by Susan Wiggs
When you were in high school and having a baby, that was pretty much all you could expect—for it to be difficult and painful.
“How did you know, Ma?” Nina couldn’t help herself. She had to know. She’d been so careful.
“You can’t hide a pregnancy from someone who’s been pregnant ten times.”
“Ten?”
“Seven regular pregnancies, one set of twins plus two miscarriages.”
“I never knew about the miscarriages.” I should be so lucky, Nina thought, and then felt a shiver of remorse. It was probably a sin to hope for such a thing.
“There’s no point in dwelling on things that will never be.”
“Does Pop know? About me, I mean.”
“Not yet.”
“Ma, I’m so scared to tell him. I was scared to tell you both, and that’s why I didn’t say anything.”
“Nina, we’re not monsters.”
“I know. I just…the thing that was so scary was the thought of disappointing you.”
“Honey, you don’t need to be afraid. And don’t worry about your dad.”
“Will I have to go away?” asked Nina.
Ma turned to glance at her. “Where did you get that idea?”
“It was something I read in a magazine at catechism.”
Ma looked back at the road. “These days, girls in your position don’t go away. They go on TV talk shows.”
Nina didn’t know what to say to that. She couldn’t tell if her mother was being sarcastic or what. They rode along in silence for a while. The dazzling beauty of the autumn colors against the clear blue sky was hurtful, somehow. She couldn’t figure out why, but the sight made her eyes tear up. She kept her gaze trained out the window until they arrived at the doctor’s office, a white Victorian mansion that had been converted into a professional building. Her mother parked and turned off the car, but made no move to get out.
“Were you forced?” The question came out of nowhere, on a rasp of pain.
At first, Nina didn’t quite comprehend. Then it dawned on her what her mother was asking, and Nina wanted to cry all over again. It didn’t occur to her until this very minute how much this was hurting her mother. Ma had probably been suffering for days, wondering if some guy had raped her daughter.
But instead of bursting into tears, Nina gave a short laugh. “No, Ma. I wasn’t forced. I assure you, I was a willing participant. Swear to God.” For some reason, her mother’s question made the situation very real to her. She was having a baby. A real live baby. Just for a second, she felt a genuine pride of accomplishment. After being mediocre at everything all her life, she would be first at something. Then the feeling was quickly doused by icy, soul-shriveling terror. A baby. What on earth was she going to do with a baby?
Ma flexed her hands on the steering wheel and let out an audible sigh. “Then…have you told the boy yet?”
The boy. Laurence Jeffries. She hadn’t spoken to him since that night, and she assumed he never wanted to see her again. Why would he, after Greg Bellamy and his big mouth blurted out her true age? And honestly, Nina couldn’t blame Laurence. According to the Legal Eagle—a radio talk-show host who answered anonymous questions on the air—there could be dire consequences for a shiny new West Point cadet if this ever got out. Nina had phoned in every day until he finally answered her question on the air—this could turn out to be a life-altering decision, not just for her but for Laurence.
His training at West Point and the possibility of a big military career would be over. There could be criminal charges because of her age, even though he, too, had been a minor, just seventeen, when it happened. His life, along with Nina’s, would be forever altered. Cadets were forbidden to marry—not that she would want that—and having a baby out of wedlock was grounds for dismissal and severe discipline, as well.
Nina didn’t actually give a hoot about Laurence Jeffries’s future, yet the extent of her power over him frightened her. In a single moment, she could completely change his life, the same way the pregnancy was changing hers, the same way she’d watched Sophie Lindstrom change Greg Bellamy’s life. If Nina decided to speak up, then within a matter of hours, Laurence would no longer be in training at the most elite military academy in the world. He’d be just another punk from the projects with nothing but a high school diploma under his belt. He’d have no military career, no elite education. High-paying, prestigious firms were not known for hiring guys like Laurence, that was a fact.
She had made him a promise that night—she wouldn’t cause him any trouble. Of course, neither of them had foreseen an unwanted pregnancy. That didn’t change her mind, though. She kept remembering Greg Bellamy, putting his fist through a wall at his own wedding. No, getting together because of a baby was a bad idea.
“I’m not telling him,” she said to her mother. “Not anytime soon, that’s for sure.”
“You have to. He’s part of this—”
“For, like, five minutes, he was,” Nina said, pretty much summing up her entire relationship with Laurence Jeffries.
Part Five
Now
The Inn at Willow Lake was originally built for railroad baron Thaddeus Morton. Legend has it that Morton designed the main entryway himself, with a rising sun fanlight over the door, so his new bride could see the sun rise even on a cloudy day.
When the sun shines through the transom, the crystal edges of the bevels create an ever-changing array of delicate rainbows in the front hall, splashing color across the ceiling, walls and floor. The refraction and dispersion of light is, of course, enhanced when each pane of glass is kept spotless.
To make a streakless window cleaner, put a tablespoon each of white vinegar and rubbing alcohol in a spray bottle with water. Add a drop of clove oil for a fresh scent.
