by Olivia Miles
Margo woke at eight the next morning to sunlight pouring through the curtains. The room was completely still, and she straightened out her legs, luxuriating in the stretch, and then rolled over, silently scolding herself when she saw the perfectly smooth pillow and duvet on the left side of the bad.
Force of habit, she supposed. Somehow, subconsciously, she was still playing wife. Still following the rules of their marriage, one where she slept on the right side of the bed and never crossed the imaginary line that had somehow formed over time.
It had been a long time since she’d rolled over, reached for him. It wasn’t an active decision, more like a gradual process. They had known each other so long, been together since she was twenty and he was twenty-two. And even at the beginning theirs was a relationship based more on comfort than on passion. She’d thought that was enough.
But maybe…maybe Ash hadn’t. Maybe Ash had been looking for something more. Just not with her.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the pull in her chest and then flung them open again. She had promised her sister she would help her today and that made her accountable, for getting up, for acting like an adult, for pretending like her life wasn’t falling to pieces around her. She tossed the bedding back, vowing to do better tonight, to sleep right in the center of the bed, stretch out diagonally, claim her new found freedom. She stood up, pulled on the same pair of jeans she’d worn yesterday and a fresh sweater, deciding to hold off on a shower until after she’d come back from the house.
When she finished securing her hair into a ponytail, she made a cup of coffee and gulped it down with two slices of toast and wild blueberry preserves, closing her eyes at the perfection of the taste that could only be found in her home state.
Bridget couldn’t meet her until nine, after she’d seen Emma off to school. Eager to get moving before her thoughts spun her into a dark place, Margo grabbed her keys and drove into town, this time with a new destination in mind.
It might be early, but that’s when her mother’s brother Chip met the fish monger each morning, as he had for as long as she could remember.
His restaurant, The Lantern, was at the edge of town, on the way toward the marina, where traffic slowed but never enough to keep the line from creeping out the door at peak hours. No one made crab cakes like Chip, or lobster rolls, for that matter either.
She spotted Chip standing outside near the back door as she pulled the car to a stop in front of the restaurant. Crates were at his feet, no doubt the fresh catch of the day, and she hurried over the gravel pathway to stop him before he could disappear into the kitchen.
“Chip!” She never bothered with the Uncle bit, and he’d preferred it that way. Said it made him feel old, even if he was their mother’s older brother by three years.
Chip shielded his eyes from the sun with a hand and then broke out into a smile. “Margo? Well aren’t you a sight!” He was grinning as she approached. “I’d tell you to give me a hug, but I’ve been gutting fish all morning.”
“Like that could stop me,” Margo said, leaning in to give him a squeeze. She closed her eyes, daring to let herself be held, finding it strange how you could go for years without seeing someone and feel like no time had ever passed at all, other than the sensation that you’d missed that person, and more than you’d known.
“I’ve been away too long,” she said with regret. She was happy for the sunglasses that shielded the tears in her eyes. She loved Chip, loved his burly exterior and his soft heart. Loved the boom of his laughter and the sight of his smile and the way he always told stories of her mother, and that he was the only one who could do that anymore.
He brushed a hand through the air. “Ah, you’re busy. A married woman. My own girls rarely come back anymore.” His blue eyes turned a little cloudy and he opened another crate, tossing the lid to the side.
Hannah had gone to live with her mother in San Francisco shortly after college, something that Chip would never admit had hurt him greatly, even if a part of him understood her need. Chip had married and divorced soon after his second daughter was born—a break-up that hadn’t been his choice and which had left him alone with two little girls to care for. He’d had to learn to brush and braid hair and paint nails, and eventually deal with all the teenage drama that no one could avoid. Margo’s mother had always hoped Chip would remarry, but he’d been burned, even if he was too tough to ever say so.
“How long are you staying in town?”
“Undecided,” Margo said.
“Ash with you?” Chip looked confused.
Margo shrugged her shoulders, knowing she could make up an excuse, but knowing with Chip, she didn’t need to. “Nope.”
Chip eyeing her critically. “Everything okay, Mags?” He was the only person who called her that, and she loved him for it. “I promised my sister I’d look after you girls, you know. If anything ever…Well, you know.” He frowned, looked back at the lobster in his hand, wrestled with its claw a bit.
At the mention of her mother, Margo’s throat grew tight. “Everything will be okay,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “I’m just working through some things. Came home to clear my head.”
“Oyster Bay is good for that. These are your roots. If you can’t figure things out here, where can you?”
She nodded thoughtfully. So far, she wasn’t thinking any clearer than she had when she’d first decided to come back. Less clearly, in fact, thanks to Eddie. “I hope you’re right.”
Chip gave a single nod and set the lobster back in the crate. “Well, I can’t say I’ve had much success when it comes to matters of the heart, but if you ever feel like talking, you know where to find me.”
“That’s sort of why I stopped by,” she said, grinning apologetically. “Sorry it wasn’t just for a social call.”
“What’s up?” Chip frowned.
“I’m sure you know about my grandmother.”
Chip sighed. “I do. I’m sorry. I know you were close.”
