After that, they’d listed the apartment. It took only a week to find a young couple happy to pay the full ask, while Thomas slept on the couch and Ginny stayed late at work, since, as it turned out, it really was the perfect apartment for a newlywed couple. Just not for them.
Ginny took advantage of her real estate connections and had just begun scouting rentals, in a rush to find a new place, when her boss called her into her office. “I’m sorry, but we’re downsizing.”
“I thought we were merging?” Ginny sputtered. She’d been working in commercial real estate in the city, for Cooper and Hayman, the second largest firm in Chicago.
“We are, but I’m afraid there isn’t room to keep everyone. The new partners aren’t willing to let me bring more than two agents with me.” At least she’d looked pained as she broke the news. “You are one of my best. I’m sorry, Ginny.”
The timing couldn’t have been worse. But as she cleaned out her desk, Ginny picked up a small framed picture of her parents sitting on their family boat back home in Saybrook. Looking at it in that moment, it had occurred to Ginny that Thomas had not been her only problem. As much as she’d initially loved Chicago, her heart wasn’t in the city anymore. She’d outgrown the bar scene and the nightlife. Her friends had all moved out to the plush suburbs of Highland Park and Hinsdale. She had no real connections in the city, outside of colleagues. And now she had no job.
The following week, as she and Thomas packed their belongings and divided up furniture, Ginny’s mother had called with the news. “I don’t want you to worry,” she’d insisted. “There’s nothing you can do here, and besides, you have enough going on in your life.”
That was the problem. After a decade of throwing herself into her career, investing in the perfect urban home, and waiting for the promise of marriage, Ginny had absolutely nothing going on in her life. She’d played by the rules, and hard, and yet here she was, empty-handed. Without thinking, she blurted out, “I’m coming home.”
“You’re what?”
With the exception of the odd Thanksgiving holiday, it had been years since she’d been back to Saybrook. Her mother would have clicked her heels and done a backflip if she could have, but now she sounded wary. “No, honey, don’t be ridiculous. Your father is on the mend, and the agency is just fine.”
But Ginny knew she was fibbing. “Oh yeah? Who’s running the show if you’re home taking care of Dad and Dad is home recovering from a bypass?”
“Sheila. She’s more than capable.”
Ginny scoffed. “Sheila can barely answer the phone.” It was true. The woman made a lovely grandmother to her sixteen local grandkids, but she couldn’t work the fax or figure out the scanner and, according to Ginny’s mother, hadn’t sold a house in three years.
“Let me come help for the summer,” Ginny said. “Just until you and Dad get back on your feet, and until I figure out what I want to do next.”
Her mother paused. Ginny knew it was killing her. Her mother had petitioned for Ginny to come home ever since she’d left town over a decade ago. She left guilt-inspiring voicemails each holiday and sent passive-aggressive gifts, like the maple syrup from the local farm: “Since you’ve probably long forgotten what your childhood was like.” But that was when everything was going well and everyone was in good health. Now, in a pinch, her mother did not like to accept help. “It’s really not necessary, dear. We can manage.”
But suddenly, Ginny wasn’t so sure she could. For the first time since she’d left Saybrook, she had a pressing urge to go back. “Mom, please. Let me help.” She did not say, “It would help me.”
“Oh, honey. If you’re sure.” There was what Ginny thought was a teary pause, and then she was back. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know that Sarah Dickerson is back in town. Wasn’t she in your grade?”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “Sarah Dickerson was a jerk. Remember she stole my bike in second grade?”
“Oh. Well, she makes a decent cup of tea. She opened the cutest little café over in Bridgewater. And, of course, Wendell is still here. But I suppose you already knew that.”
“Mom.” Ginny did not know Wendell was still in Saybrook, though, if pressed, she couldn’t imagine him anywhere else. In fact, she’d spent the first five years of her decade away trying not to imagine a single thing about Wendell. And then it didn’t matter anymore, because Thomas had come into her life and by and large filled that void. In the beginning, at least. And not that there was any real void, per se. “It doesn’t matter who’s in town. That’s not why I’m coming back.”
“What?” her mother said, somewhat defensively. “I thought you should know.”
“Mom.”
“Sorry.” Then, after a sigh, “But in case you’re wondering…”
“Not wondering.”
The other end of the line went uncomfortably quiet. Ginny could picture her mother pressing her lips together. Trying to bite her tongue. “Wendell is single.” And failing.
“Got to go, Mom.”
Within a week of selling her Chicago apartment and saying goodbye to the last decade of her life, Ginny had packed the car feeling the smallest flicker of hope. She was going home to help her parents with their firm and figure out her own next steps. It wasn’t forever.
But as she turned east, Ginny’s second thoughts began to whir along with each passing mile. By the time she’d crossed into Connecticut, the second thoughts had begun to whistle. Now, as she sailed down the last hill into Saybrook, they clanged like an alarm.
The sole stoplight in town was red, and she rested her head wearily on the steering wheel as she waited. She’d go to her parents’ place first and say hello. Then she’d pick up the keys for her lake cottage and go check it out. Baby steps.
