by Shirley Jump
“Nora, you have been more responsible for that bakery than all of us combined. You’ve given most of your life to that place.” Outside, the storm began to pick up, winds hitting the flagpole next door and making the cable clang. “I think it’s about damned time you took a few days for yourself.”
She’d heard the same lecture from her other sisters, usually on a monthly basis. Nora couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t worked at the bakery, a time when she had thought about nothing but herself. Once she became a mother, thinking of herself first was impossible. Every decision she made, every thought in her head, every free hour on the calendar, circled around the kids. “That’s pretty much what Bridget and Abby said.”
“There, it’s official. You’re outvoted.” Magpie grinned. “So go into town today, and leave the kids here with cool Aunt Magpie. Treat yourself to a big breakfast, a new dress, or just go shopping for shit you don’t need. I don’t care if you curl up in the library with a book. Just get out of here and do something just for Nora. If you come back with a gift for me or anyone else, I’m confiscating it. Got it?”
Nora laughed and shook her head. Magpie knew her well. Chances were good without that warning that Nora would have found some trinket for the kids or a thank-you gift for her sister. “I haven’t done anything like that…”
“Ever. Even when we were kids, you were the most responsible one. Who made sure my shoes were tied and I had lunch money? Who never forgot me at school and even now, when I’m a grown woman, checks to make sure I arrived safely?”
She shrugged. “That’s just being a sister.”
“No, honey, it’s more than that. It’s being everyone’s mom.” Rain pelted the windows, and the darkening clouds cast the house with a dim light. “I agree, Ma could have been more involved, but she was juggling the bakery and raising four kids on her own. But that didn’t mean you had to do it.”
“When Dad was gone, someone had to help her,” Nora said. Bridget had been busy with school, Abby devastated by the loss of their father, and Magpie too little to understand. Nora had stepped in, using the vacuum and the dust rag to avoid her own grief.
Magpie put a hand on Nora’s arm. “I don’t think you’ve had a single moment of your life where you were selfish. Hell, you’ve never even taken a spa day. But you did give all of us one for Christmas last year.”
Nora started to protest, but instead shut her mouth. Her mind reached back, and in her memories she saw herself, on the sidelines, the one who made the dinner or did the dishes or sewed the costume while everyone else lived their lives, went on their adventures. She’d filled in for her sisters’ sick days and vacation days, come in early to do extra prep, stayed late on busy days. In the in-between time, she’d been room mom and served on the PTA, sold the Girl Scout cookies, and hosted the play dates.
She’d done everything for everyone else, telling herself it was because it was easier. And where had it left her? Was it selfish to pretend, at least for today, that she didn’t have a family? To abdicate the breakfast and bath time battles to someone else? She’d have a taste of what it would be like to be on her own, doing things entirely for herself without worry about other people, because she’d gone straight from mothering her sisters to being Ben’s wife.
Magpie dug in her pocket and pulled out a few bills. She pressed them into Nora’s hand. “Now don’t say a word about not taking money from me. You have taken care of me all my life. You’ve put me up in your house when I needed a place to stay, you’ve fed me when I was hungry, and you’ve nursed me through the flu twice. I can’t do any of those things, but I can watch your kids for a day and order you to treat yourself to a pedicure.”
“Mags, I can pay for my own pedicure.” Nora tried to push the money back, but Magpie just put her hands behind her back and shook her head.
“You can, but if I know you, you won’t. You’d use the last dime of your allowance to buy a teddy bear just because you wanted to put a smile on your sister’s face.”
Magpie’s eyes shimmered, and the shared memory flowed between them. Nora remembered finding Mags crying in their room about a month after their father had died, inconsolable because he was going to miss her first day of kindergarten. He’d told his youngest daughter many times that he would be there. He’d take the day off from work and walk his little girl into school, just as he had all the others. Nora had shaken the few bills and change out of her piggy bank, dashed down to O’Donnell’s Sundries, and bought a teddy bear from Mr. O’Donnell. Years later, she was sure the kindly man had charged her far less than the sticker price, but at eight years old, all Nora knew was that the stuffed animal Magpie had noticed a few days earlier was the one thing that would ease her tears. In her first-day-of-school picture—taken by Ma, who had filled in for their late father—Magpie held the dark brown bear to her chest, beaming. “You left that bear outside my door and told me that the fairies had brought it for me from Dad. I carried that little guy everywhere for years.”
