He’d always be more comfortable in his Nike running shorts than a suit and tie. And he knew at his core he was still the same kid, sitting on the outside looking in on a life he didn’t really want.
Maybe that’s why he felt so displaced.
Maybe that’s why it had been a year since his dream died and he’d yet to figure out what his next step was.
“You’re doing it again,” Jolie said, waving her hand in front of his face. “Are you this upset over Mom getting married?”
“No, not at all,” he said.
He gently accelerated as he caught a glimpse of the woman he’d seen getting off the ferry. She pulled a suitcase down the busy street, and while she sort of looked like a tourist, she also sort of looked like she knew the lay of the land.
“Who’s she?” Jolie followed his gaze to the sidewalk.
“Maybe nobody,” Hollis said. “Probably nobody.”
“Or maybe somebody?” Jolie waggled her eyebrows.
Yeah. Maybe somebody.
Hollis gave the woman one last glance as he stepped on the gas and drove away.
CHAPTER 3
EMILY SUPPOSED SHE SHOULD FEEL THANKFUL that Nantucket hadn’t really changed. It was still the same charming island it had always been. Nobody would ever wonder why people chose to vacation here or, in many cases, spend their summers here.
If circumstances were different, Emily might do the same.
But circumstances being what they were, it was hard to feel that rush of sweet nostalgia. Even as she walked the cobblestone streets. Even as she window-shopped in the boutiques. Even as she remembered the way she and her mother would zip through town on their preferred method of transportation—the old bikes they buried in the shed behind the house.
She could practically hear the ding of the bell on her mother’s robin’s-egg-blue bike as they pedaled their way up and down the narrow, crowded roads.
Emily and her mom loved to ride all over the island. They’d search for seashells, dig up clams, collect rocks on the beach. Led by passion and not by common sense, Isabelle Ackerman had been the most carefree person Emily had ever known, which was perhaps what made her untimely death an even greater tragedy. All that zeal for life snuffed out in an instant, leaving only memories that played on a continuous loop for Isabelle’s daughter.
Her mother’s death had awakened something inside her. It made her keenly aware of the passage of time, the way it cruelly walked out, without a word of warning.
Somewhere around her sophomore year of high school, Emily had stopped living cautiously. She began to buck her grandmother’s rules, to carve her own path.
She’d been carving ever since. Living her life the way her mother had dreamed she would.
No, nostalgia wasn’t so sweet these days—not where Nantucket was concerned.
Emily stopped at an intersection, and when she looked up, she realized she stood on the corner of Water Street, where the arts center was situated, right in the center of a block.
Unhurried, she walked down the block, still dragging that suitcase behind her.
How many days had she spent in that very building? It had been the place where she’d first discovered a love of theatre, the first time she’d felt truly passionate about something. The first time she learned how it felt to make her mother proud.
She made her way over to the back entrance, which would lead her in to where all the rehearsal rooms were. She could still picture each room, decorated in a different theme. Photos from past shows had lined the walls of the hallways, a sort of “hall of fame,” the kids said. Once upon a time, her face had been on that wall.
When she was a girl, the arts center had bustled with activity. Rehearsals went on at the same time as costume sewing and prop designing. Every classroom was occupied as music and blocking and dance were all taught on a rotation.
The children’s productions put on at the arts center were summer events the entire island supported. Looking back on it now, she didn’t know if it was because their shows were actually good or because the adults on the island simply loved seeing their kids onstage.
It didn’t matter. It was about so much more than that. It was about making friends and having fun, sure, but Emily learned a lot too. She learned how it felt to be a part of something—to belong somewhere.
Now, as she walked down the hallway, she was struck by the quiet. The walls echoed with laughter left over from years gone by, but how long had it been since anyone filled the space with that same kinetic energy she’d known? The building seemed a shell of its former self, perfectly tended yet drained of all life. A remnant of what once had been.
She walked through the empty rehearsal rooms, down a long hallway that ran parallel to the theatre. It led her straight out to the lobby, where there was a podium outside two doors leading to each side of the auditorium.
Emily inhaled the lingering smell of popcorn in the lobby, thankful that after all this time at least that hadn’t changed.
Slowly she opened the house-left theatre door and walked into the space. The stage was bare and the theatre empty, lit only by work lights. She resisted the urge to get up on the stage and recite a favorite monologue—one of Helena’s speeches from A Midsummer Night’s Dream or Mabel Chiltern’s monologue from An Ideal Husband.
An empty stage always had this effect on her. It made her want to jump up there and feel the lights on her face, to try on someone else’s skin for a while. She’d found such comfort in shedding her own when it got too heavy.
Today her skin felt too heavy.
She walked out of the auditorium and into the lobby. Across from the box office was a large bulletin board with posters advertising all kinds of events happening at the arts center and around town—a book chat and signing with a local bestselling author, a culinary demonstration by a world-renowned chef, a French film festival, a concert series. The arts center was alive and well—but where were all the children’s programs?
