She felt a surge of joy. Her first instinct was to show the interview to Amy the moment she got home from work that evening. And then reason stepped in. No, Leda thought, she would share the interview with Amy at a later date when she hoped Amy would once again be interested in her mother’s career. Leda couldn’t quite see when that day would come, but until it did there were others who would be more than happy to share in Leda’s joy. Leda took her cell phone from the other pocket of her robe and called Vera.
“It’s here,” she announced when Vera had answered. “The interview.”
“I’m on my way over,” Vera assured her. “I absolutely can’t wait to see it!”
Chapter 81
It was amazing how much gear was needed when bringing small children to the beach, Hayley thought. Just as she had finished packing her car with diaper bags, a small cooler, a beach chair, and a sail bag stuffed with a blanket and towels, Ethan had come dashing from the house, carrying a canvas bag, asking if she would mind if he came along. For a moment Hayley thought she had misheard, but when he stood there, smiling and obviously waiting for her reply, she hurriedly told him that of course she didn’t mind. Ethan ran back to the house for another beach chair, checked that the girls were securely in their car seats, and got into the front passenger seat.
“Thanks again for letting me join you,” Ethan said when they were settled—and it had taken some time—on the sand midway between Ogunquit and Wells.
There was no need for Ethan to thank her, Hayley thought. He was a Whitby. The girls were his sisters. He had a right to be anywhere they were. But she could expect politeness from Ethan. He had shown her that more than once. “Sure,” Hayley said with a smile.
Ethan smiled back and opened the book he had brought, a copy of The Dante Club by Matthew Pearl. Hayley, too, had brought a book, the Eliot biography she had bought the other day, though she didn’t expect to do much reading, not when there were energetic toddlers to keep an eye on. At the moment, though, the girls were quiet, busy filling plastic pails with sand, patting the sand with plastic shovels, and dumping the sand, only to repeat the process again and again.
After a while, lulled by the heat of the midday sun, Hayley began to wonder if people passing by assumed that she and Ethan were a couple, here in Ogunquit with their children to spend a quiet week at the seaside.... Hayley shuddered. The fantasy—and that’s what it was—alarmed her. It made her feel warm and fuzzy, and that was a dangerous way to feel. Her goal was to keep her emotions entirely out of her plan for betterment and escape. If it wasn’t already too late for that. She remembered the absolute surety of the connection she had felt between herself and Ethan as they had stood so close to each other on that corner the other morning, after he had rescued her from sure disaster....
Hayley shot a glance at Ethan. He was not gazing at her with longing. He was frowning in concentration over a page of his book. So much for connection. Hayley sat up straighter in her chair. She became aware that an elderly woman in a diaphanous caftan seemed to be making her way toward them.
“Your children are absolutely adorable,” the woman said as she approached. “You must be such proud parents.”
Hayley gripped the arms of her chair. She was unable to reply.
Ethan laughed and gestured between Hayley and himself. “We’re not together,” he said. “These are my sisters. But they are adorable, aren’t they?”
“Oh, pardon my mistake,” the woman said, putting a hand to her cheek, before continuing on her way.
Ethan resumed reading. Hayley released her grip on the arms of her chair. What an idiot she was! How quickly Ethan had denied their being a couple! It only proved what she had already known, that fantasizing was a very stupid thing. And to think she had supposed he had wanted to kiss her that morning in Yorktide.
“You okay?” Ethan asked. “You’re frowning.”
Hayley managed a smile. So, he had been looking at her. “I’m fine,” she said. “My mind wanders.”
“Laylay hat,” Lily announced loudly. Indeed, her sister had taken off her hat yet again and had tossed it aside.
Hayley watched Ethan lean forward and gently place the sun hat back on Layla’s head. “Who’s your favorite Disney princess?” he asked when he had sat back in his chair.
The question took Hayley by surprise. “I don’t know,” she said. “Belle, I suppose.”
“Because you love to read?”
“Yes,” Hayley said. “That, and I always thought the Beast looked pretty sexy. Not that that has anything to do with why I like Belle,” she added hurriedly. It had been an idiotic thing to say.
“I think my favorite Disney princess—” Ethan laughed. “Hey, don’t look so surprised. I watched all the movies growing up; guys aren’t immune to pop culture.”
“Sorry,” Hayley said. “I know that.”
“Anyway, I think my favorite princess might be Merida from Brave.”
Hayley smiled. “That came out only about six years ago.”
“I might have borrowed a DVD from a friend,” Ethan explained with a shrug.
“So, why Merida?” Hayley asked. He really was awfully cute, admitting to watching Disney movies as an adult.
“Because she’s an individual. She’s courageous, and she involves herself in clan politics for the good of the community. And Mulan,” Ethan went on. “She’s impressive, too. And Tiana. All those characters are determined to live their own lives, but none of them pursues their futures without regard for their families and friends. They’re tough, but they have a heart. In comparison, the older Disney princesses seem pretty passive. Of course, they were a product of a time and place, but still, if I were going to choose someone to spend the rest of my life with I’d choose Merida over Cinderella any day.” Ethan smiled. “Assuming, of course, she chose me back.”
