by Mia March
There were seven of them, stacked up on top of each other in two rows on a faded, old rug. Isabel grabbed one and sat down cross-legged on the rug and opened the thin wood top. Clothing. Shirts and sweaters, neatly folded. Years ago Lolly had told Isabel and June to go through them and take what they wanted, that perhaps she’d donate the rest to Goodwill, but clearly Lolly hadn’t been able to get rid of anything. Isabel slipped her hands underneath sweaters and shirts, feeling for the journals. Lolly had said there were two, hard-backed, red-fabric books with the outline of an angel embroidered on each. If they were here, she’d feel them, but as she went through, there was only clothing. She felt a bit guilty for being relieved.
She went through two more trunks, but the diaries weren’t in either. Lolly had said she’d last read them right after Isabel’s mother had died—fifteen years ago. Perhaps she’d forgotten where she’d put them. Or maybe the diaries would be in the last trunk Isabel checked. Murphy’s Law said they would be.
At the bottom of the third trunk she saw one of her mother’s favorite sweaters, a dusty-pink cashmere with a V-neck. A few weeks before the accident, her mother had been wearing that sweater when she’d been yelling at Isabel for cutting her last two classes and being caught (by the mother of one of June’s friends) skinny-dipping with two guys, both of whom she was dating. Isabel had screamed something like “It’s not a huge deal,” and her mother had grabbed her arm, hard, and Isabel had been shocked, but her mother pulled her against her, wrapping her arms around her tight, even though Isabel’s arms hung at her sides. “The huge deal is that I love you so much, Isabel. I care about everything you do, everything you are. That’s what the huge deal is.” For a moment she let her mother hold her, hoping she wouldn’t say another word and make Isabel run off, but she went on, “I wish I knew how to reach you. Make you care about yourself.” Isabel had squirmed and tried to get away, but her mother had tightened her grip. “I love you whether you want me to or not,” she’d said, then abruptly released her.
I want you to, Isabel had thought, running to her room and slamming the door, which had gotten her into more trouble for bothering June, who’d been studying for a test.
Isabel pulled out the sweater and brought it to her nose. It faintly smelled of the perfume her mother always wore, Coco by Chanel. She could remember the weeks when she’d been fourteen and she’d started to change, when she’d been so impressed by a trio of wild girls who didn’t care what anyone thought of them. She hadn’t realized then, of course, that they hadn’t cared about themselves, as her mother had always said of them and Isabel, that they had no self-esteem. They were popular for their antics when Isabel was invisible for being herself. She’d passed some test without even meaning to in front of the school one afternoon when one of the girls handed her two cigarettes and said her mother would search her, so would Isabel hide them for her until tomorrow? Just like that, Isabel was in. The next day, she had a borrowed shirt—tight and sexy. Then a borrowed pair of cool jeans to go with it. Borrowed knee-high black leather boots. By the following week, she wore black eyeliner and big hoop earrings. “It’s just a phase, leave her be,” her mother would say to her father, who’d made his feelings about her new look quite clear. But the phase lasted until a week after the accident. When Edward told her she had such beautiful eyes, if only he could see them. She’d washed off her makeup, and he said, “Much better. You are so pretty.” In days she was choosing clothes from the back of her closet, the clothes her mother had insisted on buying her in hopes of her dressing like a normal teenager. Her “friends” had been so freaked out by the accident, by what to say to her, as so many people had been, that they’d disappeared on her. They hadn’t even come to the funeral.
“I’m sorry I was so awful,” Isabel whispered to the sweater. And instead of feeling awful, the way she always did when she remembered these times, she felt… okay. Almost as if apologizing to her mother’s favorite sweater, which still smelled so much like her, was like saying I’m sorry to her mother. To herself too.
She stood up, the sweater in hand, unable to go through another trunk, at least not today. She’d let her aunt know that she did look for the diaries, show her the sweater as proof, and promise to look through the rest tomorrow.
She took one last glance around at her parents’ things, then went back upstairs and closed the door. She was heading up the main stairs when she heard the front door open and raised voices.
“Stop treating me like I’m Emmy!” a girl was shouting. Griffin Dean’s teenaged daughter. “I’m fourteen! It’s just a walk!”
Griffin closed the door behind him. “Alexa, you’re not going off with a strange boy. Period. But especially not at”—he glanced at his watch—“eight twenty at night.”
“Then why’d you make me come here if I can’t do anything?” Alexa screamed, tears running down her cheeks. She turned and ran upstairs past Isabel, almost knocking into her. A door slammed.
Isabel hadn’t meant to be right in the middle of the Dean family drama, but there she was.
She expected Griffin to sheepishly smile and say, Teenagers, but he closed his eyes and just stood there, very still, and Isabel thought he might cry too.
“I used to be just like that,” she said as she came back down the stairs and stood at the landing. “In fact, I think I said that exact thing to my father and he said that exact thing back.”
He glanced at her. “And did you go screaming and crying upstairs and slam doors?”
She nodded. “Oh, yeah. Lots of that.”
“But everything turned out okay, right? Everything will be okay, right?” he asked, with a hint of a smile for the first time.
“I guess it did. But I wish I could go back and change things.”
