by Marci Nault
But this community wouldn’t go silently. If Heather Bregman wanted to move into this neighborhood, she’d better be ready for a fight. Tom looked out the window. He’d wait until the other houses went dark, then he’d sneak over to Maryland’s home and undo the damage they’d done. A part of him didn’t want to—he didn’t want things to change in Nagog—but then every bit of him wished he could turn back time to five years earlier, when his life had been right. When Annabelle had been alive.
CHAPTER 8
Heather tapped her pen against the desk in her tiny cubicle at The Boston Globe, stuffed into the corner at the back of the bullpen. Her desk was clear except for her coffee cup, a black phone, and her laptop. Pictures of her travels were pinned to the cubicle: the Tongariro Alpine Crossing in New Zealand, two mother elephants with a baby between them, all with their trunks in the air, the Great Wall of China, the Golden Temple in Kyoto, Japan, and many others.
Unlike her coworkers, Heather hadn’t hung the decorations to brighten or personalize the space but to remind people at the Globe that she actually worked. Months went by without her entering the building, and more than once she’d come into the office to find her cubicle used as storage.
She looked at the clock on the wall. Her boss and editor at the paper, George, was running late and had said he’d get to her as soon as he could. The latest column she’d written while on the road was up on her computer screen. Most of her columns were first penned in a notebook while she traveled. Plane and train rides gave her time to type up her notes and edit the stories. Rarely did she write at home or in the office, but she felt she should look busy when she was here.
She opened her purse and took out the keys she’d picked up from her attorney that morning. The house in Nagog belonged to her. It turned out her credit history had improved since moving in with Charlie, and her steady income was enough to secure a loan. Heather never wrote a check; as seller, Aaron paid her closing costs, and the second mortgage covered her down payment. The home inspection had been clear and her attorney signed the final documents while she was in Europe.
For the first time in her life, tonight she’d go home to her own place. The clock on the wall above her cubicle ticked away the minutes. A delivery truck was bringing her new mattress between four and six o’clock, and it was already after one. She needed to leave.
“Heather,” George said as he put his arm on the cubicle wall. “I’m ready for ya.” George Samson always wore a navy polo shirt stretched over his belly. By ten in the morning, creamy coffee drips decorated his wiry gray-and-black beard. He was a sweetheart until your name found its way to the blacklist. Mess with his deadline, and his wrath made you feel like you were sitting in the principal’s office, about to be expelled. It had happened only once to Heather in her six years on the paper. It hadn’t mattered that her computer had been stolen; George lectured her for ten minutes about backing things up on the Globe’s servers, then sent her away with her head hanging in shame. She hadn’t missed another deadline.
“Hey, boss,” Heather said as she gathered her laptop and purse and followed him into his office. Unlike Heather’s dark corner, light came through the large wall of windows in his office. Heather sat in front of George’s desk and continued to look outside at the blue sky. The front of the building had a glass wall that created light throughout the office space. Except for Heather’s cubicle and the closets there weren’t many dark spots in the building.
“You know you’re one of my favorite writers,” George said as he sat at his desk, his back to the beautiful day outside. He picked up his coffee and drank. “You’re always ahead of your deadline and your column brings in good advertising revenue, but we need to think about the future.”
Her chest tightened with anxiety and she remained quiet. Heather had learned through the years to let her boss say everything on his mind before she spoke.
“Your column came up at last week’s board meeting, and I know that you and I have had this conversation before, but they’re worried about the syndicates you’ve lost in the heartland. Around the perimeter of the country you’re doing fine, but even there, papers want someone more famous. By now we were expecting a book deal, a product line, and even a television program.”
Heather nodded, squeezing her hands together so she wouldn’t bite her lower lip, her habit when she was nervous.
“There’s a former beauty queen on the Travel Channel, and there are rumors they might begin negotiations with her. It doesn’t mean you’re out, but it would be competition for your Sunday spot.”
