Things We Never Said: A Hart’s Boardwalk Novel

by Young, Samantha

  She did not act like a billionaire.

  Not that I would know how they acted because until now, I’d never met one!

  Seeing we understood, she flushed. “I was very privileged and until that point, not a very nice kid. I didn’t know any different. We lived on an estate in upstate New York. We had staff that did everything for us, and I was spoiled. When they died, my grandmother took over their shares in the company. A board runs it with a chairman, CEO, et cetera, so my grandmother had her own ventures in real estate. She was …” Emery paused, her eyes lowering to the floor, and mine narrowed at the way she seemed to wring her hands. “Very strict. Yes, she was very strict.”

  “What happened?” Bailey asked quietly, engrossed. “To your grandmother.”

  “Whole Lotta Love” by Led Zeppelin unexpectedly blasted out of my purse, and we all jumped about a foot.

  Jess cut me a dirty look, and I bit back nervous laughter. “I’m sorry.” Turning to Emery, I lost the smirk. “I really am.” Fumbling through my bag, I intended to switch off my phone so we could get back to Emery’s story, but the caller ID said it was my dad.

  Two months ago, when Michael Sullivan had shown up at Emery’s, I realized his appearance had been no coincidence.

  The only person in my family who knew I lived in Hartwell was my dad.

  When I called him to ask about Michael, he told me that Michael was going through a separation from his wife and Dad had suggested he take a vacation in Hartwell by himself. He didn’t mention to Michael I happened to live there, and he didn’t tell me Michael was on his way to obliterate my week. I knew what my dad had hoped that vacation would accomplish.

  What he hadn’t counted on was Michael giving his marriage another shot by going on a romantic vacation with his wife. It wasn’t shocking to learn Michael was married. Of course, he was. He was a catch. However, it had been excruciatingly painful.

  Suffice it to say I was pretty mad at my dad.

  And I loved my dad.

  I adored my father.

  He was the only one in my family who truly understood me and I talked to him every other day. Yet since Michael’s appearance in Hartwell, things between us had been awkward. So awkward, in fact, that I’d been toying with the idea of going home to Boston to settle the slight discord between us. I hadn’t been back to Boston in nine years so that’s how much I cared about my relationship with my father.

  When my dad called, I answered.

  Always.

  “Sorry, guys, I need to take this.” I hit the green button on my phone. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

  “Hey, Bluebell.”

  Usually, the sound of my dad’s husky voice and his thick Boston accent was one of my favorite sounds in the world. I’d lost my Bostonian accent somewhere along the years and talking to Dad always reminded me of home.

  Today, however, I tensed. Not at the nickname. My dad had been calling me Bluebell since I was a toddler because my eyes were that exact shade of blue. My brothers and sisters all had my mom’s hazel eyes. I was the only one with my dad’s eye color and his dimple.

  Yeah, so it wasn’t the nickname that caused my heart to skip a beat. It was my dad’s tone. A million scenarios ran through my head. “Is everyone okay?”

  “Everyone’s fine. But I have something to tell you, and I hate that I’m telling you this over the phone.”

  Trepidation froze me to the chair. “Dad …?”

  The girls’ quiet murmur of chatter petered out as their worried gazes followed me.

  “I know you’re a grown-up and you’ll handle this just fine but … um … well, Bluebell, your mom and I are getting a divorce. She moved out last week.”

  If it was possible, I thought my heart might have stopped. “Dad?”

  I didn’t understand.

  My relationship with my mother was in tatters, but no matter what was thrown at Sorcha and Cian McGuire, they handled it together. How could they possibly be getting a divorce?

  My dad loved my mom.

  He loved her.

  “Did she leave you?”

  “It was mutual, dahlin’. Things weren’t working out.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Love you, Dahlia, you know that. But like I said to your brothers and Davina, this isn’t for you kids to get. It’s between your mom and me.”

  He sounded exhausted.

  And low.

  And despondent.

