No Secret Like Nantucket (A Sweet Island Inn Book 5)

by Grace Palmer

  Mae turned to Brent, surprised. “Where did you learn that?”

  “School of hard knocks.” His mouth turned up in a sad smirk. “I wasn’t exactly thinking about what was best for the family when I buried my grief in a bottle and ended up in jail after Dad died.”

  Mae shook her head. “What you went through was hard, honey. It’s understandable.”

  “Just like your situation is understandable, too.” He leaned back and looked in Mae’s eyes, raising his brows as he spoke the next words. “I won’t say I wasn’t upset this last week. I won’t say I’m glad you never told us about Christopher. But I can tell you, without a single doubt, that I get it. I understand.”

  Guilt had been Mae’s companion for so long. Nearly thirty-seven years.

  Her thoughts of Christopher—of that time in her life—had been tinted with guilt. With regrets. With the desire to talk about her first child, but the knowledge that she couldn’t without admitting to her other children that she’d lied, concealed, repressed.

  For years, she and Henry would sit together on Christopher’s birthday and remember him.

  But then Henry was gone, too.

  Knowing Christopher’s memory would die with Mae had been gnawing at the back of her mind. And the realization that someone knew—that Brent knew… It meant everything.

  The emotions Mae had worked so hard to keep under control welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Brent pulled her close and patted her arm. “Don’t cry, Mom. Everything is okay.”

  The sun was gone now. The sky was dark and velvety, stars beginning to dot the sky above the ocean.

  Mae leaned into her son, her sunshine boy, and nodded. “Say it again,” she requested.

  He laughed. “Everything is okay.”

  19

  Brent

  114 Howard Street

  The house on Howard Street was quiet when Brent walked back up the driveway.

  The gauzy white curtains on the first floor were drawn, all the windows dark except for the picture window that looked out onto the porch. Rose kept one lamp on at the base of the stairs so she wouldn’t break her neck in the night going to the kitchen for a drink.

  If it were a weekday, Brent would go inside and grab her car keys from the ceramic bowl just inside the door. He’d spent a few minutes rearranging the vehicles to make sure Rose could get out in the morning for work.

  But tomorrow was Saturday. Susanna would still wake them all at the dark side of dawn, but instead of dressing in day clothes and rushing out the door, they would lounge in pajamas and eat banana pancakes.

  Since his mom was staying with them, they’d probably be treated to homemade browned butter syrup, too, if she was feeling up to it.

  “Thanks for walking me home,” Mae said, reaching out in the darkness to rub Brent’s shoulder. She chuckled. “Or, to your home, I suppose. Either way, thank you.”

  “Of course. Thanks for going with me. For talking.”

  Silence had hung like a curtain between them on the way to and on the way from the beach. But for different reasons each time.

  On the way there, it was the nerves that kept him quiet. As they returned home, he was struggling to sit with the discomfort of the truth. Like shedding a layer of clothing on a cold day, Brent’s body just needed time to adjust.

  When Brent was ten, Grandpa Benson died. It was expected. A natural death at the end of a long life. Still, his father had comforted him, hugging Brent to his side while he’d processed the first major loss he’d ever had.

  It wasn’t until later, when Brent was walking down the hallway to the bathroom and peeked his head through the crack in his parent’s bedroom door, that he saw his dad sitting on the edge of his bed.

  Stooped over, face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

  It was like looking at that old optical illusion, only ever able to see the two faces eye to eye—and then suddenly, the lamp appears in the negative space between them.

  The man crying on the foot of the bed didn’t even look like his dad.

  His dad was the man who scooped up snakes with the shovel and flung them into the drainage ditch behind the house. The man who would pull the collar of his shirt over his head and bump around the house, pretending to be headless until Brent and Sara laughed so hard they couldn’t breathe.

  But the man slouched over and sobbing on the edge of his bed was Brent’s dad, too.

  That was a lightbulb moment for Brent. The realization that his parents were human beings. Complex people with thoughts and feelings that ranged beyond making him dinner and driving him to school.