Hayley managed a smile. It didn’t come as a big surprise that Ethan admired strong, independent women, not women who looked to a man to give them a free ride through life. Hayley felt terribly uncomfortable. An honest man like Ethan would probably never even suspect he was the target of a gold digger, even a gold digger who wasn’t sure she had the coldness it took to snare a millionaire.
“I know our culture isn’t perfect,” Ethan went on, “but I’m glad my sisters will grow up in a world that allows them to be strong individuals. It would be horrible if they had to grow up in a society that forced them to conform to old stereotypes or to have to rely on a man for a purpose.”
Hayley tried again to smile but failed. If Ethan only knew what she had been planning! Had been? Was she really no longer interested in ensnaring Ethan? No. She wasn’t. She was interested in knowing him. That was different. That was impossible. That was another stupid fantasy.
Ethan’s phone rang, and he looked at it with a frown. “It’s my office. I really should deal with this, and the paperwork is at the house. I’ll walk back. Can you manage on your own?” he asked as he rose from his chair and began to pack his bag.
“Of course,” she snapped. “I’ve sat for triplets in the past. These two are no problem.”
Ethan looked confused. “I just meant that I could come back later and help you pack up.”
Hayley shook her head and smiled. “Sorry. I mean, thanks. I’ll be fine.”
“See you back at the house, then.” Ethan gathered his things and, with a wave, headed off.
Hayley sighed. Almost every experience in her life thus far had taught her to be ready to take offense. To be ready to fight. To be ready to defend herself. All Ethan had intended was a kind offer of help, but what had come first to her mind was the assumption that he was doubting her ability to do her job. Amy was right. There was no way she would ever be able to fit easily into Ethan Whitby’s kinder, gentler world, not after the life she had led. No. Way.
“Layla,” Hayley said with a sigh. “Why is your hat off again?”
Chapter 82
Amy was alone in the Priors’ kitchen with nothing to do
but wait until Cressida came out of her office, where she had retreated some time earlier. All morning Amy had been feeling bad that she hadn’t paid more attention to the piece her mother had written for Needle and Thread. In fact, she hadn’t really heard a word of it. Now she vowed that when the interview for that journal was published she would read it really carefully, and when the article for Needle and Thread was in print she would do the same.
It was almost noon. Amy’s stomach growled. Maybe Cressida would be coming out of her office soon, not that noon necessarily meant lunchtime to her. On the bright side, Cressida had been in a pleasant mood that morning. Whatever had caused her bad behavior that horrible day in Portland seemed to have been resolved. That was a very good thing because Amy had worn herself out engaging in rationalizations. Maybe Cressida had been suffering from PMS. It could be seriously bad. Or maybe there had been a crisis at the headquarters of Prior Ascendancy. Maybe Cressida and Will had had a nasty fight that morning. Of course, no matter what had happened Cressida shouldn’t have behaved so abominably, but on occasion everyone said and did things they shouldn’t. Right?
Amy heard footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later Cressida came into the kitchen. She was wearing running gear. Her pupils looked dilated and she was sniffing.
“Are you getting a cold?” Amy asked, hoping Cressida wouldn’t think her interfering. “My mom’s friend Vera swears by this herbal stuff. I could get you a bottle if you want.”
Cressida waved her hand dismissively. “No, no, I’m fine. Just dust. The stupid housekeeping team must have forgotten to properly vacuum my office. I’ll have a word with them. I’m going for a run.”
“Is there anything I can do for you while you’re out?” Amy asked.
Cressida suddenly smiled. “Just be here, Aimee.” And then she was gone.
Amy looked helplessly around the kitchen, hoping to find something that needed doing, but every dish and gadget and pot or pan was perfectly in place, as if none of them had ever been used. Just as she was about to wander into the living room Rhiannon came in from the patio. Once again, she was wearing head-to-toe black.
Rhiannon cocked her head to one side and studied Amy. “You’re just like the other one,” she said after a moment. “Not exactly like. You’re prettier.”
“Thanks,” Amy said. “But what do you mean by the other one?”
Before Rhiannon could reply—and Amy had no idea if she would or what she would say if she did—Will appeared in the doorway.
“There you are,” he said brightly, as if he had been looking for his daughter for hours. “Couldn’t you find the trail mix?”
“I’ll get it for you,” Amy said hurriedly. She went to the breadbox that never contained any bread and handed the bag to Rhiannon.
When Will and his daughter had gone back outside, Amy rubbed her forehead. She had the strange feeling that something was being kept from her. The way Rhiannon had looked at her with such scrutiny. Who was “the other one”? And why had Will appeared just as Rhiannon might have been about to tell Amy what she now realized she wanted to know?
Or did she want to know? Amy sighed. How had it come to feel like another interminable day?
Chapter 83
It was not often that Leda found herself with time to spend enjoying a day in Portland. Truth be told, she didn’t really have the time now, not with all of the jobs on which she was working and those that were waiting in the wings. But, she thought, if you didn’t take a few hours every once in a while to refresh your senses and fill them with new sights and sounds, you could very easily go stale. And for a craftswoman that was a real nightmare.
