“Thank you for picking me up,” he’d said, as he buckled his seatbelt.
She didn’t know how to begin, and she was terrible at small talk. Suddenly she wished she’d brought Lucy. Lucy could talk to anyone about anything. Wren ached for her little girl. “How was the trip?”
“Long.”
She glanced over at him. “About three days,” he added. “Though I switched buses a couple times and stayed with a friend in Indiana.”
It seemed an eternity to sit on a bus. “You came from Tubac?”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
What was he doing in Tubac, Arizona? She’d gone so far as to Google it—an artist’s colony, population of about one thousand. But if Caleb Bailey was going to tell her that or anything else about himself, it would not be then. He pointed out the window. “Will you look at that. The old Kream n’ Kone is still there.” He turned to her. “Your mother and I used to take you girls there for fried clams and ice cream.”
The mention of her mother—of them all as a family—jolted her. Suddenly she was sitting at one of the outdoor tables, swinging her legs back and forth happily. There was a plastic tray of fried seafood. Piper was a baby, nestled on her mother’s lap. A trail of chocolate ice cream was running down her arm.
Wren turned sharply into the Chatham Motel parking lot. “It’s been redone,” she said. They pulled up in front of one of the units. Wren kept her eyes trained straight ahead.
“Very good,” he said. “I guess I’ll check in.”
Wren started to open her door to retrieve his luggage. He put his hand on hers, and she froze. “Thank you,” he said. “I know this is all very strange.”
Wren felt suddenly very small and strange, indeed.
He removed his hand. “Can I call you after I have a nap?”
“Okay. Let me help you.” She hopped out of the Jeep and pulled his bag and portfolio from the back. The suitcase was heavy, but she managed to slide it out.
“I’ve got it,” he said, reaching for the handle. But when Wren let go the full weight of the bag jerked Caleb forward and it hit the ground with a sickening smack.
“Sorry! Are you okay?”
Caleb winced, but nodded. “I’m fine,” he said, righting himself, even though she could tell he was in pain. “I’m fine, really.”
“You have my number?”
“Yes, right here.” He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded square of paper. It was the letter she’d sent. Only it had been folded into a small square, the edges worn and soiled, as if it had been carried and read many times.
He saw her looking at it oddly. “It was a long ride home.”
Home. She wasn’t sure she could agree.
“Do you need help?” she called after him. What she really wanted was to go, but she didn’t want to just leave him there either.
Caleb paused. “No, but there is something I need from you.”
Wren hesitated. She’d already agreed to see him. She’d just picked him up and driven him here. Small things, but it was still a lot.
“I’d like to take you to dinner. You and your sisters. Is the Squire still open?”
Wren nodded, but this was a terrible idea. Shannon would never go for it. Besides, the Squire was a bustling family restaurant in the heart of the village. Wren wasn’t sure she was ready for dinner. She wanted to suggest instead that they go somewhere to talk, like for a walk on the beach or her front porch. Places where they could get up and walk away if they needed to. But the way he was looking at her interrupted her thoughts.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Caleb Bailey shook his head wistfully. “You look just like her.”
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
Wren fumbled in her pocket for her keys and turned for the Jeep.
“I’ll phone you later about dinner,” he called after her.
• • •
Now, in the safety of her store, she flicked on all the lights but then changed her mind and turned them off again. She went to the cash register and stood behind the counter, running her hands over the polished wooden surface. Her eyes moved slowly around the store, taking in the lush collection of wares she’d curated and the artful displays she and Ari had carefully arranged. She was finally ready to open on Monday. There were email blasts to share and social-media reminders to post. In another hour Lucy would have to be picked up from her playdate. In the meantime, she should call her mother. Lindy would be worrying, probably watching the clock and waiting by the phone at this very moment. But she couldn’t bring herself to do any of those things.
Instead, Wren lay her head on the cool surface of the counter in her empty shop and let the tears spill. Caleb Bailey had said so, himself. He was home.
Nineteen
Shannon
“Port is right and starboard is left!”
Shannon smiled. “Other way around, buddy.”
George loved sailing. Of course, he did—all of their children enjoyed learning to sail. But George loved it. “Next time you have to stay,” he told Shannon when she’d picked him up. “I want you to watch me. It was a-ma-zing!”
Seeing his joy in the rearview mirror made her stomach sink.
“This is good for both of you,” Reid said. “I wish I could take the morning off and watch him myself.”
Their house was just a few streets over from the Yacht Club, and they’d been members since the summer they moved into the neighborhood. It was a unique place, small and rustic, in an old building on the corner of Stage Harbor Road by the marina. The club was attended by an intimate group of longtime family members, many of whom were represented by several generations summer after summer. All of the children were enrolled in sailing lessons and regattas. There were seasonal social events like clambakes and barbecues under a tent along the small strip of beach in the harbor. There was no stately clubhouse with a ballroom and lavish locker rooms. It was a place of like-minded members who loved the sea, to sail, and to socialize.
