Fireflies in the Field

by Elizabeth Bromke

  “True.” Amelia sighed. “But I’m not sick of Sarah.”

  “Our arrangement now is temporary. If we really are making a go of staying here… then we have to bring in money. We have to have a home—a real one. Not a two-bedroom apartment while our daughter couch surfs across the shoreline.”

  “So, you need jobs,” Amelia pointed out as though she’d not listened to one word Megan had said. “Is Brian moving forward with his app idea?”

  “What app idea?” Megan spat back, sarcasm coating her throat. “It’s dead in the water. I think he’s even secretly applying to software companies in the city.”

  Amelia’s eyes narrowed on the last available red bit on her rind. “Oh.” She bit in, the crunch an obnoxious distraction from Megan’s desperation.

  “You can’t really start a business without capital. We could use the savings if Brian is going to skip his app idea. But I can’t tell him not to follow his dream if I’m following mine.”

  “Dreams, ha.” Amelia took a long swig of her ice water and set it down with finality. “You need more than a dream to find happiness, you know. Take it from someone who is intimately familiar.”

  Megan’s face fell into a deep frown.

  “Listen,” Amelia said, pressing her hand over Megan’s on the table, her voice softening. “Follow your dreams. Sure, just go for it. I mean, I’m a walking example of someone who did that. But I didn’t do the work. And when I did do the work, I wasn’t smart about it.” Amelia let out a long sigh. “Megan, I bounced out of college when I was about to fail one class. I left each theater that didn’t give me a role within a couple of years, and I only applied to the biggest ones. I took on bit parts by the time I got to New York, but then I turned to waiting tables because, well, it was easier than the other hard work. Learning to act was hard work. Memorizing pages and pages and sticking to a diet or whatever, it all seemed like hard work. And I didn’t get a good routine going. So even though I stuck it out in New York, by that point I was working hard on waiting tables and keeping up my social life. But I wasn’t working hard or smart. Your so-called dream come true is not going to slot into place because you willed it to. Just because you two say you’re back together. Or you say Sarah’s going to start her senior year here. You say you’re going to do this and that. Stop saying and start doing. And do it smart. And work hard.” Finishing her impromptu monologue, Amelia leaned back and smiled.

  Megan leaned forward. “You know what? You’re right.” She pulled her hand out from Amelia’s, twisted in her seat, and called across the beach toward the tower, where the men were. “Brian!”

  He didn’t appear immediately, and Megan figured he couldn’t hear her. She called again and still no reply.

  “What are you doing today?” she asked Amelia, suddenly inspired.

  “Um. Working around here?” It came out like a question.

  “Great,” Megan answered. “I need you to call Party People, that rental place up the shoreline. Order three big tents for Saturday of Labor Day weekend.”

  “Now?” Amelia asked, bewildered.

  “Now,” Megan answered, wild.

  Then, she took off toward the lighthouse, slogging through sand as thick as mud until she came upon the entrance.

  Peering inside, she saw a painting, hung evenly on the far wall. It was a family portrait of the original Hannigan family. The ones who first moved to the lake and erected the house on the harbor.

  Not the Actons.

  Brian and Michael weren’t on the ground floor. She looked up along the winding metal staircase and to the observation deck through a knot in the floor of it. Unable to see them, she neared the painting.

  If they’d uncovered it in the cellar, then that meant that it somehow had made its way from the house on the harbor to the lighthouse, an unlikely journey for a painting that would have meant nothing to her Acton grandparents, who’d long ago written off Nora as being a salacious tramp who took their son for granted and saw to it that he ran away for good.

  The presence of the painting meant something else. It meant that Wendell himself had probably brought it there.

  It meant that maybe, just maybe, no love was lost between Nora and Wendell. Maybe he wasn’t angry. Maybe he didn’t leave.

  “I brought it over from the house.” Amelia’s voice loomed behind Megan, whose face fell.

  “I thought you said you got it out of the cellar here?”

  Amelia shook her head. “Not this one.” Then she ascended the staircase. Megan followed.

