent so much time making these. I couldn’t bear to have them just fade away.”

A lump of rock in her throat, Anahera nodded. She’d left behind everything but the greenstone carving she wore on a thin braided cord under her black sweater, and the memories in her heart. She’d thought she was beyond the idea of needing objects to remember the woman she’d loved so much, and whose embrace she missed to this day, but these curtains sang to her in her mother’s voice. “On that little sewing machine of hers.”

“I still have that, too,” Josie whispered. “You can have it back.”

Anahera shook her head. “She would’ve wanted you to have it.” That was why Anahera had given the machine to her best friend. “I can’t sew. Not like her.” Putting her hand on Josie’s, she squeezed. “Thank you.”

Josie’s misty eyes scanned her face. “Are you going to see your dad?”

Steel in her spine, black ice in her heart. “No.” She’d made her decision at ­twenty-­one and that was how it’d stay.

“He’s been sober for years.”

“That’s good. But it has nothing to do with me.”

And then they sat there, awash in memories of a woman with Anahera’s features but with silver in her hair and sadness in her eyes.

INTERLUDE

She examined her face in the mirror, tried to see if it showed.

But no, she looked the same as always.

Frowning, she sat on the narrow single bed and leaned down to lace up her running shoes. They were good shoes, with stripes of orange down the sides. She loved running in them. Probably she shouldn’t have accepted such an expensive gift, but her previous shoes had been falling apart to the point that she’d been considering running in bare feet.