Shannon hated anything to do with the water, but what made the club palatable for her was the small bay location. It was quiet and comparably calm. You could see directly out to Monomoy Island, whose barrier protected Stage Harbor from the open waters. If she had any affection for a body of water, it was the lack of surf and relative shallowness that got her. She knew, of course, statistically speaking, that a child could drown in four inches of bathtub water. But residing on the Cape meant raising children along a coast bookended by the wild surf of the National Seashore and the open waters of Nantucket Sound, so in this realm Stage Harbor’s quiet waters were as close as she could get to feeling relatively safe.
She pulled into the tiny lot of the club. Not far off the beach she could see a tight cluster of Optis. That had to be George’s class. She walked down for a better look and found another mother, Sherry Briggs, doing the same.
“How’s he doing?” Sherry asked. “Caitlin loves their instructor, Sam. She’s so good with the kids.”
Shannon nodded blankly. She’d met Sam the first morning she’d brought George for Hermit Crab class. The handoff had been hard. She’d stood at the edge of the parking lot longer than all the other parents, her stomach sloshy with nerves when she watched George join his group and they sat in a circle on the sand and listened to the rules and routines. When they stood up and walked to the water crafts she’d made haste to her car. Like Reid said, George was in good hands, and most importantly, he seemed happy. But she could not bring herself to watch as they headed down to the boats.
Now she shielded her eyes and nodded politely as Sherry Briggs went on about a ladies’ luncheon and other upcoming social events. Shannon spotted a bright orange rash guard in the distance. That had to be George.
“So, are you going to walk in it?”
“I’m sorry, walk what?”
Sherry looked at her funny. “The fashion show.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry. I was trying to locate George.�
�� Shannon pointed and waved. “Yes, I hope to. Are you chairing the event again? You did such a lovely job last year.”
This remark returned Sherry’s smile promptly to her face. “As a matter of fact, I am. Do you have any interest in helping again this year? I’m always looking for volunteers.”
The class was heading back in, and after a few crisscrossed paths and jumbled turns, George ended among the front boats. Shannon’s tummy flip-flopped as she watched him head for the beach. “Hi, honey!” she called when he was within earshot. “I would love to, I really would,” she told Sherry as she edged her way toward the beach. “But things are so busy at the office right now, and I have family visiting from out of town.” She couldn’t believe she’d tossed her father right in there with her list of reasons to avoid taking on yet another commitment she couldn’t see managing. The fashion show was a lot of fun, Shannon knew, and there really wasn’t a reason she couldn’t squeeze it in, but lately she just felt so tired. What she wanted right then was to pluck George out of the boat and hug him. She just wanted to go home.
Sherry didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, I suppose summer is busy for us all. But I’ll keep you in mind as we get closer! Who knows, maybe your load will lighten?”
“Who knows?” Shannon said brightly over her shoulder.
George climbed out of the boat and helped his instructor pull it up on the sand before racing to his mother. “Did you see me? Did you?”
Shannon picked him up. He was so big now, and almost too heavy to lift, but she did it anyway and breathed him in. “You smell like sunscreen and sun,” she told him, planting a kiss on his head. “Go finish your lesson and I’ll meet you in the car.”
There were two messages on her phone. One from Shirley asking about an open-house date. And another from her mother-in-law, Bitsy. Bitsy’s curt formality cut through the sunshine of the afternoon.
“Shannon, I would like you to please call me. Soon. It’s about Nantucket Drive.”
Shannon had downloaded, edited, and emailed the photos she’d taken the other day to all concerned. Since then, she’d avoided asking about the listing. If Bitsy had seen to it to hire a film and media crew to best capture the essence of the property, then that was her detail.
But it appeared something was wrong. Reluctantly she dialed Bitsy’s personal number.
“Yes?” Shannon hated the way her mother-in-law answered her calls. Obviously, she could see it was Shannon. Would it kill her to say hello? She decided to try Bitsy’s MO on for size.
“Bitsy, it’s Shannon.”
“Shannon. Finally.”
Shannon rolled her eyes. Bitsy had left the message not five minutes ago. “What can I help you with?”
“The seller of the Nantucket Drive property has a vision.” Shannon had heard enough about the man’s vision. If Bitsy paid any real attention to her daughter-in-law’s work, she might have realized Shannon had a vision of her own. “At his request, we secured a crew to come out and photograph the house. We allowed extra time for all of this because such vision takes time, of course, but that did set us back a week in both online and print marketing. That said, here we are on the proposed date of filming and it seems the crew had us listed for this date next month.”
Shannon couldn’t believe it. “Next month?”
“As in July.”
“How unfortunate. I’m sorry to hear that.” Shannon did not feel bad for Bitsy, though she genuinely did for Reid. She knew the chaos this would’ve created.
“Unfortunate doesn’t begin to describe it. Which has led me to you.”
Shannon held her breath. This was indeed a mess, but it was not her mess, and she sure hoped Bitsy wasn’t going to heave any of this explaining to the seller on to her. Bitsy was famous in the office for delegating distasteful tasks she deemed beneath her to those who actually worked beneath her.
“I need you to photograph the property. And soon. Will you do it?”
