Page 60 of Summer Reading

“Those are fine, but Miss Marple has so many more layers than Inspector Poirot,” I said. “Her cases are much more satisfying.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because Marple is an unassuming older lady who observes the world around her and deduces what happened, while Poirot is an actual detective,” I said. “To have her sleuthing makes her character much more multidimensional while it’s expected with him, because it’s literally what he does.”

“Huh. I never thought of it that way. We’re going to have to have a movie marathon so I can compare the two.”

“You’re not just going to give me the win on this?” I asked.

“Librarian.” He pointed to himself. “Research is required.”

I laughed, delighted to have movie nights with himto look forward to. “We’re going to have to canvass the island like detectives.”

“I’ve already searched the library archives, the old gazettes, but no luck so far,” he said. “She wasn’t an artist then, so there’s no mention of her.”

“I can talk to Stuart, the owner of the Tangled Vine Inn, where I’m catering on Fridays,” I said. “He was friends with my parents and probably remembers Vineyard hot spots from back in the day. I can also check with my family. I have cousins and an aunt who used to own places out here. They might remember something. I’d ask my dad, but he won’t be back for a couple of weeks. There’s always the Portuguese club, too. They’ve been here for generations.”

Ben hugged me close. “Careful. You’re giving me hope, Samantha.”

I tried to ignore the flush of pleasure I felt when he called me by my full name. No one called me that. It made it uniquely his. I was grateful it was dark out so Ben couldn’t see me blush. It had been a long time since a guy had shown more than passing interest in me, and I was soaking it up like a wilted flower in a gentle rain.

We walked back to the spot where we’d left our shoes. We brushed off our feet as best we could before slipping our shoes back on. There was still some sand between my toes but I didn’t care. I was too consumed with our quest.

I wondered what would happen if we managed to find his dad. What if he was here on the island already? The thought made me try to picture them meeting for the first time. I had a veryField of Dreamsfather-son reunion playing in my head, but then was that what Ben wanted?

He took my hand and we walked back through the narrow streets to his car.

“What will you say to your father when you see him?” I asked. I kept my voice light, or tried to.

“When I was a little kid, I just wanted him in my life,” he said. “I used to daydream about him arriving at the door and sweeping me into his arms and holding me tight. I thought he’d be the one person in the whole wide world who understood me and loved me just for me.”

My throat got tight, picturing him as a little boy, yearning for that unconditional love.

“Then, when I was a teenager, I pictured tracking him down and punching him right in the mouth,” he said. “I was so angry.”

“I understand that,” I said. Having been an angry teen myself, this made perfect sense to me.

“I mean, I love my grandparents, and they provided a very loving and happy home for me, but when everyone else has parents and your mother can’t be bothered to be a mother and you don’t even know your father’s name... yeah, I was pissed.”

We turned onto Water Street. I let go of his hand to allow a couple of teenagers to pass between us. I wascharmed when he immediately reached for my hand again, folding his fingers around mine in a warm grip.

“And now?” I asked. “How do you feel now?”

“Not angry,” he said. “And I don’t have any illusions that he’ll want me in his life. I’m fairly certain Moira never told him about me, otherwise I assume he’d have shown up in my life at some point.”

I waited while he thought it over.

“I guess what I want to know is, Do I look like him?” he asked. “I know I have some of my mother’s features, but where did the rest of it come from? Do I have his eyebrows? His ears? Does my love of pickle, bacon, and peanut butter sandwiches come from him?”

“I think that just means you’re weird,” I said. I was trying to keep it light because, honestly, he was breaking my heart.

Ben laughed and my shoulders dropped in relief. I had never had to face these questions. Despite my parents’ divorce, I had never doubted their love for me, never, not once. Sure, my dyslexia had been a challenge for all of us, but my parents had supported me to the best of their abilities. They hired specialists, tutors, reading coaches, even a counselor when the emotional toll became too much. And I knew where I came from, that I looked mostly like my dad but with my mom’s slim nose, her long-fingered hands, and her tenacious personality. My mom and I chatted every Sunday on the phone, and when I’d lived in Boston, we did brunchevery other week. I had the sudden urge to call her just to thank her for being such a loving mom.

We arrived at the car, and Ben opened the door for me. I slid into the passenger seat, moving the cheesecake to the floor. He shut the door after me and strolled around to the driver’s side.

When he took his seat, he glanced at me, and his look was rueful.

“I hope this wasn’t a downer of a first date,” he said. “I don’t usually overshare like that.”

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