  Now, at twenty-four, Brent was being reminded of that lesson. Maybe it was a lesson he’d never be done learning.

  Maybe no parent was ever fully understandable to their child.

  Mae slipped her shoes off just inside the door and lined them up on the floor, the toes pressed against the wide trim on wall. The same place she’d always left her shoes when he was growing up.

  When she turned around, her head tilted to the side and her smile was distant. She reached out her hand and cupped his stubbly cheek. “You’re a man now, but you’re still my sunshine boy, you know?”

  Brent was well past the age for embarrassing childhood nicknames. But he wasn’t going to tell his mom that. Not tonight.

  “Goodnight, Mom. Love you.”

  “I love you, too.” She patted his cheek one more time and headed up the stairs, taking them a bit more slowly than she once did.

  Brent waited until he heard the door to her room close. Then he walked through the house to the workshop.

  Over the last week, he’d only pulled the mobile from the top shelf twice. Bringing it down just long enough to remind himself it was real. That it existed.

  Now, the mobile was sitting out in the open on the work bench. Exactly where he’d placed it after his mother had walked in and caught him holding it.

  Before she’d opened the door to the workshop, Brent was busy trying to gather the courage to bring the topic up on his own. He’d been debating whether he should pull his mom aside and discuss it seriously, privately. Or whether he should mention the mobile casually, tossing it out in normal conversation as if he didn’t have a clue what it meant or where it had come from.

  Then he’d turned around and seen her watching him. The moment her eyes dropped to the mobile, the color in her face had leeched away.

  And Brent knew there would be no casual way to discuss this.

  Better to get out of the house for a conversation like that, though. A walk on the beach. Everyone in Nantucket knew the ocean was good at keeping secrets.

  So they’d slipped out together. Neither said a word.

  Mae had picked her way through the sand, leather sandals dangling from her fingertips. Brent had trailed behind and wondered what ought to be the first thing he said.

  In the end, it didn’t take much to rip the bandage free.

  I erased Christopher from our lives, and I felt guilty. I still feel guilty.

  Brent’s role in the Benson clan had always been clear. He was there to lighten the mood. To make his family laugh. To ease the tension.

  So when relaying the story of Christopher’s tragic birth brought his mom to tears, Brent did what he’d always done.

  And now, he would keep her secret.

  Brent gently picked up the mobile from where it sat on the work bench and slid it back into the dusty trash bag his father had wrapped it in almost four decades earlier.

  Like Henry, Brent couldn’t throw the piece out. Instead, he would set it aside in a quiet corner. Out of sight, but not forgotten.

  Upstairs, Rose and Susanna were cuddled together in “the big bed,” as Susanna called it.

  Susanna wore her favorite pink nightgown with neon yellow hearts printed on it. She had her head tucked against her mom’s chest, dark curls wild and hanging in her face.

  Rose held a finger to her lips and pointed wordlessly at Susanna. “Asleep,” she mouthed.
Her eyes widened dramatically. “Finally.”

  Brent carefully slid his arms under Susanna, tucking her head in the crook of his elbow and letting her legs dangle as he scooped her up.

  When he laid her in her own twin-sized bed down the hall, her eyes flicked open for a minute. “Is it night-night time?”

  “Yes, it’s night-night time,” Brent whispered, pulling her purple quilt under her chin.

  “I waited,” she said. “I wanted a goodnight kiss.”

  “I always come kiss you goodnight when I get home late. Even when you’re already asleep.”

  She frowned. “You do?”

  “Of course.”

  She blinked up at him, a realization washing over her until she smiled sleepily and closed her eyes.

  “Goodnight,” Brent said softly.

  Susanna didn’t say anything back. She was already asleep.

  Rose didn’t ask any questions when Brent and Mae had left for their walk. She’d known something had been brewing the last week, but she never pressed Brent to share.