George was coming up the club driveway with what looked like a fistful of sand. He opened his mouth, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying.
“Uh, I would like to help the agency in any way I can, as I originally offered,” Shannon reminded her, “but what’s the time frame?” Shannon already had the Hooker’s Ball coming up and the chamber of commerce was holding its lobster bake in a few weekends.
“The owner wants to meet you first. To discuss that vision of his that I mentioned. I’ll call you later with a date.”
“Meet me first?” Shannon had assumed Bitsy was asking for emergency help. Now she had another hoop to jump through?
“Yes. This is a very important listing. And we are already behind.”
George pressed his face against the car window. “Look what I found!” he mouthed.
Shannon put her finger up to her lips and rolled down the window. It was a fiddler crab. “Wow!” she mouthed, then pointed to the phone. “Grandma!” she mouthed.
“All right, Bitsy. I’ll do my best.” Shannon did not say what she wanted to, which was that she would’ve had the place photographed by now and would be already designing marketing layouts in both print and online if the job had been hers to start with. “I think I’m free later this week, between camp and sailing.”
Bitsy cleared her throat. “Yes, well, I’ll let you know when the owner is available.”
George stuck the crab in the window. “Is this alive?” Shannon turned her head as a rancid smell filled the car. It was dead.
Bitsy was not quite done. “This shoot needs to be different, dear. This one needs to be really good.”
Shannon would ignore this. She would ignore it and focus on the bright face of her boy in the window, and even the droopy crab in his hands. “Bitsy, I’ve got your grandson here. Would you like to say hello?”
There was a pause. “Give George a kiss.” Then the line clicked.
Shannon pushed George’s hand gently back through the window. “That guy needs to go back down to the beach.”
George cocked his head and stared at the fiddler crab. “Yeah, he’s dead. Must’ve been a real old crab.”
Shannon watched him trudge down to the water. “Yep. Just like the one Mommy was talking to on the phone.”
Twenty
Piper
She awoke with a start, thinking for a moment she was back in her Boston apartment. But the late-afternoon light was too golden, the lofty ceilings too bright and airy in her childhood bedroom, and she collapsed back on the sheets with the realization that she was home on the Cape. The room had grown stuffy. She’d tugged off her T-shirt and napped in just a tank, and now she rose and went to the window to let in some fresh air. Her grandmother’s house (she would forever think of it as such), was an older home, and the windows upstairs swelled with humidity and salt air and stuck sometimes in the summer months. Piper stuck her head out and looked down. The little eyebrow colonial across the way had been smartly redone in the last year, and the cedar shingle siding was a coppery hue in the sun. Beverly’s house was a two-story Cape which allowed Piper to gaze over the neighbor’s’ rooftop, past its little cupola and whale weathervane, in the direction of Chatham Lighthouse. She could smell the salt on the humid air, and she gulped once, then again, like she was hungry.
She turned her phone on and her heart did that little thing where it seized whenever a message chimed, as it did now. But it was only Wren. She scrolled back to Derek’s messages, whom she’d listed as DW. There it was: I’m sorry. Piper oscillated between feeling sorry for herself and wanting to make him sorry. But she’d realized the hard way long ago that there was no way to make someone whose head was already turned away from you regret your absence. Even if the realization had taken you by surprise, it had already happened on their end. They had moved on. And the quicker you did, too, the better. But Derek was different. She had risked so much of herself in getting involved with him. Her principles to start: she would never before have considered getting involved with a married man. She was not that ki
nd of girl. But it had turned out she did. And she was. And the sorry of it all extended so far beyond their apparent breakup that it blanketed her senses like the cold sting of a freshly fallen snow.
She returned to Wren’s message, determined to focus on the here and now. “I dropped Dad off at the motel for a rest. Said he’d call later. We are all invited to join him for dinner.”
“Where?” Piper wondered aloud. This would be good. The four of them sitting down together, face-to-face, finally. She wanted to know the things other children completely took for granted, and were often even annoyed by, in their own fathers. The sound of his laugh. Whether his brow furrowed liked hers and her sisters’ did when they concentrated on something. How he twirled his spaghetti around a fork. Small things. Small things that would fill the big holes she’d been carrying around her whole life.
Downstairs the house was quiet. Hank’s car was gone from the driveway. Out back she found Bowser sleeping on the screened in porch. Her mother sat in one of the wicker chairs beside him, clutching a mason jar of iced tea and staring out absently at her garden. Piper paused in the doorway, studying her. Lindy was in her mid-sixties, but silhouetted against the outdoor light her profile could have been that of a thirty-year-old. Her elegant neck, the high cheekbones she’d inherited from Beverly. Over the years of single parenting, she’d been tired. She’d lost her temper and made mistakes. Looking at her now, Piper marveled at how strong she must’ve had to be raising the three of them alone; but she’d not let those years erode her, wearing her down to a softer, sadder version of herself. Piper had seen it happen to other women. Strong, beautiful women like Lindy who were undone by loss or deceit. They seemed to age overnight, fading into the background. But not Lindy. If anything, those years had sharpened her features, her voice, her will.
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