by Janna King
The wind had picked up since dawn. Mia wrapped her bare arms around her body. She tried not to shiver.
“What is it, Mia?” Lyndon peered into Mia’s face.
“I don’t feel right here.” Mia focused on the swaying sea grass bordering the estate.
“Do you mean that you don’t feel safe? Because you should feel safe.” Lyndon gently turned Mia’s face to her. “This is a very unusual situation.”
“And obviously an unfortunate relationship dispute,” added Grace, putting a hand on Mia’s arm. “That has nothing to do with anyone else but Grant and Ruby.”
“I warned against hobnobbing with the Wear National camp.” Lyndon clicked her tongue. “They’re not our people.”
“If Jade and J.P. get to go home, why can’t I?” asked Mia
“Because unexpected circumstances are part of life,” answered Lyndon. “If I’ve learned anything that I can impart to you, it’s that you must forge ahead.”
“I will forge ahead, at home with my mom and brother.” Mia held herself tighter.
“That’s not moving forward.” Lyndon shook her head. “That’s backward.”
“Mia, I hate to bring this up.” Grace gave Mia’s arm a light squeeze. “But per the seasonaires contract, you’ll give up the balance of your pay if you leave. And you can forget about the new phone.”
“Grace.” Lyndon maintained her cool. “Let’s not be crass.”
Grace dropped her hand from Mia’s arm. “I’m sorry.”
“I’d like to chat with Mia for a minute alone,” said Lyndon.
“Of course.” Grace glanced down, then walked inside, closing the French doors and joining Presley and Cole, who watched through the glass.
Tears welled in Mia’s eyes. Lyndon hugged her, then held her away, looking into her face. “Oh, I don’t know what’s come over me. If you want to leave, Mia, I completely understand. But you will be missed. You’ve been doing so well here.”
“I’m not sure what I want.” Mia wept. “Except for this whole situation to disappear.”
“Believe me, so do I.” Lyndon closed her eyes, then opened them. “I have an idea.” She touched Mia’s arm. “Would you feel better if you had your family here?”
“Seriously?” Mia sniffed.
“One hundred percent,” replied Lyndon.
Mia’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes, I’d feel much better.”
“What about a visit?” Lyndon brightened. “I’ll put your mother and brother up at The Wauwinet. It’s a secluded slice of heaven in chaotic times. You can stay there, too, if you like. You and your mum can have a spa day.”
“We’ve never done that.”
“I never had a chance to do that with my mum either.” Lyndon offered a small smile, then leaned in. “Can I share something with you?”
“Of course,” Mia replied, understanding the implied privacy.
Lyndon put her hands on the deck railing, motioning Mia to join her. They stared out at the choppy water curling with white, frothy caps. “My mother and father were inseparable,” she said. “I’ve never seen two people so in love. It’s the kind of love I’ve dreamed of my whole life, which I’m sure has fucked up every relationship I’ve ever had, pardon my French.” She chuckled dryly. “That kind of connection comes with its drawbacks. We didn’t have any money, so my father worked himself to the bone. When I was eighteen, he died of a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mia.
Lyndon brushed back hair that had blown across her face. “My mother had a nervous breakdown. She couldn’t live without him.”
Mia shifted on her feet. She didn’t know if she felt complimented or burdened by this intimate information.
“She was diagnosed with acute schizophrenia,” Lyndon continued. “It can come on rather suddenly in a healthy person, often in response to a stressful event. She had to be institutionalized.”
“That must’ve been hard for you and Grace,” said Mia.
“Grace was thirteen at the time and was going to be put in a foster home. Even though I had no idea how to take care of a child—I was practically a child myself—I couldn’t let that happen, so I became Grace’s legal guardian. It was my job to make sure we survived, and I very quickly saw how fierce my protective instincts were.” Lyndon looked at Mia. “I’m willing to bet you learned that about yourself at a young age, too.”
Mia stared at the whitecaps, thinking about how much the money this summer meant at home.
“At the same time, you need to take care of yourself. I want to help you do that,” said Lyndon. “But the only way I can do that is if you stay here.” She put her hand on Mia’s.
