You have until the end of the week, Julia. I didn’t blame him, but in the interest of preserving my options, I answered, “Absolutely.” “You’re actively considering returning to the firm?” He sounded skeptical. “I’m close to making a decision,” I lied. Business school graduates lusted after jobs like the one I’d occupied for six years. I also knew he could replace me in a heartbeat.

I’d never intended to stay beyond this single season, but complications had ensued. The Snowden Family Clambake Company-along with our tour boat, my mother’s home in town, and Morrow Island, the private island where we held our clambakes-was safe, at least for the moment. Despite some heavy challenges, we’d succeeded. Last March, I’d sublet my apartment in Manhattan and taken a leave from my job to race back to Busman’s Harbor to save my family’s clambake business from bankruptcy. If you’re not coming back, I have to replace you.” We can’t keep your position open much longer. Then you called after Labor Day to ask for more time, and we agreed. “As you know, last March, when the firm granted your request for a leave of absence to attend to family business, you said you’d be back in six months. In his hesitation, I could almost hear him consider and eliminate words like “dodged” and “ignored,” then settle on the less accusatory “missed.” The truth was, I hadn’t missed his calls. “Julia.” Owen’s voice exuded a hearty faux-bonhomie. “Hold on a sec, Owen.” I heard his impatient sigh as I tied up my family’s Boston Whaler and then climbed onto the pier. It was barely 8:00 AM, and I pictured him fidgeting at his desk, waiting for a “decent” hour to call. Owen was human resources director at the venture capital firm where I’d worked in New York. My cell phone trilled as I pulled my boat up to the town pier in Busman’s Harbor, Maine. This book is dedicated to my bright, wise, funny, loving daughter, Kate Carito, the best writer in our family Published by Kensington Publishing CorporationĪll copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected. To be caught, helpless, hauled into the cold, cold water and drowned. I hadn’t liked either the idea of him or the man himself, but the shear awfulness of what had happened to him overwhelmed me. He was dressed in a green suit.” I stopped. He bent over, moving his ear close to my mouth.

As he tried to shoo me back, I grabbed his arm and pulled him close so he could hear me above the buzz of the spectators. “The Mussel King? Why would he be under Peter’s boat?” Livvie asked. I saw Thwing wearing a suit this morning.” Livvie stood up straighter, looking over the heads of the crowd. ? That’s David Thwing,” I whispered to Livvie. Lorrie Ann screamed and fell against her mother. As we had all feared, there was a body entangled in the lines under the boat.

Boiled Over by Barbara Ross