When she looked up, the light was still red. To her right, people were sitting outside Sacred Grounds drinking coffee at little tables. To her left, shoppers meandered along Main Street. Across the way was her parent’s brick-front realty business, with its black shutters and cranberry-red door. Ginny stared at the wooden sign over the door, Feldman Agency, and a sense of nostalgia washed over her. It was a picturesque night, and she felt her breathing even out. A faded blue pickup truck crossed in front of her into the coffee shop parking lot. She didn’t see many trucks like that in Chicago, she thought as she waited.
The truck door opened. It was a guy about her age. Rather fit and good-looking. Well, maybe there’s hope, Ginny mused.
As the light went green, he turned her way; it was Wendell Combs.
Six Julia
Julia slid her bedroom window up and perched on the window seat where she had a full view of the patio and gardens below. The party was almost over, and it had been nearly perfect. She was proud of her parents: after the controversies in town, the rumor had been that no one would come this year, and her family had proved them wrong.
Her father would be so pleased. She’d always known the Land Conservation Board was an important cause to him. But until this summer she hadn’t known there were rumors throughout the community that he was also the largest donor. God, her parents could be so tight-lipped.
“Discreet,” her mother had corrected her when she’d asked about it.
It annoyed Julia to no end. “I’m old enough to know things,” she complained. “If you’d just tell me.” Julia wasn’t sure exactly how much land her family had purchased and donated back to the town over the years, but she’d come to realize it must be a lot.
She’d first learned of it that winter when she overheard a conversation during their Christmas party. Olivier Garrison, a neighbor and head of the Planning and Zoning Commission, had commented on her parents’ gifts to the town a little too brashly over his snifter of brandy. “One hundred thirty acres on Wakeman Hill! Donated in full. Can only imagine what a pretty penny that cost you.”
Her father’s modest expression didn’t waver in the firelight. “I can’t say I know much about that.” But one look at her mother’s averted gaze
, and Julia realized Mr. Garrison knew exactly what he was talking about.
“Oh, come on. Friends don’t keep secrets,” Mr. Garrison went on, clapping her father on the back. “I bet it was a nice write-off…”
Mrs. Garrison had placed a tactful hand on her husband’s shirtsleeve and lifted her glass between them. “Well, whoever made the donation, it was terribly generous. The whole town will benefit.”
Until then, Julia had simply thought of her parents as occasional volunteers, not much different from any of her friends’ parents. They attended benefits. They supported local organizations. A few times a month, her mother helped to deliver meals to elderly citizens who were housebound. But it was overhearing that conversation as she sat on the back staircase that winter night when she fully understood their quiet contributions to the town. “Whatever you believe in, Jules, you have to get behind it,” her father once told her. “Put your resources into it. I don’t mean money. I mean your energy, your time, your voice: whatever you have. Everyone has something to give.”
Since then, the more she paid attention to current events in Saybrook, the more Julia grew to be proud of her parents’ philanthropy. But not everyone shared her sentiments.
A growing number in town didn’t support some of the Lancasters’ efforts. They opposed the increase in town-owned open space and the proposal to change from two- to four-acre zoning, which would increase lot size requirements and decrease new construction. “Open space will increase taxes,” someone complained in a letter to the editor in the Town Tribune. “This town has always been trees and fields. What we need is more development.” Others saw her parents’ efforts as a garish display of their wealth: “Outsiders who come in and think they know better. We have plenty of land; what we need is less of them.” Worse, some accused them of elitism: “Four-acre zoning is for the privileged. Hardworking blue-collar families won’t be able to afford to live here. Are we shutting the gates to Saybrook now?”
Julia showed the letters to her mother. “Don’t pay it any mind,” she’d said reassuringly. “Your dad is doing good work. You can’t please everyone.”
Though her parents didn’t speak of the local pushback in her presence, Julia had overheard their low conversations in the kitchen after town meetings. When word got out that the anonymous donor who’d hired masons to repave the library parking lot and put in a sidewalk with a handicap ramp was her dad, Julia suffered a few pointed stares in town.
“A bit fancy for Saybrook,” one old-timer grumbled loudly enough for the two of them to hear as she and her father walked by. Julia wanted to turn around and ask him if he even knew where the library was, but her father put a firm hand on her shoulder and guided her to the car. “Everyone is entitled to voice their opinion,” he whispered. But Julia noticed no one said a word when her parents donated a generator to the town hall, which served as a warming center for citizens during winter storms and power outages. Couldn’t people see her family loved this town as much as they did? Maybe even more, she thought.
Then came the jokes at school. “Hey, Jules, maybe your dad could spring for a tent with some of those cooling fans?” one of her soccer teammates joked on a scorcher of a game day. “Nah, he can just buy us an ice cream truck,” another said. Then, when Julia shot her a look, “What? Everyone likes ice cream.”
It wasn’t fair. Her parents’ contributions were made quietly. There were no shiny plaques with their names emblazoned across them. Not even a handprint in the concrete of the new library sidewalk. Unlike her classmate, Emmy Fletcher, whose family business was slapped across the largest sponsorship banners in town. Julia had once overheard another parent quip, “Fletcher’s sign cost more than the donation he made to the Little League.” Julia had swung her gaze toward the neon green banner hanging on the fence: “Lit up!” by Fletcher Electric. Now, that was tacky.
