No Home Like Nantucket

by Grace Palmer

  He’d looked her in the eyes, one at a time, as if to double-check. He must have seen something in there, because he just nodded and handed her a thermos full of hot coffee. “Drive safe then. Let me know when you get there.”

  “I will,” she said.

  She’d gotten into the car, with the kids buckled into their seats in the back, already absorbed in whatever movie or TV show or video game was currently in vogue. She’d driven the four hours into Vermont and dropped the kids off at camp, doing all the chitchatting with other parents and the kids’ counselors in the process. She’d made Alice and Grady’s bunk beds in their cabins, she’d kissed them goodbye, and she’d told them to be good. Then she’d gotten back in the car and turned around to head home.

  Not home as in the house she shared with Pete, but home as in Nantucket. She needed somewhere she could go to clear her head for a while. She needed her family.

  21

  Mae

  Where had all the time gone? Four months had vanished in the blink of an eye, whooshing past like cars headed the other direction on the interstate. Mae had stayed busy—she’d made darn sure of that. If there was one thing her parents had taught her not to be, it was a lazybones. Mae Benson was a sled dog—at her happiest when she was working.

  Which wasn’t to say that she was happy, exactly. How could she be? Life had given her a whole bushel of some very sour lemons lately. If she dwelled on it too long or too fiercely, it was liable to overwhelm her. Parts of her ached that she’d never known could ache before. Her heart hurt physically most days, this throb in her chest that stayed constant no matter what else was going on around her. She knew without even having to ask that she was going to feel that ache for the rest of her life.

  But, ache or no ache, she was a hummingbird down to her core, and she couldn’t just sit still. Toni’s offer had been a blessing in disguise. Because the Sweet Island Inn was endless work. Every morning, she’d start early, before the sun. Better that way than to dawdle in bed and let thoughts of coulda, woulda, shoulda drag her down into their depths. She’d wake up and, before she could think to do anything else, toss off the covers, stick her feet in her house shoes, and get moving. A quick brush of the teeth and fixing of her hair, slight dab of makeup, and the day began.

  It had taken her some time to get used to this new home. She’d spent so long at 114 Howard Street. She knew that house inside and out. Every squeak and loose floorboard, every drafty spot. But the inn wasn’t hers, not truly, and so she and it were taking some time to get to know each other.

  Thankfully, Toni was as responsible and orderly a woman as there was on this planet. Everything in the inn had a place, a pattern. Breakfast came first. That meant grinding up coffee beans and setting hot water to boil. While that was getting going, Mae started heating up the skillet and putting bacon on so it could fry up in time for the early-bird guests to fill their bellies. Mr. and Mrs. Hansen, a stylish older couple from Boston, had been the first ones downstairs each morning since they arrived for their summer vacation four days ago. Mae knew that Mr. Hansen liked his bacon extra crispy, while his wife used so much creamer in her coffee that it was like she was starting her day with dessert. They were pleasant and polite as could be. Mae had enjoyed getting to know them.

  With bacon sizzling and the hot water now poured over the coffee grounds in the French press, the kitchen began to smell delicious. Mae got out the big glass mixing bowl and cracked in a half-dozen eggs to make omelets from. Alongside that, she chopped up a few fistfuls of vegetables—tomatoes, onions, and peppers from Lola’s garden—along with cracking open a new jar of Puckermouth Jalapeños, a local brand. Donnie Alvarez, a Californian man staying in Room 3, liked his breakfast spicy. Lastly, she set the buffet up with cutlery and plates for everybody to grab at their leisure. Breakfast was technically open from seven a.m. to nine thirty every morning, though Mae had been known to relax the rules a bit for guests who she’d taken a shine to.

  No one was up yet, though, so Mae tucked the bacon on a tray in the hot drawer and stashed the omelet ingredients in the fridge while she went about her other errands.

