It hurt, but in a strange way, she thought maybe she should be grateful that Bash was making an effort to secure the girls’ loyalty. Ana had watched her friends fight tooth and nail for child support, to try to prove to their exes that they couldn’t just walk away from their children.
Even if Bash didn’t live up to the promises he was making the girls, they had trust funds provided by their grandfather. The elder Mr. Villiers had been surprisingly accepting of his son marrying “so far beneath him” as Ana’s mother-in-law put it. Her father-in-law had been glad of the “good old Midwestern salt of the Earth stock” mixing with his gene pool, even if Ana had found the condescension mildly insulting. He’d given both girls education funds, plus trust funds large enough to support them comfortably for several lifetimes.
The girls’ defection hurt. Ana couldn’t deny that. She’d thought she had a close relationship with her kids. She certainly devoted more time to them than her peers had to their children. She thought that meant something. She thought her daughters were strong enough, smart enough, that they couldn’t be bought. Yes, they’d had a cook and housekeeper, nannies and special tutors, dance instructors, dressage instructors, fencing instructors—but she’d been the one shuttling them back and forth to those lessons, attending the plays, the doctors’ appointments, the parent-teacher conferences. She was the one who put them to bed every night.
When her schedule allowed.
But that hadn’t meant much to the girls, apparently. Like so many, they followed the money. She supposed she couldn’t blame them. She was terrified of being penniless, but for her, it was simply a return to the state she’d known as a girl. Her daughters had only known privilege and protection. How could she expect them to give up all that they’d known, out of loyalty to her?
Anastasia would be the first to admit that she’d lost a bit of her identity once the girls started high school. In her twenties, she’d devoted herself to becoming Mrs. Sebastian Villiers, socialite and philanthropist. In her thirties, she was mother to two future debutantes, molding and preparing them for the most cutthroat educational and social circles in the world. But then they’d made it more than clear that they were ready for those circles on their own…she didn’t know what to do with herself. Now in her…late thirties, her brief stint as a fringe “friend” on the True Housewives of Manhattan lead to some name recognition and D-list celebrity, which she’d been trying to translate into her own haircare line, her own line of household furniture, and a discount fashion label when the bottom dropped out of her world.
She supposed that was all over now. No one wanted to have hair like an acknowledged train wreck, no matter how shiny and bouncy it may be. The same went for clothes and cheap, easy-to-assemble furnishings. Of all the things that were no longer hers, that bothered her the least. She’d never really been passionate about those projects. It just seemed like that’s what you did when people recognized your name: you turned it into a brand. It was one of the few things about her that Bash had seemed interested in, in the last couple of years, capitalizing on her notoriety, building “their empire,” as if decades of indecent success under his father’s leadership wasn’t enough.
The boat bucked violently as it swerved broadside towards the dock. Ana’s stomach roiled and she gripped the seat in front of her to steady herself. It had been far too long since she’d been on a proper boat, without white-uniformed waitstaff and cocktails on hand. She tried not to think of how her father would react to a Gustavsson having seasickness on the fucking ferry.
Outside, she could hear the clang of iron and men’s gruff voices as the dockhands tied off the ropes. Ana stood on wobbly legs, slinging her duffle over her shoulder. She almost buckled under its weight, smacking her hip against the hard plastic bench. It had been a long time since she’d carried anything so heavy for herself. Adjusting the cap low over her wide blue eyes, she followed the commuters shuffling out of the main cabin and into the howling wind.
“It’s fucking March,” she grumbled, pulling the collar of her jacket around her chin. She’d grabbed the Prada trench as an after-thought, just as the jack-booted federal thugs forced her out of her home of fifteen years. The lightweight wool was designed for casually strolling down an urban sidewalk while window-shopping for pretties, not braving the breath of an icy northern god who was none too happy to see her return.
Her last-season booties were super cute, but they were not made to navigate the slick patches of ice on the concrete dock. In the distance, through the fading twilight, she could see a semi-sort-of familiar face in Dougie Jergenson under a red plaid Stormy Kromer cap. That face was a little doughier than the last time she’d seen him, but he’d used the same goofy “howdy neighbor” wave since high school. There was a strange sort of assurance in that. He’d been her class president and a Future Business Leader of America, determined not to leave the island, to “make his home a better place.” Ana had scoffed at the time, but now she couldn’t help but envy him. If he failed on Espoir Island, he wouldn’t fall that far.
Short, with his mother’s stocky build and warm brown eyes, Dougie ran a second-rate property management company on the island. Not second-rate because he did a bad job, but because he literally managed second-rate properties. There weren’t that many first-rate homes on Espoir.
“Well, Ana Gustavsson, look at ya! Haven’t changed a bit!” he crowed over the wind, reaching for her bag.
She smiled, grateful to hand off her burden, even as she glanced around to see if anyone heard him call her name. “I’d like to think that’s not true.”
He reached out with his free arm as if he was going to hug her, and then reconsidered. He went for a more professional handshake, even while he frowned at her ungloved hands. And she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. She’d known (and been quietly annoyed by) Dougie since kindergarten. The fact that he felt the need to distance himself with a handshake didn’t speak well of how she might be received on the island. Not that she was looking for a warm homecoming, but clashing with her former neighbors wasn’t going to get her off of the island any faster.
