Cold Truth by Mariah Stewart

Author:Mariah Stewart [Stewart, Mariah]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Suspense
Published: 2005-10-02T04:00:00+00:00

Sixteen

“I’ll bet this backs up but good later in the summer,” Mitch observed as he drove over the two-lane bridge that led onto the small island where several of the bay towns were located. “Who still has two-lane bridges these days?”

“You’d be surprised.” Regan smiled. “I remember when some of the causeways ended in drawbridges. I’ll bet some still do.”

“Doesn’t seem very efficient.”

“You don’t come to the Jersey Shore looking for efficiency.” The smile widened slightly. “If you want efficient, you go to Florida.”

She pointed to acres of salt marsh off to her right where, twenty feet from the causeway, two herons fished amidst tall reeds.

“This still looks the way much of the shore area looks. There are miles of marshes and back bays, areas that will never be developed.” Her right arm drifted out the window and rose and fell as her hand rode the noontime breeze. “This is convertible weather. We should have taken my car.”

“I can put the sunroof down,” he offered.

“No offense, but why bother? On a day like today, you want more than the fresh air. You want to be able to lean your head back, get some sun on your face. You want the breeze along with the fresh air.”

“Fine. If we ever come back, you can drive.”

They passed a marina, where several boats of various sizes sat at their moorings, others sat on concrete blocks or on trailers. A sign advertised live bait, along with an all-you-can-eat clam bar. A Sunfish was heading out to the bay, and a couple of kids in a small outboard politely gave the sailboat a wide berth. They chugged past it slowly, then gunned the motor and took off, the Sunfish tossing in their wake.

Regan took a deep breath, the smile still in place. “My dad used to bring us to a place like this when I was little. I don’t remember the name of the town, but I remember how it smelled. Salty and warm. It was a big deal for me. The beaches are so different from the beaches in England.”

“You lived in England?”

“Until I was twelve. My mother was British, living in London when she met my father. They married there, then moved here when my father’s writing career took off.” Regan stared out the window. “She never really did adjust . . .”

“Where is she now?”

“She died a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

They rode in silence until they reached the main road into Bowers Inlet.

“Looks like a nice town,” Mitch said as he took a left onto Mooney Drive. “Nice little houses on little sandy lots . . .”

“Like every little town on the Jersey Shore,” she told him. “They all look pretty much the same—except for maybe Mantoloking. Of course, there are differences, but in most places, you pretty much always see the same kind of little beach cottage, the same narrow two-lane streets. The same little ice-cream shacks, the same little grocery stores . . .”

“What’s with Manna—what was it?”

“Mantoloking.”

“What, no beach cottages? No ice cream?”

“Let’s just say the cottages are a lot bigger there.

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