Thirteen years as Amelia’s junior had set them far apart, though not as distant in age as Clara was with Kate—sixteen years. And while Clara was only ten years younger than Megan, the two were the least close with one another. Clara felt most aligned with Kate—they were both conservative, neat... some might even say uptight.
But Clara enjoyed Amelia’s company the most. Amelia was fun-loving and easy-going. If Clara worried about something, Amelia would wash it away like sand on the beach.
She’d always been told she was a happy surprise, but Clara’s recollections of her youth weren’t always so happy. Having an older mother and a long-lost father had thrust Clara into a complicated family dynamic. She knew this.
“It smells like childhood here,” Amelia mused, twirling in a circle as they neared Birch Village, a cozy loop of lakeside shops and eateries situated just up from the marina.
Birch Harbor, though small in its year-round population, stretched some miles up and down Lake Huron. Informally, it was divided in two by the broad dock, the harbor the town was named for. South of it, swayed a modest thicket of white Birch trees.
Sometime in the forties, when Birch Harbor gained momentum as a tourist destination, locals dubbed the northwest side of the marina Birch Beach. And surely, it was a lovely beach, attracting daily visitors to spread out on the warm sand, books and bottles of sunscreen tossed casually into the corners of oversized terry cloth towels.
One afternoon at that beach and you’d think you washed ashore at some resort on the Atlantic coast. Show tunes wafted from storefronts along a small boardwalk and the buzz of jet skis and speed boats were just enough to lull you into a lazy nap.
The southeast side of the marina, which saw less economic and tourist activity, took on the moniker Heirloom Cove. Decidedly quieter and less peopled, water from the lake crossed a craggier shoreline and splashed up against rocky outcroppings there. It was a curve of land that offered less beach. In fact, the only beach property there was private. It belonged to the Heirloom Cove homes. A smattering of old teetering waterfront houses. The houses that had once belonged to Birch Harbor settlers. Like, for instance, the Hannigans and the Actons.
Clara followed Amelia’s gaze south, toward the cove. “I think my childhood smelled different from yours,” Clara murmured. It wasn’t meant to be sad or melodramatic, but that’s how it came out.
Amelia stopped and tore her eyes away from the house on the harbor. “Was it lonely?”
Clara frowned. “What? You mean growing up there without you?” She studied their old home, the one Clara had left the day after graduating from high school.
“Yeah. Is that what you mean? Your childhood ‘smelled different.’” A wry smile curled across Amelia’s lips, and Clara grew aware she was being teased.
She laughed at herself a little. “Well, I don’t know if I was lonely. But there sure was a lot of cleaning. I felt like that’s all we did. All I did. Your childhood smelled like summer on the lake. Mine smelled like furniture polish.”
Amelia didn’t laugh.
Instead, they stood together in silence, admiring the old Hannigan house. The one with a dock that sank like a ramp into the lake. The one obscured by sinewy, gray tree trunks and vibrant green leaves. From where they stood, at the crest of a slight hill from which they could tumble into Birch Harbor Bakehouse, the old Hannigan house looked normal. Beautiful, even.
But Clara knew better.
Chapter 4—Megan
Megan had planned to drive into Birch Harbor early the next morning.
But Megan Stevenson was not a morning person.
And, more to the point, Brian had the day off. And he was there, in their house. Still refusing to move out. Still sleeping in the guest room. Still in a stand-off about who was getting what.
The lawyers—his and hers—how cute—were waiting on him to commit to a settlement. Either he put up alimony and child support or Megan got the house.
It was as fair as the snow was white.
But Megan knew Brian. Well. His line of business was volatile. Investing in and mining cryptocurrency carried high highs and low lows. It was in Brian’s best interest to have something stable. The house would be the stability he’d need.
Yet, Megan had stayed in that house for years in her official capacity as the homemaker. See? She literally made the home. How could he not give it to her?
Besides, Megan had no resume, no college degree, and no useful way to earn a living. Sure, Megan had interests. She secretly loved romance books and tearjerker movies, though less for the romance and more for the high drama.
