by Grace Palmer
“What happened at the end of the summer?” Jill asked.
She swept her hands out, gesturing to the porch. “He bought this house. He had the idea to turn it into a bed and breakfast, so he offered to let me live with him. I slept in my own room, of course.” Her smile tightened into a knot and her cheeks flushed like Jill had never seen before. “…Until I didn’t.”
Jill couldn’t help but smile. She hadn’t seen her mom this much like herself in years. Not for this long, anyway. Usually, the most she could count on was a minute or two. But this was different. Something about Martha’s Vineyard, about this story, was vivid and clear in her mind.
Jill didn’t want it to end.
“We were like two kids playing house,” she continued. “I couldn’t cook and he couldn’t nail two pieces of wood together. But we loved each other and that always seemed like enough.”
“When did he propose?” Leslie asked.
Jill flinched, afraid someone her mom didn’t know very well interrupting would break her concentration and ruin everything.
But Amelia didn’t hesitate. “Six months after we met.” She angled her head around a post and then pointed down to the far end of the beach. “Right down there. It was freezing cold, and I was wrapped up in my parka and a winter hat and mittens. I was so bundled up that I was as wide as I was tall, but he still got down on one knee and asked me to marry him.” She sighed, though there was a bite to it. A tinge of regret. “And I said yes.”
“But you never got married,” Jill prodded. She knew that for a fact—she’d checked public records everywhere she could find during the hunt for her father.
“No,” Amelia sighed. “We didn’t get that far.”
“Why not?”
She knew how the story ended. Knew that Warren went on to marry someone else and have Leslie and Michelle. But she still couldn’t stop herself from imagining what it would have been like to grow up here. To have a big house next to the ocean, a beach to run and play on, two parents.
“I loved Warren. I did,” her mom said, nodding her head for emphasis, like she was trying to convince both them and herself. “But the Wayfarer Inn was his dream. Not mine. I was happy to let him run it while I pursued my passions, but he wanted me to work here with him.”
Leslie dropped down onto the arm of a nearby chair. “And you didn’t want that?”
“He expected me to clean and cook—not just for our family, but for every stranger who walked through the door, too. But I wanted to get out of the house; I wanted to work and explore. My own mother stayed home with me and my sister, and she’d hated it. Society was changing. I wanted to change with it.”
Jill cleared her throat. “So you ran away?”
“I didn’t run away,” her mom corrected. “I remember the day I left. Warren was sitting at the table with his yellow legal pad and a calculator in front of him, and he said I was killing his dream. That he’d always wanted a wife and family to take care of, but I wasn’t letting him. And I told him I didn’t need to be taken care of. I was perfectly fine on my own, thank you very much."
"I bet he responded well to that," Michelle scoffed, shaking her head. “Stubborn old grump.”
“I told him I would stay. I told him I’d marry him,” Amelia said, growing serious. “So long as he didn’t expect me to quietly and obediently go along with all of his plans for my life.” She lowered her brow and took on a deeper voice, mimicking Warren, as she said, “‘Since when have you ever been quiet and obedient? No, I don’t expect that. But I do expect you to do the sensible thing and work with me. Help make the family business successful. Take care of our children.’ That sounded like a prison sentence. And the way he said it… Well, it frightened me. So I left.”
“What did you do?” Michelle asked. “Where did you go?”
Amelia smiled, though it didn’t reach her creased, deep set eyes. “I had plans to hitchhike to New York City and find another waitressing job. Or really, any job that would give me money to rent a cheap place and start over. Maybe even go back to school.”
“I didn’t know you ever lived in the city,” Jill said.
“I didn’t.” Amelia laughed. “Never made it that far. On the ferry ride to Hyannis, I thought I had seasickness. But when I made it back to land and was continually sick for days, I began to suspect something else.”
Leslie gasped. “You were pregnant!”
She nodded. “I was. Six weeks.”
“Why didn’t you go back?” Jill asked.
“Because being pregnant didn’t change the reason I left,” her mom said, like it was that simple. “If anything, it made things worse. Once Warren knew, he’d want me to stay home and raise our babies. And before long, I’d be doing exactly what he wanted me to do. I’d have given up my dreams in favor of his. And that would all be well and good—except it never would have been perfect. And then I would have ruined his dream, too. It was just easier to do it on my own.”
“Did you even tell him about us?” Jill asked, her voice breaking with emotion. “Did you even give him the chance to be a father?”
Jill felt a hand grip her shoulder. She didn’t know if it was Leslie or Michelle, but she was grateful for the comfort either way. Decisions had been made. Life had gone on. There was no sense being upset about the past. Especially when any small shift in the story could have meant Leslie and Michelle never even existed.
Still, the old wound she’d been nursing her entire life was stinging something fierce.
Her mom shook her head. “I didn’t. But he found out about you anyway. I’m still not quite sure how. When you and Grayson were twenty-five, he sent me a letter. He was angry at first, but when I explained why I never told him, I think he understood. He didn’t like it, but he understood.”
