by Olivia Miles
She set a hand to her stomach to settle her nerves. Ian Fowler, in search of an oceanfront vacation home, was at this very moment driving up from Manhattan to tour the house. Everything was riding on this meeting going well. And Margo stood to ruin it all.
Well, not on her watch.
Grabbing her handbag, Bridget crammed in her notebook and listing sheets, cell phone, and a few extra business cards, then fished for her keys. They were never where they should be, which was in the interior pocket of her bag. Instead they were in random places like coat pockets, desk drawers, sometimes the pantry, or once, the bathroom medicine cabinet. Her mind was too busy. She had too many thoughts spinning at all times. Too many worries fighting for attention; too many responsibilities to keep track of, like remembering to schedule her fall conference with Emma’s teacher. And remembering to inform her ex of the time. Not that he’d show up. No, unlike her, Ryan was too busy for everyday responsibilities like school events or making sure that lunch was packed and homework checked.
Her fingers touched something metal. Good.
“Off to the big meeting?” Her colleague and “work husband” Jeffrey popped his head out of his doorway, tie a bit askew, as she hurried to the door.
“Not yet,” she said, slowing her step. She supposed her sister could wait a minute or two. “Margo’s in town. She’s at the house,” she added.
“Oh.” Jeffrey was late on the uptake. “Oh,” he repeated with more meaning, his eyes widening. He ran a hand over his prematurely balding head and grimaced.
“Exactly,” Bridget said, lips thinning. She’d meant to tell her sister about the latest developments, and she would have eventually. But they rarely talked on the phone, and Margo was so removed from family matters and decisions that by luck of birth order had fallen on Bridget’s shoulders, that it hadn’t been forefront in her mind. She’d been more concerned with handling Mimi, the house, trying to build a career while making sure her daughter had a costume sewn in time for Oyster Bay’s summer children’s theatre auditions for Peter Pan than keeping Margo in the loop.
Besides, didn’t the phone work both ways? If Margo had called between last Christmas and now, Bridget would have gladly filled her in on everything, maybe even gotten a little help out of it, or at least some emotional support.
“Good luck,” Jeffrey said, giving her a pat on the arm.
Bridget managed to smile. Whether the luck was for her big meeting or managing her sister, she wasn’t sure. Either way, she’d take it.
“And before I forget, Trish wanted me to see if you wanted to come over Saturday night. Nothing fancy. Just us and a few friends.”
If by “a few friends” he meant another single father with three rowdy kids in need of a stepmother to handle the laundry and cooking, she’d have to pass. “I’ll check my calendar,” she said with a smile, then remembered that this Saturday was Ryan’s night with Emma, and what else did she have to do with her time?
Well, other than laundry and errands.
Her heart felt heavy as she walked to the car. Life could have been so much easier if she had a Jeffrey to come home to. Jeffrey was the type of father who took his two kids out for ice cream, just because; the type of father who coached Little League and read bedtime stories, with all the voices.
Emma had never known a father like that, and as her mother, Bridget could never forgive herself for this.
She could have picked a guy like Jeffrey McDowell. Heck, she’d gone to school with him. And he had asked her to the spring dance junior year. But no, she had to pick the exciting guy. The slick charmer with the wide grin and twinkling eyes. The guy who liked to have a good time and show her a good time. The guy who didn’t want to settle down, not really. The guy who just wanted to do his thing and was still doing it.
She should have followed in her sister’s footsteps. Married a guy like Ash.
Just thinking of her sister’s reaction made Bridget anxious. Still, once Margo recovered from the shock, she’d understand. Maybe she’d even offer to help a bit. The place needed sprucing up, and God knew that Abby wasn’t good for so much as lifting a box.
Bridget drove to the house on autopilot. Down Main, right on Dune, then two miles down Shoreline, Oyster Bay’s scenic stretch. This was where the big houses were—the crown jewels in the real estate world. And she had a listing.