Nora shrugged. “You needed it, Mags.”
“And you need this. So go on, get out of here.”
Nora drew her sister into a tight hug. “I hate you for being right.”
Magpie laughed. “That’s a new one, isn’t it? Magpie the wise O’Bannon.” She waved at Nora, ushering her down the hall and into the guest bedroom. “Now shoo. Go get changed into something that makes you feel fabulous and head into town. Take my Miata”—she tossed Nora a set of keys—“and live a little.”
The little red car zipped along the roads, hugging the curves like a lover. The engine hummed when she was cruising and let out a deep, growling roar whenever she sped up. Nora had never driven anything like the Miata, and although it took a few minutes before she was comfortable behind the wheel, the temptation of a mostly empty Route 6 won, and before she knew it, she was pushing the little car well past the speed limit. The rain had stopped, leaving behind only dark, threatening clouds and brisk winds.
Downtown Truro was anchored by the Highland Light, standing tall and proud in its acclaim as Cape Cod’s first ocean beacon. Locals had dubbed it the Cape Cod Lighthouse and gladly recounted its storied history of saving lost travelers and ships caught in storms. In the bedroom where Nora was staying, there was a painting of the same lighthouse, a throwback image to the days when massive wooden ships made the dangerous cross-world journey to bring people and cargo to the fledgling United States.
Truro was the sleepier cousin to bustling Provincetown, just a few miles down the road. Unlike some of the more crowded and tourist-centered towns on the Cape, the few shops in Truro were largely converted saltbox houses, quaint and cozy. The businesses blended in so well that it almost seemed like there weren’t any.
She parked in front of a little deli and headed inside. She inhaled the scent of freshly brewed coffee, mixed with the sweet aromas of muffins and pastries. The deli bustled with business, people filling almost every table, the hum of their conversations creating an undertow to the alternative rock playing on the sound system.
Nora ordered a coffee and tucked herself into a corner table with a forgotten copy of the Cape Cod Times. She skipped past the stories about a hit-and-run crash and another about the dip in tourism dollars, and settled on a lifestyle piece about a couple renewing their vows on a fisherman’s trawler and tried not to feel both envy and a certain amount of you’re crazy for getting married while she read.
“Let me guess. Coffee to offset your vicious single-beer hangover?”
Nora looked up. Will stood before her, wearing a non-paint-spattered pair of jeans that drew her eye along his lean legs and up to his face. She blushed, both at the unexpectedness and the ironic reference by another man to her drinking at parties. If she was the kind of person who believed in signs, she might see one in that comment, so eerily reminiscent of Ben’s twelve years ago. “Will. You surprised me.”
“I seem to have a habit of doing that.” He gestured toward the empty seat across from her. “Ma
y I?”
“Sure.” She folded the paper and set it aside and grabbed her mug, suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands. For a second, she wished she’d taken more care before leaving today. She’d pulled on jeans, a pale pink T-shirt, and a faded blue hoodie that had comfortable but frumpy written all over it.
Will settled into the chair and leaned against the wall so he was half turned toward her. He had on another concert T-shirt—the Stones, in gray today—and she could see red and yellow paint freckling his arms. He took a sip of coffee from a paper mug. “So, what brings you to town on this rainy day?”
“You want the truth?” She leaned forward, lowered her voice. “My sister kicked me out. She said I needed a day on my own, to do whatever I wanted. But…I don’t know if I should.”
“And what’s so wrong with that?”
She glanced out the window, at the gray day and the bustle of traffic going by. People hurrying to destinations, to people they loved, things they had to do. “I haven’t had a day to myself in so long, I don’t know what I want. I thought I’d just sit here, read the paper, then go home.”