  As they squeezed through to the platform, they found Brian and Michael, hanging a smaller painting, also a portrait.

  This one of just Grandpa and Grandma Acton.

  “I wanted them to have a view,” Amelia added as Megan stared at it.

  “A view of what?” Megan asked.

  “Of wherever their son is.”

  A chill tickled Megan’s spine, but she chalked it up to her sister’s weirdness. After all, Megan had things to do. Decisions to make. A life to rebuild. A life her own father had long ago chosen to abandon.

  Two days later, things were in motion. Tents, tables, and chairs were reserved. Food and drinks had been ordered from the Harbor Deli. Adult beverages from The Bottle. All they had to do now was clear the field and start advertising.

  Megan couldn’t believe how simple it was to plan a big party. Surely, everything was made easier by Kate’s adept ability to work the phone and Amelia’s charm in situating them with the local distributors. Still, it felt a little too good to be true. So far.

  With Brian, Matt, and Michael assigned to the field (lawn mowers, weed whackers, clippers, and a rented trailer in tow), it came time to make a big, in-town announcement and then start blasting social media with news of Birch Harbor’s first summer mixer, the perfect evening out for singles, near and far.

  “Where do I even start with this marketing crap?” Megan asked Kate that morning over mimosas on her back porch. “Where are you starting?”

  “You mean with my Inn-Warming Party?” Kate lifted a manicured eyebrow. For all the grunt work she’d been at lately, it appeared to Megan that her older sister had aged in reverse. She’d taken on a new elegance. She got a haircut and added low lights to her blonde. When she wasn’t in jeans and a white tee with paint smeared across the front, Kate wore crisp collared blouses and neat khaki shorts. Her tan legs stretched down into white boat shoes. She looked more and more like a female version of Matt, even. Glowing and happy.

  “Well, yeah. How are you advertising the Inn-Warming?” Megan answered through a silly British accent, as if to mock Kate, who was too bubbly to notice.

  “Okay, so.” Kate launched into a detailed overview. The Inn had social media pages and a website which was how she reached out to tourists. Locally, she had an advertisement in the bulletin at St. Rita’s and even one in the newspaper. “But I let that one expire. Way too pricey.”

  “Hm.” Megan sipped her drink and stared across the water, looking past Amelia and Sarah, spread like blobs on beach chairs near the waterline. “Do you want to know something weird Amelia did?”

  “Amelia’s always doing weird things.”

  “True,” Megan allowed. “I’ll tell you, anyway. She hung Grandma and Grandpa Acton’s portrait up in the observation deck of the lighthouse.”

  “Where? Isn’t the observation deck all windowpanes?”

  “No. There’s a little wall at the back. It’s supposed to be a bulletin board or something for record keeping.”

  “That is weird,” Kate agreed.

  “She said she thought they could have a view of Wendell.”

  Kate lowered her glass and studied Megan. “A view of him? Does Amelia know something we don’t?”

  Megan shrugged. “No. She’s just nutty, as far as I can tell. That’s what I’m saying, though.”

  “Amelia!” Kate shouted down to the beach where Amelia’s chestnut hair shook off the back of her chair and she twisted to gawk up at the
m.

  “What!” her voice floated back.

  Kate waved her hand to gesture her in.

  Languidly, Amelia rolled off her chair and shielded her eyes as she looked up at the porch. “What!”

  “Come here!”

  Megan watched as Amelia gesticulated to Sarah then strode through the sand, drawing stares from a group of passersby. She could have been a model, rather than an actress.

  “What?” she said again, cocking her hands on her waist as she took each porch step like she was in an aerobics video. Amelia was the only forty-something Megan knew who could pull off a bikini and not look indecent. It could be her athletic build (she’d dropped ten pounds since moving to the lake). Or her quirky nature. Probably a combination of the two.

  “A picture of the Actons in the lighthouse? Why?” Kate accused.