Sure, it was her childhood home, but it was a listing all the same. And the sale would certainly be noted, hopefully leading to more prestigious clients down the road. The locals rarely uprooted, but Oyster Bay never tired of those in search of a summer getaway.
Bridget pulled onto the driveway, fighting the wave of nostalgia that still hit her every time she saw the house. A silver SUV was parked at the end; Margo was leaning against the hood. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was wearing a three-quarter sleeved cotton top over her jeans—attire completely inappropriate for Maine this far into September.
“Aren’t you cold?” Bridget asked by way of hello, as she climbed out of her own vehicle, her father’s ancient Mercedes she’d foolishly hoped would send the right kind of image to potential clients, if it didn’t break down while she was driving them around town instead. You know, the one that said, “See? I’m successful, not struggling to pay rent and keep my kid in ballet lessons.”
“It beats sitting in the car,” Margo said. “I’ve been driving all night.”
Bridget noticed that Margo seemed to be alone. Usually Ash joined her on these rare visits. “Why the last-minute trip?” And why now? Why, why? It had been years since Margo deigned to come back to Maine, and now, right when an offer on the house was nearly within her grasp, Margo was here to mess everything up.
Margo just grinned, but it seemed a little strained. “Don’t I at least get a hug?”
Bridget felt her shoulders relax. She really needed to lighten up. This was her sister. Her sister! She was such a wreck over her afternoon meeting that she was jumpy.
She walked over and gave her sister a hug. Tugged her ponytail the way she used to as a kid, only back then it bothered Margo. A lot. “Welcome home.”
Margo was frowning when she pulled away. “This isn’t the homecoming I was expecting.” She tipped her head, locking Bridget’s wary gaze. “Mimi’s selling the house? But…this is our home.”
“We’ve all flown the nest, Margo.” Bridget recited the lines she’d mentally rehearsed on the drive over. “Emma and I are across town. Abby is too. And you have a life somewhere else.”
Margo looked resigned. “But where will she go?”
Bridget enjoyed one last moment of silence. Here it came. “Mimi lives in Serenity Hills now.”
“Serenity Hills!”
Ah, yes, there it was. The predictable reaction. One she’d deep down been avoiding by not picking up the phone and keeping her sister informed. Bridget stayed firm. “That’s right. Serenity Hills. It’s the best place for her, really. This house was too big for a woman of her age, with no help.”
“We could have hired her some help,” Margo scolded.
“We?” Now this was rich. Bridget crossed her arms. “I’m a single mother on a fixed income. Abby can’t hold down a job. Chip is Mom’s brother, not Dad’s, and this isn’t his family responsibility. So that would leave you.”
Margo crossed her arms. “You should have called me.”
“Maybe you should have called Mimi,” Bridget shot back, instantly regretting her words. There was truth in them, and she was just defending herself, but the hurt in her sister’s eyes made her ashamed. “Look. Serenity Hills is a good place for her.”
Margo didn’t look convinced. “We used to threaten to dump each other in Serenity Hills someday.”
True, very true, but now they were adults. Now they understood the realities of life. At least she did.
Bridget shifted the weight on her feet, feeling uncomfortable. It hadn’t been an easy winter for any of them, with Mimi’s declining health and the endless wo
rry about something happening to her when she was alone in the big house. Decisions had to be made. Difficult ones. And as usual, she’d been the one to make them. Alone.
Never had she missed her parents more. They’d been gone for eight years, but the pain was always there, lurking just below the surface. At trying times, she felt their loss on a deeper level, imagining how much comfort they could have brought her if they were still here. Sometimes it was just a hug that she needed, or the sound of her father’s laughter. Other times, like recently, it was support. Someone to deal with the big problems, someone to ease the burden that came with trying to please everyone and feeling like all you ever did was let them all down instead.
“Serenity Hills is the best place for her,” she said more firmly.
“I wish I’d been consulted,” Margo said, shaking her head.
“It wouldn’t have made a difference. I’m here. I see what’s going on.”