  The thought of my dad feeling that way without me there—the idea of him going through this with my mother for who knows how long, and I wasn’t there …

  Guilt drenched me.

  The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “I’m coming home.”

  He sighed. “Bluebell, you don’t need to do that.”

  “No, I do.” The thought was more than a little nauseating; however, I needed to see my dad. I needed to hug him. He visited me when he could but it was never enough, and I needed to hug my dad and make sure he was okay. “I’ll get a flight out as soon as possible. I’m heading home to arrange it all now. I’ll call you when I know my flight time.”

  “You know I’m not going to talk you out of this. I can’t wait to see you, kiddo.” Hearing how much his tone had lightened upon my declaration of homecoming put a pause on all my concerns. Whatever I felt, whatever I had to deal with in returning to Everett, it was worth it already.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  “Love you too. You call me to let me know when your flight is coming in.”

  “We’ll talk when I get there, yeah?”

  “Of course.”

  We said goodbye and my throat clogged with emotion.

  My dad had been hurting, and I hadn’t been there. I blinked back tears and turned toward my concerned friends. “My parents are getting divorced. I need to go back to Boston to see my dad.”

  Emery and Jess hugged me, telling me they were sorry, but it was Bailey who grabbed my arm and told me she’d walk me out.

  Because she was the only one who knew my story.

  Arm in arm, we stepped out onto the boardwalk. The cold ocean breeze nipped at our cheeks as we strolled in silence.

  Then … “Dahlia, do you need me to come with you?”

  I gave my best friend a tremulous smile. “Thank you. I appreciate that offer more than you know, but my dad probably needs privacy right now.”

  “I get that. But what about what you need?”

  I gazed into Bailey’s anxious green eyes. “For nine years my dad has been putting what I needed before what he needs. Before probably even what my family needs. I not only owe him this, Bailey, but I need to be there for him. I can’t believe he’s been going through this and I haven’t been there. I mean,” I said on a shaky exhale, “he loves my mom. He loves her like you love Vaughn, like I love …”

  “Michael.” Bailey pulled me into a hug. “And what about Michael, Dahlia? Can you deal with possibly seeing him? Seeing him with his wife?”

  I curled my fingers into her shirt and forced back the tears her words caused, almost choking on them.

  Her arms tightened around me as she felt the shudder roll through my body.

  This was about my dad.

  When my dad hurt, I hurt.

  That’s the way it was with the people you loved.

  I’d put myself through the torture of seeing Michael again if it meant being there for my father when he needed me. That didn’t mean I didn’t want to cry over the prospect.

  “I’m okay,” I whispered. “I can do this.”

  My best friend gripped my upper arms and bent her head to peer into my face. “Yeah, you absolutely can. However, we’re doing your makeup before you leave. You are not going back to Boston looking anything but your best, sexiest self.”

  I rolled my eyes and groaned. “I’m going back for my dad, not for anything else.”

  She followed me as I continued down the boardwalk. “It doesn’t mean you can’t look good. You would have said the same
to me about Vaughn.”

  “Vaughn’s not married. And considering the delicate reason I am returning to my hometown, I think your commentary is inappropriate.”

  We were quiet as we passed Antonio’s, our friends Iris and Ira’s Italian pizzeria.

  And then as we neared my shop, Bailey asked, “You’re going to pack the blue dress though, right?”

  Knowing exactly what dress she was referring to, I threw her a dirty look. But on second thought … “Which shoes should I pack with that?”

  Bailey grinned, and we argued all the way to my car, parked behind my store, about my reason for agreeing to pack the blue dress. Just like that, she momentarily took my mind off my dad’s problems.

  That right there was one of Bailey Hartwell’s greatest gifts.

  My childhood home seemed smaller than I remembered. It was a two-story in the northeast of Everett. The only reason my parents could afford the house was that it had belonged to my grandparents. My grandfather died when Dad was a kid, and he and my mom had moved in with my paternal grandmother when Darragh was born. Grandma passed away two months before I came into the world, so I never met her. She left the house to Dad in her will.

