No Forever Like Nantucket

by Grace Palmer

  As she did, her phone rang, vibrating against the inside of the plastic cup holder. She grabbed for it and saw Joey’s name flash on the screen. “Hello?”

  “Hey, are you home?” he asked. “I’m outside.”

  Sara winced. Before she left for the meeting, she’d told Joey when her flight would land, but she hadn’t spoken to him since. “No, sorry. I’m not.”

  “I brought over night coffee and cookies to celebrate,” he said, sounding excited. Going so far as to use Sara’s ridiculous nickname for decaf coffee. “I was even going to let you pick what we watch. Even though I know it will be that ridiculous firefighter drama.”

  Sara smiled wistfully at Joey’s sweetness. How good would this conversation have been if the deal hadn’t blown up? She let herself imagine for just one second that everything had gone exactly as she’d planned. That B.I.G. was benevolent and wonderful, that private planes were as good as advertised, that this deal was the launching pad for her dreams, and that now, she was on the phone with her supportive, excited boyfriend, planning a night of Sara-centric activities to celebrate.

  Then, just as quickly as the image appeared in her mind, Sara washed it away with an ice-cold bucket of reality. “That sounds so nice, but I actually got pulled into work,” she lied. “And I’m exhausted. Rain check?”

  Joey exhaled. “Yeah, of course. I should have checked with you first. Being a super important boss never ends, huh?”

  The compliment stung. A “super important boss” probably would have noticed the literal devil hiding in the details of her contract. Still, Sara mustered up a chuckle. “Yes, I’m wiped. I’ll text you tomorrow.”

  “Rain check,” Joey reminded her. “Don’t make plans for tomorrow because I’m claiming my rain check.”

  If Joey knew the truth, he wouldn’t want to claim it. What a terrible rain check it would be. She hung up and dropped her phone back in the cupholder with a clatter.

  Speaking of rain, fat drops were starting to splatter on her windshield. The storm would be on top of them any minute now. Dark clouds roiled on the horizon ahead.

  With a jolt, Sara realized she was tired of waiting. Tired of sitting still. Of waiting for the storm to find her. She hit the gas and tore down Main Street, her little black car squealing like she was in a Fast and Furious movie.

  For as long as Sara could remember, she’d related to the ocean. To the way it ebbed and flowed, always moving, always changing, always different. The only thing consistent about the water was that it wasn’t consistent.

  And tonight, as the reality of the days ahead made landfall, Sara wanted to sit on the shore and watch the ocean toss and turn. She wanted to watch the turbulent rip of the waves as the water was lashed by the wind and rain.

  She wanted to see a strong, mighty force take a beating—and keep on going.

  The popular beaches were still surprisingly busy. Either with locals wanting to see the storm or tourists naïve enough to think it might pass with enough time for them to take another dip before bed.

  Either way, Sara didn’t want an audience. Not today.

  So she drove back the way she’d come. Back to the inn.

  The construction site for The Sweet Island Hotel had closed down for the day, but Sara still threw a rude gesture up through the window as she passed. She hoped the storm wiped out the whole site. Ripped the ostentatious building right off its foundation.

  Her mom didn’t deserve this. Unlike Sara, Mae hadn’t signed a ridiculous contract without asking questions. She hadn’t taken a business risk and had it immediately bite her in the rear. Mom had taken over the Sweet Island Inn from Aunt Toni and turned it into a roaring success. She was entirely innocent. And Sara couldn’t stand the thought of that being taken from her.

  She pulled her car into the inn’s gravel driveway, sticking close to the trees along the lefthand side of the drive, even though she was still certain Mae would hear the crunch of gravel and come out to meet her. When the front door didn’t open, though, Sara creeped around the side of the inn, across the back lawn, and down the dirt path towards the private beach.

  Even if the inn had to close, Sara hoped her mom could figure out a way to keep the property. Having a private beach sure was nice.