Margo blinked, then looked away, out to the stretch of lawn that met the sea, and back up to the porch. Bridget wavered, seeing the squint in her eyes that was no doubt fighting off tears, and then straightened up. She couldn’t afford to be getting sentimental, now. Not when she was showing this house in less than three hours.
“I take it you were planning on staying here,” Bridget said gently. “I’d let you stay with me, but we’re pretty cramped, and Ryan got the pull-out couch in the divorce.”
Margo kicked at the gravel with her shoe. “I understand. I’ll go to a hotel.”
A hotel. Is that what it was coming to? No more gatherings around the big kitchen table or Christmas carols in the parlor. From now on, when Margo came to visit for holidays, she’d be staying at the stuffy Oyster Bay Hotel.
Bridget couldn’t bear it. “How long are you in town for?”
Margo shrugged. “A week. Maybe more.” She looked back down at her feet, and Bridget narrowed her gaze. That was an odd response, and it wasn’t like Margo to be so free with her time. She swept around, just in case she’d missed Ash somewhere. But no, it was clear that her sister was alone. And in Oyster Bay for an undetermined amount of time. Interesting.
“Well, I know of a weekly rental that’s available.” It was Jeffrey’s listing, and he was having a hell of a time filling it after Labor Day. “It’s tastefully furnished, waterfront. Since it’s off season the rent is lower. Probably less expensive than the hotel, and you’d have your own kitchen.”
Margo’s eyes sparked for the first time since Bridget had stepped out of her car. “I’ll take it.”
Bridget smiled. “Should I put you down for a week?”
Margo’s eyes drifted. “Oh. Maybe two?”
Bridget studied her sister, but decided against saying anything. She was probably reading into things, and besides, she had a meeting to prepare for. “Well,” Bridget said, as she pulled out her phone. “I doubt there’s any other interest. Let’s start with one week and take it from there.”
A message popped up on her screen. The showing was postponed until Friday. Too much traffic out of Manhattan to get here today, Ian reported.
Bridget felt her heart sink, but only for a moment. This gave her one more day to prepare. And it gave her time this afternoon to settle Margo into the cottage. And maybe figure out what the heck was going on in her sister’s life…and why she had returned to Oyster Bay.
Chapter Three
The gulls were calling the next morning when Margo woke up, fully clothed, on top of the white duvet, the novel she’d been reading the night before abandoned next to her. Sunlight poured in through the linen curtains that draped across the tall windows, and she didn’t need a watch to know she’d slept way past her usual six o’clock wake up time.
She fumbled her hand along the nightstand in search of her phone, which she’d silenced the evening before, so she didn’t have to continue to sit and wait for it to make some sound that would tell her that Ash was looking for her. That Ash cared. Now the top corner of the device was flashing a blue light, and her heart sped up when she saw that she had three new messages.
So maybe he did care. Maybe ten years of her life were not a complete waste.
Or maybe they were. After all, the man was cheating on her. Who could be sure it was even the first time? She set the phone back down, closing her eyes when she thought of the way he’d kissed that girl. She’d sat in her car, at a safe enough distance, and stared as if it weren’t her husband she was watching, but some addictive, trashy television show that she couldn’t look away from, even though she knew she should. She sat there, jaw slack, and watched. Didn’t get out of her car, march over and pound on the window. Nope. She just sat there and did nothing, until Ash’s car moved, and then, well, what choice did she have? She’d followed him. Followed him all the way to the friggin’ Holiday Inn Express. And then, because there was nothing more to see, and nothing else to do, she’d gone home and packed.
Well, after she’d taken their wedding photo, ripped it to shreds, and then set the empty sterling silver frame back on the mantle.
What did the messages say? And how would she even reply? Should she even reply at all, or make him sweat a bit?
But then, what if he filed a missing person’s report? Got the police involved? That wouldn’t be good.
No. It was time to confront him. To tell him what she saw. What she knew. To face the harsh, ugly truth. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry. The heaviness in her chest came from a place she couldn’t quite recognize, a strange mixture of sadness and fear, of humiliation and rejection and betrayal.