“That would be one sad, sad day off, and absolutely not the way anyone should spend their time on the Cape. Ever.” He got to his feet and put out his hand. “Come on, let me show you Truro the way I see it.”
She cocked her head and studied him but didn’t take his hand. “The way you see it?”
“Through an artist’s eyes. It’s a beautiful place, if you know where to look.” He lowered his hand to his side but kept talking, without any hint of disappointment or annoyance that she’d ignored his offer. “First stop, the art gallery, to see everyone else’s impressions of the town.”
A dangerous and unpredictable woman would go. She would see the adventure and leap on it with both feet. But Nora O’Bannon didn’t do unpredictable. Didn’t do adventures. “I probably shouldn’t…”
“It’s not a date, if that’s what you’re worried about. Think of me as part of the tourism board.”
“Just doing a community service?”
“That’s it, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat her way and extended his arm toward the door. She looked at the café table, the newspaper, the coffee, all those predictable, boring, sad remnants of her day off, and then again at the door and the possibilities that lay beyond it. “Come on, Nora the Neighbor. Let’s explore this town and find out exactly what you want.”
Find out exactly what she wanted. Somehow, it seemed a few hours strolling around a beach town with a handsome stranger was only going to muddy the waters.
NINE
Will knew the town of Truro like he’d been born with the map in his head. As they walked, he gave her a history lesson, one far more interesting than any she’d had in that hot second-floor classroom at St. Gregory’s. The cozy town traced its roots as far back as the rest of the coastal Massachusetts towns. “Not many people know this,” Will said, “but the Pilgrims landed here first, in November of 1620.”
“Really? Is there some famous disappointing rock they stepped on too?” She’d gone on a field trip to Plymouth Rock in the third grade, thinking the landmark would be some giant boulder, a mini-mountain the Pilgrims saw from the sea. It turned out to be an oversized stepping stone that looked like the hundreds of others around it on Plymouth Bay.
Will chuckled. “No. But there was fresh water, which the Pilgrims desperately needed after all that time at sea. They sent out an exploratory group, which found a spring and acres of corn, and they started to think, hey, this might be a great place to live. Except the Pamet Indians already lived here, and they weren’t looking for new neighbors. There was a fight, and the Pilgrims decided it would be best to retreat. So they got back on the Mayflower, sailed straight across Cape Cod Bay, and ended up in Plymouth.”
“I never knew that, and I’ve lived in Massachusetts all my life.”
Will shrugged. “Probably because it’s not good for tourism to say ‘Hey, this is the place where the Indians told those invading Pilgrims to take a hike.’ We all like that happy ending, even if the truth is smudged a bit in the process.”
She kicked at a stone in her path. It skittered to the edge of the sidewalk and disappeared down a storm drain. “Or repainted to look happier than it really is.”
Will shot her a glance but didn’t say anything. Instead, he led her across the street and down a narrow avenue. On the right sat a bright yellow Cape Cod house that had been converted into an art gallery. Dozens of rainbow-colored wind chimes hung from the roof of the porch, partnering with the breeze to sing a soft musical greeting. Metal sculptures peppered the front yard, lined the edges of the driveway, and marched across the roof of the detached one-car garage.
Inside, the house had been opened up, walls removed, ceilings lifted to create an airy, bright space for paintings and sculptures. Will and Nora wandered the space, looking at a hundred different variations of beach scenes—impressionist, modern, abstract, neon, pastel, watercolor, acrylic. He told her about the artists, most of whom he knew. Which one was a closet drinker; which one had an iguana he took everywhere, claiming it was a service animal; which one had once been featured at the MFA and had a breakdown from the pressure of such fame. “There’s a story behind every single one of these paintings.”