Helping her to make the decision to leave Yorktide by ten that morning was an invitation she had received from one of the artists who had a studio at the Birch Tree Fellowship, an artists’ studio and collective in Portland’s West End. Sam, a printmaker she had met several times over the years at various craft fairs, suggested she come by to see some of his more recent work and to take a tour with him of the site.
Leda left her car in a garage close to the Old Port and arrived at the Fellowship’s headquarters at about eleven, where she was greeted warmly by Sam. After catching up, Sam guided Leda through the print shop, the woodworking shop, a large space for artists who worked in clay, and the gallery where artists took turn displaying their work. Leda was impressed to learn that the Fellowship ran fund-raisers and sponsored sales and presented talks by the various members and affiliated guests.
“This is just an extraordinary place,” she told Sam when they had completed the tour.
“I’d argue if I could,” he replied with a smile. “I swear my work has taken directions it might never have taken since I’ve been a part of this community.”
After studying Sam’s latest works, Leda made her farewells and walked back toward downtown Portland. There was such a strong sense of community at the Fellowship, she thought. It had appealed to her, especially now that she was taking steps, however small, to become more than a solo practitioner in the world of creative enterprise. Well, maybe the steps weren’t so small after all. She had agreed to the interview with the Journal of Craftwork and had shared its publication with Vera and Phil, though not yet with Amy. Adelaide Kane, owner of The Busy Bee quilt shop in Yorktide, had called to congratulate Leda on the piece and to invite her to one of the shop’s open house evenings.
She had also agreed to write the piece for Needle and Thread and had just received word from an editor there that her essay had been accepted and that the check for $200 was on the way. And, perhaps most courageously, she had submitted one of her works to the FAF’s annual competition. If all that didn’t count for something, then Leda didn’t know what did.
When Leda reached the Arts District, centered on downtown Congress Street, she stopped to chat with a young man selling miniature watercolors. He told her he was a student at Maine College of Art majoring in painting. Leda could see why. His work was extraordinary. She asked him why he had chosen to paint in miniature, and with great enthusiasm he explained his inspirations. Leda was moved by his passion and bought one of his works. The young man thanked her profusely, and Leda went on her way with a smile.
Her next stop was the Maine Jewish Museum. It was housed in a restored synagogue that had been built in 1921. Leda had never been to the museum before and was thrilled to learn of its many wonderful programs and events. While there she was able to view an impressive and very moving photography exhibit by a woman who had survived the Holocaust. To experience the horrors of such an event and yet to come through with her creative spirit still intact and perhaps even stronger than it had been before.... Leda wished she could meet the woman, now long deceased, and profess her thanks. Her own occasional struggles with her work, her own habit of self-doubt, seemed trivial, even ridiculous, compared to the struggles this artist must have faced. Leda left the museum moved and chastened.
A glance at her watch told her it was time to head back to Yorktide. As Leda made the journey toward the Old Port where she had parked her car, she realized that she hadn’t walked so much in years. Her legs felt rubbery, but her spirits felt very robust indeed. The little watercolor safely in her bag, Leda knew that this day had been one of the most profitable and inspirational days she had spent in a very long time.
Chapter 84
That evening the group at The White Hart consisted of Hayley, Cathi, Michelle, and Sarah. Amy had pleaded a headache. Madeleine was accompanying her employers to a performance at The Ogunquit Playhouse, and Elizabeth had given no reason for her absence. That wasn’t unusual. She kept to herself most of the time.
Hayley wasn’t really in the mood to socialize, but her mother had told her that Eddie Franklin had invited a buddy over to the apartment for dinner, and though a part of Hayley felt she should stay to help her mother cook and serve the men, who would no doubt be entirely ungrateful, another, ever so slightly stronger part of her allowed her to walk away from a situation for which her mother
was largely responsible. If Nora Franklin could learn to say no to her husband, even once.... Hayley picked up the menu. As long as she was here she was determined to enjoy herself as best she could.
But before Hayley could scan the menu to see what caught her fancy, some instinct made her look over her shoulder. Taking a seat at the far end of the bar was Ethan Whitby. Her heart beat more quickly. She hadn’t seen him since he had left the beach the day before. By the time she got back to the house with the girls, he had gone off to an event at the Portland Museum of Art. When she had arrived at the Whitby house that morning there had been no sign of him. She had felt disappointed but had ruthlessly pushed the feeling away. Ethan had a full life that had nothing to do with his sisters’ summer nanny. The nanny who had hoped to catch his attentions for her own selfish purposes. The nanny who, in spite of her best laid plans, had developed an affection for him.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Hayley said to the others at the table. She got up and walked toward the bar. “Hi,” she said when she was standing at Ethan’s side.
Ethan looked up from the menu he was studying and smiled. “Hey! This is a nice surprise. What are you doing here?”
Hayley gestured toward the large table at the back of the room. “Hanging out with some of the other summer nannies. What about you?”
Ethan shrugged. “Marisa invited a few of her colleagues from the college for dinner, and I didn’t want to be in the way.”
“You’ve come to the right place if you want sports talk.”
“Good. I can hold my own when it comes to the Red Sox.”
“The Red Sox pretty much rule around here.”
“Okay. Good.”
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