“Do you think they’re going to fire me?”
“No,” Kate spat back. “And if they do, we have Michael now.” She shook her shoulders a little, twisted her hand around the knife and set into a fresh kiwi, peeling and slicing in quick form.
“Then what does she need to discuss?” Clara asked, apparently moved to action by the looming drama, because instead of sitting there helpless and hopeless, she took to filling glasses with ice for tea or lemonade.
The guests would be down and expect their early evening appetizers in just minutes. Kate set her knife on the towel by the cutting board. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand then carried the kiwi skins to the disposal, churning them to bits with the loud motor—the appliance was a relic of the time Nora started modernizing the house. At last, she washed her hands and dried them on her apron and took another deep breath, this one more satisfying. Everything was now set for appetizers.
“Look, the only way you’ll know is to call her back. And you better do it fast.” Kate pointed to the clock. “It’s nearly four-thirty. They may not hang around until five during the summer.”
Clara nodded, massaged her neck with one hand and retrieved the phone from the table. “I’m sort of freaked out.”
Kate strode to her and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “It’s probably nothing. Really, Clar. But it is a crappy way of saying nothing. You know? I mean really, everyone knows by now that you don’t text or leave a message with ‘We need to talk.’” She scoffed. “Let’s just chalk it up as an advantage for you. You know it’s a rude thing to do. You’re bigger than that. You can handle whatever silly little summer professional development demand or curriculum question she has.” Clara’s face remained unflinching. Kate sighed. “Listen, I’m sorry I got you even more worked up. I’m… I’m stressed. Here.” She pulled out a chair at the table and pushed Clara down into it before taking her own seat. “Call her. Quickly. Before the guests come down.” Kate glanced through the kitchen doorway, assuring they had privacy.
Swallowing audibly, Clara woke her phone and tapped away before bringing it to her ear.
Kate offered a small, encouraging smile, and Clara’s face loosened somewhat.
From her close proximity, Kate could hear the principal answer.
“Hi, Clara,” came a high, pinched voice. “Thanks for returning my call.”
“Hello, yes. I’m happy to help. What was it you needed to discuss?” Clara flicked a worried look up at Kate, who nodded her on.
The woman launched into her reply, and Kate narrowed her gaze on the phone, but shuffling on the stairs tore her attention away. Crap. Appetizer hour.
She gestured to Clara to take off toward the parlor and sank immediately back into stress. She could stall the guests, or she could sit with Clara.
Kate mouthed to her little sister, “Want me to come?” Clara frowned deeply, shook her head and batted Kate away.
Taking another deep breath, Kate forced herself to give her attention to the line of guests who were ready for Sip and Snack on the Deck, as she called it in her brochure.
“Welcome, welcome!” Kate cheered to the tired-looking group as they funneled in and stood awkwardly around the kitchen island.
“I see some unfamiliar faces, so I bet you’re the ones who went to go park the car while your wives checked you in,” Kate joked. They chuckled politely.
She spoke to them as if she were addressing a much bigger audience—more than the seven people who stood, hands in pockets, taking in the scenery. That was the trick, though. Practice how you play. Dress for the job you want. All those business adages from her brief stint in real estate became useful once she started gaining more traction with the Heirloom Inn.
That weekend saw a fresh, full house. The second floor was completely booked, and even the room they reserved for themselves or other family was filled. This was a risk Kate took. One she had to, if she was ever going to get anywhere. It was one thing to fantasize about reserving a room for the shadows of hope that came with a big family… maybe one day Ben or Will would surprise her with a visit. They’d bring a girlfriend, maybe. Maybe one day Wendell Acton would sweep back into town, needing a place to dry his boots before he told them about his wild adventure around the world.
* * *
But maybes didn’t pay the bills. Not the utilities. Not the food. Nothing.
So, without the permission of her sisters, Kate booked the Heirloom Inn clear up until Labor Day weekend. And that was that.
She began the Sip and Snack with a brief tour of the premises and a historical introduction of what was formerly called the house on the harbor, both to locals and to the Hannigan family. “The property was settled around the turn of the century,” she went on, glancing back and winking. “As in 1900, for those of you who might be wondering.” Another ripple of chuckles.
“The Hannigans were a fierce bunch of settlers who’d made their way from Ellis Island looking for a place to call home. Something like what they knew back in Ireland. There aren’t many shaggy green cliffs along the northern U.S., however,” Kate added playfully. “Turns out the Great Lakes were good enough. Family lore has it that as that original Hannigan brood trekked north along the water, they stopped in a grove of birch trees that carried on for some miles across the land and up and down the lake. Once they stopped, though, Great Gran refused to go one step more.” By this time in the story, Kate was standing with the small crowd at the back of the barn beneath a pretty thicket of birches. “Legend says that she walked down to the shore from here, eased herself onto the sand, pulled her little black boots from her aging feet, and slid them into the cool water.”
Kate looked back at the group, clasped her hands in front of her waist. “And the rest is history.”