She couldn’t get enough trashy reality television shows, especially the matchmaking-type. Megan had even been known to personally set up other suburban couples. Some had told her she ought to open a matchmaking business. What a pipe dream.
Unfortunately, romance and casual matchmaking among her girlfriends didn’t bring in cash.
Therefore, with zero career prospects, Megan needed the house more than Brian. Or at least, she needed enough of a monthly stipend to cover the mortgage on a new house while she chipped away at figuring out what the heck it was she was going to do with her life. Part-time, dead-end jobs were not calling her name.
For now, having to share space with ol’ Brian was physically painful for her. So, she figured she would take the opportunity to bunk up with Clara and Amelia.
A little sisterly surprise. They all needed that, really.
With Sarah securely planted at a friend’s house for a last minute-sleepover, Megan drove to Birch Harbor one night early, scrolling through radio stations for most of the drive. Finally, twenty minutes out from her destination, she settled on an audio book.
Meditation in the Car.
It kind of worked.
By the time she rolled into the parking lot of The Bungalows, Clara’s five-plex, Megan was so annoyed with trying to hold her breath for extended intervals that she’d nearly forgotten about her messy almost-divorce.
She grabbed her overnight bag from her passenger seat and pushed out of the car and up the cobblestone path toward Unit Two.
Three sets of three sharp raps later, Megan set her bag down and withdrew her phone.
Clara answered on the first ring, predictably. “Megan?” Surprise filled her voice.
“The one-and-only.”
Clara let out a sigh. “Is everything okay?”
“Other than the fact that I’m literally living with the person who should, by now, be my EX-husband, everything is perfect. Oh, and... where are you?”
Clara answered loudly over a throb of fuzzy background noise. “We’re at Fiorillo’s in Birch Village. Amelia’s here, too.”
Megan smiled. Fiorillo’s was one of her favorite restaurants in the whole world. It was fate. “Pull up a third chair. I’m less than a mile away.”
***
“I see you finally took off your ring,” Amelia pointed out through a mouthful of buttery garlic bread.
Megan smiled wryly and wiggled her fingers at Amelia and Clara as she took a sip of her Syrah. “I know. Took me long enough.”
“Did you get a new phone?” Amelia was staring at Megan’s small, white device.
She shook her head. “No. Same old model I’ve had for, what, five years now? Is that really pathetic?”
“I hope not.” Amelia chuckled. “It looks exactly like mine and I just got this thing a month ago.” She waved her own sleek-faced iPhone at the girls who oohed and ahhed appropriately. “A present from Jimmy,” Amelia declared proudly.
Megan thought she saw Clara make a face. She spoke up. “This Jimmy guy, is he the real deal?”
“More to the point,” Clara interrupted. “How did he afford that if he doesn’t have a job?”
Amelia’s face reddened, and Megan frowned.
“Well, he has a little income stream from an uncle or something. I don’t really know the details. But he is trying to be the real deal.”
“Oh?” Megan asked,
lifting an eyebrow.
“He’s coming to Birch Harbor. Or, actually, he’s here. At a motel. Waiting for me.”
Clara and Amelia exchanged a look, more of a grimace than a grin, Megan thought.
“Why?” Megan asked, her tone sharp.
“I’m sorry.” Amelia shifted in her seat and took a sip of wine. “I just texted him and told him to drop Dobi off later tonight. But he’s staying at the motel. Don’t worry about him barging in on us.” She flicked a glance to Clara. “I think he’s bored in the city. And, Jimmy really does love me.” Again she wagged the phone in her hand.
“Sounds like a dead end to me,” Megan murmured over the top of her wine glass.
Amelia opened her mouth to protest, but Clara held up a hand. “Can we... not? Can we just... enjoy each other? For one night? I never get quality time with my sisters.”
Megan changed the conversation. Who wanted to talk about relationships, anyway? They were together in their hometown for their mother’s death. That was rough enough. “So, how’s work, you two?” She pasted a smile onto her face and took another swig.