“I know who you’re talking about,” Heather said. The woman was able to travel the United States, stay in five-star hotels, go to the best spas and restaurants, and had a crew to help her. If they asked her to write the Sunday column, the woman would also acquire Heather’s hard-earned fans.
“Look, I don’t think she’s right for the job, but she has appeal. How’s Charlie coming with the book deal and the television show? You need it to happen fast.”
Heather decided to skirt the mention of Charlie. She hadn’t spoken to him since their breakup, and last night she’d slept at Gina’s place.
“I have a contact at the Travel Channel, Steven Radley. We’re supposed to get together to talk sometime this month, and he’s also coming to the party I’m throwing at my new house. I’m hoping the event will help to solidify his interest in me.”
“Good. Let him see you in a fun environment. God knows, whenever you’re at a formal event, you’re wound pretty tight.” George rubbed his temples and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s sad how journalism has changed. Back when I was a staff writer, you could walk around with a bag over your head if you wanted. All that mattered was the news. Now you have to have a public persona.”
“Tell me about it,” Heather said. “So what can I do to help my popularity in the south and the middle of the country?”
“I’m thinking you need to do something a little more on the home front. Summertime in New England.”
“Apple pie and Fourth of July,” Heather said as she smiled. “I have the perfect idea. What about summer fun at the lake? The advertising department can sell to summer rental places. I can write about Lake Tahoe, Lake Champlain, and even lakes around Massachusetts.” And she could stay home for a few months and enjoy her new place.
“Let me think about it.” George scratched his beard. “It’s a good idea, but I want to chew on it for a bit. Now get the hell out of my office so I can get some work done.”
Heather stood. “Can I expect you and your wife at the party? I sent an e-mail invitation last week and you haven’t responded yet.”
“I’ll ask Debra tonight. Why the heck did you buy a place so far outside the city? Who wants to live in the burbs?”
“You’ll understand when you see the place. It’s my dream house,” she said as she gathered her things. “Thanks, George. I promise I’ll find a way to make this happen.”
Heather waved to her coworkers as she made her way out of the office. “I’ll see you at the party.” She knew her workmates by name, and their faces were familiar, but for the most part she was the writer who breezed in once in a while and had her face on the travel page. She’d been surprised by how many had said they would come to her party.
She drove along Boston’s Memorial Drive, where ancient maples lined the street in front of Harvard’s brick buildings. The sun glinted off the Charles River in a flashing smile, white sailboats dotted the water, and crew boats raced past. Along the banks, young people in shorts and tank tops basked in the sun.
Magic happened this time of year. Unlike fall, when the bright red, orange, and yellow foliage brought tourists from around the world, spring couldn’t be timed. In April, pink and green buds poke their heads from bare tree branches. New Englanders anticipating warm weather store their heavy coats. Then cold wind and rain return, giving the illusion that winter’s bleakness will never end. The city scowls, and visitors think Bostonians rude
and unfriendly. But a miracle happens in May. A seventy-degree day awakens the tree’s buds. Lilacs burst into colorful waves. The city slows as people take to the outdoors.
Through the open sunroof, Heather peeked at the blue sky. She turned up the radio and sang at the top of her lungs. She was on her way to her new home, and even her conversation with George couldn’t take away her happiness. The house made her feel settled, secure. These feelings tasted like the blueberries from the backyard of her grandmother’s home when she was little.
She made a quick stop to buy groceries, cleaning supplies, a broom, and a mop. She stuffed her purchases in her tiny car alongside her carry-on suitcase, which had enough clothing for a few days. Later she’d need to rent a truck and go back to Boston for her things, but for now she wanted to make the place her own.
Maybe there’d be a barbecue tonight, she thought as Nagog Lake drew nearer. Heather imagined dancing on the beach, a margarita in hand, while she laughed with her new neighbors. She pictured Tommy in swim trunks, shirtless. A sight worth the money she spent on the house. She shook the fantasy from her mind—he was too good-looking to be available.