Behind him, Anastasia could see an early model Ford SUV parked behind him on Main Street, a battered magnetic sign reading, “Jergenson and Sons Property Management.” Inside, in the passenger seat, another familiar face was practically pressed against the window in eager anticipation.
Dougie followed her eyeline to his wife, who was peering through the glass at Anastasia like she was some sort of zoo specimen. He frowned again, at her unabashedly eager expression. “You remember my Bonnie.”
Dougie and Bonnie had dated since their freshman year, and he called her “my Bonnie” even then. Dougie was a sucker for a good folk song-based pun. Anastasia chose not to mention “remembering” Bonnie because she’d been an absolute cow for the entirety of their childhood. How Bonnie had ended up with a lovable goof like Dougie was a mystery for the ages, one Anastasia just didn’t have the mental energy to contemplate.
“Of course.” She offered Bonnie the barest of smiles through the glass.
“When she heard ya were coming back to the island, she just had to come see ya for herself. She watched all of your episodes on the TV, ya know?” Dougie glanced over his shoulder at Bonnie and cleared his throat, as if he’d suddenly remembered the connection between her “fame” and what had brought her back to Espoir. “Um, how ya holding up there? With your husband and all?”
“I’d really like to just get to the house and settle in, Dougie, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, of course!” he boomed, opening the back passenger door and rounding the SUV to put her bag in the back. Bonnie, who wore a thick knit cap over a severe, heavily blonde-streaked bob, didn’t turn to look at her. Because that made sense.
“Bonnie.”
“Ana, nice to see ya,” she said in a tone that was at odds with the fervent expression on her face just a minute ago. Anastasia just shook her head and cupped her hands over the heating vent. Do
ugie slid into the driver’s seat and thoughtfully turned the heater on full blast.
“We figured you wouldn’t have time to shop for groceries tonight, so we brought ya some pasties from mom’s shop.” Dougie jerked a thumb towards the small Coleman cooler in the seat next to her. Anastasia gasped, removing the lid and letting the sausage and onion-scented steam envelope her. She groaned at the sight of the foiled wrapped packets and felt her mouth water as Dougie pulled onto Main Street without even looking for traffic…because there wasn’t any. “Ma labeled them, ‘breakfast, lunch, dinner, and all.’”
Dougie’s mom, Cheryl, owned the Espoir Island Pasty Shop, the oldest (and only) “pasties-serie” on the island. Pasties, a sort of Cornish-slash-Finnish hand pie that sustained miners during their long subterranean workdays, were a staple of her childhood and a cornerstone of the Espoir diet. Cheryl had tweaked the recipes out of the traditional meat-and-rutabaga range over years, creating breakfast egg and sausage pies, portable chicken pot pies, and even chili pies during the college football season. Whenever Anastasia’s mother didn’t feel up to cooking, her family would pile into the cozy café and enjoy Cheryl’s hospitality and “gravy on tap.”
She didn’t even want to think of what her nutritionist would say about the dense golden pasties, literally made with lard. But then her stomach rumbled and she remembered she hadn’t had anything to eat since an obscenely expensive fruit cup she grabbed while running through LaGuardia that morning.
“Thank you, Dougie.” She closed the lid and watched as the familiar, weathered buildings of Main Street passed. Everything seemed smaller, and she wasn’t sure if that was the classic “you can’t go home again” response or because she lived in one of the biggest cities in the world. Everywhere she looked, she saw that the town was trying so hard to appeal to visitors, but everything was just…off. Instead of quaint historical light posts, the utility department installed sturdy steel posts that could withstand the lake winds. The freshly painted signs were the same weird combinations of brown and yellow and orange, something that might have been stylish when she was a very young kid, but now, just looked dingy and dated. Posters screaming “Explore the Espoir Island Museum of Weathervanes!” and “Enjoy authentic Senate bean soup at the Seacliff Inn!” hung from every available surface…but who the hell wanted to travel to the middle of nowhere for obsolete meteorological devices and bland bean soup?
She closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the seat rest. Nope. Espoir was pretty much the same.
While Dougie was sure to point out all of the other things about the island that hadn’t changed—the tiny K-12 school, the movie theater that only showed John Wayne movies because that’s what the owner liked, the three fudge shops—Bonnie was silent. They passed the museum, housed in the what was essentially a circa 1800 military fortress, where multiple battles were fought (and lost in spectacular fashion.) On Francis Street, their destination came into view, a graying Queen Anne built in 1873 called Fishscale House, named because of the oval patterned wood shingle siding. While the multiple gables in the roof looked brand new, the rest of the house was shabby and faded. The windows, also new, were as clear and blank as doll’s eyes, despondently staring down from the hill on Francis Street.
