Free The Sense of Reckoning by Matty Dalrymple

up Ann.
    “I hope Maisie took good care of you when you checked in,” she said.
    “Ah, Maisie,” said Ann.
    “Yes. How did she introduce herself?” asked Nan nervously.
    “Oh, definitely ‘Maisie,’” said Scott.
    After breakfast they headed out for Ann’s appointment with Garrick. The morning sun hadn’t done much to dispel the chill of the previous night, and Ann pulled her parka more snugly around her—she had lost her resistance to cold along with her weight.
    They took Main Street north out of Southwest Harbor, past the prosperous-looking storefronts and the tiny shingled library set back from the street behind a tiny square of lawn. The businesses spaced out as they left town, giving way to white clapboard houses sitting close to the road, some advertising services such as landscaping or small-engine repair, a number with For Sale signs posted. Soon, the deciduous trees near town gave way to pines, beyond which rose the gray-green mounds of low mountains. Blocky granite outcroppings pushed out of the pebbly soil. They passed a body of water on their left, the October sun glinting on its surface. Ann glanced down at a map Nan had given them on which she was following their progress.
    “That’s Echo Lake. Look,” she said to Scott, pointing at the map. “All the bodies of water run north to south.”
    “Glaciers. They scraped out the valleys.”
    “How do you know this stuff?”
    “Didn’t you have one of those books about the island in your room?” asked Scott. “It has lots of interesting stuff in it.”
    “If you were left at the kitchen table with a cereal box, you’d find something interesting on it,” said Ann with a smile.
    “Never underestimate the educational value of a cereal box,” said Scott.
    Soon after they left Echo Lake behind, another body of water appeared on their right—Somes Sound, which cut through the middle of Mount Desert Island and, according to Ann’s internet research, separated the quiet western side from the more touristy eastern side. Pine woods gave way to leafy trees and the ubiquitous white clapboard houses as they approached Somesville, where Garrick lived and conducted his consulting business. They passed a ridiculously picturesque church—more white clapboard—whose steeple balcony was encircled by a white picket fence.  
    “Here we are,” said Scott, pulling up across the street from a nineteenth-century Federal-style house whose light gray clapboards looked renegade among the uniform white of the other buildings. The fact that Garrick ran his business from the house was indicated only by a small brass sign that read “Garrick Masser, Consulting.”
    “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” said Ann. “Do you want to go do something and I’ll call you when I’m done?”
    “Sure,” said Scott. “There’s supposed to be a cute building down the road, I think I’ll go take some pictures of that. Also there’s a library, maybe I’ll check that out.”
    “Another one? There’s one right down the road in Southwest Harbor.”
    “There are loads of libraries on this island,” he said enthusiastically.
    “How do you know that?”
    Scott raised his eyebrows.
    “Book in the inn?”
    “I told you it had interesting stuff in it.”
    Ann patted Scott’s knee. “I’ll call you when I’m done.” Scott waited until she had crossed the road before pulling away.  
    She took a flagstone walk across the small, minimally landscaped yard, crossed the bare, freshly swept porch, and tapped the door with the heavy brass knocker.
    In a moment, the door swept open and Garrick Masser stood in the doorway. Even with his perennially stooped posture he stood over six feet tall, and with his hooked nose, longish hair—black shot with gray—and gaunt frame he brought to mind an emaciated vulture.
    “Ann, my dear,” he said in a gloomy monotone.
    “Hi, Garrick,” said Ann. She took a step forward, then pulled up short when Garrick didn’t stand aside to