  Spare linens were kept in the downstairs closet on the left-hand side. She pulled out a set of bedsheets and bustled down to Room 1 to prepare the bed for a guest who would be arriving that afternoon. The booking he’d made was unusually sparse on details. The Sweet Island Inn’s website asked guests to provide a little blurb about who they were and what they wanted to do while they were visiting Nantucket, so Mae usually had some idea of how she could best accommodate her guests during their stay. But this one had only a name—Dominic O’Kelley—and an open-ended booking duration, nothing more. Odd, but not something to get too worked up over.

  She dusted his room a bit once the bed was made and checked in the bathroom. She made a mental note to come back and bring fresh towels, since there were none in there at the moment. After that, she watered the plants in the main areas and mopped the foyer where the Davidsons, a cute little family of four, had tracked in sand after their beach visit yesterday.

  The rest of the morning went on and on like that. It was busy work, exactly what she wanted, and exactly what had filled up every one of her days that summer. It was good to be out of her home. There were far too many memories there, lingering around every corner. Even the most innocuous things had threatened to bring a tear from her eye during the few days after her husband’s funeral. Like the mantelpiece above the fireplace, where Henry had bumped his head hard once while trying to sneak up on Mae reading a book in her favorite overstuffed armchair. Or the doorframe in the kitchen, notched with her children’s heights over the years. The whole home was brimming with things that she couldn’t bear to remember right now. Staying at the inn was much less difficult.

  She’d done a good job of staying active and social, even when she just wanted to retreat into her bedroom and mourn. She still went on her weekly Sunday evening walks with Lola and Debra, her lifelong friends. She still attended town council meetings on the first Thursday night of every month, so as to be an informed citizen of the island. She knew that people expected her to dissolve into a puddle of tears, but she was determined not to. Chin up, smile plastered on—that was how Mae Benson liked to live her life, even when it felt awfully hard to stick to those principles. When it was hardest, that’s when she stuck to it most. “Fake it ’til you make it,” as Henry would’ve said, and, even when some days still weighed more heavily on her than others, she was making it, slowly but surely. Little by little, the fog was lifting, though the ache in her chest never shifted.

  She’d just finished tucking some dirty bedsheets into the washing machine to start a batch of laundry when she heard some footsteps thumping down the stairs. She hit the ON button on the machine and went into the kitchen.

  “Good morning!” she chirped brightly. Mr. Davidson was filling up a cup of coffee. He’d told her upon arrival that he was an engineer of some sort, and he certainly looked the part. He was a tall man, with thinning hair. Mae thought he was in his late forties or early fifties.

  “Good morning, Miss Mae!” he said back to her with a kind smile. “Miss Mae” was how she introduced herself to everybody who stayed at the inn. It set a little string in her heart thrumming sadly every time, but the truth was that she was no longer a Mrs., and she didn’t much want to delve into that topic besides.

  “What are we off to do today?” she asked him. “Can I make you some breakfast? Omelets this morning!”

  He held up a hand. “None for me, thank you. We’re headed downtown to walk around the shops. Then the beach this afternoon, I believe. Say, I was wondering if you had any recommendations for a good brunch spot out that way?”

  Mae smiled. “Why, of course! Let me grab you a map and I’ll give you a few to pick from.” She went searching through the drawer in the foyer and retrieved one of the Nantucket map brochures that Toni kept piled up for just such an occasion. Brandishing a highlighter pen, she gave Mr. Davids
on directions to a few of her favorite breakfast restaurants on the island, along with a little bonus of a hidden beach not too far off the main road.

  “Thanks so much,” he said warmly when she was finished. “You’ve been an amazing hostess. I’m so sad our vacation is almost over.”

  “Well, I’ll be here whenever you folks decide to come back. You have a beautiful family, and you are all welcome here anytime!”

  He stuck out a hand to shake, but Mae pulled him into a gentle hug. “I’m a hugger!” she said by way of explanation and/or apology. Mr. Davidson looked sheepish, but he laughed and hugged her back.

  “Gonna go wrangle Diane and the kids, and then we’ll be off to breakfast, then.”

  “Enjoy!” Mae called back as they parted ways.

  Mr. and Mrs. Hansen came down shortly thereafter, headed to the beach again to laze the day away pleasantly. Mae gave them a little picnic basket she’d prepared the night before. It had a few snacks and some water bottles in it to help them along their way.