The success of tonight’s gala only confirmed her suspicions: her family’s work in town was important. Below her window, the jazz band was still going strong, and the round high-top tables dressed in white linen had been abandoned for the dance floor. There had been grilled tenderloin, cucumber dill salad, steamed clams. When her father stood to make a speech, Julia had sneaked a flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. Just as she put the rim to her lips, her mother caught her eye from across the patio and raised an eyebrow.
But then she smiled and waved Julia over. “I guess you’re old enough to share a toast with your mother.” Julia raised her glass uncertainly, the golden flute swishing.
“To tonight,” her mother said, her eyes twinkling. “To you, and to Pippa and Daddy.”
“And you,” Julia added. They clinked glasses, and Julia took a large swallow. The fizzy rush surprised her, and she sputtered.
“Easy, tiger,” her mother warned. “Best to sip.”
The champagne was drier than she’d expected, but it left a delicious sweet aftertaste. As they sat side by side, taking in the event and sipping from their flutes, Julia felt an easy warmth spread within her. Around eleven thirty, as the evening began to wind down, her mother suggested she go up to bed. Pippa was long ago passed out in her own bed. So with some reluctance, Julia had said her good nights, found her father in the crowd to kiss his cheek, and come up to her room.
But the night was not over yet. On her way upstairs, her phone dinged. It was Sam. “You awake?”
Now she left her bedroom window open and slipped out into the hallway.
Before sneaking downstairs, she peeked in on Pippa. Her little sister always looked so much younger in sleep, her blond hair fanned out like a wild pixie’s across the pillow. Julia bent to kiss her forehead and tiptoed out.
Downstairs, she let herself out through the front door. With the party roaring out back, there was little chance anyone would notice her. There were two valets, both college-aged boys, sitting on the front stoop talking. The cuter of the two looked sideways at her and smiled as she slipped past. That sort of thing was happening more and more, she’d noticed. Julia shot him a smile back and headed for the side lawn. She’d have to go around the party to get to the trail, but she was careful to skirt the shadows, and soon she’d crossed the east lawn and stood at the edge of the woods.
As the band slipped into “Moonlight Serenade,” she stole a look back. It was her parents’ favorite song, one she’d heard a thousand times in her life. Even at that distance, she had a full view of the gala. Julia held her breath as she watched her father lead her mother to the middle of the dance floor. Others gathered around as the two spilled into each other’s arms like water. Their love was so obvious, almost embarrassing.
Overcome by the night, Julia tipped her head back and laughed aloud. Then she spun back toward the woods. Behind her, the party glittered in the distance. Ahead, somewhere in the darkness, Sam was waiting. It felt like the whole world was hers to step into. She tugged her shoes off and ran.
Seven Roberta
She’d fallen asleep reading on the couch. Something had startled her awake, and when she glanced at the grandfather clock, she was surprised to see it was one a.m.
Somewhere in the distance, the wail of a siren rang through the night. Roberta sat up. The siren rose outside her window, and she fettered the urge to stand up and go look. The firehouse was in the town center, a few miles away. There was nothing to see. But still, it filled Roberta with a sense of unease. It always did. Living in a small town meant it was likely someone she knew.
As the siren rose and fell, it was joined by another. Fire truck, she thought. Or maybe ambulance? It was too far off to be sure.
She rubbed her eyes and set her book on the coffee table. Maybe it was a false alarm. Or maybe someone had fallen in their home. As the sirens and trucks drew closer, she stood up and went to the window. She turned out the light. Sure enough, the stark glow of red lights filled the darkness up the road and spilled into her living room. She stood back as one, then another, fire truck roared by her little house. The walls shook with th
e reverberations. A moment later, an ambulance followed. Roberta stepped away from the window.
It had been fourteen years since she’d been to church, and if anyone asked, Roberta would tell them herself that religion was no longer for her.
But in times like this, her Catholicism rose involuntarily within her like a vine unfurling, and she didn’t question it. In the dark, she did a quick Hail Mary. She hoped that everyone was all right. And that wherever the emergency vehicles were headed, they got there in time.
Eight Wendell
The blast went off and Wendell jerked upright. Back arched, fists clenched, he screamed out in the darkness.
It was happening again.
Eyes wide, he scanned his surroundings. He was in his room, once his parents’ room. In his childhood home. He was safe.
As he struggled against the heaving in his chest, Wendell fought to catch his breath. “It’s over, it’s not real,” he repeated silently, like a mantra.
But the sudden roar of a siren outside his window caused Wendell to shudder involuntarily. Sirens: one of his worst triggers.
Heart still pounding, Wendell swung his legs over the side of the bed. The sheet was already soaked in sweat.
The last few years, his night terrors had quieted, and he’d almost allowed himself to believe he might finally have shed the worst of what haunted him. At least the night hours, just so he could lay his head on the pillow without fear of what darkness might bring. And for a while he had.
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