THIRTY-NINE
Mia pulled the fabric scissors from her sewing kit and sliced through the Lyndon Wyld messenger label, splitting open the box. Inside was her new smartphone. She brought the smaller box to her bed and opened it, lifting out the shiny device.
“I’m going to break my phone so Lyndon will buy me a new one,” said Presley, spritzing on perfume as she sat at the vanity.
“You broke mine when you slapped it out of my hand,” remarked Mia as she turned on the phone.
“You are an ungrateful little bitch, aren’t you?” said Presley, half-joking. “That was for your benefit, remember?”
The perfume’s strong jasmine–orange blossom scent bothered Mia as she clicked around the phone’s screen, signing in and downloading her apps. “I don’t want to go today. A merch stand at the farmers market right now seems inappropriate. We’ve never had one before, why start now?”
“Putting on a brave public face translates to sales.” Presley slicked on a neutral lip gloss. “I want to look good, but not too good.” Presley turned to Mia and smoothed her hair instead of tossing it. “What do you think?”
“You look fine,” replied Mia.
“Fine as in ‘hot’? Or fine as in ‘mediocre’? because I like the first but want the second.” Presley tilted her head.
“The second.”
“Good.” Presley grabbed her purse and left the room.
Mia clicked on Instagram to ensure that her Insta Story was empty. She knew it would have disappeared within twenty-four hours, and that even if she had accidentally pressed the “+” icon to post the selfie in front of the fireworks, it would be gone. But she needed to be positive. She exhaled and clicked off the phone, then glanced in the vanity mirror. She didn’t look fine in any way.
Vincent drove Mia, Cole, and Presley to the farmers market. The ride over was quiet, though Presley took a selfie, looking pensive, her hair blowing in the wind. Mia side-eyed Cole, who rolled his.
The farmers market was teeming with locals and tourists, noisy with shoppers talking over one another and music playing. The colors, noise, and smells felt assaulting to Mia. She could barely look when she passed the stand that featured the sea glass pendant necklaces, with their mermaid tears.
“I miss Jade already,” she said, touching flowers that begged to be arranged.
“Really?” remarked Presley, her eyes narrowing. “She sucked all the air out of the room.”
“I liked J.P. He was a good guy,” said Cole, touching a Nantucket cap hanging on a stand. “And Grant . . . we weren’t best bros or anything, but after you bunk with someone for a few weeks, you get used to having them around.”
Mia eyed Presley, who snapped a selfie with a bouquet of daisies. The three continued walking. The Dolphin Shine singer with his kooky fin hat took a break from playing the guitar to hug Mia. She held on longer than she should have. Vincent used it as a photo opportunity, which he posted on Instagram:
It takes a village. #ForeverWyld #healing
They arrived at the Lyndon Wyld merch stand, where Jill sat among the arranged clothing and accessories. She embraced each of them, including Mia.
“Horrendous,” Jill said. “Grant was a piece of work, but entertaining.”
“He sure was,” replied Presley.
Vincent took some shots of the
group at the stand. As passersby watched, Mia couldn’t tell if their expressions were of pity, scorn, or morbid curiosity. “This is weird.”
“News travels fast,” remarked Presley. “But we have a job to do.”
Mia leaned into Cole as Vincent snapped a shot. “Are we supposed to smile?”
“When you think of Grant, do you feel like smiling?” asked Cole. “Because I do.”
“Yes,” answered Mia, offering up a melancholic smile.
The sight of them became an increasing public distraction and after the fifth gawking person bumped into Vincent, he put the cap on his lens. “I am in hell. Je suis fatigué.” He trudged off to the car.
“Poor Vincent.” Presley pouted. “He’s taking Grant’s loss hard.”
“Anyone want food?” Cole motioned to the Island Pie Shop stand nearby. “We can take a pie-eating selfie and call it business.”
“I’m not hungry, but I’ll watch you eat,” replied Mia. She had zero appetite.
“Anything but cherry.” Presley sniffed.