Heather soon found herself behind a blue Cadillac and had to drop her speed to ten miles per hour. She hung her head and took her hands off the wheel. The Cadillac’s right blinker flashed. The next road was more than a mile away. Heather tapped her nails against the steering wheel, then decided to check her lipstick in the rearview mirror, and applied more glossy color.
With the speed of a disintegrating log, the Cadillac turned right onto Nagog Drive and rolled into the first driveway. Heather sped around it and parked outside her new home. She stepped from the car and stared at the blue bungalow. In the sunlight it looked like a dollhouse.
Between her house and her neighbor’s, Heather had a clear sight of the Cadillac. An older gentleman opened the door for a woman with white, curled hair. He held her by the arm as they walked to the house. That’s nice, she thought. The grandparents still come to visit.
Suddenly she had a quick flash of panic—what if she wasn’t accepted into this close-knit community? She quickly pushed the thought aside when she noticed stacks of boxes on her porch. She bounded up the steps and saw UPS labels—her new plates, wineglasses, coffeemaker, towels, bed linens! Every free moment during her trip, she’d ordered housewares online. She knew she shouldn’t have spent the money, but it wouldn’t be a home without furnishings and kitchen equipment. She’d forgo new clothing until she paid off the debt—a sacrifice worth making. Finally—a home all her own.
The brass key felt warm in her palm. For a moment she held the knob, smooth and curved in her hand. The key slid into the lock and she opened the door. Light streamed through the windows in the living room, illuminating dusty shelves.
In the bright light she could see how badly the pale yellow paint on the walls needed to be freshened. The pictures had been removed, leaving black squares of dirt. She wondered if she had time to paint before the party next week. Heather had never painted, but it couldn’t be hard. With all the built-in woodwork, there’d be a tremendous amount of taping, but it’d be fun to decorate her home.
With the help of a decorating magazine she’d picked up at the airport in Paris, she had an idea of what furniture she planned to buy, but first she needed to take measurements. Gina had promised to get her a discount from one of her suppliers.
Gina was also taking care of the food for the party. It was the first time Heather had hosted her own affair. It was risky to throw a party before even fully moving in, but the sooner she caught Steven Radley’s attention, the better her chance of getting the Travel Channel gig. She needed to prove that she was an outgoing, confident woman who could entertain her public. Gina was bringing friends from work, and Heather planned to invite her new neighbors.
In the kitchen, she pulled out a bottle of wine and some red plastic cups and a corkscrew from one of her grocery bags. “A toast,” she said to the kitchen, “to being home.” The cherry tones of the wine warmed her stomach.
Where to start? She went upstairs. Aaron had included the master bedroom furniture in the purchase and she touched the footboard. She went to the window seat and sat sipping her wine and took in the view of the lake, the sun glinting off the water. Heather turned the crank on the window, opened the glass outward, and a bee buzzed at the screen, bumping against the mesh. Lilac permeated the air. She looked down at her yard and saw the elderly gentleman under the oak tree.
Was it some kind of family holiday?
Heather looked next door where Aaron had said Tommy lived. She didn’t see a car in the drive and assumed he wasn’t home.
She went into the bathroom to admire the beautiful tub. Tonight, before she went to bed, she’d sink into a bubble bath with wine and chocolate.
It would be at least two months before she’d have to travel again. She had four columns ready for publication and eight rough drafts. If George approved a summer series of lakeside vacations, she might even get another month before she had to board a plane. Her conversation with George flashed through her thoughts and a sick feeling dropped into her stomach. She pushed it away. The Travel Channel would be hers, and she’d find a way to sign a book deal with or without Charlie.
The dust from the windowsill had left black smudges on her fingers. When she turned on the faucet, she heard, and then saw, water cascading from the pipe below the sink. She quickly turned the handle to stop the flow and knelt down to look closer. The elbow of the pipe was missing. What the heck?