Would he deny it, spin some story? The man was an obvious liar.
Or maybe…maybe there was a reasonable explanation.
She snorted.
Margo sat up, grabbed the phone, and scolded herself. She’d been back in Oyster Bay for less than twenty-four hours and she was right back to how she’d been when she first left it. She was acting like a child. This was a man she had shared a home, a bed, every single dinner with, for ten years. She shouldn’t be calculating her responses at this point. This was her husband. In the legal sense.
She tapped on the messages, not even realizing she’d been holding her breath until it escaped from her, in one, pathetic puff. The messages were from Bridget.
Of course.
She took a moment to push Ash away, and set aside the ache in her chest that seemed determined to settle there, the weight of it a constant reminder of her circumstances, and scanned the messages: Bridget wanting to know how the cottage was working out for her; Bridget wondering if she was free to come over for dinner tonight, Abby would be joining; Bridget giving her the visiting hours for Serenity Hills.
Where the spirit goes to die.
Margo flopped back on the bed, half of her wanting to pull the blanket up and stay under it for the rest of the day. But that would be giving in. And she wasn’t a napper; couldn’t sleep during the day if she tried. She’d visit Mimi. Stay busy. Ash would call. Eventually he’d have to, even if it was to figure out something dumb like how to work the washing machine. Margo cursed good old Nadine for her son’s domestic shortcomings and then realized a perk of divorce was never having to see Nadine again.
Yes, eventually he would call. And then, well then she’d what? Tell him it was over? That she wanted a divorce?
Divorce meant more than no longer being with Ash. It meant giving up her life with him. Her career, her home, her Saturday morning trips to the farmers market and her monthly book club meetings where literature was rarely on topic…There would be no more quick errands to the organic grocery store. She’d never again have the luxury of asking Mr. Herring at the dry cleaners on Eighth Street if he could fix the button on one of her shirts, knowing that in the top drawer of his desk he had an entire selection of buttons in every shape and size and that she could rest assured he’d always have a match. No more dinners at Froggy’s. No more evenings sitting on her back patio, sipping wine while Ash grilled steaks. That was the part tha
t didn’t seem possible.
She sat up and read the messages again. Her fingers hovered over the screen, but she didn’t reply. Her sister was trying to make amends, but it hardly made up for not telling her about Mimi or the house. But then, Abby hadn’t bothered to tell her either.
She fired off a quick note, thanking Bridget for the cottage and agreeing to dinner, and then went in search of coffee.
The cottage was small, with two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, and a bright, open concept living space below that extended onto a white-washed deck that led right onto the sand. She’d picked up some supplies at the grocery store yesterday afternoon, but she’d been too worn out to eat dinner, and now her stomach rumbled. She opened the fridge and surveyed her options; her current mindset in full display in the form of chocolate cake, a few bottles of wine, three tubs of ice cream, and enough chips to feed a frat party.
But she knew what she really wanted to eat; something that could only be found in Oyster Bay. Something worth showering for, worth the willpower it took not to grab the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc by the neck and settle onto the couch for the day.
Thirty minutes later, she was pulling up to Angie’s Café, all worries neatly stashed away as she anticipated the taste of her favorite blueberry scone, always made with blueberries straight from Hollow Tree Farm.
“Margo Jane Harper!”
Margo froze in the doorway. Only one person called her by her first and middle name, and that was her former piano teacher, Mrs. Boyd, also known as Eddie’s aunt.
Friggin’ fabulous.
Margo plastered on her best smile and turned to greet Lori, always a kind, gentle-natured woman, who led the church choir and taught music at the elementary school one day a week. “Mrs. Boyd! It’s so good to see you!” It wasn’t entirely untrue. Margo had fond memories of sitting at Mimi’s big piano in the bay window, sharing a bench with Mrs. Boyd, who always reached into her pocket and pulled out a wrapped chocolate at the end of each lesson, two if Margo hit all the right notes.