They headed to the stand. Mia stopped at a Snapchat Spectacles pop-up kiosk. “I guess I should catch up on my social since I’ve been without a phone for all of a day.” She gave a dry snort.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” warned Presley.
Cole examined the booth and the futuristic-looking glasses. “These things are cool.”
Presley waved a hand at Mia. “I’ll let Mia be the guinea pig, and see how goofy they look on her first.”
“Thanks.” Mia put on the glasses and tapped the top left-hand corner.
Presley read the instructions on the kiosk. “Count to ten.”
Mia slowly turned, scanning the street as she counted in her head. The pristine town that had been so awe-inspiring when she arrived now looked manufactured to her. She finished counting and Cole helped her link to her smartphone. She replayed the video in her Snapchat Memories and noticed Detective Miller staring at them from far down the street by the liquor store as he got in his Crown Victoria. She shivered and deleted the video before Cole or Presley looked. “Blurry.”
“Pilot error, I’m sure.” Presley took the glasses. “Let me try, because they looked spy-chic.” She put them on and posed for a beat with her hand on her hip. Then she scanned the street and counted to ten out loud. Her smile turned into a scowl and she ripped them off. “Fuck.”
“What is it?” asked Cole.
“More trash than usual,” replied Presley, walking off toward the exit where they had parked the G.
Mia and Cole looked in the direction of Presley’s scorn. The Crown Victoria was gone, but Mac and Eve stood outside the liquor store, talking.
“How much do you have to piss off a woman to get a daiquiri thrown in your face?” Cole asked Mia.
“Don’t try and find out,” Mia answered, lifting a brow. She followed after Presley.
FORTY
Mia, you have to eat something,” said Cole, tapping Mia’s plate with his fork.
Mia pushed around her scrambled eggs. She, Cole, and Presley were ensconced under a patio umbrella at 45 Surfside Bakery and Café.
Presley poured syrup on a stack of waffles. “Comfort food, sugar.”
“I haven’t slept for three days,” said Mia, rubbing her eyes. “Maybe that’s why I’m nauseous.”
“You’re making me sleep-deprived, too,” Presley huffed. “It’s like having a fish out of water in the bed next to me, all the flippin’ and floppin’.”
“Are you going to see the grief counselor?” asked Cole.
“Head-shrinker, you mean?” Presley shook her head. “Absolutely not.”
Cole sipped his coffee. “I went to a therapist a couple times after I lost my grandpa.” He glanced at Mia. “I’m thinking maybe it’ll help now. Plus, I’m going to start running—endorphins, right?”
“You know what’ll help now?” said Presley, cutting her waffles.
“What?” asked Mia.
“Not dwelling.” Presley took a voracious bite. “And waffles.” She chewed and swallowed, then looked at Mia. “Did talking to Lyndon and Grace make you feel better? You never told me about your conversation.”
“Nothing to tell,” replied Mia, putting down her fork. “All I know is that I can’t wait till my mom and brother come in.”
“I can’t wait either.” Presley took another bite.
Three millennials drinking lattes and eating eggs Benedict huddled together at a nearby table. They stared at Mia, Cole, and Presley. One snapped a smartphone pic.
Mia lifted a menu to block her face. “Great, we’re gossip.”
“I hope I didn’t have syrup on my chin,” said Presley, dabbing around her mouth with her napkin.
After another lookie-loo snap, Mia got up.
“What are you doing?” asked Cole.
Mia tossed her napkin on her chair. She restrained giving the Eggs Benedict Millennials the finger as she passed them and jogged down the patio steps.
“Mia . . .” Presley called out to her.
Mia got on her cruiser and peddled off. She rode a few blocks and stopped next to a tree to pull her smartphone from her purse. She found a group text from Lyndon and Grace with the contact card for the grief counselor, Dr. Adrienne Lambert, who was at Nantucket Cottage Hospital. Mia found the location on Google Maps and peddled there to find a cluster of clapboard structures. Nantucket’s gray shingled buildings were all starting to look the same to her. She locked her bike to a rack and walked inside the hospital’s main building.
She checked the text message and searched the numbers on the doors, finding Suite 32, marked with the placard:
ADRIENNE LAMBERT, M.D.