Though she wasn’t quite ready to admit it, Megan was champing at the bit for a career. Something to give her purpose now that her marriage was over and her daughter was approaching graduation.
A black-clad waiter arrived with their plates. Shrimp scampi for Amelia. Fettuccine Alfredo for Megan. And a Caesar salad—dry—for Clara.
“Tell me that’s a joke,” Amelia pointed a dark gray-tipped nail at Clara’s dinner.
“I’m trying to lose seven pounds.” Clara avoided their gazes and took another sip of iced tea.
Megan shrugged. “Aren’t we all?” Then she pinched her fork in one hand, spoon in the other, and commenced with twirling and shoveling creamy knots of pasta into her mouth.
“So, about work... since you asked.” Amelia dabbed her napkin along her lips. “I’m waiting to hear back on a role.” She bit her lip and lowered her fork to eye Megan’s reaction.
Megan swallowed. “Oh? Do tell.”
“Lady Macbeth in Macbeth. I mean, that’s my goal. I think the audition went well. It wasn’t a formal audition, but I got to have dinner with the director. During appetizers, I put on my Scottish accent, and apart from a couple awkward slips, I nailed it, frankly. But if they offer me another ‘Lady in Waiting Number Seven’ I might have a public meltdown, so... there’s that.”
Clara giggled. Megan smiled and shook her head. “You’re no Lady in Waiting; that’s true. I can’t believe you did an accent at dinner.”
“I can believe it,” Clara cut in, laughing. The three giggled together then grew silent as they worked on their meals.
After some moments, Clara cleared her throat and spoke again. “But Amelia, what will you do if you don’t get something big?” It was a sober question, which was why Clara asked it and not Megan. Clara was a sober type of girl who asked sobering types of questions, made even more sober by the fact that she was drinking iced tea (no sweetener) and eating dressing-free, gluten-free salad while her sisters indulged in high-carb dishes and full-bodied reds.
Megan might wear dark clothes and carry a chip on her shoulder, but she was less of a dream crusher than her bright, bouncy, blonde baby sister.
Amelia, for her part, was ready for the question. “If I don’t get Lady Macbeth or, at the minimum, one of the witches, well... I will do something drastic.”
Clara gasped. “Like what?”
Megan couldn’t help but smile. It was nice to be part of someone else’s drama, rather than her own.
“That’s a good question,” Amelia replied, dabbing her mouth again with her napkin and staring out through the window at the lake. Megan followed her gaze.
The sun was setting and coloring the water a brilliant orange. Homesickness swelled in her stomach, as it sometimes did. She looked back to Amelia, curious. “Would you move back here?”
Clara and Amelia both fell silent, as though the question were too big. Too much. Too soon.
The three sisters looked at each other around the table, alternating eye contact until a smile spread between them. Amelia answered at last. “I might.”
***
Dinner had finished on a high note, and soon they were giggling back up to Clara’s apartment in a line along the sidewalk that ran parallel to Harbor Avenue.
Amelia had walked out of Fiorillo’s with her wine glass, and it was Clara who caught her, grabbed it, and set it on a low-profile wall just outside the back patio. Clara claimed she’d been humiliated, but she, too, was giggling now.
It occurred to Megan that she hadn’t laughed as much in ages. Part of her wanted to blame Brian.
Mostly, though, she blamed herself.
When a person stopped being happy, she ought to do two things: look outside first. Declutter that space. Then, she ought to look inside herself. And clean her own house. And once everything was clean, it would be up to her to choose happiness, rather than blame unhappiness on others.
Megan had often chosen to blame others.
She’d decided not to be happy years earlier, when Brian left software development for the crypto world against her wishes. She decided then that she was not happy, but even worse? She decided to stay not happy.
Of course, that unhappiness grew like a fungus in their marriage. Both, in the end, shouldered some of the blame. Brian, for continuing to ignore Megan’s desire to do something with her life, namely, open a business of some sort. And Megan, for leaving the marriage years earlier—emotionally, at least.
Presently, as her sisters marched ahead of her on the cobblestone steps and into Clara’s small apartment, Megan pulled her phone out of her back pocket to check her messages.