  And really, the inn had started to feel something like home. It had become a shelter of sorts. A place Sara knew she could always go if things went sideways. Maybe that was why she’d driven straight there when the plane landed.

  The darkness of the pathway lightened, sand shifted under her feet, and the trees opened onto the beach. The water was churning, spraying white foam against the sand. Sara took a deep breath, sucking the damp, salty air into her lungs.

  There was a reason everyone in Victorian novels took to the sea when they were feeling ill or blue. It was healing. Medicine in its purest form.

  Sara had her head tipped back and eyes closed when she swore she heard her name. As if the ocean was calling to her.

  She opened her eyes and stared out at the choppy waves, brow furrowed. Maybe the stress of the day had made her hysterical—also not unlike a character in a Victorian novel.

  “Sara!”

  No, this was real. And this time, Sara recognized the voice. She turned and saw her mom walking down the beach towards her. She had her head bent low against the wind and she was gripping the front of her cardigan to keep it from whipping around her.

  “What are you doing here?” Sara asked, as though she was the one who lived just up the path from the private beach. If anyone should be surprised, it should be Mom.

  “I needed some air,” Mae said. “Billy called me back.”

  Sara sighed. “Not good news?”

  Her mom gave her a sad, tight-lipped smile. “I’m afraid not.”

  Sara wanted to ask, but if her mother felt anything like she did, she might not want to talk about it right now. Sara certainly didn’t want to explain what she was doing down by the water. Not right now.

  Instead of questioning one another and rehashing the nonstop barrage of bad news that had been their respective days, Sara and Mae dropped down into the sand and looked out to the ocean.

  They sat that way for a while. Quiet. Still. Letting the storm electrify the air around them, growing stronger with every passing second.

  “Why did you come down here, dear?” Mae asked eventually, pulling Sara out of her thoughts.

  Sara sighed. “I just needed space.”

  Mae shook her head. “No, not here, right now. Why did you come to the inn straight from the airport earlier?”

  Sara looked over and her mom was looking up at her, eyes squinted against the spray of the water and the mist growing heavier by the minute.

  “You didn’t even tell Joey,” she continued. “I was just… surprised.”

  “I still haven’t told Joey.”

  Mae’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

  Sara nodded. “I’m not ready to disappoint him yet.”

  “But you came to me?” Mae asked.

  Sara realized all at once how it sounded. Like she was fine upsetting her mom, but didn’t want to bother Joey. “I know,” she said. “You were having a bad day, too. I should have checked with you before I dropped all of it on you, but—”

  Mae gripped Sara’s elbow and squeeze. “No, honey. No. You never have to check with me before you tell me anything. I’m always here for you. Always. No matter what.”

  The weight on Sara’s shoulders lightened slightly. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Mae leaned over and nudged Sara’s shoulder with hers. “Of course. I’m your mother. It’s my job and my privilege.”

  All at once, Sara realized why the inn felt like home. And why the house on Howard Street didn’t anymore. It had nothing to do with the physical space. With the memories within the walls or the access to the beach.

  It had everything to do with Mae.

  Even when Sara would have steadfastly denied still needing her mom, when life had come crashing down on her, sh
e’d run straight into her arms. Without a second thought. Nantucket and the beach and the Sweet Island Inn weren’t home.

  Mae was. Her mom was.

  And that was something Gavin could never take away.

  Sara leaned back against her mom, balancing out the weight between them. “I’m here for you, too, you know?”

  Mae shook her head. “That’s not your job.”

  “Maybe not,” Sara agreed, a small smile pulling up the corner of her lips. “But it is my privilege.”

  They went quiet again, both of them leaning on one another while holding the other up at the same time. Striking a balance that had been difficult to find for the whole of Sara’s life.

  In the span of twenty-four hours, Sara had lost a lot. But she’d gained this.

  Surely that was something.

  25

  Eliza

  Oliver & Eliza’s House

  When Oliver left for work, the countdown to bedtime began. Like the ball dropping in Times Square, Eliza watched it creep closer and closer, the bottle wedged under her passenger seat at the forefront of her mind.

