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American on Martha’s Vineyard, who claimed to be the descendent of Wampanoag medicine men and had a trail of miraculous doings to prove it.
    Cecily Cole? She might have been an epic challenge, with the potential for information just as great.
    But it was what it was. “She’s dead,” Charlotte said. “She can’t do anything. I think we should go see if those herbs still grow.”
    “I wouldn’t do that,” Nicole warned. “Her son lives there now.”
    “I thought he was in jail.”
    “Not anymore. Come on. I’ll race you back.” She turned, facing home.
    “Did he dig up the herbs, or are they still there?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Someone must.”
    “Well, I’m not asking,” Nicole said. “The last thing I need right now is more bad vibes.”
    Charlotte studied her face. The sky was indeed darkening, taking detail with it, but she could see tension. It seemed out of place on such an innocent face.
    Likewise, the awkwardness with which Nicole waved a hand. “You know what I mean—Dad dropping dead, our selling the house.”
    “He would have loved your doing this book.”
    “I could have used his encouragement.”
    Charlotte slipped an arm around her waist. “You have me. I’ll be right here until the book is done.”
    Nicole smiled. There may have been tears in her eyes, though it could have been the reflection of the ocean in the dim light. “I love you, y’know.”
    Charlotte hugged her. A moment later, exhilarated to be the object of something so rich, she dared Nicole with a look. They set off down the beach at a fast jog, trading the lead as they dodged obstacles in the sand. By the time they reached the house, they were out of breath and laughing.
    Their movement on the beach steps set off floodlights from the patio all the way around to the kitchen door. Nicole stopped, sniffed. “Strange,” she said and began walking toward the side garden, where a profusion of reds and pinks blurred at the edge of the beam. “I was out here this morning. The lavender was nowhere near being in bloom. It’s been way too cold. But how could I not have smelled this?”
    Charlotte hadn’t smelled it earlier, either, but she couldn’t miss it now. This lavender was in full bloom, its tall spikes clustered with purple flowers that looked too soft for the wind but apparently weren’t, since they held their form well.
    “My mind must have been somewhere else,” Nicole said. “But this is perfect .” Moments later, she had clippers and began handing sprigs to Charlotte, who was absorbing their smell to the point of stupor. Finally, Nicole stood, closed her eyes, and inhaled. “Ahhhh. Amazing.” She took half of what Charlotte held and sang softly, “Those are for your pillowcase, these are for mine.”
    “Don’t we have to dry them first?”
    “And dilute the smell? Lavender has calming properties. I’ll take it full strength, thanks.”
    Charlotte didn’t need calming—or rather, didn’t want it. She wanted to bask in the glow of hope. She was being given a second chance to prove she could be a loyal friend, which was more than she might have asked after living ten years and a huge secret apart. She had expected awkwardness, wariness, reticence— something . But her arrival on Quinnipeague had been as smooth as the ocean was not.
    Besides, after leaving New York at dawn and driving for hours, she was exhausted. If the lavender sprigs did anything beyond making her smile, she had no idea. Minutes after her head hit the pillow, she had fallen into a sleep so deep that she heard nothing of the conversation coming from Nicole’s room down the hall.

 
    Chapter Three
    N ICOLE WAS A BUNDLE OF nerves. She had wanted to call Julian back sooner—hell, had wanted to talk with him there on the beach, but it was impossible with Charlotte along. And even when they were back at the house, what could she do? Sneak off to the bathroom to talk with him about life-and-death issues, then return to Charlotte