The story was true. Or true as Kate knew it to be. It was the same precious memory she’d first heard from her own Hannigan grandparents back when she was a young child. Before everyone left for greener pastures. It was a little story that worked its way into a tragic half-memory for Kate. For, as her grandparents left and it was just Nora who remained, Kate always dreaded the day that no Hannigan woman would plop down on the beach and declare that she wasn’t going anywhere.
Nora stayed on. Not at the house on the harbor, but in town.
Then, disappointing in some ways, to herself, Kate went and got married. To Paul. That’s when she decided that if she couldn’t stick around town, she’d at least follow in her mother’s footsteps of keeping the Hannigan name, just as Nora had. Carry on the line. Defy tradition and stick to it all at once.
Once Kate moved away for good (or what felt like good), she began to worry. Worry that she may never come back.
“Was it always a bed-and-breakfast?” one of the guests asked as they picked their way through weedy sand and onto the green grass of the backyard.
Kate smiled, “No. It was only ever a family home.”
“So, why commercialize?” the woman’s husband asked. Perhaps he was well-meaning. Perhaps he had no clue of the weight of his words. The accusation dripping in his voice. That she was soulless. A sell-out. Something hideous. Someone who didn’t value her family history.
Kate stopped at the foot of her porch and looked out to the lake, a gentle breeze billowing her gauzy blouse. At the end of her line of vision was Sarah and her little clique of friends. Vivi was there. They laughed and kicked at the water and Kate felt suddenly dizzy, like she was flying through time back to her own teenage years. Before Matt. Before Clara. Before everything changed.
And she wondered if she’d made a mistake. If there might have been another way to cling to the past. To keep the house and all its memories without calling out to looky-loo tourists like these to come tromp on her personal history and ask rude questions.
Then, she thought of Matt and his skillful way with fixing it up. She thought of her sisters branching out into their own ventures.
She thought of her mother, her mother who loved tourists, unlik
e every other local in Birch Harbor, and at last Kate replied in an even, soft voice. “You’re right. This shore always belonged to us. It was always a bit of a fight between the town and the family and the locals who wander across the private beach down there.” She pointed to Sarah and the girls and a throng of beach walkers, unwitting trespassers.
“What do you mean?” the man returned, his crotchety voice pressing on her nerves but pushing her closer and closer to some truth she never knew existed.
Kate frowned at him. “It came time to share.”
With the guests meandering about the property and down to the beach, drinks and fruit kebabs in their hands, Kate slipped back inside and searched for Clara.
She was sitting quietly on the sofa. Just waiting, like a child in time-out.
“Clar,” Kate said, lowering herself on the cushion next to her. “I’m so sorry I had to shoo you out. What happened with the call?” She searched Clara’s eyes and saw hurt there, but Kate wasn’t sure if it was from the bad timing of things or news of the call. “Clara, I said I’m sorry—”
“No,” Clara replied, shaking her head. “It’s not you. I know you’re busy, it’s the call.” She let out a sigh. “It wasn’t a good call. No professional development. No curriculum questions.”
Kate’s face twisted and she braced herself. “What was it?” she asked as she bit her lower lip.
Their whole affect had changed. Gone was the ire over the vague message. Gone was the frantic stress of prepping the appetizers.
“A parent complaint. A few parent complaints, actually.” Clara’s eyes welled up instantly. She looked like she’d been holding in the tears the whole time Kate was waxing poetic about Hannigan family history.
“What?” Kate gasped. “What complaint?”
Clara shook her head and a tear plunked from each eye, streaming down her cheeks synchronously. She wiped them off and sniffed, composing herself. “They questioned some of the grades I gave out. They accused me of being too hard on the kids. And, I guess they think I play favorites with the smart kids.” She sniffled again, adding quietly, “One smart kid, to be exact.”
Kate let out the breath she’d been holding. “Okay, so it’s not that bad, then. You don’t play favorites. I mean, come on. You’re a professional, Clar. Is it Mercy? Is that who they mean?”
Kate knew about this Mercy child. Ethereal and brilliant, Clara’s dream student. The little sister Clara never had.
The younger of the two now nodded. “But not just her. They said it’s clear I have a preference for students who care about school.”
At that, Kate belted out a laugh. “Are you kidding me? What teacher doesn’t appreciate kids who like school? Come on! And don’t the district leaders want you to hold those kids accountable? Prepare them for high school? Don’t the parents want that, too?”
“Well, that’s the good news.” Clara’s eyes dried up, and she seemed more placid. Still not pleased. Whatever the good news was may not actually be good news. Kate sensed this.
“What?” she asked.
“They’re not firing me. I’m not in any real trouble,” Clara replied, lifting her shoulders.
“Well, it would be ridiculous if they did,” Kate answered, resting her hand on Clara’s knee. “You’re a great teacher. Surely this is all a misunderstanding. Or an overreaction.”
“I held my ground,” Clara replied, her impassive face turning to fire. “I told them I’m not there to be nice. I’m there to teach, and I won’t lower my standards. I think small-town kids need that. They need a push. I said all that to her.”
Kate leaned back at this sudden burst of confidence from Clara, meek, bookish Clara who trudged to school and home and tucked herself away to recover the energy she spent during her waking hours. “Clar, that’s great. I’m so proud of you!”
