“You’re not in contact with Adrian Summers, are you?” she asks. “Because I know our neighborhood is filled with buffoons, and I’m not saying I don’t believe that Adrian wasn’t the one who smashed the boatyard window. But whatever’s going on, I have to ask—this hasn’t turned into a turf war or anything, has it?”

“Turf war? Jesus, Mom. There’s no turf in Beauty. This isn’t a football rivalry.”

“I have heard there’s bad blood between the clam shacks,” Lucky says.

Mom has a low tolerance for smartass-ery, so I expect her to give him the ol’ Saint-Martin glare, but she just patiently tells him, “You know what I mean. I don’t want my daughter caught up in the crossfire of anything.”

What about your daughter causing the crossfire? How would you feel about that, huh? My stomach twists around the old lie of the department store window, and I try not to look at Lucky’s face, because it only makes me feel worse.

“No ma’am, there’s no contact between me and Adrian Summers,” he tells her. “However, I did hear through the grapevine today that his father sent him to Providence to stay with his aunt for a while. Mom says his father’s trying to keep him out of town until the dust settles.”

Okay, that’s actual real news. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Evie’s worried face peering out from behind a rack of local postcards. She’s been listening, and apparently she didn’t know this either, because she speaks up and says, “Adrian went to his aunt Cynthia’s house?”

“Yeah,” he tells her. “My mother found out through someone in our family.”

“Probably for the best,” Mom says. “Well, I guess this photography project at the boatyard is all right, then. If Josie has time …”

I straighten a stack of bookmarks on the counter, keeping my eyes down. “I have time.”

There’s nothing more we can say in front of my mom, so he just thanks us and leaves the store, fetching Bean the Magic Pup on his way.

Mom watches him go, a look of confusion on her face. “I’ll never understand why people choose to own pets. They just die and break your heart.”

“Jesus, Mom. Way to look at the world. Bean is actually kind of cute.”

“You’re scared of dogs.”

“I know,” I grumble.

She sighs. “Wonder if I should walk across the street and talk to Kat about this.”

Um, no. Disaster! Absolutely not. Then she might find out I went to their house for Sunday dinner, or that I hired Lucky to give me seasickness, piloting me around the harbor.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I tell her.

Her eyes dart toward mine. “Still not sure about you hanging around that boy.”

Yeah, well.