Were close. Past tense. They had been close, as close as mother and daughter for a while, but then somehow it had slipped away. Margo had gotten busy. Let the routine of things like work and grocery shopping and deciding how to spend a free Saturday afternoon interfere with their relationship. She didn’t call every week. Sometimes, she didn’t even call every month.
“I feel terrible,” she said, her voice cracking. She pulled in a shaky breath, wiped a single hot tear from her eye before it could fall. “I should have reached out more.”
“You visited when you could. It’s not like you live an hour away. This is life, Margo. You have a husband and a job and responsibilities, too. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
She highly doubted Bridget would see it that way. “Still. If I’d known how bad things were, I would have come back for a visit.”
Chip gave her a sad smile. “I know it’s hard to believe, but it wouldn’t have changed the outcome. Your grandmother’s where she needs to be. She’s lived a good life.”
Margo sniffed. “I know you’re right.”
“What was that?” A mischievous grin lifted Chip’s mouth as he leaned forward, dramatically cupping his ear. “Think you can say that in front of one of my girls sometime?”
“How are Evie and Hannah?” she asked, feeling better.
“Ah, Evie’s still in Boston, finishing up her degree, and Hannah…Well, you know Hannah. I got a postcard from Argentina last week. Seems she’s photographing some wildlife there.”
“She always was a free spirit.”
“Free as a bird,” Chip’s smile waned. “I never could keep her down. Much as I’d love to, it wouldn’t be fair.”
“Well, send them my love,” Margo said, taking a step back. The smell of fish was strong and she had the distinct feeling it was starting to wear off on her. “I should go. I promised Bridget that I’d help her with the house today.”
“Stop by one night for dinner. I’ll make you your favorite.”
“Crab cakes?”
Now that was more like it.
Chip winked. “You know it.”
“I’ll come in tomorrow night. Love you, Uncle Chip,” she said. She hesitated, noticing the salmon he held in his hands, and then thought, to hell with it and leaned in for one more hug. She’d lost enough people in her life already. She could stand to hold the ones she still had a little tighter.
“Love you, Mags. And remember,” he said, wagging his finger at her as she walked to the car. “Always here if you need me. Always.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I might take you up on that.”
***
The driveway to the house was empty when Margo pulled up ten minutes later. She checked her watch; it wasn’t like Bridget to be late.
Still, a part of her was happy to have the house to herself for a bit. She pushed back the nagging feeling that it could be for the last time.
The hydrangeas that lined the wraparound porch had finished their bloom for the year, their leaves had already fallen off, leaving nothing but a series of spiky branches poking from the ground. Margo had loved those flowers, looked forward to them every July, when they popped up, bursting with big round balls in shades of blue periwinkle and lavender. She’d pick big bunches and fill vases all over the house, even loving them still when the color had faded to shades of green.
Would she really never see them at their peak again? Back in Charleston, she had planted a bush, but it didn’t take, no matter how much she tended to it. Life was like that, she supposed. Sometimes the harder you had to work at something, the more difficult it became to hold onto it. Like the universe was trying to tell you something.
Had it been that way with Ash? At times, she thought. If she was being honest with herself.
Someone had filled the front planters with bright orange mums—Bridget, most likely. Margo was no dummy. It would be tough to sell a place in Oyster Bay in the winter, when the seas were rough and the winds were bitter. Spring and summer was when this old house shone the brightest. And by then…by then it would probably belong to someone else. Would they love it has much as the Harpers had? Would they explore the attic and the basement and the secret door hidden behind the bookshelf in the living room that didn’t lead to anywhere in particular, just another closet? Would they climb on the rocks that met the sand, pretending they were mermaids, or castaways on a deserted island? Would they lie in bed at night with the window cracked so they could hear the waves rolling, and wake to the sound of the gulls flying and swooping overhead? And would they gather in the front room on Christmas Eve, listening to the fire crackle, not caring that the snow was piling up outside or that they’d eventually have to get around to shoveling the front path, almost not wanting Christmas to come because the magic would be over?
Margo walked around to the back of the house and tried the doors to the kitchen, even though she knew they would be locked just as they had been yesterday. She craned her neck, looking up at the far right corner of the house where her bedroom was located, and whose window was always unlocked, at least when she’d lived here. She chewed her lip and ran her gaze over the white rose trellis that climbed the side of the house.
Huh. She stepped off the porch and wandered over to it. Gave it a tentative shake, both pleased and surprised that it barely moved. It had always been sturdy, nailed deep into the wood siding, but she wasn’t exactly as svelte as she’d been fifteen years ago, either. Tentatively, she set her foot in one of the holes, then the next, gaining confidence as she took her time moving up the trellis, careful not to look down.
She was out of breath by the time she stepped onto the roof of the first-floor sunroom, her bedroom window now just walking distance from where she stood. She pressed her hands against the glass, pushing upward, grinning when it moved an inch. Frowning when it stopped there.
What the heck? She pushed harder, peering through the sunlight reflecting off the window. Something was blocking it from opening farther. Someone had attached something to the frame.