“But I can’t work at the middle school anymore,” Clara added, her mouth turning to a pout and her face flushing with the admission. “They said I’m not suited for seventh or eighth grade. Not if I’m going to take that stance.”
The roller coaster swooped Kate back up again. “Wow. So… you are fired?” She scratched her head, searching Clara’s expression for clarity. An answer.
“They aren’t firing me, no. They’re transferring me,” Clara replied, shrugging. “I’m going to the high school.”
17
Megan
The four of them were in sun-bleached Adirondack chairs on a lower deck off of the Village. The warm sand taunted Megan. She’d love to wander off with her ice cream cone at her lips and Brian’s hand in hers as they pushed through the beach and to the water, sinking in the surf together as the sun set.
But it wasn’t a double date. Or a single date.
It was a doom’s date.
“There might be a problem.” A hardness etched itself across Michael’s face. He looked nothing like Amelia’s boyfriend and everything like a lawyer. An upset lawyer with bad news.
The double scoop of vanilla in Megan’s hand started to drip down into the ridges of the waffle cone.
Still under the misbelief that his bad news didn’t pertain to her, she licked away the sweet melted cream and flicked a glance to Amelia, who frowned in return.
“What is it?” Megan asked.
Amelia added, “Is it about Dad?”
Stunned at the word, Megan swallowed. She was sick of this poorly conceived search for a man who abandoned his daughters and his wife. She was sick of Amelia’s obsession with it and her unwillingness to see how painful it was to dredge up those old memories.
For Megan, the word Dad, the name Wendell was synonymous with some of the darkest days of her life. The days she turned from sweet baby of the family to left-behind middle child. The days Nora’s already scarce cuddles and attention evaporated, leaving Megan high and dry. And yet all those cuddles and all that attention would quickly turn up anew in a different locale—baby Clara’s bassinet.
And there was no Daddy to fill the void of the already scarce cuddles and attention. No more walks on the beach, digging for twisty little shells and colorful beach rocks. No more off-the-cuff lessons about the differences between freshwater life and sea life or what it was like to grow up in a lighthouse or how much he loved Megan and her sisters.
A sob crawled up Megan’s throat and she set her jaw, ignoring Amelia’s question as best as she could.
Her appetite for dessert left her, and her hand lowered to her lap, the ice cream cone towering precariously as the sun crept downwards, dragging with it the heat of the late afternoon. The muggy air picked away at her treat, mottling the chunky mounds and forcing Megan to pad her fist with napkins, which Brian kept pushing her way, one by one like an ER nurse shoving gauze at the operating surgeon. Moments ticked by in slow measure as Michael answered.
In fact, the lawyer’s bad news had nothing to do with Wendell. No, sirree. Nothing at all.
“The town council called an emergency meeting last night. I guess your proposal landed squarely on the mayor’s desk, and the mayor was… well, he was none too pleased.”
“What are you talking about? None too pleased with a new business?” It was Brian who responded, defensive and instantly irate.
Michael held up a hand. “They post videos from each session on their webpage. I watched the whole thing. You can, too. So—”
“Wait, why?” Amelia cut him off. “Why did you watch?”
He cleared his throat. “The secretary sent me an email stating my client’s proposal would go into review for immediate consideration. She said it was a closed meeting, but that they’d upload minutes and the video this morning.”
“Client?” Megan asked. “Are you talking about me?”
Megan was not Michael’s official client. He just helped look over the proposal. Proofread it, really. She wasn’t paying him.
Amelia flushed. “I asked Michael to help us on a more official level. Pro bono,” she added quickly.
Blanching, Megan felt her ice cre
am cone grow soggy. She stared at it, unbelieving, until Brian’s hand crossed her lap, took the thing, then left to toss it.
“So, what did they say?” she asked, her voice trembling on the verge… the verge of what she didn’t know. Crushing disappointment? Anger? Sadness? The distinct realization that Brian’s hug from that morning and the picture-perfect day was a wash. She’d have to start over?
Again, Michael cleared his throat then scooted to the edge of his Adirondack chair before steepling his hands. “They rejected your request for a permit. You can’t host a mixer.”
18
Megan
“I can do whatever I want,” Megan protested, immediately feeling all of fifteen years old. She shook her head and flushed at her own petulance. “Sorry, it’s just, I don’t understand. They won’t give me a permit? Can I still have a mixer?”
Michael shrugged. “As a small party, if you want. But not long term or on a regular basis. You can’t serve beverages to a big group of people who are paying you. Not without that permit.”
“Why did they deny it?” Megan asked. Brian had scooted forward to the edge of his chair and taken her hand. It was that single gesture that kept her from lunging out of her seat and pacing the Village like a lunatic. It kept her calm. Rational. He always did.
Michael replied, “The town didn’t understand your business plan. They thought it could be more lascivious than what you’re intending to do.”
Megan’s face turned to fire, the bit of reason fighting against illogic. “What? Lascivious? As in… indecent?” Her eyes wild, she looked at Brian and Amelia who shared in her shock.
“They took it to be a swingers’ event.”
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