“Then what? Did he want to meet us? Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because you didn’t need him,” she said simply. “You were adults and Warren had other children and a whole life on Martha’s Vineyard. It all seemed so needlessly complicated. And when he didn’t reach out again, I assumed he felt the same. So I left it at that.”
Jill’s jaw clenched tight. “That wasn’t your decision to make.”
Amelia nodded slowly. “I know. But I’d made my decision about Warren a long time ago. I’d decided to raise you on my own, to do it without him, to find my own way in the world. And I didn’t want him to come in at the last minute and change everything.” She sighed. “I made a decision and I stuck with it until the end. I’m still not sure it was the right thing to do. Now, it’s too late to fix it.”
Amelia was right about that. It was too late. Too late to be bitter. Too late to be angry. Her father was gone and Jill didn’t know how much longer she’d have with her mom. How many more conversations like this she’d have before they had their final one.
So Jill took a deep breath and then blew it out, releasing everything. Her anger, her self-doubt, the decades of unanswered questions. She pushed it away, letting it all drift out to sea, and turned back to her mom.
“Thanks for telling me all of this, Mom,” she sighed. “I really appreciate it.”
Amelia turned to her and smiled. “All of what, dear?”
“All of everything. About you and Warren.”
She frowned. “Warren who?”
Jill froze. Out of everything she’d heard, that question hurt the most.
The clock tolled nine o’clock. The ocean waves lapped up the shore in the distance. No one said a word. The blanket had slipped down Amelia’s arm while she’d been talking. Jill pulled it up, tuck it back around her shoulders with a loving hand.
“No one,” she said quietly. “Never mind.”
Her mom seemed content with that answer and looked out on the water, a small smile on her face. “The ocean is so peaceful, isn’t it?”
Jill blinked back tears and nodded. “Yes, Mom. It sure is.”
18
Leslie
A FEW WEEKS LATER AT THE WA
YFARER INN
“I don’t know what you ladies are worried about,” Shane said. “This place looks great. People are going to love it.”
“We’re mostly worried about making money, keeping a roof over our heads, saving our father’s legacy from getting sold by the bank to the highest bidder,” Leslie drawled. “You know, those kinds of trivial things.”
Shane just grinned back at her. He always seemed to be grinning. Ever since Leslie had finally broken down and called him to come help them haul the mermaid sink in Room Six away, he and his grin had been showing up to the inn once every day or two to lend a hand as needed.
Shane was still wearing the dark blue pants from his police officer’s uniform, but he’d shrugged out of the button-down shirt and was in a simple white tee. A bit of sweat had gathered around the collar and Leslie was very studiously ignoring how tightly the sleeves clung to his biceps.
“I just think you’re overthinking things a bit,” he said. “For instance, here I am, rearranging these dining room tables for the fifth time today when you’ve been serving people lunch and dinner a few nights per week at the very same tables.”
“And your point?” Leslie asked, eyebrow arched.
“My point,” Shane said, “is that people have been booking in advance to come sit in this room and eat your food, but now you’re suddenly worried the configuration isn’t good enough. It doesn’t make sense.”
Leslie had to admit Shane had something resembling a point. They’d launched “The Wayfarer Restaurant” three weeks earlier, and it had been a hit. More than Leslie had expected, anyway.
Michelle had made signs that she hung in local businesses all around Oak Bluffs. They said corny things like “Get Way FULLER at the Wayfarer” and “Dine INN at The Wayfarer.” Despite the eyeroll-worthy cheesiness and Leslie’s certainty everything was going to fall apart, people actually showed up, every Friday and Saturday for two weeks now.
At first, it was mostly old friends of her dad’s and acquaintances. But by the second weekend, perfect strangers were calling to confirm dinner times and reservations.
Leslie hemmed and hawed and deflected compliments like it was her job, but even she could no longer deny the truth: people loved her food.
But that didn’t mean the table configuration couldn’t be improved.
“I just want to make sure everyone has an ocean view as much as possible,” she said. “If we keep the tables right in front of the windows, then someone’s big head could block the view for someone closer to the back wall. We need to stagger them and—”
“I’m starting to think this is all a ruse,” Shane said, even as he started pulling chairs away from the table so he could move it per her instructions yet again. “Tomorrow, you all open the inn to guests, so I’m guessing you didn’t have anything for me to work on. You made up this problem just to have me around.”
Leslie’s face heated, but she rolled her eyes. “You wish.”
She did like having Shane around. That was true.
Michelle had more than her fair share of drama going on behind the scenes, but she preferred grouching around the house to being vulnerable or allowing anyone to help her.
And Jill’s focus on the inn and the reopening had become laser-sharp. To the point Leslie had started slipping out of rooms when she heard Jill coming to avoid hearing another rundown of everything they had left to do and projected costs.
Essentially, neither of her sisters were exactly lighting up rooms when they walked into them.
Not the way Shane did.
Leslie swatted at his arm. “Stop stalling and get back to work. We don’t have time for your off-the-wall theories and oversized ego.”
He chuckled and started moving tables again, but Leslie could sense him looking over at her every so often. She ignored it.
Less than twenty-four hours remained to the inn’s grand reopening. There was no time for distractions… no matter how handsome they were.