Nine
Nina took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Standing on the brick-paved path, she regarded the entryway of the Inn at Willow Lake with a mixture of yearning and trepidation. The double doors had beveled glass panes in an art deco design, and a fanlight over the top in the shape of a rising sun. In front of the door, a workman on a ladder was painting a coat of primer on the ceiling of the porch, while another, in a mask and goggles, was smoothing the floor planks with a power sander. All this busy renovation was supposed to take place under her watch. According to Jenny, and even Sonnet, she could still take charge here. She simply had to wrap her mind around the idea that Greg Bellamy now owned the place.
Simply. There was nothing simple about this. Of course, that didn’t mean she should shrink from the challenge. She’d thought about what to do until her head felt ready to explode. She’d talked it over with anyone who would listen. Ultimately, she’d realized that there was no solution, only compromise. She’d been in city government. She could do compromise.
The guy on the ladder spotted her and started to climb down. “Wait a minute, miss,” he said. “I’ll move this.”
“No need,” she said, easily ducking under the ladder.
“That’s supposed to be bad luck,” the painter said.
“I make my own luck,” Nina said, and opened the door to the lobby.
Inside, the place was a hive of activity as well. Workers in shirts with the Davis Construction logo were busy plastering, priming, painting. An electrician was installing a light fixture above the mantel. The lobby was taking on the look of a luxurious old-fashioned salon, its tall ceilings bordered by ornate crown moulding, the fireplace marble clean and bright, the window casements newly refinished.
She spotted Greg bent over a table mounted on two sawhorses, studying some kind of construction diagram. He had a pencil behind each ear, a tool belt slung low on his hips and a look of total absorption on his face. He’s in this for keeps, thought Nina. She sensed that from him, and grew irritated. This is my dream, she wanted to tell him. Not yours. Yet as she looked around the big, empty room, she could see evidence of his touch in the restored details—the parquet floor and wainscoting, the f
resh coat of paint on the walls and the bright white plasterwork. Would she have chosen that particular dove-gray color for the walls, the deep brown stain for the floor?
As she crossed the salon, the whine of a saw filled the air, and she had to wave to get his attention. He looked up at her, his face lit with a smile of welcome, and her heart skipped a beat.
“I’ve decided,” she said. Because of the noise, she had to stand very close to him in order to be heard. He was so much taller than her that she had to tip her head back in order to look him in the eye. As she did so, she felt a little unbalanced, as though she teetered on some precipice. Maybe she did, and they both seemed to know this. Courage, she told herself. You’re doing the right thing.
She swallowed hard, moistened her lips and said, “I accept.”
Despite the chaos of the renovation erupting all around them, she had the strange sensation that she and Greg were completely alone, an island of two. A grin spread slowly across his face, its effect on her devastating. She tried to act as though guys like this smiled at her every day, but he probably saw right through her. Ever since her ill-fated days as a boy-crazy teen, she’d been a sucker for a pretty face. He wiped his plaster-dusted hand on his painter’s pants and held it out to her. “Great,” he said. “Excellent, Nina. You won’t be sorry.”
We’ll see about that, she thought, motioning him through the French doors that connected the lobby to the sunroom, where it was quieter, with the windows open to dispel the harsh odor of new varnish. She fully expected him to discover exactly how hard it was to run a business and raise a family as a single parent. He might not even last the summer. Yet the renovations done so far, and the fact that he wasn’t afraid to roll up his sleeves and work, surprised her. His sturdy self-confidence didn’t, though. Wiping his hands on a bandana from his back pocket, he added, “Man, you really know how to keep a guy in suspense.”
“I wasn’t doing that on purpose,” she said. “That’s not me, Greg. I’m not being manipulative.”
“Hey, take it easy.” He laughed aloud. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”
Nina flushed. After four years of city council meetings, she was hypersensitive. “I’m just saying, I didn’t treat this decision lightly.”
“Never thought you did. And for what it’s worth, I didn’t offer it lightly.”
“I’m ready to start right away,” she said, her manner businesslike. “I can move in tonight. I’ve got all my stuff in back of my brother’s truck.”
Confusion clouded his face. “Move in.”
“The boathouse,” she reminded him, indicating the envelope containing the contract. “It’s part of our agreement. I’m going to have to be on-premise if you expect me to do this right.”
“And you want to live in the boathouse.” He frowned, and she thought he was getting ready to object.
Say one word, she thought, just one word, and I’m out of here.
Instead, he led the way through a side door and started walking along the gravel path that sloped down toward the lake. A grounds crew was hard at work, pruning and hauling things by the wheel barrowful. “You’d better check it out before you make up your mind to move in.”
She caught herself checking out something else. The painter’s pants fit him perfectly, sitting low on his hips and outlining a butt that was—
“…might want to give it some serious thought,” Greg was saying.
Shoring up her willpower, Nina yanked her attention back to the conversation. She did so by reminding herself that he was the adversary—her boss. No matter how good he looked in a pair of well-worn work pants.
As he led the way across the rolling slope of the lawn to the boathouse, she had to admit that she was impressed by the work done on the property so far. And, okay, she was impressed by him. Initially, she expected him to be all lord-of-the-manor, sitting on the porch with a mint julep while the hired help whipped the place into shape. Instead, it appeared that Greg had dived right in, working along with the contractor’s guys as he tackled everything from landscaping to plaster moulding. On the far side of the property, Max was on the driveway of the owner’s house, shooting baskets.