  Amelia shrugged and frowned. “So they could have a—”

  “A view?” Kate answered for her. Then she leaned forward. “Have you and Michael unearthed something that we should know about? Did Dad escape to Heirloom Island or something?”

  At that Amelia laughed, flopped into a seat next to them and poured herself a mimosa with one of the extra flutes. “Actually, that is my theory.”

  “Oh, please,” Megan snorted. “If he were on the island, we’d have heard about it faster than if he were shore-side. Or in Detroit, for that matter.”

  Amelia took a long swig, then shook her head and came up for air. “Michael dug up the case reports.” She placed her glass on the table with intention then looked at each of them.

  Kate glanced at Megan then wrinkled her brow. “And?” she prodded.

  A wide grin spread on Amelia’s mouth, a smeary type of smile, lazy and loose. “Nothing. Hah. Come on, girls. Don’t you think I would have told you if I knew something? But,” she went on with new emphasis. “None of the case reports indicate that they even searched the island.”

  Megan batted away the conversation, disinterested and growing irritated. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’ve got to get rolling with marketing. While you’re up here, tell me something, Am. Where do all the single people congregate in this town? Because I suspect St. Mary’s and the Birch Bee daily circular aren’t going to cut it if I want to hit my target number.”

  “And what is your target number?” Kate asked.

  Carefully, slowly, Megan tested out her business plan. “For the first mixer, I’d like to draw in an even number close to or right at twenty. Fourteen being the minimum for what I think is successful. I’ve been studying The Millionaire Matchmaker, The Bachelor and The Bachelorette, Blind Date, and Make Me a Match. Twenty could be a lot for me to manage at first, but if I aim high, then at least I’ll have that momentum.

  Kate interrupted. “Tell me you’re not basing your entire business model off of reality dating competitions.”

  “I’m not,” Megan spat back. “Just listen.” Kate and Amelia both set their elbows on the table and fell quiet, staring intently at their younger sister. “Okay, so I’m not going to pull any punches. I’ll make it crystal clear it’s a singles mixer. Not a swingers mixer, mind you. The idea is to show up if you’re on the market. You can bring friends, whatever. More like speed dating, this way. You’ll get a cute little name tag, a ticket for three drinks max, a personal introduction with one of the matchmakers—”

  “What?” Amelia chimed in. “What do you mean a personal introduction with one of the matchmakers?”

  Grinning, she replied, “Well, I’m like the head matchmaker. If I can get to know each attendee, I can mingle through the crowd and help facilitate love connections.”

  Kate smirked. “That doesn’t sound like you, Megan. The mingling. The facilitation.”

  “You’re right,” Megan confessed. “I’ll be stepping out of my comfort zone. It’ll be hard. That’s where you two come in. And Clara, too, if she’s up to the task.”

  “She won’t be,” Amelia bemoaned. “She’s not a joiner.”

  “Well, that’s on her, then. Kate, I’ll let you bug her about it.” Kate took a sip of mimosa and murmured something vague about trying, so Megan went on. “Okay, so if you agree to be there, then perfect. We will start the night with a little convocation or something, to identify each of us in our roles. We wouldn’t want to be mistaken for…

  “For a hot local single?” Amelia joked, laughing at herself maniacally.

  Kate rolled her eyes, but Megan just nodded solemnly. “Right. It has to be professional but fun and flirty. That’s the tone. Speaking of which,” Megan paused and drank from her glass. “This is not a hook-up thing. I want to make that crystal clear. If we roll this out and people get wind that it’s some free-for-all, then there’s no longevity. Or, even if there is longevity, it’s not what I’m going for. I want tasteful. I want seasonal. I want true love for these events. And that’s why I’ll also host showers and weddings. True. Love.” Megan stabbed a finger on the table for each word.

  12

  Clara

  “You want me to make social media pages for your business?” she asked Megan.

  Clara had slept in late. Then, once she did get up, she stayed in bed reading for another hour before she slipped back into sleep. Finally, after eleven, she tore herself from her sheets and threw on a bathing suit, fully intending to spend the day at the lake, maybe on Heirloom Cove, where she could be alone. She’d spent the last several days in the suffocating company of her sisters, working on this, that, and the other in order to push forward their many projects.