  Donnie wasn’t far behind, but he was on the island for business, so he just grabbed a thermos for the road and bid Mae goodbye for the day.

  And with that, suddenly the inn was empty. Mae checked her phone. She hadn’t heard from any of her children yet that day. Eliza and Sara usually came over to help out around dinnertime. Sara had taken to testing out new recipes on the guests, all of whom were continually amazed by her finesse in the kitchen. Mae always smiled when Sara made sure to let them know that her mother had taught her everything she knew. After years of butting heads, it sure was nice to be in a good place in her relationship with her youngest daughter.

  Eliza was more of a complex case. She’d always been so self-sufficient that Mae to this day wasn’t quite sure about the inner workings of her eldest’s mind. But she’d been volunteering her time, too, mostly on the business end of things, helping Toni manage bookings and the inn’s advertisements on Google and Facebook.

  Holly had gone back home to Plymouth after the funeral, but she and Mae still talked on the phone a few times a week. Compared to Eliza, Holly had always been an open book. She wore her emotions plainly—not quite to Sara’s heart-on-her-sleeve extent, but still enough that Mae could tell just from the tone of her voice that not all was right in her middle daughter’s world. She’d have to find some time soon to suss out just what was the matter.

  And then Brent … well, that was a heartache in and of itself. She needed to check in on him today, but he likely wouldn’t be awake until the early afternoon, so she’d text him then. Best not to think of that until she must.

  All in all, it had been a horribly hard summer for the Benson family. It seemed like all of them were suffering from blow after blow. Mae offered up a silent wish that their luck would start turning soon. With nothing pressing to do, she walked into the living room and eased down into the rocking chair by the window. She just wanted a moment to take the load off her feet. She’d been scurrying around since before dawn, so it was nice to close her eyes and just breathe for a moment.

  But no sooner had she sat down than someone knocked at the door. She opened her eyes and frowned. Who could that be? All her current guests were gone and the mysterious Mr. O’Kelley wasn’t due in until the afternoon. She was wary of unexpected knocks at her door these days, not that anyone could blame her after what had happened last time around.

  She exhaled a heavy sigh and took to her feet again. Going over to the door, she guiltily peered out through the peephole before opening it. Not very innkeeperly of her to do, but oh well. She didn’t recognize the man waiting on the other side of the door. He was dark-haired with bushy eyebrows and a thick beard, offset by delightfully vibrant hazel eyes. His curly hair was tamed and neatly parted along one side. He was standing politely with his hands crossed in front of him and a well-worn leather duffel bag looped over one shoulder. There was no denying that he was very handsome indeed, though it had been a long time since Mae’s thoughts had strayed anywhere in that direction.

  She unlocked the door and opened it. She suddenly felt a little silly, in her apron and house slippers, and she wrung her hands in front of her anxiously. “Welcome!” she said with a cheer that she didn’t quite feel. “What can I do for you?”

  The man looked at her and smiled. “I’m Dominic O’Kelley,” he offered. “I believe I have a reservation at the Sweet Island Inn. Am I in the correct location? Please forgive me if I’ve strayed off the beaten path.”

  He had a lilting Irish brogue in his voice. All his Os were long and open, and the burble of his voice went up and down, reminding her of nothing so much as a river running over mossy stones. She normally didn’t get quite so poetically minded, but the man’s accent alone seemed to bring a little bit out of her. It took her a second to snap back to reality. “No, of course, of course! Come in!” She stepped out of the way and ushered the man inside. “I’m so sorry. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon. You caught me off-guard, that’s all.”

  Dominic smiled and gave her a slight little bow. He seemed to be full of charming affectations like that, and Mae found herself smiling in return. “I beg your forgiveness then. It wasn’t my intention to catch you unawares.”

  “Nonsense, no apology necessary,” she said. “Can I take your bag?”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right. I travel light, so it isn’t much for me to manage. Actually, I—” Mae wasn’t sure what he was going to say, because before he could get the words out, his stomach rumbled loudly. Dominic bowed his head at once, color rushing to his cheeks.