“We’ve got most of the common areas and six of the guest rooms good to go,” Greg was telling her. “The grand opening…I’ll need to know what you think.”
What she thought was that she wanted this to be her project. And although he seemed eager to sweep her into the process, she didn’t forget who was in charge here. She tamped back her resentment. It was unproductive. One thing she knew for certain was the futility of focusing on unproductive things.
They reached the boathouse, which was set off by itself, surrounded on three sides by an emerald apron of lawn and a fringe of sugar maples, and on the other side, of course, by Willow Lake itself.
Nina had always thought there was something magical about this place, as though its timber and stone walls held old, delicious secrets. Situated perfectly between water and sky, the boathouse felt detached from the everyday world. Its narrow upper deck projected out over the lake, and Nina remembered that it was so quiet there, she could hear the fish jump.
She and Greg walked around the outside first. Three of the water-level boat slips were empty. One was occupied by a vintage Chris Craft runabout made of mahogany. It was in remarkably good condition, gleaming with a recent polish.
“It was my father’s,” Greg explained. “As a kid, he spent every summer on Willow Lake. We put the boat in as soon as I took possession of this place.”
And with those words—It was my father’s—it struck her. She wasn’t the only one who had a history here, whose emotional ties held it close to her heart. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “What’s that other one?”
“A catboat. I want to teach Max to sail.”
Nina fumbled over the thought that Greg would be raising his family here on the premises. Kids, curfews, rules, school hours—that phase of her life was over, yet Greg was smack in the middle of it all. Not my problem, she thought. Much as Nina had loved raising Sonnet, she had to admit she was happy it was him and not her, juggling everything.
“…boat lifts need to be repaired,” Greg was saying, completely unaware of her hesitation. “I’ll need to get a welder in to fix these. Or I suppose I could do it myself.”
“Welding? Is this something you learned at Harvard?”
“If that’s meant as a dig, forget it. I’m in too good a mood to let anything tick me off, even your smart mouth.”
“I do not have—”
“So. Let’s take a look at your new digs.”
He unlocked the door and held it open. The hinges let out a rusty squeal. She paused, suddenly finding herself standing too close to him—again. He smelled of plaster and sweat, and for some reason, she found herself inordinately attracted by that. This was problematic on so many levels that she nearly turned and fled. Then she reminded herself—she was taking a step toward her dream. He was just a minor hurdle. And, like Jenny said, he was taking all the financial risk here.
She stepped over the threshold and into her new home. A musty odor of disuse hung in the air. Nina opened a few windows, stirring a lonely sigh from the brittle lace curtains. The floors creaked and the plumbing groaned when she turned on a faucet, which spewed liquid rust. Cobwebs hung from the rafters. Storage boxes cluttered the floor.
The place was a nightmare. But when she opened the storm shutters and faced the view out the windows, all the flaws of the place fell away. She pictured herself living here, so close to the lake she could hear the water lap at the shore.
“It used to be my favorite place on the property,” she explained. “When I worked here as a teenager, I used to save it for last, so I could end the day right there, looking out at the lake. It was…a way to find just a few minutes of peace and quiet before heading home.”
He lifted one side of his mouth in a half smile. “I never knew it was possible to find peace and quiet at work.”
; “Sometimes work is less chaotic than being at home. Sonnet and I lived with my folks back then because I was working and going to school. And don’t get me wrong—I was incredibly grateful for the support, but life was pretty…chaotic.” She could still remember the nonstop noise and activity of the Romano household, the unceasing demands of a toddler. The boathouse had been her oasis, a place where she could think and dream, even for just a short while.
She stood and surveyed the property, the placid lake, the dock and the storybook architecture. She inhaled the air, sweet with the promise of summer. I’m back, she thought. Finally.
Ten
Daisy felt like crap. She was tired of feeling like crap, tired of people telling her it was normal to feel like crap in the final trimester of pregnancy. In the old-fashioned parlor of the house where she now lived with her brother and father, she shifted restlessly on the sofa and contemplated her ankles. At least, they used to be ankles. Now they were as swollen and unattractive as the rest of her.
So okay, she thought, flipping through one of her many pregnancy books, nobody said this was supposed to be fun. What could possibly be fun about gaining forty pounds, having to pee every five minutes, waking up in the middle of the night to find your belly alive with a squirming, elbowing, hiccupping, growing baby?
Everybody was constantly reminding Daisy not to compare herself to other people. Ha, like she could avoid that. Everyone she knew had moved on after high school, or planned to very soon. Some of her friends, like Sonnet Romano, were traveling. Others had already found jobs and places to live.
Daisy was grateful for her supportive family. How could she not be? She was glad her father had found something to be excited about—the inn. She didn’t mind helping out, either. Photography was her passion, and it was great that she could do something useful with it.
The trouble was, she was at a phase in her life where she didn’t want to do anything useful. She wanted to explore and dream and be irresponsible. Which, at this point, was no longer an option.