PSYCHIATRY
She entered. The reception area was decorated with beachy touches—a couch covered in anchor fabric, framed nautical photographs, and health and travel magazines neatly fanned out on the coffee table next to a white ceramic bowl filled with seashells. Mia stepped up to the reception window.
“Can I help you?” asked the receptionist, a portly man in his forties wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a kind smile.
“I’m here to see Dr. Lambert,” replied Mia.
The receptionist checked the schedule book in front of him. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No. I’m Mia Daniels. I work for Lyndon Wyld.” Mia drummed her fingers on the reception windowsill.
“Oh, yes.” The receptionist’s eyes filled with sympathy. He glanced at the schedule book and back up at Mia. “Dr. Lambert is with a patient, but she’ll have some time free in about forty minutes. Can you wait?”
“Sure.” Mia sat on the couch. She thumbed through a Prevention magazine, finding recipes with “anti-bacterial” turmeric. She didn’t know what turmeric was and didn’t care. She flipped to an article on adult acne and one titled “Five Ways to Make Stress Work for You.” The photo featured a fresh-faced woman who didn’t look remotely stressed. Mia put the magazine down and headed out the door.
“I’ll be back.”
“Okay,” replied the receptionist.
Mia roamed the halls. The hospital was much smaller than Boston Medical Center, where she regularly brought her mom. She found the patient care wing and stepped up to the nurse’s station. Two female nurses typed information on separate desktop computers. Mia stood for a long moment. Neither nurse looked up at her. The air smelled stale and musty, reminding her of her mom’s room in their apartment.
“Excuse me,” said Mia. “Do you know what room Ruby Taylor is in?”
The nurse with curly red hair glanced at Mia. “Did you check in with security?”
Mia patted her shirt. “My sticker must’ve fallen off.”
“You’ll have to get another one,” replied the nurse.
Mia noticed a police officer standing guard in front of a room down the hall.
An announcement came over the speakers. “Code Blue, Room Ten-twenty. Code Blue.” The two nurses hustled in the same direction, away from Mia. Mia sl
ipped down the corridor toward the police officer, who watched her pass. The door was open. A nurse was cleaning Ruby’s facial wounds. Ruby’s eyes caught Mia’s and filled with tears. There was so much Mia wanted to know and say, but all she could do was look sorry and confused.
“Hey,” snapped the police officer. “Move along.”
Mia hurried back down the corridor and wound around the hospital. She found Dr. Lambert’s office and sat on the anchor-covered couch.
“I’m back,” she said, trying to calm her breath as quickly as possible. She returned to the Prevention piece on adult acne and read the same sentence over five times because she couldn’t concentrate.
“Mia?”
Mia looked up to see a woman around Lyndon’s age. “I’m Dr. Lambert.” The doctor’s hair was gray, but the look was chic, pulled off of her serene face, which revealed she knew how to make stress work for her without reading any magazine article. “Come on in,” she said with a wave.
Mia followed her into the office.
“Please”—Dr. Lambert motioned to a couch—“make yourself comfortable.”
Mia’s experience with psychologists extended to TV shows and movies, in which characters lay down on black leather chaises. The only place for Mia to sit was a white linen couch, and no one dressed as crisply as Dr. Lambert would want some sorry patient’s dirty shoes on there. She sat, noticing a board game–size box filled with sand topped with a tiny rack on the coffee table.
“Did you buy that with the sand?” asked Mia.
“I did,” replied Dr. Lambert with an amused smile.
“That’s ironic in a beach town.”
“You think so?” Dr. Lambert picked up a brown leather notebook from her desk, along with a robin’s egg blue Tiffany pen. She sat in a tufted armchair across the table from Mia.
Mia shifted uncomfortably and put her hands in her lap. “I’ve never been to therapy.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” Dr. Lambert crossed her legs. “I’m sorry about what happened to your colleague. How are you feeling?”
“Tired. I haven’t been sleeping.”
“I can give you something for that.” Dr. Lambert pulled a small prescription pad from the notebook’s pocket.