  Projects.

  Clara was not much for projects, unlike the rest of her family. Her perfect day consisted of a good book, a long walk, and then a yummy dinner alongside a jigsaw puzzle. And, while she fully realized the need to start making that change she’d told herself she was going to make (no Miss Havisham-Hannigans here, thankyouverymuch!), change was a long game. Clara couldn’t just dive into being personable and sociable and energetic all at once. What was more, she had to save some of her energy for the new school year which loomed ahead on the tails of the Inn-Warming party and the grand opening for Megan’s thing. What was it called? A sizzler? A spritzer?

  Mixer.

  Right.

  But it was noon now, and she’d had enough respite to ride her bike—oh yes, Clara wasn’t all blankets and books at the cottage—all the way down to the house on the harbor. And there she was, munching on a croissant while both Kate and Megan had their laptops propped open on the kitchen island, pointed like lasers at Clara and turning her into some sort of tech go-to.

  Megan replied, “Well, I can do some of it. But I need your help. You’re young and hip, a little.”

  “A little?” Clara grunted. “If you don’t think I’m a lot hip, then why would you want my help?”

  Pushing out a sigh, Megan nudged the computer closer to Clara. “You are hip. And you’ve got a direct link to my primary target audience.”

  “Which is?” Clara pushed back.

  It was Amelia who answered this time. “Your youth. Your station in life. You, Clara, are single and ready to mingle in Birch Harbor, Michigan. Are you not?”

  “I am not.” Clara took another bite of her croissant then chased it with a long pull of black coffee.

  “Well,” Megan navigated to a different account on her computer. “You are single. You do live in Birch Harbor. We just need to know about the mingling part, too. Okay? Surely, you’ve had crushes or an interest in someone. Surely, a boy, or a man, has asked you out. You’ve gone on dates! Tell us, Clar. What is it like to date in your generation? What are you? Generation Y? A millennial?”

  “I don’t know what I am, and yes, I’ve been on dates. It’s no different than you guys. Someone texts you or messages you, you make plans, you sit through an awkward dinner and contemplate drinking a second glass of wine, decide against it, leave, get home fast so you can unbutton your jeans and take a full breath, then swear you’re never doing it again.”

  Amelia laughed, bu
t Clara just shrugged, accepting her fate as the Guinea pig for Megan’s science experiment. If she had one thing to cling to, it was that at least she was a sister. She was important. Even if she was the runty baby of the family, maybe that was better than the lonely single child of the mother who was just a tick too old to have children anymore. She perked up a little. “Okay, so the difference is…”

  Megan immediately sensed the shift and squeezed Clara into her, a display of enthusiasm and affection Clara didn’t realize the woman still possessed. It was refreshing. Like old times, when Clara was just a little girl and Megan was the closest in age—twelve years older, but still there. Around. Available for cuddles off and on and late-night cartoons. When Megan left, Clara was just six or so. It was a long stretch of time before she’d know her again outside of the weekend persona that sulked in and out of town on obligations alone.

  Fortunately, being back in Birch Harbor for good had apparently changed Kate and Megan. Clara noticed this and was starting to cling to it. A bit of spirit returned. The good old days in the flesh.

  “The difference is the online experience. That’s how we meet these days. The in-person thing is for old people.”

  Megan pouted briefly then her lips spread into a thin line. She put on a thinking face. “That’s not all bad. I mean, I did say it could be all ages. Maybe we’ll have some young online people and older offline people. We just have to make sure we cater to everyone.”

  “If you’re going to cater to people like me, you have to find us online. We don’t read the bulletin board at the Village. Or the one in the market. We scroll. Scroll, stop, read. Scroll, scroll.”

  “Okay, right. That’s why we’re doing this.” Megan pointed to the screen then gestured Clara to move her hands to the keyboard. “Work your magic, babe. There may be a second croissant in it for you if you can get me up and running by dinner.”