A door opened on the second floor and a little voice said, “Daddy?”
“She must have woken Emmy.” He shook his head and headed upstairs. “She rarely wakes up once she’s down for the night,” he said over his shoulder. “Unless Alexa slams a door. She does that a lot these days.”
“Daddy,” Emmy said at the landing. She clutched a stuffed, yellow bunny rabbit. “I’m thirsty. Can I have hot chocolate milk?”
He turned toward Isabel. “Kitchen open?”
“Of course.” She waited for Griffin to go up and scoop Emmy in his arms and carry her downstairs, then led the way to the kitchen.
“Can I sit there?” Emmy asked, pointing at Kat’s papasan chair with its overstuffed, round, pink cushion.
“Sure can,” Isabel said, watching the toddler amble over. She was such a pretty girl. Her hair was a burnished dark brown with copper highlights, and her eyes were almost the same color.
As Isabel made the hot chocolate and offered Griffin something to drink, which he declined, he scooped Emmy up in his arms, sat down on the big, pink chair and started whispering the story of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.” When he finished, he kissed Emmy on the head.
Isabel handed the girl a not-too-hot hot chocolate in a little plastic pink cup with polka dots.
Emmy stared at Isabel as she took a sip, then another. “You’re pretty.”
Isabel felt herself blush. “Thank you. I think you’re pretty too.”
“I like when my mommy brushes my hair. Before bedtime. Now Lexa does it.”
Was Griffin widowed? Divorced?
“Would you like me to brush your hair, Emmy?” Isabel asked.
The girl stared at Isabel, then shook her head and buried her face in her father’s chest.
Griffin handed the pink cup back to Isabel. “Sweets, let’s get you back to bed. Good night,” he said to Isabel, then was gone.
She waited for him to come back down, to offer him a beer or a glass of wine or coffee, but once she’d polished every possible wood surface and ran the sweeper over the rugs in the hallways and in the parlor, she real
ized over an hour had gone by and he never did come back. Never had she so badly wanted to sit outside with someone in the breezy August air and say nothing at all.
CHAPTER 8
June
In June’s first three hours as manager of the Boothbay Harbor Books Brothers, she’d hand-sold four novels, two biographies, a travel guide to northern New England, special-ordered five books, rung up more than $300 in various purchases, and sold over $200 of children’s books to a Mommy and Me group that had wandered in after their coffee hour across the street.
A great morning, even for the Friday of Labor Day weekend. And great personally too. Boothbay Harbor or not, a bookstore—Books Brothers, in particular, of course—was June’s territory and probably the place she felt most comfortable, most herself. She sat behind the counter of the checkout desk on her director’s chair, working on a list of “Bring in New Business” initiatives. She’d already talked to Henry about a weekly book club and children’s story hour, and she was thinking about a Coffee Klatch—general talk about books, life, come-hang-out-with-good-coffee-and-conversation kind of thing in the early evenings, a drop-in type of event where people could relax—and then go book shopping.
The bell over the door jangled, and June was about to look up from jotting down her new idea when a woman said, “Juney Nash? Is it you?”
Oh, no. That couldn’t be good.
She put her pen down on the Books Brothers stationery pad to glance into the cold blue eyes of Pauline Altman. Twice in one summer. And with her two old friends, Marley Something and Carrie Fish. The trio had been quadruple threats: smart, pretty, popular—and not so nice.
“I always wondered what happened to you since I saw you last!” Pauline said, adjusting the white bathing-suit straps that peeked out of her sundress. “Last time I saw you, you were so pregnant.”
Carrie’s big diamond ring glinted on her finger. “Oh, that’s right, Pauline, you said June had gotten pregnant and dropped out of college. So you’ve been working here all this time?”
“I was living in Portland for the last seven years.” June kicked herself for feeling the need to explain herself at all. “But my aunt is sick, so I’ve moved back to help out.”
They all nodded with fake sympathy. Well, except for Marley Something, who was too busy flipping through Vogue at the magazine rack.
“Well, I guess you’ll be at the all-years reunion in October, then,” Pauline said. “Everyone wondered why you weren’t at our five-year, and I discreetly explained your… situation,” she added in a whisper, as though June had had a communicable disease.
The reunion. Ha. There was no way June was going to that, even if Kat and Isabel were attending. Labor Day weekend brought half their classmates back to town as it was. “It all depends how my aunt is feeling in late October.”
“Of course,” Carrie said, admiring her ring. “Oh, did you hear that Pauline is now associate editor of New York City magazine? She had the most amazing party to celebrate the promotion. Oh, God, you should see her apartment. Terrace with a view of the Empire State Building and a million lights.”
“That’s great, Pauline,” June said, an unwelcome twinge spiraling into her stomach. And it was great, really. It was exactly the life June had wanted.
As the three women browsed among the shelves and displays, Pauline worked in a mention of her boyfriend, a senior producer at ABC News, her summer share in the Hamptons, and the new boat her parents, who lived in one of the most gorgeous waterfront houses in Boothbay Harbor, had bought this summer. “Too bad I’m only visiting for Labor Day weekend. It’s glorious here.” Pauline and Carrie stood in front of the checkout with armloads of books. “You’re so lucky you get to live here year-round again, Juney. The city is so hot in the summer.”