  Concrete steps led up to our blue front door. Dad kept the white wooden shingles clean and painted fresh every few years, and he’d told me he’d replaced the gray slate roof tiles last year. Blue shutters decorated the front window and the two small windows on the second floor. There was a side entrance, like a miniature version of the front, that led into the kitchen, which was the largest room in the house.

  The kitchen had been redone, and the living room had been redecorated. But it smelled the same. Categorizing the smell was hard—kind of a mix of scents the house had acquired over the years, ingrained into the walls. Furniture polish, Mom’s roast dinner, and a unique aroma that was all McGuire.

  Dad led me to Dermot and Darragh’s old room. It used to smell like the boys’ locker room, and you couldn’t even put a foot inside without stepping on something, the floor was that badly littered with all their crap. Now it was a tidy guest room with two twin beds neatly made in plain gray bedding.

  “I thought you might want to stay in this room.” My dad’s voice was gruff.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the closed door behind us. It was the old room I’d shared with Davina and Dillon. We’d forever been arguing because we were so on top of each other. Then Davina went to college and Dillon and I had shared it.

  Dad was right. I didn’t want to sleep in that room.

  “Thanks.” I kissed his cheek and strolled into my brothers’ old room.

  Dad placed my suitcase on the farthest bed and turned to me. “Can’t tell you how good it is to have you here.”

  I studied him. My dad was one of those men who grew more distinguished with age. Being a firefighter, he’d stayed in shape his whole life. He’d moved up the ranks to lieutenant to captain to deputy chief, and he was now chief of District Three and had been for nearly a decade. He was fifty-six and nearing retirement, but I couldn’t imagine my dad ever retiring.

  There was always, usually, a radiant cloud of energy around Cian McGuire. He’d done a hard, dangerous job his whole life and he’d seen a lot of tragedy in his time, but somehow it hadn’t chipped away at his soul or his good humor.

  Now that energy seemed to have drained from him. The only other time I’d seen my dad like this was when Dillon died. And even then, he’d been so distracted by the mess I was making of my life, he hadn’t had time to entirely give into his heartsickness.

  I was worried about him. “Are you depressed, Dad?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m not a depressed person.”

  “But you’re sad.”

  “Thirty-eight years I’ve been married, and it’s ending, Bluebell.”

  God, this sucked. “I’m sorry.”

  His answer was to pull me into his arms. I sank into his embrace. Nowhere felt safer.

  “Thanks for coming to see your old man. I know this is hard for you. But it’s time, don’t you think, to put the past to rest?”

  I mumbled against his shoulder, “I don’t know if I can.”

  “We’ll do it together.” Humor lightened his words. “Think of it as distracting your old man from this interesting turn his life has recently taken.”

  I laughed softly, despite my fears, glad to see he hadn’t lost his sense of humor.

  Before I could question him about the separation between him and Mom, the sound of the front door downstairs opening and slamming shut made me jerk away from my dad.

  “Dad, you home?” I recognized my big sister’s voice.

  “Davina?” I whispered.

  “Dad?” a male voice called.

  “Darragh?”

  Dad shrugged, looking only slightly sorry. “I told them you were coming and they both wanted to be here.”

  “Dad!” Davina yelled.

  “Up here,” he called out.

  “Dahlia here?” I couldn’t read Darragh’s tone.

  “Yeah.”

  Blood rushed in my ears. I was about to face my siblings for the first time in nine years.

  Nine years.

  How could it have been that long? It didn’t feel that long.

  “Fuck,” I bit out.

  Dad squeezed my shoulder. “Like a Band-Aid, Bluebell. Best to pull that thing off quick.”