  Because after all, what followed bedtime?

  Wine o’clock.

  The bottle currently wedged under the passenger seat of her car had been a gift of sorts from Cindy. It would be rude not to drink it, right?

  “Where’s Daddy?” Winter asked, hanging upside down off the edge of the couch, her stuffed shark wedged between her knees.

  “At work.”

  Summer had been asleep for thirty minutes, and there were only five more before Eliza would usher Winter to her room, read her a bedtime story, and close the door on this day.

  Then she’d be alone, thinking about the zero in their bank account and how far Oliver’s paycheck from the corporate dinner party he was playing could carry them. When she was done stressing about that, she’d be in desperate need of a drink. To take the edge off.

  “Why does he gotta be there and not here?” Winter put her arms over her head, palms flat on the carpet, blonde hair swaying as she shook her head back and forth. She didn’t look like a little girl almost ready for bed. But in four more minutes, that’s exactly where she’d be.

  “Because we need the money.”

  They’d had this conversation three times already. It was the same every time Oliver left for work. Winter spent the entire evening asking about him, wondering when he’d be back. Eliza didn’t flatter herself into thinking Winter asked the same sort of questions when she was absent.

  “Why do we need money?”

  Eliza was sitting in the middle of the living room rug, surrounded by building blocks and miniature stuffed mice wearing overalls and bowties. This, she wanted to say with a dramatic sweep of the arm. This is why. You are why. Because little girls need lots of things.

  Instead, she took a deep breath. “To pay for food and our house and our clothes.”

  And so kindly hairdressers don’t have to take pity on us in the liquor store.

  “I have a piggy bank,” Winter offered. Eliza knew it all too well. A white and purple unicorn with a slot in its back big enough for a silver dollar. In her more desperate moments, she’d considered cracking it open.

  Eliza glanced at the clock on the wall, the one with the replacement minute hand her dad had carved for her when the old one broke. It was still two dashes shy of the hour, but Eliza didn’t care anymore. Close enough.

  “Bedtime, sweet girl.”

  “I’m not tired!” Winter groaned as Eliza jumped up and helped her do a backwards somersault off the couch to standing. “I want to cuddle Daddy.”

  “Daddy isn’t here. Won’t be for a while,” Eliza said, feeling like a robot coldly delivering information. “It’s just you and Mommy tonight.” Poor kid.

  Eliza dressed Winter in pajama shorts and a shirt covered in butterflies, read her three books, and gave her a drink of milk and water and then milk again. Then, finally, she turned the sound machine on and pulled the door closed.

  After an agonizingly long ten minutes, once she was certain Winter wasn’t coming out of her room for anything else, Eliza grabbed her car keys.

  Humidity hung in the air like a damp rag. It was night, but the sky was darker than usual. The moon and stars were hidden behind a thick shroud of clouds. It would start raining soon, just like Lauren’s mom had said.

  The bottle was exactly where she’d left it under the front seat. It was warm to the touch from being locked inside the car, but Eliza didn’t mind. She could refrigerate the bottle or drop some frozen fruit into a wine glass. But as soon as she stepped back into the quiet house, the front door pressed firmly closed behind her, Eliza didn’t see the point in bothering with any of it.

  She just popped the bottle open, pressed it to her lips, and tipped her head back. Only then could she breathe for what felt like the first time all day.

  She’d had plans to clean up the toys in the living room, do the dishes, maybe scrub the kitchen sink. Instead, she opened the window nearest her armchair and then dropped down into the seat.

  Eliza sipped from the bottle as the storm moved in, as the sky grew darker and the air rolling through the window became more and more damp. Usually, she longed for the rain. She’d wait anxiously for the clouds to let loose and for the water to wash over everything. It felt like a fresh start.

  Right now, though, she didn’t need it.