It was Leslie’s last time running lunch at The Wayfarer Restaurant. She didn’t know whether she was sad to see it go or thrilled. She was too exhausted to sort through the tangle of emotion inside of her.
“You should keep this going all year round,” Frank Donahue remarked. “I’d come here every weekend. It’s delicious.”
“Maybe if I had two more arms and a few more hours in the day,” Leslie said, repeating the same joke she’d made to everyone who said something similar.
“If you’re looking to hire help, I’ll work for bowls of lobster bisque and cherry cheesecake.”
“I’ll remember that, Frank. Thanks for coming in!”
When she made it back to the kitchen, Leslie dropped his plate in the sink and sank down into one of the barstools gratefully.
On the days they had time to spare, Jill or Michelle came to help out with taking orders and waitressing. But they’d both been busy with last minute preparations and decorating, leaving Leslie to handle service on her own. Luckily, she booked the reservation in waves and kept the prix-fixe menus small.
It was nonstop movement, but the system worked, and they were actually making money. With tips, they were even making considerable money. That mattered more than anything else.
After a brief break where she basically let herself turn to a puddle of tired liquid on the counter, Leslie pulled herself together, stood up, and started cleaning.
She scraped off food remnants into the trash, filled the sink with hot, soapy water, and began scrubbing. Once the dishes were washed, dried, and put away, Leslie turned her attention to the dining room. She cleared away the candles and floral centerpieces on the tables, spot-treated any stains on the linens, and vacuumed up the crumbs on the floor.
By the time everything was done, Leslie wanted to flop on the sofa in the sitting room and sleep the rest of the day away. But they didn’t have the luxury of rest. These last hours of preparation were crucial and Leslie needed to keep busy. So she dragged herself up the stairs to find Michelle.
“Hello?” she called. “Anyone up here?”
Just as lunch had started, she’d seen Michelle carting painting supplies up the stairs. All of the rooms were now painted, but some of the trim around the doors and baseboards had to be replaced. Shane had just finished it the day before, so they needed to be painted before guests arrived. Michelle had volunteered.
“Michelle?” Leslie called again.
Again, there was no answer.
The trim around Room Four was still unpainted, so Leslie knew Michelle wasn’t in there. She walked three doors down and knocked softly on the door of Room Nine. If Michelle was behind there, she didn’t want to throw it open and knock into her.
But again, no answer.
Leslie slowly pushed the door open anyway, just to be sure. And that’s when she saw her sister curled up on the mattress. Asleep. The painting supplies were still sitting untouched on the floor.
“Michelle?”
Immediately, Michelle sat up, eyes bleary and puffy. Almost like she’d been crying. She looked around, confused, and then saw Leslie. “Oh, hi. I guess I fell asleep.”
Leslie looked around the room. There were unpainted pieces of trim in here, too. “What all did you get done?”
Michelle rubbed at her eyes and yawned. “I just told you, I must have fallen asleep. I haven’t been sleeping well and I sat down and, well…”
Leslie’s feet ached. Her knees hurt from hours of nonstop standing. She had oil burns on her hands and shrimp seasoning under her fingernails. She would have loved nothing more than to lay down and take a three-hour nap. Instead, she’d finished her work and then come up here to help Michelle… who hadn’t even gotten started.
“You… fell asleep?” she asked flatly.
Michelle’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what I said.”
“Have you done anything up here?”
“I will,” she snapped. “Stop being so uptight.”
“I’m not trying to be uptight. I’m trying to
resuscitate an inn. There’s a difference.”
“Not when you’re running the show, there isn’t.” Michelle rolled her eyes. “Some of us have other things going on, too, okay?”
Leslie blinked at her sister. “What do you possibly have going on that is more important than this?”
“Oh, I don’t know… How about the fact that my husband is in jail, my daughters are worried they’ll never see their father again, and I don’t know how I’m going to pay my bills? Is that enough for you?”
“Almost all of that can be solved if the inn reopening goes well!” Leslie cried. “I’ve been killing myself downstairs all morning and afternoon to make money so we can get this business open again, and you’ve been up here sleeping? This has got to be a joke.”
The door opened behind her and Jill stepped in. “Hey. What’s going on in here?”
Leslie couldn’t help it—she groaned. “Great. Just what we need.”
“What does that mean?” Jill asked, jerking back like she’d been slapped.
“It means this is between the two of us,” Michelle said. “Not you. You don’t need to always play peacekeeper. We are adults. We can figure it out ourselves.”
Leslie was mad at Michelle, but she nodded in agreement. Every time Leslie and Michelle so much as disagreed with one another over what to watch on TV, Jill rushed in to smooth things over. As the days and weeks together in the house dragged on, it was getting old.
“Right. This is between Michelle and me.”
“Unless it's about the inn,” Jill argued. "Then it's about me, too. I know I'm the third wheel around here, but I've given up a lot to help you out and—"
"You aren't a third wheel," Leslie interjected.
“How am I not? You two grew up together. You’ve lived here your whole lives, and—”
Michelle groaned. “We have done everything to make you welcome. What more do you want from us?”
“Being welcome and being part of the family is not the same thing,” Jill said.