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hundred years. If someone died on the island, even forty years ago, they would have noted it.”
    Deputy Weaver consulted a sheet near her desk and jotted something down on a sticky note. She handed it to Emma. “Here’s the address and phone number for the paper. The office is over on Marilla, not far from here, but you should probably call first. I’m not sure how they’ve archived old issues, but they might be the best place to start. Another place you might try is the hospital, although I’m sure their records would be confidential.”
    After thanking the officer, Emma and Phil stepped out into the sunshine. “That was a good idea,” Phil said, “sending us to the newspaper.”
    “Yes.” Emma dialed the number on the note the deputy gave her but only received voicemail. Maneuvering through the voicemail tree until she reached the editor, she left a message asking for a return call. After, she looked at her watch. “Wow, it’s almost two o’clock. No wonder I’m hungry.”
    “Okay,” Phil said, taking her arm and leading her down the street. “You marched me up the hill, now I’m going to march you down to the bay. Let’s try that restaurant with the patio overlooking the water.” He received no argument.
    Over a lunch of bay shrimp salads washed down with cold beer, they sat side by side and stared out at the cheerful, sunny bay full of bobbing boats. Some were small, others full-blown yachts; most fell somewhere in between. Many of the boats’ dinghies were gone, now tethered to docks at the pier while their owners visited the island for the day. The boats in the bay were moored in orderly rows like a neighborhood of tract houses separated by streets. All bows were pointed away from the island. Emma watched with interest as the harbor master’s boat cruised up and down the watery paths, occasionally stopping at a boat or calling out a greeting to someone on a deck.
    “Phil, do you think the harbor master could help us identify Curtis?”
    Phil tilted back the remainder of his beer and motioned to the waiter to bring them a second round. “Doubtful. The records are too old, and all we have is a first name. Not to mention the records might not be public.” After the waiter brought them two more beers, Phil glanced around the patio. “No sign of Tessa?”
    “Not since this morning in our room.”
    “Are we alone, or is Granny around?”
    Emma looked around the patio, noting that it was half filled with other diners. “Except for these folks, it’s just us.”
    Smiling, Phil leaned back and fished something out of his pants pocket. He put it on the table in front of Emma. It was the small square jeweler’s box he’d fingered earlier while they were walking. Emma gulped, worried about what was inside.
    “Emma—,” Phil began.
    She cut him off with nervous stammering. “Phil, we’ve talked about this before. You know how I feel about you, but I’m not ready to make a commitment. Not to you, not to anyone.” The words tumbled out of her, somersaulting onto the table, where they pooled liked spilled water waiting to be mopped up. “I was married nearly twenty years. So were you.”
    “But Emma—”
    Again, she didn’t wait for him to finish. “We both need time to rebuild our lives as individuals. To see where we’re going before deciding if we’re making the journey together.”
    Phil Bowers got up from the table. Emma went silent. Looking out at the bay, he took several deep breaths before sitting back down at their table, this time across from her. The box remained between them.
    Phil fixed her with stern eyes and leaned back. “You finished?”
    She wasn’t. “I just don’t want either of us to get hurt, Phil. We’re both still raw from our respective divorces. I have Kelly to worry about. You have your boys.”
    “Just let me know when you’re ready to listen.” He took a long pull from his fresh beer and turned to study the boats again. A nearby couple looked over at