Sarah had wished her goodnight.
Brian had replied with a yellow thumbs up emoji (she couldn’t shake the habit of telling him she’d made it to town).
And yet, another miniature notification glowed at the top of the screen. Its little white envelope sitting there like a delicious dessert.
It was one she’d save for later.
“I’m taking a shower. And whoever is sharing my bed is taking a shower, too,” Clara announced once they were all inside.
Megan glanced up, her face reddening, and she slid the phone back into her jeans and smiled. “I’ll take the sofa. But I’m also showering.”
Amelia pouted. “I shower in the morning. Come on, Clara. Why does it matter?”
Clara bristled. “I just cleaned my sheets. I want to savor the fresh smell for as long as possible between washes, and I’m positive that your feet stink. You can go first, Amelia. Go on.” Clara shooed her down the short hallway but not before Amelia dropped her purse onto the floor by the breakfast bar. A few items tumbled out, but she didn’t notice.
Clara bent down and snatched up the purse, setting Amelia’s phone on the counter for her.
Megan felt a wave of exhaustion climb up her neck and take root in the base of her head.
“Maybe I won’t shower.” She yawned and perched unsteadily on the arm of the sofa.
“Suit yourself,” Clara answered, sweeping two empty cans of Diet Coke off the counter and into the trash before plugging her phone into its charger. “Let’s get your bed ready,” she suggested to Megan.
Megan stood and stretched, then helped.
Soon enough, Amelia had returned from the shower and Megan had unpacked her essentials—night cream, phone, phone charger, and Kindle—on the counter and was pouring herself a glass of water from a smart looking water pitcher in the fridge.
Amelia reached for her phone, waved half-heartedly, bid Megan goodnight, and saw herself to bed.
Minutes later, as Megan was climbing beneath the sheets with her precious e-Reader, she heard Amelia and Clara in the back of the apartment, their voices raised excitedly.
She tried to ignore the commotion, since a dull headache was taking shape in the center of her forehead. But it was futile, because Amelia came barging down the
hall and into the living room, Clara hot on her heels.
“Oh. My. Goodness,” Amelia gushed.
Megan craned her neck up to see a broad smile on her sister’s face. Then Clara joined, with the opposite expression.
“Oh my goodness is right,” Clara added, anger flashing in her eyes.
“What’s going on,” Megan demanded, sitting up and rubbing her neck.
“I accidentally grabbed your phone,” Amelia sang back, holding out the white-trimmed cellular right in front of Megan’s squinting eyes. Amelia jabbered on, amused as could be, “And I’ll be darned if this isn’t a dating app.”
Chapter 5—Kate
Rain had begun to fall just after Kate tucked herself into Michael Matuszewski’s office.
Stupidly, she’d left her umbrella in her car, wedged neatly in the space between her seat and the console.
Rain is a good sign, she reminded herself as she forced a smile for the receptionist.
“You must be... Katherine Hannigan?” the woman greeted.
Kate nodded. “Call me Kate, please. And that would make you Sharon?”
The woman rose and stretched out a small hand. Kate offered hers, and instead of a handshake, Sharon gave her a warm squeeze. “It’s nice to formally meet you, Kate. I’m terribly sorry about your mom. You were busy, so I didn’t want to pester you, but I came to the wake. You know,” Sharon went on chattily, “Nora was in here more than once, squirrelling away money for you girls, no doubt—”
Kate cut the woman off with a terse thank you and asked if Michael was ready. It’s not that she didn’t appreciate Sharon’s kindness. It was that kindness made Kate want to cry. And, well... she wasn’t too certain she could regain her footing if the floodgates were opened.
Regardless, that day was not a crying day. It was a business day.
“Oh, right. Well, you are ten minutes early,” Sharon chirped, her merry attitude never faltering. “But I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”
Kate settled into a chair and selected a three-year-old copy of Martha Stewart to peruse as Sharon bustled around, poking into Michael’s office in the back then watering the plants until finally lowering back behind the mahogany reception desk.
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