  She still didn’t press as he walked back into their bedroom and swapped his sandy jeans for a pair of cotton pajama pants and a gray tank top.

  He loved that about her.

  Rose knew when to push him. Occasionally, she pressed the “feelings stick” she used with her kindergarteners into his hands. Brent always acted offended, but she knew what she was doing in those moments.

  “You doing okay?” she asked when he climbed into bed. She reached over and curled her long fingers against his palm.

  “I’m okay.” The words came out on default, ringing false even to his own ears. He sighed. “I have a lot on my mind, but I’m okay.”

  She laid her phone down on the bedside table face down. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Did he? Brent didn’t know.

  A week ago, he’d been itching to tell someone about the mobile. If Eliza hadn’t called and dropped the bombshell that she’d had Summer early, Brent would have told his siblings at the party. He was grateful he didn’t do that now.

  Part of it had come from a desire to not be the only person carrying this secret. Now, though, he realized it had never been his secret to carry.

  Christopher’s life and death belonged to Mae. They had for decades. Brent was simply sharing some of the weight.

  “I want to be honest with you, but I’m not sure I can talk about it,” he explained. “It doesn’t feel like my story to share, if that makes sense.”

  Rose considered it for a minute, her full lips pursing in thought. Finally, she nodded. “Being honest doesn’t mean sharing everything.”

  Brent frowned, working through that one.

  Rose continued. “Everyone has secrets. I can know you without knowing every single piece of the world in your head.”

  He leaned back against the tufted headboard, his hands folded in his lap as he thought about it.

  He knew his mother in every way that counted. He knew the weight of her love. She was honest with that. What other honesty mattered?

  Brent peeked over at Rose, his mouth tipped up in a smirk. “You’re smart. Did you know that?”

  She lifted her chin with pride. “Duh. ‘Bout time you noticed.”

  Chuckling, he leaned across the bed and took up the spot where Susanna had been curled just a few minutes earlier to lay his head across Rose’s chest.

  She curled her fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp, and he closed his eyes, content.

  He didn’t know every thought in her head, just as she didn’t know every thought in his. But he knew he loved her more than anything. He knew his love was honest.

  No other honesty mattered.

  20

  Holly

  The Goodwin Residence

  Holly was dabbing a third damp paper towel under Grady’s nose, trying to staunch the bleeding, when Alice clamored through the back door. It slammed closed behind her.

  “Mom, you said you’d be right back!”

  “I’m a little busy,” Holly said, lacking the bandwidth to come up with a lie to get rid of Alice before she saw her brother all bloody.

  “I found a caterpillar, but it’s climbing up the tree. I can’t reach.” Alice jerked to a stop at the end of the countertop, eyes wide. “Did you hit him?”

  “No, I didn’t hit him!” Holly snorted. She had never hit her children. She’d been spanked growing up, but she and Pete had decided against it for their own kids. Why would Alice even think that?

  “Who did?”

  “Someone else,” Holly answered. “Someone from camp.”

  Truthfully, Holly didn’t know. Pete had been trying to get the whole story out of Grady for the last ten minutes, but it was coming out in bits and pieces. And half-truths, Holly suspected.

  “We can’t help until you tell us who did this,” Pete sighed.

  Rob had grown bored with the spectacle after a few minutes and retreated to the couch, but he chose that opportunity to speak up. “Snitches get stitches.”

  “Nature camp is not the same as a prison yard,” Holly murmured, dabbing at Grady’s nose a little too hard. He winced. “Sorry, baby. I think it’s mostly done bleeding, but hold this in place for a few more minutes.”

  Holly stood back. The sight of her son sitting on the counter with his legs dangling over the edge was both familiar and strange. She’d whisked him to the counter next to the sink plenty of times to take care of scraped knees and elbows, back when he was small enough to be whisked.

  Except back then, his feet barely cleared the edge of the counter. Now, they hung halfway down the cabinet fronts below.

  Plus, his bloody nose and muddy shirt weren’t from a clumsy fall. Her son had been in a fight. A real fight.