Once upon a time, when Bash had cared a lot more about Anastasia being happy, he’d surprised her by buying this place sight unseen, promising her that they’d make it their special hideaway for holidays and visits to her family. She’d told him about Fishscale House when they were dating, how it was her childhood dream house with its strange onion-shaped tower turret, topped by a bronze trout weather-vane. And while she’d been touched that he’d listened to her, new connections to Espoir was the last thing she’d wanted. She didn’t want to lord her new status over her former neighbors. She didn’t want Bash to see how she’d grown up when she’d worked so hard to change so much about herself. She just wanted to stay far away. And then her parents had died and she’d managed to convince him that visiting the island was too painful of a reminder.
Stung by her rejection of his grand gesture, Bash lost enthusiasm for the project, which wasn’t unusual for him, and the house sat unused for years. As it was one of the only assets Sebastian put in her name, this was the only place she had left to retreat to—the Miss Havisham of houses.
Dougie parked in the circular pea gravel drive while she stared up at the house through the car window. She took a deep breath before reaching for the door handle.
“Bonnie, honey, we’ll just be a few minutes,” Dougie said, leaving the car running as he stepped out. “I’ll leave ya snug as a bug in a rug.”
As Ana slid out of the car, Bonnie turned around and blurted out, “What’s Chantrelle like in person?”
Ana’s chin retreated as she leaned away from the verbal outburst. “Um…just like she appears on TV? High-maintenance? Emotionally volatile? Refuses to go anywhere without an herbalist in tow? Swears by feng shui and organic foods, and then swills vodka like it’s water?”
Bonnie’s lips quirked up and her dark eyes narrowed. “I knew it. Welcome back, flatlander.”
Ana chuckled as she shut the car door. Dougie had a heavily loaded key ring in his hand, searching for the right set. “Are you sure ya don’t want to go to the hotel for the night? It’s kind of rough conditions in there. Not at all what you’re usedta.”
“Thanks, but I’m set on staying here,” she said, and he reluctantly put the key into the enormous gray door.
“I came in and turned up the thermostat for ya earlier, to warm it up. And the cleaners did the best they could, but it’s been more than ten years since the house was occupied. The dust has been pretty stubborn,” he said, clicking the light switch closest to the door. A damaged crystal chandelier overhead blinked to life, casting a yellowed glow over grubby plaster walls and a winding oak staircase whose missing spindles gave the impression of a hockey player’s teeth. Off to the left, the empty parlor was dominated by a massive brick fireplace. The kitchen, visible through the foyer, housed a multitude of harvest gold appliances. That seemed…wrong.
Dougie pointed out a big Rubbermaid tub in front of the fireplace. “I put some dishes in there, bedding, towels. I nicked it from the freebies our owners leave out for renters. Nobody will miss it, before the season starts up. The master bed is built into the wall, so you’ve got that going for you, but you’re going to want to replace the mattress before too long.”
“Oh, Dougie, I couldn’t accept all that,” she protested, her stomach dropping unpleasantly. She hadn’t even thought of basics like towels and dishes. She’d had people to deal with those little details for years. How was she going to get through this if she couldn’t remember that linens and dishware were things that were necessary to life?
He waved her off. “It’s just a few things to keep ya going until ya have a chance to get your parents stuff out of storage, or go to the store. You can drop the tub off by my office as soon as you’re done.”
She nodded, biting her bottom lip. It pricked at her considerable pride, having to accept charity for basic creature comforts, while Bash and his mistress were probably attended, at this very moment, by a household staff of twenty. That dinged pride warred with her being genuinely touched by the gesture. She said quietly, “This is just more than I could hope for. Thank you, so much.”
He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We’re happy you’re back Ana, even if it’s been rough on ya. How long ya planning on staying?”
“Not long,” she said. “Honestly, Dougie, I’m not here to settle long term. This house is basically my only asset right now. What do you think I could get if I were to sell this place?”
Dougie, who also happened to be the island’s only real estate agent, pursed his lips. “With the right buyer, ya might be able to get a couple hundred thousand dollars. Maybe even four, which would be a minor miracle and you would have to do a lot of work on the house. No promises, mind. Ya should try to get it on the market befo
re the summer, when people are in love with the idea of having a vacation home in the middle of nowhere, particularly a house with a proper name.”
She snorted. “How quickly do you think you could sell it?”
“Well, ya have to understand. There are a lot of places on the island that have been on the market for a good while, and they don’t have the…optical issues that your house has.”
Ana giggled. “That was very diplomatic of you, Dougie.”
He jerked his broad shoulders. “Real estate is a personality-based business. I just want ya to know, Ana, I did send your husband’s accountants regular recommendations on what needed to be done with the house. He only replaced the roof and shored up the foundation when he first bought it because I convinced him that the place would fall down without it. That, and replacing the furnace, was about all he did.”
“I know you tried, Dougie,” she assured him.
“Unless ya want to accept a bottom-dollar, fixer upper price, which I don’t think ya do, you’re looking at a full renovation. Floors, windows, replace the bathrooms and the kitchen, some of the drywall. Ya could do it cheap, but not if ya want to sell for the kind of money that I think you’re looking for. And if ya want to keep the historical feel of the house, you’re going to need someone who knows how to handle restoration work.”
“Any idea who around here would be qualified for that kind of work?” she asked. “Who might be willing to exchange services for an insanely low price? Like he might be willing to take any unspoken for and unnecessary organs I have laying around?”
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