She was still pondering this minutes later when the beep of a siren broke the silence, as sudden and jolting as the snapping of a branch. She froze, her heart beginning to pound when the sound drew closer. A car door slammed shut and a few moments later, Eddie emerged around the corner of the house.
Well, crap.
She crouched down, trying to hide behind the branches of the old oak tree, but its leaves had already started to scatter to the ground, crunching under Eddie’s feet as he looked up and came to an abrupt halt.
“Well, well.” A mischievous grin quirked his mouth.
“Hello,” Margo mustered, not sure if she should stand, but feeling foolish hiding in the branches. She fiddled with a leaf, tried to take on the air of looking busy while she racked her brain for a reasonable explanation.
She glanced down. He stood, set his hands on his hips, signaling he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. Pity that.
“Everything okay here?” God, did his voice have to be so warm and husky and familiar?
“Of course!” She sniffed, reached over and plucked a leaf from the branch, considering her options.
“We received a call from the home security company,” Eddie continued. “Seems that someone tripped the alarm.”
“Oh?” She felt her cheeks flush. “Well, that was a false alarm. It was only me.”
“And what were you doing?” Eddie tipped his head, waiting oh so patiently.
“I was trying to get into my bedroom,” she said, realizing how pathetic that sounded.
“And why didn’t you just use the door?”
She stared at him. “Because I don’t have a key.”
He nodded, and for a minute she thought he might turn, go back to his car, and leave. Instead he said, “And are you the owner of this house?”
Oh, for crying out loud! He knew the answer to every question he was asking, but he was asking them all the same. To do his job, to cover his butt. Or to mess with her.
He stared at her until her stomach dropped from more than the way his hazel eyes caught the light.
“Well, no, not technically.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Are you being serious?”
He raised his eyebrows, took his sweet time in shifting the weight on his feet, and then shook his head. “Technically, you are breaking and entering. And trespassing. But seeing as I don’t think your grandmother would press charges against you, I’ll let you off with a warning.”
She blinked. A warning? Another warning, technically, since they were speaking in technicalities now.
“A warning,” she repeated, looking down at him. As if the curl of his mouth and the spark in his eyes wasn’t warning enough.
“You know how dangerous it is to climb up that lattice?” He walked over, grabbed hold of it, and gave it a little shake.
“Never stopped me before,” Margo replied, wishing she hadn’t gone there, but seeing no other handy defense.
Eddie’s laugh was thick and low, but it faded out to a long silence. He swept his hand through his hair, looked out to the sea. “No, I suppose it didn’t. But we were reckless, then.”
Correction: He was reckless. He liked thrills, and he couldn’t control his temper, even when she held him back, told him to ignore the stuff the kids at school said, told him that it didn’t matter. She opened her mouth to say just that and then stopped herself. Maybe he was right, maybe she had been reckless, too. Reckless enough to fall for the bad boy, to sneak out her bedroom window when her parents were already asleep for the night and Mimi was in the den, watching game shows late into the night and sipping tea, not to be disturbed. Reckless enough to climb off a roof, to hop on the back of a motorcycle, to disappear into the night. Reckless enough to believe Eddie when he told her that he loved her, that they’d have a life together someday, that he’d be back for her.
Reckless enough to go and marry the first nice guy who came along, without looking too close.
“Well, you’re not going to get down the way you came up,” Edd
ie finally said.
Margo looked down at the ground. It suddenly seemed a lot farther than it ever had before. “No, I suppose not.” She studied the tree limbs and shivered at the wind blowing in off the water. She caught Eddie’s stare, sensing the glimmer that passed through his eyes.
“I’m happy to call the fire department,” he said evenly. “They’ve got a nice tall ladder that can get you down in no time. Of course, it’s usually reserved for rescuing cats, but I’m sure they’d be willing to make an exception this once.”
Margo narrowed her eyes. “Very funny.”
Eddie just shrugged and turned to walk away. “Suit yourself. I’m sure you’ve thought this through.”
Margo grit her teeth. “There might be a ladder in the shed.”
He stopped walking. His mouth twitched when he looked up at her. “If the shed’s unlocked.”
Right. Margo was breathing more heavily now.
“I’ll check,” Eddie said, and walked around to the side of the house, whistling as he went.
Margo closed her eyes and dared to imagine this was all a dream. That she was back in Charleston, in her house, secure in the comfort that later that evening her husband would come home from work, they’d eat dinner, briefly exchanging the details of their day, and then separate for the night—her to read, him to watch the news—before retiring to bed where she slept on her side and he on his and where there was no good night kiss. No passion. No drama. No excitement. And nothing to fear.
She’d been comfortable, she realized, but had she really been happy?
Now wasn’t the time to soul search, she decided. Now was the time to get off this damn roof before Eddie could play knight in shining armor. A role he wholly didn’t deserve.
She rolled over onto her stomach, blindly jostled her ballet flat into the trellis, crept her other leg a little lower as she pressed her hands against the shingles of the roof and…lost her nerve.
The whistling grew louder, the song replaced with something that sounded an awful lot like a cat call.
Refusing to think of how unflattering she looked, she decided to shed all dignity and accept her situation. It beat breaking a leg. “Please tell me you found the ladder.”