“May I help you?” A voice disrupted the silence in the empty lobby.
Emily turned and found an older woman with a pouf of white hair staring at her. She wore a pair of oversize black glasses, and though her skin had its share of wrinkles, it was still milky white.
Emily’s skin would not look like that when she was this woman’s age—far too much time in the sun.
“I hope so,” Emily said. “I was wondering where I could find information on your children’s programs.”
The woman removed the glasses and let them hang by a chain around her neck. “Unfortunately, we don’t have much to offer for children these days.”
Emily studied her for a moment. “I thought the arts center had a big show every summer performed by the local kids?”
“It’s been many years since we’ve been able to put one of those productions together, but we have so many other events happening here. Maybe something else might appeal to your little ones? Every other Saturday morning we do a cartoon movie festival. Let me get you a flyer.” The woman started off toward the bulletin board.
“No.” Emily’s forceful tone stopped the woman, whose expression turned annoyed.
“Sorry.” Emily gathered herself. “Can you tell me who’s in charge of the arts center?”
“Well, I am,” the old woman said. “I’m the director of operations.”
“And your name is . . . ?”
The woman straightened as if she weren’t used to being questioned. “Gladys Middlebury.”
“Mrs. Middlebury, my name is Emily Ackerman.” She might’ve emphasized her last name. Just a bit. After all, it was on the sign above the arts center’s door.
The woman’s eyebrows shot up. “Emily Ackerman? Isabelle’s daughter?”
Emily willed herself not to collapse in a pile of tears. Why did it suddenly feel impossible to talk about her mother? She jutted her chin out. “Yes.”
Gladys softened slightly. “I was so sorry to hear about your mother. I never got the chance to say that
to you—or to your grandparents. I know their relationship with Isabelle had always been rocky, which maybe made her passing that much more devastating.”
Emily frowned. What was she talking about? Sure, her mom and her grandparents had their ups and downs, but she wouldn’t have classified their relationship as “rocky.”
“What brings you back to Nantucket?” Gladys asked before Emily could demand an explanation. “You haven’t been back since the accident, have you?”
Emily decided she did not like this woman. Too nosy. Too blunt. Too presumptuous.
“My grandfather passed away, and as we got his affairs in order, I learned he’s still giving a substantial amount of money to the arts center annually, but he earmarked the majority of it for children’s programming.”
The woman opened her mouth as if she was going to say something but quickly closed it again. What could she say, really? It was fairly clear to Emily that they’d been taking her grandfather’s money and using it as they saw fit. Was that even legal?
“There are a number of factors at play here, Miss Ackerman.” Gladys shifted where she stood. “Maybe you could come back when more of our staff is here and we could explain it to you? Or perhaps a member of the board?”
“What is there to explain?” Emily hated the fact that her grandfather’s wishes weren’t being carried out, but more than that, she hated that for probably years now, the children who spent their summers on the island had no access to theatre.
For years, kids hadn’t known the feeling of having their family cheering them on from the front row.
“I’m taking over where my grandfather left off, and I expect to see documentation of where his money has been going.” (That sounded like someone who was in control, right?)
“That’s not going to be easy, Miss Ackerman.”
Emily eyed Gladys. “No, I wouldn’t expect that it would be.” She rummaged through her purse and scribbled her number on a piece of scratch paper, then handed it to the older woman.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll look forward to your call.” Emily walked out of the theatre and exhaled a long, hot stream. Being assertive sent adrenaline rushing through her veins. It wasn’t like her. She liked to go with the flow, not cause waves. And while she felt confident most of the time, she also avoided conflict the way she avoided long-term relationships—with great fervor.
When you find something worth fighting for, fight.
Dear Emily,
It’s so tempting to go with the flow. Even now, there are days I don’t want to stand up for anything because it can be so exhausting to put yourself out there. Plus, you open yourself up to ridicule. You ruffle feathers. You make enemies or at least step into possible confrontation.
But nothing will ever change—nothing will ever get done—unless we’re willing to fight for the things we feel are worth fighting for.
Now, I don’t advise becoming a person who fights only for the sake of fighting, but every once in a while, there will be something that ignites your passion—something the world needs but isn’t getting, something so important to you that it will be worth putting yourself on the line to try and make it happen.
Sometimes you’ll be successful. Other times, maybe not so much.
But knowing you did all you could to push for something that really matters—that’s a good feeling. You can lay your head on your pillow knowing you’ve contributed a sparkly piece of gold to the world.
And the world needs a little more sparkle.
Love,
Mom
CHAPTER 4
AFTER EMILY LEFT THE ARTS CENTER, she found a cab and forced herself to stop getting sidetracked. She wasn’t here to save the children’s theatre. She was here to renovate the old cottage, sell it, and start her life over.
Now, she sat in the cab in front of the old beach house for the first time in eighteen years, and the only thing she felt was numb. What was she doing here?
This was a bad idea.