  But Mae just laughed. “You must be hungry! I’m sure you’ve had a long journey. Here, set your bag down there then, if you’re stubborn enough to not let me help you, and come into the kitchen so I can fix you some breakfast.”

  Dominic looked like he was about to protest, then relented. “I suppose my stomach has given me away. I am quite famished, actually. Breakfast would be excellent.” He smiled again, broad and toothy.

  He followed her into the kitchen and she set to work at once, whipping up an omelet in record time while Dominic sat at the kitchen table with his hands folded in front of him, watching her cook. When she set the plate down in front of her, he looked up and smiled once more. “I hope I’m not being too forthright, but would you care to join me? I’ve always hated eating alone. Product of growing up with seven brothers and sisters, I suppose.”

  Mae hesitated. She’d done most of her chores around the inn already, sure, but there was always something else that needed doing. Best to stay busy, no? But something told her to take a seat, so that’s what she did, settling down into the chair across from Mr. O’Kelley.

  “Well, thank you for the invitation,” she said carefully. “Did you say seven siblings? I thought my four children were a handful, but that’s hardly the half of it. Your mother must have been a regular Wonder Woman. How did she manage?”

  Dominic laughed. Even his laugh sounded Irish, which caught Mae by surprise. “Oh, not for too long,” he said pleasantly. “My father was never in the picture and my mother passed away when I was young. It was a bit of everybody raising everybody, really.”

  Mae went white as a ghost. “I’m so sorry, Mr. O’Kelley. I didn’t mean to—”

  He held up a hand to cut her off. “Please, don’t be. It was a very long time ago. She had a good life. And also, Mr. O’Kelley is far more than is necessary. I’d much prefer to just be Dominic.”

  She folded her fingers in her lap and nodded. “Understood. Dominic it is, then.” She felt terribly awkward, but he seemed to be at ease, so she made a conscious decision to let the faux pas go and settle back in her chair. “Can I ask what you do for a living, Mr. O—Dominic, I mean?”

  “I’m a novelist,” he said. “I’m here researching my next book.” He took a bite of eggs and exclaimed through a mouthful of food, “Why, this is delicious! Thank you very much for cooking for me. This is perfect.”

  “A novelist?” Mae a
sked, intrigued. “Well, that’s a new one for me. We’ve had engineers and doctors and lawyers aplenty, but I believe you are my first novelist guest. How did you get into that?”

  He took a sip of coffee before explaining. “I was the oldest, so it always fell to me to put my siblings to bed at night. Everybody always wanted bedtime stories, so I started making them up. Turns out I had a bit of a knack for it. I’ve had some lucky breaks since then that let me keep dreaming up stories for a living.”

  Mae tilted her head and looked at him again. Now that he mentioned it, there was a kind of dreamy sheen to his emerald eyes, like he was capable of seeing things that most other people weren’t.

  They went on talking for a while as she learned about his home country and his current project. Sitting at the kitchen table and talking to this nice man made her long for her husband. The two men were different in just about every way they could be. Dominic was a dreamer; Henry was a man of the earth. Dominic was dark-haired and pale-skinned, while Henry had bright blonde hair and a deep tan from all his years on the water. Dominic was an Irishman; Henry was the Nantucket Cowboy. But they were both kind, handsome, and looked at her with a warm, indescribable quality to their gaze.

  She wasn’t sure what it meant, that she thought of Henry when Dominic looked at her. But, for just a moment, her heart ached a little bit less.

  22

  Brent

  The morning sun was stabbing ice picks into Brent’s eyes. Lord have mercy, it was a bright and a hot one today. Wait—today? Sun? Morning? It took his beer-addled brain an embarrassingly long time to put all the pieces together.

  He’d fallen asleep on Jenny Lee out at the Garden of Eden fishing spot. He must have slept the night away. How long had it been since he’d done that? Heck, he hadn’t gotten more than two hours of consecutive restful sleep in the last four months. And now he’d gone and slumbered until maybe an hour after dawn, by the looks of it. Where had that come from?