  She took a long sip from the bottle, the warm liquid slipping down her throat, washing her from the inside. She already felt brand new.

  Eliza was at the helm of a boat. Even though she’d never set foot on it before, she knew it was one of her brother’s boats—the same ones he used to take tourists out on chartered fishing trips.

  Sailing and boating had never been interesting to Eliza. Even less so after her dad died. Now, though, her fingers were wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, and Eliza was maneuvering the vessel through a storm. Waves sloshed over the sides of the boat, soaking into her pant leg, and someone was calling her name.

  The voices were distant, but she could hear them.

  “Eliza!”

  “Mommy!”

  “Eliza!”

  No one else was on the boat, so Eliza turned her eyes overboard. There, she saw blonde hair splayed across the top of the water. Winter. Not far away, Oliver was treading water with one arm, Summer tucked into the other.

  They were calling for her, but when Eliza tried to turn the boat towards them, it wouldn’t budge.

  “I’m coming!” she called, gritting her teeth, trying to turn the wheel. Nothing happened. It was like the mechanisms had been fused together. Like the boat was some kind of prop. Completely useless.

  “Eliza! Eliza!”

  The storm shook the boat and Eliza had to widen her stance to keep standing. Her fingers were wrapped around the wheel so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

  “Hold on!” she yelled. “I’m coming!”

  The wind howled in her ears, rain soaked through her shoes and her socks, and Eliza put all of her strength into turning the wheel. It still wouldn’t budge.

  Then the wheel was ripped from her hands and Eliza was thrown overboard.

  She screamed as she looked down at the choppy surface of the water growing closer and closer. But just before she hit the cold Atlantic waters, her body jerked—

  And Eliza opened her eyes.

  She blinked and sat up, her body quaking from the dream. From how real it had felt. Even now, sitting in her chair in the living room, she could almost swear her pants were wet with frigid saltwater.

  “Eliza?”

  At the sound of Oliver’s voice, Eliza jolted in surprise and shrieked. She clapped a hand over her heart, trying to keep it from leaping through her chest.

  “Jesus, Oliver!” she gasped. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Better than being electrocuted.”

  Eliza frowned and looked up. And her heart nearly stopped for the second time.

>   Oliver was standing next to her armchair with the empty wine bottle in his hand. His lips were pressed into an angry, thin line. His eyes were dark. He tipped his head towards the floor, and Eliza followed his gaze.

  There was a puddle on the floor. A large pool of water that was being fed from a steady stream of rainwater coming in through the open window. Inches away was an outlet.

  Eliza picked up her feet. It made sense why the dream had felt so real. Her shoes and socks were soaked. Along with the leg of her pants.

  How long had Eliza been sleeping while water had gushed through the window? What time was it?

  “I must have fallen asleep,” she said, running a hand over her face. She wasn’t drunk, but her body felt warm from the wine. Maybe she’d have another glass to try and relax. Her heart was still racing from Oliver’s scare.

  “Or passed out,” Oliver said bitterly.

  Eliza turned back to him, and he lifted the bottle and shook it. It sounded emptier than Eliza remembered. “Looks like you were busy tonight. And last night.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I found your other bottle on the porch,” he said flatly. “Behind the potted plant. Interesting hiding spot.”

  “I wasn’t hiding—”

  “And I nearly had to use the jaws of life to get this one out of your hand.” He turned around and slammed the bottle down on the coffee table hard enough Eliza was worried it would shatter.

  Okay, Eliza had planned for this. She knew what to say.

  “The bottle was already opened,” she sputtered, surprised by the ineloquence of her words. Her tongue felt fat. “Holly and I. We drank some. And then I left it on the porch. This one was a gift from Cindy. It’s not even empty. I was just—”

  Oliver’s forehead creased. “Who is Cindy?”

  “She, uh… She colors Lauren’s mom’s grays.”

  This wasn’t going well. Eliza was hearing herself talk as though she was watching a movie. As though it was someone else doing a bad impersonation of her.