Somehow the home inspector must have missed the broken sink. A trip to the hardware store was in her immediate future. She began to make a mental list of what she’d need. Then again, she could ask her handsome neighbor for help. Aaron had said he was the neighborhood handyman and Tommy said he’d done the upkeep on the house. She could be the damsel in distress and then repay him with a glass of wine. I really have to stop thinking about him.
A loud knock from the front door lurched her from her daydream. She left her wine on the bathroom counter and ran to the living room to be greeted by two older women with buckets, rubber gloves, and a casserole dish. “Hello,” Heather said.
The tall woman, a blonde in tailored clothing, extended the casserole. “Hello, I’m Victoria Rose. I live in the yellow house.” Victoria pointed toward the woods next to the beach. “And this is Molly Jacobs. She lives in the house next to mine.”
“It’s so nice to meet you,” said the soft, round woman with white curls. Molly dropped the bucket filled with cleaning supplies and pulled Heather into a warm hug. “Welcome to the neighborhood. We know the house is in rough shape, so we thought we’d bring reinforcements to help you clean.” She stepped back and smiled.
“Aah, thanks . . . I’m Heather Bregman. It’s nice to meet you.” Heather shook Victoria’s hand and took the casserole. “Um . . . did you say you live here?”
“Yes.” Victoria smiled. “Most of the residents have been here since early childhood.”
The woman in the car . . . the man under the oak? No, they couldn’t be. Not residents. Aaron said it was time to pass the house down to his boys. And Tommy was Charlie’s age.
“I’m sorry, I’m a little confused. Aaron told me that these houses were passed down through the generations . . .” Heather said and realized how rude she was being. “Excuse my manners. Please come in, but you don’t have to help me clean.”
“Nonsense,” Molly said. “A young woman can’t get this house in shape all by herself. It will be our pleasure.” She dropped the bucket and looked around the room, her hands on her hips. In jeans and sweatshirt, she looked ready to clean. Victoria, on the other hand, might have been dressed for high tea. “Everyone who lives here grew up together, and our parents passed these homes down to us,” Victoria said. “We’re all young at heart.”
A large delivery truck pulled up and parked on the road. Heather saw Molly pick up a rag and wood polish and, with practiced efficiency, attack the
mantel.
“Have you chosen furniture for this room yet?” Victoria asked. “I know some fabulous stores in Boston. Maybe you and I can take a day and go into the city.”
A deliveryman stood at her front door with a clipboard and a pen. Heather was still holding the casserole, trying to juggle it while she signed. Victoria came up behind her, quietly took the dish, and swooped elegantly into the kitchen.
“The old mattress is upstairs and I need to wipe down the bed before you put the new one on,” Heather said to the man.
“I’ve got it,” Molly said. She bustled up the stairs and motioned for the deliverymen to follow her.
Victoria returned. “Heather, where’s your bedding? I’ll unpack it.”
Heather was spinning with everything going on around her. “It’s somewhere in the boxes on the deck.”
Victoria nodded, went outside, and brought two boxed lamps into the house just as the deliverymen were carrying the old mattress downstairs. Heather watched the scene, uncertain what she was supposed to do. She walked out on the deck, took a deep breath, and was watching the men unload her new mattress when she was distracted by the small woman she’d seen getting out of the Cadillac, walking up the road in her little pink sweater. When she reached Heather’s mailbox, she opened it and put her arm all the way in. Her soft white hair bobbed and she had a huge smile on her face as she fished through the flyers. Then a tall woman with a large crucifix around her neck walked up to the mailbox, and Heather heard her say, “Evelyn, is there a letter today?”
“No, not today.” Evelyn frowned and looked as if she might cry.
The taller woman took the mail and placed it back in the box, then guided Evelyn up the road. Heather looked to where she’d thought Tommy lived, and an old man came out of the house. He walked across the driveway and onto Heather’s deck. His eyes were the color of Maui’s ocean, just like Tommy’s eyes.