“I remember,” June said as she rang up their purchases. Pauline bought a literary bestseller, a memoir, a travel guide to Machu Picchu, and a complete hardback set of Harry Potter—for her “gifted eight-year-old niece.” Carrie bought two celebrity cookbooks. And Marley Something bought nothing. Between Pauline and Carrie, they spent a small fortune. So there was that.
Pauline put her gold credit card back in her wallet and took her shopping bag. “The other day I was visiting my sister while her husband was traveling, and, oh my God, Juney, I totally tip my hat to you single mothers. We had to do everything ourselves without a break! I really don’t know how you do it. It must be so hard.”
June could almost see the condescension falling out of Pauline’s glossed mouth.
“What’s worse for single mothers,” Carrie added, “is that no one has your back at all. You do everything alone, and then there’s no husband to call on his business trip to complain to. That must be so hard and lonely.”
God, June hated these two.
“June, when you get a minute, I need your help in the office” came the voice of Henry Books from the back of the store. Saved. Thank you, Henry.
The women all turned to see Henry heading into his office. “Damn, he’s hot,” Carrie whispered. “Single?”
Marley Something, who June had always thought looked like an angel with her huge blue eyes, heart-shaped face, and petite figure, put the magazine away and came to stand behind her friends. “He’s a total catch.” At least the first thing that had come out of her mouth was nice. And accurate.
“God, Marley, this is why you’re so single,” Pauline said. “He’s hardly a catch. He owns a bookstore. Please.”
“Meaning?” June asked, staring at Pauline. How obnoxious.
Pauline rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I absolutely do.” And I feel sorry for you. Thanks for making me realize you’re nothing but a snotty, shallow bitch. And I don’t care what snotty, shallow bitches think.
June did hope that Henry hadn’t heard what Pauline had said, though she doubted he’d give two figs in the slightest. Henry was the most self-assured person June had ever met. He was who he was, and if you didn’t like it, oh, well.
June was about to leave the three witches and go see what Henry wanted when Marley slammed the Vogue magazine back on the rack and walked back up to Pauline and stuck her finger in her face. “You know what, Pauline? I’m so sick and tired of you and your snotty I’m-better-than-everyone attitude. You’re not. And I’ve had it.”
Whoa. Go, Marley.
Pauline’s eyes widened, but she quickly recovered. “Find your own way back to your little shack, then.” She turned to leave, Carrie, openmouthed, trailing after her. “Told you she’s been a freak lately, Carrie. Ew. Oh, and Marley Mathers? You’re out.” With that, Pauline pulled open the door, and Carrie shoved a rack of postcards by the door so they’d fall out.
You could take the girls out of high school…
“Immature bitches,” Marley said, going over to pick up the postcards. June went over to help, kneeling down beside Marley. Which was when June noticed she was crying.
“They’re not worth it,” June said.
“It’s not them,” Marley whispered, wiping under her eyes, which were the strangest combination of scared, upset, and, oddly enough, happy. She collected the postcards and put them in June’s hands, then darted to the nonfiction section. In moments she was standing in front of the checkout counter with a book pressed up against her stomach and her arms crisscrossed against it as though she didn’t want anyone to see what it was.
But June knew what it was. She’d know that book, off-size and familiar, anywhere.
June went behind the counter to ring up the book. But Marley didn’t hand it over. “Marley?” June prompted, gently as she could.
“I—” Marley started to say, her chin-length brown bob falling in her face, her lower lip trembling again.
To give Marley some privacy, June slipped the book into a Books Brothers bag. “Come sit,”
she said, gesturing at the little round café table facing the magazine rack. June poured a cup of lemon water for Marley and sat down across from her. And waited.
Marley’s hands were shaking on the cup of water. “I just found out that—” She leaned close to June and whispered, “That I’m—” She glanced around the store, as if to make sure no one she knew was around. Then she took a sip of her water. Anything, it seemed, not to say the word.
As “So Single” Marley bit her lip and stared at her hands, which were indeed ringless, June waited, giving her a chance to say what she needed to say. But her face crumpled and she closed her eyes.
“It’s a good book that you chose,” June whispered, giving Marley’s hand a compassionate squeeze. She remembered taking What to Expect When You’re Expecting out of the library and reading it week by week, afraid to move ahead, not ready to learn more than she needed to know at any given moment. “And it’s on me. But if there’s anything I can help you with, you just let me know, okay? Even if you just want to talk.”
June had a feeling that what Marley needed to know most, what she could expect, would not be found in the pages of any book.
The bell jangled and a few people came in.
“I need to go,” Marley said, bolting up. “Don’t tell anyone, please? No one knows yet.”
“Of course I won’t.”
Marley eyed June as though debating something. “So, I could give you a call, if I have a question?”
June wrote her cell phone number on the back of a Books Brothers card. “Anyone who tells off Pauline Altman is okay by me.” She smiled, and Marley gave her a wobbly smile back, but then she sobered again. “Seriously, Marley, anytime. I know how it feels to be pregnant and alone,” she added in a whisper.