  Over the years, Dad had sent me photos of my family and kept me up-to-date with their lives in our weekly phone calls. Darragh was thirty-seven and a sports writer for the Boston Globe. Lucky bastard had met the Pats, the Sox, the Celts, and the Bruins multiple times. In all seriousness, I was proud of him. Dad said Darragh and his wife Krista (I’d met her before everything went to shit and had liked her a lot) had bought a nice house in Everett a few streets over. They had two sons, Leo and Levi. I’d closed the shop when they were both born, heartbroken I couldn’t be there. Devastated I’d never met them. When they were born, I sent gifts through Dad, and I did that for their Christmas and birthdays too. Same for all my siblings. Dad always passed along their thanks, but I didn’t know if they said that. The gifts were never returned, as far as I was aware.

  Davina was the second eldest at thirty-five. She had a busy and very successful career as a corporate investment banker. I didn’t know what that was, but it meant Davina could afford a huge apartment in Bunker Hill. She’d gotten married during the nine years of our estrangement to a man I’d never met. They divorced two years in, and then three years ago, my big sister came out to my family.

  She moved in with Astrid, a woman she’d been friends with since college. It hurt my heart that my sister had loved her friend for years but hadn’t been able to admit it. Dad said Davina was happier than ever, but I had so much regret knowing I hadn’t been there for my big sister when she needed me. One of the things I felt most contrition for was not breaking free of my self-imposed bubble to go to Davina when she came out.

  I was remorseful for not being there for my family, but I experienced it particularly intensely over my two eldest siblings. Even though Dermot was older than me too, it was only by eighteen months, and he was definitely an annoying older brother, whereas Darragh and Davina had been more than that.

  My parents’ careers meant they worked a lot and therefore had depended on Darragh and Davina to look after us younger kids. My big brother and sister had helped raise me, and I adored them.

  I was terrified to see them again. To see their disappointment and disgust.

  Frozen, I stared at my feet. “Dad, I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “Bluebell,” he said, his tone coaxing, “they’re not here to hang you from a cross. They’re here because they haven’t seen you in nine years. Now I’m not saying there isn’t anger and hurt there, but it’s time to work on that. It’s time to heal the breach.”

  Dad didn’t give me a chance to respond. He grabbed my hand and led me downstairs. My legs turned to jelly, and I wondered if they�
�d hear the shallow staccato sounds of my breathing.

  When we walked downstairs, they weren’t in the living room.

  My grip on Dad was probably painful.

  I knew I was acting like a little girl, clinging to him, but I couldn’t seem to let go as he led me into the kitchen.

  Tears I’d held back for years flooded my eyes at the sight of my big brother and sister leaning against the kitchen counter with coffee mugs in hand. I knew from photos that Darragh had grown to look more and more like Dad. And Davina, except in style, looked a lot like Mom. It was rare to see Mom in anything but nurse scrubs. Davina’s hair was similarly styled to mine, long, beachy waves but without the bangs, and she wore skinny jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and a stylish pinstripe blazer. She wore cute flats that looked like they cost a lot of money. In fact, everything about my sister, from her clothes to her makeup, although casual, hinted at quality and money.

  Dad had gifted me his eye color and the dimple in my left cheek, and my paternal grandmother had gifted me her height and curves. Davina (like Dillon had been) was tall like Mom with slender curves. I’d cursed the fates for not giving me my mother’s height and figure.

  I took all this in, noting how well they both looked, and pride overwhelmed me. We came from a working-class, Irish-American family—my big brother was now a sports writer for the Boston Globe and my big sister worked in an office in the financial district. And even better they were both happy in their personal lives. All of that filled my chest with something that felt heavily bittersweet. I hadn’t been a part of any of that, and it was my fault.

  Darragh put his cup on the counter, and I braced myself as he strode purposefully across the kitchen.

  Without a word, he pulled me into his arms, my face pressed to his warm chest.

  He was hugging me.

  Sobs that had stayed locked inside me for years burst out and I closed my arms around his broad back and bawled.

  “Ssshh, baby sister,” he tried to soothe, his arms tightening.

  But I couldn’t.

  Hard, painful tears wracked me, and they held everything in them. All the pain of the past decade.

  “Dahlia, please,” he begged after a while, choking on the words.