She’d dragged her suitcase through town, then stopped at the arts center mostly in an attempt to avoid this exact moment—the moment she arrived at the cottage. The cottage that haunted her dreams.
Staring at the house now, she tried to keep the memories where she’d safely stored them—in the corners of her mind—but all around her, there were reminders of a life gone by. Reminders of her mother. Carefree days. Her grandfather—his fingerprints everywhere she looked.
She still couldn’t believe it. If she was honest, she hadn’t given herself time to process his death. Her grandparents were the only family she had, and now one of them was gone.
The thought gnawed at her. How long until she was completely alone?
She’d held herself together remarkably well after her grandmother gave her the news and all the way through the funeral, but she could feel it there, bubbling just below the surface, another reminder that life was fragile, that time was short, that her days, too, were numbered.
And what did she have to show for it?
“You getting out?” The cabdriver met her eyes in the rearview mirror. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been sitting there. It was just as well that he pulled her away from memory lane.
It wasn’t a good place to park.
She paid the man and got out, then trudged up the sidewalk, seashells crunching underneath her feet, and dropped her suitcase on the front porch. She was intent on not glamorizing Nantucket or the life she’d lived here. Intent on staying focused.
Renovate. Sell. Leave.
But how could she not relive that night? Panic gripped her. In a flash she was eleven again, awakened by the sound of angry voices filtering up the stairs to her bedroom.
Mom arguing with her parents. Grandma and GrandPop begging her to keep her voice down. The memory was hazy, and it made her heart race. What were they fighting about? Nobody had ever told her, and now she might never know.
“I can do hard things,” she muttered to herself, though her voice carried an edge of sarcasm.
The house looked terrible. How had her grandparents let it go like this? They should’ve sold it that same summer, but something stopped them. Of course something stopped them—it was the last place they’d seen their daughter alive. The last place they were all a family.
As far as Emily knew, they hadn’t rented it out, but why hadn’t they hired a property manager to take care of it? Surely there had been interest in it over the years—it was in a desirable location with the ocean for a backyard. It wasn’t like her grandparents not to pay attention to appearances—and the appearance of their summer home was far below their usual standards.
The gray shingles on the sides of the house were weathered, with several missing. She ran a hand over the chipped white paint on the trim around the window. She turned in a half circle to face the yard and shook her head at the overgrowth, the mess left from a harsh winter. Her grandmother would be horrified if she saw what had become of this place.
Her heart ached for what had become of their beloved summer home. Should she have gotten over her fear and done more to help? She’d never seen her grandparents cry over her mother’s death—not once—but had their suffering been deeper than they let on?
Emily fished the book from her bag but didn’t let her eyes linger on her mother’s handwriting. She opened to the center, where she’d put the key for safekeeping, pulled it out, and did her best not to think about the moment after GrandPop’s funeral when Grandma had sprung it on her that they were giving her the Nantucket house.
“He wanted you to have it, Emily,” she’d said, pressing the key into Emily’s sweaty palm.
“No,” she’d protested. “You know I can’t go back there.” And also, apparently I’m not good with money. I don’t deserve it.
“That house, that island, it meant the world to your grandfather, and he made it very clear he wanted you to decide what to do with the house. We’ve done a terrible job keeping up with it, so I’m sure
it’s in bad shape, but there’s money for repairs and renovations. Just go look at it and then decide. Please? It would mean so much to him.” She was still holding Emily’s hand, a rare intimate moment between them. “To me.”
What was Emily supposed to do? Truth be told, a ticket to a new life couldn’t have been more timely, what with her old life in a humiliating shambles.
Grandma knew Emily’s play had been a critical failure. She did not know Emily was broke, and it was important to keep it that way.
Emily tucked the key in her pocket and set her purse down next to her suitcase. She was here, and that was enough. She couldn’t go inside—not yet.
She walked around to the back of the house, taking in the landscape. As she came around the side of the house, the view stopped her. She’d seen the ocean from the ferry, and yet seeing it here—that same view, that same dock, that same beach—it was different. It held her captive as the seconds ticked by.
She inhaled the salt air and took her shoes off, walking around the empty, dirty pool, the patio, the screened-in porch, and straight to the place she’d always called hers.
The red- and white-striped beach hut was long gone, but if she closed her eyes, she could remember every detail of the tent GrandPop had set up for her on the shore. How many hours had she spent in that very spot, running to the water and back, building sand castles, hunting for starfish and seashells?
She reached the sand and felt the heat as it radiated through her feet. The wind kicked up, blowing her hair in front of her face. She pulled it back, securing it in a loose side ponytail with the elastic she always wore around her wrist.
She stood still for several seconds, staring out at the sea, wondering what Mom would say about Emily being back after all this time. She’d stayed away because it was too painful to relive any of the memories but also because it brought up too many questions.
What were her grandparents and her mother arguing about that was so bad her mom had to leave in the middle of the night? Nobody had ever answered that question, and not because she hadn’t asked.
If for Any Reason Page 3