“Like the cakes we bake.” Nora’s favorite part about the business—hearing why the customer wanted the cake and what event it would celebrate. They had the regular run-of-the-mill birthday and retirement cakes, but every once in a while, Nora received a memorable order. On those days, she put a little extra effort into the work, as if her heart were part of the filling. “There’s the nightmare bride who micromanages every detail, and then there’s the baby shower for the couple who tried to have a child for ten years. And the get-well cake for the toddler who beat leukemia or the thank-you cake for the woman who donated thousands of dollars to a scholarship fund for underprivileged kids. Sometimes, it’s more fun to take the order and hear the story behind the dessert. Then, when I’m decorating, I feel like that emotion comes through in the design. Or at least, I’d like to think it does.”
“I’m sure it does. What we feel in here”—his hand hovered over her heart and her breath caught—“is always translated into here.” He drifted his fingers over her hand, a flutter of a touch, but it cracked the strong hold she had on her composure.
She hadn’t been touched by a man other than Ben in more than a decade. Part of her wanted to flinch away—this is wrong; what about Ben?—but another part of her was flattered. Curious. Even though Will had said this wasn’t a date, it sure felt like one. The undercurrent of attraction, the flirty glances and words, the way he brushed against her every once in a while. She liked him—a lot—and wondered for a second what it would be like to live here, in this quaint artists’ town with a man who added color to his world.
Instead, she turned and pointed to a painting of a school of fish and asked some inane question about how the artist got the paint to look so shiny. All the while, her heart was beating like a jackhammer, and her mind was swirling with questions.
What was she doing here? Where did she think this was going to go?
Nora was the one who followed the straight-and-narrow path. She’d never broken curfew, never failed a test, never snuck out to sleep with a boy. She’d done everything that had been expected of her, everything the church and Ma dictated, staying true to her family, her children, her husband.
And where had that gotten her? Homeless, almost penniless, and soon to be divorced. She’d done all the right things ninety-nine percent of her life and ended up with the wrong result. There were days when she wondered if this was the price God was making her pay for that winter morning when she’d exploded at Ben. One day, when she had lost control and everything fell apart.
Was that what she was doing now? Losing control of herself, her priorities? Or was it just a simple moment of enjoying some attention from a handsome man? If there was a ranking of sins,
basking in a little flattery had to be far less bad than kicking her husband out of the house in the middle of January.
Her phone buzzed. “Excuse me,” she said to Will. The call gave her an excuse to avoid those thoughts. Bridget’s face filled the screen, a happy image of her sister captured on a sunny fall day last year. In the last year and a half, Bridget’s old vivacious spirit had returned with every step she took in her new life. The smile in her photos now looked larger, realer than the one in the years before her husband died.
“Hey, sis, just checking to see how the vacation is going,” Bridget said.
“Great. The kids are having a blast.” Well, Jake was. The jury on the vacation was still out in Sarah’s mind.
“And you? I hope you’re relaxing.”
Relaxing? No. The stress still hung on her shoulders, and now it was compounded by a strange blend of guilt and anticipation. “How are things at the bakery?” Nora asked.
Bridget laughed. “I hear you trying to change the subject. Don’t worry about how things are here. Just worry about how things are there. Did you get to do some sightseeing? Shopping?”
“That’s what I’m doing right now.” Nora forced a bright tone into her voice, slipping back into the place where she felt most comfortable, smack dab between Denial and Deception. “It’s been storming off and on here today, so it’s a good day to spend inside the shops. The tourists are mostly gone, and it’s quiet and peaceful in Truro.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it. That Iris girl, by the way, is working out really well. She picks up quick and seems to really love working here. She’s quiet and keeps to herself, but I think she’s really liking the job.”
“That’s great.” Nora listened as Bridget went on about the bakery, and then Ma and an update on her complaint of the week—something about the cookies being too small, and then finally segueing into news about Garrett, the man Bridget was dating. But Nora’s mind lingered elsewhere, in the shadows of the life she was avoiding. The texts and calls from Ben she hadn’t answered. The massive problem of where she and the kids were going to live. Bridget had sold her big house and moved into a cozy rental cottage, so that was out. Ma had enough room, but living with her mother would make Nora homicidal within a week. Abby and Magpie both lived in one-bedroom apartments, too small for three extra residents. Which left finding a rental and a miracle check that would give her first, last, and security. Not to mention enough to pay all the other bills.