Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“What about school?”
Devorah opened the back and reached for her suitcase. “School can wait until Monday.”
“Awesome.”
It was the least Dev could do. She wanted to give Maren time to adjust and get to know Oyster Bay before she threw her to the wolves. She wasn’t wrong when she said there were drawbacks to living in a place like Oyster Bay. Sure, it was beautiful and had a lot to offer people, if a town this small was what people looked for. It was great for visiting, but you either fit in or you didn’t. There really wasn’t a middle ground. Maren had a lot going for her, though. She was outgoing, charismatic, smart, and athletic. Devy hoped that would be enough.
With what they could carry, they headed toward the concrete pathway, where the fence opened near the house, which would lead to the wide-planked steps and then to the front door, where, if memory served correctly, the screen door would be old yet sturdy and still squeak when opened and closed.
With her arms full, Devorah looked toward the house and saw her father standing on the porch. Tremaine Crowley, Crow for short, was the town sheriff, or, as he liked to tell everyone, he was the law around town. He was the epitome of what most people would think a small-town sheriff would look like. Big and burly, he kept his dark hair high and tight. Every kid in town was afraid of him, including his own.
“I heard you were coming,” he said gruffly as he descended the stairs. Crow wasn’t one for pleasantries or change. He liked his life to stay the same, day in and day out. Which was why Oyster Bay was the only town with a sheriff and deputies, while every other place had a chief and a police force.
“Hi, Daddy,” Devorah said. “I can’t imagine who you heard it from.”
“That man you . . .” Crow stopped when his eyes met his granddaughter’s. Maren was one of the reasons Devy had stayed away from Oyster Bay for so long—her daughter looked identical to her mother, who had passed away when Devy was ten and Colt was twelve. Crow never got over the death of his wife.
“Hi, Grandpa,” Maren said as she stepped around her mom. Maren wrapped her arms around Crow. The gesture seemed to take him by surprise. Devy cocked her eyebrow at him, in challenge, wanting to know how he was going to react. He slowly placed his hands on Maren’s back and patted her. Dev said nothing. She couldn’t remember the last time her father had hugged her.
The wooden screen door popped open, and a light-brown puppy trotted out.
“Grandpa, you have a puppy?” Maren went immediately to the fluff ball standing on the porch, with its tail wagging back and forth.
“She was the runt of the litter, and no one wanted her,” he said as he reached for the suitcases. “Your uncle brought her home.”
“What’s her name?” Maren dropped to her knees and cuddled the dog.
“Cordelia,” Crow said. “Your uncle says her name means ‘goddess of the sea’ or something like that. Hell, I mean heck. I don’t know.”
“I can help take care of her,” Maren said without taking her eyes off the puppy. “We’re going to be best friends.”
Devorah watched this unfold and found herself smiling. This puppy could turn out to be a good thing for Maren.
“Colt lives here?” Devorah asked as she followed her father up the stairs.
“He does. Don’t worry, we have room. Come on, Cordelia,” he barked out as he entered the house. Much to Devy’s surprise, the puppy followed on command.
Nothing had changed. Not the house nor the man who ran it. The door slammed behind Devy. She jumped, lost in thought as she looked around the entryway of the home she’d grown up in and couldn’t wait to leave as soon as she graduated from high school.
While the bones of the house were old, dating back to prerevolutionary days, the interior had been redone sometime in the seventies or eighties and was in desperate need of another remodel. To the left was the large dining room, with built-in cabinets and buffet. The last Devy knew, those cabinets and drawers were filled with dishes and linens her mother, Marguerite, had acquired. Either passed down to her or something she’d bought. Devorah couldn’t imagine her father throwing anything out. The dining room table still looked the same, from what Devy could see. The tablecloth was lace, yellowed from age and lack of washing, with a vinyl protector underneath. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind the wooden tabletop was in pristine condition.
Separating the dining room from the eat-in kitchen was a robin’s-egg-blue swinging door. It was something you’d find in an old diner. Devy and her friends often used it for their grand entrances during their days of dress-up.