  And based on the way he pressed his lips together and looked towards the wall, Holly didn’t think he was keen on talking about it.

  “Take off your shirt. I’ll throw it in the wash.” She snapped her fingers at Grady. “While I do that, you can tell your dad who hit you and why. And be honest. We can’t send you to a camp where you aren’t safe, and—”

  Pete laid a hand on Holly’s shoulder. “Hon, I’ll take care of the shirt and the conversation and… everything. You can go.”

  “Go where?” Holly asked, gesturing around the house as if that was answer enough. “Look at what’s happening around here. I can’t leave.”

  “You have to help me catch the caterpillar,” Alice whined, stamping her foot. “He’s probably at the top of the tree by now. I’m going to miss him.”

  Suddenly, Rob slammed his computer shut and lurched off the couch. “I could use some fresh air. I’ll catch the caterpillar.”

  Apparently, he wasn’t as oblivious to everything around him as Holly had thought.

  “There you go. Rob can catch the caterpillar,” Pete said, raising his brows at Holly as though this solved all of their problems. “You can leave. Go get a coffee. Or,” he furrowed his brow, “go shopping. I don’t know.”

  Holly knew Pete didn’t mean anything by the shopping comment. He just couldn’t think of anything else Holly might leave the house to do.

  And she couldn’t blame him.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done something for herself. And as much as she wanted to stay and fix all this madness going on at home, she could feel the walls closing in on her. She needed a change of scenery.

  Which is how Holly found herself, fifteen minutes later, sitting on Shelly Frank’s front porch swing with a glass of sun tea in her hand.

  She hadn’t been aiming to go there. She’d just wandered out of the house and Shelly happened to flag her down from across the street. Maybe she sensed Holly’s desperation radiating off her like nuclear fallout, or maybe Holly just had a look in her face that said, Please somebody save me.

  Thus, the tea and the swing and Shelly’s warm hand on Holly’s forearm.

  “I’m so glad you stopped by,” Shelly crooned for the second time.
“It has been ages since I’ve sat down and enjoyed this front porch. After all the hours I spend out here gardening and decorating, I don’t have time to enjoy it. Isn’t that about how it goes?”

  “That is absolutely how it goes,” Holly agreed—even though her own lawn had been neglected for the better part of a year.

  Shelly’s front lawn was fit for a Home & Garden magazine cover. Rather than mulch, she used a ground cover that sprouted a spray of small violet flowers. Dotting the length of her white brick home were topiary bushes perfectly manicured into spheres. And behind those, leaning against the side of the house, were wrought-iron trellises dripping with ivy and lovely white dangling flowers Holly.

  It was the kind of garden you could have when you didn’t have children getting in fistfights and ex-convict uncles sleeping on your couch.

  Cousin! Rob was Pete’s cousin. Nobody’s uncle. The kids were rubbing off on Holly.

  Shelly leaned in, voice low and a wicked smile on her face. “Ronny keeps teasing that I should call Mike up for help on the lawn. He says it would save me time and Mike takes such good care of his.”

  “The weed whacker,” Holly hissed, hiding her laughter in her tea. “He wields that thing like a sword.”

  “Yes, like it’s a sword,” Shelly agreed with a cackle, “and everything with leaves is a dragon.”

  “I’ve never seen someone get so much use out of one lawn tool in all my life.”

  “Don’t judge me,” Shelly said. “But I sit in my dining room window and watch him do his yardwork. It’s fascinating.”

  “No judgement. It’s very entertaining.” Holly had spent more than a few Saturdays peeking through her bedroom blinds at their neighbor, Mike, who had a bit of a reputation for getting a little cavalier with the weed whacker. “He has to duck and dodge all of those flying twigs and leaves.”

  Holly knew it wasn’t nice to gossip about him. Especially since Mike smoked meat he got from his cousin’s butcher shop in New Bedford once every few months and always made sure to bring Pete a large cut of it.